Hurricane Joe

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, Joe,” said Frank, slapping my arm. “At least now we know there’s more than one burglar.”

  “So?” I said. “There’s more than one Hardy.”

  The rest of the day was uneventful. No burglaries. No arrests. No clues.

  No Hurricane Ivy, either.

  After Chet called the cops to report the burglary, Frank and I walked home, wolfed down our dinner, and went to bed early. We were tired and achy from doing Aunt Trudy’s chores. And after all that work she made us do, it never even rained.

  “Better safe than sorry,” she told us.

  The following week, the weather was beautiful.

  Then, one morning, I was woken by the sound of rain against my bedroom window.

  It must be Hurricane Ivy, I thought. Finally.

  I headed downstairs for breakfast and, once again, my family was gathered around the TV set. “Are you still watching Johnny Thunder?” I asked.

  Dad looked up. “No. Johnny Thunder messed up last week—big-time. It turns out there never was a Hurricane Ivy.”

  “What?” I said.

  Frank gave me a look. “Johnny told everyone to evacuate,” he said. “And there was no hurricane.”

  “That’s weird,” I said.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Frank agreed.

  Aunt Trudy shook her head. “Someone must have slipped Johnny Thunder the wrong information. He should have listened to Playback instead.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, glancing at the parrot.

  “Playback always ruffles his feathers when a storm is coming,” she explained. “He was completely calm yesterday. But look at him now.”

  Playback fluttered and fluffed up his feathers. A gust of wind and rain shook the windows.

  I pointed outside and asked, “So, Hurricane Ivy is showing up a week late?”

  Mom handed me a glass of juice. “No, it’s not Ivy. There is no Ivy,” she said. “But Hurricane Irene is hitting the Southern states today, and we’re feeling the side effects.”

  I walked to the front door and stared outside. Frank came up behind me. “I think we need to pay a visit to Johnny Thunder,” he whispered.

  I reached for my jacket on the coatrack. “I’m with you, bro.”

  As we walked toward the garage, Mom came running out onto the front porch. “Wait!” she shouted. “You boys are not riding your motorcycles in this rain!”

  “But Mom,” I groaned. “We have to, um, take care of something.”

  She shook her head. “The roads are too slippery.”

  Aunt Trudy stepped onto the porch. “They can take my Volkswagen,” she offered. “It floats, you know.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “The old Volkswagen Beetles float in water. And the new tires get good traction in the rain.”

  Mom gave in. “Okay. But drive carefully. Some of the roads might be flooded.”

  We assured her we’d be careful. Aunt Trudy tossed the keys to Frank, and we climbed inside the green Volkswagen. My brother handed me his backpack as he buckled himself into the driver’s seat.

  “What’s in here?” I asked, peeking inside.

  “My thirty-five millimeter camera, a tape recorder, and a notepad and pen.”

  I gave him a funny look. “What for?”

  Frank explained as he drove. “Johnny Thunder is a big star—with a big ego. We can tell him we’re huge fans of his, and we want to interview him for the first fall issue of the school newspaper. We’ll say we’re doing a story on Bayport High’s most successful graduates. He’ll eat it up.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “I have the feeling Johnny Thunder spends a lot of time in front of the mirror, fussing with his hair.”

  “See? You two have a lot in common,” said Frank. “This should be a piece of cake.”

  It didn’t take long for us to find the Weather Network offices in Eastwood—thanks to the giant satellite tower looming over the town. But getting to see Johnny Thunder was a whole other story.

  “Johnny Thunder is not granting any interviews at this time,” we were told by a thin, black-haired receptionist with cat’s-eye glasses. “If you have questions about the Hurricane Ivy incident, the station manager sent out a press release last week.”

  Frank leaned over the reception desk. “I’m sorry, miss, but we’re not here to ask about that. We’re from the Bayport High School News. We’re doing a feature article on Bayport’s biggest success stories.”

  He flashed a big smile and—believe it or not—the receptionist started to blush.

  I don’t know how he does it. I’m the good-looking one.

  I stepped up next to Frank. “Johnny Thunder is a hero for young people in the community.” I flashed her my best smile, but she wouldn’t take her eyes off Frank.

  I give up.

  “Me? Johnny Thunder? A hero?”

  Frank and I spun around—and there he was. Johnny Thunder. Trusted weatherman. Beloved TV personality.

  And criminal mastermind?

  He reached out his hand. “It’s always a pleasure to meet my young fans,” he said in a ridiculously deep voice. “I believe that children are the future—and it’s important to provide them with good role models.”

  Give me a break.

  We shook his hand, and before we knew it, the guy was ushering Frank and me into his gigantic corner office. “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, offering us a seat on a big leather sofa.

  Frank pulled out his tape recorder and notepad. “First, I’d like to ask you about your background.”

  Johnny smiled and leaned against his desk, stroking his lantern-shaped jaw. “Growing up in Bayport, I was just a little boy with big dreams. My mind was always bursting with questions. Every day I would lie on the docks and look up at the sky, filled with awe and wonder. I’d watch the clouds and ask myself, ‘What does it all mean?’”

  It means you’re a total windbag, I thought, settling in for what promised to be the world’s longest interview.

  “That was just the beginning of my lifelong obsession with the weather,” he went on. “When I was eight, I started making charts of the cloud movements over Bayport, and then I …”

  His voice droned on and on. I seriously thought I was going to fall asleep, but then—forty minutes later—Johnny started talking about his job at the Weather Network.

  Finally.

  “My goal was to reinvent the weather report,” he explained. “I wanted drama and excitement, action and adventure. I was prepared to do anything to grab the viewer’s attention … and get bigger ratings.”

  I sat there, stunned.

  Did Johnny just admit that he would “do anything” to boost his ratings?

  Yes, he did.

  Frank shot me a sideways glance. I knew immediately what he was thinking.

  Johnny Thunder is definitely a prime suspect.

  Johnny talked on and on about his “dazzling” career and “well-deserved” fame. Meanwhile, Frank and I fidgeted in our seats, dying to ask him some questions that could prove—or disprove—his connection to the burglaries.

  Finally Frank managed to interrupt. “Excuse me, Mr. Thunder? Where do you get your weather information?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean, how do you find out about things like hurricanes?” asked Frank. “Who told you that there was a hurricane named Ivy and that it was heading our way?”

  Johnny Thunder buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe you’re asking me this,” he said, groaning. “Every reporter in town wants to interview me about the mistake we made last week. I thought I could trust a pair of nice boys like you.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Frank leaned forward. “Don’t worry, Mr. Thunder. We won’t use it in our article. I promise. I’m just curious how it how happened.”

  Johnny looked up and sighed. “I only report what I’m told by th
e Weather Network’s control center.”

  “Who’s in charge of the control center?” I asked.

  Johnny rolled his eyes. “A funny little man named Irwin Link. He’s a computer geek who works in the tower over there.”

  He pointed through his office window at the giant tower on the hill.

  “Irwin gathers weather data from various satellites around the world,” Johnny explained. “If anyone is to blame for the Hurricane Ivy slipup, it’s Irwin Link.”

  I noticed Frank writing something in his notepad.

  Johnny stared out the window, shaking his head. “That little weasel. It’s all his fault. But nobody is blaming him. They’re blaming Johnny Thunder. Did you read this morning’s headline in the Bayport Post? It called Hurricane Ivy a ‘Thunder Blunder.’”

  Johnny rubbed his eyes, then lowered them. I have to admit: I was starting to feel sorry for the guy.

  Then I looked at Frank. I could tell he felt the same way.

  “Hand me your backpack, Frank,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “I need the camera,” I said. “I want to get some good pictures of Mr. Thunder for our article.”

  Johnny raised his head and spun around. His whole face lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Pictures! Of course,” he said, beaming. “How would you like me to pose?”

  6 The Missing Link

  Johnny Thunder’s “photo shoot” took even longer than his “interview.” Afterward, Joe and I headed back to the lobby of the TV station. Strolling up to the main desk, we stopped and talked to the receptionist with the cat’s-eye glasses.

  “Hello again,” said Joe, leaning over the desk. “Could you do us a little favor? Could you tell us where to find Irwin Link?” He tilted his head and winked at her.

  Oh, brother, I thought.

  I hated it when Joe tried to be a ladies’ man.

  The receptionist wasn’t impressed. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Link?” she asked with a frown.

  I jumped into the conversation. “No, we don’t have an appointment, miss. But we really need to talk to him. It’s for our school paper.” Then I lowered my voice and added, “Between you and me, I could use the extra credit.”

  The receptionist blushed and smiled at me. “Oh, all right. Irwin Link works in the weather tower on the hill behind us. Just take a right out of the parking lot, then circle around to the back.”

  We thanked her and headed outside.

  Joe smacked my arm. “Why did you butt in back there? I could have gotten the info out of her.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “All the ladies love those smooth moves you’ve got.”

  “Well, I am the popular one, Frank.”

  “Sure you are, Joe.”

  The rain was coming down harder now. We made a quick dash to Aunt Trudy’s Volkswagen but still got totally soaked. Once we were inside the car, we discussed our little “interview” with Johnny Thunder.

  “I think he’s innocent,” said Joe. “Did you see his face when you mentioned the Hurricane Ivy screwup? He was seriously upset.”

  “I agree. Johnny is too concerned about his image to blow it by lying about the weather.”

  I steered the car out of the parking lot and circled around the main building. A moment later I spotted the weather tower, jutting up from the side of a steep hill. Its narrow concrete base rose up about three or four stories tall and was topped with a huge steel-grid spire.

  “Oooh, scary,” said Joe, gazing upward. “Looks like Frankenstein’s laboratory.”

  “Yeah, especially in this rainstorm.”

  I pulled up in front of the tower, parking the Volkswagen next to an old beat-up Ford sedan. A small sign read: RESERVED FOR IRWIN LINK.

  Joe pointed at the Ford’s rusty fender. “It looks like Irwin doesn’t get paid very well.”

  “At least he has his own parking space.”

  “Yeah, right near the Dumpsters.”

  We climbed out of the car and ran through the rain to the entrance. Joe grabbed the handle of a large steel door and pulled—but it was locked. So I pressed a button on a small intercom box.

  “Hello? Who’s there?” said a crackly voice.

  “Mr. Link?” I shouted into the box.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Frank and Joe Hardy. We’re students from Bayport High School, and we’re writing a paper on meteorology. Could you help us out?”

  “I’m very busy,” the voice replied. Then there was a short pause. “Oh, what the heck. I suppose I can talk for a few minutes.”

  Seconds later, a loud buzzing sound opened the steel door. Joe and I stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind us. After our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we found ourselves standing at the bottom of a concrete stairwell.

  “Up here!” a voice shouted over our heads.

  We looked up. A skinny little man with thick glasses and thinning hair leaned over the railing forty feet above us. He gestured with his hand, then disappeared.

  “Dr. Frankenstein, I presume?” Joe muttered under his breath.

  “Shhh.” I smacked my brother’s arm and started climbing the stairs.

  Irwin was waiting for us at the top landing. Shaking our hands awkwardly, he led us into a room that was jam-packed with all sorts of electronic equipment—computers, monitors, radar screens, fax machines, and a whole bunch of stuff I couldn’t identify.

  “What do you boys want to know?” he asked, sitting down in a rolling office chair.

  I looked around for a place to sit, but there wasn’t any. So I took a deep breath and asked what I thought was a very simple question. “How do you collect data for your weather forecasts?”

  Irwin clapped his hands together. “Here at the Weather Network, we use a wide variety of sources, including satellites, radars, local and national weather centers, and my own calculations.”

  He went on and on, describing his sources and methods in great detail, pointing to the various gadgets and gizmos around the room. The more he talked, the more excited he got. His glasses started sliding down his nose, and his wispy hair stood up on end. He looked just like a mad scientist in a scary movie.

  Dr. Frankenstein.

  After fifteen minutes of listening to Irwin’s long, drawn-out lecture, I just had to interrupt.

  “What about Johnny Thunder, Mr. Link?” I asked. “Doesn’t he help you with the weather forecasts?”

  Irwin scowled and spun around in his chair. “Johnny Thunder,” he scoffed. “Johnny Thunder doesn’t know anything about the weather. He’s just a puppet with pretty hair who reads from cue cards.”

  “Really?” I said. “I thought he was a highly respected weatherman.”

  “A well-trained poodle is more like it,” Irwin sneered. “The network wanted a handsome face to report the weather, not a real meteorologist—like me. Let’s face it. No one wants to look at me. Why do you think I’m stuck in this little tower behind the main building? Because I’m smart enough to predict the weather but not good-looking enough to report it.”

  Irwin slammed his fist on the desk. I glanced at Joe and thought, We have our second suspect.

  Irwin stopped speaking. So I decided to get right to the point.

  “What about Hurricane Ivy?” I asked. “How could you broadcast warnings about a hurricane that didn’t even exist?”

  Irwin raised his head and looked at me. “I’m still trying to figure out what went wrong,” he said softly. “Someone must have hacked into the Weather Network’s mainframe to feed me false information.”

  “Who could have done that?” I asked.

  Irwin shrugged his bony shoulders. “I don’t know. My computer system is directly linked to the local police, fire department, rescue units, Coast Guard, and other government agencies. We share a lot of information, in case of an emergency.”

  Joe cleared his throat. “So who sent you the data about Hurricane Ivy?”

  Irwin sighed. “I’m not sure. It looked
like a typical warning from the National Weather Service. But then, when I realized it was a hoax, I tried to trace it back to the source.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “And?”

  “It couldn’t be traced.”

  I was starting to ask another question when one of the monitors started flashing and beeping. Irwin spun around in his chair, leaning forward and studying the screen.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s Hurricane Irene,” he said, biting his lip. “She’s heading north along the coast, moving at an incredible speed. This could be a real disaster. I’m talking Category Four.”

  I looked at Joe. “Maybe we should head home.”

  We thanked Irwin for his time and started to leave. “Be careful, boys!” he shouted after us. “Conditions are pretty bad out there!”

  Joe and I scrambled down the concrete stairwell, flung open the door, and ran outside.

  Whoosh!

  The rain hit us like a tidal wave, the wind almost knocking us off our feet. Joe and I had to lower our heads as we charged toward the Volkswagen. Joe jumped in first on the driver’s side. Then he reached over to open the passenger door.

  “Hurry, Frank! Get in!”

  Fighting the wind, I climbed inside and slammed the door. “Now this looks like a hurricane!” I said, gasping.

  “Yeah, we’d better get moving,” said Joe. “Give me the keys.”

  “You’re driving? In this storm?”

  He shrugged. “If we wait any longer, the roads might be flooded.”

  Joe had a point. I tossed him the keys, and he revved up the engine. Then, flipping on the windshield wipers, he pulled out of the lot and headed for the highway back to Bayport.

  “Turn on the headlights,” I said, squinting at the dark, wet road.

  Joe flicked on the lights, but it didn’t make much difference. The sky was almost black with clouds, and raindrops riddled the car like bullets. The windshield wipers were practically useless.

  “Slow down,” I warned Joe.

  “Don’t worry. I have it under control.”

  I turned my head and noticed a little lake surrounded by cottages. The water was wild and choppy—and rising fast. At one end of the lake, a small man-made damn was totally overflowing and gushing into a small river.