Kingdom Keepers: The Syndrome (6 page)

AMANDA

Mrs. Whitman showed no enthusiasm for my second visit.

“I have nothing more to add, Amanda.”

“This is a friend of mine and Finn’s,” I said, and introduced Mattie by name. Mrs. Whitman didn’t know Mattie, so she didn’t know how odd it was that Mattie
wasn’t wearing gloves. Nodding, Mrs. Whitman said it was nice to meet her—at which point my plan dissolved. Mattie had taken too long to offer her hand to shake. Shaking hands would
have meant making contact, which would have given Mattie the chance to read Mrs. Whitman.

I stood my ground, having no idea what to do next.

“Guests?”

A man’s voice. Mr. Whitman pulled the door open farther, much to his wife’s dismay.

“You’re back from your trip!” I said.

He looked puzzled.

“Your trip to drop Finn off at Vanderbilt,” Mrs. Whitman said. They had not rehearsed. Both were bad at improvising.

“I…yes!”

“So Finn’s here?”

“No, Finn’s not here,” Mrs. Whitman said quickly. “He—”

“I left him,” Mr. Whitman added.

“At Vanderbilt,” I proposed, trying to help them. At this point I’d determined that nothing they were going to say would be the truth. I’d been around adult liars most of
my life. These two were nowhere close to good.

“Amanda, come in, for heaven’s sake,” Mr. Whitman said. His wife’s disapproving look caused him to shrink back slightly.

Mrs. Whitman seemed to punch him.

I reintroduced Mattie. This time she took her cue, sticking her hand out so fast it looked wrong. She and Mr. Whitman shook hands. Mattie’s reads took fractionally longer than a casual
brush or shaking of hands, so there was a second or two during which the other person felt socially uncomfortable. Knowing this, I made a point of trying to get past Mattie and through the door,
pushing her slightly forward and buying her a few extra seconds.

MATTIE

As we entered the Whitman house, the tension wafted off Mrs. Whitman in waves. I had missed my first and easiest opportunity to read her—a handshake—and Amanda was
working a little too hard to create another opportunity.

Mrs. Whitman directed a curt nod my way; her gaze was withering. I didn’t know the lady, but I didn’t need to know her to sense her unease. Her hair was frazzled. A dark blue-gray
shadow draped below her eyes, hinting at too little sleep. I didn’t gather my courage until it was too late to offer my hand.

Still, Amanda remained unfazed. I had to give her props for that. Of course, she had more experience around the Whitman family being that she and Finn were an item.

I could understand why Mrs. Whitman’s earlier dismissal had hurt her. When I’d told Amanda about Luowski’s plan, I wasn’t expecting us to go the parental route. Frankly,
I was expecting some sort of attack on Luowski. But Amanda seemed to think we now had the perfect excuse to pry into Finn’s life. More than anything, I think Amanda just wanted to see Finn
again. But I couldn’t say that out loud—I didn’t need to make life more difficult by upsetting her.

AMANDA

Mrs. Whitman looked feverish by the time her husband showed us to the living room couch.

The living room was painted rose white. A large gilded mirror didn’t belong, though the upright piano and wooden furniture made the room inviting and comfortable. A grouping of studio
family photos surrounded a hand-painted sign that read
HOME SWEET HOME
. The photos were posed and dorky. Poor Finn, to endure that every day, and yet I felt jealous. I
realized I’d judged too quickly—I’d have traded nearly anything to have a wall like that with me in the photos.

Mattie gave me a slight shake of the head: she wasn’t satisfied with her read of Mr. Whitman. At the same time, I could tell that it hadn’t been a total bust.

“How ’bout some popcorn?” Mr. Whitman asked. “I think we’re all out of cookies.”

I elbowed Mattie as Mrs. Whitman stood.

“Please, let me help,” Mattie said.

“That’s all right,” Mrs. Whitman said. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

“No, really, I’d love to.”

Mrs. Whitman was too polite to outright refuse. She grimaced and led the way.

MATTIE

All in all, I knew, Amanda was right. I was the only one who could help find Finn, and we had to help him before someone else could harm him. I had faith that his parents
wouldn’t mind us prying if they knew Finn was on some mind-controlled teen’s hit list.

The Whitman’s living room was quaint; it reminded me of my grandmother’s from so many years ago. But then again, any living room with a couch and a piano would probably invoke the
same feelings. Photos of the Whitmans in rigid poses and similarly hued outfits plastered the wall. Finn’s parents avoided looking at them.

Mr. Whitman cleared his throat and suggested popcorn. It wasn’t what I was expecting, but anything was better than the silence we endured. Mrs. Whitman frowned at her husband, but rose
anyway. Amanda thrust an elbow into my rib cage. I stifled a gasp and glared, but took the not-so-subtle hint.

“Please, let me help,” I wheezed.

“That’s all right,” Mrs. Whitman said. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

“No,
really
, I’d love to.”

Mrs. Whitman flashed me a smile, but it was stretched so tightly I thought her head might pop off. I had a feeling that, on any other day, the offer would have earned major brownie points with
Finn’s mom, but this woman was on a mission to keep Amanda in the dark.

AMANDA

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.