Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome (25 page)

“Then, the threat to you—all three of you are part of the team, an important part of the team. You should know that. Now, here we are. We have the videos, but they’re as
worthless as everything else. Too many dead ends. You run out of gas.”

“You can’t quit trying to find them!” I said.

“Of course we won’t! We are responsible. Believe me, we live with the full weight of that reality.”

From the glum silence, Mattie raised her voice. “You looked at videos of Wayne, too.”

Joe and his colleagues did not like being spied upon by a mind-reading teenager, and each reacted with his own expression of indignation.

“In Wayne’s apartment?” I asked. “Or in Walt’s?”

If Joe could have punched something to relieve the stress, he would have. “I can’t comment on that.”

“You won’t, you mean,” I said.

“We certainly never had security cameras in Wayne’s apartment,” he said. “We installed video in Walt’s for obvious reasons. At times it’s like the whole world
wants a look inside.”

“So Wayne was in Walt’s apartment. Did you know that before?” I asked.

“We did not. It was an accidental discovery, when we went looking for videos of the Keepers.”

Jess spoke up again. “What’s with the music box? They all headed straight to it.”

“We don’t know,” Joe said.

“Wait!” I said. “You guys are the Imagineers, and you don’t have any ideas?”

“Correct. We are but mere mortals,” Joe said. He might have meant it as a joke, but it missed its mark.

“You’ve looked at the music box?” Jess asked. “Studied it?”

He nodded. “The word
computer
has come to mean a laptop or tablet. Fifty, sixty years ago, a computer would’ve been something mechanical. The code machines in World War II
were strictly that—gears, springs, wheels. We did not try to open the music box. It was wisely suggested that we scan it first.

“Well, wait for it. What we found inside was anything but a music box. It’s a primitive computer—in the way we’d use the term today. We don’t yet know how it
operates, because our scanning revealed booby traps. It will be rendered inoperative if we try to open it.”

“Self-destruct,” Mattie breathed.

“Exactly.”

“What made your colleague think to scan it in the first place?” I asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who would think to do that?” I said. “You’d just open the thing. So why didn’t you?”

I was pushing Joe to say things he did not want to say. “Very well, young lady. Have it your way. From what we can tell, the back of the box does open. But carved next to the release, very
faintly, my colleague saw the initials N.T. That stopped him. And it prompted us to scan the music box.”

Mattie voiced what I was thinking. “Why would a pair of initials stop him?”

“N.T.” Joe repeated. “In our line of work, we pay homage to a few geniuses besides, of course, Walt: Leonardo da Vinci, the greatest of them all. Zhang Heng, the amazing
Chinese sage. And Nikola Tesla.”

“Like the car,” I said.

Joe and the other Imagineers laughed, making me feel stupid. I didn’t like feeling stupid. I wished I’d said nothing.

“Like the car,” Joe said. “An extraordinary mind. Tesla was an older man when Walt Disney started to reveal his own genius. There’s always been speculation—never
proof—that the two not only admired each other, but may have met, may have even collaborated.”

“Tesla built the music box,” I said, in awe.

“Speculation.”

“But what you found inside…”

“Clearly the work of an extraordinary mind, yes. And nothing to tamper with.”

“But how would the Keepers know about it?” Mattie asked.

“Wayne,” Joe said.

“And how would he know about it?”

“Walt.” Joe spoke softly, with an air of reverence. “As a young man, Wayne was a technician in the early construction of Disneyland. He interacted with Walt on a regular
basis.”

The hum of the jet filled my ringing ears. The resulting silence meant something different to all of us. I was thinking of Finn. Joe of Walt Disney, I imagined.

“We, the three of us, would like to get into Walt’s apartment,” I said. “We promise that we won’t open the music box. You can watch us on the security cameras. But
we need to be there.”

I expected push back. He would refuse me and I would have to fight to get Jess and Mattie in there to try to “read” the apartment.

“Yes,” Joe said, stunning me, “I know. We’ve already made plans.”

AMANDA

The following day, led by a Cast Member, Jess, Mattie, and I climbed the backstage steps to Walt’s historic apartment. I felt apprehension beating in my chest. Given what
we knew, this was likely the last set of stairs Finn and the others had climbed or descended before entering SBS. Wayne had trod these stairs. So had Walt Disney himself.

Now three girls with exceptional abilities followed in their footsteps—but with trepidation. I knew that each of us individually, as well as collectively, felt like we were the last great
hope for the Keepers, the only hope of saving them from whatever they’d gotten themselves into.

I’d asked Joe for a list of anyone who’d visited the apartment since the Keepers’ disappearance, along with their pictures. Jess could occasionally get a “daydream”
from something as simple as a picture. We weren’t leaving anything to chance.

On the list was a rock star, two movie stars, a film crew, a Disney archivist, a U.S. senator, and a historian from the Walt Disney Family Museum. Singling out the senator and the historian,
I’d inquired about the purpose of their visits.

The senator’s father had worked for WED Enterprises, the group that eventually became the Imagineers. The historian from the Disney Family Museum had made the request last minute. She was
interested in certain items in the apartment, leading Joe to believe that like Disneyland, items were moving around mysteriously in the museum.

Ghosts! Had to be.

Climbing the stairs toward the old apartment reminded me that even the old is new. The apartment was over fifty years old, and I was excited to see it once more.

The Cast Member let us in, saying a polite good-bye.

Inside, the doilies and old furniture reminded me a little of Mrs. Nash’s, only a lot classier. Mattie gawked at the antiques, the artwork, and the view of the park past the glowing lamp
in the window. Jess took a meditative moment to let the space surround her. I’d seen her do this before, but I marveled at her ability to relax and disconnect from what was going on around
her.

My heart was sailing as I stood facing the music box. I could feel Joe and the others watching us over the restored surveillance system. But I knew from the videos on the plane that they could
only see us, not hear us.

JESS

My best chance for a daydream would be to connect with the places in which people slept and
dreamed
. Gently, I sat on the edge of the sleeper sofa to the left. The
apartment had the feeling of a museum, and I didn’t want to disturb anything, materially or psychically.

A sense of calm washed over me as I closed my eyes. The room remained present in my thoughts; I could see it before me, empty and charming.

But alarming, too: the light in the window was not illuminated. No music played; the only sound was muted chatter from Town Square.

There was a noise at the edges of my consciousness. It started as a few faint notes of carnival music, light and playful. Circus music? I wondered.

It steadily grew louder; as it did, I realized it wasn’t coming from the window, as I’d thought. I opened my eyes, but only slightly, trying not to lose the moment. I must have
mumbled something because Mattie and Amanda were staring at me. The music began fading, and I squinted my eyes shut. Slowly, carefully, I suspended all thought and concern.

The music returned, like a flighty bird reversing direction. It swept past me, now coming from my right. It grew louder and louder. Too loud! I pressed my hands to my ears, trying to shut it
out, but it was inside my head. I’d only made matters worse.

I popped open my eyes. The music stopped.

I sat staring at the music box.

“I think I may know what drew them to the music box,” I said to the room at large.

It would turn out I was wrong.

MATTIE

I found the apartment living room’s crimson theme both beautiful and relaxing. It was the kind of feeling I wanted to capture if I ever had a place of my own. I’d
lived my life in tiny rooms in houses not of my choosing. The dream of having my own place helped me in my darkest moments. A kitchen with food I liked. A cat. Books.

Now I concealed my excitement as I looked around the tiny room. I hoped I didn’t seem childish, but then I honestly didn’t care. My favorite spot, the view of the park seen through
the window where the antique lamp shone so steadily, allowed me to imagine Walt, right there, looking out over his kingdom.

The space filled with a tingling energy. The last time I tried to read an inanimate object was a total flop, but at that moment, the apartment seemed like a living, breathing entity. Something
otherworldly. I crossed the room and placed a hand on the door.

Nothing. The wall, also nothing.

For whatever reason, I felt dropped to my knees. I placed both hands on the carpet and felt a hum or vibration in my wrists. I yanked my hands back before slowly applying them again.

This time, the hum traveled up my arms. I wanted to release my touch, but found myself compelled to lean forward more heavily. The spreading sensation was not Walt Disney wonderful, but a dark
tremor, like a crack in the earth opening to consume me, overtake me. Whatever I felt, wherever it came from, it did not originate in this room. It was nothing of this world.

I pulled back. My hands were stuck.

“Help,” I moaned weakly. “Help…”

Amanda and Jess came to my side. They spoke, but I barely heard. My vision was filled with a deep burgundy smear of horror, my ears with wailing. My body succumbed to pain.

Somehow, they tore me loose and got me to my feet. I bent over, breathing hard. Terrified. Ready to throw up.

“We have a problem.”

AMANDA

Mattie settled into a chair, pale and scared. Her experience was a clear warning, and I approached the music box with reservation. I wasn’t so much scared or nervous as I
was apprehensive. I didn’t know what would happen, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

“It looks pretty basic,” I said. “A metronome and some kind of switch on the side.”

“I agree,” Jess said, kneeling beside me. “Not really anything else to it.”

“You must be able to switch discs,” Mattie said weakly from her chair.

“I suppose. But we don’t want to switch discs. We want to know what they were listening to before they left. Maybe it’s a voice message.”

“Joe would know,” Jess said. “Maybe he wouldn’t have told us, but he’d know.”

“I get what you’re saying, Amanda,” Mattie said. She seemed to be slowly recovering her strength. “But we can’t be sure that the disc in there is the same one. All
the people who’ve been up here since, including the senator and the historian—anyone could have changed it. The camera hasn’t been working.”

“Why would anyone change the disc?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Mattie cried. “I’m just saying!”

“Yeah. Okay. I get that.”

“It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Jess said.

I reached for the controls, but my phone rang, stopping me. I didn’t recognize the number, and with my full attention on the music box, I was in no mood to take a call, so I sent it to
voice mail. It didn’t buzz in my pocket, which meant the caller hadn’t left a message.

Back to the music box. We didn’t count down. We didn’t make it dramatic. I pulled on the small brass pin sticking out below the metronome. Music played.

Circus music. A calliope.

Jess muffled her gasp.

I took a step back from the machine.

“That,” Jess said, “note for note, is the same music I just heard in my head.”

Over the odd-sounding pipe music melody came the flutter of wings.

“Check it out!” shouted Mattie, pointing.

On the other side of the window behind Walt’s lamp, perched on the sill, flapping its tattered wings to remain balanced, stood a black raven. It had seen better days. It was so scraggly
and disgusting looking that it almost seemed as if it had been set on fire.

“Poor thing,” Jess said. “It looks sick or something.”

“Mattie,” I whispered harshly. “Get close enough to see its eyes, but do not touch the glass. Do not get any closer than you need to.”

“You don’t think—” Jess said sharply.

“Think what?” Mattie asked.

“An Overtaker—a dead Overtaker—had a raven called Diablo. That’s why I need to know—”

The bird flew away.

“—the color of its eyes.” Too late. Mattie hadn’t had time to get close.

Mattie turned. “But isn’t Diablo—”

“Yes! Let’s not talk about it, please.” I couldn’t bear the thought of the burning bones being part of some dark ritual. Fear poisoned my good thoughts far too often. I
wanted away from fear and trouble.