Hurricane Joe

by Franklin W. Dixon

  This doesn’t look good.

  My eyes followed the trail of the river. It ran parallel with the road for about a hundred feet, then swooped toward a small bridge directly in front of us. Water smashed against the guardrails—and splashed onto the road.

  “Joe! Stop the car!” I yelled.

  Joe slammed down hard on the brakes.

  But it was too late.

  The Volkswagen’s wheels spun in the water as we skimmed across the flooded bridge. Then the back end of the car swung around and flung us toward the guardrail.

  “Hold on!” I shouted.

  The Volkswagen smashed through the rail.

  CRRRRUNCH!

  Then we hurtled over the side of the bridge.

  7 In Case of Emergency

  SPLASH!

  The car hit the water like a sumo wrestler doing a belly flop into a baby pool. Giant waves shot up around us, streaking the windows on all four sides of the Volkswagen. The car plunged downward, deeper and deeper.

  We’re sinking, I thought.

  Frank muttered something about life vests and started digging into his backpack.

  Me? I braced myself for a rocky landing on the bottom of the river.

  Here we go.

  But instead of sinking deeper, the Volkswagen jerked and jolted upward.

  Whoosh!

  We shot out of the water like a rocket, then bobbed up and down on the surface.

  “Frank! We’re floating!” I shouted.

  My brother glanced up from his backpack. “Wow. Aunt Trudy was right,” he mumbled.

  The current of the river carried us along, rocking the Volkswagen back and forth in the churning waves. Thankfully, the windshield wipers were still working, and so was the motor. But when I pressed the gas, the wheels just spun in the water.

  “Now what?” I asked. “How are we going to get out of this river?”

  “Maybe we’ll drift toward the edge,” said Frank.

  In the meantime, I had no choice but to just sit and wait. Hunched over the steering wheel, I watched carefully as we drifted downstream.

  “We’ve been floating for a long time,” I said, starting to get worried.

  Just then, I felt a little bump beneath the car. We pivoted in the water, and the car spun slowly toward the edge of the river. Then I felt another bump.

  “We’re making contact,” said Frank. “Hit the gas.”

  I pushed down on the accelerator. The Volkswagen‘s wheels spun a few times, then grabbed hold in the rocky riverbed.

  Vroooom!

  The car bounced and slowly crawled out of the shallow water. Soon we were up on the riverbank, driving across a wet field of grass.

  “Which way?” I asked.

  Frank pointed to the right. “I think the road is back that way.”

  After some slipping and sliding in the mud, I was able to reach the main road back to Bayport. The rain was still coming down hard, making it hard to see, but I was relieved to be back on concrete again.

  “Bayport, three miles,” I said, reading a road sign.

  Frank was about to say something when his cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his Windbreaker and answered the call. “Hello? Yes … What? Where? Don’t worry. Joe and I are on the way!” Then he hung up.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Mom and Aunt Trudy,” he answered grimly. “They’re trapped on the roof of Hiller’s Hardware Store.”

  “Whoa. What happened?”

  “The storm wall broke. The town square is totally flooded.”

  When we reached Bayport, Frank told me to drive to our friend Chet’s house. Why? Because he wanted to borrow Chet’s motorboat to rescue Mom and Aunt Trudy.

  “No problem,” said Chet. “As long as I can come along to help.”

  We followed him out to his garage and hooked up the small motorboat trailer to the back of the Volkswagen. Then we headed for the town square.

  “Why didn’t your family evacuate your home?” I asked our friend on the way. “Hurricane Irene looks like the real deal. Category three or four.”

  “My family’s worried about getting burglarized again,” he told us. “According to the news, over twenty homes were robbed after people evacuated for that fake Hurricane Ivy.”

  I drove the car to the edge of the town square and then quickly pulled to a stop—because the rest of the road was completely underwater. Frank and I helped Chet unlatch the boat from the trailer and carry it to the square. Once we were knee-deep in water, we hopped inside and Chet revved up the outboard motor.

  “Where are they?” asked Chet.

  Frank pointed him in the direction of Hiller’s Hardware Store on the far end of the square.

  “Look! There they are!” I shouted, pointing up at the figures standing on the roof of the store.

  Chet gunned the engine. The boat picked up speed as we glided past flooded mailboxes, parking meters, and stranded cars. Soon we were close enough to make out the figures.

  “Hold on! We’re on our way!” I yelled upward.

  Mom and Aunt Trudy waved back at us. Standing right behind them was Mr. Hiller, owner of the hardware store.

  Chet pulled the motorboat alongside the building and stopped. I gazed up at the roof. The eaves were about ten feet over our heads, and I wondered how we were going to get everybody down.

  Mr. Hiller peered over the side. “Thanks for coming!” he shouted. “Now all you have to do is help us climb down.”

  Frank pointed to the drainpipe. “Maybe you can shimmy down that.”

  “Or we could use this,” said Mr. Hiller, dangling an emergency rope ladder from the roof. “I grabbed it from the store when the water started coming in.”

  Chet and Frank grabbed the end of the rope ladder and pulled it taut. Then we saw a pair of women’s legs reach out from the eaves.

  “Where’s the rung? I can’t find the rung!”

  It was Aunt Trudy. I recognized her voice—and her bright yellow rain boots kicking wildly in the air. Finally one of her feet hooked onto a rung of the ladder. Then her rear end appeared over the side of the roof, followed by the rest of her body. Mr. Hiller held onto her until she had a good grip on the ladder. Slowly she began climbing down.

  “I got you, Aunt Trudy,” I said, reaching up. I wrapped my arms around her waist and helped her down.

  “Oh, that tickles, Joe.”

  She giggled and stepped off the ladder, then took a seat at the back of the boat. I looked up again to see my mother starting to climb down. About halfway she stopped and closed her eyes.

  “I hate heights,” she grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I got you.” I stretched up my arms and helped her the rest of the way.

  Mr. Hiller was next. He was a pretty athletic guy, so he didn’t have much trouble. Once everyone was sitting in the boat, Mom told us what had happened. “Aunt Trudy and I came here to pick up some emergency supplies, and then the storm wall broke. The square was flooded in ten minutes flat, and then the water started gushing into the store.”

  “Did you call 911?” asked Frank.

  She shook her head. “The water level was pretty low, so we weren’t in any immediate danger. We figured other people needed help more than we did. So I tried calling your father, but he didn’t answer. That’s when I called you.”

  Chet revved up the engine and steered the boat across the square. When we reached the other side, he killed the motor. Frank and I jumped onto the sidewalk and helped Aunt Trudy and Mom climb out of the boat.

  “Good thing I wore my rain boots,” said Aunt Trudy, stepping into an ankle-deep puddle. “I might look silly, but at least my feet are dry.”

  They climbed into the back of the Volkswagen to get out of the rain. Chet, Frank, and I were starting to pull the boat out of the water when we heard a scream.

  “Help! Help! Somebody please help me!”

  A woman’s voice echoed across the town square.

  I looked at Frank. “We have
to help her,” I said. “Mom! Aunt Trudy! Stay here while we go help that woman!”

  We pushed the boat back into the water and hopped inside. Chet revved up the motor and soon we were off, zooming toward an alley behind the bank.

  “Help!”

  Chet slowed down when we reached the entrance to the alley. “Where’s the scream coming from?”

  Frank pointed to a tiny store at the end of the narrow street. “Over there. Velma’s Pawnshop.”

  Chet nodded and steered the boat closer to the tiny shop. It was just a ramshackle hut squashed between two taller buildings. The paint was peeling and the windows were smudged and packed with junk. A sign over the door spelled out the words VELMA’S PAWNSHOP: BUY, SELL, OR SWAP in curvy pink letters.

  “Help me! Someone!”

  The high-pitched voice came from somewhere inside the shop. Chet stopped the boat next to the doorway. Peering inside, we spotted a short, middle-aged woman with red hair, standing on top of a checkout counter.

  “We’re coming, ma’am,” I said.

  “Thank goodness!” she exclaimed. “I thought I’d never get out of here.”

  Frank and I hopped out of the boat, plunging feetfirst into the hip-deep water. Merchandise from the store floated all around us: old guitars, plastic ducks, leather coats, empty vases, oil paintings, jewelry boxes, you name it.

  We made our way to the counter, then grasped each other’s arms to make a human chair. “Your chariot awaits,” said Frank.

  Velma carefully lowered herself into our arms, and we carried her back to the boat. Chet reached down to help her climb aboard. Then my brother and I crawled into the boat.

  “Okay, let’s go, Chet,” I said.

  Our friend grabbed the handle of the outboard motor and started to go—but something made him suddenly stop.

  “Look!” he said, pointing to the entrance of the shop.

  Frank and I looked down and saw an electronic device floating through the doorway.

  “That’s my Zbox!” Chet exclaimed. “She’s selling my stolen Zbox!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Frank. “How do you know it’s yours?”

  “See the sticker on the side?” said Chet. “I labeled it with my name. That’s my Zbox!”

  Frank and I turned around and stared at Velma. There was no mistaking the look on her face.

  It was the look of guilt.

  Chet leaned forward and pointed at Velma. “Where did you get that Zbox?” he asked her.

  The woman shrugged her shoulders and glanced around nervously. “I—I don’t remember.”

  I squatted down in front of her. “It’s important,” I said. “We need to know where you got that Zbox.”

  “S-someone sold it to me,” she stuttered.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Tell us. Who?”

  Velma didn’t answer me. Instead, she grabbed her left arm, then her chest, and started gasping for air. Her eyes rolled upward, lids fluttering. And then she fainted.

  We stared down in shock, unsure what to do.

  Velma Carter was either faking it—or she was having a heart attack.

  * * *

  * * *

  8 Life Savers

  Velma’s body went limp.

  Joe and I jumped up to catch her as she slumped over sideways. Reaching down, I grabbed her wrist and tried to find a pulse.

  “Her heart’s still beating,” I said.

  Joe put a finger under her nose. “And she’s still breathing.”

  “We should do CPR,” I said, rolling her onto her back. Joe tilted Velma’s head backward to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But he never got the chance.

  “Hold on, boys! We’re coming!”

  A small rescue boat zoomed toward us down the flooded alley, emergency lights flashing red and yellow. It pulled up next to us, and two men hopped inside the motorboat.

  It was Wilson and Grady, the two guys who’d rescued us at the docks.

  “We’ll take it from here,” said Wilson, the short, stocky one.

  Joe and I stepped aside to let the rescue workers do their job. The two former football players hunched down as if they were in a huddle. But when Grady started applying pressure to her chest, Velma opened her eyes—and screamed.

  “Wait! No! Stop!”

  She raised her arms and pushed them away.

  “Calm down, lady,” said Wilson. “We’re here to help you.”

  “Yeah, relax,” said Grady, holding her down.

  Finally, Velma stopped struggling. Taking a deep breath, she stared up at the rescue workers and cleared her throat. “Okay, I feel better,” she told them. “I must have fainted. You can let me up now.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Wilson. “You’re too weak. Grady and I will lift you onto our boat and take you to the medical center.”

  “I’m fine,” Velma snapped. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Sorry, but it’s standard procedure,” said Grady, picking her up in his brawny arms. “We just want to make sure you’re okay”

  “No! I don’t want to go!”

  Wilson and Grady ignored her protests as they placed her into their rescue boat.

  “Will you boys be able to get back to dry land?” Grady asked us.

  “No problem,” said Chet, revving up the motor.

  The two rescue workers waved good-bye, then zoomed off down the flooded street. As soon as they were gone, Chet pulled his Zbox out of the water and pointed at Velma’s Pawnshop.

  “What a weirdo,” he said. “Why was she so upset about going to the medical center?”

  “Maybe she’s afraid,” I said. “Someone might ask her what she was doing in her shop during a hurricane.”

  “Well, she’s definitely up to no good,” said Chet. “It turns out the rumors were true.”

  “What rumors?” asked Joe.

  “A kid at school told me that Velma served time in prison. She’s a common thief. And now here’s the proof.” Chet held up his Zbox.

  Joe sighed. “I wish we could have asked her more questions.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “At least I got my Zbox back,” said Chet. “I just hope it still works.”

  I glanced down at the box, still dripping wet. The chances were slim.

  Mom and Aunt Trudy were worried sick by the time we returned with the motorboat. We assured them we were okay and told them about Velma and the rescue team. Then we drove Chet to his house, unhooked the boat trailer, and went home to watch—what else?—the Weather Network.

  “Hurricane Irene has caused record-breaking damage here in the Northeast,” Johnny Thunder reported. “The storm wall in Bayport was breached, but an emergency crew has managed to patch the hole.”

  Then the pompous weatherman went on to describe these latest series of hurricanes as the worst in local history, comparing them to the disasters that typically hit the Gulf Coast. He called this “Our Summer of Storms” and used flashy computer graphics to back up his claims.

  “Enough of this,” Joe said, grabbing the remote.

  He changed the channel to a local news station. An anchorman was talking about Hurricane Irene. “I can’t take any more,” said Joe, turning down the volume.

  Seconds later, Wilson and Grady appeared on the screen. Live video footage showed the rescuers saving a family from a rooftop.

  “Turn it up,” I said.

  Joe adjusted the volume and listened.

  “Emergency rescue teams are extremely busy today,” said the anchorman. “Many families did not evacuate their homes due to recent burglaries in the area. Most of those break-ins occurred after the false warning about Hurricane Ivy. Since then, residents have been very concerned about leaving their homes.”

  “I wonder if any houses were robbed today,” said Joe.

  “Shhh. Listen.”

  The anchorman continued. “The local police have received no reports of burglaries so far today. But it ma
y be too early to tell. We’ll keep you posted with any late-breaking news.”

  Then the anchorman turned the program over to a fuzzy-haired critic to review a new dinner theater production of Grease.

  Joe turned off the TV and looked at me as we headed upstairs. “Maybe we should be out there. Someone could be robbing houses this very minute.”

  I stretched and yawned. “It’s almost bedtime, and half the town is knee-deep in water. Nobody wants a soggy Zbox.”

  “Nobody except Chet.”

  The next morning I was woken up by something really annoying. No, not Playback. It was my cell phone, ringing so loudly that I bolted out of bed and flipped on my phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you awake?”

  “Now I am. Who is this?”

  “It’s Chet.”

  “What do you want, Chet?” I asked groggily.

  “I’m heading down to the police station to tell them about finding my Zbox at Velma’s Pawnshop. I just wondered if you and Joe want to come along.”

  I couldn’t tell Chet that my brother and I were already working on the case. So I said, “Sure. We’ll join you. Where? When?”

  “I’m standing in your yard right now.”

  I walked to the window and peeked outside. Chet stood below me, staring up and waving wildly.

  “Sometimes you scare me, Chet.”

  I hung up the phone and went to wake up Joe. A few minutes later we were both dressed and out the door. Chet had borrowed his dad’s car, so we hopped in and took off.

  “Hey! Check out the town square,” said Chet.

  As we drove along the perimeter, we could see that most of yesterday’s flooding had drained away. There were still a few monster puddles here and there, but at least it didn’t look like a lake anymore.

  Chet pulled his dad’s car into the small parking lot in front of the police station. We got out, went inside, and walked up to the main desk.

  “Hello, sir,” said Chet, smiling at the heavyset receptionist. “I have some new information about the burglary I reported last week. Could I speak to one of the officers on the case?”