Time Snatchers (28 page)

We sit facing each other. All the words that I thought I would say at this moment don’t seem right anymore. So I just wait, looking dumbly at a small chip in the wood frame of the sofa.

“Zach was … taken,” she says.

My head snaps up, and I stare at her in disbelief. It can’t be! She has to be wrong. Kids can wander off sometimes. Yes, that’s what Zach’s done. He’s just wandered off. Any second now, the doorbell will ring and he’ll be standing right there asking Diane when supper is.

“When?” I ask, the word sticking in my throat.

“The day we met you,” Diane says. Her eyes are filled with sorrow. But it also looks like she’s studying my reaction to what she just said.

My stomach clenches into a knot. That means Zach’s been missing for months!

“Diane, I …”

She gazes past me at the wall beyond the couch. “Jim thinks that maybe you know something about what hap—”

“I swear I had nothing to do with it,” I say a bit too loudly, and even as I utter the words, I’m thinking that they’re not exactly true.

“You should leave now, Caleb,” she says, standing up.

She reaches out but doesn’t quite touch my hand. I want to reassure her. Tell her that I’m going to make things right again. Promise her that I’ll find Zach and bring him back. But what if I can’t?

I leave by the front door and walk around to the side of the house, stepping over a garden hose half buried in the snow. My eyes flick from a rusted hockey net to a broken planter. An enormous sadness comes over me.

Tap, tap, tap on my wrist.

Nothing happens.

I try again. Still nothing.

Shivering now. I don’t understand. My patch has never failed before.

Wait. Something’s happening in my wrist. It feels like worms are crawling around inside me. Bits of my skin are contracting and expanding as if I have a nervous twitch. But this is no nervous twitch. The patch is programming itself! I can’t believe it—this has never happened before … I’m the only one who can control my patch. Or am I?

Frantically, I key in the sequence again, pressing down hard with every tap. But still, something blocks me, overriding my commands and replacing them with new ones. Who could be doing this: Uncle? Frank?

In a last-ditch effort, I clamp my hand over my wrist and squeeze as hard as I can. I can’t stop it!

Where am I being taken?

I cry out. But the cry is cut short as my vocal cords and the rest of me leave Boston in a hurry.

T
otal darkness. Then a single, icy light blinds me. I’m lying flat on my back on a cold, hard surface. I try to turn away from the light. But I can’t. My arms and legs won’t obey me. I’m completely paralyzed. Time freeze? No. This feels different. It’s cold here, wherever here is. My whole body is shaking, shivering.

The light moves to my right wrist. A rough hand clamps something over my face. There’s a strong medicine smell. Someone wearing green surgeon’s scrubs stands over me. The only part of his face not covered by a mask is his eyes.

“What am I doing here? Who are you?” I shout the words, but they only come out as a whisper.

I try to sit up, but I can’t. Someone’s tied me down.

The masked man leans down, closer to me. His cold blue eyes study me.

Uncle!

“You’ve been a bad boy, Caleb. A very bad boy,” he says.

“Please, Uncle,” I say.

“I thought you would have learned your lesson at our last meeting,” he says. “But that doesn’t appear to be the case.”

I’ve got to get out of here somehow. I struggle hard against the restraints, but nothing gives.

“It’s such a shame, really,” continues Uncle. “You could have been
so much more. I remember taking you out on a mission when you were only six years old. You didn’t want to let go of my hand. But I finally managed to pry you loose and pointed you toward the mark. You were magnificent. You moved silently as a shadow and plucked the wallet from his back pocket without the slightest ripple. And how you smiled afterward, running into my arms, proudly displaying your first snatch.

“What happened to that smiling young boy?” he continues. “What happened to make him become so burdened and afraid? What happened, Caleb, to make you stop listening to your uncle?”

“You’re not my real uncle!” I scream.

“Tsk. Tsk. You mustn’t get overwrought,” says Uncle. “The anesthetic I administered is generally slow-acting. And I prefer it that way. It gives us time to talk about things. But if you become agitated, it speeds the effect of the drug. So please stay calm. It would be a shame to have to cut short such a stimulating conversation.”

“Let me go,” I plead. “I won’t be any more trouble. I promise.”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t. And, in fact, I am planning to let you go in a little while, although my interpretation of letting you go might not be exactly what you have in mind,” he says, chuckling.

“Now, where was I?” he continues. “Ah, yes. Did you know, Caleb, that during China’s Ming dynasty one of the consequences of misbehavior was something called
fapei
?”

I shake my head.

“Well, then, let me explain,” he continues. “
Fapei
was one of the five punishments contained in the Tang Code and was inflicted by the Ming emperors upon those found to have broken the law. Loosely translated, it means ‘exile to the frontier.’”

As he speaks, Uncle’s hand strays to the small table beside him, where an assortment of gleaming scalpels, knives and other surgical
equipment rest on a white linen cloth. He picks up one of the scalpels and tests the blade with the fleshy part of his thumb.

“At various junctures during history,” says Uncle, “some of the world’s most important figures have voluntarily gone into exile, only to emerge stronger. One of the great Chinese emperors, Emperor Quianlong, associated exile with the idea of
zixin
or the ‘way to self-renewal.’”

I’m cold. So cold. But even so, I’m having trouble staying awake. My thoughts are becoming thick and confusing. Uncle is droning on and on. I hear his words, but they are sounds without any meaning.

“So, my advice to you, Caleb,” Uncle says, “is to view your forthcoming exile not so much as a punishment, even though that’s what it is, but more as an opportunity to improve yourself as a person.”

There’s movement behind Uncle. My vision is fuzzy, but I can see others in the shadows. Who are they? What are they doing here?

“I am banishing you to the Barrens,” he says. “You will stay there for one year before you may return. But before I send you, you’re going to have a little operation. You need to return something that is mine.”

What is he saying? So hard to concentrate. I want to sleep.

My mind is floating far away. Fuzzy warmth is enveloping me. Before I pass out completely, I hear Uncle say to one of the others, “Let us begin.”

And then the cool edge of the knife is on my skin, prodding, searching and finally, cutting.

The light is going away now. Fading. Or is it me who’s fading? No! I’ve got to fight it. But I can’t. I’ve failed. Failed myself. And failed Zach.

I
’m lying on my back. Beads of sweat trace their way along my jaw. Opening my eyes, I’m almost blinded by brightness. I close them and try to go back to sleep, but my brain isn’t playing ball. It wants me to wake up and scratch the itch on my arm. I try valiantly to ignore it. After all, waking up leads to getting up; getting up requires effort and effort is best avoided at all costs. But there’s that itch again. It looks like I’m going to have to deal with it soon. Not yet, though. I drift away and doze.

The itch is back, and it’s worse than ever. My brain tells me it’s my right wrist. One good scratch should do it. And then I can get some more slee—YAOWWW!

Burning, excruciating pain. Sitting bolt upright now. There’s a jagged line from the base of my palm to midway up my forearm. That’s no scratch. Someone cut me.

I turn my head expecting to see my attacker crouching behind me waiting to finish me off.

No one.

But what I do see scares me even more: miles and miles of sand and reddish wind-blasted rocks; as lonely-looking a place as I’ve ever encountered in my life. This must be what the moon looked like before McDonald’s came.

A wind comes up and blows sand into my eyes, stinging them.
Something tickles my leg and, hitching up my pant leg, I see a large spider scuttling up my ankle. I swat if off and stand up.

Endless blue sky and searing heat. Where am I? When am I? I try to remember how I got here but draw a blank. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m not sticking around. I’m leaving right now.

I gingerly tap my wrist, careful to work around the cut.

Nothing.

I wipe my sweaty fingers on my T-shirt and key in the sequence again. It wouldn’t be the first time I misdialed.

Still nothing. Then a shard of memory. Uncle’s blue eyes and green surgeon’s scrubs.

I’m drenched in sweat. The sun is high in the sky, and I need to find shade. Yes, first shade, then try again. But what if it doesn’t work?

I start walking. At first, I pick my way slowly through and around the sharp rocks. But after a while there’s more sand than rocks and I don’t have to be as careful.
Careful
. The word bounces around in my brain until another image (another memory?) breaks free. I’m lying on a table. A man in a mask peers down at me. I want to run away, but I can’t move. He’s waving a wicked-looking blade over my wrist.
Careful
, he’s saying to the others.
Just a quick snatch and run
. They find this funny and begin to laugh. I shout at them to stop, but the shouts are only in my head.

Walking faster now. Sweat is pouring down my forehead. I must not panic. The memories are coming fast and furious. I know now that the one with the blade is Uncle, and I shudder as he makes a long incision. Another peels back the flaps of skin. And a third grabs it with green rubber gloves, pulling it free. He holds it up like it’s a trophy. But it’s no trophy—it’s my time travel implant—they took it!

Running now. Did someone say don’t panic? Too late. Calm was
yesterday’s news. Panic is in fashion, and I’m a supermodel. To prove my point, I’m sprinting through the desert, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Anyone who saw me would probably think that I’m losing it. A vision of Nassim swims into my head. He’s got me in a headlock and growls, “Five letters. Time thief gone crazy.”

“That’s easy,” I say. “The answer is Caleb.”

My legs feel weak. I stop and bend over, gasping for air, keeping my eyes cast downward on the red and gray rocks. I don’t want to look up because I’m afraid that all I’ll see is more of the same barren landscape.

Must concentrate on my breathing. Breath in, breathe out. That’s better. One step at a time. Only I have no idea what the next step is; Uncle never taught us about wilderness survival. But I do know one thing—there’s no way I’m dying here. I’ve got to get out of this place. Zach needs me.

Maybe things aren’t as bad as I’m making them out to be. After all, there’s no way Uncle would just leave one of his best time snatchers to rot in the desert, would he? No, he probably just wants to give me a good scare. All I have to do is sit tight and wait for Nassim to come pick me up.

Then a fresh wave of panic washes over me. How is Nassim ever going to find me? I must have already run half a mile from where I landed. I’ve got to retrace my steps. But how? The ground is hard, and I can’t see my footprints.

I turn around and begin walking, praying that I’m heading in the right direction. It’s impossible to know—all the rocks look the same.

My shirt is soaking. I remember reading somewhere that it’s not
good to sweat in a survival situation because sweating uses up precious water that your body needs to preserve. But this isn’t a survival situation, I tell myself. It’s just a little walk in the desert. Any minute now, Nassim’s massive arms will wrap me in a chokehold and he’ll demand my help with twenty-four across or thirteen down or some other clue.