Burned

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Hometown: Bayport

  Physical description: Twenty–five years old, 5’11”, 150 lbs., dark, hair and eyes, baggy hip-hop clothes and baseball cap.

  Occupation: Bayport High School graduate

  Background: Took over father’s music store, Spin City.

  Suspicious behavior: Displayed anger over losing business to superstores and the Internet, sold us bootleg copy of unreleased Flaming Pigs CD.

  Suspected of: Copying and selling illegal music CDs.

  Possible motives: Going out of business, needs money.

  It figures.

  He wrote back: “Sounds cool, Belinda. I wish I could go, but I already have plans for tonight. Sorry. And thanks for asking. Frank.”

  He was about to send it when I stopped him.

  “This is your chance, Frank. Ask her out on a date.”

  He paused to think about it, then added another line: “P.S. Maybe another time, okay?”

  Then he clicked and sent the e-mail.

  Not the most romantic message. But for Frank, it was a big step.

  “Ready to go?” I asked. “It’s starting to get dark outside.”

  Frank logged off the Internet and grabbed his backpack. “Ready.”

  He and I headed downstairs and were almost out the door when Dad stopped us.

  “Where are you boys heading off to?”

  “Top secret, Dad,” I said.

  Our father knew about our undercover missions for ATAC. Being a former police officer, he was secretly proud—and sometimes worried—about our work. Still, he would occasionally use his connections to help us out.

  “Well, I know what it’s like to get wrapped up in a case. But I don’t want to see your grades suffer for it. Especially yours, Joe. Don’t you have to work on an assignment for computer class?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, it’s due tomorrow. But don’t worry, Dad. Frank’s going to help me out.”

  Our father grunted and nodded and wished us luck. As soon as we left the house, Frank smacked me on the arm.

  “So I’m going to help you out, huh?”

  “Do you mind, Frank?”

  “Nah.”

  We reached Chet’s house in a matter of minutes. The sun was setting behind an apple tree in a neighbor’s yard, and the streetlights began to glow with a soft pink light.

  “Where’s a good spot?” I asked.

  Frank scanned the area, looking for a hiding place with a direct view of Chet’s front porch. “Right there,” he said, pointing across the street. “In those bushes next to the garbage cans.”

  I cringed. “It’s going to stink near the trash.”

  “It’ll stink even more if C. D. Burns catches us.”

  Reluctantly, I followed Frank into the tall bushes. Ducking down, we hid ourselves in the shadows and began to wait.

  We’re probably wasting our time, I thought. He’ll probably send Lefty to deliver the blank CDs.

  Even if that was true, I didn’t want to take any chances.

  Maybe Burns will take care of this job himself. And take care of us, too.

  The sun settled slowly into the horizon. In minutes the whole neighborhood was cloaked in a patchwork of shadows.

  “I just thought of something,” I said. “What if the CDs aren’t dropped off until midnight? Or even later? I can’t wait here all night. I have to finish that computer assignment for school.”

  “That’s why I brought this along.”

  Frank reached into his backpack and pulled out the digital video recorder with night vision. Just as he started setting it up, we heard the sound of something approaching.

  It was a dark green pickup truck with a loud muffler.

  I froze. “Maybe this is him,” I whispered.

  The truck crept its way slowly down the street, like some sort of growling animal stalking its prey. Finally it crawled to a stop right in front of us.

  “Stay down.”

  Nothing happened for a while. Frank pushed the record button on the video cam and wedged it between two branches.

  Then, very carefully, I raised my head to peek inside the truck.

  It was Lefty Rue.

  He was wearing the same black ski cap and raincoat he’d worn at the mall. His head was lowered, and I could see he was reading something on a little scrap of paper. Then suddenly he looked up.

  I ducked down as fast as I could.

  Did he see me?

  No. He must have been checking the address on Chet’s mailbox, because he shifted the truck into reverse and backed into Chet’s driveway.

  With the engine still running, he hopped out and reached into the flatbed of the pickup. Grabbing a medium-sized cardboard box, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching. Then he carried the box to the front porch and dropped it on the doorstep.

  Frank tugged my arm.

  “Joe.”

  “Shhh.”

  “I think I heard something. Behind us.”

  I listened.

  Nothing.

  Turning my attention back to the house, I watched Lefty jump off the porch and rush back to his truck.

  Then I heard it.

  The snapping of a twig.

  Someone’s right behind us.

  I tensed up and turned, preparing myself to run, but it was too late.

  He found us.

  The last thing I saw was a large metal garbage can, shining in the darkness, right over my head.

  Bam!

  I was knocked out cold.

  12.

  Burned!

  It all happened so fast.

  My brother collapsed to the ground beside me, crushed beneath the weight of the metal can.

  Joe!

  Without even thinking, I leaped from the bushes.

  And another garbage can hit me in the face.

  I went sprawling backward, stumbling over the curb and onto the street.

  Man! That hurts!

  I must have been stunned by the impact, because all I could do was lay there for a while, breathing in the smell of rotting TV dinners and other trash.

  Man! That stinks!

  I heard soft footsteps running past me across the street—and then the sound of two men talking.

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought one of them said, “I knew this was a setup.”

  A few seconds later I heard two car doors slamming. Then the pickup truck pulled out of Chet’s driveway and took off down the street. The sound of the noisy muffler faded away as I pushed the garbage can off me.

  A voice whispered from the bushes.

  “Frank?”

  I ran over and looked down. My brother shifted and groaned beneath a huge heap of trash.

  “Joe! Are you okay?”

  He gazed up at me, holding his nose. “Dude! I warned you about those garbage cans!”

  Reaching down, I helped Joe to his feet. He brushed off some potato chip crumbs and banana peels, then pointed at my forehead.

  “You’re bleeding, Frank.”

  I touched the wound and winced. “Just what I need. A scar shaped like a garbage can lid.”

  “What are you complaining about? I’ve been knocked out twice in this mission.”

  I was about to throw Joe a pity party when I remembered something.

  “The video cam! Maybe it caught a picture of the attacker.” I ducked into the bushes and found it lying on the ground. “Or maybe not.”

  Joe came up next to me. “Hit playback and check it out.”

  I pressed a button, starting it from the beginning. The small playback screen lit up with a blurry green image of Lefty’s truck.

  “If nothing else, this proves that Lefty is working for C. D. Burns,” I said, watching the man place the cardboard box on Chet’s front porch. “Here it comes now. The attack.”

  Joe leaned in closer for a better view.

  Suddenly the image flickered. The camera must have fallen when Joe was hit with the first trash can. The video picture turned on its side, and
something filled the screen in a tight close-up.

  A pair of white high-top sneakers.

  Seconds later the sneakers moved out of the frame. Then the recording ended.

  “That’s it?” said Joe. “That’s all we get to see of C. D. Burns?”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a clue.”

  “Not a very good one. Everyone has a pair of sneakers like that.”

  “We can take a closer look when we get home,” I said. “I hooked up the video cam’s receiver to my computer. Maybe we can see more detail on a bigger screen.”

  “You think of everything, Frank. Did I ever tell you you’re my hero?”

  “Knock it off.”

  We hurried home and snuck upstairs as quietly as possible. We didn’t want to explain our latest injuries to Mom and Dad—or the lingering smell of garbage to Aunt Trudy.

  As soon as I sat down at my computer, I saw that I’d received new e-mail.

  Joe saw it too.

  “Look, Frank! Belinda answered your message! Open it up! Read it! Read it!”

  “Later, Joe.”

  “Aw, come on, Romeo. Why won’t you read it?”

  “Because we got another message from C. D. Burns.”

  “We did?”

  “Yes. And you know what’s scary?”

  “What?”

  “He didn’t send it to iguanaboy. He sent it directly to my home account.”

  Joe let out a sigh. “He knows who we are.”

  “Sure looks like it.”

  “So what does he say?”

  I scrolled down and then double-clicked the new e-mail from music2burn@worldbeat.com. Large capital letters filled the screen:

  STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS OR YOU’RE GOING TO GET BURNED.

  I have to admit, we were beginning to feel a little desperate at this point. Our mission was going badly, and Joe and I both knew it.

  The next day at school the question kept eating away at me. Who is C. D. Burns?

  Class after class, I tried to pay attention, but it was no use. All I could do was study everybody’s feet to see what kind of shoes they had on.

  I never realized before just how many people wear white high-top sneakers.

  Here’s just a small sample of the voice memos I recorded that long, horrible day:

  “Friday, 8:04 a.m. Saw the following students wearing white high-tops: Craig Spencer, Brenda Sovinski, Rick Pascocello, Liz Perl, Louise Burke, and an unidentified freshman in pigtails.”

  “Friday, 9:55 a.m. Mr. Conner stops me in the hallway to ask about my head injury. I make up an excuse and look down at his shoes. Black loafers.”

  “Friday, 10:28 a.m. Principal Foxworth notices the Band-Aid on my head as I pass his office. Insists that I see the school nurse to make sure I don’t need stitches. He is wearing brown suede shoes.”

  “Friday, 10:36 a.m. Nurse Jones examines me and decides that stitches won’t be necessary. As she applies a fresh bandage to my head, I am shocked to notice her white shoes. They are not, however, high-top sneakers.”

  “Friday, 11:45 a.m. More white-top sightings in cafeteria. Brian Conrad, Chet Morton, Julie Grau…”

  And so on.

  By mid-afternoon, I had listed the names of 248 students and six teachers on my digital recorder. A quarter had worn high tops, and none of those people were teachers.

  “You need to chill out, Frank,” my brother told me after I played a few of the entries.

  “How can I chill out?” I asked. “Burns knows who we are. He knows what we’re doing. He even managed to physically attack us, Joe! And we still don’t have a clue about his identity!”

  “We know who his connections are,” Joe reminded me. “And we’ve gathered evidence linking Julian and Lefty to the case. We could stop right now and let ATAC handle the rest.”

  I shook my head and readjusted my bandage.

  “It’s personal now, Joe,” I said. “We’re going to finish this on our own. We just need another lead.”

  Joe knew me too well to argue.

  The school bell rang. As I headed off to my locker, I kept my head down and my mind focused. I was determined to get Burns. And nothing was going to distract me, not even all the white sneakers I passed in the hall.

  “Hi, Frank.”

  It was a girl in black leather pumps.

  “Hi, Belinda.”

  “What happened to your head?”

  “Oh, you know me. Total headbanger. How was the Flaming Pigs show?”

  “Absolutely fantastic!” she raved. “Have you ever been to the Bitter End? They sell the coolest CDs. Stuff you can’t find anywhere.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I bought the Pigs’ new album there. You ought to hear it.”

  “Do you have it with you now?”

  “Hold on.” Belinda reached into her purse. She pulled out a Ham Sweet Ham CD.

  It was another illegal bootleg copy.

  And just the lead I was looking for.

  13.

  To the Bitter End

  I can’t believe we’re here.

  The Bitter End was one of the coolest clubs in the entire state—and the last place I ever expected my uptight brother to take me. Especially on a school night.

  “I’m impressed, Frank. This is a pretty serious hangout… for a computer geek like you.”

  My brother pulled off his motorcycle helmet and cleared his throat. “If I were you, Joe, I’d be a little nicer to the so-called geek who’s going to help you ace your computer class.”

  “Good point.”

  We hopped off our bikes and started crossing the parking lot. The club didn’t look like much from the outside—just a big gray concrete-block warehouse. The sign out front was nothing more than a giant rectangle of glowing white plastic with movable black letters.

  THE BITTER END PRESENTS THE FLAMING PIGS WITH PARTY GHOST AND SCALDING HOT WATER. ENDS FRIDAY.

  There was a long line at the door. A huge bouncer with a shaved head was checking everyone’s IDs.

  “We might not be able to get in,” said Frank.

  “Belinda got in last night,” I told him. “And besides, with your leather jacket and messy hair, you look a lot older. Tougher, too. Like someone in a police lineup.”

  “Thanks, Joe. First I’m a geek, now I’m a gangsta. Which is it?”

  “Take your pick,” I said. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I know a better way to get in.”

  I pointed to the side of the club. A small moving van was parked next to a large door, and a couple of big guys were unloading band equipment. On the side of the van someone had painted dozens of little black pig silhouettes against a bright orange background—and the words “Flaming Pigs.”

  “Follow me,” I said. “And try to act cool.”

  Frank flipped up the collar of his leather jacket.

  I rolled my eyes and led the way around the side of the building, casually strolling up to the van as if we knew where we were going.

  “Careful! Don’t drop that!” shouted one of the band’s crew.

  Another crew member, a short, skinny guy, struggled with a huge amplifier. I nodded at Frank.

  “We got it, buddy,” I said, jumping to his aid.

  Frank and I lifted the amplifier up off the ground and carried it inside the club.

  “See?” I whispered. “We’re in.”

  Of course, to make it seem like we were supposed to be there, Frank and I had to help the crew unload the entire van. It was a small price to pay—especially when we got to meet the Flaming Pigs.

  “Thanks, guys,” said Luke Ripper, the legendary lead singer.

  I immediately recognized him from the band’s album covers. The long black hair, ripped sleeveless shirt, and blue-tinted shades were his trademarks.

  “No problem, man,” I said. “I’m a huge fan. Everybody Pig Out is a classic. Everyone at our school’s crazy for it.”

  “Really?” said Luke, a little surprised. “That’s
news to us. Our record company said nobody’s buying our albums.”

  Frank looked at me, then turned to Luke.

  “That’s weird,” he said. “A friend of mine bought your new CD last night, right after your show, here at the club.”

  Luke Ripper pounded his fist against the wall and looked at his bandmates. “Did you hear that, guys? That little club rat is selling our new album here.”

  “It’s not even in stores yet,” said Bam-Bam, the drummer. Bam-Bam always had a baffled look on his face, even when he was pounding out a song.

  “We should kick that bootlegger’s butt,” added Grunt, the guitarist. Grunt was the wild one of the group.

  Soon the whole band was shouting and arguing. I was afraid they were going to start throwing things.

  The Pigs are flaming mad.

  Frank tried to calm everybody down.

  “Before you start any trouble, I should let you in on a secret,” he said. “My brother and I are undercover agents. We’re cracking down on a worldwide crime ring that’s copying your music.”

  “No way,” said Luke. “That kind of stuff drives us crazy. We’re barely making enough to put gas in our van.”

  “Yeah,” said Bam-Bam. “Did you see our van? The thing’s falling apart.”

  Frank nodded. “We’re trying to catch the people who’re skimming your profits. But we need your help.”

  Luke Ripper took a deep breath, then looked around at his band. “What do you say? Should we help these guys burn the burners?”

  “I’m in,” said Bam-Bam.

  “Me too,” Grunt agreed.

  “Okay, then,” said Frank. “First we need to find the man behind it all. Tell me about this ’little club rat’ you mentioned. Who is he?”

  Just then the stage door burst open with a loud bang.

  In walked a short, paunchy man with a white ponytail and stubby cigar. He wore a black Bitter End T-shirt and a baseball cap with the word MANAGER on it.

  “Flaming Pigs! You’re up next! Move it!”

  Luke Ripper shot us a look and nodded toward the man. Instantly, I knew it was him.

  The club rat.

  “Why are all these people backstage?” the rat complained. He fixed his eyes on Frank and me. “Do you boys have backstage passes?”

  “They’re cool, Tom,” said Luke. “They’re with us.”

  The manager studied us and sneered. “Well, they need to get passes. Just like that crew member of yours poking around the stage a few minutes ago. He said he had to set up a ’special light show.’ I told him to get a pass or there ain’t gonna be a show at all.”