SIXTEEN

TAKEN

ARCHER FELT SOMETHING WAS VERY WRONG EVEN BEFORE he touched the well, his anchor, and departed the Dream. He awoke in his bed to find Kaylie with an iron grip on his arm, shaking him and crying hysterically.

“Archer!” she howled. “Wake up, now! Oh, please, wake up!”

“I’m awake!” he yelled, jouncing upright in his bed. “Kaylie, what’s going on? I thought you had Dreamtreader training with Master Gabriel.”

“I did!” she cried, her face three shades redder than it should have been. “But when I got back from the Dream . . .”

“What?”

“Dad is gone!”

That was all Archer could get from Kaylie for some time. She continued to sob and wail. Archer hugged her and shushed her and picked up Patches every time she dropped the stuffed scarecrow.

When she calmed down a little at last, Archer asked, “What do you mean Dad’s gone?”

“Somebody took him!”

“Aww, Kaylie,” he said, “don’t get so worked up. I’m sure Dad just went up to the Quik-Mart.”

“His car’s still here,” she said. “And I’ve been waiting an hour.”

Archer didn’t want to set Kaylie off by voicing his thoughts, but he stood up and led her by the hand. He went to the places in the house where his father might likely be found. He wasn’t in the basement on the computer. Archer even cracked open the basement work-side door and called in. There was no answer. He wasn’t in his chair in the den. He wasn’t on the screened-in porch, where he went to smoke cigarettes.

But there on the porch, Archer stopped. There was a travel mug sitting on the table next to his father’s chair. It was three quarters of the way full of coffee, but it had gone cold. The nearby ashtray held remnants of dozens of cigarettes past, but there was one cigarette resting in the corner of the ashtray. It was burned to ash down to the filter.

“See, Archer?” Kaylie said. “He was here. He was here.”

“But where would he go?”

But Archer thought of the answer before Kaylie replied.

“The well.”

It was close to sunup, but not close enough to have much natural light. Archer fetched a large flashlight from underneath the kitchen sink and went back to the porch. Kaylie snuggled her blanket and Patches close and followed Archer through the porch to the outside door. As soon as the door shut behind them, Archer turned on the flashlight.

Kaylie inhaled, making a shrill gasping sound. The little glass table was on its side and shattered. All the deck furniture had been tossed around as if a hurricane had hit. Not likely in December, Archer thought, and he found himself remembering Amy’s phone call about the missing teacher. “There was sign of a struggle,” he whispered.

Archer was torn now. He didn’t know whether to send Kaylie in the house or take her with him. Neither way seemed safe or responsible. He decided she would come. Archer shone the light on the deck stairs that led down into the backyard. They were still snow covered, but there were man-sized footprints in the snow. And there were dozens of other smaller prints, prints he’d seen once before but hadn’t understood.

Archer searched the ground with the flashlight, scanning the beam across the snow and through the clouds of his own breath. The cold didn’t phase him, but he could feel Kaylie shivering next to him. He took her hand and said, “Come on.”

The two of them followed the strange pattern of footprints, large and many small, through the yard, and down the hill. The trail led right up to the well. Archer felt the bottom drop out from his stomach. He had to look over the edge. He had to look down into the well. But he had a dreadful certainty about what he would find.

Kaylie started weeping again. “Did Dad go . . . did he go down there?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m going to look.”

“I wanna see, too.”

“No,” he said, holding her back gently. “No, you let me look first. I mean it, Kaylie. Wait here.”

Through her sniffles and flooded eyes, she nodded.

Archer passed through the phantom vapors of his own frozen breath and approached the well. He swallowed, said a prayer, and then looked over the edge of the well. He trained the flashlight down into the well’s depths . . . and then gasped.

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“You say you were asleep when it happened?” the uniformed police officer asked.

“We all were,” Archer said, rubbing his temples. “Kaylie was the first to wake up.”

“And Kaylie is . . .”

“My sister,” he said. Archer pointed to the long couch in the living room, where Kaylie and Buster sat mutely sipping hot cocoa. “Kaylie woke me up. We woke up my brother, Buster, last. Officer, we’ve already told you all this. Isn’t there something—”

“Tell me more about the well,” he said, still scribbling on his notepad. “You said you suspected he went to the well. Why would you suspect that?”

Archer sighed. “The well was special to my mom. She died eight years ago. Dad often went to the well to think, you know, for quiet time.”

“Even on a snowy night?”

“I don’t know,” Archer said. “It was just a hunch.”

“And you said you went out there looking for your father?”

“That’s right,” Archer answered tightly.

“And you looked into the well?”

“Right,” Archer said. “He wasn’t there.”

“Tell me why you looked into the well again,” the officer said. “Did your father enter the well often?”

“No, of course not,” Archer said.

“Then why look into the well? Wouldn’t it be dangerous for your father?”

“It could be dangerous,” Archer said.

“Was your father mentally stable?”

“What do you mean by that?” Archer exclaimed.

“Just routine questions, young man.” The officer scribbled a few lines on his notepad. “And what did you find when you looked in the well?”

“Ice,” Archer said. “The water in the bottom of the well was all ice.”

“And that’s unusual?”

“I’ve never seen it turn to ice,” he said. “Even when the temperature outside is below zero, seems like the water in there is somehow insulated.”

“But now it’s ice?”

“I already told—”

“Archer!” Amy shouted from the front door. She ran for Archer. Her mother, wrapped in a thick fur coat, elbowed past the police officer to follow her in.

“I am so sorry, Archer!” Amy said, hugging him. “So sorry.”

“This is terrible,” Amy’s mother said. “Do the police have any leads?”

“And who are you exactly?” the police officer asked.

“My name is Cassandra Pitsitakas,” she said, anger simmering on each syllable. “As in Commissioner Pitsitakas. That’s my father, you understand. Now, are you finished with Archer and his siblings?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer said. “Yes, yes, we’re finished . . . for now. But . . .”

“But what?”

“We haven’t been able to reach any next of kin,” the officer explained. “And . . . uh . . . our forensics unit will be all over this house. The kids can’t stay here.”

“Of course they can’t,” Cassandra said. “The very notion! They will come home with me until our fine police force here brings their father back home safe and sound. We have plenty of room. Will that be all right with you, Archer?”

He looked at Amy, who nodded emphatically. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Pitsitakas. Just until my father’s back home.”

“Of course, dear,” she said.

“I need to run up to my room to get a few things.”

“Get whatever you need, Archer,” she said. “I expect your brother and sister might need a few things also.”

She strode over to Kaylie and Buster. “No long faces,” she told them. “Pouting and worry never fixed anything. In our house, hope springs eternal.”

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When the alarm went off the next morning, Archer awoke in a strange room. It took him a few heart-pounding moments to remember. It was the guest room at Amy’s house. I am a guest in their house because my father has been taken. The rage boiled up within him like a geyser, but Archer tamped it down a few notches. He needed to think. To plan.

Archer had ruled out coincidence. It couldn’t be. For his father to go missing just a few days after Archer had confronted Rigby? No, there had to be a connection. One way or the other, Archer would find out what exactly Rigby had done. And Archer would get his father back.

He flicked the alarm to radio mode and listened to the news. The new snow and cold temperatures hadn’t been enough to get the day off from school, so that complicated Archer’s initial plan. He would have to go to plan B. Archer shook his head and got dressed.

An hour later, Archer got off the bus and headed into school. He knew Amy was trailing him at a distance, hoping to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Her mother had tried to convince Archer not to go in at all. He’d just suffered a family tragedy. He’d had very little sleep. He was upset.

All true, Archer thought. Also true that I’m about to do something stupid. Archer didn’t go to his locker. He passed his homeroom by and kept walking. It was near time for the warning bell to ring. That’s my life, Archer thought. Controlled by bells.

He glanced back over his shoulder and, as he’d hoped, Amy was caught in the crowds scurrying to get to homeroom on time. Archer wasn’t scurrying; he was plowing. He hadn’t been looking. He rammed straight into Brett Kiefer, the starting middle linebacker for the Dresden High varsity football team.

“Watch it, Smurf!” Brett bellowed, flexing shoulders that bulged even covered by a thick letterman jacket. “What’s your prob—”

Archer wasn’t sure what happened. Immediately after smacking into Brett, Archer felt a tingling sensation. In his hands, on his shoulders, down his arms, even across his face . . . especially around his eyes—it was like tiny crawling streaks of lightning. And the image of a wolf became crystal clear in his mind. Archer clenched his fists, heard his own knuckles crackle, and glared at Brett.

“Whoa,” Brett muttered, backing away. “Nah, man, it’s cool. It’s all good. My fault.”

Archer blundered on. He had to get to Rigby before the late bell rang. Archer turned down the band hallway. Rigby usually held court next to the trophy showcase there until the bell.

The hallway was jammed, but even so, students seemed to be giving Archer plenty of room to walk. I could get used to this, he thought.

Then Archer saw him. Wasn’t hard. After all, Rigby was one of the tallest kids in the school. Archer blinked. Was he wearing . . . a top hat?

He was. Like the Planters Peanut guy, or maybe more like the Mad Hatter from the Batman comics . . . Rigby was wearing an honest-to-goodness top hat. Archer couldn’t believe it. School had rules against wearing hats indoors, and Rigby Thames wears a top hat. The nerve of this guy, Archer thought as he pressed forward.

Rigby was surrounded by a dozen of his closest suck-ups. Kara was there too. There was no way to do this without making a scene. Probably no way to do this without getting suspended. Archer didn’t care.

Just before he invaded their circle, Archer felt a brief pang of reluctance. It was like a breath of wind through his mind, something telling him not to do what he was about to do. But other images were there too: Kaylie weeping hysterically, the mute distance in Buster’s eyes, the burned-out cigarette in his father’s ashtray, and the footprints toward the well.

Archer burst through the circle of teenagers and rammed his fists into Rigby’s jacket, lifting the larger boy up from the ground and slamming him against the trophy showcase. Someone screamed.

“What did you do?” Archer demanded, spitting the words. “What did you do, Rigby?”

“Put . . . me . . . down, Keaton,” Rigby hissed. “Don’t make me humiliate you in front of your peers.”

Shocked by his own strength, Archer pressed in on Rigby. “I know you did it,” he said. “It had to be you.”

“I . . . ow! Archer, I’m warning you,” Rigby said, lifting a fist full of threat.

“You want to sit with the trophies?” Archer warned. “All I want is my father back. What’d you do with him, huh? What’d you do?”

“Keaton, have you lost your mind?” Rigby bellowed. He twisted free of Archer’s grasp and shoved him back. “Never touch me again.”

“What did you do with my father?”

“Look, Keaton,” Rigby said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A chant of “Fight, fight, fight!” rose up in the hallway. A deep voice somewhere nearby shouted, “Break it up!”

“You’re not fooling me, Rigby, not this time,” Archer said. “My father went missing last night, and I know you have something to do with it.”

“Terribly sorry to hear of your dad,” Rigby said. “But get some rest, Keaton. You look ill. I ’ad nothing to do with it.”

“I said break it up!”

A chill like icy rain spilled down Archer’s back. Archer grabbed Rigby by his jacket lapels and slammed him into the trophy case again. He had to stand on his toes, but he put his face right in Rigby’s face and said, “It was you. You took the Shadow Key. You let the Scath out. You reckless—”

A strong hand took Archer’s shoulder and pulled him away from Rigby. “Break it up, break it up!” Mr. Bohrs commanded. The assistant principal stood between Archer and Rigby, holding his hands out like a traffic cop. “Back off, Keaton.”

“Mr. Bohrs,” Rigby said, “I wasn’t doing anything, and Keaton here comes pushing me around. Is this how things go here?”

“Save it, Thames,” Mr. Bohrs growled. “Seems to me you’ve been suspended for fighting once before too.”

“He’s telling the truth, Mr. Bohrs,” Kara said, appearing by the assistant principal’s shoulder. “Archer just shoved in here and attacked Rigby.”

Archer shot a red-eyed glare at her. “No one asked you, Kara!” he growled.

“Enough of that, Keaton,” Mr. Bohrs said. “C’mon. We have a little trip to take.”

He led Archer to the main office. Archer waited in the administrative conference room for close to an hour. Mrs. Mears, the principal, entered the room, closed the door, and sat down across the table from Archer.

“I’ve been in touch with the Washington County Police Department,” she said. “They told me . . . well, they told me about your father. I’m sorry, Archer. This has to be very tough on you. I want you to know that we—the school—won’t hold this altercation with Mr. Thames against you. You’re under a lot of strain here. But maybe you need to take some time off. Maybe talk to someone.” She nodded to the conference window, and Mrs. Anders, the school counselor, came in.

“Hello, Archer,” she said, and she handed him a business card. “This is the contact info for a very highly recommended teen therapist. She’s especially good with . . . well, with helping us with difficult times . . . or loss.”

“We’ve also been in touch with Mrs. Pitsitakas,” the principal said. “She’s on her way here to pick you up.”

Through it all, Archer said nothing.

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“It’s been a long day,” Mrs. Pitsitakas said. “Buster’s already asleep. You should sleep too.”

Archer stretched and yawned. “I’m worn-out,” he said. “C’mon, Kaylie, we need to hit the hay.”

“Kaylie, you can stay in my room tonight,” Amy said.

“I can?” Kaylie asked, blinking.

“Sure, I’ll show you.”

The three headed up the long staircase. “Amy, your house is huge,” Archer said, gazing at the vast room below and the long hall full of doorways above. There was a grand piano in one corner of the living room; long couches divided the space into a kind of L-shape. Glass tables bordered with gold inlay rested in front of and between the couches, and a dazzling chandelier hung down from the ceiling. “Just huge.”

“Cut the small talk,” Amy said. “C’mere.” Once they were all up the stairs and around the corner, she said, “I know what you’re up to. You’re gonna do that Dreamtreading thing, yep.”

“Shhh!” Archer warned.

Kaylie looked thunderstruck. “She knows?”

“I might know,” Amy said coyly. She winked at Archer.

“She knows a little,” he whispered. “But don’t worry. Amy’s cool.” “I know she’s cool,” Kaylie said. “But I didn’t know she knew.”

“So, I’m right, then?” Amy said. “You’re going Dreamtreading tonight?”

“Yes,” Archer said. “But first we need to talk to our superior, Master Gabriel.”

“Ooh, he sounds cool,” Amy said. “Like a Jedi or a ninja or something. Can I meet him?”

“Uhm, I don’t think so,” Archer said. “Not tonight anyway. He doesn’t like surprises. But listen, Amy. I’m worried.”

“Of course you’re worried. Your father—”

“It’s more than that,” he said. “First, it was Mr. Gamber, then my dad. You told me you thought you saw shadow people in your room.”

“Freaked me out,” Amy said. “I screamed for my mom, but they were gone. I’m not even sure I really saw them.”

“I think you did, Amy,” he said. “I think something really bad is happening. Rigby Thames did something, and things from the Dream are intruding in our world. I want you to be careful, Amy. Sleep with a light on.”

“Will light protect me from the shadow people?” Amy asked.

“Honestly,” Archer said, “I don’t know. All I know is that light drives out darkness. But be careful.”

“I will, Archer,” she said. “I will turn my bedroom into the Kingdom of Bright Light.”