Edison's Gold Read online

  Colby leaned closer and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m really gonna miss you next year, Tom.”

  He could feel the edge of his nose twitch, and his eyes well up. This wasn’t how he’d imagined the adventure ending. Locked in some rich guy’s basement, waiting for him to steal the formula from Tom’s family and force them to leave New York.

  Once again, he’d taken things too far. He’d gotten so wrapped up with saving his family that he’d forgotten all about their feelings. His parents had enough stress right now without a kidnapped son.

  How could he have been so thoughtless?

  “I guess the Edison men are just a buncha losers,” said Tom with a long, defeated exhale.

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Colby’s sneaker dug into a loose mattress seam and ripped its stitching a tiny bit. “You’re probably the smartest guy I know.”

  “Then how come I’m rocking a C average in school, and every invention I ever build ends up either blowing up or falling apart?”

  “That would be because you lose interest in stuff before you ever see anything through.”

  It hurt Tom to admit it, but the girl had a point. It was what every teacher had been telling him since he could remember, and it was why he currently held the Saint Vincent’s Academy record for most trips to Headmaster Phelps’s office in a year. He loved the rush of inspiration more than the labor of planning or studying.

  Neither of them spoke for a while, and for some unknown reason Tom couldn’t stop staring at Colby’s sneaker. The hole she’d ripped through the mattress seam was now twice the size it had been. His eyes then caught pieces of broken cot scattered around them.

  There has to be a way out, he thought. Every problem has a solution.

  He just had to slow down and think it through for once.

  For an hour, Tom stared blankly at the wall while Colby managed a few moments of sleep.

  And then, somewhere around five a.m., inspiration struck.

  “If I could reassemble the cot,” he mumbled quietly to himself, “we could use the weight of the falling armoire to tighten …” His voice trailed off as his brain built momentum. And then …

  “Colby, I’ve got it!” He bolted to his feet as she woke with a gasp. “This time, I’m seeing something through to the very end.”

  “I know that face.” Colby frowned as she blinked the tiredness from her eyelids. “What completely scary task does this involve me doing?”

  “You’ll see.” Tom began to rip one long seam of the cot’s worn covering. “Eh. It’s not giving.”

  “Here. Let me help.” Colby took a step close to him, her exhaustion forgotten, ready to play her part as a new plan began to take shape.

  Everyone’s face was sick with worry, and all of them silently blamed one person.

  Noodle.

  Tom’s parents, Noodle’s mom, and Colby’s nana had been called into the Yonkers Police Station when Tom and Colby hadn’t returned by morning, but what was even worse was that Lieutenant Faber had somehow been tipped off to what happened, and for nearly an hour, the stern-faced police officer had grilled Noodle about his story, forcing him to retrace every detail again and again. With a sinking heart, he had come clean. He had to. Colby and Tom were missing, and he needed to do everything he could to help get them back safe.

  The others had listened, stunned, as Noodle described the Firestone photo, the short film, the fat guy from the pet shop who’d kidnapped Colby—and probably now had Tom, too. He’d kept one detail to himself, though. He wouldn’t say a word about the metal box—which, at this moment, was hidden deep inside his clothes hamper—until he could have a word with Tom’s dad alone.

  “So. It’s not a history project. It’s a treasure hunt,” Lieutenant Faber concluded once he’d finished.

  “A really important, and now possibly extremely dangerous one,” Noodle added.

  “But you don’t even know what kind of treasure you’re looking for.” Her eyebrows were arched and her mouth curled as if he’d just told her a really corny joke.

  “Well, Tom thinks that the Sub Rosa’s trying to protect some secret from falling into the wrong hands. And that it’s up to us to find it before the bad guys.”

  “The bad guys. Oookay.” Faber glanced at her notes, barely listening to Noodle’s story. “And you think that this abductor is after the same thing as you? This … Sub Rosa secret?”

  At the word abductor, Colby’s grandmother threw her head into her hands. “Please, please. You must do everything in your power to catch this criminal,” she implored.

  “Mrs. McCracken.” Faber passed her a battered box of Kleenex. “I already have an APB out on the missing parties. But within the privacy of this office, I’ve got every reason to believe that this mystery kidnapper doesn’t even exist.” And with another hard look at Noodle, she opened a binder and pulled out a photo of the same leather-bound copy of The Alchemy Treatise that they’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum.

  “Two days ago,” she continued as the photo made its way around the room, “this book was stolen from the Keller exhibit at the Met. It’s valued at a quarter million dollars.”

  “Hold up!” Noodle popped up from his chair. “We didn’t have anything to do with that—”

  “The very same book,” interrupted Faber, “that Mrs. Edison found in her son’s bedroom this morning.”

  Noodle turned toward Tom’s mom, whose unhappy face confirmed it.

  “Mrs. E! We’re being framed here!”

  “I saw it with my own eyes, Bernard.”

  “I’m telling you, it was the kidnapper from the pet shop. He probably planted it or something.”

  At the word kidnapper, Colby’s grandmother burst into a new round of fresh tears.

  “Detective Faber, my son’s not a thief,” protested Tom’s father, shifting uneasily in his chair. “We’re not sure how the book—”

  “I’m sure he’s not,” Faber answered calmly. “Which is probably why he ran away. Have there been any big changes at home? Some reason he’d be acting out?”

  “His father just took a job in Kansas,” said Mrs. Edison. “Tom isn’t taking the news very well.” Lieutenant Faber nodded, as if that were exactly the kind of information she’d expected.

  “You guys aren’t listening! We’re being framed!” Noodle was shouting now, and had to sit on his hands to keep from hopping out of his seat again. But no one was paying him much attention. All the adults seemed to be on Team Faber.

  “Sometimes difficult situations cause people—especially young people—to make rash decisions,” the lieutenant continued, undaunted. “I think Tom and Colby have realized the nature of their crime and are hiding.”

  “Noodle, please tell us where Colby and Tom are,” Colby’s grandmother pleaded. “I promise, we won’t get angry.”

  “For the last time”—Noodle tried to speak evenly, but it was hard to keep his voice from cracking with emotion—“they were kidnapped.”

  “Enough already with the theatrics, young man,” Noodle’s mother scolded. “You’re in hot enough water as it is.”

  Amid all of the others’ commotion and emotion, Tom’s father remained strangely silent.

  “Right now, the important thing is to stay calm.” Faber folded her hands together. “We’ve got a lot of our officers out there, but I’m certain your kids will resurface soon.”

  The adults nodded. Noodle clenched his fists. He’d find his friends, without their help. He had to.

  Just after ten a.m. and here Noodle was, standing hunched on the Edison family’s front porch, his finger pressed to their doorbell. He had decided to disguise himself in a trench coat and sunglasses, but now in the light of the new day, the idea felt extremely ridiculous. He probably just looked like a freak.

  Thankfully, the only passerby so far had been Anders, the neighborhood’s eleven-year-old paperboy, and Noodle didn’t care what that twerp thought about anything.

  He pressed the doorbell again, th
en ducked his head deeper into his coat collar as an old couple came speedwalking past the house in their matching purple tracksuits. Noodle thought he saw them shoot him a sidelong, disapproving glance. Or maybe he was just being paranoid.

  Finally, the door jumped open. “Noodle!” Tom’s dad’s eyes widened. “What’s with the Inspector Gadget outfit?”

  “I’m under house arrest,” he responded. “So I had to sneak out. Though I don’t think you’re in a position to make comments about anyone’s wardrobe, Mr. E.” As usual, Tom’s dad’s shirt was untucked, his glasses crooked, his pants stained, and his hair a bird’s nest.

  With a wave, Mr. Edison beckoned Noodle to follow him into the house, where he was startled to see that the entire living room interior was gone, replaced by brown packing boxes. A hundred memories shot through him: Tom’s house at Thanksgiving; Tom’s house when he and Noodle had held an Erector Set competition, and half the class had come over; Tom’s house during the ice storm a couple of winters ago, when they’d built the best indoor fort, ever, right on this very living room carpet, the only item that had not been packed yet.

  “Noodle?” Tom’s dad peered at him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He cleared his throat. Not the moment for nostalgia. “I need to show you something. I’ll need a table, though.” Which was not happening in this room.

  “Kitchen. Let’s go.”

  At the kitchen table, he pulled from out of his backpack the metal box they’d found under the mile-nine marker.

  “What is this?” Mr. Edison adjusted his glasses and knelt down to inspect the dented box. Noodle lifted the lid to reveal the strange machine inside. In his opinion, it looked like a souped-up toilet paper dispenser—a mess of wires, wheels, and gadgets propping up a ten-inch-wide spool of brittle, yellowy paper.

  “My current theory is it’s some kind of telegraph machine,” said Noodle, though he didn’t really know what to make of it.

  “No … it’s … Where’d you find this?”

  “So you know what it is?” asked Noodle, sidestepping the question. Down at the police station, everyone had been pretty annoyed about his recount of the midnight field trip into Hoboken, so Noodle’d decided to go with the “less is less” strategy. The less information he gave Tom’s dad, the less mad he’d be.

  “It’s a universal stock ticker,” Tom’s dad answered after a moment. “Probably one of the first Edison ever designed.” He ran a slow, reverent hand across the machine’s chrome base. “See the type-wheel shift mechanism there?” Pointing now to a skinny metal pin running along the inside of the machine: “And the screw thread unison. He designed that specifically so the printing operator could keep all the different machines in line.” He leaned close to the machine, touching a few of its gears. “This little gem here gave birth to the stock exchange as we know it today.” Tom’s dad knotted his hands behind his back as he bent forward, preferring to observe rather than tinker.

  “Mr. E, I think this machine’s the key to getting Tom and Colby back.”

  “Does this have to do with your kidnapper story?” Mr. E removed his glasses and zoomed his full attention onto Noodle. “I need you to tell me the truth.”

  Noodle knew Tom would die if he found out his dad was about to get involved in the treasure hunt, but Tom wasn’t here now, and Noodle didn’t know what else to do.

  “All right, Mr. E. I’m about to lay some knowledge on you right now that you might not want to hear. But I need you to take off your grown-up hat for a second and hear me out.”

  “All ears.” Tom’s dad took a seat and placed his hands on the kitchen table, waiting for Noodle to begin.

  “Remember that photo from the camera?”

  Tom’s dad nodded warily.

  “Well, thanks to some Sherlock-style skills from yours truly, we realized it was actually a clue. To where this really old record and movie film were hidden.”

  “And where were they hidden?”

  “Some crazy lady’s pet store in Brooklyn, but that’s a whole other nightmare. The point is, the record and movie led us to the train tracks. Where we found this!”

  Tom’s father leaned back in his chair. His mouth hung open slightly, but his face was impossible to read.

  “But that’s when the kidnapper dude showed up and took Tom and Colby.”

  “Okay, Noodle.” Mr. E looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes a moment. “What if I told you that I believe every single thing that you just told me?”

  “No way! You do? Then you also think Colby was kidnapped? But then why aren’t you—”

  Mr. E held a finger to his lips. “We have to stay calm. That’s the first rule. If this really is about what I think it’s about, then you’re right. My great-grandfather and the Sub Rosa have hidden something very, very precious, and other people want it. And if this clue is the answer, or if it puts us closer to the answer, then that’s our best leverage for getting Tom and Colby back. We’re dealing with some less-than-respectable people, and we need to proceed with caution.”

  “Then … you think you can make this work?”

  “What choice do we have?”

  “We could go to the police,” Noodle offered, but Tom’s dad shook his head no.

  “If you’re telling the truth, that means someone else planted the book. So going to the police with this might only make things worse.” The wheels and cranks of Mr. E’s mind turned carefully as he worked through their options. “Finding the next clue’s our best shot.” He went pensive for a long moment, studying the ticker.

  “Sometimes it’s hard for me to believe you and Tom are related,” said Noodle. “He’d have ripped this thing apart by now.”

  “In this case, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. The gears and wires are all misaligned, not to mention rusted. And there’s a missing part, right here.” He picked up the machine gingerly by its base, as if it were a tea tray. “Come on. Let’s take this downstairs.”

  Two hours later, and the stock ticker had been dismantled, then slowly reassembled. New radio wires were spliced with ancient rubber cables, and each rusty screw and pin had been methodically replaced.

  Before reattaching each part or realigning any cog, Tom’s dad would study the machine for several minutes, then search his pristinely organized shelf space for a labeled box of dissected appliances, light switches, springs, or whatever he happened to be looking for. At one point, he’d even stripped apart an old blender motor to extract one perfectly sized spring.

  “The device is more rudimentary than anything we use today,” Tom’s dad muttered, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “And it runs on a completely different voltage. But the principle’s basically the same, see?”

  “Kinda.”

  Finally, Mr. Edison produced an eight-volt battery that had been buried near the back of a cluttered shelf.

  “Let’s pray she’s still got some juice left,” he said, tearing off a length of electrical tape and using it to attach the stock ticker’s wires to either side of the battery.

  Finally, Tom’s dad stepped back from the table to assess the revamped machine. “That should do it.”

  Noodle checked for some sort of clue or sign, but the stock ticker didn’t seem to be doing much of anything. “That does what? What does this beast do?”

  “Nothing. But technically it could.”

  “So how do we know if it works?”

  “Well, what I mean is that it’s ready to receive information.” He pointed to the roll of tape. “But someone needs to be feeding it from somewhere else. Through a telegraph or phone line,” he explained. “Which, as you can see, is a null point because it’s not hooked up to—”

  Tick, tick, tick. So faint. Hardly any sound at all.

  Tom’s dad stopped speaking.

  Ticktickticktick. Faster now. He and Noodle stared at the machine as if it were from another planet.

  A section of paper, only slightly wider than a bubble gum wrapper, spat from the front of it.

/>   “No way.” Noodle could hardly breathe.

  “Must be some kind of stored electrical pulse,” whispered Mr. E. “Amazing.”

  “Or it’s a member of the Sub Rosa trying to communicate with us from the grave.”

  Once the ticking had stopped, Tom’s dad delicately tore off the sheet of paper and held it close to his glasses as if it were a snowflake.

  Printed on the paper, in two lines of wavering type, was a message.

  “ ‘Through Mercury’s gate, you’ll reach the backward horse. The circled rose will light your course,’ ” Tom’s dad read. “That mean anything to you?” He turned toward Noodle, his eyes brimming with hope.

  Noodle shook his head, which sank both their spirits. “Unfortunately, Mr. E, not—”

  Bzzzzzz. The vibrating cell phone on the table gave them both a startle. Tom’s dad squinted at the caller ID before answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Tom, Curt Keller.”

  Noodle stared as the color drained from Tom’s dad’s face.

  “Mr. Keller, hello.” Mr. Edison instinctively smoothed over his shirt. He’d never actually spoken to the CEO of Alset. In fact, before this phone call, he’d been fairly certain that Mr. Keller had no idea who he was.

  “First things first,” said the silky voice on the other line. “Congratulations on finding the next riddle.”

  “Next riddle? I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know what you’re … talking about.” Mr. Edison put a hand over the phone as he frantically searched the basement for any hidden camera or listening device.

  Keller laughed. “Yes, the house has been tapped. Only a temporary invasion of your privacy, I assure you.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you bug my house?”

  “I want you to find me the next clue, of course. And hand it over peacefully,” Keller explained. “Tom Junior and the girl are fine. And as long as you uphold your end of the bargain, everything should be smooth sailing from here out.” Tom’s father clenched his teeth, his face filled with a white-hot rage that Noodle had never seen before—except for maybe the time Tom accidentally incinerated the family’s backyard while testing his Weed-B-Gone blowtorch prototype.