Edison's Gold (19 page)

Yanking the fabric over their bodies, soon both were enveloped by the long, frilly skirts.

Inside his pink cocoon, Tom pulled his knees to his chest and listened. The footsteps were closer, and he could hear Nicky shoving furniture out of the way. A trunk opened. A muttered curse under his breath. Fatty couldn't be more than five feet from the old armoire now, Tom guessed. His every muscle was held motionless. Above his head, a hand crawled through the clothes, giving them a cursory search.

Then the steps grew fainter as they made their way toward another corner of the attic. Nicky was now on the opposite side and, with any luck, Tom and Colby might even be closer to the attic hatch.

Tom knew this guy wasn't leaving until he'd found them, so if there was ever a moment to make their escape, that time had to be now.

“You ready to bolt?” Tom whispered in what he assumed was Colby's direction.

“No, but let's go anyway,” she whispered back. “Now?”

“Now!”

They jumped out of the wardrobe. Nicky spun in their direction, tripping over a coatrack as he chased them toward the attic hatch. Colby was the first to descend. Tom's feet accidentally stepped on her fingers as they climbed back down to the study.

“My bad,” he said as they bolted into the hallway.

“Every door in this house is locked!” Nicky called after them. “You're only making the punishment worse for yourselves.”

“We're definitely making it worse for you!” said Tom.

Out into the hallway again, they flew back down the spiral staircase, then crossed the mansion toward the rear kitchen.

“Wait!” Tom skidded to a stop next to a metal trash chute that opened like an oven door. “What do you think?”

Colby raised an eyebrow. “You wanna go down that thing?”

“Think of it as a very, very smelly waterslide.”

“Hmmm. Not comforting.” Colby shuddered at the thought, then shrugged. “But I'm game.”

“And you realize it probably leads to a humungous pile
of trash, right? With eighty thousand species of germs.” Tom couldn't help laughing.

“Just get your butt in that chute before I change my mind.”

“Who are you?” Tom stared at her for a moment. “And what have you done with Colby?”

“Har-dee-har.”

Tom flipped down the metal door, and in they dove, headfirst, just like a waterslide.

Swoosh!
Their bodies whipped and bent, one flight down to the belly of the mansion's basement, where they dropped into an industrial-size rubber garbage bin.

“Whew.” Tom sat up, glancing around the dark cellar. “I was half scared it would lead to an incinerator.”

“Can we just get out of here?” Colby looked terrified and squeamish as she brushed old lemon peels and coffee grounds off her shirt. “I smell like a sewer rat.”

The small, ground-floor window was their best and only chance of escape. Tom leaped up onto an old water heater and unlocked the latch.

He pulled himself up onto a bustling Manhattan sidewalk, and strangely enough, not a single pedestrian batted
an eyelash at the two children who'd just crawled out of the low window by their feet.

“For a moment there, I never thought I'd get to smell that sweet New York air again.” Colby inhaled from the bottom of her lungs and stretched her arms wide. “Where do you think we are?”

“I'm guessing midtown.” Tom gave a nod in her direction. “There's the Empire State Building right behind you.

“Let's move.” He pulled her arm. “For all we know, he's contacting outside security. And I'm never going back to Camp Keller again if I can help it.”

T
om and Colby lost no time making themselves scarce. They'd run all the way across 34th Street, then eight blocks up Park Avenue, never looking back once, until they'd reached Grand Central Station. Its large arches and Roman god facade were a welcome sight. Inside the Main Concourse, they blended into the lunch crowd, who were all scurrying to catch their subway connections.

“I keep thinking I see Nicky behind every corner,” said Colby, her head on a constant swivel, as they made their way to a long bank of pay phones.

“I've felt that way ever since Mitzi's.” Tom grabbed the greasy receiver and dialed Noodle's cell phone number collect. After a few rings, he heard his friend's voice
through the staticky connection, and a comforting relief washed over him.

“Who's this?”

“Noodle! It's me!” Tom yelled as the operator asked if Noodle would accept a call from Tom Edison.

“And me!” shouted Colby.

“Yes, I accept. Where are you guys? Is this a ransom call?” Noodle's voice was shrill with fear.

Tom chuckled. “We're fine.”

“What's so funny?” said Noodle. “Do you know how worried I was about you guys?”

“Nothing's funny. You just sound like your mom when you get anxious. It's cute.”

“For now, I'll pretend you didn't say that. Then I will administer the beat-down when you get home.”

“Did you find out what was in the metal box?”

“An Edison stock ticker,” said Noodle, like it was no big deal. “One of the first ever made. Your dad and I've been in the basement all morning, trying to crack its riddle.”

“My … 
dad
?” Tom's heart fell into his shoes.

“Yep, and we gotta move quick, because someone set you up with the cops to make it look like you stole that old museum book about alchemy.”

“Wait, slow down, Noodle. Start from the top—”

The phone was then snatched from Noodle's hands.

“Tom, it's Dad. Are you and Colby okay?”

“Dad! Yeah, we're safe. We escaped from Curt Keller's, but one of his guys might still be after us, I'm not sure.”

Mr. Edison nervously paced the length of the basement. This was not the type of phone call most parents could ever prepare themselves for.

“Where are you?” Tom's father whispered, careful not to let his wife hear his conversation. She'd peeked her head down a few times that morning, but he'd told her he was just packing up his tools. She didn't even know Noodle was in the house.

Better not to worry her at this point
, Tom's dad had told himself.

“We're at Grand Central. What's the next clue say?”

“Stay right where you are. I want you to go to the information booth and find an adult. Preferably someone in a uniform.”

Tom exhaled an annoyed sigh. It was such a parent move to focus on all the unimportant details.

“Dad, there's no time!” Tom had no idea how much his father knew about the hunt, but things on Noodle's end
definitely sounded complicated. A setup? A stolen book? Safe to assume it all had something to do with Keller.

“Mr. E!” Noodle waved his arms in front of his face like a madman. “Get off the phone.” Tom's dad looked at him quizzically. “That Keller guy's probably listening to this whole conversation.”

“Tom, we'll talk when I get there. Stay right where you are. And do not try and be a hero. Are we clear?”

Tom was shocked at his dad's new stern tone. He seemed so in control of the situation. He never acted like that. Usually, he let worry and second-guessing control him, and then smiled politely while people took advantage of his kindness and smarts.

“Okay, Dad. I won't go anywhere.” It was all Tom could think to say, even though every ounce of him wanted to keep moving and chase down the next clue before Keller.

“Good. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

Tom nodded and hung up the receiver.

“What's happening to us?” He turned to Colby as they walked toward the information booth. Both of them were still a bit jumpy. “You're the daredevil now, and I'm the rule follower.”

“I think that's probably a good thing. For both of us.”

F
or the second time in as many days, Noodle found himself running toward the Yonkers Metro-North station. Only this time, Tom's dad was the one panting by his side. Noodle had to hand it to him, though: the old guy could move pretty fast when he wanted to.

The two of them careened toward the station and almost collided with a snowman-shaped transit worker. Her body stretched her blue uniform to maximum capacity, and the buttons on her shirt were the exact brassy match to her cropped hair.

“Sorry,” Noodle quickly excused himself as he tried to squeeze past her.

“You're gonna kill someone running around like that,” she said, righting her balance with an incredulous look for
Tom's dad, as if he were responsible for the boy's dangerous disregard for pedestrian safety.

“We have to meet someone,” explained Mr. Edison with an apologetic half smile. “We're just running a bit late, that's all.”

“Well, whoever you're meeting's none of my business, but y'ain't gonna make it. That much I can tell you.” She shook her head in a slow back and forth to emphasize her point. “I got a broken-down train south of Marble Hill. Fifty-minute backup. At least.”

“So what should we do? Catch the train out of Fleetwood?” asked Tom's dad. He was coated in perspiration, Noodle noticed. He better not sweat off too many more calories. Mr. E's body was already close to scarecrow territory.

The woman's eyebrows drew up. “That, or grab a taxi to Morris Heights.”

“But … that's halfway to Manhattan,” said Noodle. “It'll take forever.”

“Don't hafta tell me how far it is; I know how far it is,” she said as she waddled past them like an irritated duck.

Noodle searched around the station. The sassy transit worker's story checked out. Nobody was waiting on the
platform for the train, and the ticket window was dark and empty.

“Come on,” said Tom's dad. “We won't get any closer to Grand Central by hanging around down here.”

Noodle followed him onto the street, where he was already hailing a cab. Thankfully, it didn't take long for a beat-up yellow taxi to pull up.

Almost every available inch of the car's interior was colorfully decorated with tacky wooden beads and Jamaican flags. A stick of half-burned incense stuck out from one of the air-conditioning vents. Noodle sniffed. Sandalwood. He slid across the vinyl backseat and peered through the scratched window, gray with grime.

“Fleetwood Station, please.” Tom's dad told the driver, a dreadlocked Rastafarian with warm eyes.

“Broken-down train, right?” The cabbie winked in the rearview. “I been shuttling people to Fleetwood all day.”

As they screeched out into traffic, Mr. Edison pulled out his wallet to check his cash. There was only a single bill inside. A twenty, which would be just enough to get them to Fleetwood. He hoped.

The cab hadn't even hit two greens when the brake lights on the cars ahead of them began to flash, one by
one, and traffic slowed to a turtle crawl. A snaking line of cars waited their turn to merge onto the Cross County Parkway.

Tom's dad fidgeted in his seat, his eyes steady on the ever-increasing fare meter. $3.60 … $5.90 … $7.20 … A few more minutes passed, and the cab finally stopped moving altogether. Its idling engine jiggled the straw-skirted hula dancer that was attached to the dashboard.

“Excuse me.” Tom's dad leaned toward the driver and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Is there some other route? We're in a rush.”

“You gon' wan' make yourself comfortable, mon. Parkway traffic's been a headache all day,” responded the cabbie with the calm of someone long used to traffic delays and diversions. “We'll be here awhile.”

“Murphy's Law.” Noodle rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “No luck but bad today.” He slumped down in his seat. Tom's dad tapped his fingers on the taxi's divider and tried not to think of his son at Grand Central or of Curt Keller, who was no doubt out there looking for him.

“Cool ring!” said Noodle, pulling Mr. Edison from his worried thoughts. “Where'd you get that?”