Burned

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Wait, Joe! I’m right behind you!”

  Frank tried to limp after me, but Belinda held him back, trying to force-feed him the orange slush. I suppose she was trying to help.

  Whatever. I wasn’t about to let Mr. Ski Cap get away.

  I turned around and ran to the entrance of the Yarn Barn. I peeked inside.

  Where did he go?

  Mr. Ski Cap had somehow disappeared amidst all the colored yarn and knitting supplies.

  He shouldn’t be hard to find. He’s wearing all black.

  Taking a deep breath, I strolled down the aisle, peering into every bin I passed. There were mountains of rolled yarn, in every color you could imagine.

  Hot pink, lemon yellow, lime green…

  A sweet elderly lady smiled at me as she purchased a shiny new pair of knitting needles.

  “Hello, young man. Are you a knitting fan too?” she asked me.

  “No, ma’am. Just a knit-wit,” I answered.

  She giggled like a little girl. I smiled, then went back to inspecting the bins of yarn.

  Raspberry red, royal blue, purple plum, filthy dirty black…

  Wait a minute.

  I stopped in my tracks.

  Filthy dirty black?

  I turned back to the bin of purple yarn.

  Yes, there it is.

  A single ball of black yarn was half-hidden among the rolled skeins of purple.

  Mr. Ski Cap’s ski cap.

  Slowly I reached inside and…

  “LEAVE ME ALONE!” the man screamed and jumped out of the bin like a giant jack-in-the-box. Pouncing on top of me, he wrapped loose strands of yarn around and around my neck, cutting into my skin. Then he pulled. Hard.

  He’s strangling me!

  I tried to fight back, but he was just too strong.

  I can’t breathe!

  The yarn dug tighter into my throat.

  This is it. I’m going to die.

  I probably would have, too—if that sweet elderly woman hadn’t jumped on top of us, jabbing the guy with her shiny new knitting needles.

  “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”

  Mr. Ski Cap pushed the woman away and scrambled to his feet, running for the door.

  I loosened the yarn around my neck, gasping for air. My head was spinning.

  I’ll never catch him now.

  There was nothing I could do but lie there helplessly on the floor.

  He’s getting away.

  Mr. Ski Cap bounded toward the exit, gaining speed with every step. Faster and faster he charged toward the main entrance—and his only escape. Nothing could stop him now.

  Except for the lime green yarn that Frank had stretched across the aisle.

  “Whoooah!”

  Mr. Ski Cap tripped.

  And fell flat on his face.

  Frank let go of the yarn and leaped from his hiding place inside one of the bins. Then he threw himself on top of the fallen man. Crawling quickly to my feet, I rushed over to help my brother hold him down.

  Mr. Ski Cap growled and thrashed like a wild animal.

  But Frank and I weren’t about to let him get away.

  After a minute or two his arms and legs stopped kicking, and his whole body started to relax. He laid his head back and panted for a while, glaring at us with his cold gray eyes.

  “Okay, I give up,” he said. “What did I do wrong?”

  Besides strangling me?

  I bit my lip and answered him.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Mr. Burns.”

  10.

  The Mysterious Mr. Burns

  I can’t believe this guy.

  The man in the ski cap had nearly crushed my foot and strangled my brother—and now he was looking at us like we were crazy.

  “Mr. Burns?” he asked. He had a heavy New York accent.

  “Yes,” said Joe. “C. D. Burns.”

  The man let out a slow breath of air. Which didn’t smell so sweet, by the way.

  “You’re C. D. Burns, aren’t you?” Joe prodded.

  “No, I’m not C. D. Burns.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re C. D. Burns and you’re paying high school kids to make illegal music CDs for you.”

  “I told you, kid, I’m not C. D. Burns.”

  I looked at my brother. “Maybe we should just hand this guy over to mall security, Joe. Or call the cops.”

  That got him.

  “No, wait. I’ll talk,” he said, glancing around nervously. “What do you want to know?”

  “Are you the man they call C. D. Burns?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lefty Rue. My real name’s Liam but everyone calls me Lefty.”

  “Have you heard of C. D. Burns?”

  “Yeah. I work for him. He sends me money to buy blank CDs. Then he tells me where to deliver them.”

  “Where does he live? How can we find him?”

  “I don’t know. Really.”

  “Call the cops, Joe.”

  Lefty’s jaw dropped open. “No! Wait! I’m telling the truth! I have no idea who Burns is or where he lives. I’ve never even met the guy! Honest!”

  “So how does he contact you?”

  “E-mail.”

  “What’s the address?”

  Lefty sighed. We waited for his reply, but his mouth was clamped shut.

  He wasn’t going to tell us.

  “Look, Lefty,” I said. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which is it going to be?”

  He looked at me and scoffed. “Tough guy, huh?” he said. “What are you going to do? Torture me?”

  “No,” I answered. “But if you give me C. D. Burns’s e-mail address, I’ll make up a nice, innocent story for the mall security guard who’s walking toward us right now.”

  I had Lefty beat and he knew it.

  “Okay, okay,” he whispered. “It’s music2burn—with a numeral two—at worldbeat dot com.”

  Just then the security guard came up to us.

  “What’s the problem here, gentlemen?”

  Joe and I crawled off of Lefty and helped him to his feet.

  “This is our uncle,” I explained to the guard. “We were just playing this little game that we have and, well, I guess it got out of hand.”

  The security guard glanced at the mess inside the Yarn Barn and nodded his head slowly.

  “I see. Well, maybe you boys should play something a little less physical next time. Something like chess or cards.”

  Joe and I put on our best guilty schoolboy expressions and dropped our heads.

  “I think it would be nice if you boys helped the store clerk pick up the merchandise you knocked over,” said the guard.

  “Yes, sir. We will.”

  The security guard studied us for moment, then nodded his head again and strolled off down the mall.

  Joe and I let out a sigh.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s clean up this mess.”

  We turned back to Lefty.

  He was nowhere in sight.

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Liam Rue, aka “Lefty”

  Hometown: New York City

  Physical description: Forty-seven years old, 6’1”, 170 Ibs., gray hair, seen wearing black ski cap and raincoat.

  Occupation: Dockworker, handyman

  Background: Served time in prison for attempted robbery with unloaded gun.

  Suspicious behavior: Reacted violently when questioned, admitted to delivering blank CDs for man known as C. D. Burns.

  Suspected of: Trafficking illegal goods.

  Possible motives: Money under the table.

  As soon as we got home, Aunt Trudy bombarded us with questions.

  “Is that lizard thing still here?”

  “Yes, Aunt Trudy,” I answered.

  “Why haven’t you taken him back to the pet store?”

  I glanced at Joe.

  Talk your way out of this one.

  “We were too busy today,” h
e said. “I’ll get him out of here first thing tomorrow morning. I promise.”

  Aunt Trudy shook her head. “You promised to take him back today. But he’s still here. What does that say about your promises?”

  “Not much, I know,” Joe admitted. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You also said you’d take care of that parrot of yours. And who cleans up all the parrot poop in this house?”

  “You do, Aunt Trudy.”

  “And we love you for it,” I added, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Joe planted a kiss on her other cheek.

  Aunt Trudy pushed us away. “Oh, knock it off. You boys can’t sweet-talk me. Maybe that works on the high school girls, but it won’t work on me. Which reminds me, Frank.”

  “Yes?”

  “You got a phone call from Belinda Conrad a few minutes ago.”

  Oh, no.

  “I did?”

  “Yes. She wanted to know if you were okay. She said you were limping through the shopping mall tonight. What happened?”

  Think fast.

  “We were in the sporting goods store and Joe dropped a bowling ball on my foot.”

  Aunt Trudy gave Joe the eye. “You should be more careful.”

  Joe rolled his eyes.

  We went up to my room, a little tired from the night’s adventures. Playback greeted us with a soft squawk and ruffling of feathers. I headed straight for my computer and booted it up.

  “Checking to see if you got another e-mail from your girlfriend?” Joe asked, pulling up a chair.

  “Belinda Conrad is not my girlfriend.”

  “She likes you, Frank.”

  ’Yeah, so what am I supposed to do about it?”

  Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. Like her back?”

  I tried to ignore him, turning my attention to the computer screen.

  “I’m serious, Frank. Belinda’s a great girl. She’s smart. She’s funny. And in case you haven’t noticed, she’s totally hot.”

  Enough already.

  I sat back and looked my brother in the eye. “Okay, Joe. You want the truth? I really like Belinda. A lot. But I get too nervous when I’m around her. I never know what to say.”

  “You should ask her out on a date.”

  “You should mind your own business.”

  “But Frank…”

  “We need to concentrate on the mission, not my love life.”

  “What love life?”

  I pushed him backward until the chair tipped over and dumped Joe onto the floor.

  “Hey!”

  I went back to my computer. Joe scrambled to his feet and stood up behind me, leaning over my shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sending an e-mail to C. D. Burns,” I told him.

  “Really? What are you going to say?”

  “Here. Read it.”

  Joe leaned closer and started reading.

  OUTGOING TRANSMISSION

  To: music2burn@worldbeat.com

  From: iguanaboy@americalink.com

  Subject: Business proposal

  Message: Hello, Mr. Burns. I’m a student at Bayport High School. A friend of mine told me that you’re in the business of duplicating music CDs for the global market. I would like to offer you my services. I am very experienced with computers and fully equipped to burn large numbers of CDs at your request. Salary is negotiable. Please let me know if you’re interested. Thank you.

  The next morning Joe and I woke up early so we could take the iguana over to Chet Morton’s house. Chet was pretty psyched—even though he looked like he’d just crawled out of bed.

  “Come on in! I got the old aquarium all fixed up for the little guy.”

  I thought he was going to explode from the excitement. Joe set the cardboard box on the floor, and Chet reached inside to stroke the iguana’s head.

  “Oh, man! He is so cool!”

  “Yes. Cold-blooded, in fact,” I said. “That’s why he needs to have a heat lamp.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Chet pointed to the glass tank in the corner of his room.

  Wow. Impressive.

  It looked like one of those amazing displays in the Museum of Natural History. Rocks and sand were perfectly arranged around a small pool, with desert plants clustered in the background. Not only did Chet have a heat lamp, he had a whole stack of iguana pet care books next to the tank.

  “I think little Iggy, or whatever you want to call him, has found a good home,” I said.

  Joe and Chet lifted the iguana out of the box and introduced him to his new surroundings. As they tried to get him to eat some lettuce, my eyes wandered to the computer on Chet’s desk.

  I forgot to check my e-mail.

  “Chet? Do you mind if I go online for a second? I need to check my e-mail.”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  I sat down at the desk and logged onto the “iguanaboy” account that I’d created last night. A few seconds later I opened the e-mail box.

  “Joe. Come here.”

  We had received an e-mail.

  From C. D. Burns.

  11.

  Playing with Fire

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  E-mail from C. D. Burns?

  I never thought the mystery man would answer back.

  “What does it say?” I asked.

  “See for yourself.”

  I leaned forward and started reading.

  INCOMING TRANSMISSION

  To: iguanaboy@americalink.com

  From: music2burn@worldbeat.com

  Subject: Re: Business Proposal

  Message: Thank you for your inquiry. I am always interested in making new business contacts. I’d like to start you off with a small order: 150 copies of the new album Ham Sweet Ham by the Flaming Pigs. You can find it at your local music store. I’ll pay you fifty cents per copy plus the cost of the original CD. Just send me your home address, and the blank CDs will be delivered to your doorstep tonight. C. D. Burns.

  “Who’s C. D. Burns?” asked Chet, looking over my shoulder.

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” I said.

  Chet, as usual, looked confused. He didn’t know that we were undercover agents on a secret mission—but he knew we had a habit of digging up trouble.

  “C. D. Burns has been paying kids at our school to copy music CDs,” Frank explained. “Illegally.”

  Chet still looked confused. “So who’s ’iguana-boy’?”

  Frank laughed. “I created a new profile to hide our identities from C. D. Burns.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And now he’s walked right into our trap.”

  “Or maybe we’ve walked right into his.”

  “What do you mean, Frank?”

  My brother spun around in the chair. “Burns wants to know our home address. Maybe he suspects we’re trying to bust his operation.”

  I nodded. “You have to admit, we’ve been asking a lot of people a lot of questions.”

  “You’re right. Burns could be on to us.”

  “So what should we do?”

  “Well, we can’t give him our home address.”

  We sat there silently, trying to plan our next move.

  Chet snapped his fingers. “I have an idea,” he said. “Give him my home address.”

  Frank shook his head. “It’s too dangerous, Chet. What if Burns sends someone to beat you up? Or worse?”

  Chet shrugged him off. “I’m not scared,” he said. “And anyway, I’m not even going to be here tonight. The family is spending the night at my grandmother’s in Philly.”

  I looked at Frank. “What do you think?”

  My brother thought about it. “I don’t know, Joe.”

  “Aw, go ahead,” said Chet. “Give him my address. It’s okay.”

  He picked up one of his new pet care books.

  “I’m ‘iguanaboy’ now.”

  At lunchtime Frank and I hopped on our motor
cycles and rode downtown to buy the Flaming Pigs CD. We pulled up in front of a little shop near the bay called Spin City.

  A sign in the window said GOING OUT OF BUSINESS.

  “That stinks,” I said, stepping off my bike. “This place has been here forever.”

  We went inside and were greeted by Vinnie Spinerelli, a twenty-something hip-hop fan who inherited the place from his rock-and-roller dad.

  “Yo, whassup?” he said, tugging on his baseball cap.

  “How’s it going, Spin?” I replied. Everyone called him Spin.

  “I’m good, man.” He smirked, then pointed at the sign. “But business is bad.”

  “I can’t believe you’re closing, dude,” said Frank. “You’re the last music store left in town.”

  Spin grunted and stared down at the counter. “No one comes in here anymore. They get their music on the Internet. Or at a superstore like Mega Mart.”

  He reached up and ripped a concert poster off the wall, tearing it up in his hands. Frank and I felt bad for the guy. He was about to lose his family business.

  “Sorry to hear it, Spin,” I said.

  “It’s no big deal. I’ve got a few things lined up. I’ll be okay. Anyway, what about you guys? Looking for something special?”

  “Yeah,” said Frank, gazing at the dusty bins of records and CDs. “We’re looking for an album called Ham Sweet Ham by the Flaming Pigs.”

  Spin tossed the crumpled poster on the floor. “It hasn’t been released yet.”

  “Really?” I said. “We were told we could get a copy at the local store.”

  Spin gave another smirk. “I didn’t say you couldn’t get a copy. I said the album hasn’t been released yet.”

  Reaching underneath the cash register, he pulled out a CD case and slapped it down on the counter. I looked at it. The plastic case featured a cheap photocopied picture of a piggy bank with flames shooting out of the coin slot.

  It was Ham Sweet Ham.

  And it was definitely an illegal bootleg copy.

  That night Frank got another e-mail from Belinda Conrad.

  She wanted to know if he was free tonight. She had an extra ticket to go see “this new band that totally kicks.”

  The Flaming Pigs.

  SUSPECT PROFILE

  Name: Vincent Spinerelli, aka “Vinnie” or “Spin”