The museum was located on Main Street, only a few minutes’ ride from Horace’s house. And he was quite familiar with the old building. His grandfather had worked there for years. Unfortunately, Anna had basketball practice on Monday and Tuesday, and Milton got stuck watching his sister on Wednesday. So it wasn’t until Thursday after school when they were all able to meet at the museum.
Horace had spent most of the week thinking about what they might find at the museum. He hadn’t been back there since his grandfather’s death.
The museum was located in a three-story redbrick Victorian mansion known as the Chapin House. A single turret marked the entrance to the building, where the main collection of the museum was held. A carriage house, connected at the back of the house, served as a secondary exhibit hall and provided storage space. Horace wondered if there was a chance the museum might have something in its city history section on the third floor.
An old dilapidated fountain sat outside at the front of the building. The fountainhead was in the shape of a giant head with a gnarled beard. From the rust stains around the mouth, the fountain looked like it hadn’t worked in years.
Horace was still thinking about the destruction of the portal and whether they’d actually find information about another Time Keeper at the museum as he rode his bike up the circular driveway.
Anna’s waving stopped his thoughts as he slid his front tire into the bike rack. “You made it. What took so long?”
“Sorry,” Horace answered sheepishly. “I had to come up with an excuse to tell my mom. She’d get suspicious if all of a sudden I started visiting museums on my own.”
“Well, let’s get going and see if we can find anything about the Order,” said Anna.
“Or even the portals,” Milton added.
“Or the beetle.” Horace reached down and patted his pocket.
“There, look.” Milton pointed at the sky. Above them circled a shape. “Shadow followed you over here. That’s got to be a good sign.”
Horace stared at the bird in the sky. She had been sporadically around all week, coming and going from his window ledge. He noticed that she had seemed particularly agitated since the discovery of the damaged portal.
“Let’s go,” said Milton. “I’m supposed to babysit my little sister again later.” He led them in through the front door as Shadow landed on top of the old fountainhead, settling on one of the ears.
The imposing and well-maintained interior of the museum, as compared to its worn exterior, immediately struck Horace. On the first floor a dozen ornate stained-glass windows let in light, illuminating a beveled mirror that stretched the full length of the entrance hall and an extraordinary wood fireplace. There was also a commanding brass chandelier hanging in the entrance above their heads.
No sooner had they stepped inside the door than an overly enthusiastic voice greeted them. “Welcome, welcome, welcome! What do we have here? Three young historians interested in learning about our town’s past?” From out behind a small doorway stepped a short, stocky man. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Mr. Franken, and I’m one of the curators of the museum,” he said, an awkward smile on his face.
“That’s weird. I thought my grandfather had introduced me to everyone at the museum, but I don’t remember seeing this guy,” Horace whispered to Anna.
“Well, there are probably lots of workers you haven’t met,” answered Anna.
But something about it didn’t feel right. The museum was small and didn’t have many staff members. Why wouldn’t Grandpa have introduced me to Mr. Franken? thought Horace. He turned his attention back toward their odd guide.
Mr. Franken’s tie and jacket seemed to be moving in opposite directions. He had a scar across his left cheek, and his squeaky voice reached a high pitch at the end of each sentence. But the most remarkable feature of the curator was his hair, a comb-over that spanned from one ear to the other. A thick oily gel pasted it down.
Mr. Franken didn’t seem to notice the kids’ conversation and continued with his prepared opening lecture. “I see you have taken a liking to the beautiful artwork carved on our entrance fireplace. These designs date back to the nineteenth century when Henry Austin Chapin first built the mansion in 1884. These often go unnoticed by many visitors, but they were very common in this Queen Anne—style house. May I show you the rest of the collection?”
Milton gave Horace a hard nudge with his elbow.
“We were just hoping to look around by ourselves,” Horace explained.
“Oh, no need for that!” answered Mr. Franken enthusiastically. “My next group won’t be here for another half an hour. I can give you a private tour. You can’t beat that!”
“Ummmm,” Horace replied awkwardly. “Okay.”
“What?” said Milton under his breath. “This is going to take forever.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Franken. “Come with me.”
“What’s wrong with this guy? He’s more excited than Mr. Petrie when he’s lecturing us on photosynthesis,” whispered Milton to Horace.
Horace did find Mr. Franken’s behavior different from the other curators he had met at the museum. “I guess he’s just excited to have visitors. It probably gets lonely in this place.”
The kids finally agreed to the impromptu tour. But as they wandered through the first-floor exhibits, it started to feel like it would never end. Milton looked at his watch three times, but Mr. Franken didn’t seem to get the hint.
“The museum holds over one thousand items, many of which I’ve personally collected myself. We have a large collection of artifacts from the archaeological dig over at Fort Saint Joseph. There is a case or two of pieces from the Potawatomi Tribe on the second floor. And you’ll even find a dozen drawings by Chief Sitting Bull there. And on the third floor we have a room full of local memorabilia from some of our famous residents.”
The phone at the front desk rang. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m the only one here today,” Mr. Franken explained. “I’ll be right back.”
Finally, a break, thought Horace.
Horace turned to his friends. “Quick, let’s split up before he comes back. It might make it easier to find something. I’ll take the third floor. You two, check out the second.”
“Good idea, Horace. And less time stuck listening to this guy,” added Milton.
Horace climbed the three flights of stairs, and then paused to think before walking into the gallery. He stopped at a display case featuring past town citizens. He was familiar with some of the names, like Ezekiel Niles, the newspaper owner, and Ring Lardner, the famous journalist. But toward the end of the display case was a whole section on two of the most famous industrialists in the town’s history, Horace and John Dodge. Horace knew little about these brothers, one of whom shared his first name.
Looking at the Dodge display now, Horace noticed that next to a black-and-white photo of the brothers was the original insignia of their car company, with the words DODGE BROTHERS encircling the outside. On the top of the glass case was a placard that read FROM HUMBLE BEGINNINGS TO AUTOMOBILE BARONS.
Horace leaned in to read more about the two men. As it turned out, Horace and John Dodge had run a small metal shop in Niles before heading to Detroit. There they worked for Henry Ford, designing and building the chassis for his Model T. The two brothers eventually split from Ford and created their own company. They were hugely successful until their untimely deaths in 1920.
At the end of the display case was another black-and-white photo, this one of their shared tomb in Detroit. It was a giant mausoleum in the shape of an Egyptian temple. Surrounding the entrance were two sphinxes, and above the doorway was the winged disk of Ra.
“Interesting, isn’t it?”
Horace jumped, startled by the voice.
“These two brothers were part of a rich past here in Niles. There is so much to learn about the town. So much history to be discovered.” Mr. Franken’s eyes were ablaze. “Do you have any questions?”
Horace hadn’t even heard the curator approach. “Not really. Just looking around.”
Mr. Franken made a low snorting sound under his breath, seemingly frustrated by Horace’s lack of interest. “Would you like to see what’s in the carriage house? We have some wonderful old cars out there, one of them built by the Dodge brothers here in Niles. It never went into production, and I don’t often get a chance to show it off. We’re still working on the exhibit.”
Horace was reluctant to leave the display case. He was fascinated by the photo of the tomb and wanted to learn more about it and the brothers and their mysterious grave. He was also a little jealous. There was a part of him that had always wanted a brother, someone to help level the playing field and be an ally in his battles against his sisters.
But it seemed Mr. Franken was not going to take no for an answer. “Come on, let’s find your friends. I think you all will really like the car exhibit.”
As they made their way back down the steps to the first floor, Horace saw Milton and Anna wandering around the second floor. He walked over to them. “Any luck?”
“Not yet. Where are you going?” Milton asked.
“The carriage house.” Horace rolled his eyes over at Mr. Franken. “He insists. Come on.”
Despite their protests that it wasn’t going to help their search, the two joined Horace. Anna insisted that their best chance of finding more information about Keepers in Niles rested in the third-floor exhibit where he’d been earlier. Horace agreed and hoped their trip out to the carriage house wouldn’t take long.
But when they reached the door of the carriage house, a bus pulled up in front of the main building, and a group of elderly patrons began to disembark. The sight of the new guests sent Mr. Franken into a tizzy. “Oh, no, you can’t park there!” he called out, waving his arms wildly and running toward the bus. “I’ll be right back, kids. You can look around inside. Just please don’t touch anything until I return.”
The kids nodded as Mr. Franken scurried across the parking lot.
“All right, let’s just look around fast and then go back to the third floor. We don’t want to get stuck on another one of his tours,” said Milton.
The carriage house wasn’t just an exhibition space; it also served as a storage unit for the overflow from the museum. Most of the artifacts were piled in boxes. “This is kind of a mess,” Milton noted, stopping in front of a row of tarp-covered antique cars. “Must be someone’s collection they donated to the museum.”
Horace ducked under the first tarp. “It’s a 1940s Ford truck.”
Milton was already on to the next car. “This is a Chrysler Imperial. They don’t make these anymore.”
But when Anna got to a car at the end of the row, she suddenly popped her head back out from under the tarp. “You two have got to take a look at this! Grab the corners of the plastic.”
Horace and Milton ran over, and with a swift yank, the three kids pulled the protective covering to the floor. Horace couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was one of the most bizarre-looking vehicles he’d ever laid eyes on.
“This is so cool!” Milton shouted. “It’s called the Stout Scarab!” he read from a sign lying on the floor.
“Only nine cars were ever made!” Anna pointed to the placard next to the car. “It was one of the last cars the Dodge brothers built together before they died.”
The car looked like a steel missile, its lines curving in a smooth arc across the back aluminum fuselage. The kids began to walk around the car, marveling at its shape. The interior space was just as innovative as the exterior. The engine had been placed in the rear, freeing up the inside and creating a prototype for the minivan. Running boards lined the door panels, and wicker chairs were arranged around a table on the inside.
“This is amazing!” said Anna. “Do you still have your beetle?”
Horace pulled the beetle out of his pocket and held it up against the hood ornament. It was a perfect match.
“We’ve got to get inside!” exclaimed Milton.
Anna hesitated, but Milton had already sidestepped the flimsy red roping circling the car.
The door latches were embedded into the door panels, and it took him a minute to finally figure out how they worked. Milton flipped the latch and opened a door. “Come on.”
Horace made his way around the roping, and Anna followed.
Milton started playing with a piece of plastic fruit and a tea set on the table near the back of the car. “Tea, anyone?” he joked in a British accent.
Anna didn’t find it funny. “You guys, we are going to get in trouble. I don’t think Mr. Franken will be too happy if he finds us playing inside one of his exhibits.”
But neither boy was really listening. As Milton teased Anna about her manners, Horace made his way to the front of the car.
The speedometer was in the center of the console and surrounded by four smaller dials. A stick shift came out of the floorboards between the two front seats, and a key dangled from the ignition. There was a small glove compartment on both the right and left sides. Horace tried to see what was inside, but they were locked. But the most striking feature of all was the symbol on the center of the steering wheel—another scarab beetle.
“Guys, look,” said Horace.
Milton and Anna stopped arguing and turned away from the table. They moved to the front of the car.
“There’s an indentation in the center of the steering wheel,” said Horace, “like the one that used to be on the tree at the farm.”
“Let’s see if this thing still works.” Milton reached forward and turned the key hard to the right.
“Milton!” Anna yelled in protest.
But nothing happened. The car didn’t even make a beep.
“Relax, Anna. This thing probably hasn’t worked in sixty years.”
“More like ninety,” said Horace, pointing to a date on the dashboard.
As his friends continued to bicker about whether the car actually still worked or not, Horace reached into his pocket and took out his scarab beetle. The stone beetle was glowing a bright blue light.
His friends stopped and stared in wonder.
Without saying a word, Horace instinctually knew what to do. The beetle was vibrating intensely in his hand. He placed it into the center of the steering wheel. Suddenly the car’s engines roared to life.
At the sound of the engines Horace lost his balance.
“Be careful!” shouted Anna, but it was too late.
He fell between the front seats, knocking the stick shift. The car suddenly jumped forward. And in a giant flash of blue light, they were gone.