Peter and the Shadow Thieves

by Ridley Pearson Dave Barry

  All of them, that is, except Jenna.

  CHAPTER 54

  A FINE NAME INDEED

  NIGHT WAS FALLING, and Peter was trotting, almost running, to keep up with Hawkins. The long-legged postman was clearly eager to be done with his rounds: he darted from house to house, dropping letters into the front-door mail slots, preoccupied with his task, which was fortunate for Peter, who was trying to remain unnoticed, blending into the homebound pedestrian throng while keeping close enough to see whether any of the envelopes was marked with an X.

  He worried that he might have missed it already, which would mean that he was now following the postman away from Molly’s house. But he had no choice other than to keep trotting along, hoping he was going in the right direction, and trying to ignore the now-constant complaints of a very unhappy Tinker Bell, still imprisoned inside his filthy shirt.

  It’s almost dark, she was saying. Nobody will see me now.

  “Not yet,” Peter puffed. “There are too many people around.”

  The postman was now striding along Bayswater Road, to the north of Kensington Palace Gardens. With each passing block, the houses were becoming larger and better-kept. And the mail sack was getting emptier. And the evening was growing darker.

  Hawkins strode up the walk to a white corner house and pulled a letter from his sack. Peter, hovering on the sidewalk, strained to see the envelope: no X. The postman dropped the letter through a slot and came back down the walk. Peter looked away as the postman went past, then turned to follow him.

  He was stopped by a grip on his arm, then an unwelcome voice: “Where are you going?”

  Peter turned and saw Trotter, the boy who had lured him into capture by the man who wanted to make him a beggar. Peter jerked his arm free, only to feel a much more powerful, and painful, grip on his shoulder.

  “I told you I’d find you,” said a low voice. Peter looked up and saw the big man who’d imprisoned him, his face contorted by a triumphant sneer.

  Peter looked up Bayswater Road: the red uniform of the postman was disappearing into the gloom.

  “Let me go,” Peter said, struggling. The man only tightened his grip. “LET ME GO! PLEASE, HELP!” Peter shouted, hoping to draw the attention of passersby. But with the onset of darkness, the sidewalk crowd had thinned; the few remaining pedestrians scurried past, averting their eyes from the shouting boy and the large, menacing man.

  “You’ll not get away this time, boy,” the man said.

  “Here, now! What’s this!” A stranger’s voice from behind Peter.

  A man, apparently the occupant of the white corner house, was coming down the walkway. He was short and slight, with a large, protruding forehead, piercing eyes, and a bushy moustache. He wore an overcoat that was far too large, making him look even smaller.

  “What’s the matter here?” he said.

  “It’s none of your business what the matter is,” growled the big man, tightening his grip on Peter.

  The small man looked at Peter. “Is that true?” he said.

  Peter started to open his mouth, but was silenced by a violent yank from the massive hand on his shoulder.

  “I said it’s none of your business,” said the big man, stepping threateningly forward.

  The small man seemed unfazed. “Isn’t it?” he said. “Here, Porthos!”

  In a moment, the reason for the small man’s confidence appeared in the form of an enormous dog bounding down the walk. It was a Saint Bernard, but to Peter it looked more like a bear. It raced toward Peter and the big man, barking ferociously. The big man drew Peter in front of him as a shield. Trotter ducked behind them both.

  “Porthos, halt!” said the small man. The huge dog skidded to a stop, growling in a deep, threatening rumble, teeth bared, its eyes trained on the big man.

  “Now,” said the small man mildly, speaking to Peter. “Is this man bothering you?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Let the boy go,” said the small man.

  The big man tightened his grip on Peter’s shoulder.

  “I said let him go,” said the small man. He took a step forward, and the dog moved forward with him, its growl becoming more menacing.

  Peter felt the big man bracing, as if he were about to attack. But apparently he thought better of it, for suddenly he removed his hand from Peter’s shoulder.

  “Now, get out of here,” said the small man, “and don’t come back.”

  The big man backed away, glaring. “You wouldn’t be so brave if you didn’t have that dog,” he said.

  “Ah,” said the small man, smiling, “but I do have the dog, don’t I?”

  The large man spat on the ground, then turned and, with Trotter behind him, skulked off into the night.

  The small man chuckled, then turned to Peter. “Are you all right?” he said.

  “Yes, sir, thank you,” said Peter. “And thank you for rescuing me.”

  “Happy to do it,” said the small man, petting the now-docile Porthos. “You look cold and hungry. Would you like to come inside for a hot meal by a warm fire?”

  Yes! said Tinker Bell, from under Peter’s shirt.

  “What was that sound?” said the small man.

  “Nothing!” said Peter, clapping his hand over his shirt.

  “Are you sure?” said the small man. “I could swear I heard bells.”

  “No!” said Peter. “That is, I mean…I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Odd,” said the small man, looking at Peter’s shirt. “Anyway, would you like to come inside?”

  “No, thank you,” said Peter, tightening his grip on Tink. “I need to go. I need to find…Oh, no!” Peter looked up Bayswater Road; it was almost deserted now. There was no sign of Hawkins the postman.

  “Oh, no,” repeated Peter, bringing his hand to his forehead.

  “What is it?” said the small man.

  “I’m trying to find somebody,” said Peter, his voice breaking. “The postman was going to her house, and now I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “Who are you trying to find?” said the small man.

  “Molly Aster,” said Peter, looking up Bayswater Road.

  “Aster?” said the small man. “Is she related to Lord Aster?”

  Peter’s head snapped around. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Of course,” said the small man. “Everyone does in this neighborhood.”

  Peter’s heart leaped. “Is it near here, then?”

  “It is,” said the small man. “Quite near. It’s on Kensington Palace Gardens, not a mile from here.”

  “Up this street?” said Peter, pointing up Bayswater Road.

  “That’s one way,” said the man, “but if you’re in a hurry—”

  “I am!” said Peter.

  “Then there’s a shortcut through Kensington Gardens.” He pointed across Bayswater Road. “There’s a path that begins just there. You follow it, and it will cross two others. You want the second path to the right, then straight on ’til you see a row of fine mansions. The one you want is the largest, grandest, white one, with two towers, one at each end.”

  “A white house with two towers,” repeated Peter. He turned to go, then turned back.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” said the small man, still petting the huge dog. “Good luck to you.” Then, looking directly at Peter’s shirt, he added, “To both of you.”

  Peter put his hand on his shirt, at a loss for words. The small man smiled.

  “By the way,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Peter,” said Peter.

  “Ah, yes, Peter,” said the small man. “A fine name. I’m called James…James Barrie. But to my friends, it’s Jamie.”

  Peter, not knowing what to make of this, said nothing.

  The man extended his hand, and Peter shook it. “We’re friends now, you and I.”

  “Thank you, again,” Peter said.

  “My pleasure.”

 
Porthos whined. The man scratched the dog’s head and said, “And let’s not forget Porthos! Credit where credit is due.” He smiled. It was a wide smile, surprisingly big for such a small face. “Well then, Peter,” said the little man. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” said Peter as he turned and ran across the road.

  “Don’t forget,” called Jamie, “second path to the right!” Then he turned and, with Porthos padding behind, went back to his house, muttering to himself.

  “Peter,” the man said. “A fine name indeed.”

  CHAPTER 55

  “TAKE ALL HIS AIR”

  HOOK SAT INSIDE the fort walls, brooding by the fire. He watched the two boys in the bamboo cage, their lips cracked and puckered, their sad, fearful eyes trained on the cage floor. Next to them, untouched so far, sat their daily meal of starfish mush and coconut juice.

  Hook was not pleased. His initial excitement over the capture of the boys had subsided into grumpiness when several days had gone by without an attempt to rescue them. It was not the caged boys Hook wanted. It was the cursed flying boy who had taken his left hand. It was Peter he dreamed of seeing strapped to a pole with a fire lit beneath him.

  Hook brooded some more, his baleful gaze on the two captives. And then, as it so often did, a plan came to him.

  “Smee!” he bellowed, causing the two boys to jump.

  The fat little man trundled over. “Yes, Cap’n?”

  “You ever been whaling, Smee?”

  “No, Cap’n.”

  “Timing is everything.”

  “Yes, Cap’n.”

  “Timing’s the difference between a hold full of blubber, or a whole lot of nothing.”

  “Are you a little close to the fire, perhaps, Cap’n?”

  “The whale comes up for air, you see. You have to anticipate that moment. You need to have the harpoons all set and ready.”

  “Yes, Cap’n. But—”

  Hook glared. He did not like to be interrupted in mid-plan. “What is it, Smee?”

  “We have no harpoons.”

  Hook clapped his hand to his forehead.

  Smee, misinterpreting this act, went on: “We have some pistols, but they mostly don’t shoot. We have the swords, of course, but I ain’t heard of nobody killing a whale with a sword.”

  Now Hook had his hand and his hook on his forehead.

  “Maybe,” said Smee, “you could poke the whale in the eye with a sword. Of course he’d still have the other eye, but I b’lieve, in a whale, the other eye is way over on the other side of the head, so your one-eyed whale would swim in a circle, and you could—”

  “SMEE!”

  “What, Cap’n?”

  “You are an idjit, Smee.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “If you were to engage in a battle of wits with a sponge, Smee, my money would be on the sponge.”

  “Aye, Cap’n, but all I’m saying is that if we’re going to catch a whale, we—”

  “I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT CATCHING A WHALE, YOU IDJIT!”

  Smee frowned, not wanting to contradict the captain, but quite certain that only a minute ago he had distinctly heard the captain talking about catching a whale.

  “The point,” said Hook, “is that the whale don’t surface ’til it runs out of air.”

  Smee nodded tentatively.

  “We haven’t taken all his air,” Hook said. “That’s our problem. We haven’t got ourselves enough bait, y’see?”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, though he did not see at all.

  “Round up the men,” Hook ordered. “If two boys won’t do the trick, let’s take all his air. Let’s see what the boy does when all four of his mates go missing.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” said Smee, waddling off, wondering how a conversation that had been entirely about whales wound up involving the boy.

  CHAPTER 56

  A VERY STRANGE BUSINESS

  JUST AFTER SUNSET, when the sky was neither day nor night, five men boarded a black cab and rode the cobblestone streets from St. Katherine’s dock to Kensington Palace Gardens. There was no talk in the cab, only a deep chill in the close air and an oppressive silence, as if the black-robed figure sucked the life from everyone and everything around him.

  Finally, after a trip that had seemed interminable to Nerezza, Slank, Gerch, and Hampton, the cab slowed to a stop. Nerezza parted the window curtains and looked out. They were about twenty yards down the street from the Aster house, on the opposite side. Jarvis was standing out front. A tall postman walked past him and up the walk, deposited some letters, came back down the walk, and disappeared down the street.

  “Jarvis is out front,” Nerezza reported.

  “Is he…” said Gerch, “…is he one of the ones who…who were…” He stopped, glancing at the still, silent form of Ombra.

  “Yes,” said Nerezza. “He’s one of the two. The other one is Cadigan: he’s at the back entrance tonight. When we give the word, Cadigan will call the third one, Hodge, outside, with the dog, so Lord Ombra can…can meet him. Then we’ll have all three.”

  “And the staff?” said Gerch.

  “The girl has taken care of them,” said Nerezza. “Are you ready, Lord Ombra?”

  The dark form, which had been utterly motionless since they had left the dock, stirred, and instantly the other four occupants of the cab felt colder, much colder. The hooded head turned toward the window, but did not touch the closed shade.

  “Too soon,” said the groaning voice. “Have the driver go around and return here.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” Nerezza said, leaning out and passing the order along to the cab driver.

  The black cab rumbled forward into the gloom. It passed the tall postman, who, uncharacteristically, broke his stride as he felt a sudden, sharp chill shudder through his body.

  For ten minutes, the occupants of the cab rode without speaking. Finally, the strain of the silence became unbearable to Gerch, who said, “There was the strangest report today, from the courthouse in Lambeth.”

  “I heard about that,” said Hampton, nodding. “The flying prisoners.”

  Slank’s head whipped around to face Hampton. “What did you say?” he said.

  “I know it sounds absurd,” said Hampton. “You know how the newspapers are always exaggerating everything. It’s probably—”

  “What did you say about flying prisoners?” said Slank, his face an inch from Hampton’s.

  “I…it was in the newspapers,” sputtered Hampton. “Outside the courthouse, some prisoners flew into the air, then came back down again.”

  “A very strange business,” added Hampton. “Hundreds of people claimed to have seen it. Hundreds!”

  “They all came back down?” said Slank. “They were all captured?”

  “I believe one of them flew away.”

  “A boy?” said Slank, leaning now into Hampton. “Was it a boy who flew away?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hampton. “Why?”

  “He’s here,” said Slank. “He’s in London.”

  “Who’s here?” said Hampton.

  “You don’t know that,” said Nerezza.

  “He’s here, I tell you,” shouted Slank, his face contorted in fury. “He’s—”

  “Silence!”

  Ombra’s voice instantly quieted Slank.

  “We have work to do,” said Ombra.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Ombra,” said Slank, hanging his head. “It’s just that—”

  “I know,” the voice groaned. “You want the boy.”

  Slank nodded.

  “If the boy is here,” said Ombra, lifting his hooded head slightly—as if looking through the ceiling of the cab into the night sky, “and I believe you may be right about that, then you shall have him soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 57

  AT LAST

  AS PETER RAN DOWN the path into Kensington Gardens, Tink flew alongside his right ear, silent for a change, happy to be released from the aromatic confines of Peter�
�s shirt.

  Peter repeated the small man’s directions to himself.

  Second path to the right.

  He crossed one path, then—emboldened by the darkness enveloping him—jumped and swooped upward, flying now, squinting ahead to see….

  And there it was: the second path.

  Peter and Tink veered right, rising even higher. To their right, Peter saw a large oval pond and, looming in the distance, the massive form of Kensington Palace. Flying faster now, they crossed a broad expanse of lawn to the south of the palace. Just ahead loomed the mansions lining Kensington Palace Gardens, their windows glowing yellow in the deepening night fog.

  As he drew near the end of the path, Peter slowed and settled quietly to the ground next to the wide, gently sloping street. To Tink’s dismay, Peter snatched her and once again tucked her under his shirt. He hesitated, taking in his surroundings, then decided to keep to the opposite side, away from the streetlights. He trotted past one huge home after another, looking for…

  A white house with two towers.

  There! He saw it. Just ahead and across the street: a grand white mansion with a square tower at each end.

  Molly’s house. At last!

  “Tink,” he whispered excitedly. “We found it!”

  Oh, hooray, came the bells, muffled and distinctly unenthusiastic.

  Peter started forward, then hesitated. Should he just knock on the front door in his bedraggled, filthy condition? If he did, wouldn’t a servant just turn him away? Perhaps it would be better to fly and try to find Molly’s window and tap on it. Peter studied the house: it had a great many windows. Too many. He would try the front door first. If that didn’t work, he’d think of something else.

  He took another few steps, then stopped again as he saw the distinctive form of a man standing in shadow near the streetlight in front of the house. The man was no pedestrian: he stood rock-still, facing the street.

  A guard, Peter thought.

  Peter watched the man for a moment, trying to think of a plan. He decided that he would simply walk past him. If the man stopped him, Peter would say he had an important message for Molly Aster. If the man refused to let him pass, Peter would leave, then fly back into the darkness and try to find Molly’s window.