Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome

by Ridley Pearson

  “Phone camera. Probably printed at one of the big drugstores.”

  “I think I know whose face it is, but I’d love to be sure,” I said.

  “A real detective you are. Is that it? Is this going to unlock the secret of bringing my daughter back?” Her words dripped with sarcasm.

  “It’s part of the solution, yes,” I said, trying to overcome, but I won only her skepticism. I kept going, though I still had little idea what I was talking about. “I was thinking—some of the social media sites have face matching. You put in your high school class photo and it scours the Internet for current photos of your friends.”

  “Old news,” Willa’s mother said.

  “So what about this photo? Could we match faces in the crowd with their counterparts today?”

  “It’s black-and-white.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Faded.”

  “Yes.”

  She fingered the photo. I watched her slowly come alive, lifted out of her funk and all-consuming worry about her daughter. “The resolution may not work.”

  “But we could try?” I asked. “You could try?”

  “Do you have the original negative?”

  “No. But there’s a better photo at the cabin. You could use that one for the faces, except…it doesn’t have this ghostly looking thing.” I pointed out what she’d already seen: the vague color image of a partial face. It was like looking at yourself in the mirror after a hot shower. “Maybe you could work with both?”

  “If the other image is sharper, there are some enhancement tools that might help. It’s an interesting proposition,” she said, smiling at me. “Bringing the past forward into the world of social media…I’d be happy to give it a try.”

  “Wonderful!” I said, and thanked her profusely.

  She looked at me with a troubled face. It occurred to me then that she had not been sitting here brooding about her daughter. She was worried about something else entirely. Mattie was the one who could read people. I had a lot to learn, it seemed.

  “What?” I asked.

  She shook her head and looked at her shoes.

  “Please.”

  “I spoke to my husband just now. He said…the thing is…we aren’t supposed to say anything.” She sounded like a little kid. The change shocked me. Her eyes darted toward mine, then away. “My husband. Late last night, two government types came to our front door—”

  I inhaled sharply, stopping her.

  “You know them.” She made it a statement.

  I nodded. “They aren’t government. They claim to be, but we no longer think they are. Some big corporation, maybe, with a lot of money, connections. And a lot of nerve.”

  “I wasn’t…We weren’t supposed to speak of it.”

  “We know all about them,” I said. It seemed to mollify her. “Your house isn’t the first place they’ve come looking. Jess came east because of them. She traveled with Disney people. Disney knows about them, too, you see.”

  “It gets worse,” Mrs. Angelo said.

  I swallowed dryly.

  “My husband told them you and your sister had taken our daughter to a cabin. A secret cabin.”

  I tried to speak. I couldn’t.

  “Thankfully, my husband has no idea where the cabin is or who it belongs to. I know this, because he told me that he said it was, ‘Walt’s cabin.’ He didn’t make the connection to Mr. Kresky. But still…it’s not good.”

  “No,” I finally croaked out, “it’s not good at all.”

  MATTIE

  The door to the basement creaked open, accompanied by the heavy footsteps of one of the men. I scrambled back to the air mattress, leaving my recent findings in a box in the closet. I could only hope he would fail to notice the missing hinge pins on the closet door. The hinge pin is the nail-like shaft that holds the two pieces of a hinge together; I first learned how to open a door by removing them when Susie McGowen locked herself in the Barracks 14 furnace room.

  With the approach of my captor, I hadn’t had time to restore the hinges properly, but the door itself was in place, and only a careful eye would discern the pins’ absence.

  The man entered my jail cell. My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. As he offered me yet another bag of fast food, I worried he would hear it. I must have been flushed as red as a radish, but I accepted the bag with a phony grin—and made sure to brush his hand in the process of our exchange.

  This was the third time I’d targeted one of my captors, trying to find a means of escape. I’d learned from my closet exploration that we were likely in a former spa, probably in an abandoned strip mall. Now, thanks to my gift, I knew I’d been wrong about the basement: I was being held in storage room or office at the back of an abandoned store.

  Two of the men missed their families; the other one missed his dog and weekend hunts along the Chesapeake—Barracks 14ers for sure! Today, this guard had a phrase in his head: “Superata Society.” I tried to remember it.

  The man pulled his hand away, shaking his head. My attention wasn’t on the food. When he let go of the Happy Meal bag, it dropped into my lap. Awkward.

  If I’d read him correctly, a delivery entrance immediately to the left of my room’s only door led to the outside. He was here alone. They took turns watching me. Others were off trying to find Jess and Amanda; I couldn’t read how many.

  Alone, locked in my cell, I wolfed down the burger and fries. Then I went to work.

  Of the varied items in the spa supply closet, the most promising were a box of hair coloring chemicals, a half-dozen electric curling irons still in the box, some rolls of aluminum foil, and two dozen aprons carrying the spa’s logo and name: SPA-CIALTY YOU—HAIR CARE AND BODY WORKS. The terrible pun might have explained why it went out of business.

  Originally, I’d planned to climb out a tiny trapdoor in the ceiling of the bathroom, but I’d broken the sink off from the wall by standing on it to reach the ceiling, and the access door was screwed shut—not to mention way too small for me. Regrouping, I used the hideous bathroom as a staging area, creating my trap out of sight in case I was subjected to yet another random visit.

  From years of hiding, I was no stranger to dying my hair. Still, I loathed the burning chemicals, my last resort but a major asset.

  I constructed a welcome mat out of two layers of aluminum foil with a skim of shampoo sandwiched between them. I deconstructed four aprons for the ties used to secure them around the waist. Finding an outlet above the vanity, I plugged in a pair of curling irons and set them to high.

  Back at the locked door—its hinges were on the outside, or I’d have already been free as a bird—I hollered loudly, “The toilet’s overflowing!”

  I pounded on the door as hard as I could. “Hey! Come on! The toilet’s overflowing!”

  The key clicked in the door. I checked that the mat was in place, my weapons ready, my backups in place on the floor behind him.

  Come and get it, I felt like saying.

  As the door swung open, I stood to the side, back to the wall. The man took one step onto my welcome mat and slipped, legs swinging wildly, like he’d hit a banana peel. He tried to use the doorknob to steady himself. I took care of that by burning his hand with the hot iron. He screamed. As he fell to the floor I squirted the hair color into his eyes—something the label warned against in bold lettering: AVOID CONTACT WITH EYES.

  Snapping two of the strong apron ties around his head, I gagged him. He raised his burned hand blindly to fight me and I let him grab the hair curler a second time. He screamed out some combination of bad words I’d never heard before and hoped I’d never hear again.

  Last important chore. I used the backup curling iron—nice and hot—on the side of his neck and the palm of his other hand. This threw him into the defensive posture I’d hoped for—he curled up. Daring to draw close to him, I snatched his cell phone from his belt clip and added a liberal squirt of hair dye to one of the fresh burns for good measure.
He howled like a coyote.

  Whirling, I pulled the door shut, locked the door, then removed and kept the key. I ran.

  Fresh air never tasted so good. Even better: I was the proud owner of a new iPhone.

  JESS

  “Epcot,” I mumbled, dumping the contents of the soy can onto the cabin floor. It felt like the hundredth time. I studied the photo—the mass of excited people. “Anyone wearing gloves?” I asked, thinking more clearly. “Find a woman wearing white gloves.”

  Amanda snatched the photo from me. I didn’t complain. Instead, I moved over to scour the photos on the walls.

  “Why gloves?” Amanda called out as she continued to study the photo of the crowd.

  I said, “Finn wouldn’t leave us a bunch of random messages. He’d leave us one.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And so far, we’ve missed it.”

  “No doubt.”

  I passed a small table. On it sat a picture of a very young Wayne with a younger Walt Disney and another man, presumably an Imagineer.

  A closer look at Walt—and it clicked. I hurried over to Amanda, shoved the picture in her face. “Check it out! Walt Disney’s wearing the same clothes here as he is in the shot of the crowd.”

  She looked at me, eyebrow raised. “Right. Look, we’re all tired, Jess. And hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

  “The same clothes! As in: the same day!”

  “Ooookay. And I care because?”

  “It’s obviously a big day. Look at the crowds! Walt Disney is there. Photos are being taken.”

  “Opening day,” Wanda said. “Disneyland’s opening day. We talked about this, Jess. We’ve been pretty sure about that all along.”

  “Do you know what that ball is?” I said. “It’s called a Super Ball. It’s from the 1960s. Jacks? That’s a game played during the 1950s and well before.”

  “You’re a historian now, Jess?” Amanda said caustically.

  “No! That’s the point! Finn is the historian.”

  Slowly, Wanda picked up the white glove. “The cigarette lighter. Also from that era. You’re right, Jess. The time period is what everything has in common.”

  “They’re all vintage, like the display I saw in Epcot,” I said. “It isn’t about each item! It’s about everything together.”

  “Like the Keepers,” Amanda said. She was speaking to herself, but we all heard it. “Finn wanted us to see the whole group.”

  “It isn’t a scavenger hunt,” Wanda said. “We know Dad’s picture with Walt was taken on opening day. Now Jess realizes Walt’s wearing the same clothes in both shots. So the big crowd is opening day, like we thought.”

  Wanda was repeating herself, but no one was going to stop her. I could feel her building to something. Not one of us dared interrupt. Transfixed, we listened. We watched.

  She squinted her eyes closed. “Come on…Come on…”

  I was so tempted to say something. I literally bit my lower lip to stop myself.

  Her eyes popped open. She looked elated, surprised, and terrified.

  “Vintage!” she barked. “Jess, you’re absolutely right.”

  “I am?” The words escaped me.

  “Finn left us a calendar. We were so stupid! Take a look at the stamp on the envelope. The reason there’s no note is so that we’ll pay more attention to the stamp. Somebody do an Internet search for a U.S. stamp called Atoms for Peace!”

  “A calendar?” Amanda croaked out.

  I grabbed my phone and took to the Internet. “Oh my gosh! The three cent Atoms for Peace stamp was issued on July twenty-eighth, 1955.”

  Wanda smiled widely. “Yes, Amanda, a calendar. Opening day at Disneyland was July seventeenth, 1955. Finn left us a time capsule!”

  MATTIE

  The fresh air lifted; it boosted my spirits as I made my way on foot toward the church. My abductors had emptied my pockets, meaning I had no money to take a bus. I had no phone numbers memorized, and the only friends I could think of who might help me were the people in the Alcoholics Anonymous group that met at the church. Someone there would certainly lend me money. They might feed me something other than fast food. They might even drive me the half hour to Disney World.

  Stretching my limbs felt nice, and it gave me more time to think about my reading of the Imagineer in Disney’s Hollywood Studios and the unusual moving images in his mind. This man had seen Finn and the Keepers in Walt’s apartment. Walt’s, not Wayne’s. And it wasn’t just from any angle: it was like he’d been standing on a chair.

  I couldn’t see how that was possible—and yet, I’d seen it! I racked my brain for a possible explanation. And then I had it.

  A place as important as Walt Disney’s apartment would have security cameras. Security cameras were often mounted high up in a room.

  As tired as I was, my feet started to carry me faster. Soon, I was moving at an all-out sprint.

  This guy had seen a security video of the Keepers doing something in Walt’s apartment—something important enough that he carried it in the forefront of his mind. That made it important to me. To us!

  My knees practically hit my chin, I was running so hard. Finn and the Keepers had been spied on. Observed. They were now comatose in SBS.

  What if the two were connected?

  AMANDA

  “How? When?” I asked Wanda as she and Bess prepared breakfast in the small cabin.

  “An ambulance arrived to the Philby’s home. The driver claimed they’d been dispatched by 911. Mrs. Philby recognized Greg Luwoski. He took off.”

  “What about Mattie?” I pleaded.

  “No word, but Joe is on it. He threatened the people in Baltimore he’d call the police if he didn’t hear from Mattie immediately.”

  “The Philbys have given us Dell,” Bess said. “He’s in the back room with the others. We now have all the Keepers but Charlene. Snug as a bug in a rug.” She was pouring pancakes. I was starving.

  Jess reminded us that that Charlene’s TV star roommate had agreed to move Charlene. “I told her to keep her hydrated.”

  I asked Wanda and Bess why they looked so worried if everything was going better.

  Maybeck’s aunt flipped the pancake. “There’s something troubling us, it’s true. Last night I was on watch, maybe two or three in the morning. I’d dozed off. I come awake and the room’s all glowing-like. Flashing. My Terry and Willa are looking like a lightbulb that’s not screwed in right. Going on and off. Sputtering.” She hesitated, not wanting to say anything more, but Wanda nodded at her. “Finn did the same thing not long after. Going in and out—”

  Wanda helped Bess put it into words. “We think they were flashing in and out of DHI.”

  I tried to process what I was hearing. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  “My Terry was all there one minute, then he was…I don’t know exactly…humming. And I don’t mean his voice. His whole body was vibrating. Same with Willa and Finn.”

  “We should ask Joe, if we can trust him,” I said.

  Wanda had never looked so serious. “Of course we can trust him! Besides, keeping secrets is nothing new for the Imagineers.”

  Thoughts sparked in my head. It happens like that for me sometimes. Random ideas colliding, sticking. “You know what? We’re the problem. Jess and me. We have to leave.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Bess said. “You are not any kind of problem. Neither of you!”

  I explained what Mr. Angelo had told the men posing as government workers about a cabin. “If we hide here, they’re going to find this place eventually. Us, and the Keepers. What then?”

  “You know how many cabins there are around here?” Wanda asked. “Needle in a haystack. They’ll never find it.”

  “On Disney property?” I challenged. “Where would you start looking if you were them?”

  Wanda looked the same color as the pancake batter.

  “If Jess and I leave and if we make sure they know we’ve left—
Joe, Brad, Barracks 14—the pressure’s off. Luowski might still be out there; he might even try to follow one of you. But as long as you’re careful not to let that happen, the Keepers are safe.”

  “But you three are not.” Wanda was having nothing to do with my suggestion. “At that point you’re homeless, vulnerable, and prone to capture.”

  “On our own, yeah, that’s probably true.” I waited, drinking in the aroma of the food being prepared. I was tempted to eat off of Wanda’s chopping board. “But since when are we ever alone? We’ve got Mickey on our side.”

  LUOWSKI

  It all started when Mr. Philby dialed 911. I knew I had to get out. While everyone was busy in the house, I jumped into the empty ambulance and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved and I floored it out of the Philby’s neighborhood faster than I’d ever driven in my life.

  On the highway, traffic slowed my getaway considerably. Where should I go? I hadn’t really thought that far. Where could I go?

  I passed a minivan with two young kids in the backseat. The little girl’s eyes bugged out, and the boy looked frightened. I scowled at them, causing them to duck down beneath the window, out of sight. Focusing my attention back on the road, I grinned. People were afraid of Greg Luowski. Terrified.

  Forget being a high school bully, I was an unstoppable tank!

  I was feeling pretty darn good about myself when the sudden sound of a siren twisted my gut. I glanced in the rearview mirror. No police in sight. I shook my head. I must have imagined it—but there it was again!

  I re-checked. Nothing. Swallowing, I hunched lower over the steering wheel.

  A kid in the car ahead of me turned back. He had glowing green eyes and an evil grin. I blinked. No, the boy’s eyes were brown; he stared blankly at me.

  A second later, I nearly hit my head on the ceiling of the ambulance when I saw a billboard for the DVD of the new Maleficent movie. Every sound I could hear was an Overtaker laughing, a cop car’s siren.

  “Get out of my head!” I roared, jerking the steering wheel to the left.

  Cars honked and drivers shouted angrily.

  The church! That rat hole where the freaks had stayed. They weren’t there now, and it’d be a convenient place to hide.