Austin silently navigates the car back to the road as Philby watches coils of gray-black smoke billow from the pyre. Out of that smoke flies a single raven with a five-foot wingspan. It circles once, dives for the moving car, and comes within a few feet of Philby’s window before rising again. Then it flies off to the southwest—the direction of Disneyland.
All but Austin watch it go.
“That’s hers,” Philby says.
Neither Willa nor Brooke has to ask who he means.
* * *
The steel structure housing Disneyland’s trains looks as if it covers several acres. Inside, six rows of train cars and locomotives span its width, some polished and perfect, others disassembled for maintenance. It’s longer than a football field, with a gray-painted floor as clean as a freshly scrubbed hallway. Lit by both electricity and skylights, the polished paint sparkles, the glass glimmers.
One of the Cast Members recognizes Finn, and fawns over him in that odd way all the Keepers have had to get used to. The guy introduces himself as Craig. He couldn’t be nicer, telling Finn how his kids had been dying for the DHIs to finally arrive in Disneyland; they were part of the lottery offered to win the first DHI guiding experience when the system was still in beta. When the moment is right, Finn asks if he might have a look around. Craig is delighted.
Throughout the early going, Finn’s looking for grease or oil. He’s disappointed by the cleanliness of the place. Even the disassembled train cars look like museum pieces on display.
“Is there a place you grease them?” he asks Craig.
“Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Oil. Grease. Somewhere I might get my shoes dirty.”
“The greasiest old girl here is Lilly,” Craig says, and leads Finn to the back of the warehouse, where the multiple maintenance tracks merge into a single line heading out into the park. It’s slightly darker here, and the famous open-sided passenger cars are densely crowded together, with barely enough room to walk between the lines. The only way to access the cars in the middle of the array is to climb up and down, passing through the cars in the outer rows. Finn and Craig have gone through several cars before Craig’s phone acts like an intercom, summoning him to a meeting.
“Look, this’ll only take a few minutes,” he says apologetically. “Have a look around. Lilly Belle’s at the back of the line, one track over.”
“So not this track, the next?”
“Correct. We’ve rebuilt her, but she’s been known to cry a little.”
Finn looks at the man curiously.
“Her wheel journals.”
Finn nods as if he understands.
Craig pats him on his back. He’s surprised. “So…at the moment you’re not…?”
“No,” Finn answers. “This is the real me.”
“Pleasure.”
“Same.”
Craig climbs back down out of the car and is gone. Finn exits in the opposite direction, then grabs a rail to pull himself up and through the next passenger car. On the other side, he immediately spots Lilly Belle.
Unlike the open-sided passenger cars, Lilly Belle has the walls and windows of a real caboose. She has been impeccably restored, every detail spit-polished. Her tongue-in-groove paneling is painted a shiny burgundy with cherry trim and glossy black ironwork. Carved gold lettering proclaiming DISNEYLAND RAILROAD arcs across her side above the win-dows. She looks like a car from the Hogwarts Express.
Finn approaches cautiously. He sees no puddle of oil, no slick of grease. That alone should be enough to dissuade him from entering, but he’s drawn to climb Lilly Belle’s steps and face the impressive cherrywood door, which opens to reveal a miniature Victorian parlor with chairs and a couch all covered in red velvet and facing in toward the center. The drapes are pulled, dulling the luster of the interior’s surfaces. Finn makes out an inlaid walnut Queen Anne end table sitting near him, below one of six large windows that run the length of the car on either side. The red carpet matches the furniture, with twisting gold ivy and heraldic crests woven into its design. Even in the gloom, Finn can see that the space is truly befitting of royalty.
“Well, well,” a voice cackles from the dusk.
Finn jumps at the sound. Sitting on a settee at the far end of the car opposite him, unmoving, is Cruella de Vil. Her white fur coat, black dress, and black-and-white hair stand out in sharp contrast to the overwhelming red of the car’s decor.
“Nice to see I’ve still got it,” she chortles. “You hang around with these others for too long and you get discouraged.” She bats her eyes, their lashes as long as the bristles on a barbecue brush, and waves her turquoise cigarette holder in Finn’s direction. The pink cigarette is unlit, Finn notices; otherwise, he would have smelled the smoke.
Finn can’t catch his breath. There was a time when he could somehow even push his mortal self briefly to all clear—a feat he has never understood—but he’s out of practice.
“I think you should leave,” Cruella says, “before something bad happens.”
Finn spots a small stack of used paper plates and plastic sporks beneath her chair. She didn’t just get here, that’s for sure. The closed drapes make sense now, as does the car’s musty smell.
“Why can’t you children just play in the backyard or something?” Cruella moans. “You’re such a bother.”
As adrenaline floods his bloodstream, like jolts of electricity pulsing through him, Finn sees red—red that has nothing to do with the car’s color scheme. Without thinking, he steps forward and grabs a porcelain vase of fake flowers, intending to hurl it at her—only to find the vase glued to the end table. He staggers back. But it’s only a momentary setback. Blinded by rage and his instinctual desire to bring this woman to justice for Wayne’s death, Finn races the length of the car. Before Cruella has time to react, he has her by the throat. She retches, clawing at his face; Finn can feel the exceedingly long fingernails through her scarlet satin gloves.
But Finn extends his arms, locks his elbows, and leans back. His vision hazed by bloodlust, he doesn’t pause to contemplate his actions for a second. He squeezes tighter, and tighter still.
“Kid!”
Finn spins his head back to see a paralyzed Craig at the far end of the car. In his moment of distraction, Cruella slaps Finn across the face with so much force, he hears his neck crack. He loses his grip, staggers, falls.
“Who the…What the…?” Craig shouts.
Cruella steals out the car’s rear door, with Finn following close behind.
* * *
“Are you kidding me? It’s called Oil Field Road?” Austin says from behind the wheel. Their car looks as if it has been tarred and feathered by the devil himself. The wipers have carved twin apertures through the goo, affording the only clear line of sight the four kids have.
Austin turns onto a paved road bordered by expanses of cocoa powder–like dirt, dotted with oil rigs that look like giant primitive birds endlessly dunking in rhythm.
“Yeah, I know,” says Brooke. “Lame. But at least we found some.”
“Where to?” Austin asks. “Back to campus would be a good answer.”
Philby rolls his window up and down repeatedly, trying to scrape it clean. Then, abandoning the effort, he simply leaves the window down in order to see. Willa matches him.
“We’ll know it by sight,” Philby says. “Start high and get an overview. We’ll work our way down to the various wells.”
“There’re so many!” Brooke says.
“And we have no idea if these are the right ones,” Willa adds.
“Soil composition tells us they’re strong candidates,” Philby says, reminding her.
“And those ravens trying to stop us,” Willa says, nodding. “We can’t forget those.”
“I will never forget them,” Brooke says. “I’ve read about what you guys do. I’ve heard the stories. But let me tell you something: Being right there, a part of it? It was terrifying.”
�
��Well, I have not read or heard what you guys do,” Austin says, “so what do you do?” He’s trying to look brave for Brooke, but wins only an apologetic look from her.
“We…fix things,” Willa says. “At least we try.”
“Like oil wells?” Austin asks skeptically.
Willa glances toward Philby, silently seeking his approval for what she is about to say. “Listen, if we’re right about the oil well, about Tia Dalma, then there’s no telling what to expect here. You guys understand that, right?”
Brooke nods. Austin’s head swings side to side.
“What Willa means,” Philby says, “is that if things go like they did back there, you need to let her and me handle it. Okay, Austin?” Philby leans forward to make eye contact with Austin in the rearview mirror. “We’ve dealt with these…things…before, and they can be super-dangerous.”
“I kind of think you’re pranking me,” Austin tells Brooke. “But that bird thing—I mean, how did you do that? That was awesome!”
“If either of you got hurt, it would be bad for you, for us, for Disney,” Willa says. “Okay?”
“Got it,” Brooke says. When Austin fails to agree, she pokes him in the leg.
“So Disney’s behind this? Like special effects or something?”
“You’ve got to promise,” Philby says.
Austin’s silence produces an awkward moment. He steers the car up a hill through two hairpin turns and arrives at a large sandlot with a couple of shuttered trailers.
“You’re pranking me! A fraternity hazing? Is this because I wouldn’t pledge?”
“No cars. There’s no one here.” Philby pops open the door and climbs out. He walks the perimeter of the lot, joined first by Willa, then Brooke and Austin.
“Amazing,” Brooke says. She directs this to Austin, disappointment coloring her words.
There must be seventy or more oil rigs, all pumping. Narrow paved service roads twist around the contours of the hills, but mostly the fifteen acres they’re looking at is sand and scrub vegetation—dwarf trees and chest-high shrubs.
“There!” Philby says, pointing to some equipment a little way below them on the hillside. “That’s the one we want. Those extra machines could be for injection.”
“There’s a pickup truck,” Willa says.
“Yeah. Stay low.”
They all scramble down the rocky slope to the next level area of sand and dirt, hunching over and staying in the scrub, using it as cover. The footing is inconsistent and the going tricky. Philby motions for Brooke and Austin to stay put. He and Willa move forward, closer to the machinery.
“Too many of us,” Philby whispers. “We don’t need a parade.”
“They’re helping. Be nice,” Willa replies.
They continue another twenty yards. Philby glances back to make sure Austin has not followed. “Wait,” he says, stopping Willa in her tracks. Brooke is crouching where they left her. Austin is not.
Willa tugs on Philby’s sleeve and points out a lumberjack of a man, previously hidden by an open panel on the side of the equipment. He’s well over six feet tall, broad shouldered, with a full red beard. He taps one of the dials and makes notes on a clipboard.
Philby scans the scrub for signs of Austin and finds him squatting on the opposite side of the lot, straining to reach into one of the mountain mahogany bushes.
“Idiot,” Philby hisses.
Willa spots Austin. “He’s okay.”
“No, he’s not!” Philby’s anger gets the better of him, and he raises his voice.
The worker leans back, swinging the open panel out of his way. He moves stiffly, as if in pain, his head and neck swiveling mechanically atop his massive shoulders. He peers through squinted eyes directly at Willa and Philby, who remain stone still. The worker looks at them—through them—without any indication of seeing them.
The sound of breaking twigs turns the man’s attention in the direction of Austin, who has leaned so far forward, he’s fallen into the bush.
“Help—you?” the worker calls.
Austin’s mistake is that he runs. Or tries to. He struggles free of the bush that claims him, calling out, “Brooke! Hit it!”
“Hey!” the worker hollers, moving toward Austin. The boy scrambles up the short hill to the parking lot above with Brooke following, drawing the worker in their direction. “You!” the man shouts.
Willa looks back at Philby—but he’s gone. Searching with her eyes, she finally catches sight of him behind the open panel, studying the dials. The worker spins around and sees Philby as well.
“Don’t—touch—that.” The man needs only three strides to reach Philby and take him by the arm. “What’s—going on—here?” His words are disjointed and robotic.
Willa is getting to her feet, but Philby’s eyes tell her not to. She cowers lower in the brush.
“School!” Philby says. “A school project on the environment!”
The man loosens his grip, but does not let go.
“So…what’s with the other…guy taking…off like that?”
“We don’t exactly have permission to be here,” Philby says. “But you’re a big guy…with a strong grip.”
“Sorry—’bout that.” The man loosens his hold—then squeezes tighter. “What kind—of environmental—camp? Anti-…fracking?” He looks at the panel and back to Philby. “What are—you and your—friends up to?”
A car engine starts in the upper lot, briefly distracting the worker. Philby breaks free and takes off.
“Go!” he shouts.
He reaches Willa and tugs her along. They’re running down the slope through cypress, coastal sage shrub, and scrub oak, the worker close behind.
“You—come—back…” The worker stumbles, falls. Then he’s back on his feet as if catapulted up, flaming mad.
Brooke’s friend’s car appears to their right, motor racing. Philby spins out in front of the car as Austin brakes to a screeching stop. Willa’s in. Philby’s car door is still open as Austin guns it and speeds off.
“Fracking!” Philby hollers, too loudly for the car’s interior. Only then does he realize he’s sitting on Brooke’s lap. Willa has the backseat all to herself.
“And there’s this,” Austin says, reaching into his pocket. “I found it in the bushes.”
He pulls out a stumpy voodoo doll made of twigs and twine.
* * *
Finn pursues Cruella down the narrow aisles formed by the train tracks. She’s headed for the back of the building a short distance away.
Finn is not guided by thought or planning, but something more primitive. He snatches a wrench from a portable workbench sitting near a partially disassembled train car, reduced—or is it elevated?—to the level of a caveman with his club. He’s a faster runner than she. The distance between them closes quickly.
Cruella’s fur coat sweeps behind her. She hasn’t surrendered her cigarette holder, which she holds like a runner’s baton. Reaching an exit door, she spins and shoots Finn a look that should stop him cold. Instead, it eggs him on. He wants her head on a stake.
Her coat is snagged in the closing door. Finn yanks the door open and swings his wrench, only to cleave air. Cruella has abandoned her coat, but is still wrapped in the ermine-trimmed mink stole she has been wearing underneath as she scurries on, trotting like a trained pony in her high heels. Layers of fur—so Cruella.
Finn is a matter of steps away when the dogs appear.
They come as a single wave out of the landscaping by the fence. They are not Dalmatians, but mutts and street dogs, savage and hungry, with wild eyes and dangling pink tongues. There must be two or three dozen, their wet noses aimed at Finn, their legs propelling them at ferocious speed. Finn is not going to outrun the dogs. They’ll tear him limb from limb.
Finn’s one chance is a passing golf cart. Its driver yanks the wheel away from the oncoming pack, away from Finn, who hurls the wrench at Cruella de Vil, several feet ahead. The heavy tool rotates end over end, li
ke a prehistoric bone weapon hurled at a fleeing deer.
Finn has no time to see if the wrench connects as he dives, catching a metal rod that supports the golf cart’s roof. He tightens his fingers around it, is lifted higher and slammed onto the rear-facing seat.
The cart driver regains control as the lead dog leaps and lands atop Finn. The driver slams on the brakes. Finn and the dog smash into the seat back, but Finn holds on while the dog cannot. As the cart bumps, the hound is sent flying out the open back of the cart, cutting the legs out from under the advancing pack. Dogs go down like bowling pins. The cart races off.
Finn looks to where he last saw Cruella. She couldn’t possibly run fast enough to be out of sight, yet she’s not visible. Only as he lowers his eyes does he see a mass of black-and-white fur and realize it’s the Overtaker he was chasing, collapsed in a heap. The white ermine trim of the stole is stained red. The bloodstained wrench lies alongside.
What’s black and white and red all over?
The cart turns sharply left, then right, as it follows the train tracks toward the park. Finn, sweating and out of breath, sits alone on the rear-facing seat, his hand held over his brow, his eyes searching.
There’s nothing to see but a pack of crazed dogs scattering in all directions, the leader limping painfully and slowly toward where Cruella fell.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON IS a solemn occasion. The Keepers board a van to go to Wayne’s memorial, dressed in the formal clothes they’ve pieced together from the studio’s wardrobe department.
The van’s driver is a Cast Member not known to them, a woman who looks to be nearing retirement. Philby asks her to turn up the radio; the kids huddle together toward the van’s middle seat, and conference in whispers.
Philby goes first, describing the search for the oil rig, which ended with the discovery of a voodoo doll. To punctuate his point, he pulls the doll from his suit coat pocket; it’s passed around, eliciting varying degrees of shivers from those holding it.
Finn follows with his discovery that Cruella de Vil is living or plotting inside the luxury of Lilly Belle, and his hurling the wrench at her. “I know this may sound stupid,” he says, “but I didn’t mean to hurt her. I mean, I did—I wanted to hurt her. But when it was over, I felt awful. Like two wrongs, you know? If they turn us into them, then who’s won?”
Kingdom Keepers VII Page 32