Search for the Shadow Key

  “Thanks,” Archer muttered. “I feel loads better.”

  He blinked, and the strange, ethereal glow faded. He blinked again, and his vision returned to normal. His room was just as it always had been, and only the door retained its glowing border. It was as if his peripheral vision had magnified and streamlined what he could normally see. “Huh,” Archer said. “Seeing sideways.”

  “Now, you know,” Master Gabriel said. “Use it sparingly, Archer. Quick glimpses, that’s all. Remember what I’ve told you.”

  Archer felt suddenly exhausted. He glanced at his bed and thought it looked like the most inviting place on earth. He could feel the blankets and pillows, and they seemed to call to him. “So tired,” Archer said. “I’ll remember.”

  “Sleep then, Archer,” Master Gabriel said. “Renew your strength in the Dream, and test your new abilities. I am counting on you.”

  Archer’s eyes were closing before the last of Master Gabriel’s form vanished from his room. He was nearly asleep in moments, drenched in that gray twilight where he could still hear things in his room but the sounds weren’t distracting or even distinct. Like having a fan on in the room; after a while, it became white noise. But now, in this hazy, pre-sleep state, everything was like that.

  He was still thinking a little bit, but his thoughts were running, bouncing, and ricocheting off each other. He saw Rigby and Kara walking arm in arm in some kind of tropical garden. Then Kaylie and Buster were sitting on a pier with fishing rods and their legs dangling over the side. And then he saw his bedroom closet. The door was open, and shadow people stood there. No eyes. No features. Just slightly lighter shadows in the darkness of the closet. And they were moving, getting closer to the foot of Archer’s bed.

  There came a shriek. Archer’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped for air. The bifold doors of the closet were shut tight. But the shriek still echoed in his mind. It slowly resolved into a more familiar sound.

  “My cell,” he whispered, seeing the glow on his desk. The ringtone sounded shrilly once more. Archer grabbed it, saw that Amy Pitsitakas was calling, and thumbed the green talk button.

  “Amy?” Archer mumbled. He was still breathing heavy. “It’s almost midnight.”

  “I’m sorry, Archer,” she said. “But something terrible’s happening at the house behind ours, the Gambers’ place.”

  “Gamber?” Archer echoed. Images from elementary school came flooding into his mind. Mr. Gamber had been his favorite teacher. He’d been everyone’s favorite teacher because he did experiments that set off the fire alarm. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know yet,” she said. “But my mom’s checking on them. Archer, there are police cars everywhere. I can see their flashlights in the backyard. I’m really scared.”

  “Is there an ambulance there?”

  “I can’t see. Window’s fogged.” A few squeaky moments later she said, “No, no flashing lights, no ambulance.”

  “That’s a good sign.”

  “You think?”

  “I do,” Archer said. “Besides, if I remember Mr. Gamber well enough, he’ll be taking good care of his family.”

  “I don’t know, Archer. This feels . . . wrong.”

  Archer frowned. He wanted to do something to help. “Should I get my dad?”

  “Hold on,” she said, her voice suddenly whispery and harsh. “I hear something. Archer, there’s someone in my house!”

  “Amy?” Archer said. There was no answer. “Amy, what’s going on? Amy?”

  “Sorry,” she said, returning suddenly. “It was just my mom. I gotta go, Archer.”

  “Wait, just—”

  But she had already ended the call.

  Archer immediately switched on every light in his bedroom. Chills spiking gooseflesh on his arms, he went to the closet and slid open the doors. Clothes, shelves, shoe boxes, etc. Nothing unusual. The shadow figures had seemed utterly real. The shriek too.

  “What was that?” he whispered.

  Archer looked down at his phone, thought about calling Amy back, but eased back into bed instead. He had to get to sleep, had to get Dreamtreading, but how? He was still too wired from the strange experience and Amy’s phone call. That’s when he heard talking coming from the hallway.

  It sounded like Buster, but Archer couldn’t tell what his little brother was saying. He heard a lot of half-mumbled words but could only discern a few: wave, maverick, channel, and rip . . . something.

  “Sleep talking,” Archer whispered. He turned on his side and shut his eyes—for about a half second. His phone rang again, still shocking in the midnight quiet. He snatched up the phone and sat up. “Amy?”

  “Oh, Archer! Someone . . . someone took him!”

  “Wait, wait,” Archer said. “Slow down. Someone took who?”

  “Mr. Gamber . . . that’s why the police were there. Someone took him.”

  “What? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone kidnap an elementary school teacher? He probably just went out for a late-night snack.”

  “No, Archer,” she said. “My mom told me. Mr. Gamber’s truck is still in the driveway, and there were signs of a struggle.”

  Archer’s thoughts spun. He thought for a second he heard footsteps in the hall. But Amy spoke again. “My mom said Mr. Gamber’s wife and kids heard a lot of yelling, but when they checked his office, it was wrecked. And Mr. Gamber was gone. Strangest thing was they said his house showed no signs of forced entry. All the doors and windows were locked up tight.”

  “Okay,” Archer said, feeling the chills again, “that doesn’t make any sense. How’d they get in then?”

  “Archer, I’m really scared. I hope he’s okay.”

  “Me too,” Archer said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t know,” Amy said. “I don’t think so. It’s just a messed-up night. I was having a horrible dream when the sirens woke me up.”

  Horrible dream? So much for Rigby ridding the world of nightmares. Almost like a reflex, he asked, “What was your dream about?”

  “Ghosts,” she said. “At least, I think that’s what they were. There were these shadows reaching out for me and—”

  “YAAAAAH!”

  The yell gave Archer such a jolt that he sent his phone careening across his bedroom floor. But that shock was nothing compared to the horrific crash that came next. Somewhere down the hall, there had been a smack-thump, followed by breaking glass. Archer tore out of his bedroom and found himself a step behind his father, racing to the stairwell. Archer flipped the hall light on as he ran and watched his father stop suddenly at the top of the steps.

  “Buster!” his father cried out, turning the corner and stumbling frantically down the stairs.

  When Archer got to the top, he saw his father cradling Buster’s limp form. Several other images blinked into focus: blood, a broken surfboard, and the wrecked remnants of a family picture that had once hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Call 911, Archer!” his father yelled. “Now!”

  Archer spun on his heels and nearly tripped over Kaylie, who had come up behind him. “Archer, what’samatter? I heard a thump.”

  “Kaylie, uhm, just go back to your room.”

  “Why? But I heard Daddy on the stairs.”

  “Never mind. Come with me to my room,” Archer said, taking her hand and pulling her back to his room. He found his cell on the floor, half covered by a blanket.

  He grabbed it up and heard, “Archer? Archer? What is it? What’s going on?”

  “Amy? I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.” He hung up and dialed 911.

  The next twenty minutes went by in a fearful blur. Keeping Kaylie occupied was one thing, but Archer could barely calm down himself. He bounced back and forth between her and Buster, his mind spinning and his heart racing.

  “He’s breathing,” his father reported. “But he’s shaking. I’m afraid he’s having a seizure.”

  Archer raced back up the stairs. “Is B
uster gonna be okay?” Kaylie asked, her big blue eyes wide and teary.

  “I . . . I think so,” Archer replied.

  The ambulance arrived, and the EMTs took over. They had Buster in a neck brace and on a stretcher in no time. As they wheeled him over the threshold out into the night, Archer’s father stared up the stairs. “Stay here with Kaylie,” he said, his face looking haggard, haunted. “I’ll call you when I can.”

  Archer went to Kaylie’s bedroom window and watched helplessly as the paramedics loaded his kid brother into the back of the ambulance. Kaylie tugged on Archer’s T-shirt. “Is he gonna be okay? He’s not gonna die, is he?”

  “Oh, Kaylie,” Archer whispered, kneeling to look her in the eye. He pulled her into a hug, squishing her stuffed scarecrow doll, Patches, between them. “I think Buster will be fine. He’s got a real hard head.”

  “That’s true,” Kaylie mumbled into his shoulder.

  Archer held her tight and said a prayer. He hoped he hadn’t just lied to Kaylie. He thought about what he’d seen: Buster sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, the shattered family picture, the broken surfboard—broken surfboard? Archer tried to put all the pieces together, but none of it made any sense.

  He’d heard Buster talking in his sleep, heard him yell, and then the crash. What did it all mean?

  Archer picked up Kaylie and brought her into his room. He let her snuggle into the covers while he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his cell phone. There was no way he could fall asleep. Dreamtreading would have to wait.

  Something very strange was happening. Strange and frightening. Both he and Amy seeing shadow people. Mr. Gamber being violently abducted. Buster falling down the stairs. There was a thread tying it all together, Archer felt sure.

  He thought about Buster: how small and vulnerable he looked on that stretcher. Archer prayed again but found himself chased by a creeping thought: that this night might be the last time he’d ever see his brother alive.

  SEVEN

  OLD WOUNDS

  KAYLIE WAS ASLEEP. TURNING OVER AND STIRRING FITFULLY, but asleep. There was no such refuge for Archer. Waiting for his father to call with news about Buster was torture. Over the hours, Archer had whipped off a half dozen texts but gotten no response. Still, he clutched the phone and waited.

  The phone began to feel warm in his hand. At first, he thought it was his imagination. He’d been nervous, holding the phone too firmly in his grip. But the heat intensified rapidly. In an instant, it became a flare of white-hot pain.

  “Agh!” Archer yelped. He dropped his phone onto the bed and shook his throbbing hand.

  A raw red welt smoldered in the exact center of his hand. No way, he thought. Tablets and laptops sometimes got hot, Archer knew, but he’d never heard of a cell phone heating up enough to burn. He glared suspiciously at the phone, half hidden in blankets at the foot of the bed, and wondered if it might be a fire hazard.

  The burn still stung, so Archer used his left hand and carefully picked the cell up by its outermost corner edge. Then, trying not to startle his sleeping sister, he eased off the bed, tiptoed to his desk, and laid the phone on a plate full of potato chip crumbs. He waved his hand back and forth just above the touch screen but felt no radiating heat. He tapped the phone and laid his fingers on the keyboard: nothing. It wasn’t hot. It wasn’t even warm. Archer shook his head and exhaled. It made no sense. But his hand still stung, and the welt was still red and angry.

  Heading for the bathroom, Archer slipped down the hallway and paused at Buster’s room. The bed in there was a mess: sheets and covers strewn about, pillows flung all over, and the mattress itself jutted away from the headboard. Luminous blue clock numbers revealed it to be 4:16 a.m.

  Dad and Buster had been gone since midnight, and yet no word had come from the hospital. Not good news. Archer stepped into the hall bathroom, refusing to look at the stairwell. The water from the sink felt shockingly cold on the burn, but as it continued to run, it became more soothing.

  After a minute, Archer looked at his hand. The welt had shrunk to a reddish-purple pinhole in the very center of his palm, with a corona of little pink tendrils. It felt different too. No longer a continuous, edgy sting, the wound felt more like a spot of sunburn. The surrounding skin had that kind of overstretched discomfort, and it hurt to open his hand wide. Archer snagged a tissue, gently patted his palm dry, and returned to his bedroom.

  Archer stood next to the desk and stared down at the phone. How could a cell phone get hot enough to burn like that? He reached down and let his hand hover over the cell again. Still no heat at all. Maybe it was something electrical. Maybe the battery had given off a rogue shock. Or maybe . . .

  Maybe it wasn’t the phone at all.

  The thought rang like a bell in the fog. Archer didn’t want to think about it, but now that the thought had come, it opened up a cascade of others. It might not even be a burn, he thought. Maybe a spider’s bite. Maybe—

  The phone rang. Shrill and sharp as ever, the sound made Archer jump. He yanked his hand away as if the cell had burst into flame. “Snot buckets,” he muttered. Then he saw who was calling.

  Archer pressed the green button and said, “Dad?”

  The only reply was his father’s brittle whisper: “Archer . . .” followed by weeping, raw and breathless.

  The limousine navigated the suburban neighborhood like a mechanical shark and left a twisted trail of white exhaust in the lingering December cold. The chauffeur behind the dark windshield wore even darker sunglasses, and his chiseled face bore no expression as he deftly maneuvered the slushy streets. Cold as it was outside, the interior behind the chauffeur, the passenger section of the limo, was toasty warm and richly appointed with a forty-inch Internet/TV monitor; a refreshment bar stocked with water, juices, and soft drinks imported from London; and a long, luxurious bench seat.

  On the right side of the seat, Rigby Thames smiled and handed Kara Windchil a business card. “I just ’ad these made up. Tell me what you think.”

  Kara traced her finger across the raised type of the card. “Rigby Thames,” she read. “Dream Inc. President, Chairman of the Board of Directors, Chief Executive Officer, Chief Creative Officer, Chief Technology Officer, and Chief Human Resources Officer.” She coughed. “That’s a lot of officers. Save any for me?”

  Rigby laughed. “Of course, love,” he said. “You’re the Chief Information Officer and Chief Marketing Officer. Not to mention: Chief Keep Rigby from Screwing Up Officer.”

  “The CKRFSUO?” Kara smiled. “That’s too many letters.”

  “But a very important role nonetheless,” he said.

  “The card’s nice,” she said, handing it back to him. “Very professional looking. But why shout out about all the titles you hold?”

  A velvety smooth voice floated back from the front seat of the limo. “Three minutes to arrival, Mr. Thames.”

  “Thank you, Smithers,” Rigby replied, still staring down at his business card. “These titles equal respect, Kara. It’s ’ard enough getting respect from normal adults. Really, it’s no easy thing to get respect from juniors and seniors at school even. It wasn’t until I took care of Guzzy Gorvalec that anyone took me seriously. But in the corporate world, it’s ten times harder. I guess the titles are my way of letting the bullies in business know that I am no one to be trifled with.”

  Kara swept the curtain of dark hair out of her eyes and stared from Rigby to the limo window and back. She said, “Maybe I should get some cards made up, too.”

  “Done,” Rigby said. “You’ll ’ave them by Monday afternoon. Oh, and something else I wanted to show you.” Rigby clicked out of his seat belt and clambered halfway over the backseat. After some rummaging, he slid back to his seat and held something in his hands.

  “A top hat?” she blurted. “Why do you have . . . a top hat?”

  “This isn’t just any old top hat,” Rigby said. With a well-practiced flourish, he twirled the hat from its brim and it came
to rest snugly on his head. “This is a vintage, Victorian-era John Bull gentleman’s top hat. It belonged . . . belongs to my Uncle Scoville, but he’s given it to me.” He tugged once on the brim.

  “But, uhm . . . why?”

  Rigby raised an eyebrow and smiled patiently. “Trademark,” he said. “It’s like Steve Jobs’ black turtleneck or wire-rim glasses. Every technology guru has to have a trademark. This will be mine.”

  Kara wore a vague smile and absently twirled the business card in her fingers as the limousine drove on. Kara and Rigby didn’t speak, but the air was thick with deep thought for the rest of the drive.

  The building that housed Dream Inc. headquarters had once been Washington County’s trendiest restaurant, the home of roasted Rockfish Rockefeller and a spectacular view of Antietam Creek. It still had the view, but now it was a technological fortress surrounded by electrified fences and surveillance towers. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter day and night, and its rear parking area was filled with armor-plated Humvees.

  Rigby and Kara stepped out of the limousine and found a large black umbrella over them, denying the constant sleet. The Dream Inc. logo was understated but stood out tastefully among the angular glass and brushed aluminum that covered most of the building. The letters were modern and very modular, made of sleek black metal that looked wet and were divided horizontally by a bolt of silver lightning: a bold look for a bold company.

  The guards outside, their arms bulging even in oversized black trench coats, nodded at Rigby and Kara as they approached. Rigby gave them each a tip of his top hat.

  Once inside, Rigby and Kara passed by a luxurious waiting room where a few executives sat tip-tapping on their smartphones. Rigby knew a couple of them by sight, billionaires who had already paid a premium fee for Dream Inc.’s unique service and were now anxiously waiting their turns.

  “Any chance Frederick won’t be there?” Kara asked.

  “Frederick doesn’t miss these meetings,” Rigby said. “There’ll be a handful of other shareholders as well.” Rigby paused and turned to Kara when he finally noticed the distaste in her voice. “What’ve you got against Frederick?”