Time Trapped (4 page)

October 4, 2061, 12:42
P.M.

Doune Castle, Scotland

Y
ou heard Uncle,” Frank says. “It's time for lunch. Luca, cut me a hunk of that roast meat.”

I glance over at Luca, expecting him to say something like “cut your own bloody piece,” but amazingly, he doesn't say anything—just begins hacking at the pig.

“What else is on the menu?” asks Lydia boldly.

“Porridge, haggis and blood pudding,” says Luca in a flat voice. “Sit down if you want some.”

“I'm afraid I can't have blood pudding,” she says. “It makes me break out in hives.”

Baloney. She's only saying that because she doesn't want to have it. Mind you, if that line works for her, I might try the same one.

“I will be reporting to Uncle who has eaten what,” says Luca dully.

“In that case, I think I can manage a smidge,” she says. “But not too much, please. I'd like to save some room for the haggis. It's my absolute favorite.”

Liar. I bet she doesn't even know that haggis is sheep guts.

Luca begins ladling bowls of steaming porridge from a large pot. “It's hot,” he says as he hands us our bowls, and in my mind, I have him advancing to the next round of
You Don't Say!
With any luck, Raoul will demolish him in the final.

As we wait for the porridge to cool, Luca dishes out the haggis.

“You're a lucky guy, Caleb,” says Frank with his mouth full. “I've been after Uncle for years to give me a couple of weeks of vacation. And out of nowhere, he gives you five months off. I guess your case was different, though. It was obvious that you were getting burned out and needed a rest.”

“Leave it alone, Frank,” says Abbie before I can say anything.

He smirks but says nothing.

I ignore him and take a bite of roast pig. Pretty good. Then I try the haggis and almost spit it out.

Luca is checking out who has what left on their plates. Quickly, I stab the haggis with my fork and plunk it deep down out of sight under my porridge. There's still a bit of haggis showing, so I spoon some porridge from Raoul's bowl into mine and patch the hole.

“Where are we going first?” asks Lydia, all bright and cheery. Her plate is clean, which means she must have emptied it under the table when Luca wasn't looking.

“New York City in 1912,” Luca answers. “Details are being uploaded to your patches.”

Lydia stands and is about to leave the table when Frank puts a hand on her arm. “Not right away. I want to make a toast.”

She sits back down.

“To Uncle,” Frank says, lifting his cup. “For taking us on today's grand adventure. May the winds of Loch Leven always be at his back.”

And may the Monster of Loch Ness rise up and bite you in the ass, Frank.

“We will all meet, fully changed, in the courtyard in ten minutes,” Luca says. “Packets of period-appropriate clothes with your names on them are by the archway, along with anti-time-fog pills and directions as to when to take them. Uncle has also authorized for each of you a special one-time fifty-dollar advance against your allowance, which you may use for any personal items you purchase or you may save for later use.” Then he strides out of the room with Frank.

Anti-time-fog pills? A fifty-buck advance? Wow. Things have certainly changed since I've been away. The pills definitely make sense. If you can stay in the past for a whole day without getting time fog, it means you can do more complicated snatches. I sure could have used that when I was snatching the Xuande vase.

And fifty dollars is way more money than I can remember Uncle ever giving us at one time. Still, I'm not about to complain.

“C'mon, Cale. I want to show you a bit of the castle,” Abbie says, standing up.

“Don't you think we should change first?” I ask.

Now, why did I say that? Here's the one person I've been desperate to speak to ever since I got yanked from the twentieth century, and when my chance finally comes, I say “no thanks.” Sometimes I really wonder at the things that come out of my mouth.

“Nah,” she says. “There's oodles of time to change. C'mon.”

I follow her into a small alcove. She looks all around and takes my hand. “Hold on.”

The familiar sensation of the timeleap washes over me—two parts dizzy, two parts excited and one part nauseous.

When I land, I can't move a finger. But I can see for miles and miles. Lush green hills and vales. And sheep—lots and lots of sheep. Some of them have blue or red slashes on their sides. In the distance, a thin tendril of gray smoke spirals up from the chimney of a stone cottage.

“Where are we?”

“Top of the tower,” Abbie says. “This is still Uncle's castle. Only it's a week earlier. No one is here yet.”

I stand silently next to her for a moment, wondering where to start. “Abbie, you were supposed to meet me in 1967 . . . What happened?”

“I did come. You got my note, didn't you?”

“Yeah . . . but it said you'd come back and you didn't.”

“I wanted to . . . but I couldn't.” She turns toward me. “I went back to tie up a loose end.”

“What loose end?”

“Nassim,” she says. “When you escaped to 1967 with him and Zach, Nassim's timeleap was recorded.”

I stare at her. “That's impossible. His file was erased, remember? We were there when Phoebe did it.”

“I thought so too,” she says. “But it wasn't enough. I remembered that the central database records all timeleaps, too. I went back and convinced Phoebe to erase the leap that Nassim took with you from the elevator . . . but I was too late. Frank had already seen it.

“Once I found out that Frank knew, there was no way I could go back to 1967 again. If I had, Uncle and Frank would have known that I helped you and Zach escape. Luckily, Phoebe erased all of my trips there before anyone saw them—from every database.”

I kick at a stone, and it skitters across the rocky floor. So it's true then. Uncle knew all along that I was living in the past with Zach and his family. He could have brought me back at any time.

“Why did he wait so long before he snatched me back?” I ask.

Abbie shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe he thought as long as you thought you were safe, you weren't going anywhere. And with time travel, they could come bring you back whenever they wanted.”

Everything she's saying sounds logical. But there's one piece of the puzzle that's still missing.

“That was you, wasn't it? In Mr. Tepper's class?”

She nods.

“Why did you take the chance? If they found you there, like you said, they'd know you were in on the escape plan with me.”

She looks at me for a long time before answering.

“I missed you,” she says.

“Really?” I say.

“Yes, really. Didn't you miss me?”

“Well, I'm sure I would have if I'd remembered you . . .”

Our fingers brush and then twine together. It feels good to be holding hands.

I gaze at the hills. Three of the sheep with blue slashes on their sides are wandering away from the rest.

“Why are they marked like that?” I ask.

“Luca explained it to us,” she says. “It's so the farmers can tell which sheep are theirs when they come to collect them. Anything else you'd like to know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Luca. I can't figure him out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems like sometimes he takes orders from Uncle, and other times, it looks like he's working for Frank.”

“I know,” she says. “My take on it is that he works for Uncle only when Uncle is around. But most of the time now, he works for Frank.”

“And Uncle is okay with that?”

Abbie shrugs her shoulders. “I don't think he even notices. Uncle has been acting different lately.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” I say. “Looks like the emperor's got new clothes.”

“It's more than that,” says Abbie. “It's like he's off in his own little world most of the time. The only thing he talks about is restoring the glory of Scotland of old. He's obsessed with this place and spends most of his time here. I hardly see him at Headquarters or the Compound anymore. He's even cutting back on punishments. Last week, Lydia messed up a snatch—she grabbed a rare jeweled egg from the czar's palace in 1880s Russia but dropped it on the way back. When Uncle noticed a missing gemstone, the only thing he did was tell her to do better next time.”

“That's because it was Lydia,” I say. “Next to Frank, she's the teacher's pet.”

“Maybe. Speaking of Frank, you'd better watch how you talk to him. He's gained a lot of power recently and practically runs the show at Headquarters. He's even got a few of his own goons now. Though he's careful around Uncle. He does just the right amount of groveling and sucking up so that Uncle doesn't get suspicious. And he's been nicer to all of the other time snatchers too. But it's all fake. I'm convinced that Frank's planning something.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. But the way he's acting, it's got to be something big.”

“I can't go back to Zach on my own, Abbie,” I say after a moment. “They blocked my access.”

“I know. Frank was bragging to me about it.”

“You've got to take me back.”

She lets go of my hand. “I can't.”

“Sure you can. Your patch isn't blocked.”

“All right. Let's say I take you. Then what? You think you'll live happily ever after? It's not going to happen. Uncle will snatch you right back.”

I let her words sink in. She's right. I'm fooling myself to think that I can go back and live a normal life in 1968.

“I've got to know that Zach's going to be okay,” I say.

“He will be.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked into his situation,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“I went back to check on him.”

“You did? Wait. How could you, without it being tracked?”

“While you were in 1968, I was on a mission to 1988. It wasn't Boston, but close enough to take a quick side trip without any time displacement. I didn't speak to him, but I saw him. He was doing fine.”

I take a moment to consider what she's saying. She saw Zach when he was twenty-six years old, and he was all right. Relief floods through me.

“Was . . . was I with him?” I ask.

“No. But that doesn't mean anything. It was at a coffee shop, Cale. And only for a minute.”

I stare at her. There are so many questions I want to ask her about Zach, but if she only saw him for a minute, I doubt she'll be able to answer any of them.

“We've got to go now,” she says.

I nod, but I'm not looking forward to rejoining the others. A feeling of helplessness washes over me. The new life that I thought I had started with Zach and his family wasn't a new life at all. All that time, Uncle still had his hooks in me.

Abbie takes my wrist and taps at her own. The next instant we're back in the small alcove. As soon as our time freeze thaws, we enter the Great Hall and pick up our clothing packets.

“See you soon,” she says and goes off to change.

I slip into dark trousers, a white shirt and suspenders. The finishing touch is a straw hat with a flat top and a round brim. Soon after I'm done, everyone else arrives dressed in their 1912 clothes.

“You will all leave now, but your arrivals will be staggered in intervals of two minutes,” says Luca. “When you arrive, head right to the seawall, where you will find me with Uncle. Lydia, you are up first.”

One at a time, Lydia, Raoul, Abbie and Frank step forward, tap their wrists, fade and then vanish.

“Best for last, right?” I say, stepping up.

Luca doesn't crack a smile or say anything. Only motions for me to get going.

My fingers hover over my bandaged wrist. I've got a bad feeling about this “fun day” that Uncle has planned for us. Maybe I'll sit tight in the castle and wait for everyone to come back.

Luca grabs my wrist and presses so hard I cry out in pain.

“Go now,” he says.

Gingerly, I enter the sequence on my patch. As I wait for the timeleap to take hold, all I hear is the distant bleating of the Highland sheep. Even with no fences in sight, they are still prisoners, marked for return by their masters.

Same as me.

July 7, 1912, 10:47
A.M.

Pier 6, East River
New York City

I
land in a narrow passage between two buildings. A short man wearing suspenders over a stained white apron pushes a hot dog cart past the alley. His sign says
ONLY
A
NICKEL
FOR
A
HOT
FRANKFURTER.

Once my time freeze thaws, I head out of the alley and survey my surroundings. A huge crowd is gathered about fifty yards away, and even more people are streaming in that direction. Beyond the crowd, I can see a sliver of the East River and a barge moored at the pier.

A skinny kid wearing a cap that sinks over his ears hands me a flyer.

SPECIAL EVENT

SUNDAY, JULY 7 at 11 A.M.

Pier 6, East River
One block from South Ferry

HARRY HOUDINI

securely handcuffed and leg ironed, will be placed in a heavy packing case, which will be nailed and roped, then encircled by steel bands, firmly nailed. Two hundred pounds of iron weights will then be lashed to this box containing
HOUDINI
. The box will then be
THROWN INTO THE EAST RIVER. HOUDINI
will undertake to release himself whilst submerged under water.

THE MOST
DARING
FEAT EVER ATTEMPTED IN THIS OR ANY OTHER AGE.

SUNDAY, RAIN or SHINE

Now, this I've got to see. I'm glad they added the bit about “rain or shine,” because thunderclouds are rolling in.

I follow the crowd and soon spot Luca's massive frame near the seawall, opposite the barge. At first I think he's alone, but then I do a double take. Uncle is standing next to him. He's traded in his chain mail for a suit and tie, and his war helmet for a straw boater. He looks like the hundred or so other men jostling for a good viewing spot.

By the time I manage to pick my way through the horde, the other time snatchers have arrived. Frank looks like a mini version of Uncle in a black suit and straw hat, Raoul keeps pulling up his too-large breeches, and Lydia fiddles with the angle of her wide-brimmed hat. Abbie, however, looks like she just stepped out of the Sears catalogue—she's elegant in a maroon dress and matching parasol.

“Welcome, all, to 1912,” Uncle says over our mindpatches.

Then he takes a deep breath in, nostrils flaring. “Isn't the air wonderful? It smells of freedom, opportunity and infinite possibilities.”

And dead fish. If I'd been thinking ahead, I would have brought one of those pine-scented nose masks that were all the rage during the garbage strike of June 2061. On the other hand, I don't think Uncle would appreciate me bringing attention to our little group by wearing something invented over a hundred years from now.

“I want you all to closely observe the goings-on. In a few moments, I will ask you some questions about what you have seen and heard.”

That's fine with me. Close observation is my specialty.

I can't get over how many people have gotten up on a Sunday morning for this. It must be the thrill of possibly seeing somebody die right in front of your nose. It's too bad they can't set up a grandstand underwater. That's where the real action's going to be, I figure.

I spot the hot dog vendor. He's parked his cart at what looks like an ideal location near the seawall. But so far, he doesn't appear to have any takers.

Beyond him there's a guy standing on the seawall surrounded by a small knot of people. He's wearing a black tank top and his dark hair is parted in the middle. Judging from all the attention, he must be Houdini. There's nothing special about him as far as I can see. In fact, he's a lot shorter than I expected.

A gaggle of police officers appear out of nowhere and surround him. I'm too far away to hear all of what's being said, but it's clear they want this party to get started.

After a few minutes, Houdini and his entourage leave the seawall and make their way through the crowd across the pier to a barge. It looks like they're going to do the stunt from there.

Which is bad news for me, because my view of the barge is partly blocked by a line of horse-drawn carriages that are waiting to whisk some of the wealthier gawkers off to brunch as soon as the event is over. The horses seem oblivious to everything, their noses buried in feed bags. Now, there's a great invention: hands-free eating. If I had my own feed bag, I'd fill it with—

“Cale, pay attention!” Abbie's voice comes high and sharp over my mindpatch.

“I am,” I say defensively.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says a booming voice. “In a feat never dared before, the amazing Houdini will be handcuffed, shackled, tied up and nailed into this crate. The crate will then be lowered into the East River. Two hundred pounds of iron weights will ensure that the crate does not float to the surface . . .”

Uncle's got a big smile on his face. It always makes me nervous when he's happy. The strange thing is he's not even looking at Houdini or the crate. He's gazing somewhere out over the crowd.

I try to follow where he's looking, but don't see anything out of the ordinary. Just then, there's a commotion from the deck of the barge. I look over to see five burly workmen standing at the rail. They are upending large bags over the side. A flood of squishy pink things pours into the river.

“Jellyfish,” whispers Abbie over my patch. “The deadly kind.”

A gust of wind comes up, followed by the peal of thunder and the flash of lightning.

This is all great news. Only a minute ago, my count of “Ways in Which Houdini May Die This Morning” was stuck at two: drowning or suffocation. Now I can add death by multiple poisonous jellyfish bites and electrocution by lightning strike to the list. The last one's a little iffy, but I'm still counting it.

Two of the policemen frisk Houdini from head to toe. Next, they fit the manacles onto his ankles, place his wrists in the cuffs and then tie him up with a thick rope. Houdini smiles through it all, which I find amazing.

A slight woman steps forward and kisses him square on the lips.

“The crate in which Houdini will be submerged is not waterproof,” continues the announcer. “As soon as it immersed, it will fill with water, and he will have only as long as he can hold his breath to escape from his constraints and break free from his watery prison. Although the Great Houdini has assured us that he can hold his breath in excess of three minutes, he has agreed that if he does not emerge from the crate after two minutes, we may send down the rescue team.”

He gestures to three stout men in swim trunks positioned in a rowboat by the barge, axes in hand.

They look pretty sure of themselves, but if it was me in that box, I'd definitely want a backup plan for my backup plan. None of those guys look like they can hold their breath longer than ten seconds.

Houdini waves to the crowd, then folds himself into two and squeezes into the crate. As soon as he's in, the policemen pound nails into the top, sealing it.

“There is nothing quite like the sound of death knocking at your door to bring out one's zest for living, is there?” says Uncle.

His voice in my head startles me. I've been so mesmerized by the show that I almost forgot about Uncle and the others.

Two of the policemen push the crate to the edge of the deck. For a moment, it just teeters there, half on and half off the barge.

My mouth goes dry.

I hastily add death by heart attack to my list.

With a final shove and a gasp from the crowd, the crate splashes into the East River.

The water churns for a moment and then smooths over. The crowd goes deathly quiet. All eyes are riveted on the spot where the crate disappeared.

A minute goes by.

There's no way he's going to escape.

A woman screams. Another faints. The men in the rowboat clutch their axes.

The suspense is killing me. Maybe I should hop forward in time by another minute to see if he makes it.

Then Uncle's singsong voice comes over my mindpatch.

“Ahh, the glory of living in the moment. Raoul, I'd like you to tell us all what is happening this instant.”

Lucky for me, but a bad break for Raoul. Going first is never easy.

“Uhh . . . Houdini is inside the crate, trying to escape.”

“And?”

“And everyone's watching to see if he can do it,” adds Raoul.

“And?”

A bead of sweat is forming on Raoul's forehead. He's done as good a job as anyone could, but Uncle doesn't seem satisfied.

Raoul pauses for a long moment and then says, “That's all, Uncle.”

“Are you certain?” says Uncle.

“Yes,” says Raoul, but his voice sounds shaky.

“Does anyone else have anything to add?”

Only silence.

“Well, then, let me add my own observations,” says Uncle. “There is a woman making her way through the crowd. Do you see her?”

I look to my left. At first I don't see the woman, but then I spot her—middle-aged and wearing an ankle-length forest-green dress and matching hat. She's hurrying along, parasol in one hand and hot dog in the other.

I nod along with the others.

“Good,” says Uncle. “Keep watching her.”

That's really asking a lot, given that Houdini is about to drown.

The next moment, the woman stumbles and falls forward. Her hot dog goes flying—which is a real shame, because it's a waste of a good dog—and a big dollop of mustard flings through the air, landing on the tan pants of a balding man in shirtsleeves.

The man glances back and swipes a hand on the seat of his pants, which is a big mistake, because now his fingers are smeared with mustard and there's no obvious place to wipe them.

The woman is on the ground, looking dazed and holding her ankle. Mustard Man seems unsure what to do. His gaze ping-pongs from his yellow fingers to the downed woman. A boy shouts “Mother!” and the crowd parts to let him through. He's got blond hair and is as skinny as a wire; I figure him to be a year or two younger than me. He kneels by the fallen woman and helps her to her feet. As soon as she's up, the boy turns toward Mustard Man, pulls out a handkerchief and begins dabbing at the man's stained trousers. Mustard Man attempts a retreat, but is blocked by a wall of people behind him.

Mustard Man shouts at him to stop, but the boy ignores him and keeps swiping at the pants. Finally, the boy stands up, folds his handkerchief neatly, takes the woman's arm and leads her through the crowd.

The duo passes right by the hot dog vendor's cart, and she rests there for a moment, placing a hand on the cart.

“Houdini has been submerged for one minute and thirty-seven seconds.” The announcer's voice wavers, and he looks nervously at the guys with the axes.

“Constable, stop that boy. He stole my billfold!”

My eyes flick back. Mustard Man is racing through the crowd, waving his arms.

I turn back toward the water. There are bubbles coming up.

The crowd gasps.

The policeman lunges.

The boy cries out.

The hot dog vendor starts packing up.

And then, most amazing of all, Houdini's head breaks through to the surface.

The crowd erupts into raucous applause. A few of the men throw their hats into the air.

Houdini waves to the crowd before backstroking to the pier. As he hauls himself up onto the dock, my eyes flick back to where the police officer is patting down the protesting boy and coming up empty. The next moment, at the insistence of Mustard Man, the woman offers up her purse for inspection.

“Very well,” says Uncle after a moment. “Lydia, how did he manage it?”

“Houdini must have hid a key somewhere on him,” Lydia says. “When he was underwater, he managed to pick the locks, untie himself and break out of the crate.”

“And the boy?”

“The boy must have lifted the wallet when he was dabbing at the mustard stain on the man's pants.”

“Yet Houdini was subject to a full body search before the restraints were placed on him. And similarly, the boy was searched from head to toe. Neither search turned up anything. How could that be . . . Caleb?”

I look up at Uncle, and we lock eyes. My heart is hammering. It isn't lost on me that this is the first time he's spoken directly to me since I escaped with Zach.

“The boy must have slipped the wallet to his mother before he was searched,” I say.

“Yet when his mother's handbag was searched, no wallet was found,” says Uncle.

He's got me there and he knows it. A smile plays at the corner of his lips.

“And Houdini?” continues Uncle. “How did he manage his escape from the restraints?”

“He had a key hidden on him,” I say, repeating what Lydia had said. “It was so well hidden that they didn't find it when they searched him.”

Uncle shakes his head.