Time Snatchers (27 page)

For a second, I’m tempted to do what any decent New Yorker would do, and that is ignore her completely. But something, maybe her smile, makes me look up and say, “Girl Scout fortune cookies? When did that happen?”

“It’s new this year. On account of the Great Friendship,” Molly says.

I should have guessed. “How much for one?”

“Ten dollars a box,” she says, without batting an eyelash.

“No, I mean how much for one fortune cookie?” I say.

“We don’t sell singles,” she says, her smile fading fast. “You gotta buy the whole box. But it’s a good deal. And you can share with your friends.”

I wonder if I should try for a no-friends discount. But Molly looks like she’s getting restless. I dig my fingers into my pocket and fish out the silver half-dollar coin left over from Bridgeport.

“This doesn’t look like ten bucks, mister,” she says when I hand her the coin.

“Yeah, but look at the date,” I say. “1871. Do you know how much that coin is worth now?”

She shakes her head.

“Probably over fifty bucks,” I say, although I really have no idea. Molly is smiling again. Even the Sisters Glum look slightly happier.

“Mint or regular?” she asks.

“Mint, please,” I say.

“Thanks for supporting the Girl Scouts,” she says, handing me a red box.

With that, she spins and bounces off toward her next mark, the Sisters Glum following close on her heels.

I get off at Columbus Circle and cross the line of waiting rickshaw taxis, pausing for a moment at the base of the Maine Monument. Looking up, I see the familiar bronze sculpture of a lady standing in a seashell chariot pulled by three seahorses. I know it sounds silly, but sometimes I imagine her and her chariot breaking free of the top of the monument and flying through the sky over Manhattan.

As I enter Central Park, a jogger and dog duo pass me with their tongues hanging out. The smell of hot dogs and mustard wafts over from a nearby cart.

It’s only a short walk to my favorite spot. I like being in the park. It calms me. I can think here.

I’m in luck. My regular bench is free. I sit down, stretch my legs and gaze ahead at what I consider to be the best thing to come out of the Great Friendship: the Xuxu Monastery and Garden. The scoop on the monastery is that the Chinese paid to move it and about a hundred Buddhist monks all the way from a hilltop right outside Shanghai. They even built a Chinese garden, complete with lotus pond, stone bridge, cool-looking rocks and different kinds of flowers and trees.

Deep breath in and then long breath out. I catch a whiff of lilac and can hear the soft clink of wind chimes.

There’s a stone wall around the monastery, but it’s low enough that I can still see what’s going on. Last week I really lucked out—I had a rare glimpse of one of the monks doing his laundry. Today, though, everything is quiet.

“Hi, Cale,” says a voice behind me.

I jump.

“Sorry to startle you,” Abbie says.

No kidding. How did she know I was here? “It’s okay,” I say.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Sure, go ahead.” I slide over a bit. Abbie is acting all serious, which isn’t like her. Something must be up.

“How’s your foot?” she asks.

“You heard about it?”

“Yeah. Nassim told me … after,” she says quietly.

“It’s not too bad,” I say. “It would have been a lot worse if the Chinese had picked three as their favorite number instead of nine.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“Never mind,” I say. “It’s a joke. A not very funny one.”

“What’s in the box?” she asks, pointing.

“I got it on the subway from some Girl Scouts.”

“Shame on you, stealing from Girl Scouts.”

“I didn’t. If anyone stole, it’s them. I gave them my last 1871 half-dollar for this box.”

“Well, can I have one?”

“Sure.”

I hold the box open in front of her. Her fingers dance in the air for a moment and then pluck up one of the fortune cookies.

Abbie breaks the cookie open and pulls out a small piece of paper. A smile spreads across her face. “Listen to this.” She moves closer to me on the bench so that our legs are touching. “
The best ship to have in a storm is friendship
. It’s true, isn’t it, Cale? Like you and me. Now open yours.”

I pick a cookie and break it open. Reading the message silently, a shiver goes through me, and I quickly close my fist over the slim piece of paper.

“Well, what does it say?” she asks.

“Nothing. It’s dumb,” I answer.

“C’mon, I read you mine.” She takes a bite of her cookie.

“All right. But like I said, I don’t believe in this stuff. It says,
Dangerous times are ahead for you
.”

Abbie stares at me, mouth open.

“C’mon, Abbie. It’s just a cookie.”

The back door of the monastery opens. Two monks come out and head for the garden.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately.”

She’s the second one to say that. First Nassim and now Abbie. The pain in my foot is starting up again, so I pull out the pill bottle, snag one and dry swallow it.

“It’s like there’s something on your mind,” she continues, “weighing you down. It’s about that boy, isn’t it? The one you saved at Expo 67. That’s why you’ve been acting strange lately.”

I turn to look at her. There’s real concern in her eyes.

“I have to make sure he’s safe,” I say. “I can’t let anything happen to him.”

“But why is that your problem?” she says. “I mean, I know you saved his life and all that, but—”

“It’s more than just that,” I answer. “It’s like he and I are connected in some special way. It may sound crazy, but when I look at him, it feels as if I’m looking at myself—well, maybe not exactly myself—more like someone I might have been … if things had been different.”

Abbie looks at me for a long moment and doesn’t say anything. A gentle breeze starts the wind chimes going. The monks are walking back to the monastery door. Their steps look sure and unhurried.

“Frank asked me to be his special assistant,” she says.

My jaw drops open and just kind of hangs there. “And you said no, of course.”

She glances away. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

Abbie hesitates for a moment searching for the right words. “I said … maybe.”

A knot is forming in my stomach. “Maybe? This isn’t a
maybe
situation, Abbie! Did you hear what Uncle’s got him doing? Snatching innocent children! You want to help with that?”

She continues to look away from me. “Why is that shocking to you?” she says. “We were snatched or adopted or whatever you want to call it too, remember? And some of us turned out okay.”

“It’s not the same,” I say. “We were orphans. We didn’t have anybody who’d miss us anyway. But these children have families! And not only that. What happened to us happened in real time, not a hundred years ago!”

“So, why should that matter?” asks Abbie.

“Why?” I say. “Because these kids have had their own children and their children have had children. And so on and so on. By going back and snatching them, Uncle’s murdering entire generations!”

Abbie’s quiet for a moment. Then she says, “I can’t just say no to Frank. We talked about that.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. She doesn’t get it, but by saying yes to Frank, she’s saying no to me.

I feel my face go hot. But instead of answering, I begin keying in a sequence on my wrist.

She stares at me, eyes wide. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” I answer.

“Cale, you shouldn’t be using your patch unless it’s for a mission,” she says.

“This is for a mission,” I say. “A personal mission.”

“Don’t do it,” Abbie says. “You’re on Uncle’s radar. I don’t want to think what will happen to you if he finds out.”

“So? Why should you care what happens to me?” I blurt out. “You have your precious Frank.”

There. I’ve said it.

“See you later, Caleb,” she says quietly. She gets up without looking at me. I watch her walk away.

Did I hear a slight hitch in her voice? For a moment, I’m tempted to stay and analyze it, the big question being: does she really like me? As in boyfriend/girlfriend kind of liking? There are a bunch of other unanswered questions floating around in my brain. Like how am I going to convince Abbie not to be Frank’s assistant, how can I get myself off Uncle’s radar, and how am I going to keep Zach safe? Yes, if I wanted to, I could easily pass the next several hours, or even days, sitting on this bench, analyzing.

Instead, I tap my wrist again. As I fade from view, I spot a squirrel poised to jump up onto the bench and claim his prize—an almost full box of Girl Scout mint fortune cookies.

E
ven before I open my eyes, I realize I must have made a sequencing error. My entire body is trembling. I could have sworn that I’d programmed the timeleap for an August arrival. But this feels more like January. Maybe the business with Abbie threw my sequencing off.

Blinking away the falling snow, I realize that I’m standing in the middle of a street with a park on one side and smart-looking Victorian houses on the other. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I landed somewhere in the 1880s. The honk of a car horn brings me to my senses. Actually, it does more than that—it sends me sprinting away from a car speeding by without even slowing.

I almost wipe out on an icy patch on the sidewalk. My T-shirt and jeans are a joke in this kind of weather. I have half a mind to timeleap a few months back to summer, but then I see the sign saying Derne Street.

Trudging along the sidewalk with my head down against the howling wind, the only other sound is snow crunching beneath my shoes. Forty-nine, fifty-one, fifty-three. There it is. Number fifty-five.

I pause and study the house. A red brick row house. Not that different from any of the others on this street. So why is my heart beating so fast?

My feet lead me along the snow-covered walkway and then up to the porch.

Rolled-up newspapers lie half buried in the snow. Shards of glass occupy one corner, and the skeleton of an abandoned bird’s nest clings to the underside of the porch’s small overhang.

The house looks dark. No, it looks more than dark. Abandoned. This has to be a mistake. They can’t possibly live here.

But I’m positive this is the address they told me. Fifty-five Derne.

There’s a bell and a knocker. I knock.

Twenty seconds go by. Then a minute. I hop from foot to foot against the cold.

I try the bell. There’s a hollow ring inside the house. Another minute goes by. Nothing.

Just as I begin to turn away, I catch some movement from behind one of the windows. There and then gone.

“Hey! Is anyone home?” To my ears, my voice sounds strained, desperate.

I pound on the door.

A few seconds later, I hear the grinding of a latch being pulled back. Then a click and the door slowly begins to open. The smell of stale pizza wafts out.

“What do you want?”

It’s a woman’s voice. The words are flat and lifeless.

I study her face, half hidden by the door. It matches the voice. Pale and drawn. Bags under the eyes.

But still. It could be her. I try to speak, but the words die on the way to my mouth. “Di … Diane?” I manage finally.

She doesn’t answer immediately. I can feel her eyes on me.

“Yes?” she says. Cautious. Fragile. “How do you know me?”

“Diane, it’s me, Caleb,” I say.

A flicker of recognition. “Caleb? From Expo?” she says. There is something else there too: suspicion.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve just come to say hello. And to see how … how you all are.”

She gives me a long look, long enough for me to remember how cold I am. I fold my arms across my chest and rub them with my hands.

“You don’t know, do you?” she says finally, wearily.

D
iane takes the chain off. “Come in.” She turns away from me even as she says it.

I stamp my feet on the mat and follow her into a dark living room. She clears some empty pizza boxes from a small green sofa and gestures for me to sit down. Then she lowers herself slowly into an armchair.