فصل 18

CHAPTER 18

THE DIARY

J.D. LIVED IN A BIG, OLD TWO-STORY wood house with a wide front porch facing a lawn that looked as if it were maintained by goats. The sprawling interior was a random jumble of worn furniture, books, laundry, cardboard boxes, magazines, CD cases, and musical paraphernalia.

“You live here alone?” said Sarah.

“Yup,” said J.D.

“Are you, like, rich?” said Aidan.

“I am…comfortable,” said J.D. “Thanks to an inheritance.”

“How many guitars do you have?” said Aidan, surveying the living room, where at least three Fender Stratocasters poked their necks out of the clutter.

J.D. frowned. “Eleven,” he said. “No, wait—twelve.” “Do you play?” said Sarah. “Badly,” said J.D. “But I love Strats. You guys hungry?”

“Yes,” said Sarah and Aidan together.

“I’ll order some pizzas,” said J.D. “You don’t want to know what’s in the refrigerator. Pepperoni okay with everybody?”

“And extra cheese,” said Aidan.

“Could you get the diary first?” said Sarah.

“In a hurry, are we?”

“We are.”

“Okay, then.” J.D. tromped up the stairs, returning two minutes later with a slim book bound in plain brown leather. He handed it to Sarah, who held it in both hands, looking at it reverently.

“I can’t believe it,” she said. “Molly’s diary.”

“So say you,” said J.D. “Mary was the name I was given.”

“She actually touched this,” said Sarah. “She wrote in this.”

“I have something else you might be interested in,” said J.D. “I’d forgotten about it. It was in the same box as the diary.”

“What is it?” Sarah said eagerly.

“This,” said J.D., digging into his pocket. He pulled out a gold chain, which was threaded through a small golden sphere with a tiny hinge and clasp. He handed it to Sarah, who stared at it in disbelief.

“Her locket!” she exclaimed. “An actual Starcatcher locket!”

“You’re awfully dramatic, you know that?” said J.D.

“Tell me about it,” said Aidan.

“Is there anything inside?” said Sarah, fumbling with the clasp. “Because the Starcatchers used these to—”

“There’s nothing inside,” said J.D. “I checked.”

Sarah had the locket open now; it was, indeed, empty. She closed it and said, “Do you mind if I wear it? While I read Molly’s diary?”

J.D. waved it away. “Keep it,” he said. “And good luck figuring out the diary. I’ll go order pizza.”

Sarah cleared a space on the ancient sofa, plopped down, took a breath, and opened the diary. The paper had yellowed with age, but the writing—a neat, compact cursive, in black ink—was quite legible:

Dear Reader:

I cannot know who you are. I can only hope that, because you have been entrusted with this diary, you understand the importance of our mission, and share our commitment to it.

These pages recount certain events that occurred in 1905 and subsequently. Our organization—what few of us remained—had agreed that it had become necessary to isolate the island permanently. Our concern was twofold. First, to protect the island and its denizens from outsiders, who were finding their way to its shores with increasing frequency; second, to guard against the danger that the material on the island —to our knowledge, the last large store of it left on Earth—would be discovered and fall into the wrong hands. We believe that we have defeated our enemy, but we have not exterminated him; he survives in the shadows, much weakened, but still a threat against which we must remain vigilant. As I write these words, our efforts concerning the island appear to have succeeded, thanks to the great generosity and unique genius of E. It is our belief that the island, and the material, are now permanently safe. However, we have decided to leave this record of our activities in the event that it might be useful for future members of our organization. I trust, Dear Reader, that your interest in this diary stems only from idle curiosity. If you have a more pressing reason for reading it—if, God forbid, a problem has arisen that we did not foresee—it is my fervent hope that these pages are helpful to you, and that you are able, as generations of us have before you, to meet the challenge you face.

Sincerely, and hopefully,

Mrs. Mary Aster Darling

“Wow,” said Sarah.

“What?” said Aidan, who was attempting, so far without success, to tune a 1969 Stratocaster with a sunburst finish.

“This,” said Sarah, holding up the diary. “Aidan, she’s talking about the island!”

“What island?” said J.D., returning from the pizza-ordering mission.

“Never Land!” said Sarah. “It must be! Read this!”

She handed the diary, open to the first page, to J.D., who read it with Aidan reading over his shoulder.

“She’s definitely right about the enemy not being exterminated,” said Aidan. “We’ve seen that for ourselves. But who’s this ‘E’?”

“I don’t know,” said Sarah. “But I’m sure the island is Never Land.”

“You actually think it exists?” said J.D.

“Yes.”

“With a flying boy?” said Aidan. “And pirates?”

“And mermaids?” added J.D. “You really believe that, Sarah?”

“Do you really believe you were floating back in your office?”

J.D. grinned. “Touché,” he said. “Okay, so let’s say there really is a Never Land island. Where is it? We have satellites now, Sarah. They’ve mapped the entire world. We can see every speck of land. How come nobody knows about this island?”

“That’s the point,” said Sarah. “That’s what the diary is saying. They didn’t want people to find the island. So they did something. They isolated it.”

“What does that even mean?” said Aidan. “How do you isolate an island?”

“I don’t know,” said Sarah, taking the diary back from J.D. “But it’s in here, and I’m going to find out.”

Lester Armstrong sped north on I-95, pushing the Escalade as fast as he dared.

It had taken him several frustrating hours to sort everything out with the Bensalem Township Police Department. Finally, after checking out his references and calling the Coopers in Pittsburgh, the police had agreed to release him without charges. Lester was free, but furious; he considered himself very good at what he did, yet a fifteen-year-old boy had gotten away from him easily and made him look like a fool.

Next time, kid, thought Lester. Next time you’re mine.

The one good thing was that a police sergeant had agreed, after hearing a plea over the phone from a sobbing Natalie Cooper, to put out a missing-children bulletin, which had been broadcast, with photos of Aidan and Sarah, by a Philadelphia TV station. The bulletin quickly produced a good lead: a motorcycle-shop owner called to say that Aidan had gotten a ride with one of his workers to the Princeton public library. The Princeton police had been alerted, and Lester was on his way there now, grimly determined to track down his quarry, especially the boy who’d made him look bad.

You’re mine, kid.

In a park near the town of Indiana, Pennsylvania, about fifty miles east of Pittsburgh, a three-year-old boy pointed at the late-afternoon sky.

“Birds!” he said.

The boy’s parents looked up from their picnic meal of barbecued chicken and potato salad.

“My goodness,” said the mother.

“Wow,” said the father. “That’s a lot of birds.”

They were coming from the west, hundreds of them, flying in a densely packed group, looking almost like a fast-moving cloud. They flew low, so low that the family could hear their wings beating, so low that, as they approached, the mother felt the need to pull the little boy close to her.

The large black birds swarmed overhead in a rush of wind, their mass momentarily blocking the sun. The family watched silently as the swarm swept east, disappearing over a hill, leaving the park sunny and quiet again.

“What the heck was that?” said the father.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said the mother.

“Birds!” said the boy.

“Yes,” the mother said softly, her eyes still on the horizon. “Birds.”