The Bridge to Never Land Read online

  Copyright © 2011 Dave Barry and Page One, Inc. The following are some of the trademarks, registered marks, and service marks owned by Disney Enterprises, Inc.: Adventureland, Audio-Animatronics, Disneyland, Epcot, Fantasyland, FASTPASS, Fort Wilderness Lodge, Frontierland, Walt Disney Imagineering, Imagineers, it’s a small world, Magic Kingdom, Main Street, U.S.A., Mickey’s Toontown, Monorail, New Orleans Square, Space Mountain, Splash Mountain, Tomorrowland, Toontown, Walt Disney World

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-6307-7

  www.disneyhyperionbooks.com

  Table of Contents

  Also By

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  ALSO BY DAVE BARRY AND RIDLEY PEARSON

  Peter and the Starcatchers

  Peter and the Shadow Thieves

  Peter and the Secret of Rundoon

  Peter and the Sword of Mercy

  Escape from the Carnivale

  Cave of the Dark Wind

  Blood Tide

  Science Fair

  ALSO BY RIDLEY PEARSON

  Kingdom Keepers—Disney After Dark

  Kingdom Keepers II—Disney at Dawn

  Kingdom Keepers III—Disney in Shadow

  Kingdom Keepers IV—Power Play

  Steel Trapp—The Challenge

  Steel Trapp—The Academy

  For Michelle, Marcelle, Sophie, Rob, Storey, Paige, and Bishoppe

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book was born on an airplane. We were out promoting our fourth Starcatchers book, Peter and the Sword of Mercy, and one morning, waiting to board a flight in Seattle, we got to talking about trying something a little different, possibly even a little weird. We had the germ of an idea, and on the flight we talked about it some more. By the time the plane had landed, the germ of an idea had blossomed into a full-grown flower of an idea. Or possibly a vegetable of an idea. Whatever germs turn into.

  We put our idea into an e-mail and sent it off to Wendy Lefkon at Disney •Hyperion. She got right back to us: Go for it, she said. So we went for it, and here it is. Thus, the first person we want to thank is Wendy, our champion, who has always encouraged us to go for it.

  We’re also grateful for the help and support of many others at Disney, including Jennifer Levine, Deborah Bass, Frankie Lobono, and Nellie Kurtzman. We love working with you guys, and not just because of the free park passes and behind-the-scenes tours.

  Speaking of which: We thank Chris Ostrander and Alex Wright for helping us with the Disney technical stuff. We also thank Catherine Steventon for helping us with research on the Tower of London. Any errors in this book are totally our fault, and not the fault of the people who helped us. We also accept full responsibility for global climate change.

  We thank Judi Smith and Laurel and David Walters for their careful reading, perceptive questions, and thoughtful (we mean this in a positive way) nitpicking.

  We thank our agents, Al Hart and Amy Berkower, for their wise guidance.

  We thank our wives—Michelle and Marcelle—for their unflagging support and hotness, and our children—Rob, Sophie, Paige, and Storey—for being great kids as well as tax deductions.

  Above all, we thank our readers, especially the young ones, both for buying our books and for asking us to write more of them. We have never had so much fun, and you’re the reason why.

  —Dave Barry and Ridley Pearson

  PROLOGUE

  BERN, SWITZERLAND, DECEMBER 1905

  THE WOMAN MADE HER WAY carefully along the icy sidewalk, pulling her long wool coat tight against the harsh winter wind and swirling snowflakes. Night was falling quickly; she had to stop and peer through the gloom to make out the building numbers.

  Finally, she found her destination—Number 49 Kramgasse Street, a stone apartment house with an arched entranceway.

  She entered quickly, brushing snow from her coat, grateful to be inside. She pulled off her scarf and shook her long brown hair; her cheeks were bright red from the cold. On weary legs, she climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on a door. It was opened by a twenty-five-year-old man, still in the frayed, plaid suit he had worn to work. He had a soft, round face accented with an unkempt moustache and framed by an unruly mass of curly brown hair. His dark brown eyes sloped down at the corners, giving him a look of wisdom beyond his years and a hint of sadness.

  He welcomed her into his flat and they exchanged introductions. He offered her tea, which she gratefully accepted. Sitting close to the warmth of a small coal-burning fireplace, they made a bit of awkward small talk about the weather. They spoke in German, the woman with a thick British accent.

  “I’m sorry my German is so poor,” she said.

  The man waved a hand. “Your German is far better than my English,” he said, smiling.

  She smiled briefly in return. “Thank you for agreeing to see me,” she said. “I know you’re a very busy man.”

  “I am honored by your visit,” he said. “But I confess that I am also puzzled.”

  “Puzzled? Why?”

  “It’s quite mysterious, the letter I received from Doctor Pratt. I understand he is an associate of yours?”

  “Yes, an old family friend.”

  “His letter was very complimentary about my papers in Annalen der Physik, and of course I was flattered to attract notice from a man of his stature. But I also could not help but wonder why a distinguished professor of history at Cambridge would be so interested in papers on physics published by an academic journal in Germany. And my curiosity deepened when Doctor Pratt inquired if you—with all due respect, a nonscientist—could come to Bern to meet with me personally about an extremely urgent matter, a matter he could not discuss in writing.”

  “Yes, I imagine it does seem rather mysterious,” the woman said.

  The man nodded. “So,” he said. “What is this extremely urgent matter?”

  The woman leaned forward, her face somber. “What I am about to tell you will likely seem impossible,” she said, “but I swear to you that everything—everything—I will speak of is true.
I cannot compel you to believe me, but I ask that you give me time to fully explain myself before you pass judgment.”

  The man smiled. “I am quite familiar with the problem of trying to explain that which seems impossible,” he said. “Please, take whatever time you need.”

  “Thank you,” said the woman. She took a deep breath and began talking. She spoke for the better part of an hour, stumbling occasionally, wrestling with the difficulty of expressing certain concepts in German—but for the most part she spoke quickly and precisely, having rehearsed her speech well.

  The man listened intently, saying nothing, his dark eyes fixed on the woman’s face. When she was finished, he sat perfectly still for quite some time. Then, without a word, he rose and went to the window and drew the curtain aside. He peered out at the darkness for what seemed, to the woman, an eternity. When he finally spoke, he did not turn around.

  “I understand now,” he said, “why you thought I would not believe you.”

  The woman’s face fell. “I see,” she said. “All right, then. If you would be so kind as to get my coat. I apologize for taking your time.” She rose.

  The man turned around.

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

  “Then you do believe me?” she said softly.

  “I didn’t say that, either,” he said. “But I am intrigued. I would like to know more.”

  “Of course. There is so much more I can tell you, and show you. And there are others who…”

  The man held up his hand. “Yes, I will want to hear everything,” he said. “But there is something I need to know first.”

  “What is it?”

  “Why are you telling me these things? Why has your organization decided that I, of all the people you must have access to, should be given information that you and your people have worked so hard, for so long, to keep secret?”

  The woman took a step toward the man.

  “Because we have a problem,” she said. “A grave problem that threatens to cause terrible harm, not just to us, but to many people. Perhaps all people.”

  “All people?” asked the man, arching an eyebrow.

  “Yes. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic. But yes.”

  “And you come to me because…”

  “Because we believe that the work you are doing may hold the key to solving this problem.”

  “You want my help.”

  “Yes. We want your help.”

  The man looked out the window again. The storm had worsened; the whistling wind pelted wet snowflakes against the windowpanes. The woman stared at him anxiously, awaiting his decision. Finally, he turned back to her.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me about this problem of yours.”

  A smile of relief flooded her face; her green eyes shone with gratitude.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “But you’re willing to listen,” she said. “And we have nowhere else to turn. We believe you are our only hope, Mister Einstein.”

  CHAPTER 1

  THE SECRET COMPARTMENT

  AIDAN COOPER SPRINTED UP THE STAIRS. From behind he heard a voice, choking with fury, shout, “I’m going to kill you!”

  Aidan reached the second-floor hallway, crowded with antique end tables and chairs, its walls covered in dark oil paintings. He heard footsteps creaking up the stairs. He hurried down the hall and ducked into his father’s study, closing the door as quietly as he could.

  The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

  “You’re dead, you hear me!” called the voice. “Dead!”

  The voice belonged to Aidan’s sister, Sarah. She was very unhappy because Aidan had just swiped her iPhone, which he now clutched in his hand.

  He heard a door open and shut, then another. Sarah was checking the upstairs rooms one at a time. Sarah was methodical. Her room was always neat, her weekend homework done before Friday dinner. What worried Aidan more was that she was also quite a good puncher, having taken six years of karate.

  “I’m going to find you, you little snot!” she said.

  Aidan looked around frantically for a place to hide, his eyes lighting on a massive oak desk. It was a new addition to the household; Aidan and Sarah’s dad, a serious collector of Victorian furniture, had bought it recently at an auction. Aidan dropped to his hands and knees and crawled into the space where the chair was supposed to fit, between two walls of drawers.

  Sitting cross-legged under the desk, he activated the iPhone screen and opened the text messages. He scrolled quickly through them, looking for the name of the girl he was deeply in love with, at least this week (Aidan fell deeply in love a lot). She was a friend of Sarah’s, Amanda Flores. Like Sarah, she was seventeen, and in eleventh grade. Aidan was only fifteen, a lowly ninth-grader. He wasn’t dating Amanda; the truth was, he had never actually spoken to her. But he had hopes.

  These hopes had soared a few moments earlier when, reading over his sister’s shoulder, Aidan had spotted a text from Amanda saying—at least this was what Aidan thought it had said—that Amanda considered him cute. He had tried to see more, but Sarah, annoyed at his spying, made the phone’s screen go dark and told him to mind his own business.

  So Aidan had snatched the phone and run upstairs. At the time it seemed like a good idea, but now Aidan sensed that it might have been a mistake. First, his sister was really mad. Second, as he scanned the iPhone texts, he realized that Amanda had not been texting about him at all, but about a boy named Aaron. Aidan didn’t know Aaron, but he was pretty sure he hated him.

  The study door burst open. Three seconds later, Sarah was crouched in front of the desk, red-faced with anger.

  “Give me my phone back right now,” she said, the palm of her hand extended.

  “Okay,” said Aidan. “Don’t get—”

  “I said give it to me!” yelled Sarah, lunging toward him.

  Startled by his sister’s lunge, Aidan jerked back and banged his shoulder and head, hard. Then three things happened.

  Aidan said, “Ow!”

  Sarah grabbed her phone back.

  And a hidden door appeared in the desk.

  It was a wooden trapdoor about the size of a DVD case. It hung down between Aidan and Sarah from the underside of the desk, revealing a dark opening.

  “Huh,” said Sarah, suddenly more interested in the door than in killing her brother.

  “Weird,” said Aidan, relieved that his sister was at least temporarily distracted. Trying to prolong her interest, he said, “What is that, anyway?”

  “Duh,” explained Sarah. “It’s a secret compartment.”

  “Cool,” said Aidan. He reached up and pushed the door shut. There was a soft click as it latched. The grain on the door matched the surrounding wood exactly; the fit was so tight that the seam was invisible.

  “Wow,” said Aidan. “When it’s closed, you can’t even see it.”

  “Right, nimrod,” said Sarah, “but you also can’t see inside. Open it back up.”

  Aidan tried to pry it open, but his fingernails couldn’t fit into the seam. He banged on it, but nothing happened. He ran his hands over the surrounding wood, but found nothing that would open the door.

  “I don’t know how,” he said.

  “You are such an idiot,” said Sarah. “Let me see.” She crawled under and felt around the door as her brother had just done, also finding nothing.

  “You must have done something to open it,” she said.

  “I hit my head.”

  Sarah pushed the panels above them. Nothing happened.

  “I also hit my shoulder,” said Aidan.

  “Where?”

  He pointed to the sore spot on his shoulder. She punched it, hard.

  “Ow!”

  “Not your shoulder, idiot! Where did you hit the desk?”

  “Oh…the side, I think.”

  Sarah made a fist and pounded it. Nothing.

  “I hi
t it really hard,” said Aidan.

  Sarah frowned and gave the panel a karate chop.

  The trapdoor popped open.

  “Excellent!” said Aidan, reaching his hand up into the hole.

  “If there’s money in there,” said Sarah, “we split it.”

  Aidan groped inside the opening. “I don’t feel any—wait! There’s something in here!”

  He withdrew his hand, which now held an envelope. It was letter-size and yellow with age. Aidan turned it over; it had no writing on either side.

  “Open it!” said Sarah.

  Aidan frowned. “Maybe we should tell Dad,” he said.

  “Absolutely,” said Sarah, snatching the envelope. “After we open it.”

  Before Aidan could protest, she slid her finger under the flap and opened the envelope. She pulled out a piece of flimsy paper, folded into thirds. She unfolded it carefully, and Aidan leaned in to look.

  The paper was so thin that it was almost transparent. On it, drawn in black ink, were random-looking lines, some straight, some curved, not forming any obvious pattern. Below the lines, handwritten in the same ink, were the words:

  “What the heck does that mean?” said Aidan. Sarah was staring at the document. “Magill,” she said. “What about it?”

  “I think I know that name.”

  “You know somebody named Magill?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I actually know him, but I’ve heard that name somewhere.” She continued staring at the document. Fifteen seconds passed.

  “Can I ask you something?” said Aidan.

  “What?”

  “This guy Aaron? Who Amanda likes?”

  Sarah looked up. “What about him?”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s a senior.”

  Aidan’s shoulders slumped.

  Sarah smirked, enjoying her moment of revenge for the iPhone theft.

  “He’s also very cute,” she added.

  Without a word, Aidan slouched out of the room, heartbroken. Sarah turned back to the document.

  “Magill,” she whispered softly.

  At 11:40 p.m. that night, she remembered. She had turned off the light and was almost asleep when it suddenly popped into her brain.