“Finn!” Amanda let go and rubbed her fingers against her thumb as if she’d lost feeling in them. “Tingling.”
He’d thought what he was feeling had to do with his holding Amanda’s hand. But now that she mentioned it, he felt it in his toes and ankles, too, in his forearms and shins. His scalp. “We’re crossing over!”
“Philby and Wayne.”
Finn closed his eyes, pushing away all worry and concern. The sensation flooded through him suddenly, as if a valve had been opened. He stepped up to the registration desk and dropped his hand toward it. His hand, wrist, and forearm passed through the wood without disturbing the skim of dust on its surface.
“They’ve done it!”
Amanda moved her hand toward the desk as well, to the same result. “But shouldn’t we be asleep?”
“I think we’re all clear,” Finn said, referring to a DHI state that he’d been able to accomplish in Version 1.6. “We’re here, but we aren’t. It’s incredibly unstable, but useful. Maybe they didn’t know what to expect.”
“Or maybe it’s the best they can do.”
“Exactly,” Finn agreed. “And who knows if it’ll last? But this is perfect for us. We’ve got to take advantage of it. Come on!” He reached for her hand again, but their projected hands failed to touch. They both seemed impressed but uncomfortable with the result.
Finn shook his hologram hand, weirded out. “That’s so bizarre!”
“And here I was thinking I was the only one who felt that way.”
WILLA WAITED IN THE SHADOWS of the Dumpster, her full attention on the car’s driver. When he cracked his window slightly and reached into his top pocket, she predicted what would come next. The driver lit a stick match and placed it beneath the tip of a cigarette dangling from his lips. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the match’s flame, he had no chance of seeing her slip inside the funeral home.
Inside, Willa stood for a moment, getting her bearings. She stood in a long, luxurious hallway with green carpet, seashell molding, and blurry watercolors on the walls. A small table held a guest book and a rack of business cards. Farther down stood a sideboard, which held a box of tissues and some pamphlets about grief and prayer. The two rooms she passed, the Grove and Sequoia, looked like miniature chapels. The sight gave her chills.
Moving fast, Willa followed a tasteful sign to the office, in search of a phone. The door was locked, but an old black phone paired with another box of tissues perched on a table at the end of the hall.
She made it about three steps in that direction before she came upon a pair of leather-padded swinging doors, beyond which, in the distance, were voices. Male voices. Two of them.
If…we…witness what’s going on, Willa could almost hear herself saying, then the police have witnesses.
With the utmost care, she eased one of the swinging doors open. She heard heavy doors opening and shutting at a distance. She pushed through and eased the door shut behind her.
Rarely in an action role with the Keepers, Willa had never given a lot of thought to what the boys and Charlene went through at moments like this. The panic of adrenaline thumping in your ears, the hot skin, dry throat, and stinging eyes. How all your senses heightened until you lost familiarity with yourself. Was she actually smelling weird chemicals, or was that her own sweat? One of the voices sounded East Coast. The other, a little like a cowboy. She wondered if either was the Dogcatcher Jess had mentioned.
Inching closer to yet another set of swinging doors, Willa took small, cautious steps, her head swiveling like a bobblehead doll’s.
When she turned back, a rag clamped over her nose. She swooned and lost all strength.
She was sleepy. She welcomed the idea of a good dream. She could see the waves, the setting sun.
Way, way back in the recesses of her mind flashed the image of an old-fashioned telephone. But she had no idea why it might be important. She seemed to remember something about Jess, but no; she wasn’t even sure who Jess was.
A man’s firm hand led her through the set of swinging doors and into a pantry that smelled of disinfectant. They passed into a kind of kitchen or science lab, with a long stone table at its center. The table had drains and tubes that led down into rusted buckets, which didn’t make sense to her.
Her feet bumped into a small wooden stepladder, knee height.
“Up here.”
Willa climbed the steps willingly, eager for the promised sleep. The bed looked more like a drawer, but she knew that couldn’t possibly be. Awkwardly she climbed in, feetfirst. She felt her ankles and wrists being tied, but she didn’t mind one bit.
“Pleasant dreams,” the deep voice wished her. “Eternal dreams.”
She felt the bed sliding and, as it did, a darkness close around her. It was some kind of drawer, and she was being closed inside. Locked inside. Locked into the extreme cold.
A latch clicked. Willa reached out in the darkness.
The space, the drawer, was no bigger than a coffin.
AT THE DOUBLE DOOR entrance to the George Hansen Ballroom, Finn hesitated.
Seeing his hesitation, Amanda said, “Look!” A sign read: BALCONY DINING.
“Brilliant,” he said.
Together, they scampered up the stairs, entering a curving balcony area with enough room for a half dozen round tables and several smaller square tables along the railing. The place was in disarray—chairs knocked over, table legs missing, a layer of dust as thick as a tablecloth built up on all the surfaces.
The room below had once been grand, if small. Gold pillars flanked a curved stage. Tattered maroon velvet curtains hung like wind-whipped flags. Equip-ment occupied the center of the stage, vague and ghostlike amid the lack of light. Only a few tables out front were lit, dimly at that, by short dining lamps with small pleated lampshades, their cloth faded and shredding. Sitting at one of the tables was a well-dressed man, notebooks open in front of him, papers spread about.
Finn tested his hologram once again—still there! A faint blue outline along his arms confirmed it. Philby and Wayne had pulled off some kind of miracle.
Amanda cupped her pixelated hand to Finn’s ear.
“Electric cables.”
Finn spotted an elephant trunk of fat wires running offstage from the equipment. He could not make out what the purpose of the equipment might be. Philby would have known in an instant.
“See that in the air?”
“Dust?” Finn inquired.
“More like smoke.”
“That’s where Philby would say ‘You’re welcome,’ I think.”
She smiled and he thought in the real world the entire hall might have filled with light. He put his hologram lips to hers and kissed her, though neither he nor she felt it. And yet they did feel it, deeply, in a place holograms couldn’t reach and never would. His heart felt as if it might stop, or break, or explode; he was light-headed and giddy.
“Thank you for that,” Amanda murmured. “That’s the safest kiss I’ll ever have.”
Voices broke the quiet. A man, just arriving. He carried what looked like a purse.
“It’s him!” Amanda said, recognizing the tall, skinny form of the man.
“The one on the hill at the graveyard,” Finn whispered. “I wonder if that’s Hollingsworth? The guy with his back to us.” The big man sat at a table with a machine in front of him. Some kind of old projector? Finn wondered.
A pair of teens entered the stage, carrying something at their sides like two firemen might carry a ladder.
“The kids onstage look way out of it.”
“You think?”
“They’re moving like robots. Been there, believe me! I’m guessing hypnotized, but with Mr. Skellington down there, who knows?” She crouched down, and Finn crawled behind her, the two peering over the wooden rail.
The hideously thin man in the baggy suit wasn’t African American, or Latino, or Italian. He certainly wasn’t Caucasian or Asian or Norwegian. Even at a distance his skin, a
rich bronze, shone like polished metal, his teeth a glaring white; his hair, black as asphalt.
A girl their same age followed the two boys onto the stage.
“So he hypnotized stagehands to move his stuff around?”
“Possible.”
“Or?”
“He’s created his own 1955 version of the Fairlies. Kids possess more power than adults. He could use them for targeted stuff.”
“That’s about as weird as it gets.” Finn cut himself off as the two boys hoisted what they were carrying.
They stood a mannequin up onstage.
WILLA HEARD THE PURR of a fan and smelled stinky chemicals. She felt sick to her stomach, but at least she was breathing. Her wrists and ankles were bound, so she couldn’t move, couldn’t pound the walls for help.
The bad taste in her mouth turned out to be a disgusting rag stuffed down her throat. It tasted like an old sock or, worse, a used handkerchief. She couldn’t concentrate. She had no recollection of the chemical-smelling rag being forced over her nose and mouth, no recollection of the hand leading her into the room with the cold metal bed.
All she knew was that she hated small spaces. Both her elbows touched cold metal, and if she tried to sit up, she hit her head almost immediately. Her situation created unimaginable terror. The men who had put her here had no intention of taking her out. She was clearly going to die in this box.
Adding to her fright, her memory was fuzzy. She couldn’t remember exactly where she was or how she’d gotten here. She smelled trash, but only for an instant. Was it real or a memory? It was as if her brain had emptied. She knew of Finn, Philby, Maybeck, and Charlene, thought of them as close friends, but couldn’t place them. Were they also in dark boxes?
She felt impossibly tired, her limbs heavy.
She closed her eyes.
A MAN WHOM FINN THOUGHT OF as Amery Hollingsworth switched on the machine. It was in fact a projector. Under the watchful eye and direction of the Traveler, it took at least a minute for the three teens to adjust the female mannequin to his wishes. As they did, the image from the projector joined it. A plain white human-size wood figure became something altogether different.
“That’s…”
“Witch Hazel,” Finn said. “She’s in some early cartoons—she tries to help Huey, Dewey, and Louie when Donald Duck pulls one on them. Crazy powers; she has control over witchcraft and black magic. It’s so weird how real she looks, projected onto the mannequin like that.”
Amanda was shaking her head vigorously. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I don’t get what’s going on. Are they going to paint the mannequin, or what? Why project her?”
“Left arm!” the man behind the projector called out loudly.
Finn immediately recognized the man’s voice. “I thought so…that’s definitely Hollingsworth. We…ran into him when we were after the ink for Walt’s pen. That’s him, for sure!”
Hollingsworth shouted to the kids onstage. “Right knee! Let’s get it correct, please! We don’t have all night.”
The teenage girl approached the mannequin. She wore a black apron that blended into her clothes. She withdrew a hand tool and what turned out to be sandpaper.
“What’s she doing?” Amanda asked in a whisper.
“You remember the marks on Pinocchio?”
“Like fingernail scratches.”
“I think she’s a sculptor.”
As if on cue, the girl worked a sharp chisel by hand, shaping Witch Hazel’s arm. The girl sanded the same spot. The Traveler inspected her work. He pointed to the mannequin’s knee and the girl sanded it, too.
“Not that I understand why, but I think they’re trying to perfectly match the mannequin to the projection,” Finn whispered.
“You’re right! But why that kind of detail?”
Finn did not answer. Instead, he observed the man from the graveyard’s acute attention to the work being done. He directed the teens with long, skeletal fingers, like a conductor working an orchestra. A little more. Not too much. Just right!
“Why bother?” Amanda said, nearly repeating herself.
“Lady Tremaine,” Finn answered. “Jess’s dream. The projection in the workshop. Now here. You see?”
“You’re not saying…?”
“I am. That’s exactly what I’m saying! Hollingsworth is creating the Overtakers!”
“Then we’ve got to stop them.”
Finn was about to reply when Amanda spun around, her hologram arm already lifted. A teenage girl stood where the stairs emptied onto the balcony. The girl opened her mouth—to sound the alarm!—but Amanda’s push hit her so hard that her cheeks billowed out. Her clothes pushed against her like a second skin. Amanda kept her arm raised and moved slowly toward the girl, who skidded back and hit the wall. Without looking at Finn, Amanda spoke to him.
“Gag her. A napkin. Tablecloth. Whatever.”
Amanda thumped the girl against the wall. Finn sprang into action, the fear spiking through him, making it no problem for his hologram to grab hold of things. He stuffed a dust-encrusted linen napkin into the girl’s mouth, tied her shoes together by the laces, and used her own belt to secure her hands behind her back. An old waitress apron gave him the last ties he needed to hog-tie her so she couldn’t move. They laid her down.
“This’ll only buy us a few minutes,” Finn said. “We’re going to have to act fast.”
JESS HAD WATCHED FROM BEHIND the Dempster Dumpster as the driver of the car entered the funeral home. She’d pulled the piece of wood out from the wheel and pushed hard. But the Dumpster hadn’t moved. Not one inch. She put all her effort into it; it rolled silently for an inch or two and stopped. How was she supposed to warn Willa?
She came around to the front of the Dumpster and heaved on the heavy metal lid, which was divided into two halves. She could barely lift it. She tried again, managed to raise it a few inches, and let it go.
It sounded like a car crash. Jess bolted for the bushes and hid. No one came out of the building. Nothing happened.
Five more minutes passed. Six. Seven.
Her mind was racing so fast it was almost impossible to really think. She wanted to call the police. The closest phone was inside that building. Willa was inside that building. Three men were inside that building.
She rose to her haunches, wondering if she had the nerve.
“JESS? WAIT! SLOW DOWN! What about Willa?” Philby cupped the telephone’s heavy receiver after a second or two of frantic conversation. “Jess has lost Willa,” he told Wayne, “somewhere inside the funeral home! Doors are locked. Jess borrowed a nickel to call from a pay phone near the park. Thinks she should call the police. She’s asking me to do it for her.”
“Is she sure Willa’s in there?” Wayne asked.
Philby repeated the question to Jess, listened, and reported back. “She says Willa’s in there, but that she’d have to break a window to make sure.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t,” Wayne said.
“Hang on,” Philby spoke into the receiver, again cupping the mouthpiece. “What do you mean?” he asked Wayne.
“Let’s consider the possibilities,” Wayne said. “One, Willa is hurt or injured inside the building, possibly locked up somewhere. Two, she’s fine, but breaking a window, setting off an alarm, involving the police will get her—maybe all of us—in trouble. It will lead to a lot of questions that have to be answered. Questions not easily answered by you or any of your friends.”
“That’s not encouraging,” Philby said. “I don’t see how that helps.”
“Sure you do,” Wayne said. “You’re just not thinking about what makes this night special.”
Philby’s face lit up. “Holograms! The radio signal!”
“We don’t know if we’ve been successful, but we’ve sent the codes for Finn and Amanda. What if we added Jess and Willa to the signal?”
“Where are you, exactly?” Philby asked Jess. He snatched a pencil and scribbled
out an address on the bench top. Wayne observed and shook his head. “Hang on!” Philby told Jess as he awaited Wayne’s comments.
“It’s farther,” Wayne said. “It will require more power to the antenna for a decent signal. But I say yes. Jess becomes a hologram, and she walks right through the door. Finds Willa. They walk out without ever involving the police.”
“There’s no way to tell Finn and Amanda,” Philby said, reminding Wayne. “Their projections could weaken, break off, even. They might go into SBS—Sleeping Beauty Syndrome—if that happens.”
“Would you rather call the police?” Wayne asked.
Philby un-cupped the receiver. “Jess? Listen up. We have a plan.”
WILLA COULD NO LONGER THINK. The confinement in the cold metal box had her in a state of utter panic.
The fan was not simply blowing. It was refrigerating. If she didn’t stop shaking, her limbs were going to disconnect from her body. She felt tired, terrified, and defeated.
That’s when she heard something! It sounded like a familiar voice trying to shout into a pillow from the other end of a very long tunnel. She could not make out the words, or how far the tunnel might be, only that the voice sounded anxious. Desperate. Maybe it was her own voice reverberating in her ears. Maybe she’d been tied up in an echo chamber.
No. Couldn’t be. Her voice was hoarse from crying out for the past thirty minutes. She tried once more, but nothing came out. It was like her voice box was frozen.
The girl’s voice sounded again, closer but still indistinct. Willa wanted to put a name to it, but it was no use. Her head felt stuffed with cotton.
She was never getting out of here. She was going to freeze and die in this box.
AMANDA TOOK THE LEAD, heading downstairs from the dining theater’s balcony. Coming to an abrupt stop on the final tread, she threw her arm out to stop Finn, held up three fingers, and pointed toward the lobby.
Kingdom Keepers the Return Book 3 Page 19
