Kingdom Keepers VII (42 page)

They’re first spotted by Jess, who’s hiding in the trees. Her reaction to an army of bones, some bound by rusty chains, some swinging the links at their sides like whips, is pure terror.

Where they may have come from no one knows. For Maybeck, they appear like something out of a zombie movie. There’s no clatter of bone on bone, no creaking or cracking, only the singing of chains and the distinctive rattle and scrape of bony feet on the pavers. The sound is repetitive, like drumming with chopsticks on the edge of a table.

The skeletons aren’t fast, but they aren’t slow, either. Something about their motion is hypnotic, their approach mesmerizing; it stuns and freezes their prey. Maybeck wills his feet to move—
Run!
—but they disobey. The chains continue to spin, to blur and purr and chew their way through the warm night air like airplane propellers. Here we go, he thinks.

But now the rats emerge as fast as a quickly spreading plague, out around Maybeck, up the spindly legs of the skeletons, ascending a pelvis, shinnying up a spinal column, and plunging their muzzles into eye sockets. Down go a few of the walking dead, colliding and tripping, crashing and splintering. When they fall, they come apart like toppled Lego sculptures.

At last free to think, Maybeck hoists the stone marker and holds it outstretched between his hands like a barbell. Its weight deflects the first spinning chain. The second wraps around the stone, which Maybeck releases, its weight pulling the approaching skeleton off to the side and allowing Maybeck to kick its legs out from under it. Again, the cacophonous percussion of two hundred bones scattering.

The rats, meanwhile, have put meat on the bones, covering the skeletons, bringing them down with their furry weight. As one falls, another is attacked. The marionette strings are cut, the dancing done. Maybeck dispatches three more before a remaining skeleton lifts one arm high, a signal to the few that remain standing to retreat and withdraw.

* * *

Charlene sees the approach of the skeletons and holds on tightly, transfixed by the aerial view of battle, believing in her heart of hearts that the skeletons are meant for her, that by her climbing, she has unleashed a darker spirit that intends to stop her.

Charged with new determination, she makes her way up the final few feet to the spire’s pointed tip. A golden cone of coiled metal beckons. On a lightning rod ball mounted to the spiral is engraved the all-seeing eye from the hieroglyph.

“Yes!” Charlene cries.

She’s impossibly high up, with no rope or net to catch her should she fall. Her fingertips hook a piece of tin fashioned like an Elizabethan collar below the golden spiral. There, inside the coil, standing like a sentry, is a small Mickey Mouse crafted of cast iron, rusted and pockmarked, welded to the metal beneath it. Its tiny mouse hand points decisively into the park, aiming at the carousel.

Charlene’s heartbeat quickens. She has climbed to a great height, but it’s not the altitude that excites her. She hugs the pointed peak of the spire and scans all of Disneyland, spread out below her like a glistening magical carpet: Sleeping Beauty Castle, the Matterhorn in all its magnificence, Main Street, the white spired roof of Space Mountain, the red rock of Big Thunder Mountain Railroad—all places she has been on an opposite coast, on another quest. In another life.

Swinging her head this way and that, over her shoulder and around the spire, Charlene absorbs as much of the view as possible. Whether it was put here by Wayne or Walt Disney himself, the miniature Mickey is no simple discovery. Combined with the piece of the Osiris hieroglyph discovered below, it has to mean something. It’s a clue. Quite literally: a pointer, directing the Keepers toward the southwest, a vast section of the park. Too vast.

The pavement below is littered with the bones of fallen skeleton soldiers, and a swarm of rodents is moving like a stretching amoeba back toward Maybeck’s solitary form. Charlene can’t budge or remove the Mickey, no matter how hard she tries; the other Keepers will have to believe her. Working herself around to a position behind the miniature, she sights down his pointing arm. It is not pointing toward the horizon, the way a conquering general’s arm might be. Instead, it is lowered a few degrees, pointing down toward a large boulder on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Charlene memorizes the location and begins to make her way down.

This can’t be a coincidence, she tells herself, charged with excitement. But as she descends, a nagging question eats away at her.
It was left there, sure. But for whom?

Charlene’s whole body trembles; she’s suddenly exhausted, and she holds on more tightly. The feeling grows inside her, as if the very earth is shaking. She fights off fear, knowing it will weaken her all the more. She is her own enemy, fighting a battle within to remain all clear. She wonders, as Finn has before her, if the betrayal the Keepers were warned of was internal, if the enemy within has nothing to do with a spy and everything to do with self-control, the ability to overcome and contain fear.

In a few seconds, her trembling ceases. The descent goes smoothly; she meets up with Maybeck and the others and, escorted by Remy, Django, and their fellow four-legged friends, the group makes for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad.

As they’re walking, Philby says, “I’m so glad you could hold on.”

“You’re a climber, too,” Charlene says. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“I meant during the tremor. The whole park shook. You didn’t feel it?”

“I felt it!” Charlene looks over at the spires of Small World, wondering if the purpose of that tremor had been to cause her to fall—to her death.

T
HE
D
ILLARD’S DATABASE
identifies the locations of three rescue boats on the Jungle Cruise. He leads Finn and the girls to the nearest one and they nearly make it before Shere Khan catches up.

“It’s no good!” Willa calls out. “Not going to make it.”

“Yes, we will!” Violet hollers. “I’ll catch you later!”

As the Dillard leads the group to the left, Violet shifts right and stands her ground.

Finn looks back in time to see her turn invisible just as the leaping tiger is about to land on her. Shere Khan flies into a patch of prickle bushes and lets out a roar of pain.

The Dillard is in the small skiff, sitting there like a schoolmarm. Finn unties the boat and pushes off as Amanda and Willa climb in.

As Shere Khan recovers, Violet tauns him. She takes off at a run, leading him in the opposite direction, and out of sight.

“The tree house?” Willa says. “Sure, we’re looking for connections to the throne icon in the Osiris hieroglyph. Sure, an Egyptian throne
may
have been made of wood, and a tree is also made of wood. I heard the Dillard’s percentage stuff, but this kingdom has so many princes and princesses, dozens of characters with thrones. Has the Dillard factored that in? This seems so…lame.”

The Dillard hears a question and answers. “The percentage chance that a connection exists between—”

“Pause!” Finn addresses his group. “The Dillard initially put Swiss Family Robinson second on his list. Now it’s called Tarzan’s Treehouse. It’s a big tree that could have ‘grown up around’ a box or container that holds the hidden piece of the Mickey illustration. Look, it has to be an older attraction, right? This tree was here early on. Maybe the people in that photograph were breaking ground for—”

“No way!” Willa says. “That photo was dated 1957. Right, Amanda?”

Amanda looks pained but nods.

Finn bites his tongue, fighting down feelings of stupidity, and says, “Resume.” He’s feeling bad about pausing the Dillard. “What are the current odds of Overtaker presence in the Tarzan attraction?”

“Oh, really!” says Willa.

“Should I factor in the previous encounter?”

“Yes,” Finn says. “And then compare the normal like-lihood to the current likelihood, please.”

“There is currently an eighty-eight-point-six percent chance of Disney villain presence in the Tarzan tree. During normal hours of operation, that is…zero-point-seven percent. The difference is more than one hundred times greater.”

Finn addresses Willa. “If the threat’s a hundred times greater than usual, there’s a matching chance of our finding something of value here.”

“Thrones, Finn. Thrones.”

“Tarzan was king of the jungle,” Finn says.

“Don’t give me that. This didn’t become the Tarzan attraction until long after Walt Disney was gone.”

“Willa, you can search where you want. I won’t stop you. Amanda, are you good, going with Willa?”

Again, Amanda looks pained to leave Finn, but again, she nods. “Sure.”

“We’ll split up. We’re still in pairs.”

“You’re not. You’re paired with a projection. The Dillard may be smart, but he can’t help you in a battle. You’re basically flying solo.” Willa looks worried.

“Finn,” Amanda pleads.

“You two check out the princesses. It’s worth a look. Don’t forget to use the glasses.”

“Where do we meet?” Amanda sounds desperate.

“Pirates,” Willa says. “Third on the Dillard’s list.”

“Is that a question?” asks the Dillard.

“I definitely need a break from this guy,” Willa says.

“Pirates, then.” Finn eyes the stairs at the base of the Tarzan tree, feeling the heart inside his partial hologram beat faster, as if trying to convince him that he’s human.

The girls are off, Amanda looking back at Finn no fewer than four times.

“Okay, Dillard, we’re looking for the hidden piece of Mickey. It’s inside something, and it could be as a small as a thimble or as large as a trunk. Help me find it, please. Also, listen and look for any sign of active Disney villains and warn me the moment you detect them. Do you understand?”

The Dillard repeats Finn’s instructions, putting them in formal language that sounds more appropriate to a military intelligence operation.

“If I come under attack, you will plot the most effective escape route and the best defense, and you’ll stay by my side, advising me. Got it?”

Again, the Dillard repeats the instructions.

“You’re good to have around, Dillard,” Finn says.

“Is that a question?”

“Never mind.”

As he starts up the stairs, Finn can’t get Miley Cyrus’s “The Climb” out of his head. The song’s a guilty pleasure, one he’d never confess to his friends. He’s put the Dillard behind him—Finn wants to lead, and this reminds him of Wayne in ways he’d rather forget.

His grief has turned to anger. Wayne deserted him when Finn needed him most. He wonders if this was the betrayal Wayne himself warned of, if there’s some irony he’s supposed to take away from his mentor’s death. It seems selfish of the old Imagineer to abandon the Keepers, his creations. Granted, his sacrifice had a purpose, yet Finn can’t find it in his heart to forgive him. Not yet. Despite being surrounded by his best friends, he feels so alone. It’s like the time the Overtakers brainwashed his mother, but somehow worse, because there’s no hope. The hole inside him is deep and dark. Wayne had no right to push him to its edge.

The Dillard announces, “There are seven possible hiding places on the tree trunk. Most are intended as knotholes or woodpecker holes, and are small two-inch wide indentations recessed two to four inches deep. The largest is seventeen inches wide and is located near the top of the tree.”

“Where did you find this out?”

“A posting on the Web site www-dot-w-d-w-radio-dot-com.”

“Do you have access to any information about renovations done on the tree in the four months prior to Walt Disney’s death?”

“Searching,” the Dillard says.

The boys continue to climb. Finn’s in no hurry, given the high likelihood of encountering OTs.

“There were limited modifications during the conversion to Tarzan’s Treehouse.”

They slowly work their way up the stairs.

“Would Walt Disney have been alive to see the tree?”

“Yes, it is one of the early attractions, along with the Tiki Room and this, the Jungle Cruise.”

“All right then,” Finn mutters. He spots a knot-hole in the tree and inspects it. Empty. “I don’t see how it could be in one of these without being found a long time ago.”

They pass Sabor, a painted lioness, poised to strike. Finn keeps an eye on the creature, whose menacing look cuts him deeply. He thinks back to a time when he wouldn’t have given the image a second thought, a time when he was considerably younger and the Disney parks were a source of pure amusement and joy. How things have changed. He’s not merely suspicious of inanimate objects like the Sabor, he anticipates trouble. He plans for it. Finn is realizing, perhaps too late, that he and the Dillard have entered what could be a perfect trap. There is only up and down, no alternate exists.

“Dillard, monitor the big cat.”

“Are you referring to the sculpture we passed?”

“The same,” Finn says.

“I request additional input.”

“You aren’t anything like Dillard.”

“Is that a question?”

Finn sighs. “Monitor the cat for movement. Eyes. Breathing. Anything.”

“It was crafted in 1999 of fiberglass. The sculptor was—”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Finn says, interrupting him.

“I am familiar with that expression.”

“Monitor…the…cat.”

“I detect hostility in your voice.”

“If anything moves anywhere around us, I want to know about it.”

“The bougainvillea three yards from the base of the tree—”

“Anything threatening. Anything that might…” It’s difficult to explain to a computer that vines can turn into snakes and sculptures into animals. Finn would have to reprogram the computer’s logic, teach it to anticipate the illogical. He and the other Keepers live in a world where the rules have been rewritten, a world so outside the accepted parameters of human experience that it sounds unreasonable to other people, even crazy. And for a computer like the Dillard, it simply does not compute.

Finn senses the possibility the tree offers; it was built at a time when Walt would have had access; it’s an iconic attraction; best of all, it fits well with the Osiris myth. He’s on the lookout for a hidden door, a seam he might pry open to reveal a box, a jar. A piece of paper torn from a masterpiece.

The encounter with Minnie left his head spinning—her claim that she tore up the original illustration on instructions from Mickey, her reference to Mickey’s pointing at his head. Each time the Keepers think they know something, they’re challenged to rethink it. Facts reinvent themselves; stories are rewritten. The uncertainty that goes with being a Keeper pushes him to want to give up, to surrender to the external forces, but he hasn’t given in yet, and he’s not sure why.

They reach a landing where some of Tarzan’s furnishings are on display. Finn studies each item carefully, knowing the best place to hide something is often in the open. How clever it would be to put the thirteenth piece inside a pepper shaker or coconut. But the transition between Swiss Family Robinson and Tarzan’s Treehouse was decades after Walt’s time in the parks. It is foolish of Finn to be wasting his time here.

Returning his attention to the tree—the all-important tree!—he sees the Dillard half-turned, transfixed.

“Dillard, what is it?”

“Technically, I do not have eyes in the back of my head. However, I am able to simultaneously monitor up to eight security cameras, or to put all the cameras into a rolling view.”

“I don’t need an owner’s manual,” Finn says.

“Humor,” the Dillard says. “I detect motion in camera A-37. Camera A-37’s view is below us, encompassing the lower stairs and the Sabor statue you instructed me to monitor. Eye motion was detected in the Sabor forty-six seconds ag—” He holds up a finger, interrupting himself. “Motion detected in front right paw. Motioned detected in front left paw.”

Finn looks into the tree’s green canopy. He pushes back the tendrils of terror wrapping around his legs, slowing him down, climbing and twisting higher through his hologram. He’s flooded with the poison; his DHI sputters and spits photons like a Fourth of July sparkler. He’s lost all clear when he can least afford to. It has happened more often since Wayne’s death, forcing him to face that his grieving is not over; his emotions are winning the battle within him.

“Dillard, is there a way to slow the cat? To stop it?”

“Processing. A body of water. A tranquilizing gun. A net. A pit trap.”

“Here. On this attraction!”

“Bow and arrow, twenty-six steps from your current location. A vine, six meters. A chest of drawers and vanity, two ladder-back chairs, and a table at the next landing.”

“Got it,” Finn says. “Keep up with me. When the cat charges, stand your ground. Hold it back if you can.” The Dillard, being only projected light, cannot be injured. The Sabor doesn’t know that.

“Understood.”

“Can you find me if we separate?”

“Affirmative.”

“Hold off the Sabor, and find me.” Finn is feeling winded. His blue glow has lessened to a fine line, suggesting he is more his human self than a hologram. The activity of the climb and the panic caused by the big cat rattles him. He needs a few seconds to steady himself, a few seconds when he’s not consumed by self-defensiveness and fear.

He checks behind him. The Dillard has stopped and turned, facing the Sabor as it slinks around the tree. The cat stops, tongue hanging wetly from its maw. Finn ascends, losing sight of the Dillard, whose presence has stopped the cat, buying Finn some needed time.

How much time, Finn has no way of knowing.