Burned

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Did you have any problem getting the king cobra back into his cage?” I asked.

  The man shrugged. “Not really. He was just lying there, grooving to the music you left him. The only problem I had was prying the player out of his jaws.”

  “No kidding,” said Joe, pointing to the two big fang holes in the plastic casing.

  “Man, he really sank his teeth into it,” I said.

  Joe slapped me on the back. “Like I said, the new Thrasher CD totally rocks.”

  Hopping on our motorcycles, we headed home to Bayport. Joe listened to his CD player for the entire ride. I was amazed that the thing still worked.

  “Put that away,” I said as we pulled our motorcycles behind Aunt Trudy’s Volkswagen.

  Joe ignored me. He just kept bobbing his head to the music. I knew he had it on low volume for safety—but he acted as if it was on full blast.

  “Joe.” I grabbed him by the arm and plucked the earphones from his ears.

  “What?”

  “Hide your CD player,” I said. “I don’t want to have to explain the snake bites to Mom and Aunt Trudy.”

  They didn’t know that Joe and I were undercover agents for ATAC. I hated lying to them, but our dad, a former cop, thought it would be safer for everyone to keep our missions a secret.

  Joe stuffed the player into his leather jacket pocket and let out a little groan. “Now I’ll have to listen to their music.” He nodded toward the house.

  A Big Band melody echoed throughout the old Victorian, and a velvety voice crooned corny lyrics from days gone by.

  “Dad must have bought the Frank Sinatra collection on CD,” I pointed out.

  “Great.” Joe crossed the porch and pushed open the front door. “Do you kids have to play your music so loud?” he shouted. “You’re going to burst your eardrums!”

  Mom and Dad stood in the middle of the living room with startled looks on their faces—and their arms around each other.

  “Aha!” I said. “Caught you dancing! I always wondered what you two did when we weren’t around.”

  “I blame it on Sinatra,” Joe teased. “His music is corrupting yesterday’s youth. It leads to jitterbugging.

  “Actually, we were doing the foxtrot,” Dad explained.

  “Even worse,” said Joe with a grin. “I just don’t understand how you can listen to all that old stuff. It’s so not cool.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “And I suppose your music is cool,” she said. “What’s that new band you like? Trashbag?”

  “Thrasher.”

  “Whatever. It sounds like a trash compactor with a rhythm section. How can you prefer that to the timeless classics of Frank Sinatra? And what on earth happened to your pants?”

  Oops.

  I’d made Joe hide his snake-bitten CD player, but I’d forgotten all about his iguana-ripped pants.

  “Oh, this?” said Joe. “Just a little accident.”

  “A motorcycle accident?” Mom gasped. “I knew it. Those bikes are just too dangerous for—”

  “It wasn’t a motorcycle accident, Mom,” I interrupted. “We were playing touch football after school and it, um, turned into tackle football.”

  She shook her head. “You boys should be more careful.”

  If she only knew.

  “Well, wash up for dinner. Aunt Trudy’s making pot roast tonight.”

  Joe and I dropped our backpacks on the dining room table just as Aunt Trudy burst through the kitchen door.

  “Freeze!” she snapped. “What did I tell you boys about dumping your backpacks on the dining room table?”

  “Don’t do it,” I answered.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I’m ready to set the table and the last thing I want to do is—AAAAUU-UUGHHH!”

  Her scream made us all jump.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Dad, running into the room.

  Aunt Trudy pointed a long finger at Joe’s backpack. “It moved! I swear his backpack moved! There’s something in there! Something alive!”

  I glanced nervously at Joe.

  Something must have escaped from Outback Mack’s Animal Shack.

  3.

  Surprise Packages

  I had no idea what could be wriggling and squirming inside my backpack. But man, I hoped it wasn’t anything poisonous.

  “Everybody stand back,” said Frank. “Something must’ve crawled in there while we were, uh, playing football in the park.”

  “Oh, my!” said Aunt Trudy. “Do you think it’s a squirrel? Or a rat? Please say no.”

  “I don’t think it’s a squirrel or a rat,” I muttered under my breath. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of it… whatever it is.”

  Please don’t be a snake.… Please don’t be a snake.…

  I leaned over the table and carefully unzipped the wriggling backpack.

  “Easy,” I whispered.

  Everybody jumped when the backpack flopped onto its side—and something crawled out.

  Something green and scaly.

  “Joe! It’s your buddy!” Frank said, laughing.

  The baby iguana took a few steps and stopped in the middle of the table, staring at us.

  “A lizard?” Aunt Trudy shrieked. “How did a lizard get into your backpack?”

  “I saw him in the pet store downtown,” I lied, thinking fast. “And he’s not a lizard. He’s an iguana.”

  Aunt Trudy made a face. “I don’t care what it is,” she said. “I won’t have it sitting on my dining room table. It’ll ruin my appetite.”

  A tiny tongue darted in and out of the iguana’s mouth—and Aunt Trudy screamed.

  “Get rid of that thing right now!” she wailed. “And don’t even think about adopting it. That parrot of yours, Playback, is bad enough, squawking and pooping all over the house. The last thing I need is a big lizard to clean up after. This isn’t the Bayport Zoo.”

  Unfortunately for us, today clearly wasn’t one of Aunt Trudy’s “I love the parrot!” days. Sometimes she liked him, and sometimes she really didn’t.

  “We can’t just throw him outside, Aunt Trudy,” said Frank. “He won’t survive in the cold.”

  Aunt Trudy stared at the baby iguana—which stared right back at her. She sighed. “Oh, all right. He can spend the night here. But he has to go back to the pet store. First thing tomorrow, got it?”

  “Got it,” I said. “Thanks, Aunt Trudy.”

  “Come on, Joe,” said Frank, slapping my arm. “Let’s find a box for him in the garage.”

  We turned and walked out of the house, leaving Aunt Trudy alone with the iguana. Walking across the yard, Frank nudged me and shook his head.

  “Man, that was close,” he said. “We’re lucky it was the iguana and not a cobra in your backpack.”

  “No problem, dude. We could’ve lulled the cobra to sleep with Frank Sinatra music.”

  Frank laughed.

  I glanced up and squinted my eyes. What’s that?

  Something floated down from the sky, right over our heads.

  “Check it out, Frank.”

  A tiny parachute descended slowly to the lawn, landing in a patch of Aunt Trudy’s prize tomatoes. A small brown package was tied to the parachute’s strings.

  Frank reached down and picked it up. “Looks like ATAC sent us another mission, Joe.” He squinted at the sky, probably trying to figure out how it was dropped. Thing is, it’s hard to figure out ATAC messenger methods.

  “Man, we just finished a mission,” I groaned. “When am I going to do my homework?”

  Just then Dad opened the living room window and shouted out to me. “Joe! Could you come inside? Your mother and I would like to have a talk with you.”

  “Sure, Dad. What’s up?”

  “Not your grades.”

  Oh, no. Not now.

  My stomach flipped a few times. Dad closed the window, and I glanced at Frank.

  “They must have seen my report card,” I explained.

  Frank gave me a sym
pathetic look. “Sorry, man,” he said, patting my shoulder. “But you’re on your own. I’ll sneak the mission package upstairs inside the box for the iguana. Good luck.”

  He turned and headed for the garage while I went inside to face the firing squad.

  What am I going to tell them? That it’s hard to write book reports while I’m fighting off killer cobras?

  Mom and Dad were waiting for me in the living room. They sat side by side on the sofa, gazing down at my report card on the coffee table.

  Exhibit A.

  I had received all Bs this semester—and a C in computer class.

  Guilty, your honor.

  I sat down in the armchair next to the fireplace and awaited my sentence.

  “I’m not going to lecture you, Joe,” my father started off. “But your grades seem to be slipping every semester. You used to be a straight A student.”

  I stared down at the floor, not knowing what to say.

  Mom leaned forward. “Honey, I know you’ve been busy with all your extracurricular activities,” she said. “But maybe you’ve taken on too much. You’ve never gotten a C before.”

  Dad shook his head. “Do you know what a C means, Joe? It means average. And I know you’re not average. I know you can do better.”

  I sighed. How can I tell them that Mr. Conner just doesn’t seem to like me? It’ll sound like an excuse.

  “Well, I guess I never bothered to focus on computers because Frank always took care of it here at home,” I explained. “He’s the computer whiz of the family.”

  Dad nodded. “Maybe you should ask him to help you.”

  I looked up at my father. “You know I hate to ask anyone for help. Especially Frank. He’ll just tease me.”

  “No, he won’t,” he said. “Why do you think I give you boys so much freedom? Because I know you’ll help each other out. No matter what.”

  I thought about it. Maybe Dad was right. Frank would definitely help me with my computer class—but I guess I was too proud to ask.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Good,” my father replied. “You can go now.”

  “Really? No punishment?”

  “Do you want one?”

  “No.”

  “Then get out of here.”

  I dashed upstairs and headed for Frank’s room. And that’s when I heard the screams.

  “Burned! Burned! Burned!”

  I opened the door. Frank was sitting at his desk in front of the computer while our pet parrot, Playback, flew in circles over his head.

  “Burned!”

  “That’s right, Playback,” Frank cooed to the bird. “That’s the name of our new mission.”

  “Burned!”

  Playback squawked and flapped, then perched on top of the computer monitor.

  “Burned?” I said, pulling up a chair. “Are we hunting down arsonists?”

  Frank shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out.” He took a CD from the mission box and popped it into his computer.

  I reached for the box. “What else is in here?”

  “Just pay attention.”

  The computer screen went black, and an explosion of sound burst through the speakers. First there was a cymbal crash, then a symphony orchestra, followed by a jazz band, a gospel choir, and a 1950s doo-wop group. Seconds later a heavy pounding beat turned it all into one big disco anthem—which somehow morphed into a wacky rock/rap/hip-hop symphony.

  “And I thought Frank Sinatra was bad,” I commented.

  White lines streaked across the black screen, forming long columns of sheet music. Colored notes danced across the lines in rhythm with the mishmash of melodies.

  “Welcome to the wonderful world of music,” a voice boomed through the speakers. I wondered who it was. Usually it was the voice of Q.T., head of ATAC, but not always. “For decades people have enjoyed many styles of music. But there was only one way to buy music: on vinyl LP records from the local music store.”

  The colored notes swirled in a circle and formed a round black record album with a blue label in the center.

  “In the 1960s and ’70s, music became available in a variety of other formats, including reel-to-reel tapes, eight-track cartridges, and cassette tapes.”

  On the screen the round black record morphed from one format to the other as the narrator spoke.

  “Then, in the 1980s, computers changed everything. Music went digital, and albums were downloaded onto durable compact discs.”

  The tapes on the screen turned into a single shiny CD. The background pulsed with electronic graphics, forming a web of interlocking lines.

  “The growth of personal computers and the Internet brought this new digital technology into homes all over the world. By the 1990s people could download perfect copies of their favorite songs and albums directly from the World Wide Web. And that’s where the problems began.”

  The picture of the CD froze on the screen—and a wall of prison bars slammed down over the image.

  “Illegal downloads became a common criminal activity. Record companies lost millions of dollars. Musicians and songwriters lost control of their copyrights. And the biggest culprits of this new techno-crime were… teenage music fans.”

  A pair of eyes appeared on the CD, then a nose, mouth, and baseball cap.

  “Recently the government has cracked down on Web sites offering illegal downloads to consumers. The problem still exists, but it’s basically under control. Each download, however—even if it’s purchased legally—can be used to create a perfect copy of the original music. Some people have begun to mass-produce downloaded albums, burning them onto homemade CDs for resale on the underground market. This is highly illegal. Which brings us to Bayport High School.”

  I glanced at Frank. “Bayport High School?”

  A picture of our school appeared on the screen, and the narrator continued. “A nationwide distribution of illegal CDs has been traced to your hometown school. And we have reason to believe one of your classmates may be involved.”

  A face appeared on the screen.

  “I know him,” I said. “He’s in my gym class.”

  “His name is Julian Sanders,” the voice explained. “Although we don’t believe he’s the mastermind behind it, we suspect he burns illegal copies for a major crime ring, which then sells the CDs to foreign countries.”

  “That would explain the classic Corvette he drives,” I mumbled.

  Frank shushed me as the narrator continued.

  “Your mission, boys, is to gather hard evidence of Julian’s involvement and—if you can—uncover his higher-level contacts. We’ve included a few new toys in the mission box that might come in handy. And remember: This mission, like every mission, is top secret. In five seconds this disk will be reformatted into a standard music CD.”

  Five, four, three, two, one…

  The image disappeared from the screen, and a singer’s voice crooned through the speakers.

  Frank Sinatra.

  I groaned and reached over to change the CD. Removing the reformatted disc, I handed it to Playback, who snapped it up in his beak and flew across the room.

  “Enough of that garbage,” I said. “Let’s listen to some real music.” I pulled my CD player from my jacket, opened it, and took out the CD with “Thrasher” written on it in Magic Marker.

  “Where did you get that, Joe?” Frank asked, standing over me.

  “This? Chet Morton made a copy for me.”

  Frank opened the top drawer of his dresser, reached inside, and turned back to face me. He held something in his hands.

  A pair of handcuffs.

  Huh?

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” said my brother. “I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

  He reached for my wrists.

  Dude!

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Does it look like I’m kidding?” He snapped a cuff around my left wrist.

  And that’s when I tackled
him to the floor.

  “You’ll never take me alive!”

  “Bring it on, bro!”

  4.

  Top 40 Suspects

  Joe and I wrestled with the handcuffs—and laughed our heads off—until Aunt Trudy yelled at us to stop horsing around.

  “Come and eat, boys! My pot roast is getting cold!”

  “Okay, we’re coming!” I shouted through the door.

  Joe grabbed my arm as I started to go. “Wait, Frank. I have a couple of quick questions for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  He took a deep breath. “I got a C in my computer class. Partly because Mr. Conner doesn’t like me. But mostly because I’m having trouble with his assignments.” Joe lowered his head a bit, then looked me in the eye. “Do you think maybe you could help me out?”

  You could have knocked me over with a feather.

  Joe? Asking me for help? With schoolwork?

  “Sure, no problem,” I said. “Any other questions?”

  Joe raised his left arm. “Yeah. Would you mind taking off the handcuffs?”

  “No way, thief! I’m turning you in!”

  Then I took off and bolted down the stairs, laughing all the way.

  Dinner was pretty good. Everybody loved Aunt Trudy’s pot roast. And nobody said a word about the handcuffs dangling from Joe’s wrist.

  I guess they’ve seen stranger things—like an iguana hiding in Joe’s backpack.

  After dinner we helped clear the table and grabbed some lettuce to feed Joe’s hungry little friend. I’d set up the iguana’s box in the corner of Joe’s room, placing a desk lamp over it for heat.

  “Why’d you put him in my room?” Joe asked me.

  “Because he likes you, Joe.”

  “He likes to bite me, Frank.”

  “Aw, lighten up. I thought you weren’t afraid of anything,” I said. “You’re into white water rafting, bungee jumping, skydiving, you name it. But put a little baby lizard in your room, and you freak out.”

  “I’m not freaking out,” Joe protested. “And he’s not a lizard, he’s an iguana. With one mean set of jaws on him.”

  “Okay, so I’ll feed him the lettuce.” I bent over the box and tickled the iguana’s nose with a little green leaf. “He doesn’t seem to be hungry.”