Glassford Girl: Boxed Set (Complete Series) (Time Jumper Series)

by Jay J. Falconer

  Pretty damned cool for a teenager, he thought. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to play it that smooth at her age. But then again, he thought, how old is she, really? She never ages, so she could be seventy for all he knew. She did act with the experience of someone with a lifetime of tactical training; practiced and honed like a regiment commander in Spec Ops.

  * * *

  Emily spent the next half-hour looking over her shoulder while taking a circuitous route that crisscrossed downtown. She went from the library to past the courthouse. Then over to Roosevelt Row. Then back beyond the library to the Japanese Friendship Park and finally to Glassford Park, right across from where she’d started. She was planning to spend the night at the biggest homeless shelter in the city, known to the local urban outdoorsmen as Central, a few blocks north of the library. But her last move was in the opposite direction. She headed back to the courthouse again, then slipped into an alley and sprinted to the other end, making her way north, sticking to side streets and the shadows.

  By the time she rounded the final corner and had the entrance to the shelter in her sights, she was ready to collapse. There was no way anyone could have followed her. She’d done it. She smiled to herself and slowed to a walk, breathless.

  She was almost there—half a block away—when she felt someone step out of a doorway behind her. She turned. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. The man’s eyes were the same ones that she’d felt watching her at the library. How had he beaten her?

  “Don’t run. I’m not here to hurt you,” the stranger said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emily felt her entire body tense as the precursor to an adrenaline rush mounting inside of her. Sure, she could run from the stranger, or she could lash out with a back kick aimed low between his legs. Nothing was stopping her from getting away. But then she heard her mother’s soothing voice telling her not to run. Not to fight. There was no reason for any of it.

  She felt his intentions, and realized there was nothing malicious hiding inside the stranger. Not a speck. His mind was filled with curiosity mixed with excitement, like a kid on Christmas morning waiting to open the first present. Or maybe it was curiosity mixed with satisfaction. Hard to tell the difference, with her heart pumping at a full gallop. She took a moment to read his eyes. They were brown, kind, intelligent, and compassionate. An old soul trapped inside a middle-aged body.

  She exhaled and let her shoulders relax. She was safe with him. Good thing, too, because she didn’t think she had any more fight left in her. Or the energy to run.

  “What’s your name?” he asked in a soft, friendly tone filled with expectation.

  “Emily.”

  “Emily Heart?”

  “Maybe.”

  He smiled and nodded, as if her name just gave him validation for something. He stood with a posture that showed that he meant her no harm—hands up, held back close to his shoulders, palms out. He was doing his best not to threaten her. He stood a couple inches taller than six foot, judging by the height of the standard-sized doorway frame behind him. Slender, but strong.

  He had the air of a trained athlete, but didn’t radiate arrogance like most jocks did. He had a deeply tanned, clean-shaven face and faint smile lines that ran from outside of his nose down to his jawline. She guessed that he was in his early thirties, but he dressed like a college student. He wore a pair of khaki shorts, a white T-shirt that read Cartoon Network in black lettering across the front, and Nike running shoes with no socks. To finish off the college look, he carried a black book bag, slung around his shoulder with one strap.

  “You a cop?” she asked, trying to sound tough. He didn’t really look like one, but the question jumped out of her mouth before she could stop it.

  He let out a laugh, then smiled.

  She waited for an answer with one eyebrow raised.

  “No,” he laughed again. The lines on his face deepened, and a pair of crow’s feet appeared in the corners of his eyes. “I’m no cop.” He hesitated. The smile faded from his mouth, but didn’t leave his eyes, which narrowed as he cocked his head slightly and stared at her intently. Scrutinizing her.

  She revised her assessment—early forties. Lines like that only come from the wear and tear of life. Like her mother’s.

  He kept staring at her with that same look on his face. Like—well—she didn’t know what it was like. She was out of descriptors. No one had ever stared at her like that before, not unless they wanted something from her or were looking to hurt her.

  “What?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

  “I just want to talk, that’s all.”

  “I don’t talk with strange men. Or normal men, for that matter. It’s one of my rules. Number ten, to be exact.”

  “I’m sorry. How rude of me. My name is Jim Miller. I’m a writer.”

  He extended his hand, but she ignored it, keeping her eyes trained on him, waiting for his facade to wither and reveal something else.

  “Forgive me if I don’t want to hold hands,” she said, mirroring his cocked head, narrowed eyes, and scrutinizing gaze.

  He dropped his hand.

  Just then, a group of three homeless people brushed by them—one woman and two men—heading to the shelter. They were late, and probably weren’t going to get in once all the beds were taken for the night. But Emily realized something. Even though all three of them glanced at her, she couldn’t sense what they were feeling.

  She looked back to Jim. She could still sense what he was feeling. Anticipation. But not in any negative kind of way.

  “Okay,” he said. “Emily Heart. Tell me if I’m wrong, but you look hungry. Why don’t you let me buy you something to eat, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Emily’s instincts were in conflict with her stomach. It was gurgling and hissing at her like her missing cat. Rule number one: no close friends. Rule number seven: don’t get involved. Rule number ten: no men. But something about Jim seemed right. She didn’t want to trust him, but she already did, and that was a problem. She was hungry; more than hungry. And that, she decided, was the most pressing need, more so than the exhaustion pulling her eyes closed. She could figure out where to sleep later. Right now, the need for stomach fuel won.

  “I’m not that hungry, Jim, but I’ll let you buy me some dinner. I’d hate to be rude. But no funny business or I’m gone like your last paycheck. Agreed?”

  “Okay, Miss Emily. You’re in charge here. You call all the shots, okay? How about something down in Evans Churchill? Nice new places down there.”

  “Fine,” she replied, trying to contain her rumbling stomach. “We can walk. You lead the way.”

  “Fine,” he replied, using the same tone as she just did. He headed south, back toward the library.

  She couldn’t help but get a little excited. It had been far too long since she’d had an actual sit-down meal in a restaurant. Her stomach bubbled again. It was about a twenty-minute walk to Evans Churchill, if they weren’t in a hurry. She hoped Jim didn’t mind a little peace and quiet. She wasn’t in the mood to talk just yet.

  It had been a long, tough twenty-four hours. She reviewed it all in her mind: she’d arrived at the shelter early in the morning, way after hours, planning to sneak in and find a spot to curl up for the rest of the night, when she saw Junie out in the playground by the rec center, cornered by a group of Locos. She’d reacted on instinct—she had to protect Junie. She’d found a late-model car on the street next to the playground and sat down hard on the hood, setting off the alarm on purpose. She ran across the playground toward the group, waving her arms and yelling: “COPS! COPS!”

  In the ensuing confusion, she swooped in, grabbed Junie by the hand and took off running. Which led to the shootout in the restaurant, which led to her first jump. Then she woke up in Glassford Park. Then she went to the Irish Cultural Center, then came the police and her second jump the same day, taking her forward another year. After that she’d come to in the
middle of the street, freaked out, beat the crap out of some ugly cabbie and a couple of wannabe good Samaritans, stole the cab, and broke into a bread truck.

  Yeah, she thought. A long day. She could use a real sit-down dinner and some peace and quiet.

  * * *

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, Emily and Jim sat in a secluded booth in the back corner of The Fourth Street Café and Eatery. Jim said he knew the owner, a claim which was verified by the fact that the entire staff seemed to know his name and treat him like an old friend.

  Maybe he’s just a good tipper, Emily thought.

  She put her fork on the plate, pushed it away from her, leaned back, and belched like a sea-weary sailor on shore leave. She’d just wolfed down a triple cheeseburger, a side order of cheesy fries, half a baked chicken with mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy, two servings of steamed broccoli, a side salad with ranch dressing, another order of fries, and half an apple pie.

  Jim started to say something, but Emily beat him to it.

  “You should see me when I’m actually hungry.”

  “Next time I think we’d better call ahead and make sure they have enough food on hand.”

  The server arrived and cleared away the dishes.

  Emily waited until he was gone. “Okay, Jim. What do you want from me?”

  Jim reached under the table and pulled a battered old leather document satchel out of his backpack. The case was soft, and looked very old. Emily had seen that same style briefcase being carried by law students who seemed to spend more time in the library than she did. It was big enough to hold stacks of legal documents, folders, and even a few small books.

  “I’m lucky I had this with me. I was at the library doing some research—on you—as a matter of fact.”

  “On me?”

  “Well, on your case, actually. Your mother’s name is Candi, am I correct?”

  “Have you been following me? Are you some kind of creeper?”

  “I told you, I’m a writer. I’ve been looking for you.”

  He undid the rawhide thong that held the case closed and removed a thick manila folder. A picture slid out the end and onto the table. He set the folder down over the picture, but Emily was sure it was a picture of her.

  He opened the folder, leafed through its contents for a moment, then took out a piece of printer paper with a photograph color-copied in the middle. He placed it on the table facing her.

  “Exhibit A. The ninth-grade yearbook picture of one Emily Heart. Dysart High School, 1984-1985.” He took out a newspaper clipping attached to a sheet of card stock with a pair of red paper clips and placed it on the table beside the first photograph.

  “Exhibit B,” he continued, without looking down. “It’s about a girl named Emily Heart and her mother, who went missing on Easter weekend in 1985 from a sparsely populated neighborhood in northwest Phoenix.” He pulled out two more articles from the Sun City newspaper and put them on top. “That very same night, dozens of reports came in about strange colored lights shooting at the desert in the same area. One report even mentioned some type of an explosion.”

  He took out an official-looking piece of paper and set it next to the newspaper clippings. “Exhibit C. A police missing persons report about the same incident. It looks like your mom’s friend Angela—” he said, picking up the report and glancing at it. “Angela Montgomery, was worried when Emily and Candi didn’t show up for Saturday night Mass before Easter, or any of the planned church events on Easter Sunday. The report is dated April 8, 1985.”

  Emily was getting nervous and her mouth started rambling. “Just because I said my name is Emily Heart, doesn’t mean it’s true. I could be anyone. Maybe I’m someone she met. Someone who decided to start using her name. Why would I give my real name to a stranger? Would you? There are a lot of redheads in the world, and I’m sure there are lots of Emily Hearts right here in Phoenix. It’s a pretty common name. There’s what, four million people living here now? How can you really be sure? Of anything? Especially all that alien nonsense.”

  “I never said anything about aliens.”

  “Well, the lights in the desert. Aliens? Right?”

  “There’s more,” he replied, tilting his head as if he found her answer annoying. “I’m not anywhere near the most interesting part of my story yet, not even close. And actually, there aren’t as many true redheads in the world as you might think. It’s a relatively rare phenotype. That means—”

  “Yeah, yeah, genetics,” Emily shot out. “A set of observable characteristics in an individual resulting from the interaction of their genotype and the environment. Don’t patronize me.”

  Jim raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re full of surprises, Ms. Emily Heart. May I continue?”

  “Sure. If you have to. But stop calling me Ms. Emily Heart. It makes me want to puke.”

  “Okay, I won’t,” he said, pulling out yet another piece of card stock, this time with a picture stapled to it. He handed it to her. “Exhibit D. This is a still photo taken from a mall video camera in a parking lot back in 1987. Again, it looks just like you.”

  Emily looked at the picture. She was stunned. It showed her in the back of that weird scooter thing at Metrocenter Mall with Duane, the nice security guard who’d helped her out. It seemed like so long ago. It wasn’t a high-resolution shot by any stretch, but it was her. She would never forget that day. She couldn’t believe it, but there it was, right in front of her in black and white.

  “Where—how did you get that?”

  “You have no idea what a pain in the ass it is to transfer VHS to digital. Total hassle.”

  He smiled at her. She didn’t get it.

  “Ohhh—” he said with a proud voice. “I have a good friend who still works security at that mall. His name is Duane.”

  She gave the photo back to him. “So, you have a friend. Big deal.”

  “In fact, I have lots of friends, all around Phoenix.”

  “Jim, I don’t know what you think you’re proving, but none of these girls are me. I mean, c’mon. That girl—this Emily Heart character that you keep showing me—” She picked up the yearbook photo. “—She was in the ninth grade when? Like thirty years ago? How could I possibly be her? That’s insane.”

  “My point exactly. How, indeed? But don’t interrupt me. I’m just getting started.”

  Emily looked past him to the main dining room of the restaurant. The staff was beginning to put the chairs on the tables and sweep up. “I think this place is closing. I think I need to go.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You know how I said I knew one of the owners? Well, I wasn’t being entirely forthright. I am one of the co-owners of this place. A silent partner-type deal. So we’re okay, I promise. Shall I go on?”

  “If you insist,” Emily said, feeling her back slump into the booth.

  Jim insisted. He went on for another twenty minutes. He had pictures of her from multiple sources. Security cameras, mostly, but he’d also managed to find a YMCA ID card and a library ID card—both with her picture, but neither with her name. They were from 2002 and 2005 respectively, after she had learned to start using aliases. Taken en masse, he had documented most of her time-jumping experience over the past two years of her life. She was amazed. Two years in her time, just under thirty years of normal time. How on Earth had he done it? When Jim finished, he leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head.

  “Well, dear Emily?”

  She rolled her eyes “That’s worse. How about just Emily?”

  “Would you care to tell me how it’s possible that one girl can show up over and over in all these pictures in and around Phoenix for the almost three decades and not seem to age at all?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emily was at a loss for words, which didn’t happen very often. Up until this moment, she’d assumed she was the only person in the world who had any idea of what she’d been through over the past two years—or almost thirty years—she wasn’t sure whic
h definition was more accurate. She’d have to do more research in the library to figure that question out.

  Now, right in front of her, someone she’d never met before in her life had almost her entire journey organized and stacked inside a satchel that he carried around with him like a squirrel with an acorn—though he’d missed a few pieces along the way. And she sure as hell wasn’t about to fill him in, either.

  The restaurant manager came to the table and stood a few inches from Emily’s shoulder. He spoke to Jim. “I’m ready to close up, boss.”

  “We’re not done here. I’ll lock up for you before I leave.”

  “Be sure to kill the lights and set the thermostats to 85.”

  “Will do.”

  “Oh, and the alarm,” he said, staring down at Emily before he walked away.

  The look made Emily feel gross inside. Not like your typical creepy old man checking out your ass kind of gross—she actually felt the blackness surrounding his sickness. It oozed out of him and crawled across the space between them, seeping into her skin, making her want to throw up.

  Okay, she thought, she was starting to understand her gift. She was right. The sixth sense only works when someone is focusing directly on her. And only for that moment, like a flash on a radar screen. It didn’t work with random people she passed on the street, or with people sitting in a booth across the restaurant. She couldn’t sense them because their attention was focused elsewhere, not solely on her.

  Jim looked at Emily and was about to say something.

  “You know that guy is a total pervert, don’t you?” she asked, before he could start talking.

  “Who? Rob?”

  “Whoever that guy is. The manager? He’s bad news. He’s a sick bastard.”

  “I’ll admit, he can be a little gruff at times, and needs to mouthwash more often, but he’s basically harmless. He’s good at his job, but I know some of the female servers don’t really like him much.”