Time Snatchers (17 page)

Better.

I think about what she said a second ago about Wu Yingxing’s home being a lukewarm guess. Maybe she said that because he didn’t make the vase in his house—maybe he made it somewhere else.

“I’m sorry. Just one more, okay?”

“Well … all right. If you promise to be nicer.”

“I do. Now how about this: April 23, 1423, the place where Wu Yingxing made the vase.”

“Hotter than Hades,” she says.

Bingo. “Thanks, Phoebe. I owe you one,” I say.

“Yes, you do, Caleb, and the Great Oz will be collecting very soon,” she says.

“Well, then, I guess we’re done here. If you’ll just let me off on the fourth floor, I can handle the rest myself,” I say.

“Is that it?” says Phoebe. “As soon as you have what you need from me, you cast me aside, like an empty carton of Thai takeout?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” I say.

“What way would you put it, then?” she asks.

She’s trying to guilt me into staying longer. No way. I’ve got to get going and put my plan into action. It’s simple, really: get to the time/place where and when Wu Yingxing made the Xuande vase, snatch it right after he makes it and replace it with the replica that I’ve got in my knapsack. Then, when Frank appears later, he’ll be snatching a replica and replacing it with another replica. There’s a chance he might scan my replica to see if it’s the original, but I’m betting against it; after all, when you’ve got an ego the size of Frank’s, the idea of someone outsnatching you wouldn’t occur to you.

“Sorry, Phoebe,” I say. “I suppose I might have been a bit insensitive.”

“Hmmmph. More than a bit,” she says.

But as she speaks, the elevator whirs into motion. I’m starting to have doubts about this whole business; that is, going to 1423 to outsnatch Frank. He can be dangerous. What if he knows I’m coming?
What if he’s already set up some traps for me to get me in even further trouble?

The elevator door opens, and I step out. The hall is quiet. No one is around, which suits me just fine.

“Phoebe, does Frank know that I’m taking this trip?” I ask.

“Not yet,” she says cryptically.

“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?”

“It means exactly that,” answers Phoebe. “He won’t know until he comes in for his usual update of your recent activities.”

My throat tightens. “You give him regular reports of everyplace I’ve been?”

“Well, not about your trips to the bathroom,” she says. “Unless it involves traveling to the past to do it.”

So Frank’s been getting all my snatch information from Phoebe! I wonder what Uncle would do if he found out? And then it occurs to me: what if Uncle already knows? What if he’s the one who told Frank to follow me?

“Phoebe, you can’t tell him about me going to 1423,” I say. “If you do, he’ll try to outsnatch me again.”

“Not my problem.”

“Please?”

“Well … maybe I could be persuaded not to tell him about one little planned trip of yours,” Phoebe says.

“Thank you, Phoe—”

“But it will cost you,” she continues.

“All right, how much?” I ask.

“A thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“The Great Oz has spoken. I’ll take it in unmarked twenties.”

“You know I don’t have a thousand dollars,” I say. “Besides, even if I did, what would a computer do with money?”

“That’s my business,” says Phoebe. “Now, pay up or I’ll tell him you’re going to J
ngdézhèn.”

“This is blackmail!” I shout.

“A girl’s got to make a living,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Look, if you don’t tell, I promise I’ll bring you back something from China,” I offer.

“Now you’re on the right track,” she says. “Make it something nice. No T-shirts, okay?”

“Fine. No T-shirts.”

“And it’s got to be something Uncle doesn’t already have,” she adds. “If you can manage that, and I like it, I’ll waive my usual thousand-dollar fee.”

This is a ridiculous conversation. And I have no idea what Uncle has and what he doesn’t have. But the only way to end this is to agree.

“Deal,” I say.

I step out of the elevator and head to the lounge. In the wardrobe closet, I find a long hooded Buddhist monk’s robe and a pair of sandals. I also spot a cloth bag that’s perfect for carrying the replica of the Xuande vase.

“Take an umbrella with you,” says Phoebe. “They’re calling for rain.”

“How does he get away with it, Phoebe?” I ask.

“Beg your pardon?” says Phoebe.

It strikes me as strange that a computer is asking me to repeat what I’ve just said. After all, it’s not like she’s hard of hearing. She’s probably just playing with me. “I said, ‘How does he get away with it?’ What I mean is, how can Frank shadow me while I’m on missions
and interfere with my snatches without ever getting into any trouble with Uncle?”

“That’s easy,” she answers. “He’s more devious and ruthless than you, and an expert manipulator.”

She’s right. Frank is all those things. But I can’t be like him. I don’t want to be like him. And if life was fair, Frank wouldn’t get away with half the stuff he does. But life isn’t fair, is it?

“And while we’re on the subject of manipulation,” she says, “since you’re not a bad kid, I’m going to share another little tidbit with you.”

“Okay.”

“Your snatch partner might not be going all the way to the dark side.”

I swear I can feel Phoebe’s eyes on me studying me for a reaction, which is of course ridiculous because she doesn’t have any eyes, unless you count all the hidden cameras sprinkled throughout Headquarters.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Well, she’s spending an awful lot of time in the company of a certain person with curly black hair. And she seems to be liking it,” says Phoebe.

“How can she possibly like him?” The words burst from my mouth before I can stop them. It’s not like I even want or need Phoebe’s advice on the subject.

“I didn’t say she likes him,” she says. “I said she
seems
to. There’s a difference. And it’s a big one. Personally, I don’t think Frank gets the difference. He just thinks his hormones are irresistible to all members of the opposite sex, including Abbie. But what he doesn’t get, what he hasn’t figured out,” she continues, switching to a whisper, “is that Abbie has an endgame.”

“An endgame?” I whisper back.

“Yes, indeedy,” says Phoebe with a trace of satisfaction in her voice. “She’s playing him like a violin.”

“What’s she after?” I ask.

“How should I know?” Phoebe hisses. “I’m not a mind reader.”

Her tone tells me she’s finished sharing. “Right,” I say heading for the fire escape. She’s certainly given me a lot to think about.

“And one other piece of free advice,” she says just as I’m about to step out onto the fire escape. “If you like someone, they’ll never know it unless you show it.”

I feel my ears getting warm. How does Phoebe know?

“I … I have to go,” I say.

“So go, then,” she says. “I’m not stopping you. And don’t forget my present!”

As I program my wrist for 1423, I think about Phoebe’s words. “She’s playing him like a violin.” If Phoebe’s right, then Abbie is only faking liking Frank. Which makes me feel a lot better. Maybe she really is on my side.

Even so, my problems are far from over. I’m playing a dangerous game, trying to outsnatch Frank. If I go back earlier in time to beat him, he’ll just counter by going back even earlier.

But if I do nothing, that’s the same as inviting Frank to ruin my next mission and the one after that. No way. This time I’m going to take a stand. This time I’m not going to let him win.

April 23, 1423, 9:09
A.M.
Hills near J
ngdézhèn, China

I
’m rolling down a hillside.

There’s no way to stop myself until the time freeze is over, so I just go with the roll. For the next three seconds, my mind conjures up images of all sorts of nasty obstacles that I’m about to crash into, including sharp-edged boulders and thick tree trunks.

Luckily, the slope eases off around the same time that my time freeze thaws. It’s a good thing too, because only a few feet from where I finally come to a stop, the slope changes from gentle and soft to steep and rocky.

As I stand up and brush myself off, I make a mental note never again to program my patch when I’m time fogged. Luckily, I wasn’t far off. I’d actually planned to land on the hill—but on the crest, not the side.

Even though I’m not at the top, I still have an excellent view. A few hundred feet below is a village partly shrouded in fog. I see about thirty thatched huts, but there might be more hiding under the mist. That must be the village of J
ngdézhèn.

But what really gets my attention are a dozen or so egg-shaped structures scattered on the surrounding hillsides. Dark smoke rises out of some of them, and clustered around each is a sprinkling of smaller, square huts.

A narrow trail skirts the hillside about fifty feet away, and I start
moving toward it, picking my way over boulders and through thickets. Some of the bushes have sharp nettles, and a couple of times I have to backtrack to avoid them.

By the time I reach the trail, my shirt is drenched in sweat. Just as I turn onto the path, a young boy appears on the trail ahead of me. He’s barefoot and wearing only a tattered shirt that comes down to just below his knees.

“Hello,” I say, giving him a friendly wave.

The boy just stares at me.

I’m not expecting him to say hello back. At least not in English. But I’m hoping that he’ll say something, anything, so that my translator can kick in.

He continues to stare at me. It’s starting to get on my nerves. I know it’s juvenile of me, but I stare right back at him, hoping that if he won’t say anything, at least he’ll blink first and look away.

No such luck. In fact, the boy is soon joined by some of his friends, also barefoot and barely dressed, who join in the staring contest.

I try again, this time with the older ones. “Hi, there,” I say.

Nothing.

Somehow, word must be getting out about me, because more people keep showing up. I’m soon surrounded by about twenty kids and adults.

I pick one of the adults for my next attempt at communication. “Excuse me, but I have come from very far to find the artist Wu Yingxing. Can you please direct me to his studio?”