Emily knew she shouldn’t trust anyone, but she had a good sense of people. She could tell he was sincere. His kind face and soft hands reassured her somehow.
“Deal,” she replied.
“My name’s Duane.”
“I’m Em—I’ll tell you later.”
He laughed. “Whatever you say, Red. Come on now. Let’s go.”
He picked her up by the waist with his hands and carried her two feet across the hot pavement, sitting her butt on the vehicle with her legs dangling off the back.
Duane started the two-stroke engine and they puttered off, crossing the mostly empty parking lot as they headed toward the far end of the mall.
* * *
August 11, 2013
4:58 a.m.
Emily dug through the donation boxes in the basement of the Irish Cultural Center, only a ten-minute walk from Glassford Park where she had jumped to from the restaurant shootout several hours before. She drifted into her thoughts, letting her hands switch to autopilot, while an intense vision of pretty boy’s face took over the video player in her thoughts. She decided that Derek’s eyes were blue, not green, once she adjusted for the color shift of the exit sign in the storeroom. The feelings inside of him were unique, like the gold earring hanging from his ear. They were something she’d never felt before, and she’d taken a read on hundreds of people ever since she came back after the night of The Taking.
His smile may have been slight, but his inner brightness was full, lifting her heart to a place it had never been before. She didn’t believe in love at first sight, but figured that’s what most people would say she was experiencing. There was no denying she was attracted to Derek. But love at first sight? She laughed—a silly concept.
She convinced herself the gift of second sight was to blame for everything she was feeling. It had allowed her a brief, but profound look inside the mysterious boy. That level of deep emotional connection with another human being would probably change a girl, she decided. That’s what it was. Not love at first sight. She’d captured a glimpse of him—the real him and was attracted to his gentle and kind spirit. She smiled, knowing the explanation was based in logic and not part of some ridiculous fantasy.
But why was he in that gang? Was it a dare? Was he desperate, like her, just trying to survive another day on the streets? Maybe he owed the gang money and this was how he needed to repay it. She was sure there was a reason. A valid reason. There had to be. Something everyone would understand and forgive. No, she told herself, he wasn’t a criminal like the rest of them. He didn’t want to hurt people. He had to be a good person. She felt it stirring around inside of him, bubbling just below the surface of his fake gangster facade. The streets can do that to a person, make them pretend to be someone they’re not.
Since she’d only jumped three hours ahead this time, a fact that she’d confirmed on the digital calendar clock upstairs, it meant she could go looking for him. He was probably close, since she’d only jumped a short block away from her launching point. She continued rummaging through the endless stacks of clothes, thinking about the parameters of the last jump. She was concerned that the process was getting shorter in distance traveled and in time forward. Shorter jumps meant more blue energy and more pain, with a greater possibility that it wouldn’t be an effective escape maneuver. Things were changing. Things she couldn’t control.
First things first, she told herself, returning her focus to the task at hand. She ran through the post-jump checklist in her head: clothes, food, and a place to crash. Once she had those covered, she could spend time trying to figure out why the jump scenario was shortening. Later, she thought. Focus, Emily. Focus. You got this.
She knew that the old Irish ladies held clothing and food drives at the center once a month. They kept everything in a downstairs storage area until they were ready to hand it out at one of their quarterly charity events.
She’d befriended them after her last jump, and found that they treated her like a long-lost granddaughter. She assumed that they took a shine to her because of her ginger looks, probably reminding them of some of their family members who also had red hair and freckles.
“Bingo,” she said, stopping her frantic search. “Perfect.”
She pulled out a faded maroon-colored Arizona State University T-shirt with gold letters and a pair of orange board shorts. She held them up to gauge their size, then quickly put them on. She always felt a little out of sorts until she found some clothes and enjoyed a good night’s rest. Some food and water didn’t hurt, either. The shorts and top that she found were a little loose, but that was fine with her. She didn’t like showing off her figure, since it drew too much attention and always seemed to get her into trouble. She played with the fit of the clothes, then nodded. “Better to blend in and not get noticed.”
She kept searching the boxes, knowing that donations had patterns to them. You could look for hours and not find anything in your size or style, and then all of a sudden, you’d come across a goldmine of stuff that looked like it was left there just for you. She figured when people pulled items from their closet, they’d naturally jam it all into the same container, keeping everything separate and organized by default. A big guy would donate big guy clothes, which of course, were no good to her. People with toddlers would donate toddler stuff, and so on.
Or maybe, people subconsciously kept similar items together just in case they changed their minds on the way to the drop-off point, turned the car around, and took their stuff home. Either way, donations had patterns. She just needed to find more of the right boxes, hopefully donated by a teenager who was roughly her size. She couldn’t afford to be picky, as long as the clothes kept her warm and weren’t too small. Baggy was better than skintight, especially when living on the streets. Baggy gave you more places to hide stuff underneath, and helped keep the creepers’ eyes in check.
“What’s this?” she asked the empty room, finding what she could only describe as a girly stash. Four big boxes that looked like they had been donated by a sorority of conforming girly-girls. Yuck. Or maybe a family with several teenagers who idolized Britney Spears. Double yuck. The next two boxes held a trove of adult-size T-shirts, low-rise blue jeans and sweatshirts that said LOVE PINK. Triple yuck. They were all too big for her, and they’d be too embarrassing to wear in public anyway.
The next box was filled with a stack of low-cut sexy tops, a few ultra short-shorts, and some nicer, dress-up-and-go-out-items. She rolled her eyes, thinking about her mom trying to squeeze her into the revealing clothes, especially the stylish little black dress with the slit up the front.
The only way she’d be caught dead in a dress like that would be if she ever had the chance to go on a date. A real date, like for the prom. She thought of Derek again, this time with his arm around her waist, his strong fingers caressing, walking her though the entrance to the dance where all her old friends from high school were waiting with eyes wide and mouths gaping. She’d wear her best makeup and find a matching pair of shoes that made her look tall, refined, and elegant. She’d need some pretty lace panties just in case she decided to let him see them. Maybe even let him remove them. Then she snapped back to reality. Not likely, she reminded herself. That life’s not for you. “Rule number one: no close friends. Rule number ten: no boys.” Her heart ran cold.
The third box was the money: clothes that might have belonged to a tomboyish sorority sister, a small fraternity brother, or a teenage boy. Sports-themed T-shirts, soccer shorts, jeans that might just fit her properly, a couple pairs of khaki pants, and even a few button-down shirts that weren’t too worn out. She smiled. She was set for a while, until the next jump.
She cast her eyes around the room and found what she needed. A smallish Nike gym bag sat in the corner. It was filled with infant onesies and what looked like a hundred pairs of tiny socks. She dumped the contents out and put them into a partially filled box of adult clothes that she’d passed over. She began to pack the gym bag with all her
new stuff.
The tiny socks reminded her—shoes. They were the hardest thing to find, and the most sought after thing on the street, other than drugs and cigarettes, and probably the most asked-for donation item. The good Irish ladies must have already separated the shoes out of this round of donations and taken them to the shelters, because there were absolutely no shoes in any of the boxes. All she could find was a pair of flip-flops that were way too big, covered with some type of disgusting white crust, and about to fall apart. The crust worried her, but they would have to do until she snagged some from Payless Shoes later. She didn’t like to break in and steal, but her feet had to come first. She planned to leave the owner of the shoe store something of value or clean the place for him; then it wasn’t stealing.
Next up, food.
Emily crept out of the closet and down the hall to the base of the stairs. She paused and listened carefully. It was still too early for anyone to be in the center, but you could never be too careful. Everything seemed quiet upstairs. She counted to one hundred just to make sure, then walked up the steps and found the kitchen.
She loved the Irish Cultural Center: everything was laid out perfectly for her. After she’d helped herself to some cold potatoes from a Tupperware container in the refrigerator, a can of corned beef from a box on the counter, and several glasses of apple juice, she noticed a schedule pinned to a bulletin board on the wall. She studied it carefully. Nothing was happening in the center until Bingo at four o’clock that afternoon. No events, no cleaning scheduled, nothing. Nice, she thought. She had the place to herself for a while.
Emily did a sweep of the building: totally empty of volunteers, though she did find a half-empty bag of mini candy bars, like the kind parents gave out on Halloween. She took three of the Milky Way bars and put them in her pocket. It made her think of Junie, wondering how she was doing, and if she’d followed her instructions and gotten out of the restaurant safely. She must have, she decided, because her visions were never wrong. And she sensed that Junie was still alive, somewhere. Probably back with her deadbeat mother, snuggling next to her in the shelter. Emily decided to wait a few days before she’d go look for her. Let things cool down a bit first. Time to lay low.
She returned to the kitchen, flicked on the small TV set in the corner, sat down, and put her feet up on a footstool. She planned to zone out for a while and think about why her time jumps were changing and what it meant. She looked at the clock on the wall: 5:15 a.m. Time for the morning news and talk shows. Good. Something boring and mindless. She gave herself until 6:15, then she’d head out.
Two minutes later, she sat upright when something caught her ear.
The talking head on the news—Angela Grimes, with heavy makeup and hair that never moved—intoned in her most dramatic voice:
“A fierce gun battle broke out last night with police in an upscale Italian restaurant in downtown Phoenix, leaving three members of the West Side Locos street gang and two veteran officers dead, and one young girl missing. The missing girl, June Wright, whose picture you see on the screen right now . . .”
Emily was horrified to see Junie’s smiling face, cute little pigtails and all, in what must have been a school picture from the previous year, before her mother and she had been evicted from their apartment.
“ . . . was the temporary resident of a nearby children’s shelter where she lived with her mother, Abigale Wright, who’s shown here talking with detectives. The mother declined to be interviewed on camera, but did seem agitated and overcome with grief, saying that she had no idea why her little girl was inside the restaurant when the after-hours burglary took place. Police are also looking for this young woman in connection with the incident.”
She almost fell out of her chair when a two-second grainy video clip showed her and Junie running across a section of the upper screen. Based on the angle and direction, it must have been from when the two of them ran into the seating area from the kitchen to find a place a hide. The bottom of the screen showed a pair of point-of-sale computer terminals sitting on a pedestal desk near the double swing doors on the back wall. Parker never mentioned that the restaurant used surveillance, so she never thought to look for cameras. Maybe he didn’t know they were in use. She worried that there might have been additional cameras and if so, they may have captured her culpable activities as she arranged the scene so the gangbangers would shoot themselves and Junie could escape.
“A spokesman for the Phoenix Police Department did say that the restaurant’s video surveillance system malfunctioned before the shootout with police started, leaving them with more questions than answers. Police ask that anyone with any information at all about this young woman and her whereabouts contact them immediately. She’s five foot six, around 125 pounds, with long red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She was last seen wearing a blue T-shirt and baggy green cargo-style shorts.”
“I’m screwed,” she said. “This is why you never get involved, Em!”
CHAPTER THREE
August 11, 2013
5:17 a.m.
Jim Miller fell out of his chair when Emily’s picture flashed across the screen, tumbling to the kitchen floor along with a full cup of hot coffee, a plate of bacon and eggs, and a brand-new computer tablet he’d just removed from its packaging and was trying to figure out how to use.
“Damn!” he yelled. “Ugggh. Cuh-rap. What the—”
He tried to simultaneously survey the wreckage that was now his breakfast nook and watch the news report. Not possible. He checked to make sure his tablet was undamaged. It was. The mess could wait. The picture he saw on the news could not.
It was a big deal. Big for him, at least.
He picked himself up off the floor, brushed scrambled eggs from his pants, and gawked at the television set.
“ . . . Police ask that anyone with any information at all about this young woman and her whereabouts contact them immediately. She’s five foot six, around 125 pounds, with long red hair, blue eyes, and freckles. She was last seen wearing a blue T-shirt and baggy green cargo-style shorts.”
Jim had plenty of information about the girl on the TV screen, none of which he was willing to share with the police. She’d been a personal conundrum of his for almost twenty years. Ten years ago, he’d tried to bring the story to the police, but they’d laughed him right out of the precinct. He wasn’t about to go down that road again, not in a million years, not with retirement still twenty-plus years away.
He still had to earn, and that couldn’t be done if they throw you in the nut house. His career had stalled recently, but he was still motivated to cover the story of a lifetime. And this girl was that story. He knew it was a major gamble, but as a former Marine, he was used to taking risks.
Risks got his blood pumping and helped him focus, pushing him to succeed even though the quote under his high school yearbook picture from twenty years earlier said, “Least likely to get laid or paid.” His answer to that humiliation was to enlist in the Marines the day after he graduated Magna Cum Laude. It was a bold move that surprised everyone, even himself, when he scored off the charts in nearly every assessment the Corps threw at him. “Fuck ‘em,” he said, thinking of his classmates.
Emily Heart was his Holy Grail. The story of all stories. The missing red-headed girl who hadn’t aged in decades.
He grabbed his remote, hit rewind, waited until he found the image of the girl, and then pressed pause. He picked up the phone and called his nineteen-year-old nephew, Andy, who he knew would still be asleep in bed after his late-night men’s hockey league game.
The phone buzzed for thirty seconds, then a groggy voice answered. “Hello? Mom? Is that you? What’s the matter?”
“It’s not your mother, sunshine. It’s Uncle Jim. Wake up. I need your help. Tell me how to save a screen shot from the TV onto my new tablet.”
“You need what?”
“I need to know how to do a screen capture of something on the news and save it to my tablet.”
<
br /> Andy yawned. “Why don’t you get one of the geeks from the newspaper to help you? It’s their job. Not mine.”
“That might be a little difficult.”
“Why?”
“Well, technically, I don’t work there anymore.”
“You got fired?”
“I quit. They wouldn’t let me cover the stories I wanted. So, I walked.”
“Not that Emily Heart nonsense again. You need to let it go already.”
“Look, I know you and your mother think I’m nuts, but I’m telling you, there are things in this world that defy explanation. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. Like this girl. She’s real. As a matter a fact, she’s on the news right now. That’s why I’m calling. Will you help me or not?”
* * *
“Not now!” Emily screamed at herself, fighting back a wave of panic as she watched the TV news in the Irish Cultural Center. Her body wasn’t ready for another jump, not yet. She did a quick breathing exercise she’d learned from Master Liu, a kind and enigmatic Kung Fu teacher she’d met back in the beginning, between her third and fourth jumps. It worked—she averted the adrenaline rush that would have pushed her over the top, triggering the countdown.
A sense of dread chilled her bones when various street reporters and the talking heads at the news station discussed the shootout and took turns theorizing what might have happened. In the end, what did all of their conjecture matter? The facts were clear. A little girl was missing, and two policemen were dead. She hated cops, but didn’t want any of them to die. They were only doing their job. She just wanted them to leave her alone. She knew that if the cops ever got their hands on her, they’d eventually discover who she was and where she was from, bringing her time jump ability to full light. Once they knew her secret, they’d lock her up at some black site government lab where there’d be endless experiments, blood samples, CT scans, and God knows what else. She’d be studied and dissected like a rabid dog.
Glassford Girl: Part 1 (The Emily Heart Time Jumper) Page 3