Scrolling down, there’re three buttons on the Disney Directory: Entertainment, Parks & Resorts, and one labeled Inside the Company.

Gillian’s about to open her mouth. Charlie pounds her with a “duh” glare, hits Inside the Company, and takes far too much joy in watching her shut up. I pinch him again.

Y’know, she saved our asses back at the house, I motion.

She’s also the one who dropped us there, he glares as he turns back to the monitor and clicks the button for Disney Online.

As the newest page fills in, there’s a box marked Search. And even though we came up short when we showed the photos to Duckworth’s Neowerks buddy, he was still able to pick out the first of the four.

“Put Stoughton in there,” I blurt, already out of my seat and regretting the typing concession.

Charlie hunts and pecks the words Arthur Stoughton into the Search box and hits Enter.

Seconds pass and all three of us glance around, making sure no one’s watching. Four computers down, there’s a teenage boy testing the limits of the library’s porn-screening software, but he hasn’t looked up once.

Results for ‘Arthur Stoughton’: 139 documents

1. Executive Bio for Arthur Stoughton

2. Executive Biographies for Disney.com

The list goes on. Charlie clicks on Executive Bio and the computer pulls up Stoughton’s overpadded résumé. Right next to it, though, is the thing that makes our eyes widen: the official corporate headshot – identical to the one on the photo strip. Arthur Stoughton. Salt-and-pepper hair, fancy suit, Disney smile.

“Executive vice president and managing director of Disney Online,” Charlie reads from the bio. “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” He goes straight for the photo.

“Press it,” I agree as he slides the cursor over Stoughton’s face. But as he clicks on the digital photo, nothing happens. He tries again. Still nothing.

“Are you sure you’re doing it right?” Gillian asks.

“You want to try it yourself?” he growls.

“Relax,” I warn.

He gives me his death stare. “Maybe I don’t want to relax, Ollie…”

The porn kid looks our way and all three of us fall silent. The first to recover, Gillian winks at the kid like she’s flirting. His eyes go back to his screen.

“Just let me try,” she tells Charlie as she attempts to grab control of the mouse. A week ago, Charlie was carefree enough to share with the world. But after these past few days – as his tongue flicks the beginnings of the scab on his lip – control is the last thing he’s got left. Especially when it comes to Gillian.

“I’ve. Got. It,” he tells her.

Knowing we need more faces, he clicks back one screen and hits the button for Executive Biographies for Disney.com. Once again, the computer pulls up the same photo of Arthur Stoughton. Damn.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“Scroll down,” Gillian insists.

She taps her fingernail against the bottom of the screen, pointing at what looks like the top of another photo. Stoughton’s not alone. As Charlie anxiously scrolls down the screen, a pyramid of pictures rolls into place. It’s the full organizational chart for Disney.com, with Arthur Stoughton in the top spot and the rest spread out below. The pyramid expands to a total of about two dozen photos: vice presidents and other associates in Marketing, Entertainment, and Lifestyles Content Development, whatever that is.

“There’s photo number two,” I blurt, bringing it to a whisper for the last few syllables. “Banker guy.”

Sure enough, as I hand Duckworth’s photo strip to Charlie, he matches it up with the picture onscreen. There’s the second guy…

“Can you say pale, tired, middle-management pencil-gnawer?” Charlie asks.

“Jeez,” I agree. “If I ever get that sad and pasty, put a stake in my heart and kill me with some garlic.”

“There’s the third,” Gillian points out, pecking her fingernail against the company photo of the frizzy redhead. But as we look back through the Polaroid hierarchy, none of us see photo number four: the black man with the cleft chin.

“Are you sure that’s all there are?” Gillian asks.

Charlie scrolls to the bottom, but that’s it. All we have are the two dozen photos.

“Maybe he left the company,” I say.

“Maybe there’s an even bigger list somewhere else,” Gillian offers.

“Or maybe this one’s just right,” Charlie says as he heads back to the top. Moving the cursor onto Stoughton’s photo, he clicks the face and prays for some of his usual magic. Amazingly, he gets it. The border of the box moves just slightly.

I shoot out of my seat. “Did that just-?”

“Don’t say it,” he warns. “No jinxes.”

“It’s not going to do any good without the last face,” Gillian points out.

Ignoring her, Charlie puts the cursor on the pale banker and presses the button. Onscreen, the box once again flinches. The last one there is the redhead.

“Miss Scarlett… in the library… with the lead pipe,” he announces. Staying with the order on the photo-strip, he clicks on the company photo of the frizzy redhead. The box blinks and I put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, tightly grabbing the back of his shirt. Gillian and I lean in close, our bodies draped on the armrests. All three of us hold our breath. The copter’s on the helipad and gassed to go. But nothing happens.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m telling you,” Gillian says. “You need all four photos for the keys to work.”

Sinking in his chair, Charlie stares blankly at the screen. He won’t admit it, but this time, she’s right. Nothing’s happening. And then… out of nowhere… something does.

The screen flickers and goes black, like it’s clicking to another web page.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“It’s not me,” Charlie says, taking both hands off the keyboard. “This bad boy’s on autopilot.”

Unconvinced, Gillian reaches for the mouse, but before she gets there, the screen once again hiccups… and the Seven Dwarfs appear in front of us. Doc, Sneezy, Grumpy – they’re all there – each one standing over a different button, from Community to Library.

Gillian and Charlie scour the page. I go for the web address at the top of the screen. There’s no www. Instead, the prefix is dis-web1.

“Any idea what we’re looking at?” Charlie asks.

“If it’s like at the bank, I think we’re on their Intranet,” I say. “Somehow, the pictures tunneled us into Disney’s internal network.”

“So what happened to the website?”

“Forget the website – that’s for the public,” I tell him. “From here on in, we’re officially snooping in the private computer network for Disney employees.”

“Welcome Cast Members!” it says toward the top of the screen.

“What about the guy with the cleft chin?” Gillian asks.

“I don’t think we’re going to have to wait that much longer,” Charlie says as he raps a knuckle against the screen. Directly below the Seven Dwarfs, there’s a red button at the bottom of the screen: Company Directory. “If we’re looking for employees…”

“Reel it in,” Gillian sings.

Cringing at her enthusiasm, Charlie tightens his jaw and pretends not to notice. Even he knows now’s not the time to stop.

A flick of his wrist and another mouse-click take us to a place marked Employee Locator. From there, a new screen pops up and we’re staring at dozens of brand-new faces. CEO… Board of Directors… Executive Vice Presidents… the list keeps going – tons of photos under each category heading. Forget the few dozen people who run the website – we’re talking the full organizational hierarchy here – from the CEO, all the way down to background animators.

“There’s gotta be two thousand photos here,” Gillian says, sounding overwhelmed.