Benjamin Franklinstein Meets the Fright Brothers (8 page)

“If they did, they hid it well,” Victor agreed. “Where do you think they're taking all the bikes?”

“Let's find out.” Scott disappeared around the corner, down an alley. Victor trailed behind. He was surprised to see that the small Right Cycle Company storefront was connected to an enormous warehouse at the back.

“Wow,” said Victor. “They could put a million bikes in there if they wanted to.”

“Help me with these garbage cans,” said Scott. He dragged one under a high window. “I want to look inside.”

“I don't know . . .”

“Trust me,” said Scott. Together, he and Victor lifted another garbage can onto the stack and balanced it between two others. “I climb up stuff all the time. This will work.”

It did work, although Victor wasn't entirely sure how. Like most of Scott's projects, this one had all the signs of an impending disaster. Scott climbed up first, and reluctantly, Victor followed. Side by side, they balanced on their toes and held tight to the windowsill. Scott's tower wobbled, but it held.

“I don't believe it,” whispered Victor, peering through the dusty window. “There
are
a million bikes in there.”

Inside, the door banged open. Scott and Victor ducked as the older brother wheeled another bicycle into the room. They watched him grip it tightly and tear the wheels off with his bare hands. He threw the tires onto one heaping pile, the handlebars onto another, then effortlessly flung the bicycle frame on top of a third. It bounced off the high ceiling and tumbled down the side. The whole process took less than ten seconds.

“He's
strong,
” whispered Scott. “And not very nice to those bikes.”

The brother tipped his head, then suddenly spun toward the window. He stared directly at Scott and Victor, his eyes glowing red.

“He sees us!” said Victor.

Scott leapt to the ground. Victor tried to climb down, but slipped. The tower of garbage cans collapsed around him, crashing to the pavement. The boys took off down the alley.

Across the street, they found Franklin waiting with the bikes, pretending to read a newspaper.

“We have to”—Victor huffed—“we have to get out of here, now!”

Franklin lowered the newspaper. “Haste makes waste, Victor. What's happened?”

Victor pointed back across the street.

The brother stood at the entrance to the alley, squinting in the sunlight. “It is
YOU
!” he roared, shielding his eyes from the light.
“Benjamin Franklin!”

The brother started toward them just as the traffic light changed. Cars sped down the street, and he jumped back onto the curb, furious.

“Forget what I said,” shouted Franklin. “Make haste!
Flee!
”

“Did we lose him?”
Victor wheezed, glancing back. He ran alongside Franklin, guiding the old man's handlebars to keep him upright.

“I don't know,” Scott said. “Follow me. I know a place!”

He led them off the road into an alley. A chain-link fence blocked the exit. Scott skidded to a halt, jumped off his bike, and pulled up a patch of fence. “This way!”

After Franklin and Victor wedged through, Scott pulled their bikes under.

Victor looked around. “What
is
this place?”

“It's the Arthur Parker Art Park. My mom takes me here sometimes. She's on the board.”

“How come I've never heard of it before?” Victor said.

“It's private,” Scott explained. “This is where rich people keep their outdoor art when they don't have enough room for it in their yards.”

“I am confused,” Franklin said. “Where exactly is the art?”

“Everywhere,” Scott said. “This place is gigantic.”

He pointed across the field to a concrete cupcake the size of an automobile. Fifty yards beyond, a giant pair of stainless-steel tube socks wrestled on a taco shell. Franklin walked over to something that looked like a colossal roll of toilet paper.

“Royal Flush,”
Franklin read off a plaque. “Art certainly has changed since my day.”

They collapsed onto the grass, hiding behind an enormous penny, and waited to see if anyone had followed them. The park was deserted. Once they decided they were in the clear, Victor and Scott filled Franklin in on what they had seen at the bicycle shop.

“Interesting,” Franklin said. “But what to make of it all?”

“Let's look at this systematically,” Victor said. “What do we know for sure?”

“We know the brothers run a bicycle repair shop.”

“But they tear the bikes apart instead of fixing them,” Scott added.

“They have a strange connection with me,” Franklin continued. “And they know who I am. What else?”

Victor remembered the bicycle parade. “They also have some sort of connection with Mayor Milstead, Mr. Girard, and Dr. Kane.”

“And they're probably vampires,” Scott said. “Remember the bite marks?”

Victor shook his head. “Scott, there are no such things as vampires.”

“Are we forgetting anything else?” Franklin asked.

Scott began to laugh. “I just thought of something. Those bicycle guys are brothers, right? And they work at the Right Cycle Company? That makes them ‘the Right brothers'! You know, like the inventors, the Wright brothers.”

“The Wright brothers?” Franklin asked. “Who are they?”

“Back in the early nineteen hundreds, two brothers named Orville and Wilbur Wright invented the airplane,” Victor explained. “An amazing achievement, considering that they started out as . . .”

Victor paused.

“They started out as what?” Franklin asked.

“Bicycle repairmen!” He smacked his hand on his forehead. “Of course! Those aren't the Right brothers. They're the
WRIGHT
brothers!”

“Hold on,” Scott said. “If they invented the airplane in the early nineteen hundreds, wouldn't that make them over a hundred years old?”

“So?” Victor nodded toward Franklin. “Ben's at least three hundred years old. Which must mean—”

“That they're members of the Modern Order of Pro-metheus!” Franklin said. “If these brothers did invent the airplane, they must have been remarkable men. It makes sense that the Order would have preserved them before they died.”

 

“That would explain why they were drawn to Scott's harmonically charged radio,” Victor said, “just like you were.”

“But how come they're acting like bad guys?” Scott asked. “You should have seen them ripping those bikes apart. That's not what the Order is supposed to be about, is it?”

“No, it is not,” agreed Franklin.

“Plus, they're vampires. You're not a vampire, are you?”

“They are
not vampires
!” Victor snapped.

“Whatever they are, we need answers.” Franklin scratched his chin. “Our best strategy is to repair the damage I did to the electrophone. We must return to the laboratory at once!”

 

Before they could
fix the electrophone, they needed new parts. That meant a visit to Ernie's hardware store.

Victor loved his cousin's store. Sure, it was dark, musty, and completely disorganized. But if you were looking for just the right part to make your project work—and were willing to do a little digging—you could find it at Ernie's.

Franklin, Scott, and Victor found Ernie behind the counter, thumbing through an old copy of
Popular Quantum Mechanics
.

“Hey, cousin!” Ernie said. “What's goin' on, electron?”

Victor smiled. “Hi, Ernie. You remember Mr. Benjamin, right? And this is my friend Scott.”

“Salutations, brothers,” Ernie said.

Ernie sported a ten-gallon cowboy hat. Dozens of loops were sewn around its hatband; they held pens, pencils, fingernail clippers, screwdrivers, a jeweler's hammer, a small flashlight, and, of course, Tootsie Rolls.

He popped one into his mouth and tossed one each to Victor, Scott, and Franklin. “So, Victor, what can I do ya for?”

“We're working on a project and need a few things. Some freon metacoiling, an Ehlinger switch, a couple of strontium diodes—”

“I'll tell you what,” Ernie interrupted. “I was just about to step out and grab a bite. Would you guys mind watching the shop? Dig up whatever junk you're looking for, throw it in a bag, and I'll ring you up when I get back.”