I jump into the crowd and let it pull me along until I’m well away from the spot where I saw Frank. And then just to be sure, I keep walking for another ten minutes. Which seemed like a good idea at the time, but doesn’t seem so hot now. What if in my rush to put distance between me and Frank I’ve also been walking in the opposite direction from the pyramids?
I am about to head back when I hear a hundred people screaming.
It’s coming from a white, pyramid-shaped building that’s easily five stories high. Bingo!
The place looks nothing like an amusement park ride. The entire structure is covered in a web of steel triangles. Just to the left is its twin, except smaller—maybe only two stories high. There’s something otherworldly about the two buildings, as if an alien race brought them to Earth and plunked them down right here. A high open track connects the buildings and little cars shuttle riders from the larger pyramid to the smaller one. The screaming is definitely coming from the smaller pyramid. There’s a sign in front of the ride that says LE GYROTRON.
I walk briskly to a spot with a good view of the end of the ride and settle in to wait.
A hand grabs my shoulder. I whirl and break the grip with an upper block. I’m about to follow with a jab to the solar plexus, but when I see who it is, I hold my punch at the last second.
“Jim?”
“Caleb?” says Jim.
I unclench my fist. “Uhh, sorry. I guess I’m a bit jumpy.”
“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have surprised you like that,” he says. “Anyway, glad you could make it.” He’s staring at my old-fashioned clothes.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. I arrange the bowler on my head at a jaunty angle, grin and add, “I got these clothes just in case I ever need to time travel to 1871.”
He smiles and glances past me. “Hey, look. Here they come.”
Zach’s running down the exit ramp toward us, face flushed. Diane is ten paces behind, walking with a noticeable wobble.
“Daddy, I did the Gyrotron! I wasn’t afraid at all. First we were flying in outer space and then a monster in a volcano ate us! Now I want to do La Spitoon!”
Jim laughs. “It’s La Pitoune, not La Spitoon. Look who’s here, Zach.”
In the instant before we make eye contact, a thousand different thoughts and feelings churn inside me. What am I really doing here? Does my showing up matter? I mean, here he is with both his parents in roller-coaster heaven. What more does a kid need?
“Caylid!” He jumps up and wraps his arms around my waist.
“Happy Birthday, Zach.” I fish the brown paper package from my pocket and hand it to him. He peels back the wrapper, and his eyes light up. He turns Captain Percival over in his hands and touches the point of the bayonet.
“He’s perfect!” Zach shouts.
“Glad you like him,” I say. But just then, I feel the skin on the back of my neck prickle.
I whip my head around, expecting to see Frank standing nearby, a smug expression on his face.
Nothing.
I scan the crowd. Where is he? A father snapping pictures of his family. A hot dog vendor wiping mustard off his serving counter. A mother bending over a stroller, coaxing her kid to have a drink. I don’t see him. But that doesn’t mean he’s not here, watching us right now.
“Zach, I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see you later, okay?”
He tears his eyes away from the captain just long enough to look up at me and say, “Don’t go, Caylid. We have to play soldiers.”
“He will next time, sweetie,” says Diane. “I’m going to give him our address so that he can come visit us, okay?”
She rummages around in her purse and finds a scrap of paper and a pencil.
“If you find yourself anywhere near Boston, Caleb,” she says, scribbling away, “we’d be delighted to see you.”
“Yes, Caylid, find yourself and come to my house,” Zach chimes in. “Five five Derne Street, Bostonmass.”
Diane is about to hand me the paper when I hold up my hands. “That’s okay. I can remember it.”
She looks at me oddly for a moment and then puts the note back in her purse.
“Promise you’ll come?” Zach says.
“Sure. I promise,” I say.
“We gotta shake on it.” Zach reaches out his small hand.
His grip is firm like Jim’s and warm like Diane’s.
A thousand thoughts swirl around in my brain. But the one that keeps hammering at me is, How could I have been so stupid? By my coming here, I’ve put Zach’s life at risk!
The thing is, I don’t know what to do next. It’s getting harder and harder to think straight. Is it time fog? I’ve got to warn Jim and Diane. What will I say? That they should keep an extra eye on Zach because he’s about to be kidnapped by my roommate from the future?
My head is bursting. Got to get out of here. Got to go somewhere where I can think properly.
“I’ve got to go,” I say again without looking at Zach. I turn quickly and begin walking away.
There it is. The tingling sensation again.
I whirl around.
Nothing.
Off to my right, I spot the men’s room and duck inside. The place is empty. I lock myself in the last stall.
Got to calm down. Focus on my breathing.
But I can’t. My nerves are shot.
Just then the washroom door opens. The sound of music and laughter drifts in.
The stall door next to mine creaks open. I glance quickly under the green metal divider and see Frank’s white running shoes.
My heart is beating like crazy. I’ve got to get a grip on myself.
I try to tap a sequence on my wrist, but my fingers are shaking too much.
“What a great idea! A game of hide-and-go-seek. And by the looks of things, you want to hide first. That’s fine with me. See how accommodating I can be, Caleb?” Frank’s voice stabs into me.
I chance a glance under the divider. The feet are gone. Where is he?
I stay silent. He’s only guessing it’s me. He can’t know for sure.
Just then, the door to my stall rattles. He’s pushing on it. I scramble forward and throw my back against it.
“This is … what is that 1960s expression for having fun? A gas? Yes, that’s it. This is a gas, Caleb! We really should play games more often. Abbie and I like to play games together too, did you know that?”
Frantically, I reenter the sequence. As I do, I ease up on the door for a second. But that’s all it takes. The next moment, the flimsy lock gives way, and I’m hurled forward as the stall door crashes open.
October 14, 1871, 11:26 A.M.
Bridgeport, Connecticut
Operation Fling
Complete and utter blackness. And cold. So cold. I must be dead. Frank must have finished me off right after he demolished the stall door.
Or has he? Maybe I’m still in the bathroom stall and he’s turned the lights off and is still coming after me. Panic rips through me. I rub my eyes and activate my ocular implant. I’m in a room the size of a closet with walls made of rough wood. The bench on which I’m sitting is also made from wood and has a big hole carved into it. That’s good, isn’t it? There was no wood in the bathroom stall at Expo 67, only metal dividers. So my timeleap must have worked. But where am I?
Getting hard to think straight. How long have I been in the past now? For sure it’s been over a half hour counting the time at Expo 67. But how much over?
Bridgeport, Connecticut. That’s where I must be. Unless I made a sequencing error and landed in some other place in some other year. Which is entirely possible, given that I had to deal with Frank trying to bash down the stall door while I was entering the sequence.
Got to think calmly. All right, what else do I know about this place? Well, for one thing, it stinks. I don’t need my ocular implant to tell me where the awful smell is coming from—the hole in the bench.
I’ve landed in an outhouse.
> I stand, reach for the door, open it a crack and peek through.
Daylight. But just barely. The sky is dark and filled with clouds. There’s a row of buildings maybe fifty feet away. Trees between me and them. I hear horses whinnying.
Opening the door wider, I notice that the nearest building has a flat roof. My pulse begins to race. Could it be the same roof that I landed on the first time I came here? Sure enough, there’s the gargoyle.
Abbie! Is she still waiting? How long has it been? Five minutes? Ten? Or even longer? If my sequencing was halfway decent I should have arrived back here in 1871 with only a few minutes gone.
I run along a path skirting the back of the buildings until I reach Norman’s. Luckily, the back door is unlocked. As I step inside, a bell jingles and a wave of sweet-smelling pipe smoke washes over me. Through the dimness I can make out shelves stacked with colored bottles. Norman is by the front with his back to me, arranging something in the display window. And he’s not alone. There’s a boy standing near him, wearing a jacket that’s way too tight.
I should know. After all, the boy is me. Or rather, was me a couple of 1871 minutes ago.
I smile at my past self, but he’s clearly not amused. He scowls at me like I’ve just put ketchup on his breakfast cereal or something. Then, before I have a chance to scowl back, he vanishes.
Norman turns, sees me and says, “No need to go out that way, lad. Unless of course you have to use the privy.”
“Right. I’ll go out the front,” I say, stepping past him. “See you.”
“Wait just a moment, lad!” he says.
Great. What now? Have I forgotten something? I feel the blood drain from my face as I suddenly remember. The captain! He’s expecting to see Captain Percival in my hand. I quickly shove a hand in my pocket and make a bulge so that he thinks something’s in there.
“Yes?” I ask, cool as I can manage.
“You weren’t honeyfugglin’ me ’bout bein’ from Canada, were ye?” he asks.
“No, sir,” I say, reaching for the front door with my free hand.
“Good,” he says, smiling.
I scoot out the door and down the steps and jog across the lawn. Except it’s a time-fogged jog, which means it’s closer to a wobbly walk than a run. Abbie’s got her hands on her hips—never a good sign.
“What were you doing in there so long?” she says. “I was just about to come drag you out.”
“Sorry,” is all I say.
She doesn’t say anything, and we continue walking. I can feel the tension in the air and try distracting myself by admiring the hand-carved wooden signs on the buildings we pass. But it’s not working. I trip on a stone and lose my balance. Abbie shoots me a look.
I check my fingernail. Fifteen minutes left to do the snatch.
“Abbie …,” I begin.
“Don’t say it, Caleb,” she says. “I don’t want to know. If you’re doing stuff on the side, the less I know the better.”
So that’s why she’s angry. She thinks I’m moonlighting. Going off and stealing stuff for myself.
“It’s not like that … I mean …,” I begin, but time fog is making me slur my words.
“Listen,” she says, stopping in front of a narrow building with a brass sign above the door that reads CONNECTICUT STEERAGE COMPANY. “I’m your snatch partner, remember? Not your girlfriend. You don’t have to explain everything to me. All I need to know is that I can count on you for the mission. Okay?”
Not your girlfriend. The words echo in my brain. Tears are gathering in the back of my eyes. I push the feelings down. Deep down.
We don’t say anything or look at each other the rest of the way. The street, the buildings and even the people suddenly seem drab to me. It’s as if someone came with a giant vacuum and sucked the color out of everything.
The front lawn of the Frisbie Baking Company is decked out for a party. A big blue and red banner strung up between two sturdy oaks announces OFFICIAL OPENING DAY—ALL WELCOME. Twelve tables adorned with white lace tablecloths are arranged on the lawn in a semicircle around a makeshift stage.
I can’t help thinking about what would happen if it rained. I guess they’d move the whole party inside. But since all the tables and chairs are already outside, where would everyone sit? I don’t know why I’m even worrying about this. After all, I’m not organizing the event, only stealing from it.
A young boy plops down on the grass and manages to crawl halfway across the lawn before his mother chases him down and scoops him up. Four men in white suits belt out a tune about the prettiest girl in Abilene, wherever that is.
Without even a glance at me, Abbie goes off and sits at a table near the stage. Well, if that’s the way she wants to be, good riddance, I say. I find a seat at the furthest table from her.
The singing stops. A woman in a long ivory dress steps onto the stage. She raises two pale hands and clasps them together as if she’s about to pray. A breeze comes up and carries with it the scent of freshly cut grass.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she begins. “Today is a great day for our beloved town of Bridgeport.” Then she glances up at the gathering storm clouds and back at the crowd.
Most of the tables are filled. It’s a mixed group—a few older men and women, some families with young children, a few teenagers and some college types. Without exception, everyone’s fidgeting. My guess is that they’ve all skipped breakfast for this. I hope we’re not in for a long speech. My fingernail tells me that Abbie and I have eleven minutes left to complete the snatch, and Uncle didn’t give us any overtime on this one. Also, my legs are beginning to feel like jelly, and I’ve got a massive headache.
“Today is the grand opening of the Frisbie Baking Company,” she continues.
Applause all around except for two guys at my table wearing brown trousers and stiff white shirts who are talking to each other in low voices. I figure them to be about my age, maybe a little older. Every once in a while, the larger boy stares at me.
I’m positive they’re talking about me. I glance back at them. The bigger one reminds me of Frank. Same dark, oily hair. Same smirk.
“And in honor of this momentous occasion,” she says, “the proprietor of this venerable establishment, Mr. William Russell Frisbie, has a treat for us all: blackberry pie! Baked fresh this morning. Mr. Frisbie, please take a bow.”
As one, all heads turn toward a bearded man with fierce eyebrows in a white apron and baker’s cap standing to the left of the stage. He waves at the crowd and the quartet bursts into a chorus of, “We love you dearly, oh, yes we do …”
The sky is growing darker by the second. If they don’t get on with things, we’ll all be eating soggy blackberry pie in the rain.
The husky boy stares at me. I do my best to ignore him.
A troop of waitresses appears as if from nowhere, carrying trays laden with dozens of pies. As soon as they’re set down, the hungry diners descend on them.
I dig into my piece. It’s pleasantly warm and tastes divine. If only I had a glass of milk.
“Enjoyin’ your pie, pisspot?” a voice next to me whispers, startling me.
I feel a kick of adrenaline as the boy who had been staring puts his arm across my shoulders and leans in real close. So close that I can smell the blackberries on his breath. My body tenses.
Abbie’s voice comes over my mindpatch. “Don’t pay him any attention, Caleb. Just focus on the mission, okay?”
As usual, what she’s saying makes perfect sense. “Focus on the mission.” “You don’t have to explain everything to me.” And my new personal favorite, “not your girlfriend.” Yes, thank you, Abbie, for your pearls of wisdom.
“Let go, please,” I say.
“Not yet. We’ve only jus’ begun gettin’ acquainted,” Blackberry Breath says.
“Heads up,” Abbie mindlinks me. “The first one to fly is ours.”
The mission. I’ve almost forgotten. But right now, it seems to me that snatching the world�
�s first Frisbee in mid-flight isn’t all that important.
“Let go, now,” I say. I’m aiming for strong and confident, but in my time-fogged state, the words come out soft and fluffy. I’ve got to stay alert. But it’s getting harder and harder to form any real thoughts.
Blackberry Breath doesn’t let go. If anything, he tightens his grip on me.
With all the strength I can muster, I lift my right hand and place it on top of his.
For a split second, my hand rests there, not quite sure of what to do. But then my years of karate training kick in, and with a single pistonlike motion, I bring my left arm forward and then back, my elbow connecting with his solar plexus. He doubles over, gasping for air.
I stand up slowly, swaying like a drunkard. His friend is glaring at me, but doesn’t step any closer.
A flash of movement catches my attention. Instinctively I raise my hand in an upper block. But it isn’t a fist that’s flying my way. It’s a spinning pie tin. It glances off my arm and lands on top of Blackberry Breath.
I bend down and pluck the tin off his back.
Abbie appears beside me. She takes one look at the boy crumpled on the ground, frowns and says, “Let’s get out of here. Now.”
I follow her into a narrow alley between the Frisbie Baking Company building and the post office. Just then the clouds finally burst open and rain comes pelting down. But I hardly feel the rain. In fact I hardly feel anything. The time fog has wrapped me in some sort of cocoon, where almost all my thoughts have turned to mush and my body is disobeying the few coherent commands my mind is able to give it.
In a deep corner of my brain, a small voice is telling me to fight it. Telling me that there is something urgent I must do.
But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what that thing is.
I’ll ask Abbie. She’ll know. But when I turn to ask her, she is gone.
The raindrops beat a steady drum on the ground. A tiny stream forms near my boots. I gaze at the pie tin in my hand and wonder why I’m carrying it and what I should do with it.
Time Snatchers Page 17