Kingdom Keepers VII Page 20

  “Too many legs for any kind of sports team,” he said, very quickly.

  Willa stole the pencil from Maybeck and sketched out the curving arc of a choir.

  “A choir!” she said. “A big choir has hundreds of legs and a conductor who could be considered the head. And a choir could easily eat thirty pounds of meat!”

  “Or a band. One of those marching bands that visits the parks,” Finn said.

  “Or girls at a cheerleading contest. You do not want to see how much food cheerleaders can pack away!”

  Philby had trouble keeping up with his iPhone. He was on the Disneyland Web site, checking out the nighttime activities. The others waited for him impatiently.

  “It’s a no on the choir,” Philby said. “There was a band in the park today, from Alberta, Canada, but they were part of the afternoon parade and that’s all over.”

  “Cheerleaders?” Charlene inquired.

  “Nada,” Philby answered.

  Maybeck took back the pencil and drew an ugly centipede. As he sketched, the group fell silent. Maybeck spun the napkin he’d drawn on so that the creature faced each of them. They didn’t need any encouragement to envision the centipede at a gargantuan size—with 264 legs, a single head, and a voracious appetite for meat—or human flesh.

  “Yeah, okay,” Finn said, “point taken. But what about the second part, the hiding ‘where no ears listened’? How does a monster centipede fit into that? And why would Wayne tell me about a giant insect anyway?”

  “A new Overtaker?” Maybeck said.

  “Like Gigabyte,” Charlene said, reminding them all of the thirty-foot snake that had attacked them in Epcot.

  “Gross,” Willa said.

  “No ears,” Charlene said. “Maybe the thing is deaf. Maybe Wayne’s trying to warn us the bug is deaf.”

  “And I’m supposed to hide where the thing doesn’t have ears?” Finn said.

  “Furniture,” Philby said.

  “What?” Maybeck asks.

  Philby slid his blank napkin to Maybeck. “Furniture has legs.”

  “At last check,” Maybeck said, “furniture doesn’t eat thirty pounds of meat.”

  “Math!” Willa said excitedly. She plucked the pencil from Maybeck before he could start sketching. “Two-hundred sixty-four divided by four—tables, chairs, doesn’t matter, they all have four legs. It’s—”

  “Sixty-six,” Philby said.

  “Show off!” Charlene can’t help herself.

  “A head table?” Finn asked. “Like in Harry Potter at the end of the dining hall?”

  “A headwaiter!” said Willa. “It’s a dining room! A restaurant in the park.”

  “If there are sixty-six tables, there are hundreds of people,” said the Professor. “Easily enough to eat thirty pounds of meat.”

  “But if it’s sixty-six chairs,” said Willa, “then we know the capacity of the restaurant. It’s smaller. Easier to identify. Wayne’s telling you,” she said to Finn, “to meet him at a restaurant.”

  “Sixty-six people eating thirty pounds of meat?” Charlene said. “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s a half-pound hamburger per person. It’s logical,” Philby said. “And the number of chairs is the key. Willa’s right.”

  Willa blushed.

  Philby was already busy surfing the Internet. His head snapped up. “Wait a second!” He took in the group. “The math doesn’t work, but I’m not sure it has to. Sixty-six is the important number. That, and the name of a restaurant…if you cut it in half.”

  “Thirty-three!” Willa spat out, wanting to solve the math ahead of everyone else, but having no idea of the number’s significance until Finn spoke up.

  “Club 33.”

  “It’s a private club!” Maybeck complained.

  Philby’s fingers flew. “I can’t confirm the capacity, but I mean, come on! Club 33. Yes, a private club. But an old-time Imagineer like Wayne would probably belong, right?”

  “What about hiding ‘where ears never listened’?” Charlene said, clearly skeptical.

  “I don’t know,” Philby said. “I admit it. But sixty-six chairs in Club 33? It’s possible, right? It would be so Disney to make a play on the number, wouldn’t it?”

  “And if it happens to seat sixty-six people, then even the thirty pounds of meat makes sense,” Willa said. But Willa tends to support Philby when it comes to such things, and by now each of the Keepers was trying to make sense of it for him- or herself.

  Having gone back to his phone, Philby looked up and said, “Trust me, it has to be it. There aren’t any restaurants close to that small in Disneyland. Not that size and with a headwaiter.”

  “I’ll have to figure out the part about hiding ‘where ears never listened’ when I get there,” Finn said. “But it’s worth a try.”

  * * *

  Now as a DHI, Finn makes his way with the teeming crowds, trying to move quickly enough not to be recognized; trying not to move too fast for fear of sticking out; trying, even now, to make sense of “hide where ears never listened.” He notes the past tense. Wayne said not listen but listened. That’s significant. Even the tiniest part of one of Wayne’s clues is significant. The ears had failed to listen sometime in the past, meaning that whatever they had heard but failed to attend to had to be something known, something to do with Disney history or lore.

  It takes Finn several minutes to find a pay phone, several more to borrow a quarter to use it: he reaches Philby on the first ring.

  “It’s me. Who’s the woman at the Archives?”

  “Becky Someone,” Philby says. “Why?”

  “You need to call Becky. Make something up about us doing a report or something and ask her about any lore that has to do with Club 33 and something that happened in the past, an incident when someone didn’t listen.”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Philby asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Because you sound a little strange,” Philby says. “You want me to call some woman I’ve never met and—”

  “We saved the Archives. She owes us. She will be happy to help.”

  “You know this, how?”

  “Call her. I’ve only got twenty minutes. You’ve got to hurry. Now, Philby. I need this now. Disney history. Disney lore. Wayne used the past tense.”

  “You’re going all language arts on me?”

  “Mickey Mouse could be the ‘ears’ in ‘where ears never listened.’”

  “I’m on it!” Philby says excitedly. Finn has finally gotten through to him. “How do I reach you?”

  “I’m on a pay phone, but it says it doesn’t receive calls.”

  “So you’ll have to call me back.”

  “That’s a hassle. I don’t have any quarters. It would help if you’d get version 1.6 stable enough that we could bring our phones with us.”

  “I knew you were going to say something like that. No matter what I do, it’s never enough.”

  “Cue the violins. You’re sounding like Maybeck.”

  “As if.” Philby pauses, then blurts out, “Maybe I can get the information to Willa before she crosses over.”

  “Wait! What?”

  “Willa.”

  “I got that part,” Finn says.

  “She thinks I set you up to fail. She’s crossing over as we speak.”

  “You can’t do that! It could be a trap!”

  “A point I tried to make. Live with it. She’s coming.”

  “I’ll call you back.” Finn hangs up. He doesn’t like sparring with Philby. It only seems to happen in moments of crisis; the rest of the time, they get along well enough. Arguing makes him suspicious of Philby, a feeling Finn doesn’t like. He knows that Philby, with his superior smarts and keen sense of reasoning, feels like the real leader of the Keepers and feels denied by Finn assuming that role. For a long time Finn did not want the leadership position; he even let Philby have it. But for a brief period when Wayne seemed to favor Philby, Finn did not like it one bit. H
e realized how much he valued Wayne’s attention, how much Wayne’s faith in him mattered. He wanted to be the one getting assigned the missions, the one setting the agenda. He wanted to have the inside track, to know stuff before anyone else did. He knew how dangerous a road it was to walk—balancing your sense of self-importance against humility and what was truly important: ego versus reality.

  But Finn can’t shake the dread that surfaces occasionally, the fear that Philby might sacrifice him in order to lead the others. Not kill him—Philby is no murderer. But Philby is brilliant; he could easily orchestrate a situation that would make Finn look like an idiot or (and this was the worst thought of all) a situation in which a decision of Finn’s might injure the other Keepers. What are Philby’s goals and aspirations? Like all the Keepers, he must have his own reasons for staying in the group. How much is Finn in the way of his friend’s ambitions?

  Finn can’t let Willa, DHI or not, put herself at risk by getting too close to him. He has to move fast.

  “Excuse me? I’ve lost my family and I need a quarter to call my mom’s cell phone. I wonder if you happen to have a quar—”

  “Here. Use mine.” Finn faces a girl who looks to be his own age, but slightly taller. Her arm extended, she holds out a cell phone. She has a toothy smile revealing a mouthful of braces. She can’t quite bring her bright eyes to focus on him. It’s then Finn sees she’s wearing a Kingdom Keepers T-shirt. Maybeck had once shown them all a Web site selling the Keepers Kharacters shirts, but it’s the first time Finn has seen anyone wearing one.

  “Brooke,” she says. “My name. It’s Brooke.”

  “Finn.”

  “Yeah.” She giggles.

  Finn’s embarrassed. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Think about it,” she says, gesturing toward her shirt. “I mean…really? You can erase the number and everything. I don’t care. Not that I’d ever redial it or anything like that, because I wouldn’t. Can I just ask you something?”

  “Please.”

  “Are you—you? You know? I mean, are you Finn or are you him?”

  “I think I know what you mean,” Finn says. He waves his hand and it passes through hers.

  Brooke lets out a happy-sounding sigh. Something great has just happened for her, Finn realizes.

  “Oh!” she says. “That is so-o-o-o-o-o cool. You can kind of feel it, you know?”

  “You can?” First Finn has heard of that.

  “Or maybe I’m making that up. Maybe I imagined it.”

  Finn waves his hand through her arm again.

  She looks like she’s either about to fall asleep or shout for joy. Her eyes are glassy, as if she might cry.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?” he says.

  “What?” He’s lost her; she’s off somewhere else.

  “Your phone?”

  “Mind? Do I mind?” She does not mind.

  Finn gets Philby’s voice mail and asks him to send a text to Brooke’s number.

  “I gave Philby your number.”

  “No worries.”

  “You don’t mind hanging here a minute?”

  “Ah, no…I don’t mind.” She takes a deep breath. “So what’s it like? Being you, I mean?”

  “Same as you,” Finn says.

  She laughs loudly. It’s a great laugh. A big, heartfelt laugh that Finn could listen to for hours. “I don’t think so.”

  “Some of it’s cool,” he says, “but some not so cool.”

  “I don’t mean to stalk you or anything.”

  “Not at all! You’re doing me a favor.”

  Her phone buzzes. She avoids looking at it as she passes it to Finn, which impresses him.

  a listening system was installed in Club 33 so an unseen host could answer questions or make fun of guests at tables. was never used. small closet with working equip still exists.

  Finn reads the message twice, deletes it, and returns the phone to Brooke.

  “You know the park pretty well?” Finn asks her.

  “I do indeed. I am all about everything Disney. ‘A walking encyclopedia,’ my mother calls me. She means that as a compliment.”

  Finn laughs. “Would you happen to know any way a hologram could sneak into Club 33 without being caught?”

  “Angels,” she says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just may know a way,” Brooke says.

  * * *

  Ten minutes pass. An excited Brooke leads Finn into the Court of Angels, a dead-end alley. She points to a wooden staircase leading up to a New Orleans–style balcony. “I’ve seen waiters up there before. It’s definitely Club 33—when the doors open, you can see the gold-and-white wallpaper.”

  “Like a service entrance.”

  “Maybe. I’ve never actually been up there,” she says.

  “You’re just observant.”

  “I am.” She pauses. “You can walk through walls, right?”

  “I can.”

  “I heard you all can go invisible.”

  “Not really. It happens sometimes, but it’s nothing we can control.” He adds, “Sadly. How cool would that be?”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s more like a shadow thing. It has to do with the location of the projectors.”

  “Will there be projectors in Club 33?”

  “Good question. Probably. The technology can use security cameras—don’t ask me how!—and there would be security cameras in a place like Club 33.”

  “Can you wear an apron?”

  “I could, but I tend to stay pretty much all clear, so it would probably fall off.”

  “Carry a tray?”

  “Yes. Definitely.”

  “I’ve seen waiters come and go through that door to the right. You could check there…maybe.”

  Finn thanks Brooke. Their parting is awkward. Brooke offers to stay below and signal Finn if someone’s coming up the stairs. He tells her that could be helpful, but he doesn’t want her getting in trouble.

  “I’ll sing the Small World song. If you hear the Small World song, that’s the signal.”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m a good singer,” she says. “And a competitive skater. I’m enrolled at Pepperdine. Freshman year.” She looks befuddled. “Did I just say all that?”

  “Philby has your number,” Finn says.

  “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

  Finn thanks her again and heads upstairs.

  Everything Brooke has told him is accurate: The door to the right appears to access the club. The door straight ahead is open, leading to a vestibule of some kind that contains some furniture but appears to lead farther inside. Disneyland and Disney World are like no other places, built like stage sets, with misleading corridors and false facades. Finn enters the club, head down. There are two main dining rooms separated by a wide L-shaped expanse of old wooden flooring. A sign to Finn’s left reads MAXIMUM SEATING: 33. Another identical sign is mounted straight ahead. That totals sixty-six. Finn knows he’s in the right place.

  Just ahead Finn sees a tray of dirty dishes on a collapsible waiter’s stand. He picks it up and starts moving.

  The dining room that is now straight ahead is the closer of the two to the top of the staircase used by guests as they enter. There’s a maître d’s station with a computer screen. Finn moves toward this dining room, feeling conspicuous. He’s saved by how busy the restaurant is. Waiters are practically flying in all directions, racing from one place to the next. No one has time to study a kid who might be a busboy.

  Finn slips past the maître d’s station, grateful that it is unoccupied, and continues past an empty coat check and, in the wall to his left, an oddly shaped cupboard or closet door mounted at waist height.

  Timing is everything. Three…two…one.

  Balancing the tray, he tugs open the cupboard door just a crack. The door is wide, and about two feet deep.

  “Help you?” It’s a waiter. He sounds genuinely caring, not suspicious.
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  “I’m good,” Finn says.

  The man mugs, nods, and moves on.

  Finn sets the tray of dishes down on another folding waiter’s tray stand just nearby. Inside the cupboard are two high shelves that hold some dusty electronic gear, including an ancient pair of headphones, and, below that, open space. Finn checks around him. He waits for a pair of waiters to pass, then climbs in and pulls the door shut.

  He’s inside.

  A narrow rectangle of yellow light seeps in at eye level from some kind of small aperture in the wall of the cupboard that faces the dining room at the top of the stairs. There’s just enough light for Finn to discover that he’s in DHI shadow—but there’s no way for him to know exactly where the boundaries of that shadow begin. If someone were to open the cupboard door, would they see all of him? Part of him? He hopes it doesn’t come to that.

  Remarkably, he fits well into the space, sitting with his back against a sidewall and his knees bent. It’s almost as if the cupboard had been made to hold a person—a thought Finn dismisses, until he begins toying with a small sliding piece of wood he discovers on the wall, which accounts for the rectangle of light.

  The sliding cover moves on little tracks. Finn places his digital eye to the slot that the open cover reveals: he’s looking into the restaurant through a peephole. He can imagine, but can’t confirm, an oil painting or decorative mirror concealing the peephole on the dining-room side. None of the diners appears to be the wiser for his having opened the peephole.

  Finn looks out on tables with adults eating and drinking, some deep in conversation, some quiet, others more animated. The tables are mostly deuces and four-tops; among them are two groups of eight, and one person dining alone: a white-haired man wearing an Imagineer’s ball cap that must date back twenty years.

  Finn knows the cap, and knows the man. He nearly screams with joy. Wayne! Seeing him in the flesh has far more impact than having heard his voice over the radio. Voices can be recorded, impersonated. Finn wants to shout through the little hole in the wall, wave a flag, wag a finger.

  Finn’s heart is near breaking. To see Wayne—a man whom he respects and, yes, even loves, like a grandfather—after so long, creates a flood of emotion. Few people in his life can arouse such feelings in Finn: his family, Amanda, Dillard.