Hurricane Joe

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Now are you scared?” I asked Joe.

  “No, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to get into this warehouse.”

  He pointed at the massive iron deadbolt on the door. The sliding bolt was held in place with a solid steel padlock that must have been the size of my fist.

  “I’m disappointed, Joe,” I said. “You’re going to let a little thing like that stop you?”

  “Well, I’m saving up my superhuman strength for something more challenging.” He flexed his bicep.

  I rolled my eyes and pushed him off balance.

  “Come on, Superdork,” I said, turning around. “Let’s see if we can find another way to get inside.”

  We walked along the perimeter of the warehouse until we reached the end of the pier. At the corner of the building, hidden in shadows, was a huge stack of empty wooden crates. I stopped and pointed toward the roof.

  “Look. There’s a little window up there. Probably for air circulation.”

  Joe gazed up and squinted. “It’s pretty high, Frank.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem for Superdork.”

  Joe ignored me. “We can stack these crates under the window and climb up to it,” he said.

  “Sounds like a good plan, hero,” I said. “So what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for you to knock it off and help me.”

  I stopped teasing him and started pushing crates across the pier. The boxes were empty, so they weren’t too heavy. But they were so big and bulky that it took both of us to lift them up and stack them.

  It took about five minutes to build a small tower alongside the building. Then Joe and I climbed to the top and pulled ourselves up to the windowsill.

  We peeked inside.

  The warehouse was too dark to see anything. I pulled out my LCD flashlight, gave it a few shakes, and aimed the beam inside. Just beneath the window, we saw a tall metal shelving unit.

  “Excellent,” I said. “Go on, Joe. Climb down.”

  “Why do I have to go first?”

  “Because you’re Super—”

  “Frank.”

  “Okay. I’ll stop. Go ahead. I’ll light the way for you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Joe lowered his feet onto the top shelf. Then he swung his legs over the side and started climbing down. A few seconds later, his feet hit the floor.

  “Okay. I made it,” he whispered to me. “Toss me the flashlight.”

  I dropped it down, then lowered myself onto the steel unit, using each shelf like the rung of a ladder. As I slowly descended, I noticed all sorts of stuff sitting on the shelves—flat-screen TVs, stereo equipment, silver tea sets, jewelry, and other valuable items.

  We’re in the burglar’s lair.

  I hopped to the floor and looked around. Joe used the flashlight to scan the building, illuminating row after row of stolen goods. We seemed to be standing on a huge balcony that overlooked the main floor of the warehouse. Walking to the edge, Joe shone the flashlight downward.

  “Dude! Look at all that junk!”

  The lower level was filled with a lot of the same things that were stored up in the balcony—except all of it was obviously ruined by floodwater.

  “I’ll bet the burglars were pretty bummed when they saw all this damage,” I said.

  Joe glanced behind us. “That’s probably why they’re storing stuff up here now.”

  He turned around and examined a few large wooden crates. Lifting a lid, he peered inside—and screamed.

  “Auuughh!”

  I jumped. “What is it, Joe?”

  “Nothing,” he said, laughing. “It’s empty. I’m just messing with you, Frank. You should have seen the look on your face! You were scared silly!”

  “I was not.”

  Joe started to say something else, and then I heard a sound that really did scare me.

  “Joe! Shhh! What’s that?”

  He listened. “What’s what?”

  “That.”

  From the other side of the warehouse, on the lower level, came the faint sound of keys jingling outside the door—and the scraping rattle of a sliding metal bolt.

  “Someone’s coming,” I whispered. “Quick, hide.”

  Joe lifted the lid of the empty crate and jumped inside. I wasn’t sure if there was enough room in there for both of us, but I didn’t have a choice.

  Somebody opened the warehouse door.

  I quickly crawled into the crate next to Joe and lowered the lid over our heads. My heart felt like it was pounding double-time. But then I realized that half of the heartbeats belonged to Joe, who was squashed up against me.

  He elbowed me in the ribs, and I elbowed him right back. But we both froze when we heard the two voices on the lower level.

  “You’re crazy, man.”

  “No, I’m not. I swear I heard someone scream. Right before you opened the door.”

  “It was just the waves hitting the dock.”

  One of them flicked a switch. A row of fluorescent lights flickered on, beaming down from the ceiling and penetrating the boards of the crate.

  “Man! Look at all this stuff!” said one of the voices. “It’s ruined.”

  “I told you to store everything on the balcony. If you had listened to me in the first place, we wouldn’t have to throw this junk away.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “It’s money down the drain.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  I listened carefully, trying to identify the voices.

  Who’s talking? Welch and Warner? Johnny Thunder and Irwin Link?

  I couldn’t be sure. The warehouse had a bad echo, and the wooden crate we were hiding in distorted the sound even more.

  I tried to listen closer.

  For a while all I could hear were the sounds of shuffling footsteps and things being moved around. Then suddenly the two of them stopped working and started talking again.

  “I’m worried,” said one.

  “About what?” said the other.

  “Getting caught.”

  “Who’s going to turn us in? Velma? She’s history.”

  “I know. But now that she’s out of the picture, how are we going to unload all this stuff?”

  “Don’t worry. I have a connection in Eastwood.”

  The mention of Eastwood caught my attention.

  Johnny Thunder and Irwin Link work in Eastwood. Maybe they’re partners in a larger crime ring.

  I heard more shuffling around below us.

  “Hey. Look at these.”

  “What?”

  “The water didn’t reach these oil paintings. They’re still good.”

  “So take them up to the balcony.”

  “Okay.”

  A pair of heavy footsteps started coming up the stairs.

  I felt Joe tense up next to me.

  “Where should I put them?” the voice yelled down to his partner.

  “They’re pretty small. They should fit inside one of those empty crates.”

  Oh, no, I thought.

  “Which empty crates?”

  “There. On the edge of the balcony.”

  The footsteps started walking—straight toward us.

  I sucked in my breath.

  My heart began pounding, my stomach clenching into a tight ball. I braced myself for the worst.

  You can take him, Frank, I told myself. Just jump out and surprise him, like a jack-in-the-box.

  I flexed my leg muscles and clenched my fists. Joe must have had the same idea, because he was doing it too.

  The footsteps stopped right in front of us.

  “These crates here?” the voice yelled down.

  “Yeah.”

  A hand reached down and flipped open the lid.

  Surprise!

  Nothing happened.

  Joe and I didn’t jump up and attack—because the man opened the crate next to ours instead.

  Ha!

  With a loud grunt, he shoved the paintings inside the box
and slammed the lid. Then he headed back to the steps and went downstairs.

  Joe and I let out sighs of relief—very quiet sighs, of course.

  Man, that was close.

  We listened to the footsteps cross the lower level.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Counting up how much we lost because of the flooding.”

  “Is it a lot?”

  “Yeah, almost half of everything we stole.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “What do you mean, what are we going to do? We’re going to steal more stuff, that’s what we’re going to do.”

  “Oh.”

  Then there was more shuffling and the echoing sound of footsteps, followed by the clank of a bolt and the click of a light switch.

  The warehouse was plunged into darkness again.

  One of them opened the huge steel door.

  “So how are we going to steal more stuff? Do you have another plan?”

  “Who needs another plan?”

  “You mean—?”

  “Yeah. We’ll just make up another fake hurricane.”

  11 Running for Shelter

  The next morning Frank woke me up by tossing an old pair of paint-covered overalls onto my pillow.

  “Get up! Get dressed! Get moving!”

  I pushed one of the denim straps off my face and groaned. “Don’t tell me Mom wants us to paint the house.”

  “No, but I thought you’d want to wear your old clothes today,” said Frank. “I volunteered us for the hurricane cleanup committee.”

  Whistling cheerfully, he pulled up the window shades to fill the room with light.

  He was so chipper about it that I wanted to smack him.

  “I’m tired, Frank,” I mumbled, pulling the overalls across my face. “Wake me up when it’s over.”

  Frank walked over to the bed. “That’s okay, Joe. You can just lay there and sleep all day while the poor victims of Hurricane Irene struggle to pick up the pieces of their lives.”

  “Thanks for the guilt trip.”

  “So? Are you going to help?”

  “Yes, I’ll help,” I said, uncovering my face. “As long as I don’t have to wear these stupid overalls.”

  “You can wear a tutu for all I care.”

  “Really? Can I borrow yours?”

  Frank responded by lifting the mattress and flipping me onto the floor.

  Twenty minutes later I was up and dressed and walking downtown. Frank kept talking about the burglars and thinking of ways to catch them.

  “We could set up a motion-sensitive videocam outside their warehouse,” he said. “Then we’d have visual evidence connecting those guys to the stolen goods.”

  “I’d rather catch them in the act,” I said.

  I gazed down the street at a long row of houses.

  They look like sitting ducks at a shooting gallery, I thought. Just waiting to be picked off one by one.

  “Did you watch the Weather Network this morning?” I asked Frank.

  “Yeah. But there were no reports of another hurricane.”

  I kicked a pebble and sighed. “I guess we just have to wait for the burglars to strike again.”

  “Don’t worry, Joe. The cleanup committee will keep us busy.”

  We turned the corner, walked to the town square—and were shocked by what we found there.

  “Wow! Check it out!” I said. “Looks like everyone in Bayport showed up to help.”

  The town square was buzzing with activity. Men and women, young and old, were all pitching in—sweeping the garbage from the gutters, throwing tree branches into Dumpsters, scrubbing water stains off the buildings, and hosing down the sidewalks.

  Frank smiled. “There sure are a lot of familiar faces here.”

  He was right.

  Chet Morton and Iola were wiping down the park benches. Brian and Belinda Conrad were cleaning out the stone fountain. Dr. Melissa Robinson, our family doctor, scrubbed a dirty mailbox with a big sponge.

  “Hi, boys!” she shouted to us.

  Some of our teachers from school were there too, like Mr. Mirabella, our gym teacher, and Mr. Brooks, the assistant principal. I spotted Grady, one of the rescue workers we’d met, helping Police Chief Collig push a rolling Dumpster across the street.

  Even Aunt Trudy was there, handing out sandwiches.

  “It’s about time you got here,” she said to us.

  “Frank had a little trouble getting me out of bed,” I said. “Could I have a sandwich?”

  “Not until you do some work.” She pointed to the sign-up desk at the end of the square and pushed me away from the sandwiches.

  As we headed to the desk, I lowered my voice and said, “Just think, Frank. The burglars could be here right now.”

  “Unless they’re robbing our houses while we work.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

  We walked up to the desk and asked a volunteer what we could do to help. The white-haired woman smiled and pointed at a huge lumpy mud puddle on the corner.

  “Someone needs to clean that mess,” she said sweetly. “The sewer drain backed up.”

  Great, I thought. That’s what I get for sleeping in and being the last to volunteer.

  The white-haired woman handed us two shovels and a large bucket. “Thanks a lot, boys.”

  We walked over to the murky puddle. I looked down, took a whiff, and made a face.

  Frank laughed. “Aw, get over it, Joe. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.”

  “Yeah, but this really stinks.”

  Frank covered his nose. “I’m with you, bro.”

  We grabbed our shovels and went to work.

  It turned out that we didn’t have to worry about everyone’s houses being robbed that day. According to the news, there were no more burglaries to report. And according to the Weather Network, no hurricanes, either.

  Just to be sure, Frank and I watched the Weather Network every day—morning, noon, and night—waiting for Johnny Thunder to predict another phony hurricane.

  But it never happened.

  In fact, a whole week and a half went by without hurricane warnings, emergency evacuations, burglaries, or any criminal activity at all. Frank even went to the docks one night to hide a motion-sensitive videocam near the entrance of Warehouse 13, but the tapes were always blank. The burglars never came back.

  Is that it? I thought. Mission over?

  But then, one cloudy afternoon, it happened.

  The Weather Network reported another hurricane.

  We were sitting in the living room with our parents and Aunt Trudy when we heard the news.

  “Hurricane Jason could be the worst storm we’ve ever seen,” Johnny Thunder announced grimly. “At this very moment, Jason is gathering strength in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It’s moving fast and gaining momentum, with winds up to one hundred thirty miles per hour. And yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s heading right for us.”

  Aunt Trudy stopped knitting. Mom and Dad dropped their newspapers and looked up at the TV.

  Johnny Thunder continued. “If you live in the Bayport area—or anywhere near the coast—we strongly advise you to evacuate your homes immediately.”

  Aunt Trudy stood up from her chair.

  “I repeat,” said Johnny. “Evacuate your homes immediately. Hurricane Jason promises to be even more devastating than Irene, reaching a level of Category Four or Five. For your own safety, we urge you to go to the closest emergency shelter in your community.”

  Mom turned to Dad. “It sounds serious, Fen. Do you think we should we evacuate?”

  “Of course we should evacuate,” Aunt Trudy chimed in. “Johnny Thunder said it could be Category Four or Five.”

  “Johnny Thunder has been known to make mistakes, Gertrude,” said my father.

  “Gertrude?” I said, laughing. “Nobody ever calls you that, Aunt Trudy.”

  “Well, it is my name,” she replied, a little annoyed.

/>   “Then why does everyone call you Trudy?” I asked.

  “It’s a long story, Joseph,” she said. “I’ll tell you why later. Right now, we should get ready to evacuate.”

  Mom and Dad agreed.

  “Go pack some extra underwear,” Mom told us. “And take Playback to your room.”

  Playback heard his name and flapped his wings. Then he followed Frank and me upstairs.

  “This way, birdbrain,” my brother cooed to the parrot.

  As fast as I could, I threw some clothes into my backpack, then went to Frank’s room. He was sitting on his bed, listening to the hand-cranked emergency radio we got from the ATAC team.

  “Any news?” I asked.

  Frank frowned and shook his head. “Nobody except the Weather Network is reporting Hurricane Jason.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Frank didn’t answer me. Instead, he reached for the other “toy” we’d received from ATAC—a mini “weather tracker” device with satellite hookup. Fidgeting with the dials, he pulled up a weather map on the tiny screen and studied it carefully.

  “The satellite shows some hurricane activity,” he said, “but it’s a lot farther away than Johnny Thunder told us.”

  “So you think …?”

  “Yeah. Hurricane Jason could be another fake.”

  I gazed across the room, wondering if my brother was right, and then I noticed Playback sitting calmly in his cage.

  “He’s not ruffling his feathers,” I muttered.

  “Huh?” said Frank.

  “Aunt Trudy said Playback ruffles his feathers when a storm is coming. But look at him.”

  “That’s one mellow bird,” Frank agreed.

  Just then, Mom shouted up to us from the bottom of the stairs. “Hurry up, guys! We’re ready to go!”

  “We’re coming, Mom!” I yelled down.

  Moving quickly, Frank and I stuffed the weather tracker and the emergency radio into our backpacks—along with the ultraslim inflatable life vests. Then we headed downstairs.

  “We’re going to take our motorcycles, Mom,” said Frank, dashing to the front door.

  “But wait, it’s not safe,” she said.

  “Please, Mom,” I pleaded. “It’s not even raining.”

  She started to protest, but Dad butted in. “Go ahead, boys. We’ll meet you at the evacuation center.”

  Frank and I turned and charged out of the house before Mom could veto Dad’s decision. As we revved up our motorcycles, I asked my brother where we were going.