Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome

by Ridley Pearson

I made small talk with Mr. Whitman. It took me a minute to realize he was just as upset by our visit as was his wife, but he was far less confrontational. We both knew his lame excuse for Finn’s absence had failed miserably.

  “How long are you back in Orlando?” he asked.

  “For as long as it takes,” I answered.

  He didn’t have a comeback, but I could hear his brain screaming.

  Dropping a bombshell is all about timing. I tried to wait just the right amount of time. I said, “For as long as it takes to see Finn.” I think he stopped breathing. “And the other Keepers, too. They’ve all stopped communicating. Did you know that?”

  “Finn isn’t answering your texts?” He said it so convincingly. “I can hardly believe that.”

  “No. It’s complicated.”

  “Sounds like it.” He wormed his hands between his knees. “Maybe the others are all together somewhere without cell coverage. If he lied to me about spending time at the college and is instead off with the Keepers, he won’t like it….” His voice trailed off.

  “Mr. Whitman, you know I’m on your side, right? That I’d do just about anything to make sure they’re all okay? And if they’re not okay, then I’d get the Imagineers or whoever’s necessary to help make it right. You know that, don’t you? You trust me?” I came off whiny, gave myself a C-. I could have done much better if I’d kept my feelings out of it and gone with a more analytical approach. But it was me, and it was Finn, and there was no way to act beyond a certain point.

  “You’re what, seventeen, eighteen, Amanda?”

  It was rhetorical and I felt no obligation to respond.

  “You mean well. Duly noted. Sometimes things that start one way end another. Finn’s going off to college. This Disney thing? It’s over. I’m sure he made some wonderful new friends, including you, but you’ll look back someday and realize you only remember, you only talk with two or three of your friends from high school. Maybe a dozen from college. It doesn’t seem like that now, I know. Finn is moving on. I suggest you consider doing the same.”

  “Are you trying to break up with me for him? What exactly are you saying? That Finn’s done with me? That friends forget each other that quickly? Do you have any idea how close we are? All of us? Do you know what we’ve been through?”

  MATTIE

  I followed Mrs. Whitman into the kitchen. Without a glance in my direction, she pawed through the pantry for some bags of popcorn, reappearing with two bags of “movie theater butter” style. I nodded in approval. At least she knew how to shop.

  “Can you just pop these in the microwave?” Mrs. Whitman said with feigned cheeriness.

  I was growing more anxious by the second. I’d have to read her soon, but I suspected the news would be more difficult to bear than a normal reading. What else would have a former rocket scientist at wit’s end?

  I took the bag from Mrs. Whitman’s outstretched hand and tried to brush fingers, but she pulled her hand away quickly. She didn’t know my secret, so I chalked the gesture up to nerves. Quickly shucking the plastic wrapper, I put the bag in the microwave on the popcorn setting, turned to face Mrs. Whitman, and cleared my throat. It’s easy to make a connection when the target is distracted by conversation.

  “So, college? That’s a big deal.” I mentally smacked myself for the lame conversation starter, but I had to go with it now.

  “Well, yes it is,” Mrs. Whitman said.

  From the brief snippets that Amanda had told me, I knew his parents were more involved than most. Not in the breathing-down-your-neck kind of way, but Finn had a good relationship with his family. He either would have shared his experiences or his mom would have grilled him about them.

  “Must be hard on all of you.” I racked my brain for more questions, but none surfaced. Mrs. Whitman was not making conversation easy; it was like bobbing for apples. I chose to believe that she didn’t always act this way. Amanda had said Finn had a cool family. I rocked back and forth on my heels and avoided looking at Mrs. Whitman.

  Just as another question formed in my mind, Mrs. Whitman turned her attention elsewhere, away from me. She opened a drawer roughly and scanned its contents and took out two bowls. She inspected them, probably for dust, and decided they needed a rinse. I crossed the distance of the room and tried to grab the bowls from her, mumbling something about helping, hoping we would brush fingers. No such luck. The loud, persistent beeps of the microwave drew Mrs. Whitman away. She muttered something about the popcorn being burned, but when she opened it, it was perfect. I sighed, realizing this was going to be more difficult than expected.

  AMANDA

  Mattie and Mrs. Whitman appeared from the kitchen. Finn and Philby had been in this house once, plotting out how Mrs. Whitman could aid the Keepers. Something had changed all that. Mattie and I were pariahs.

  Mattie did a brilliant job of shooting me a look to let me know she had not read Mrs. Whitman. Although Mrs. Whitman brought out two bowls of popcorn, she didn’t appear interested in the food. Connecting her hand with Mattie’s was apparently up to me.

  So I played the klutz. It wasn’t much of a stretch; when I’d been about thirteen I couldn’t move without breaking something. I sat forward to grab some popcorn and knocked the bowl to the carpet. I hated doing it.

  Mattie was right on it. She waited for Mrs. Whitman to lunge to catch the bowl and then she grabbed her wrist. Popcorn and bowl did a slow motion dance, spilling. Mrs. Whitman’s head snapped toward Mattie at the moment of contact.

  Some people are more sensitive than others. I should have suspected that a woman as brilliant as Finn’s mom would have heightened sensitivity.

  She looked at Mattie as if Mattie had cussed. Horrified. Angry. Unforgiving. If they’d been boys, a fight would have broken out.

  One of the things that prevented that fight was that Mrs. Whitman could have no way of knowing what had just happened to her. She only knew that something had happened. She’d been robbed, her mental pocket picked, yet she had no idea what had happened or what, if anything, the thief had taken.

  Mattie, an experienced reader, gave no indication that any of Mrs. Whitman’s defensiveness was justified. The three of us shoveled the popcorn back into the bowl. Mrs. Whitman went for a Dustbuster. Mr. Whitman was munching away nervously.

  We took the hint, said our good-byes, and left. We were barely to the street when Mattie said, “It’s bad. Really bad.”

  MATTIE

  A dozen unsuccessful attempts later, Mrs. Whitman and I returned to the living room. We were greeted by a very rigid Mr. Whitman and a very red-faced Amanda. I sucked in air and widened my eyes at Amanda. I hoped that it looked more like a signal and less like an agitated puffer fish. We couldn’t leave until we uncovered the truth about Finn, but the odds of that happening were decreasing by the second. The longer we stayed, the weirder things got.

  Amanda tilted her head down a fraction of an inch, and I knew she understood. Mrs. Whitman offered a bowl of popcorn to her husband, and then extended a bowl to Amanda. Amanda reached a hand out, but didn’t tighten her grip on the bowl. Kernels flew into the far corners of the room as it fell.

  I was done with subtle. It was now or never. When Mrs. Whitman made a move to pick up the popcorn, I reached out and grabbed her wrist.

  Finn, I thought, homing in on what I was about to see.

  Images and sounds swirled around in my mind before I ironed them out and made sense of the jumble. Memories began to play before me like snippets of a slideshow. Finn lying in bed, his face pale. Creases that had not been on the Whitmans’ faces before, now etched permanently into their skin as they argued. Mr. Whitman yelling things about doctors and comas while Mrs. Whitman tried to convince him that she knew better.

  And she did. This was not a coma. Grief snaked around my heart, and then pulled tight. Weighing it down was sadness and anger and fear. They were Mrs. Whitman’s emotions, but they felt as real as if they were my own.

  The images slowed. M
y entire body felt drained. Feeling another person’s emotions takes its toll. When I am reading someone, my eyes may be open, but I can only see the target’s thoughts.

  As my sight returned, I saw the horror plain on Mrs. Whitman’s face. She might not have understood, but she knew something was up. I had to give her credit for being sharp.

  But there was no time to worry. The truth was worse than anything Amanda or I had suspected—or even imagined.

  Finn was suspended in Sleeping Beauty Syndrome.

  AMANDA

  Mattie and I were soon to go different ways—I would head to Wanda’s; she, to the apartment above the church—and were therefore headed to different bus stops. As I walked her through a park to reach her stop, we discussed her reads of Mr. and Mrs. Whitman.

  “You know when you’re afraid to tell somebody something because you have no idea how they’ll react?” She sounded genuinely concerned.

  “That is not a good way to start this discussion,” I said. “Out with it, Mattie.”

  “Finn is in a coma. The Syndrome.”

  I stopped walking, catching Mattie by surprise. She took a couple steps back to rejoin me.

  She said, “His mom knows it’s Sleeping Beauty Syndrome. His dad has argued with her. He wants to take him to the hospital.”

  “No!” When a DHI is stuck in a crossed-over state, the effects of any medical treatment performed on the sleeping subject are transferred to the DHI. Pain. Stimulation. Drowsiness.

  Mattie jumped back. “Hey! Easy.”

  I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt like I had a food bubble in my throat. I’d been anticipating something bad, yet I was unprepared for the awfulness of the truth.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “It’s not like I interrogated them! When I read, I catch a few glimpses. I saw Finn in bed. I heard some arguments. It happens so fast—no, I’ve never been able to explain this to anyone. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “A couple days at least,” I said. “He stopped answering my texts.”

  “Mr. Whitman wants the doctors. Wants him fed, whatever it is they do to coma people.”

  “They can’t do that. I’ll have Wanda call the Whitmans,” I said.

  “Yeah, and say what?”

  It wasn’t Mattie’s voice. It was deep—but trying to sound deeper than it actually was. I spun around. There on the path, the three of us surrounded by only trees and benches, stood a boy.

  Greg Luowski had grown, which I would have said was impossible. Were there bigger physical specimens than Greg? Of course. But Greg had filled out; he looked like a different kid. Or not a kid at all. A giant of a human being. His upper arms were probably the size of my thighs. I’d heard he was getting a full ride at Florida State. Looking at him, there was no reason to doubt it. A guy his size wouldn’t need much athletic skill to tackle his opponents, and yet Luowski had the reactions of a cat and the speed of a jackrabbit.

  I’d wondered why he’d stayed on the bus after Mattie read him. Now I was betting he’d only gone one more stop, had watched us heading into the Starbucks, and had likely been following us ever since. Part of me didn’t believe that, because I’d taken precautions and I was good at taking precautions. Then I realized Luowski had been watching Finn’s house. How thrilled he must have been when we came along.

  “Get lost, Greg.” At one point I’d been certain he was crushing on me, had hated Finn because of it. I didn’t know if I still possessed that kind of pull or power over him, but I had to try.

  “You two are the ones looking lost.”

  In fact, there was a lane bisecting the park. Mattie and I backed up to get closer to it. There were no cars on it, but if one came along we could cry out for help.

  Greg was no National Merit Scholar. He tended to quote the latest villain from the newest action film. He learned their lines, practiced their postures, and then allowed them to inhabit him. A person could almost not take him seriously, except for his size and the dramatic green eyes Maleficent had bestowed upon him. The Keepers had thought the green eyes were contact lenses—Greg wasn’t the only kid in school to suddenly change his original eye color. Maybe they started out as lenses; maybe they still were, but they didn’t look it. They looked terrifyingly real, and his green gaze sent both Mattie and me stumbling back in fear.

  “We’re fine, thank you,” Mattie said.

  “Stop where you are!”

  “No,” I said, continuing to back toward the park lane.

  Lousy Luowski dared not come too close. He understood my ability to push. If he made a move, it would be on me to stop him. He didn’t know Mattie well. Didn’t know whether or not to fear her.

  “We need to have a little talk,” he said in his best cinematic tone.

  “I’ve always liked talking to you, Greg. You know that.” Back to testing him, seeing if any fragment of the crush remained. Boys get bigger. Boys grow up. But many carry their crushes with them, just like girls do.

  “Tell me what’s up with Witless.”

  “You know I don’t like you calling him that.” I could charge him and push as I ran. Risky, but if I was successful he’d sail away like a grocery bag in the wind.

  “I don’t care what you like.”

  So much for the old crush. He struck me as an old, ornery dog—one with all had its teeth. I had no desire to tangle with him.

  Mattie took several steps back. He looked at her with a flicker of recognition, but it was gone just as quickly.

  “I haven’t seen him, Greg. Haven’t spoken to him, either. I can’t believe you’d hurt us, hurt a pair of girls, but bring it on. I haven’t seen Finn. Period.”

  “I don’t much mind hurting anything or anyone,” he said. “Whitless included.”

  “It’s over,” Mattie said. “You know that, right? You know what happened in Disneyland? You’re not like one of those soldiers who think the war’s still going, are you?”

  A disturbing snarl twisted his face. A secretive, perverse smile, full of contempt.

  “Finn said you had changed,” I blurted. “That you’d figured stuff out. That you’d realized the things they were asking of you—”

  “Shut it!” He took a step forward, a mistake that delighted me. One or two more, please. I had to use his anger as bait. “He can’t change things.”

  “He said you, the real Greg, was still in there somewhere, trying to get past the green-eyed Greg. We can help with that, you know. The magic in the Kingdom is only stronger now. Since the victory.”

  A nearly identical self-confident snarl blinked across his face. I felt cold. Nauseated. I had no idea what he meant about Finn not being able to change things, but combined with his claim that he wanted to hurt Finn, it struck a chord of panic in me.

  “I know what you’re doing.” He took another step. Actually, he was confirming my hunch that he had no idea.

  “Talking?” I said.

  “Trying to communicate?” said Mattie.

  He moved with astonishing speed, grabbed Mattie in a chokehold, and dragged her back a step. “Do your thing,” he said to me, “and she goes with me.”

  I looked around. “Greg. This is a public sidewalk. Two cars just went by. Three. How smart is this?”

  He wore a T-shirt, meaning his inner elbow was touching Mattie’s neck. I hoped that explained her strangely fluttering eyelids. She was reading him—not a touch-read, but a long, deep read. Like settling in with a good book.

  A car drove by too fast on the deserted park lane. I turned. It screeched to a stop. Two college boys jumped out.

  “Hey!” the driver hollered, running down the path.

  Luowski dumped Mattie, turned, and sprinted away. The boys slowed as they reached us.

  “You okay?” the driver asked.

  “We are now. Thank you!” I nodded vigorously.

  The other boy was holding Mattie by the shoulders. “Did he hurt you? Do you need to go to the hospital? We can take you to the emergency room.”
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br />   “I’m good,” she said, rubbing her neck.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know him?” the driver asked. He pulled out his phone, presumably to call the police.

  “I do. I’d rather not,” I said, looking at his phone.

  “Because?”

  I considered my words carefully. “I have issues with the authorities.”

  “Me too,” Mattie said.

  The driver smirked and chuckled. “Yeah. Well, me too, for that matter. But you just got mugged. That should be reported.”

  “We were in school together a couple years ago,” I said. “He was the class bully. He plays tough, but he’s harmless.” I wasn’t a terrific liar.

  “He didn’t look harmless.”

  “Not at all,” the other boy said.

  “Can we take you somewhere? Drop you off?”

  “Could you? I mean, are you sure?” said Mattie.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “We’re good.”

  Mattie wasn’t going to challenge me. Neither, it turned out, was this boy.

  “So, you live around here?” he said.

  “Thanks for helping,” I said. “I really mean it. You saved us.”

  “No problem.” At least he could take a hint.

  Mattie and I thanked them repeatedly. They asked for our phone numbers. We declined.

  As soon as they’d driven off, Mattie turned to me, ashen as a ghost.

  “He—” she began, struggling to speak.

  “Did he hurt you?” I stepped toward her. She shook her head.

  “The whole time he was choking me, I was reading him. He believes Finn and the others are trying to change something. Amanda…” Her eyes were pleading. “He’s going to hurt Finn, really hurt Finn. I mean, really! After running into us, he was panicked, because he’d planned to do it tonight.”

  I stumbled. Mattie caught me, and I pulled gently away—I didn’t want her reading me, too. I had my privacy to protect.

  “We have to warn everyone,” I muttered. “Wanda and I can do it. We’ll meet tomorrow—you and me. We’ll get through this.”

  “The thing is…he’s on orders. Luowski’s on orders.”