Disney in Shadow (12 page)

“There’s that construction shop Wanda told us about. It’s right next door. We should be able to hide somewhere in there for a while. We can take our time getting back to the remote.”

“’Kay, then that’s the plan.”

Philby unlocked the door and stepped outside. Finn pictured getting caught, and he could feel his DHI shape shifting; his fingers tingled. He turned the lock. Then he cleared his thought and stepped through the glass door and outside.

“You want to know what’s weird about that?” Philby said as the two DHIs ran toward the construction warehouse.

“Everything?” Finn answered.

“It’s how hard it was to keep from having a negative thought. And that was, what?—one minute? Two, at the most.”

“Tell me about it,” Finn said. “My personal best is five minutes, thirty-three seconds.”

“How messed up is that?”

“Messed up,” Finn said. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s majorly random to be all-clear, even if it’s only for two minutes.”

“I fell through a chair,” Philby said proudly.

“You fell through a chair,” Finn said.

They ducked into shadow, their DHIs glowing, as a golf cart zoomed down an opposing lane—the same two Security guards.

“Close,” Finn whispered.

“They’ll never figure it out,” said Philby, a smile overtaking his face. “I fell through a chair,” he mumbled.

A
NOTHER TWO SCHOOL
days passed uneventfully. Text messaging among the Kingdom Keepers established that no one had crossed over, confirming that Philby had full control over the DHI system. Through the backdoor he’d left in the software, he could determine who crossed over, and into which park or kingdom. They would still need the remote to return.

The two days felt like an eternity to Finn, his concern over Wayne’s whereabouts and condition deepening with each passing hour. But something bigger was taking place in him as well—not only his confused feelings about his so-called friendship with Amanda, but his bigger understanding of what the Overtakers might be up to. He felt in his gut that he needed to see the goal of the Overtakers in order to know how to stop them, and so far that goal had eluded him. Wayne’s abduction obviously played a part, just as Jess’s abduction in the Animal Kingdom had. They feared Jess and her ability to dream the future because for them it was like playing a chess match where the opponent knew their next move. The question was: did they fear Wayne, and his considerable understanding of everything Disney, or did they
need
him for something they had planned? To Finn, these were two very different possibilities, each presenting its own challenges. Until they found Wayne they wouldn’t know the answer, but he was beginning to realize that he had to face the possibility that they might not find Wayne. If that proved to be the case, then he had to
become
Wayne: he had to get out in front of the Overtakers and whatever they had planned, because falling behind was not an option. There would be no catching up if the Overtakers took control. Their powers were too substantial; their reach, too pervasive. If Wayne was testing him, then he was failing. It was time to do something. The trouble was, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

“Your friends are waiting,” his mother said, as Finn came through the front door to his home.

Finn glanced into the living room.

“Hey,” Philby said.

“Hey,” said Willa.

“Hey there,” answered Finn.

“We’re here for the
project
,” said Philby, aware that Finn’s mother did not approve of Finn’s association with his fellow Kingdom Keepers.

“The inter-school math competition,” said Willa.

His mother, standing a few feet behind Finn, seemed to relax a little.

“You didn’t say anything, dear,” his mother said.

“I wanted to surprise you,” said Finn, surprised himself.

“We’ve been given a
code
—” Philby said proudly, addressing Mrs. Whitman.

“—that we have to break,” said Willa.

“At least that’s what we hope,” Finn told his mother. “If the other teams break the code first—” He left it hanging there because he wasn’t sure how to finish it.

“Then we lose,” Philby completed.

“How…interesting,” said Mrs. Whitman.

“Would you like to see it?” Philby offered. “Other kids’ parents are going to help. That’s a no-brainer.”

As his mother stepped forward, Finn used her as a shield and shook his head violently at Philby, who had just taken things way too far. What Philby didn’t understand—had no way of knowing—was that Finn’s mother had, until five years earlier, worked at NASA on the Space Shuttle program. After the birth of his sister, she’d tried mostly working from home, but had finally given up her job amid a budget cut.

The thing was: his mother was a rocket scientist. The real thing. She could do advanced calculus
in her head
.

“Well, I could take a look, I suppose,” she said.

Finn squinted and hung his head and knew it was too late: there was no way they would be getting rid of her now.

Philby got one chance to look Finn’s way as Mrs. Whitman sat down onto the couch beside him. His expression said,
Who knew?
But Finn’s heart sank because
he knew
.

Philby unfolded the piece of paper and placed it in front of her.

Mrs. Whitman studied the page for less than a minute as the three looked on.

“Your assumptions are clever,” she said.

“With cryptograms,” Philby said, “we were told the whole thing is repetition. So the two words that are the closest are the VKPFP—”

“—and the MKPFP,” said Willa, who wanted in on this.

Finn looked on, a bit bewildered.

“The apostrophe,” said Philby, “tells us
M
is an
S
or a
T
. A possessive or a contraction. And that means that
W
—”

“Could be an
N
,” said Mrs. Whitman, “if it’s part of a contraction. Very good. Let’s play with that for a moment.” She focused on the page and reached over, accepting a pencil from Philby as if she’d asked for it, which she had not.

“So
P
has to be
E
,” she said, erasing and adding to Philby’s chart.

“Because?” Philby asked.

“Because probability favors
R
, in TDIEPR, as the plural,
S
. And if
R
is
S
, then—”

“
P
is a vowel, and it’s an
E
!” Willa nearly shouted. “And if
R
is
S
, then
W
can’t be
S
. It has to be
T
, making the apostrophe a contraction, just as you said, Mrs. Whitman. I get it.”

Mrs. Whitman showed the others her work.

The chart was beginning to take shape. Finn could even understand the substitution of letters.

Not wanting to be left out, he said, “So
M
and
V
have to be consonants in words like
there
and
where
…and…what other five-letter words end in
here
?”

“There aren’t any,” his mother said with complete authority. “There are a couple six-letter words, like
adhere
, but no five-letter words. So, you’re right, Finn.
M
and
V
are either
T
or
W
.”

“And we already know that
M
is
T
,” Philby proclaimed, pointing to the chart.

“So
V
is
W
,” stated Willa.

“
V
is
W
,” said Mrs. Whitman, adding this to the chart. “I love this kind of puzzle!”

Indeed, Finn’s mom was leaning over the table, writing and erasing. She turned and presented the page to the others.

MKPFP IFP TDIEPR VKPFP RMIFR CQW’M JFQV HT 2736/2730
THERE —E ——ES WHERE ST—S —’ T

“Whoa!” Finn gasped. “We have all that already?”

“Finn,” his mother said, “Google four-letter contractions. That’s the next piece of the puzzle. I’m going to get us all cookies.”

Finn felt as if he’d entered a parallel universe where an alternate life-form had taken over his mother. There was a good deal of evidence to support his theory: first, his mother was asking him to get
on
the computer, not
off
it; second, she was offering cookies
before
dinner.

He knew his mother to have a nearly uncontrollable addiction to chocolate, an addiction that especially revealed itself when she was nervous or anxious. That in turn told him something about her current condition.

“I’m on it,” he said.

By the time he returned, there was a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table, along with three glasses of milk and a glass of water.

Another piece of evidence: his mother spoke with her mouth full of food.
Unthinkable.

“So…what’d you find?”

“There are four:
isn’t
,
won’t
,
don’t
, and
can’t
,” Finn reported.

“Two with
O
s, one with an
I
, and one with an
A
,” his mother said, licking chocolate off her front teeth.

She adjusted the chart accordingly.

She had shaded the letters that they felt certain about.

“You missed a couple
F
s,” Philby said, pointing to her chart and, more importantly, to her line of deciphering:

MKPFP IFP TDIEPR VKPFP RMIFR CQW’M JFQV HT 2736/2730
THERE —E ——ES WHERE ST—S —’T

He changed it to:

MKPFP IFP TDIEPR VKPFP RMIFR CQW’M
JFQV HT 2736/2730
THERE -RE —ES WHERE ST-RS —’T -R-W

“So I did! Good catch!”

“
I
is
A
,” Finn announced loudly, wanting to be more than the errand boy.

His mother nodded and scribbled in the letter.

MKPFP IFP TDIEPR VKPFP RMIFR CQW’M JFQV HT 2736/2730
THERE ARE —A-ES WHERE STARS —’T -R-W

“We’re getting there now,” whispered Willa, as if by speaking too loudly she might jinx it.

His mother read, substituting words. “‘There are…traces…spaces….’”

“Places,” Willa said.

“Places,” Mrs. Whitman said, nodding. “Yes, I think you’re right: ‘There are places where stars…’”

“
Isn’t
,
won’t
,
can’t
or
don’t
,” Finn said, supplying the only four-letter contractions that seemed plausible.

“We can eliminate
isn’t
because ‘stars’ is plural,” Mrs. Whitman said. “We can eliminate
can’t
because we’ve identified the letters
A
and
W
and there’s no
A
or
W
in the word. So it’s got to be
don’t.
”

“
P
!” Willa announced. “The
T
of the code—the last letter—is the same as the first letter of
places.
”

Finn mumbled to himself. “He made it so we could figure it out.”

“Your teacher?” his mother said. She never missed anything. He could be
thinking
something up in his room and his mother could somehow
overhear
it.

“Our teacher,” Philby answered for him, seeing that Finn was tongue-tied.

“Up,” said Willa. “The last word is
up
. There are places where stars…don’t…grow up.”

“We did it!” Willa proclaimed.

“
You
did it, Mrs. Whitman,” Philby corrected.

“We did it as a team,” Mrs. Whitman said in a tone of voice that Finn recognized as preachy. “I really had nothing to do it with. I was more of a coach than a participant.” His mother was always trying to turn everything into a life message. If a bug died on the porch light it was a life message. If a mirage appeared on the highway, instead of just being cool it had to be a life message too.

“Mo-om!” Finn said in his best whine.

“Okay,” she said, anticipating his objection before it was enunciated.

“The Milky Way,” Willa said. “Stars just don’t grow up—they burn out and die.”

“But of course they grow up,” Philby said. “They can’t die unless they are created. Stars are constantly being created and burning up.”

“It’s the natural order of the universe,” said Mrs. Whitman.

“You worked for NASA, mom,” Finn said, giving her a chance to redeem herself. “What’s with stars not growing up?”

“It would appear to be some kind of riddle,” she answered. “What teacher assigned this? Science or math?”

Willa answered, “Math,” at the same exact instant Finn answered, “Science.”

His mother gave Finn the evil eye; she knew something was up.

“Finn?”

Philby stepped in. “They’re both right in a way,” he said, sounding typically Philby-convincing. “Because it’s an inter-school competition, several teachers from each school were involved in creating the code and, I suppose, whatever riddle is involved.”

Philby was presently the color of a ripe raspberry. Finn hoped his mother didn’t know him well enough to notice—but his mother didn’t miss much.

“Well, that makes sense,” said Mrs. Whitman.

“What kind of riddle?” Finn asked.

“Philby is right,” she said. “Stars are constantly being created, and stars are constantly burning out after millions of years of burning. What makes it more complicated—much more complicated—is that we are seeing the stars, thousands, hundreds of thousands, of years
after
whatever happened. It takes light all that time to reach earth. So by the time we identify a star it may actually no longer be there.”

“An illusion,” Willa said.

“Yes!” Mrs. Whitman said. “In a manner of speaking. But not exactly an illusion, since it did exist in the first place, perhaps for millions of years.”

“‘There are places where stars don’t grow up,’” Willa repeated.

“On a Christmas tree,” Mrs. Whitman said. “Or in a stained-glass window.”

“A church!” Finn said.

“Do you suppose it’s some sort of scavenger hunt?” Mrs. Whitman asked.

Finn glanced at the others. “I…ah…I think we can take it from here, Mom.”

Mrs. Whitman bit down properly on her cookie and chewed with her lips pressed closed tightly. She looked at each of them, one by one. She took a sip of water, looking right over the brim of the cup at Finn.

“A starfish that has been preserved,” she said. “A museum comes to mind.”

“A church or a museum,” Finn said. “That’s really good, Mom. I think we’ll take it from here.”

“Doesn’t one of the car makers use a star as its hood ornament?”