Rain of the Ghosts

by Greg Weisman

  RAIN of the GHOSTS

  RAIN OF THE GHOSTS.

  Copyright © 2013 by Greg Weisman. All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America. For information, address

  St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Design by Anna Gorovoy

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data (TK)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02979-9 (trade paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-250-02980-5 (e-book)

  St. Martin’s Griffin books may be purchased for educational, business, or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945 extension 5442 or write specialmarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: December 2013

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Beth, Erin & Benny …

  something to read together …

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Jeffrey Katzenberg, Gary Krisel and Bruce Cranston for setting the stage for Rain’s creation. (And to Kim Mozingo, Tanna Harris, Emily Gmerek and John Hardman for making that setting more fun.)

  Thanks to John Skeel for developing Rain with me. To the conference room gang (Bruce Cranston, Darin Dusanek, Lydia Marano, John Skeel & Jon Weisman) for their help in fleshing out the concepts. And to Sam Bernstein for handing me the key to the last missing Ghost.

  For help with research, I’d like to thank Darin again and John. Plus Wally Weisman, Chris & Steve Leavell, Jordan Mann and Jennifer Anderson. And thanks to Jennifer and Seth Jackson and the rest of the Gathering Players for allowing me to see Rain, Charlie and the rest live. Plus Lex Larson for providing the Cache, and Eirik Paye for help with the map.

  Thanks to Jeffrey K., Julie Kane-Ritsch, Peter McHugh and Ellen Goldsmith-Vein for giving me and getting me the chance to write this. (And Sue helped, too.) And thanks to Michael Homler for giving me an annual kick-in-the-pants to keep at it.

  Also at St. Martin’s, Lisa Pompilio designed our lovely jacket; Sarah Jae-Jones held my hand through last minute panic, and Elizabeth Catalano, Meryl Gross, Edwin Chapman, Joe Goldschein and Aleksandra Mencel all pitched in. It’s appreciated.

  Special Thanks to Beth, Erin & Benny, Sheila & Wally, Robyn & Gwin, Jon & Dana, Jordan & Zelda, and Danielle & Brad, for their unending support.

  MAP TK

  RAIN of the GHOSTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  DRUMS

  Rain could hear the drums as she raced past me. Of course, I knew there were no drums, but Rain usually had a soundtrack going nonstop in her head, and right now it was playing a major tribal beat. Or maybe that was just her pulse. She was pedaling like mad through the streets of San Próspero. Anxious but exhilarated. She didn’t notice my companion or myself, but every other downbeat, she’d look back over her shoulder. Were they behind her, ready to shoot? Would they be around the next corner? Or both.

  It was eight, nine o’clock at night on a Thursday. The moon hadn’t risen yet, but San Próspero was a tourist town, a tourist island, so downtown was always well lit. A fine mist hung in the air, diffusing the light from the streetlamps, bathing everything in a soft glow. It was early September, hot and humid. It might rain any minute. Moisture, half condensation, half perspiration, beaded on Rain’s copper skin, on her arms, legs and forehead. Her long dark hair, braided into a thick black rope, trailed behind her as she accelerated. Rain and Charlie were riding ten-speeds they had “rented” from Charlie’s mom. (There hadn’t been time to tell her about it.) Rain leaned in as her royal blue bike slid around a corner. Charlie followed suit on his gold one. He too looked over his shoulder. They had never been caught. But tonight the invaders seemed to be everywhere. I glanced toward Maq, but he was engrossed in the study of a mosquito that had lighted on his leathery arm. Clearly, he and I weren’t going to intervene to help the kids.

  Rain spotted another enemy contingent, coming down Brown’s Road and heading straight for them. “Charlie! Evasive maneuvers! Veer off! Veer off!”

  Together, and without hesitation or deceleration, they took the next corner, racing down a side street paved with cobblestones. The vibrations rattled up through their tires, playing out in Charlie’s voice as he glanced over at her, “They control the whole island!”

  Rain’s face was a mask of intensity, but a sly smile crept into her eyes and then onto her mouth as the drums in her head pounded louder. “Never surrender!” she shouted back at him.

  Charlie’s dark brown eyes looked forward again. Two more at the other end of the street. He pointed ahead with one hand: “We’re surrounded!” But Rain had already seen them and was pedaling even harder. Charlie matched speed, and their foes seemed to rush toward them. Then in perfect synch, the two teens turned down a dark alley, the bikes at a forty-five-degree angle.

  The alley was practically an obstacle course. Charlie yelled out, “Dumpster at ten o’clock!”

  “I see it!”

  Dumpsters, wooden crates and other garbage made it impossible to ride abreast in the thin corridor between the two brick buildings. Rain pulled out in front. That was natural. She always took the lead. And Charlie always let her. He was very aware he always let her. He frowned slightly. They approached the mouth of the alley.

  Rain called back over her shoulder, “We’re almost out! Veer left!”

  “No! They’ll be waiting for us! Go right! Right!”

  This time Rain’s smile was obvious. She broke the alley and shot off to her left. Charlie shook his head ruefully, but he was hardly surprised. He followed her. Now they were on Camino de las Casas heading north toward the ocean. The street was packed with small shops on both sides, and there wouldn’t be another place to turn off for half a mile. Charlie pulled up alongside, intent on reasoning with her at high speed. But it was too late. Both kids skidded to a harsh stop, a look of horror etched on their faces. The drums had instantly gone silent. They were caught. Trapped. And their attackers were preparing to shoot. “We’re doomed,” Charlie whispered.

  Fortunately, the enemy—Bernie Cohen—was neither the swiftest nor the most coordinated of individuals. With his left hand, he fumbled for the outsized and outdated camera that hung around his neck against the background of his electric blue and gold Hawaiian shirt, while simultaneously pointing at Rain and Charlie with his right hand. The fact that he was right-handed made the whole camera manipulation thing that much more difficult. “Look, Maude,” he said, “local color.”

  “Oh, they’re perfect, Bernie. Get a picture.”

  “I am.” But his right hand still hung in the air, and his wife’s insistent elbow nudging only served to distract him further.

  “Get a picture, Bernie,” Maude kept saying. All this gave Charlie and Rain time to reevaluate the danger. Two tourists. Hefty and old. (Well, not really old. Bernie was only fifty-seven, and Maude was fifty-five. But to the two thirteen-year-olds, the Cohens seemed ancient.) Better yet, they were slow. There might still be time. Bernie now had a firm grip on the camera, but Rain and Charlie were already struggling to turn their bikes around.

  It wasn’t exactly a graceful endeavor. They were straddling the ten-speeds, and they were too close together. Charlie’s pedal came very close to hooking the spokes of Rain’s front wheel. “Hurry,” she cried in a panic, “he’s going to shoot!”

  “I can see that!” (Really, Bernie & Maude and Charlie & Rain had much more in common than any of them realized.)

  Once they had the bikes facing south, they hopped on the pedals and pushed off, fighting inertia. They had to get far enough fast enough so that Bernie wouldn’t bother to shoot. Frankly, they wouldn’t have made it if Maude hadn’t given Bernie one last good elbow to the
ribs, squealing, “Bernie, they’re getting away!” Bernie had both hands on the camera and was taking aim, but he stopped to meet Maude’s disapproving glare. By the time he rediscovered his viewfinder, the kids had disappeared into the mist.

  I had left Maq to his bloodsucking friend. For reasons I still cannot explain, I felt a need to be there, to see even these events in person. I watched from the shadows as Bernie lowered his camera. His mind wasn’t hard to read. Drums, he thought, I think I hear drums.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE N.T.Z.

  Rain knew Charlie was cross. She didn’t have to glance over. She was sort of refusing to glance over. Just wait for it, she thought, and she kept pedaling.

  Two seconds later, he said: “I told you to head right.”

  She knew he was right (correct), was usually right (correct). But she said, “Wouldn’t have helped. There’s only one safe place now. How long have we been out?”

  Charlie looked down. His father’s thick digital timepiece hung loosely on his wrist. It was in stopwatch mode. “Thirty-eight minutes. Not a record. But respectable.”

  “Forget the record. They’re out in force tonight. And it doesn’t help that you’re wearing a t-shirt that says, LOCAL COLOR in big black letters. Let’s head for cover while we can.” And then, with all the melodrama she could muster, “To the N.T.Z.!” He nodded, and they both accelerated one more time.

  Four and a half minutes later, they had reached the south end of the Camino where it abruptly met the San Próspero jungle. Immediately—and practically without slowing—they hopped off the bikes and stowed them out of sight among the dense ferns. Then—and again without slowing—Rain Cacique and Charlie Dauphin vanished into the green.

  Or seemed to, anyway. There was no real path. But this island, this jungle, was their home. Thirteen years had taught them exactly where to go, how to move. They dodged branches and vines without thinking, stutter-stepped over roots, swung their hips around bushes, whirled past entire trees. More than anything, their progress resembled a kind of well-rehearsed free-style choreography, set to the fast tempo of the drums in their heads. The dance was quick and light; they left little trace behind, and their surroundings betrayed little movement, particularly in the light fog. Soon, the ground beneath their feet began to slope upward.

  Charlie broke the silence first. He felt frustrated. Frustrated that they were almost caught. Frustrated that he always, always followed her lead. Even when he knew she was wrong. Even when she knew he was right. But that topic was too big to face, so: “Is it my imagination or is a simple game of Attack of the Killer Tourists getting harder and harder to win?”

  She looked across at her lifelong best friend as they continued their uphill trek through the thick tangle. His big brown eyes met hers, and she wondered why she was always pushing things with him. It was all a jumble in her head. The tourists. Her parents. The tourists. The Ghosts. The tourists. The game. The tourists. Even Charlie. Maybe, it was because her life was entirely too mapped out. The mantra, “Tourists own my future,” played nearly as loud as the drums. There didn’t seem any way around that. And for the first time it occurred to her that baiting Charlie was just a dopey attempt at rebelling against the inevitable. She risked his friendship, because she could. I’m so stupid, she thought. “Just keep moving,” she said.

  The unpath steepened, and the mist fell away. Seconds later, they reached THE SIGN, and they knew they were almost there. It was a PED X-ING sign that some long ago, nameless—but legendary—teen had stolen from downtown. Now it stood, incongruously planted in the middle of this dense growth of jungle. Its two iconically rendered pedestrians (one male, one female—and both tourists of course) were surrounded by a crudely painted red circle with a red diagonal line running through them. Above the circle, the initials N.T.Z. were painted in big red letters.

  The sight of it immediately brought smiles to their faces. The air seemed crisper; the weight of their “futures” seemed to vanish from their shoulders, and Rain was even briefly aware of the scent of wild vanilla orchids coming in lightly on a breeze. Without stopping, they plunged through a last dense stand of banana trees. “Go! Go!!” Rain yelled, as the drums reached their crescendo, and they BURST into the N.T.Z., arms raised in triumph!

  The No Tourist Zone.

  Synchronistically, a three-quarter moon slipped into the gap between two rain clouds to illuminate the clearing: a nearly perfect circle, some thirty feet in diameter, on the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the Atlantic by at least a hundred feet. The rest of the N.T.Z. was surrounded by a virtual wall of wild banana plants and mahogany trees. If you didn’t know where it was, you’d never find the place without a helicopter and a lot of patience.

  Rain and Charlie rushed forward like long distance runners who had just broken the tape at the finish line. They sidestepped the large central fire pit and stopped on the long block of sandstone at the cliff’s edge. They smiled at each other. Rain’s almond-shaped, almond-colored eyes sparkled as she said simply, “We made it.” She threw her arms around him and gave him a joyous hug, instantly reminding Charlie why he let her get away with everything he let her get away with.

  Partially, it was habit. But he was outgrowing that excuse. Mostly these days, it was this. This little rush that got his heart beating faster every time they got too close. For her, this hug was strictly platonic, like a hundred other platonic hugs they had shared since they were babies. But for him …

  How did this happen?! When did this happen?! he wondered desperately. Me and Rain? It’s beyond nuts! Thank God she doesn’t know! And now came the worst part. The fracture in his brain between the side of him that needed the hug to end before she figured out his deep dark secret and the side that really kind of liked holding her and sort of wanted to stay this way forever.

  And just then, an unfamiliar voice said, “Hi.”

  In unison, Rain and Charlie let out a little frightened yelp. Cheek to cheek, they turned as one—paralyzed in mid-embrace—to see a girl their age take a few cautious steps forward from the east edge of the clearing.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, “but I figured you’d want to know you weren’t alone.”

  Immediately, the embarrassed duo disengaged. Charlie took a step back, “Hey, no biggie. We weren’t doing alone.”

  But Rain was already advancing on the girl. “Hold on. How’d you find this place? It’s a No Tourist Zone.”

  The girl took an involuntary step back. “I’m not a tourist,” she said.

  Rain looked her up and down. There weren’t many local kids on San Próspero that Rain didn’t know. There weren’t any she hadn’t met. It was just possible this girl was a local from one of the other Ghosts, La Géante maybe or Malas Almas, but she didn’t look the part. She was shorter than Rain with large brown eyes and kewpie doll lips that gave her a bit of a baby-face. Her wavy auburn hair was tied back into a loose pony that made her look even younger. But she was also more developed than Rain, which was a little annoying. She had light skin and the slightest hint of a Euro-Spanish accent hiding somewhere beneath her otherwise standard American English. But the big tip-off was what she was wearing. A sleeveless tee. A short summer skirt. Tennis shoes. Some kind of pendant around her neck. Small gold-hoop earrings. And all of it too chic, too new and too expensive. No one on Malas Almas could afford to dress like that. Tourist, Rain thought.

  Charlie, meanwhile, had been checking out the stranger too. She’s cute, he thought.

  “Someone must have taken her up here,” Rain said, loudly enough for the new girl to hear.

  Charlie nodded absently, then was struck by a new and horrible thought: “Unless she followed us!”

  “Oh, my God!” Rain said, panicked. The unforgivable sin! We’ll be banished! Excommunicated!

  The girl rushed a few steps forward to stem the tide. “I’m not a tourist,” she repeated. “I was born here.” She looked around. “Well, not here in the N.T.Z. But here. On the Pro
spero Keys.”

  Charlie groaned, now positive the girl was lying.

  Rain spoke grimly, “Only tourists call these islands the Prospero Keys.”

  “The Ghost Keys. The Ghosts.” The girl sounded a little desperate. Rain could almost see her mentally slapping herself over the error. “I’ve been away at boarding school. I had to call them the Prospero Keys there, or no one knew what I was talking about.”

  The girl stood as if waiting to be sentenced. Rain and Charlie exchanged looks. There was a long pause. Finally, Charlie shrugged: “She must be legit. There’s no way a local would reveal the N.T.Z. to a stranger.”

  Rain averted her eyes, kicked the ground and mumbled, “What if she did follow us?”

  “Don’t even go there,” Charlie said flatly.

  “I didn’t follow you. Honest.” She took another tentative step. “It took me a while, but I found the place from memory.”

  Charlie made a conscious decision to relax. Better to believe her than accept the alternative—and the consequences. He approached her, saying, “I’m Charlie Dauphin. This is Rain Cacique. Welcome home.”

  The girl breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Thanks. My name’s Miranda Guerrero.” She and Charlie met beside the dormant fire pit. For a second she thought that maybe he might want to shake hands or something, but he just shoved his fists into the front pockets of his shorts. She didn’t know what to do with her own hands. They seemed to be on the verge of flailing about, so she clasped them together behind her back. She felt like a complete dork. Like a tourist. But he smiled at her, which was nice. She spoke to the smile. “It’s nice to meet someone my age, you know, with school starting Monday—”

  Rain groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Sorry, sorry, it’s just…” Miranda trailed off, looking stricken. She glanced nervously toward Rain, afraid that she’d struck another sore spot with the girl. The boy seemed friendly enough. He had cocoa-brown skin and a short black Afro, a wide face, open and kind, with big dark eyes, and an easygoing manner. But the girl. The girl was imposing. As tall as the boy. Copper skin, long black hair and light brown eyes that seemed to look right through you. She seemed very aggressive, and Miranda was sure she had blown it with her.