Kingdom Keepers VI

by Ridley Pearson

  “Can I see?” she whispered, painfully aware of Jeannie Pucket sleeping only a few feet away.

  “I’m not sure what was going on. A boy.”

  Amanda knew not to force her. “Any hints as to who it was?”

  “No.”

  “A shadow,” Amanda said, studying the superbly sketched image.

  “Yes. A boy.”

  “It’s a cave.”

  “More like a tunnel,” Jess said. “See the square walls?”

  “We need to get this to Finn.”

  “We will.”

  “I mean right now.”

  “Why the hurry?” Jess asked.

  “Because the Dream docks in Aruba this morning. They’re heading to the caves.”

  “I’m not so sure this is a cave.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Amanda couldn’t take her eyes off the sketch. “They need to see it.”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel complete. I heard water, but I didn’t see any.”

  Amanda felt sorry for Jess, who bore the burden of her dreams and the messages they contained. Jess occasionally rebelled against the significance Finn and Philby attributed to her visions. To her, they were just dreams, sometimes accurate projections into the future, sometimes not. She didn’t like her friends basing their plans—or worse, risking their lives—on something so ephemeral.

  Amanda said, “I’ll get this to Philby, make sure he sees it before they leave the ship.” She forced her eyes off the page. The edge of the window casement was glowing yellow with the flush of dawn. “I hope we’re not too late.”

  IN THE EARLY HOURS of Thursday morning, Clayton Freeman, a handsome African American man who shaved his head to a spit polish, found himself heading backstage in the Walt Disney Theatre. He blamed the two Kingdom Keeper boys for making him lose sleep. But he also found himself at least slightly believing what Bob had told him.

  Maybe it was because he was younger than Bob. Maybe it was due to inexperience. Maybe it was because he’d come through college on the fringe end of Harry Potter, and he still had a thing for Artemis Fowl, Percy Jackson, and Legend, but he didn’t immediately dismiss the improbable the way his boss did.

  Certainly what the boys reported seeing backstage was a stretch. Clayton Freeman would rank it as highly unlikely. But impossible? He worked for Disney; was anything beyond the scope of imagination?

  Clayton had heard the stories from fellow security personnel within the Disney World parks, stories that Bob had no time for. He’d seen the damage inside the It’s a Small World ride—dolls broken off the scenes, others floating in the water; he’d heard it called vandalism. He’d also heard rumors that the dolls appeared to have broken free of their platforms, as if marching like an army. Clayton didn’t know what to make of any of it.

  He approached the backstage prop storage, his mind weighed down by the disappearance of a second Mickey Mouse who had been spotted on board; the vandalism done to some security cameras during the Castaway Cay stop; and Maleficent’s unscheduled video just before the lights sparked and shattered.

  Too many unanswered questions…

  Clayton stopped. As they’d been told, the Buzz Lightyear balloon lay on the stage floor, deflated, collapsed. It was his job to inspect it. Indeed, it appeared to have been cut open with a sharp blade.

  Like Bob, he wanted to fob this off on the two boys who reported it. They goof around backstage, a bit of mischief leads to vandalism. The boys—both VIPs!—report the incident as something much bigger.

  But the balloon had not popped by accident. It had been cut open intentionally. Try as he might, Clayton couldn’t see the boys doing that. Physically, it would have been nearly impossible.

  He kneeled and inspected the cut seam. There was a bead of dried glue, implying it had been opened previously and then repaired.

  The boys claimed the Buzz Lightyear balloon had contained Chernabog. The creepy thing from Fantasia? As if! Clayton nearly laughed aloud.

  Then he discovered a five-inch length of coarse hair. Animal, not human. Thick and inflexible. A whisker?

  He found another, and another, all stuck to dried beads of glue.

  Impossible!

  The evidence supported the boys’ claim. Clayton collected the hairs. No choice but to show them to Bob.

  No choice but to consider this a legitimate investigation.

  PRIOR TO LEAVING the ship for the day, the early risers met on the deck of Cabanas for breakfast before sunup.

  Philby, Storey, and Finn listened as an excited Willa explained to Storey and Philby what the other Keepers had figured out the night before.

  “K’an is gold, yellow, or precious. Ch’en is cave. Janaab is flower. Pet is island. We have nearly all the pieces of the journal’s second clue.”

  Philby said, “Yes. Finn told me last night.”

  “But?” said Willa, contesting him. The friction between them was palpable.

  Finn answered, trying to keep the fireworks to a minimum. “Philby points out that now that the OTs have the flash drive with their DHI data, all they need is a new server, since I fried their other one.”

  “If I were them,” Philby said, avoiding eye contact with Willa, “I’d replace it in Aruba. After Aruba we have a day at sea, then the Panama Canal passage, then another night without a stop. It’s several days before anyone gets off the ship again.”

  “Today is the final island stop on the cruise,” Storey said.

  “‘Island’ is one of the four words from the journal,” said Willa. “Not ‘computer.’”

  Ouch, Finn nearly said. Instead he tried to keep them focused. “Let’s consider the four words—”

  “Twenty-four different combinations,” Philby said proudly, and made an unpleasant face at Willa, who winced and blinked.

  “Actually,” she snapped, “it’s three times that when you consider the two added definitions for k’an of yellow and precious.”

  Philby looked crushed.

  “In my opinion,” Willa said, “the most promising is: island cave, gold flower—or maybe yellow flower. I don’t see ‘gold cave’ or ‘gold island’ or ‘island flower’ or ‘precious flower,’ though who knows?”

  “Okay, so let’s start there,” Finn said hastily.

  Philby glanced down below the edge of the table where he held a printout of an e-mail sent by Amanda. It showed a shadow on a wall of what might be a cave. He nearly showed it to them, but looking across at the defiant Willa, he shook his head, refolded it and slipped it into his pocket. “I think we should consider their need for a server.”

  Finn said quickly, “So…island cave, gold flower. Any luck with the look of the caves?”

  Storey slid an excursion brochure across to Philby, followed by some computer printouts of Aruban caves.

  “None are an exact match with Jess’s drawing, but what’s interesting is the similar formations and the surrounding landscape. She was definitely dreaming of a cave on Aruba.”

  Philby compared Jess’s drawing to the various photographs. “Agreed. So we’re in the right place at the right time, and we know what they’re looking for.” He fingered the vacant space framed in the copy of the journal page and glanced up at Willa. “You’re going with flower because of this.”

  “Yes. There was a pressed flower in there, like Charlene said. Has to be.”

  “And the OTs have it,” Philby said.

  “Could have it. Might not,” Willa said.

  “We are outnumbered once again,” Philby said. “Forward following could work, should work, but it won’t if we’re watching the wrong cave.” He turned to Storey. “There are what, five important caves?”

  “Yes. And many more up and down the north-eastern coast,” Storey said.

  “Divide and conquer,” Finn proposed.

  “No other choice,” Philby said. “Five caves. Six of us, including Storey. Not to mention the need to cover the computer stores.”

  “Then let’s not mention it,” Will
a said, and drew a scornful look from the boys.

  “What if you stay behind and watch the cameras for a computer box being brought aboard?” Finn suggested to Philby. “We’d know where to look, who to go after.”

  “Hmm.”

  “There are two others we could ask to help us,” Storey said, somewhat tentatively.

  Dillard? Finn wondered. He was fairly certain his neighbor, who’d helped the Keepers in the past, was on the ship, but how could Dillard possibly know Storey? And how could he possibly find the kid anyway? He kept quiet.

  She said, “Their names are Kenny and Bart. I work with them.”

  “Not for fieldwork. I could use them as lookouts,” Philby said.

  “Done.”

  Philby, apparently satisfied with Finn’s solution to the computer problem, mellowed. “The rest of you…four will each take one of the famous caves. The fifth—maybe we give this to Maybeck?—will be our control: he’ll show the Jess sketch to a taxi driver and see where he’s taken. Maybe it overlaps with one of you, maybe not.”

  “Maybe we should all do that,” Finn said. “I like that idea.”

  “It puts too much faith in the sketch,” Philby said. “Better to cover as many bases as possible.”

  “Jess’s drawings have never been wrong,” Willa said.

  “But if you talk to Amanda, that’s not the case.” Philby looked Willa in the eye. “Jess gets confused now and then. We have to stay objective, be as statistically accurate as possible. Of the five most popular caves, we cover the top four. Maybeck acts as our control.”

  No one looked sold.

  “The stolen journal started this,” Philby insisted. “The journal tells us it’s an island cave. This is the only island stop after Castaway, and there aren’t caves on Castaway. Right place. Right time.”

  “And if Luowski or another OTK leaves the ship?” Finn said.

  “They won’t trust him or anyone to do whatever it is they’re planning. You want something done right, you do it yourself.” Philby squinted, deep in thought. “Okay. A compromise. Maybeck and Willa leave super early. You and Charlene leave next,” he told Finn. “Storey goes last. If an OT or OTK is seen leaving the ship during that time, maybe we change plans. If not, each one of you takes a different cave and I watch for a computer coming back on board.” He paused and said, “Is everyone good with that?”

  No one objected—unless you counted Willa’s rolling eyes.

  * * *

  A blade of bloodred arched above the horizon, absorbed in spots by cumulus clouds, all of it dripping with foreboding. The smells and sounds of land had awakened Greg Luowski as the ship docked; now he climbed down to the deck, peering over the rail to see dockhands and shore workers busy below.

  The shiver that ran through him had nothing to do with air temperature; it was instead the recollection of his meeting with Maleficent—the Ice Queen—and how she’d told him he had to “collect one” for her.

  “One what?” he’d asked.

  But he’d known the answer. Another shiver. He knew “what.” He knew “who.”

  His contempt for Finn Whitman knew no bounds. Whitless was the kind of boy Luowski lived to hate: clever, brainy, fast-tongued and slow-footed. His feelings of ill will were multiplied by Amanda’s obvious adoration; she wouldn’t give Luowski the time of day as long as Finn Whitman existed.

  Focusing on the task at hand, Luowski attempted to collect his thoughts—a bit like picking up three dozen apples without a basket or bag: the more he gathered, the more he dropped. And so it was that his plans spilled out of his head and over the ship’s rail like confetti, lost to the whims of the wind.

  First, he had to get off the ship. He’d deal with the rest later.

  Maleficent had made fun of him—something no one got away with. He would show her: he’d pull off this assignment flawlessly, return with the computer she needed. He’d use his accomplishment as a bargaining chip. Let someone else do the other thing. Luowski was no killer. She’d treated him like a thug. She’d see.

  Twenty minutes later, he wore a ship hand’s blue coveralls over a pair of NBA shorts and a World of Warcraft T-shirt. A Disney Cruise Lines ID badge hung from a lanyard around his neck. His hands and forearms looked like those of an engine room worker who’d failed to get all the grease off. Crew members were disembarking to the docks. The process of resupplying the ship was well organized and executed: everyone had his or her assignment; they worked in concert. A single player like Greg Luowski was, to the security team scanning the crew as they disembarked, just another player. His ID was legit. He was scanned off and disembarked.

  Luowski stepped onto the sands of Aruba and inhaled deeply.

  There was work to do.

  IN THE BALCONY SEATING of the Buena Vista Theatre, Storey Ming was met by Kenny Carlson, a tall, freckled kid. His sidekick, Bart, looked like a surfer dude.

  “They still don’t know?” Kenny said.

  “Actually, now they do. You’ve done an excellent job of laying low. But that’s changed. They need lookouts. You’ll be on Wave Phones reporting directly to Philby.”

  “Cool,” Kenny said. “We’re ready.”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  “I know that.”

  “You’re high schoolers.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “So act like it.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Which means don’t use radio speak when I’m sitting next to you.”

  Kenny blushed.

  “You’re excited. I get that. It’s exciting work. But their lives depend on our doing a good job. You understand? Their lives. No exaggeration. So get the giggles out and man up.”

  Kenny nodded. Bart looked a little confused.

  “Explain it to him,” she said.

  “Will do,” Kenny said.

  “And don’t mess this up!”

  Kenny leaned away from her.

  “Now you’re getting it.” Storey appraised them both. “Cast Members. That’s all. You are Cast Members, helping out.”

  Not knowing what to say, Kenny said nothing. Storey left the balcony, but not without one last menacing look to drive home her point: they were answering to her.

  And she meant business.

  * * *

  With Maybeck and Willa long gone, the disembarka-tion of Luowski and then Dixon set off a flurry of Wave Phone texts and conversations that resulted in Philby’s leaving his post.

  With a bird’s eye view from Deck 11, Kenny reported that Luowski had bypassed the excursion buses and was headed into town on foot. A man––or a big kid––followed nearly the same route, about five minutes later.

  Philby closed the distance but lost sight of Luowski behind some massive oil tanks. Kenny reported that he was heading west on the street closest to the docks. “Just below the blimp.”

  A miniature blimp, about the size of a car, maneuvered overhead. It bore the Disney Channel logo in bright yellow. Following in the general direction of the blimp, Philby spotted Luowski entering a Quiznos sandwich shop. So far, so good.

  Finn left the ship and headed to the taxi queue on schedule. As he was about to climb into the backseat, he heard a report through his earbud that a small boat had just pulled up on the opposite side of the ship from the dock.

  “I’m on it,” said Storey’s voice.

  “No time,” Philby told her.

  “I’m taking the express lane,” she replied.

  * * *

  Storey Ming opened a watertight door marked CREW ONLY. It was an exterior deck area where a number of cables as thick as her leg ran through portholes and secured the ship to the dock. These spring lines tied the ship tight to the dock while allowing for, and self-adjusting to, the ship’s subtle movements.

  She stuck her head out oval porthole and gulped. It was a long way down.

  She located a short length of chain and threw it over a cable, taking hold of the chain at either end. Storey sat on the sill of the op
en porthole, watching the dock activity, awaiting her moment. Then she slid off.

  She flew down the line, a tiny speck of girl amid the oversized world of the Dream. There were several spring lines securing the bow. She’d chosen the farthest forward line. A second line, set just below hers, gave her a way to break her descent.

  Storey raced toward the huge iron cleat on the dock, counting down in her head. At the last second, she let go of the chain, tucked into a ball, and rolled across the dock in a somersault. She scraped both her knees and elbows, but didn’t break any bones.

  “Hey! You there!”

  She took inventory: the ship behind her, stretching a thousand feet to her left; the empty pier and taxi stand to her right.

  She took off at a sprint. No dockhand was going to catch her.

  As Storey cleared the terminal building, she spotted a pair of umbrellas and behind the umbrellas, two men, all climbing steep stairs from a small boat. She reached for her Wave Phone to report. Gone!

  She checked for her wallet: still in her pocket.

  When the umbrellas were collapsed, allowing their holders to board a parked taxi, they revealed two women, one small and dark, the other tall and thin.

  Diving into the back of another waiting taxicab, Storey yanked the door shut. The driver spun around, a wide smile on his face.

  “Welcome to Aruba! Where can I take you?”

  She’d always wanted to say the words she said now.

  “Follow that car!” Storey cried.

  * * *

  A sad-looking sandwich sign on the sidewalk advertised an ATM. A tired, darkly tanned man in a loud shirt stood by a dilapidated former school bus, now painted in outrageous colors reading FANTASY ISLAND TOUR. Neon lights flashed in various shop windows: GOLD! JEWELRY! SOUVENIRS! T-SHIRTS!

  Philby kept his eye on the door of the Quiznos, his palms sweaty.

  The stagehand Dixon entered, obviously to rendezvous with Luowski. Moments later, the two left the shop. Philby followed, keeping a good distance back.

  Quickly, the upscale street, Arendstraat, gave way to a seedier side street. The crumbling sidewalks and low concrete-block buildings made Philby feel unsafe. The drone of the overhead blimp grabbed his attention. It was like an annoying insect circling his head.