The Bridge to Never Land (17 page)

CHAPTER 23

D
USK CAUGHT THEM IN CENTRAL GEORGIA
, headed for Kissimmee, Florida, where, according to directory assistance, there was one listing for the name “Carmoody,” first initial F. They’d stopped at a public library in an Atlanta suburb and used the Internet to look up the address. They decided, after some discussion, not to call ahead, but to simply show up and hope for the best.

They’d been using back roads, avoiding the interstate, assuming that since the police knew about Mac, they also knew about the Volvo. As darkness fell they stopped at a gas station to buy gas, Cheez-Its, Ding Dongs, and Red Bull. Back on the road, Aidan and Sarah resumed a debate they’d been having, on and off, since they left Mac’s cabin.

“I think it’s crazy,” said Aidan, not for the first time.

“Fine, then you don’t have to do it,” said Sarah, also not for the first time.

“I’m not afraid, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“I’m not saying that.”

“But we could get killed,” said Aidan. “Or stuck there. Right, J.D.?”

“That’s what Mac said,” said J.D.

“Fine,” said Sarah. “So neither of you has to go. I’ll go alone.”

“But why?” said Aidan. “There has to be some other—”

“Listen,” snapped Sarah. She turned to face Aidan in the backseat. “I’ll make this as simple as I can.” She lifted the backpack. “He wants this. It’s my fault he found out about it. He won’t stop until he gets it. If he gets it, he could do very bad things. So I’m going to put it in the one place where he can’t get it. Understand?”

The car was silent for a few moments, then Aidan said, “I still think it’s crazy.”

“If you guys keep arguing about this,” said J.D., “you can walk to Florida.”

“All right,” said Sarah. “But just tell me—do you think I’m crazy?”

“I think we need more information. We don’t know if the bridge still exists, or if it does, what condition it’s in. We have no idea how it works. We don’t even know who this F. Carmoody is in Kissimmee.”

“Mac said Pete’s wife was named Fay,” said Sarah. “It has to be her.”

“Not necessarily,” said J.D. “It could be a daughter or son who doesn’t know anything about any of this. Or some random person who happens to be named Carmoody.”

Sarah stared out the window and watched a mile marker, lit by the headlights, flash past.

“Whoever it is,” she said, “I hope they can help us.”

Despite the alertness and prompt action of TV-watching toll attendant Sam Cleavy, it had taken nearly three hours for his report to work its way through various turnpike and law-enforcement bureaucracies to the FBI, which was now handling the investigation because it involved interstate flight—not to mention a flying police van.

The owner of the green Volvo was quickly identified as a retired Princeton professor, who was brought in for questioning, but was not cooperating. The FBI had also put the license plate of the green Volvo onto a watch list; computers were screening tens of thousands of digitized license plates captured over a seven-state area by cameras like the one at the toll booth, looking for the Volvo plate.

They got one hit fairly quickly; the Volvo had been caught on camera heading southbound on I-81 in Maryland. But the photo was hours old; by the time it was discovered, the car was presumably long gone from the area.

The next day brought two more hits: one in South Carolina, then another in Georgia, both times on less-traveled roads. Again, the timing was delayed too much to pinpoint the Volvo’s current location. But it was clearly still headed south.

The fourth hit was taken just outside Daytona Beach, Florida. Then came a lucky break; an alert cashier at a Chipper Whipper gas station near Orlando recognized both J.D. and Sarah, and called the police quickly. The FBI notified its Orlando office and the local police; as a courtesy, the FBI also informed the police in Princeton. The trail was hot again. The investigation was closing in. Apprehension was imminent.

The sergeant, wearing dark sunglasses, stood in the back of the crowded briefing room of the Princeton police station house. He had not left the station—for that matter, had not slept—since the investigation began into the abduction of the two children. Some of the other officers, noticing his odd behavior, as well as the glasses, had asked him if he was okay; he had brushed them off with a grunt. But he was not known as a talkative man anyway; nobody paid much attention to him amid all the excitement.

The sergeant listened intently to the briefing. The green Volvo had been tracked to central Florida; the FBI was hot on the trail. An arrest was expected soon. At the end of the briefing he went outside and wandered, apparently aimlessly. It didn’t occur to him to look down, but if he had he would have seen he didn’t cast a shadow.

He turned a corner onto a deserted street. He came to a large oak and stopped beneath it, waiting—he wasn’t sure why, or for what. There was a sound above him, and suddenly he was surrounded by a swirling storm of black birds, the beating wings forcing him to close his eyes, the sound deafening him. He wanted to run but could not move. He felt as if something was being sucked from inside him, as if his brains were being drawn out of his skull.

The birds were gone as quickly as they’d come, rising like a column of twisting smoke. The sergeant slumped to the sidewalk, moaning, unconscious.

He lay there for a minute, then moaned and opened his eyes. He looked around, blinking. He had no idea how he got there—in fact no memory of the past day, or more.

He rose unsteadily and began stumbling back toward the police station.

Lester Armstrong had been living in his Escalade, waiting for something to break. At the moment he was behind the wheel eating a cheeseburger, trying to keep the juice from dripping onto his lap.

His cell phone rang in mid-mouthful.

“Hrr-urr?”
he said.

“It’s me.”

Armstrong recognized the whispering voice of his new pal, a Princeton police corporal he had befriended by means of a pair of excellent tickets to a Knicks-Heat game.

“Whaddya got?” said Armstrong, swallowing.

“They’re in Florida. Orlando. This guy is baked. It’s only a matter of time. My guess is sometime tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

“The parents?” Armstrong asked.

“Being briefed now, as I understand it. Mother is pretty upset. Not so sure she could travel like that even if she wanted to.”

“So they extradite back to New Jersey, or what?”

“That right there is for the lawyers. Listen, I gotta get off the phone.”

“So do I.”

Armstrong disconnected and hit the speed-dial number for the Coopers. He glanced at his watch as he listened to the phone ringing.

C’mon, answer,
he thought.
I got a plane to catch.

CHAPTER 24

A
FTER STOPPING AT A CHIPPER WHIPPER
for gas and junk food, they drove the rest of the way to Kissimmee, reaching it just before dawn. They pulled to the side of a rural road and dozed in the car, waiting for a decent hour to go calling on F. Carmoody.

The blazing sun awoke them. It was only mid-morning, but almost ninety degrees. Hot, sticky, and grumpy, they drove to the address they’d gotten from the Internet—a one-story brick house set amid a clump of trees in an older neighborhood along Old Dixie Highway. The mailbox said carmoody.

J.D. pulled to the curb, killed the engine, took a breath, let it out. “I’ll talk first,” he said.

Sarah and Aidan followed him up the walk. He rang the doorbell. They waited. Nothing. He rang the bell again, longer. Nothing. He was about to ring it again when they heard shuffling footsteps approaching and a frail voice calling, “Coming, coming.”

The door was opened by a tiny old lady. She had paper-white hair and piercing blue eyes, and was wearing a prim, navy-blue dress. She regarded the sweaty trio doubtfully.

“Is this about magazines?” she said. “Because I have too many magazines already.”

“No ma’am,” said J.D. “This is about Pete Carmoody.”

The woman frowned. “What about him?” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m John Aster’s grandson.”

The suspicion disappeared from the woman’s face, replaced by a radiant smile. “John Aster’s grandson! My goodness, you do look like John.” She looked at Sarah and winked. “He was a very handsome man.”

“So you’re…Mrs. Carmoody?” J.D. said.

“Pete was my husband, yes. He’s passed on,” she said, extending a frail hand. “Fay.”

“J.D. Aster,” he said. They clasped hands; he could feel the delicate bones beneath her skin.

“And these young people are…”

“These are, uh, family friends,” said J.D. “Sarah and Aidan Cooper.”

“Well, you just come right in,” said Fay. “I’ll make us some lemonade.”

It took her a while; she did not move quickly, and she used real lemons. But the lemonade was delicious; Aidan, Sarah, and J.D. quietly savored it and the welcome sanctuary of the cool and peaceful house while Mrs. Carmoody chatted happily about her memories of Princeton.

“But listen to me, going on and on,” she said, finally. “Tell me, what brings you young people to Kissimmee?”

J.D. said, “We wanted to ask you about something your husband might have brought down here with him from Princeton.” Something flickered in Mrs. Carmoody’s eyes, and for a fraction of a second her smile faded. When it returned it looked just the slightest bit forced.

“What do you mean, something he brought?” she said.

“Um, the thing is, I don’t really know what it looked like,” said J.D. “But it would have been a machine of some sort. A special machine, very unusual.”

Mrs. Carmoody shook her head. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” she said. “Pete didn’t talk to me about his work.”

Sarah leaned forward and said, “But do you know if maybe he kept a…special machine, here? In this house?”

Mrs. Carmoody was looking down at her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.

J.D., Sarah, and Aidan exchanged
Now what?
looks. Mrs. Carmoody looked up, her smile gone. “Well,” she said. “It certainly was nice of you to stop by.” She stood and began shuffling toward the front door.

They had no choice but to follow. The visit was over.

Mrs. Carmoody opened the door. “Good-bye,” she said.

“One more thing,” said J.D., stalling.

“Yes?”

“Um, did Pete…I mean, Mister Carmoody, did he ever mention anything about a bridge?”

She shook her head.

“What about ‘Rosey’?” said Aidan. “Did he say the name ‘Rosey’?”

“No,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She opened the door wider.

J.D. stepped out, followed by Aidan. Sarah started to follow, then stopped in front of Mrs. Carmoody, looking down into the old lady’s eyes.

“Please,” she said. “We’ve come a long way, and we really need to know…”

“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “I can’t help you.”

Sarah sighed. “All right,” she said. “Thank you for the lemonade.”

She stepped outside. Mrs. Carmoody started to close the door. As she did, Sarah caught a glimpse of something glinting just below the high neckline of Mrs. Carmoody’s dress. She stuck her foot out, stopping the door. “Wait a minute,” she said.

“Please remove your foot,” said Mrs. Carmoody, anger creeping into her voice. Sarah didn’t answer; she was fumbling with her T-shirt collar.

“Young lady, if you don’t remove your foot, I’m going to call…” She stopped, staring openmouthed at Sarah, who held, dangling from its chain, the golden locket J.D. had given her.

“Does this look familiar?” Sarah said.

Slowly, Mrs. Carmoody reached into her dress and pulled out a locket exactly like it.

“Please, come back in,” she said.

When the Georgia State Patrol car arrived, two cars—a Toyota Camry and a Ford Fusion—were crunched together in the middle of the intersection. It looked to the trooper as though the Camry had T-boned the Fusion on the passenger side. The drivers, both young women, were standing outside of the vehicles; nobody appeared to be hurt.

That’s good,
thought the trooper.
Less paperwork.

The trooper put on his flashers and got out to talk to the drivers. He was pretty sure he already knew what happened: the Camry driver was talking or texting on her cell phone, and she ran the red light. Happened all the time.

Except she swore that wasn’t what happened. She admitted that she’d run the light, but not because of her phone. Instead, she blamed birds.

“Like, a million of them,” she said. “Big black ones. I was, like, staring at them. I couldn’t believe it.”

The trooper looked at the other driver. She was nodding
vigorously.

“I saw them,” she said. “They were going that way.” She pointed south.

The trooper sighed, and started filling out his accident-report form.

“Birds,” he muttered.

They quickly resettled in the living room. Mrs. Carmoody, ever polite, offered more lemonade; the trio declined.

“Now,” Mrs. Carmoody said to Sarah. “Why don’t you tell me where you got that locket.”

“It’s J.D.’s,” said Sarah. “I’m just wearing it.”

“And how did you get it, J.D.?”

“My father left it to me when he died,” said J.D.

“He specifically bequeathed it to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “Then I’m supposed to give you this.” She reached behind her neck and, with shaking hands, unclasped her locket. She handed it to J.D.

“Pete gave this to me when he got sick and the doctor said he didn’t have long,” she said. “Pete told me never to open it or take it off, and never to give it to anybody unless that person had a locket exactly like it.”

J.D. was staring at the locket. “Did he say what that person should do with it?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And you never peeked inside?”

“Never.”

J.D. looked at Sarah and Aidan. “What do you think?” he said.

“I think you should open it,” said Sarah.

“Wait!” said Aidan. “What if it’s full of…”—he glanced at Mrs. Carmoody—“…you know…”

“Aidan,” said Sarah, “he left that locket for a reason. He must have wanted the person who got it to open it.”

“I think you’re right,” said J.D. He turned the locket in his hands, finding the clasp. “Here goes.” He carefully undid the clasp, then opened the locket a tiny crack.

There was a burst of golden light, a rush of soaring sound. But as quickly as it came, it was gone. “My goodness,” said Mrs. Carmoody, smiling. “If I’d known it could do that, I might have opened it myself, no matter what I promised Pete.”

J.D. shook the open locket, frowning. “I guess that’s all that was in there,” he said. “Just a tiny, tiny amount. I wonder why.”

“Can I see it?” said Sarah.

J.D. handed her the locket. She held it open, peered inside. “There’s something written in here,” she said.

“What’s it say?” said Aidan.

“It’s really small,” said Sarah, squinting at the tiny engraved letters. “It says…okay, that’s weird.”

“What?” said Aidan.

“It says ‘Feed the bird…when Ben says.’”

“What?”

“That’s what it says,” said Sarah, handing the locket to Aidan, who read the lettering.

“What does that mean?” he said. “Feed what bird? And who’s Ben?”

J.D. looked at Mrs. Carmoody. “Does that mean anything to you?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” she said. “I didn’t even know there was writing inside.”

“Was your husband friends with someone named Ben?” Sarah asked. “Maybe someone he worked with?”

She shook her head.

J.D. frowned. “Okay,” he said. “What about the machine?”

“Machine?”

“I asked you before if your husband brought a machine down from Princeton. That’s when you decided to kick us out.”

Mrs. Carmoody blushed. “I apologize for my rudeness. But I didn’t know I could trust you.”

“So there was a machine?” said Sarah.

“There was something,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “Something large that Pete brought down with us. He insisted on driving the truck himself. I could have wrung his neck for that.” She chuckled at the memory, then went on. “But I never saw it. He told me it was best if I didn’t know anything about it—he’d always had his secrets, with Doctor Einstein and the others. I always assumed it had something to do with national defense.”

“So he brought the machine here?” said J.D. “To this house?”

“Yes. There was a special room in the basement, same as we had in Princeton. Lots of locks. It was like Fort Knox.”

“Was?” said Sarah. “You mean it’s not still here?”

“No,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “He moved it out in…let’s see…it would have been 1971. I remember because that’s when I was finally allowed to remodel the basement.”

“When he moved it,” said Aidan, “did you see anything?”

“No, he did it in the dead of night. Some fellows from his work helped him. He made me stay in the bedroom. Wouldn’t even let me offer them coffee!”

J.D. leaned forward. “Do you know where he moved it to?”

She shook her head. “No. As I say, everything about it was a big secret.”

“You said ‘fellows from his work,’” said J.D. “Where did he work?”

“Oh, he worked many places,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “Consulting work, he called it. He was very smart, you know. And he could build or fix anything.”

“Do you remember which work these fellows were from?” said Sarah.

“I’m sorry, I don’t,” said Mrs. Carmoody. “As I say, I didn’t even see them. And it was so long ago. I wish I could be more helpful.”

“No, you’ve been great,” said J.D. “Thanks for your time.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Carmoody.

She saw them to the door a second time. They said goodbye and trudged back to the Volvo, which was now an oven.

“Now what?” said Aidan, as J.D. started the engine.

“First off, we need to find someplace safe,” said J.D. “The cops have to be looking for this car, so the longer we’re driving around, the more danger we’re in.”

“And we need to figure out what
this
means,” said Sarah, holding up the locket. “‘Feed the bird when Ben says.’”

“How do you know it means anything?” said Aidan.

“Because he left it for us,” said Sarah. “It’s a message from Pete. He’s trying to tell us something.”

“Like what?” said Aidan.

Sarah was staring at the locket. “Like where he put the bridge,” she said.