Travis paused for a moment, his heart rising like a frightened pigeon. There was just no doubt about it. It was Eyebrows. And he was pointing right at Travis.

How does he even recognize me? Travis wondered, the camera still raised to his eye.

But there was no time to figure out how. Eyebrows was scowling and beginning to move around the square in Travis’s direction. There was another man with him, and he was headed around the square in the other direction.

There was no time to ask questions. Travis knew he had to get out of there.

He stepped backwards and turned, but there was no exit behind him–only a long walk to another temple, and no visitors there.

His best bet was the crowd. But to get back amongst the people, Travis had to go straight ahead.

The pigeons were landing again by the thousands, the old woman dumping out another large bag of broken bread. The clamouring sound of the birds was enormous. The crowd of tourists was growing.

Travis checked the sides of the small square. Both men had their eyes fixed on him and were circling toward him, sticking to the outer edges of the square so they could skirt around the loose circle of tourists.

Travis had no choice.

Like the small child, he broke straight for the centre. The pigeons exploded, rising in terror, their thousands of wings blurring Travis’s view as he raced past the old woman toward the other side.

Some of the people had covered their ears, the sound was so great. Others were making faces at him, as if disgusted that he would be so thoughtless. But there was no time for Travis to stop and explain.

He allowed himself only one backward glance as he headed back toward the main temple area.

Eyebrows was running! And right behind Eyebrows–the other man!

Travis ran flat out now, twisting and turning through the heavy crowds of pilgrims and tourists, pigeons flying, families scattering as the little foreigner in the Screech Owls jacket broke as fast as he could for the front gates, where the largest crowds seemed to be.

Travis’s mind was racing too. He couldn’t stop and ask for help: who here would speak English? And he couldn’t seem to lose himself in the crowds. His team jacket and his face set him apart from everyone else.

I have to hide! Travis thought. But where?

And then it struck him.

The tunnel.

If he could reach the tunnel, he might find the rest of the team there. Or Muck or Mr. Dillinger.

But the tunnel was dark and airless, with thick, heavy walls bearing in on him.

There was nothing for it. He turned just enough to see that the men were gaining, and he knew it was now only a matter of time before one of them reached him. And then what would the people watching do? Help him? Not likely. They’d assume that the men had been chasing Travis to get him to stop running and scaring up the pigeons. He’d never be able to explain. They’d take him away. He had no idea what for, but he knew it would be bad.

Travis flew over the seven thousand, seven hundred and seventy-seven stones heading to the main temple. He slipped through the thickening crowds as if he were on skates, dipping and deking to find an opening. He was now moving faster than his pursuers.

Up to the main temple he flew. At the top of the wooden steps he saw that everywhere in front of him were mats covered with the shoes and boots of people who had gone inside. Knowing he must, he kicked off his boots and ran, in his socks, over the soft spongy matting that led to the rear of the temple.

There were pilgrims there, lining up to head down into the tunnel.

Apologizing, Travis eased his way through. No one seemed to mind very much. They must have thought he was just catching up to his teammates. Perhaps that meant Nish and Sarah and everyone else were still down there. He hoped so.

A few feet into the tunnel, the dark and silence descended on him like a blanket. There was no sound but for the breathing of others in the tight line working their way along the nearest wall.

Travis tried to breathe deep, and felt his nostrils fighting to seal out a rush of damp straw–the smell of the mats on the tunnel floor.

He couldn’t breathe!

His heart was pounding now, slamming against his chest as if it, too, desperately wanted out. His breath was coming fast and jerky, never enough, and he choked.

He reached out and felt for the wall. He tried to remember what they’d been told: Stick to the right wall, trust in yourself, and you will feel the key.

Travis lunged against the wall, finding instant comfort in its solidity. He held Data’s camera tight with his left hand and felt ahead with his right as he inched along. He thought he might be crying.

He almost dropped the camera, and then it struck him.

The camera!

Data’s video camera!

That’s what they were after! They hadn’t recognized him at all. They saw the Screech Owls jacket–and the camera!

That’s what they had been searching for in the dressing room. That was why they had stolen the keys and broken into the apartments. But they hadn’t realized that Data had a separate apartment on the ground floor.

Data had recorded something on the camera that they wanted. But what? Did Eyebrows have something to do with the murder?

There was Eyebrows at the banquet. And Eyebrows and one of his friends at the ski hill. But what was the connection?

It didn’t matter that Travis couldn’t figure it out. It was enough to know that the men were after the camera, and he had the camera.

Should he leave it? Just drop it, and let them have it if they could find it here?

No, he couldn’t do that. He had a responsibility. If the camera was that important to them, it must be important to the police as well.

Travis tightened his grip on the camera and edged along a little farther.

There were sounds behind him–something rubbing along the wall!

What was it he was supposed to look for in the tunnel?

A key? The Key to Enlightenment?

Travis reached out, praying. He reached out–and then felt it.

A hand. A strong hand–tightening about his arm!

A thousand pigeons seemed to take off in his chest.

He felt himself being yanked back, hard.

“This way!”

Travis was choking. That voice! It wasn’t Muck or Mr. Dillinger or any of the Owls!

Travis couldn’t even scream. With the strong hand drawing him along, he slipped and tripped and slid toward the far end of the pitch black tunnel. He was being dragged away.

But the hand didn’t hurt him.

There was a sound: wood rubbing on wood, and then something giving.

The light hit him, a thousand flashbulbs in his eyes, a shot right to the head that sent him reeling back, almost falling.

The hand still held him.

“You’re okay now,” the voice said.

Travis looked but couldn’t see. His eyes were overwhelmed with the light. He held his hands over them, and when he looked through the cracks of his fingers, he saw a familiar toothless grin.

Mr. Imoo!