Kingdom Keepers V (9781423153429) (15 page)

“No doubt!” Finn said.

The security men indicated the stairs and followed the boys down.

* * *

At nearly the same moment, Maybeck, Willa, and Charlene, all in their staterooms with a parent (or in Maybeck's case, his aunt), switched out their Captain Mickey room keys and red VIP lanyards for Cast Member identification cards and blue employee lanyards. Wayne had supplied the fake IDs. Maybeck and Charlene could easily pass as eighteen-year-olds, the minimum age requirement for Cast Members. Willa was borderline. Because of this she added a minor amount of makeup, giving herself the few years she needed.

Using a
Dream
brochure, Philby had tutored and quizzed all the Keepers about the physical layout of the ship, its decks, pools, hallways, restaurants, stairwells, elevators, theaters, staterooms, cafés, bars, and the spa. He'd built a virtual
Dream
simulator on his laptop—he would flash an animation of a particular hallway or atrium or balcony and ask a Keeper to name exactly where it was. He repeated the exercise with each kid until they had the drill perfected. There could be no second-guessing if trouble erupted; the Keepers had to be able to move quickly and confidently through the floating labyrinth.

Maybeck caught a glimpse of Willa descending below him on the mid-deck stairwell. He slowed, not wanting to arrive to Cast Member laundry at the same time she did. Everything they were about to do had been carefully planned and rehearsed. The Keepers were like a SWAT team, each performing specific duties to infiltrate the ship and ferret out the Overtakers, if present, all the while appearing to be five VIP kids enjoying a two-week cruise with passage through the Panama Canal.

Willa arrived at the Deck 1 landing of the ship's central staircase and turned toward the double doors she knew to be the entrance to I-95—the administration offices and crew members' central corridor on the port side of the
Dream
. She could not appear to hesitate. She strode to the doors, leaned into the sensor close enough for her card to read, and heard the latch free up. As instructed, she pulled open the left door, blessing Philby with each step.

The I-95 corridor was a surprise at first. It lacked the plush appointments of the guest areas of the ship. Instead it was an incredibly long stretch of pale gray vinyl flooring and hard, steel walls painted enamel white, with pipes and wires running overhead, all brightly lit. Here and there the walls were interrupted by a bulletin board or a safety poster. Doors—so many doors—leading off both sides, some marked by overhead exit signs, others carrying titles like Safety Officer, Human Resources, and Medical. Willa joined the other crew and Cast Members, her head slightly down in hopes no one would recognize her.

She turned left at the first overhead exit sign and descended a steep, ladderlike gleaming white stairway. She passed bigger pipes and valves and fire-fighting boxes and more safety posters. Now a floor below sea level, she turned toward the laundry. Fifth door on the right.

She turned into the open door and stopped at the counter where an Indian Cast Member wearing a head scarf manned a computer terminal.

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Sarah Sandler,” Willa said, using the name on her Cast Member ID.

The woman typed busily, ran a fingernail along the screen, then turned and disappeared into racks of vertical shelving, returning a minute later with some clothes on hangers. Willa thanked her, accepting the galley uniform—the clothes of a kitchen worker. She went down a hall and into a women's locker room. She found a locker with a key, changed into the uniform, and locked her belongings away. She let out a deep sigh, letting go of the stress of the past few minutes. Now she'd be looking over her shoulder for Maybeck.

* * *

Humiliating. That was Maybeck's first thought as he regarded himself in the locker room's full-length mirror. He looked like a dishwasher. He thought of himself as an artist, so the new look—actually a baker's outfit—was as disturbing as it was unfamiliar. He had to look at himself several times before he recognized himself. Then he sucked it up and followed the memorized route to reach the ship's walk-in refrigerators. The area was sparkling clean—crates of juices, drinks, cereals, flour, oats, rice, pasta all stacked into towering structures twelve feet high and broken into aisles every twenty feet. The area was chaotic, as last-minute boarding and stocking of dry goods, fruits, vegetables, meats, and dairy products turned it into a hub of activity. The perfect time for a little spying. The only time all the giant walk-in refrigerators and freezers, each the size of a one-car garage, would be left unlocked and accessible. There were more than twelve such cold-storage units to search. For the sake of security, Maybeck and Willa would perform the task together—one inside, one standing watch outside.

Maleficent needed a cold environment. It wasn't exactly a weakness, but it was a vulnerability. She wouldn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if she warmed up, but her powers were greatly diminished—no more flaming fireballs, no more erecting corrals with just the flick of a wrist. The warmer her surroundings, the more “human” she became. When jailed, her cell had been kept at seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and she'd been little more than a green-skinned, jumpsuited woman with a superiority complex. If she were hiding on the
Dream
, the refrigerators and freezers seemed a natural place to search.

The refrigerators were more like vaults; large, dimly lit spaces stacked tightly with crates of food. The first one Maybeck entered was devoted to fish, and the smell caused him to nearly vomit. The cold cut through him like a knife. A single tube light emitted a bluish hue, turning the frozen fillets and shrimp a sickly color. Knowing the green fairy's deviousness, Maybeck heaved aside stacks of crates that might be disguising an interior space. He pulled and twisted a tower of ten plastic containers of halibut to where they opened like a door to more stacked crates. These too he wrestled to one corner, then peered into the very center of the island of multicolored containers. Solid. No hidden space at its center.

He worked the freezer's perimeter, his teeth beginning to chatter, the tips of his fingers hurting along with his ears. Too cold? he wondered. Could Maleficent survive in such a frozen space? Then another thought gripped him: did he put anything past her?

Willa's coughing brought him back. With no time to return the heavy towers of crates to their original positions, he instead snagged a crate of halibut and struggled to carry it into the aisle. As he planted it on the concrete floor, a crew member entered, wheeling white crates.

“Cod,” the man said.

“Got it,” Maybeck said.

The crew member worked the hand truck to dislodge the crates and then left. Maybeck heaved the stacks back into place, shoved the cod into the corner, and left the freezer.

He shook his head at Willa, letting her know he'd found nothing.

“If you think about it,” he said quietly, “she'd never be hanging around when it's this busy down here.”

“Yes,” she said. “I have thought about it. So have Philby and Finn. But this is also the best time for us—for you and me. It's busy. No one knows exactly who belongs and who doesn't. Maybe all we're looking for is evidence.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

“I'll take the next one,” she said.

“The stacks are heavy,” Maybeck said.

“I'll manage.”

“I'm just saying…”

“I know what you're saying. And I'm saying I'll be all right.”

“All right. Whatever. I was just trying to—”

“Yes? Well, don't.”

“Pardon me for living.”

“Pardon me for being a girl, but I think I can manage.” Willa entered the next space—a refrigerator. Maybeck stood guard, checking his watch to make sure they wouldn't be late to the Sail-Away Celebration. He coughed loudly as an older kitchen worker approached pushing a hand truck laden with bricks of butter.

“Don't just stand around,” the man told him. “There're more hand trucks on the dock. Get the lead out!”

“Yes, sir,” Maybeck said.

The man looked at him curiously. It occurred to Maybeck—a little late—that maybe the use of “sir” was overdoing it.

“I'll take these for you,” Maybeck said, putting a hand on the hand truck, trying to stall.

“Bucket brigade?” the older man said. Suddenly, a smile lit up his grizzled face. “I like it. That could be more efficient. Good suggestion…” He studied Maybeck's ID. “Charles.”

“Thank you.”

“Listen up, everybody!” the man hollered into the room of workers. A moment later he'd instituted the bucket brigade principle to the loading efforts—one person wheeled in a hand truck carrying the food while another person took over the hand truck and put the food away.

“Just perfect,” Willa said, having overheard and now seeing what Maybeck had started. “Only one person at a time inside the coolers. That was brilliant. Nice work. Now we'll never get into the rest of them.”

“Never say never,” Maybeck said.

“As in, not today,” she said.

“Admittedly,” Maybeck said, “we've hit a setback.”

“You're an idiot,” she said.

Maybeck grimaced. He knew he deserved it. But then divine intervention took over. A worker removed a black crate filled with heads of lettuce from the third refrigerator and set it atop a pile of cardboard boxes marked
FRESH FRUIT
. The top flap of one half of the plastic lid held a torn strip of fabric pinched in its corner. Another worker arrived and picked up the crate before Maybeck could think.

“Hey,” he said to Willa, “I need you to tip over those cranberry juice crates.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now, please. As in, this moment.”

He moved to his right.

Thankfully, Willa, his teammate, obeyed. She pretended to stumble, throwing her shoulder into the crates of cranberry juice, tumbling them across the central aisle marked by yellow warning lines. Those lines meant that the lane must stay clear at all times. Several workers rushed to help her, including the man carrying the lettuce. He set down the container and hurried to Willa's side.

Maybeck crossed the aisle behind the confusion and snatched the torn piece of fabric from where it was pinched. He slipped it into the pocket of his kitchen uniform and was about to help Willa when something in the opposite direction caught his attention. There, down the long corridor stacked with crates and boxes, the open doors of the refrigerators and freezers belching a white fog, he saw a pretty girl staring at him. Just out of college, maybe. Dark hair. Dark eyes. She looked away as he glanced in her direction.

But she'd been staring. Staring coldly at him. Curiously.

More like the stare of a spy.

* * *

White shorts with a woven black belt. Ankle socks with a red fuzzy ball sewn at the ankle. White deck shoes. A collared, pale blue golf shirt with
DISNEY CRUISE LINES
embroidered on the upper left side. Firm posture. Bright smile. Charlene adjusted the Cruise Line headband in the reflection of the elevator glass, licked her lips, and double-checked the name on the ID that hung from the pale blue lanyard: Cecily Fontaine.

Cecily? Really? And Fontaine? Does she look like a fountain or something? Who came up with such stuff?

“It's starting,” said one of the other girls, a tall, thin, sharp-nosed girl with insanely long legs. Charlene followed her out of the elevator and down a hall to a bar that wasn't open at this hour. There were a dozen young people dressed as she was along with a half dozen other Cast Members dressed in dark blue shorts and white tops. These, it turned out, were the handlers for the characters who were not in on the meeting.

“Okay, so listen up, everyone! This Sail-Away is different today—”

“Just like everything else about this cruise!” said one of the Cast Members. She brought the others to laughter.

The leader acknowledged her with a nod. “Yes. It's true. This passage won't be like anything we've done before. Everything's a little bit different.” She then silenced the girl with a glance; she didn't want other interruptions. “And today's Sail-Away includes the introduction of the DHIs—the Disney Hosts—”

“The Kingdom Keepers!” someone else said. Again, more laughter.

“Yes. They are being briefed separately. Their entry will come after Jack Sparrow, but before Minnie and Mickey. The cue is the end of the song, on the lyrics”—he checked his clipboard—“‘living the adventure.' Does everyone know his or her marks at that point?”

Everyone nodded.

“Does anyone
not
know his or her marks?”

No one raised a hand, though Charlene's was halfway up before she pulled it back down.

“For those of you just joining us today for the first time, we have Danny, Kyle, and Cecily. Raise your hands, please.”

Charlene raised hers and pulled it right back down.

“For today you'll be in the back row. Clara will fill you in. You'll watch her. We won't ask anything too demanding of you just now. Tomorrow's performance is different. We'll integrate you more fully at this afternoon's rehearsal.”

Charlene, like the rest of the Keepers, lived her life with one eye open. Between the OTKs and the OTs themselves, nowhere was safe. She and the others were under what felt like perpetual surveillance. So when the hair on her neck tingled, she peeked to her right and caught the tall, thin girl staring at her.

Green eyes.

The girl wormed a smile at her. Fake and insincere.

Charlene smiled back, equally void of emotion, but her gut twisted.

“We will switch out the DHI models who are on the cruise with us and replace them with their holograms. I'll go over that choreography, and we'll rehearse it with stand-ins in a minute because we want it executed flawlessly. One minute, Captain Jack and his pirates will be in a sword fight with the models. The next, Jack will gain the advantage and go for a killing blow to Finn, one of the DHIs. His sword will pass through the hologram, which should be quite the crowd-pleaser. The hologram is programmed to then battle Jack to stage left and off. It should be terrific fun. So, if there're no questions right now, we'll get started. Let's take it from ‘living the adventure.' On your marks, everyone!”