Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome Page 4

  Passing Indiana Jones Adventure, I shuddered at a piercing memory: “It all ends in lightning.” I’d dreamed that in there. Finn’s defeat of Chernabog had come via a bolt of lightning. Now I’d dreamed Amanda would be captured and returned to Baltimore. I shuddered. My feet moved faster.

  I heard a rustle in the bushes along with big, heavy breathing—and I then I glimpsed two eyes glowing in the dark. I took off like a shot.

  I reminded myself there weren’t wild animals in Disneyland. The Jungle Cruise creatures were plastic. So if there was a large animal after me, it could only mean that I was its intended prey.

  The entrance to Pirates loomed ahead of me, just beyond Adventureland. Above it was the main entrance to the Dream Suite, where I expected to find the toy train set. At the same time, I realized that, like Walt’s apartment above the firehouse, it would be kept locked to keep curious guests out during the day. There was a chance it might be unlocked, but if it wasn’t, I would be mincemeat.

  I dared to steal a glance behind me and caught a flash of orange and black stripes, and a curled grin on a gaping maw. Another glance confirmed my suspicions: Shere Khan. The Bengal tiger from The Jungle Book; the ruler of the jungle. I’d only seen the movie once, but it had been terrifying enough to stick with me. My pursuer was coming fast, was already dishearteningly close.

  As I passed Tarzan’s Treehouse, I shot my arm out at the last second, grabbed the railing, and pulled myself around the tree. Shere Khan flew by me, and I doubled back and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Below me, the tiger’s claws skidded against the pavement, trying to find purchase to turn around. I had bought myself what could be a lifesaving lead, but would it be enough?

  Running across the rope bridge, no longer concerned with the noise I was making, I climbed the stairs past the first scene. I remembered Finn’s story of fighting a jaguar up here, and made a mental note not to dawdle. Not that I was taking a leisurely stroll.

  Below me, Shere Khan turned, now coming toward me faster than ever.

  I had come into the park to try to identify where and how the Barracks 14ers intended to go after Mandy. Shere Khan was clearly acting like an Overtaker—the group of Disney villains we were certain were no longer operating in the parks. Was Shere Khan a loner who hadn’t gotten the message the OTs were over, or was something else going on that none of us knew about? If the OTs were back—I shuddered at the thought!—I tried to identify what I’d done to incite their wrath. I’d sneaked around the park; I’d peered in some windows. Big deal! Confused, out of breath, and working to recall how I might have triggered the attack, I cleared my thoughts and confronted the situation before me.

  The tree house was set up in two parts. In the first half, guests climbed through scenes in the treetops; in the second, they explored the ground in the research camp. The tree house afforded good views of the camp, and through the foliage, I could barely see a building beyond. A path led behind the Dream Suite stairs to an elevator. Handicapped access, I realized.

  The second level, a bit lower than the one I was at now, featured a wraparound porch with a rustic but sturdy looking wood railing.

  Behind me, the rope bridge shook. Shere Khan was only seconds behind.

  Though not the sportiest person, I considered myself athletic enough. My time with the Keepers had kept me in shape, and taught me running and climbing skills. I’d been working with martial arts YouTube videos, though they weren’t going to help me against a man-eating cat. What could a human like me do that a cat couldn’t—other than brush my teeth and comb my hair?

  I looked out over the tree house. Vines hung from the branches, and below me a canvas tent covered a pile of camping gear. I wasn’t one for stunts, but as I heard Shere Khan’s claws ripping into the wood deck, I decided taking a risk was the better option. Grabbing a branch, I pulled myself up to balance on the guardrail. I reached out and found a nice thick vine, one sturdy enough to support me—provided the other end was actually attached to something.

  I couldn’t be sure.

  Shere Khan rounded the corner onto my level, and jumped.

  I closed my eyes and jumped too, clenching my teeth to keep from screaming. My stomach took a trip on the Tower of Terror. I turned, my face stinging as the wind whipped my hair against it. Nine feet from the ground, I reached the end of the vine. My momentum almost wrenched it from my hands, but I held on for dear life. I bounced twice on the end of the vine—it was made of some stretchy material—and caught my breath briefly.

  Then the vine snapped, unable to support my weight from the fall, and I hit the canvas, hard. I’d be bruised in the morning, but it was nothing too serious.

  On the platform above me, Shere Khan roared in frustration. He’d be forced to go through the rest of the tree house to catch up, hopefully giving me enough time. I gathered the vine in my arms and jumped to the ground from the canvas tent. I raced through the undergrowth, across a small stream that left my feet swimming in my tennis shoes. Then I threw the vine up, looping it over the railing. I pulled the ends even and tied it off like Charlene had taught me.

  Shere Khan had reached the ground impossibly fast, and he was racing across the camp toward me, knocking over the heavy crates like they were made of nothing but Styrofoam. I pulled myself up the vine hand over hand, heart in my throat, painfully aware of how close I was to becoming kitty chow. Shere Khan leaped, paw swiping the air inches below my left tennis shoe. I celebrated my small success as I pulled myself up and onto the porch.

  Below me, the tiger batted at the vine like a cat toying with a length of yarn, giving me one last snarl before sauntering away.

  Struggling to catch my breath, I followed the porch to the back of the building, entering through a back door. If I could see more of my dream by being here, I felt convinced I could actually change the future by keeping Amanda away from whatever place the Barracks 14ers planned to capture her.

  Inside, the suite was as gorgeous as the Web site had described. Even with the lights out, I could see a small patio through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows on my left, and a bedroom through the windows on the right. The Web site had called it the Adventureland bedroom, with a jungle-themed canopy bed and a Peter Pan landscape.

  The hallway led to the living room. A French-style couch and matching chairs took up most of the room. A carousel horse stood between the two windows, one of many distinctive Disney touches sprinkled throughout the room. Two paintings of castles hung opposite the fireplace, which was also adorned with a castle silhouette. A display case held a glass slipper and vintage clock. I wished I had time to absorb it all, but I was interested in only one thing: a train on a shelf.

  I walked to the front of the room and peered out the window. Shere Khan paced the area below. For whatever reason, he didn’t try to enter the Dream Suite. He simply patrolled the exits, serving effectively as a jail guard.

  Sighing, I let the curtain fall and moved on to the next room, the kids’ room. This one featured not one but two full-size beds, both matching the one in my dream.

  And there it was: a toy train up high on a shelf that ran completely around the bedroom.

  I sagged down onto the bed. At last I’d found it, this small image from my sketch of my dream. I pondered its significance. Maybe Amanda was to be snatched up in this room. Maybe it represented the Disneyland Railroad that ran around the park. If I could calm myself and slip into a partial daydream, I thought I might see more of the elusive scene and save my sister.

  I thought back to Shere Khan pacing outside. The park would be reopen at eight or nine A.M., possibly earlier for Magic Hours. The big cat would have to return to the tree house by then. These beds, this gorgeous suite, seemed as good a place as any to spend the night. I carefully removed my shoes and climbed onto one, not daring to slip under the covers. The less I disturbed the room, the better. I set my phone’s alarm for six A.M. and curled up on the foot of the bed.

  As I lay there, eyes closed, I cons
idered the consequences if it turned out that the OTs had never left, only hidden themselves. We all thought it was over, the Overtakers defeated. The Keepers had watched Chernabog burn to a crisp, the result of lightning. But Shere Khan hadn’t decided to attack me on a whim.

  With that reassuring thought, I drifted off into a fitful sleep.

  A dimly lit room. Board games. A yellow squash with a horn.

  I swirled in and out of a nightmarish voyage. Train set. Clocks. Horses. I saw rich brown wood and a fireplace. My eyes fluttered opened and shut, leaving me no real idea what was this room and what was dream.

  I jolted awake, disoriented, no idea where I was. Next to me, my phone blared the first few bars of Taylor Swift’s “Long Live.” My alarm, I realized. Confused, I fumbled with it, dropping it twice before finally shutting it off.

  Blinking, I sat up on the bed, took in the red walls, the memorabilia scattered on the shelf around the top of the room: old books, decorative plates, a train, a Disneyland map over the dresser. The events of the previous night came flooding back. My first dream; visiting Walt’s apartment; Shere Khan; my escape to the Dream Suite; and my latest dream.

  My dream. I needed to draw it. Now, before I lost the memory. I jumped up and poured the contents of my pockets onto the floor, finding a pen with a little ink left and an old Chick-fil-A receipt. I sat down at the desk; trying to recall the different images, to separate them from what I saw around me.

  I drew the horn player. Some vegetables. Kids’ blocks spelling out CAT. Green mouse ears—of course! A board game, possibly of Main Street USA. I disregarded the clocks and the fireplace because they were right there in front of me in the room.

  Just to be safe, I took a picture of the sketch using my phone. I headed toward the back door, thankful the rear entrance to the Dream Suite was placed so far back in the trees. By the time I made it out, the park was crawling with Cast Members. Shere Khan was gone.

  I crouched and waited for a break in the constant flow of Cast Members before climbing over the rail, hanging from the ledge by my fingertips, and dropping to the ground. Though it stung, I managed to stick the landing, absorbing most of the impact with the balls of my feet.

  I kept to the shadows on my way toward the exit, aware that anyone not in a Cast Member uniform would stick out. Plus my black hoodie, messy ponytail, and leggings didn’t exactly conform to the Disney look. Luckily, I made it to the Main Street door without incident. At this early hour, the Cast Members were both too groggy and too busy to notice a lone black shadow on the other side of the street.

  As I neared the end of Main, I couldn’t resist the temptation to try Walt’s apartment one more time. I had come all this way, and having enough time off to come to the parks on my own was rare. Above all, I had come for answers and only found another puzzling dream. I still held out hope that the apartment could be the clue I was searching for to help me stave off Mandy’s abduction.

  I approached the entrance to the apartment from backstage, well aware that it might have been my visit here that had prompted Shere Khan’s attack. The path was narrow and mostly empty, and I was painfully aware of how much I stood out. Shots sounded from the Jungle Cruise; Cast Members were doing an early morning training run.

  As I drew closer, I saw I was not the only visitor to the apartment that morning. A man kneeled in front of the apartment door with a toolbox, working on the doorknob. He wasn’t dressed in the standard maintenance uniform, and I recognized the familiar Sorcerer Mickey emblem on his magenta hardhat.

  An Imagineer.

  He picked up a piece of shiny brass hardware before sensing me and turning toward me. Our eyes met briefly. My breath caught in my throat. I smiled and waved. He nodded.

  I moved along, not wanting to draw any more attention than I already had.

  The man had been changing the lock on Walt Disney’s apartment. And not just any maintenance man, but an Imagineer. Given that my original Mandy dream connected to the lamp in the apartment, that changing of the lock needed explaining.

  I added it to my long list of things that needed explaining, my head thumping. I’d filled in another sketch, drawn closer to the truth of Amanda’s confrontation with the Barracks 14ers. But currently, not close enough to save her.

  AMANDA

  Mrs. Whitman showed no enthusiasm for my second visit.

  “I have nothing more to add, Amanda.”

  “This is a friend of mine and Finn’s,” I said, and introduced Mattie by name. Mrs. Whitman didn’t know Mattie, so she didn’t know how odd it was that Mattie wasn’t wearing gloves. Nodding, Mrs. Whitman said it was nice to meet her—at which point my plan dissolved. Mattie had taken too long to offer her hand to shake. Shaking hands would have meant making contact, which would have given Mattie the chance to read Mrs. Whitman.

  I stood my ground, having no idea what to do next.

  “Guests?”

  A man’s voice. Mr. Whitman pulled the door open farther, much to his wife’s dismay.

  “You’re back from your trip!” I said.

  He looked puzzled.

  “Your trip to drop Finn off at Vanderbilt,” Mrs. Whitman said. They had not rehearsed. Both were bad at improvising.

  “I…yes!”

  “So Finn’s here?”

  “No, Finn’s not here,” Mrs. Whitman said quickly. “He—”

  “I left him,” Mr. Whitman added.

  “At Vanderbilt,” I proposed, trying to help them. At this point I’d determined that nothing they were going to say would be the truth. I’d been around adult liars most of my life. These two were nowhere close to good.

  “Amanda, come in, for heaven’s sake,” Mr. Whitman said. His wife’s disapproving look caused him to shrink back slightly.

  Mrs. Whitman seemed to punch him.

  I reintroduced Mattie. This time she took her cue, sticking her hand out so fast it looked wrong. She and Mr. Whitman shook hands. Mattie’s reads took fractionally longer than a casual brush or shaking of hands, so there was a second or two during which the other person felt socially uncomfortable. Knowing this, I made a point of trying to get past Mattie and through the door, pushing her slightly forward and buying her a few extra seconds.

  MATTIE

  As we entered the Whitman house, the tension wafted off Mrs. Whitman in waves. I had missed my first and easiest opportunity to read her—a handshake—and Amanda was working a little too hard to create another opportunity.

  Mrs. Whitman directed a curt nod my way; her gaze was withering. I didn’t know the lady, but I didn’t need to know her to sense her unease. Her hair was frazzled. A dark blue-gray shadow draped below her eyes, hinting at too little sleep. I didn’t gather my courage until it was too late to offer my hand.

  Still, Amanda remained unfazed. I had to give her props for that. Of course, she had more experience around the Whitman family being that she and Finn were an item.

  I could understand why Mrs. Whitman’s earlier dismissal had hurt her. When I’d told Amanda about Luowski’s plan, I wasn’t expecting us to go the parental route. Frankly, I was expecting some sort of attack on Luowski. But Amanda seemed to think we now had the perfect excuse to pry into Finn’s life. More than anything, I think Amanda just wanted to see Finn again. But I couldn’t say that out loud—I didn’t need to make life more difficult by upsetting her.

  AMANDA

  Mrs. Whitman looked feverish by the time her husband showed us to the living room couch.

  The living room was painted rose white. A large gilded mirror didn’t belong, though the upright piano and wooden furniture made the room inviting and comfortable. A grouping of studio family photos surrounded a hand-painted sign that read HOME SWEET HOME. The photos were posed and dorky. Poor Finn, to endure that every day, and yet I felt jealous. I realized I’d judged too quickly—I’d have traded nearly anything to have a wall like that with me in the photos.

  Mattie gave me a slight shake of the head: she wasn’t satisfied with
her read of Mr. Whitman. At the same time, I could tell that it hadn’t been a total bust.

  “How ’bout some popcorn?” Mr. Whitman asked. “I think we’re all out of cookies.”

  I elbowed Mattie as Mrs. Whitman stood.

  “Please, let me help,” Mattie said.

  “That’s all right,” Mrs. Whitman said. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

  “No, really, I’d love to.”

  Mrs. Whitman was too polite to outright refuse. She grimaced and led the way.

  MATTIE

  All in all, I knew, Amanda was right. I was the only one who could help find Finn, and we had to help him before someone else could harm him. I had faith that his parents wouldn’t mind us prying if they knew Finn was on some mind-controlled teen’s hit list.

  The Whitman’s living room was quaint; it reminded me of my grandmother’s from so many years ago. But then again, any living room with a couch and a piano would probably invoke the same feelings. Photos of the Whitmans in rigid poses and similarly hued outfits plastered the wall. Finn’s parents avoided looking at them.

  Mr. Whitman cleared his throat and suggested popcorn. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but anything was better than the silence we endured. Mrs. Whitman frowned at her husband, but rose anyway. Amanda thrust an elbow into my rib cage. I stifled a gasp and glared, but took the not-so-subtle hint.

  “Please, let me help,” I wheezed.

  “That’s all right,” Mrs. Whitman said. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

  “No, really, I’d love to.”

  Mrs. Whitman flashed me a smile, but it was stretched so tightly I thought her head might pop off. I had a feeling that, on any other day, the offer would have earned major brownie points with Finn’s mom, but this woman was on a mission to keep Amanda in the dark.

  AMANDA