“Not for fieldwork. I could use them as lookouts,” Philby said.
“Done.”
Philby, apparently satisfied with Finn’s solution to the computer problem, mellowed. “The rest of you…four will each take one of the famous caves. The fifth—maybe we give this to Maybeck?—will be our control: he’ll show the Jess sketch to a taxi driver and see where he’s taken. Maybe it overlaps with one of you, maybe not.”
“Maybe we should all do that,” Finn said. “I like that idea.”
“It puts too much faith in the sketch,” Philby said. “Better to cover as many bases as possible.”
“Jess’s drawings have never been wrong,” Willa said.
“But if you talk to Amanda, that’s not the case.” Philby looked Willa in the eye. “Jess gets confused now and then. We have to stay objective, be as statistically accurate as possible. Of the five most popular caves, we cover the top four. Maybeck acts as our control.”
No one looked sold.
“The stolen journal started this,” Philby insisted. “The journal tells us it’s an island cave. This is the only island stop after Castaway, and there aren’t caves on Castaway. Right place. Right time.”
“And if Luowski or another OTK leaves the ship?” Finn said.
“They won’t trust him or anyone to do whatever it is they’re planning. You want something done right, you do it yourself.” Philby squinted, deep in thought. “Okay. A compromise. Maybeck and Willa leave super early. You and Charlene leave next,” he told Finn. “Storey goes last. If an OT or OTK is seen leaving the ship during that time, maybe we change plans. If not, each one of you takes a different cave and I watch for a computer coming back on board.” He paused and said, “Is everyone good with that?”
No one objected—unless you counted Willa’s rolling eyes.
* * *
A blade of bloodred arched above the horizon, absorbed in spots by cumulus clouds, all of it dripping with foreboding. The smells and sounds of land had awakened Greg Luowski as the ship docked; now he climbed down to the deck, peering over the rail to see dockhands and shore workers busy below.
The shiver that ran through him had nothing to do with air temperature; it was instead the recollection of his meeting with Maleficent—the Ice Queen—and how she’d told him he had to “collect one” for her.
“One what?” he’d asked.
But he’d known the answer. Another shiver. He knew “what.” He knew “who.”
His contempt for Finn Whitman knew no bounds. Whitless was the kind of boy Luowski lived to hate: clever, brainy, fast-tongued and slow-footed. His feelings of ill will were multiplied by Amanda’s obvious adoration; she wouldn’t give Luowski the time of day as long as Finn Whitman existed.
Focusing on the task at hand, Luowski attempted to collect his thoughts—a bit like picking up three dozen apples without a basket or bag: the more he gathered, the more he dropped. And so it was that his plans spilled out of his head and over the ship’s rail like confetti, lost to the whims of the wind.
First, he had to get off the ship. He’d deal with the rest later.
Maleficent had made fun of him—something no one got away with. He would show her: he’d pull off this assignment flawlessly, return with the computer she needed. He’d use his accomplishment as a bargaining chip. Let someone else do the other thing. Luowski was no killer. She’d treated him like a thug. She’d see.
Twenty minutes later, he wore a ship hand’s blue coveralls over a pair of NBA shorts and a World of Warcraft T-shirt. A Disney Cruise Lines ID badge hung from a lanyard around his neck. His hands and forearms looked like those of an engine room worker who’d failed to get all the grease off. Crew members were disembarking to the docks. The process of resupplying the ship was well organized and executed: everyone had his or her assignment; they worked in concert. A single player like Greg Luowski was, to the security team scanning the crew as they disembarked, just another player. His ID was legit. He was scanned off and disembarked.
Luowski stepped onto the sands of Aruba and inhaled deeply.
There was work to do.
IN THE BALCONY SEATING of the Buena Vista Theatre, Storey Ming was met by Kenny Carlson, a tall, freckled kid. His sidekick, Bart, looked like a surfer dude.
“They still don’t know?” Kenny said.
“Actually, now they do. You’ve done an excellent job of laying low. But that’s changed. They need lookouts. You’ll be on Wave Phones reporting directly to Philby.”
“Cool,” Kenny said. “We’re ready.”