The Bridge to Never Land

• Also By
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Chapter 42
  
• Chapter 43
  
• Chapter 44
  
• Chapter 45
  
• Chapter 46
  
• Epilogue
  

This book was born on an airplane. We were out promoting our fourth Starcatchers book,
Peter and the Sword of Mercy
, and one morning, waiting to board a flight in Seattle, we got to talking about trying something a little different, possibly even a little weird. We had the germ of an idea, and on the flight we talked about it some more. By the time the plane had landed, the germ of an idea had blossomed into a full-grown flower of an idea. Or possibly a vegetable of an idea. Whatever germs turn into.

We put our idea into an e-mail and sent it off to Wendy Lefkon at Disney •Hyperion. She got right back to us:
Go for it
, she said. So we went for it, and here it is. Thus, the first person we want to thank is Wendy, our champion, who has always encouraged us to go for it.

We’re also grateful for the help and support of many others at Disney, including Jennifer Levine, Deborah Bass, Frankie Lobono, and Nellie Kurtzman. We love working with you guys, and not just because of the free park passes and behind-the-scenes tours.

Speaking of which: We thank Chris Ostrander and Alex Wright for helping us with the Disney technical stuff. We also thank Catherine Steventon for helping us with research on the Tower of London. Any errors in this book are totally our fault, and not the fault of the people who helped us. We also accept full responsibility for global climate change.

We thank Judi Smith and Laurel and David Walters for their careful reading, perceptive questions, and thoughtful (we mean this in a positive way) nitpicking.

We thank our agents, Al Hart and Amy Berkower, for their wise guidance.

We thank our wives—Michelle and Marcelle—for their unflagging support and hotness, and our children—Rob, Sophie, Paige, and Storey—for being great kids as well as tax deductions.

Above all, we thank our readers, especially the young ones, both for buying our books and for asking us to write more of them. We have never had so much fun, and you’re the reason why.

—Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

PROLOGUE

BERN, SWITZERLAND, DECEMBER 1905

T
HE WOMAN MADE HER WAY
carefully along the icy sidewalk, pulling her long wool coat tight against the harsh winter wind and swirling snowflakes. Night was falling quickly; she had to stop and peer through the gloom to make out the building numbers.

Finally, she found her destination—Number 49 Kramgasse Street, a stone apartment house with an arched entranceway.

She entered quickly, brushing snow from her coat, grateful to be inside. She pulled off her scarf and shook her long brown hair; her cheeks were bright red from the cold. On weary legs, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on a door. It was opened by a twenty-five-year-old man, still in the frayed, plaid suit he had worn to work. He had a soft, round face accented with an unkempt moustache and framed by an unruly mass of curly brown hair. His dark brown eyes sloped down at the corners, giving him a look of wisdom beyond his years and a hint of sadness.

He welcomed her into his flat and they exchanged introductions. He offered her tea, which she gratefully accepted. Sitting close to the warmth of a small coal-burning fireplace, they made a bit of awkward small talk about the weather. They spoke in German, the woman with a thick British accent.

“I’m sorry my German is so poor,” she said.

The man waved a hand. “Your German is far better than my English,” he said, smiling.

She smiled briefly in return. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said. “I know you’re a very busy man.”

“I am honored by your visit,” he said. “But I confess that I am also puzzled.”

“Puzzled? Why?”

“It’s quite mysterious, the letter I received from Doctor Pratt. I understand he is an associate of yours?”

“Yes, an old family friend.”

“His letter was very complimentary about my papers in
Annalen der Physik,
and of course I was flattered to attract notice from a man of his stature. But I also could not help but wonder why a distinguished professor of history at Cambridge would be so interested in papers on physics published by an academic journal in Germany. And my curiosity deepened when Doctor Pratt inquired if you—with all due respect, a nonscientist—could come to Bern to meet with me personally about an extremely urgent matter, a matter he could not discuss in writing.”

“Yes, I imagine it does seem rather mysterious,” the woman said.

The man nodded. “So,” he said. “What is this extremely urgent matter?”

The woman leaned forward, her face somber. “What I am about to tell you will likely seem impossible,” she said, “but I swear to you that everything—
everything
—I will speak of is true. I cannot compel you to believe me, but I ask that you give me time to fully explain myself before you pass judgment.”

The man smiled. “I am quite familiar with the problem of trying to explain that which seems impossible,” he said. “Please, take whatever time you need.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. She took a deep breath and began talking. She spoke for the better part of an hour, stumbling occasionally, wrestling with the difficulty of expressing certain concepts in German—but for the most part she spoke quickly and precisely, having rehearsed her speech well.

The man listened intently, saying nothing, his dark eyes fixed on the woman’s face. When she was finished, he sat perfectly still for quite some time. Then, without a word, he rose and went to the window and drew the curtain aside. He peered out at the darkness for what seemed, to the woman, an eternity. When he finally spoke, he did not turn around.

“I understand now,” he said, “why you thought I would not believe you.”

The woman’s face fell. “I see,” she said. “All right, then. If you would be so kind as to get my coat. I apologize for taking your time.” She rose.

The man turned around.

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

“Then you do believe me?” she said softly.

“I didn’t say that, either,” he said. “But I am intrigued. I would like to know more.”

“Of course. There is so much more I can tell you, and show you. And there are others who…”

The man held up his hand. “Yes, I will want to hear everything,” he said. “But there is something I need to know first.”

“What is it?”

“Why are you telling me these things? Why has your organization decided that I, of all the people you must have access to, should be given information that you and your people have worked so hard, for so long, to keep secret?”

The woman took a step toward the man.

“Because we have a problem,” she said. “A grave problem that threatens to cause terrible harm, not just to us, but to many people. Perhaps all people.”

“All people?” asked the man, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic. But yes.”

“And you come to me because…”

“Because we believe that the work you are doing may hold the key to solving this problem.”

“You want my help.”

“Yes. We want your help.”

The man looked out the window again. The storm had worsened; the whistling wind pelted wet snowflakes against the windowpanes. The woman stared at him anxiously, awaiting his decision. Finally, he turned back to her.

“All right,” he said. “Tell me about this problem of yours.”

A smile of relief flooded her face; her green eyes shone with gratitude.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“But you’re willing to listen,” she said. “And we have nowhere else to turn. We believe you are our only hope, Mister Einstein.”

CHAPTER 1

A
IDAN COOPER SPRINTED UP THE STAIRS
. From behind he heard a voice, choking with fury, shout, “I’m going to
kill
you!”

Aidan reached the second-floor hallway, crowded with antique end tables and chairs, its walls covered in dark oil paintings. He heard footsteps creaking up the stairs. He hurried down the hall and ducked into his father’s study, closing the door as quietly as he could.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

“You’re dead, you hear me!” called the voice.
“Dead!”

The voice belonged to Aidan’s sister, Sarah. She was very unhappy because Aidan had just swiped her iPhone, which he now clutched in his hand.

He heard a door open and shut, then another. Sarah was checking the upstairs rooms one at a time. Sarah was methodical. Her room was always neat, her weekend homework done before Friday dinner. What worried Aidan more was that she was also quite a good puncher, having taken six years of karate.

“I’m going to find you, you little snot!” she said.

Aidan looked around frantically for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on a massive oak desk. It was a new addition to the household; Aidan and Sarah’s dad, a serious collector of Victorian furniture, had bought it recently at an auction. Aidan dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the space where the chair was supposed to fit, between two walls of drawers.

Sitting cross-legged under the desk, he activated the iPhone screen and opened the text messages. He scrolled quickly through them, looking for the name of the girl he was deeply in love with, at least this week (Aidan fell deeply in love a lot). She was a friend of Sarah’s, Amanda Flores. Like Sarah, she was seventeen, and in eleventh grade. Aidan was only fifteen, a lowly ninth-grader. He wasn’t dating Amanda; the truth was, he had never actually spoken to her. But he had hopes.

These hopes had soared a few moments earlier when, reading over his sister’s shoulder, Aidan had spotted a text from Amanda saying—at least this was what Aidan
thought
it had said—that Amanda considered him cute. He had tried to see more, but Sarah, annoyed at his spying, made the phone’s screen go dark and told him to mind his own business.

So Aidan had snatched the phone and run upstairs. At the time it seemed like a good idea, but now Aidan sensed that it might have been a mistake. First, his sister was really mad. Second, as he scanned the iPhone texts, he realized that Amanda had not been texting about him at all, but about a boy named Aaron. Aidan didn’t know Aaron, but he was pretty sure he hated him.

The study door burst open. Three seconds later, Sarah was crouched in front of the desk, red-faced with anger.

“Give me my phone back right now,” she said, the palm of her hand extended.

“Okay,” said Aidan. “Don’t get—”

“I said
give
it to me!” yelled Sarah, lunging toward him.

Startled by his sister’s lunge, Aidan jerked back and banged his shoulder and head, hard. Then three things happened.

Aidan said,
“Ow!”

Sarah grabbed her phone back.

And a hidden door appeared in the desk.

It was a wooden trapdoor about the size of a DVD case. It hung down between Aidan and Sarah from the underside of the desk, revealing a dark opening.

“Huh,” said Sarah, suddenly more interested in the door than in killing her brother.

“Weird,” said Aidan, relieved that his sister was at least temporarily distracted. Trying to prolong her interest, he said, “What is that, anyway?”

“Duh,” explained Sarah. “It’s a secret compartment.”

“Cool,” said Aidan. He reached up and pushed the door shut. There was a soft click as it latched. The grain on the door matched the surrounding wood exactly; the fit was so tight that the seam was invisible.

“Wow,” said Aidan. “When it’s closed, you can’t even see it.”

“Right, nimrod,” said Sarah, “but you also can’t see inside. Open it back up.”

Aidan tried to pry it open, but his fingernails couldn’t fit into the seam. He banged on it, but nothing happened. He ran his hands over the surrounding wood, but found nothing that would open the door.

“I don’t know how,” he said.

“You are such an idiot,” said Sarah. “Let me see.” She crawled under and felt around the door as her brother had just done, also finding nothing.

“You must have done
something
to open it,” she said.

“I hit my head.”

Sarah pushed the panels above them. Nothing happened.

“I also hit my shoulder,” said Aidan.

“Where?”

He pointed to the sore spot on his shoulder. She punched it, hard.

“Ow!”

“Not your shoulder, idiot! Where did you hit the desk?”

“Oh…the side, I think.”

Sarah made a fist and pounded it. Nothing.

“I hit it really hard,” said Aidan.

Sarah frowned and gave the panel a karate chop.

The trapdoor popped open.

“Excellent!” said Aidan, reaching his hand up into the hole.

“If there’s money in there,” said Sarah, “we split it.”

Aidan groped inside the opening. “I don’t feel any—wait! There’s something in here!”

He withdrew his hand, which now held an envelope. It was letter-size and yellow with age. Aidan turned it over; it had no writing on either side.

“Open it!” said Sarah.

Aidan frowned. “Maybe we should tell Dad,” he said.

“Absolutely,” said Sarah, snatching the envelope. “After we open it.”

Before Aidan could protest, she slid her finger under the flap and opened the envelope. She pulled out a piece of flimsy paper, folded into thirds. She unfolded it carefully, and Aidan leaned in to look.

The paper was so thin that it was almost transparent. On it, drawn in black ink, were random-looking lines, some straight, some curved, not forming any obvious pattern. Below the lines, handwritten in the same ink, were the words:

“What the heck does that mean?” said Aidan. Sarah was staring at the document. “Magill,” she said. “What about it?”

“I think I know that name.”

“You know somebody named Magill?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I actually
know
him, but I’ve heard that name somewhere.” She continued staring at the document. Fifteen seconds passed.

“Can I ask you something?” said Aidan.

“What?”

“This guy Aaron? Who Amanda likes?”

Sarah looked up. “What about him?”

“How old is he?”

“He’s a senior.”

Aidan’s shoulders slumped.

Sarah smirked, enjoying her moment of revenge for the iPhone theft.

“He’s also very cute,” she added.

Without a word, Aidan slouched out of the room, heartbroken. Sarah turned back to the document.

“Magill,” she whispered softly.

At 11:40 p.m. that night, she remembered. She had turned off the light and was almost asleep when it suddenly popped into her brain.

“Magill,” she whispered, sitting upright in bed. Fumbling in the dark, she found the switch to her reading light and turned it on. She got out of bed and crossed her bedroom to a shelf jammed to overflowing with books. She searched the titles, stopping finally on a fat hardcover book. She pulled it out and began impatiently turning pages; she flipped most of the way through before she found what she was looking for. She read a passage, then read it again.

“I knew it,” she said. She sat on her bed for a few moments, thinking. Then she returned to the bookshelf and pulled out another fat book. After flipping through it as well, she found a particular passage and began reading.

“Yes,” she said. She bookmarked the page and moved ahead to another chapter, reading with growing excitement. She opened the small drawer on her bedside table and withdrew the fragile document they had discovered in the desk. She reread it, standing as she did, too excited now to sit.

She paced her room for a minute, the book in one hand, the letter in the other. Then she collected both books and, holding tightly to the document, quietly left her room and crept down the hallway to Aidan’s room. She eased open the door without knocking and closed it softly behind herself. She switched on the light.

“Psst! Aidan, wake up!” she whispered.

“What?” he said, squinting and blinking at the unwanted light. “Why are you…?”

“Shh,” she hissed. “Not so loud. You’ll wake Mom and Dad.”

“What are you doing in here?” he said. “It’s…midnight.”

She handed him the first book. He reluctantly accepted it from her, rubbed his eyes open, and read the title.

“
Peter and the Shadow Thieves,
” he said. “I already read this. As in like five years ago.”

“I know that,” she said. “But read this part.” She was pointing to a paragraph on the bottom of page 475.

Aidan read it aloud quietly.

Aidan looked up at Sarah. “So?” he said.
“Magill!” she said, holding up the document from the desk. “I
knew
I knew that name. He helped the Starcatchers!”

“Are you insane? You woke me up for this?”

“Magill!” she repeated.

“So it’s the same name. Big deal. There’s probably a million Magills. I can’t believe you woke me up—”

“Do
you
know any Magills?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean—”

“I’m not done,” she said, holding up the second book. He read the title:
Peter and the Sword of Mercy.

“Magill’s mentioned in here, too,” she said. “A lot.”

“I still don’t see why—”

“Just wait, okay?” she said, opening the book to a folded page. “Here. Leonard Aster is telling Peter and Wendy to go to a safe place. Look where he sends them.” She presented the book to Aidan, this time pointing to the middle of page 312. He read:

Aidan looked up. Sarah showed him the document again. “‘In the Landing,’” she said. “It says ‘In the Landing.’ In the book, Magill lives there. In the Scotland Landing Hotel.”

“That’s just a coincidence,” said Aidan. But he sounded less confident than before.

“Wait,” said Sarah, now leafing furiously through the book. “Here!” She was pointing to the bottom of page 325. Again, Aidan read:

“Draycott Place,” said Sarah. “In this book, Magill was in Scotland Landing, in Draycott Place.” She waved the document. “Magill. In the Landing. In the Place.”

Aidan looked at the book, then the paper, then back to the book again. “So are you, like, saying you think this Starcatchers stuff is for real? That’s crazy.”

“Then who wrote
this
?” she said, holding up the document.

Aidan thought about that.

“It could be a practical joke,” he said. “Somebody read these books, and then they wrote that stuff on the paper, and then they hid it in the desk so somebody like you would fall for it.”

“Really?” said Sarah. “You’re saying somebody read the books, then found this ridiculously old-looking piece of paper and wrote this stuff on it, then hid the paper in the secret compartment of this really old desk, and it was all some kind of joke?”

“Well…yeah.”

“But how would they expect anybody to ever find it? If you hadn’t hidden under the desk and bumped your shoulder, we’d never have found it. Nobody would have ever found it. Ever, as in ever.”

Aidan thought about that. “Okay,” he said, pointing to the paper. “So what do you think it is?”

“What I think,” said Sarah, “is that it’s…a mystery.”

“Wow. A mystery. Nice work, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m not saying I have the answer to the mystery. I’m just saying it
is
one.” She hesitated, then said, “And I’m going to solve it.”