Time Trapped (2 page)

January 4, 1968, 3:45
P.M.

Boston, Massachusetts

W
hen the last bell rings, I'm already jogging down the hall, dodging other students. Once I'm outside, I sprint all the way to the park.

I arrive with seven minutes to spare and lean back against the monkey bars, facing the park entrance.

A man wearing earmuffs and a young girl in a yellow snowsuit are about to pass by when the girl says, “I want to go on the monkey bars, Daddy.”

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” the father says. “Those bars look really cold. Don't you want to go on the swings first?”

The girl shakes her head vigorously and says, “Monkey bars.”

I stick my hands in my pockets and stamp my feet to stay warm. I wish I had that guy's earmuffs, or even better, the girl's snowsuit. I still don't see any sign of Abbie, but that's okay. I mean, someone has to be the first to arrive, and someone has to be the second. And I'm glad that I'm the first, because if anyone's going to have to wait, I'd rather it be me than her.

I hope she didn't forget.

“Look at me, Daddy,” the little girl shouts from near the top of the monkey bars. “I'm the king of the castle, and you're the dirty rascal!”

The words
king
and
rascal
echo in my brain, spurring a flood of new images: a freshly baked blackberry pie, a person dressed in the yellow robes of a Chinese emperor and a vast desert. I pull out my memory book and write it all down.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes after four. She's not coming. All my excitement evaporates. Where is she? Something must have happened. Maybe the family she's staying with needed her home right away. Or maybe she was abducted by aliens who were collecting humans with red hair.

I can't stick around here all night. But what if she comes right after I leave? I make a deal with myself. If she's not here by five o'clock, I'm out of here.

At five thirty, I take one more look around. No sign of her anywhere. I sigh and head out of the park. Rustling comes from some tall bushes nearby.

“Abbie?” I call out, but there's no answer.

I continue walking, this time with my senses on full alert. There's a cracking sound, like ice breaking under someone's shoe. I whirl around but don't see anybody. I stand still for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

Maybe I imagined it. But how do you imagine a feeling? And this feeling is as strong as they come: Someone is following me. Watching me.

I pick up my pace. My feet are itching to run, to get out of here as fast as I can, but my brain is telling me to stay calm. It's a close contest, and I'm certain that if I hear one more noise coming from the shrubs, my feet are going to win.

As soon as I reach the edge of the park, I allow myself to slowly exhale. I watch the vapor from my breath rise and then fade away.

The farther I get from the park, the more I'm convinced I imagined everything and that no one was actually following me. Well, I must have one heck of an imagination then, because it felt so real.

Now if only my memory was as good as my imagination, I could really get things done.

After ten more minutes, I arrive home and let myself in.

“Caleb, is that you?” says Diane's voice from the kitchen.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Where were you? We were starting to get a little worried,” she says.

It's 5:50
P.M.
Was I really in the park for almost two hours?

“I, uhh, went to the park after school to meet a . . . friend,” I say.

“Well,” says Diane, “if you're going to be home late, you should let either Jim or me know, honey.”

“Sorry,” I say, and I am. Sorry I didn't mention it to Diane but even more sorry that I went at all.

I go to my room, close the door and pull out my memory book. Most of my scribbles from today make no sense at all. As my eyes scan the page, I stop suddenly.

Near the bottom of the page are the words
Uncle who?
that I wrote this morning. Except now there are some next to those that make my breath catch in my throat. They say
He's just “Uncle” . . . he doesn't have a last name.
But here's the thing. I didn't write that.

I peer at the words and think hard. Except for Zach, Diane, Jim and Dr. Winton, I've never shown my memory book to anyone . . . until today, that is.

I dump the contents of my backpack on the bed. It's not here! Where is it? I know! I reach into my jeans pocket and feel the scrap of paper.

Meet me in the park at 4:00
P
.
M
., says the note. I hold it up next to the message in my memory book. The loopy letters are the same!

I read the message again.
He's just “Uncle” . . . he doesn't have a last name.

Abbie knows who he is!

Which means he's not only in my imagination. But how does she know about this guy?

And what else does she know?

My bedroom door creaking open interrupts my thoughts. Zach wanders in and flops down on the bed.

“What'sa matter, Caleb?” he asks.

“Do you think something's the matter?” I say.

Zach nods.

“You're right.” I say, turning to face him. “Sometimes I get frustrated about things. Do you know what
frustrated
means?”

“Yes,” he says. “Mom says she gets frustrated when Daddy doesn't put the toilet seat back down.”

“Yeah, that's it exactly,” I say. “Sometimes I get frustrated because I can't remember things. And sometimes I get frustrated about being frustrated. If you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I understand,” he says in his best grown-up voice.

“Zach, what do you remember about the time before I brought you home from the park?” I say.

His features cloud over for a moment. “You mean, the other place?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I 'member it was big. Way bigger than this room. And there were other kids there too.”

“And what else?”

“I 'member the bad man. And the bad boy. And being scared in the elevator.”

“Anything else?” I hate pushing him like this, but I've got to know.

“He made us call him Uncle,” Zach says in a hushed voice, as if he's afraid of being overheard.

A shiver goes through me as I remember the words Abbie wrote in my memory book.

“It's all right, Zach,” I say. “The bad man can't get you here.”

But even as I say those words, I wonder if they are really true.

January 6, 1968, 8:17
A.M.

Charles River
Boston, Massachusetts

I
sit down on a bench and lace up my skates. There's some fog out on the Charles, but the weather doesn't matter much. In fact, unless there was a raging blizzard, I would have come anyway. I've got a lot to think about. And I do my best thinking on the river.

I take a few steps over to the riverbank and push away. The ice feels choppy under my skates. Farther out, it's smoother. As I glide along, the cold air on my face feels good. There are only a few other skaters out, but they're far enough away that if I close my eyes to slits, I won't see them. Looking toward the Esplanade through the mist, I glimpse snow sculptures near the Hatch Shell: a crouching tiger and a crusader's castle.

Push and glide. Push and glide. Squinting, I imagine that it's not 1968 but sometime in the distant past. It's not hard to do, since rivers don't change very much. It could be a hundred years ago, and this place would still look the same. I don't know why, but it's comforting for me to know that.

Something interrupts my thoughts: the sound of skate blades swishing across the ice. I look over my shoulder, and there's a big man skating in my direction, maybe ten yards behind me. And twenty or so yards behind him is another guy who might be even bigger. That's strange—I could swear they weren't there a minute ago.

I pick up my pace and sneak another glance back. Only the closest big guy is still there. The other one is nowhere to be seen, which is quite a trick, considering the ice is too thick to fall through and there's no other way he could have disappeared from view that fast. But I don't give it a second thought because the big guy who's left is moving fast. He's closed the gap to seven yards now.

I've got to stay calm. After all, I don't own the river. He's probably here for the exercise, same as everyone. So why is my throat dry, and why are warning signals going off in my head?

Shards of thoughts (memories?) flood into my brain: a man holding my wrist and plunging my hand down into frigid water.

I look around for other skaters. I only see two, and they're about fifty yards away, skating nearer to the shore. I pick up my speed and head for them.

My legs move like pistons as I swing my arms back and forth.

Heavy breathing right behind me. How did he catch up so fast? I dare not look back.

Come on, legs! Sprinting all-out now.

Lungs screaming for air. Legs cramping. I can't keep this up. Then a hand on the back of my jacket. I zig, breaking his grip.

But a second later, he grabs me again. I try to scream, but only a strangled cry comes out.

I swipe at him, but he doesn't let go. In a single motion, I unzip my jacket and squirm out of it. As I do, something hits my legs and I go flying.

My body slams down on the ice, and pain shoots through my right hip. The giant lands on top of me, and for an instant, I'm sure that he is going to crush me completely. I smell his sour breath and breathe in the damp wool of his jacket. I'm going to suffocate unless I can get him off me. But he's not getting up. He's got my wrist now.

I open my mouth to scream, but his huge hand clamps down on it.

“Say good-bye to 1968,” he says.

I try to wrap my mind around what he just said, but before I can, I'm hit by a wave of dizziness. Then, a sensation of fading away, vanishing. But that's impossible, isn't it? Unless this is what death feels like.

And then blackness.

October 3, 2061, 11:03
A.M.

Near Timeless Treasures Headquarters
Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

W
hen I open my eyes, the river is gone. I'm sprawled on a sidewalk and surrounded by towers of granite and steel that soar into the sky.

Where am I? How did I get here? I have no idea. I must have been drugged. But why? By whom?

It's warm here. What happened to the winter?

The buildings are taller than any I've ever seen. And there are street signs that have moving words and pictures on them.

The cars on the street look sleek. Nothing like Jim's boxy station wagon. And the people are talking into miniature walkie-talkies or gazing at screens the size of cigarette lighters.

This has got to be some big joke. Either that or I'm on a movie set for a new science-fiction flick. Yes, that's it. Any second now, the director is going to announce a coffee break for all of us extras.

The thing is, I don't see any film cameras or movie trucks.

But if this isn't a movie set, then there can be only one other logical explanation: I must be asleep and dreaming.

The big man who tackled me is leaning against the side of a building having a smoke. At the curb, a taxi is parked with its engine running. It all looks so real. But sometimes dreams can have an incredible level of detail too.

I try to scramble to my feet but can't move my arms or my legs. Aha, I know. This is what they call dream paralysis—which just proves my theory.

“Get up,” says the big guy. “We have an appointment.”

“You're only part of my dream, so I don't have to listen to you,” I tell him.

He laughs and grabs me by the arm. His grip feels so real.

“Let go,” I say, but he doesn't loosen his hold.

“Look, I have orders to bring you to Frank,” the goon says. “You can either cooperate, or we do things the hard way. Your choice.”

Did he say my choice?

“I pick . . . the hard way!”

I shake off his arm and sprint for the taxi. As soon as I'm in, I slam the door shut and yell, “Drive!”

“To where?” says the driver.

“It doesn't matter! Just get out of—”

The door swings open, and large hands are pulling me from the taxi. I reach for the headrest and wrap my arms tight around it. But I'm no match for him. He yanks me out, kicking and screaming.

“Someone help me! I'm being kidnapped!”

By now, there's a small crowd watching, but no one steps forward.

The goon pushes me up against the side of a building. There's a dull thud as my head hits the brick.

“Don't try that again,” he says.

Then he's dragging me along the sidewalk. He pulls me up the steps of a brownstone building.

As we enter the foyer, I gaze at the whitewashed walls. Something is familiar about this place. Stepping onto the elevator, the feeling is even stronger.

“Well, look who crawled out from under a rock,” says a voice.

I look up. There's a television screen on the wall of the elevator, showing a woman doing her laundry. There must be thirty cats in the room with her, pouncing and leaping or just lounging. The woman on the screen pauses, holds up a cake with pink frosting and says, “I got this for you, Caleb. It was on special. I know you can't see the writing on it from there, but it says, ‘Happy Retirement, Sharon.' It was either that or ‘Rest in Pieces, Morris,' which I didn't think you would like.”

I could swear the television set is talking to me. Best that I ignore it. Even if this is a dream, I need to keep my wits about me.

“Bring us up to four, Phoebe,” the big man says.

“The place has gone downhill since you left,” whispers Phoebe, ignoring him. “None of these new guys have a sense of humor. Hey, you're looking a little white around the gills. I hope Luca Palooka hasn't been mistreating you.”

She really is talking to me. What does she mean, since I left? I've never been here before in my life.

“That's enough,” says the man she called Luca. “Bring us up to four, now.”

“See what I mean? ‘Bring us up to five, now.'” She imitates his deep voice. “No personality whatsoever.”

This is all so unreal.

The elevator finally starts to go up. When it stops and the doors open, Luca and I step into a reception area. The crooked sign on the wall says
NEW
BEIJING
EXPORT
COMPANY
. The room smells of mold, and the stuffing is threatening to burst out of the arm of the only piece of furniture: a sad-looking white sofa.

He bends down and presses a button on the side of the sofa. The wall opposite us slides open and we step through into a different room, one that's a whole lot nicer and cleaner. A sign floating in the air (how does it do that?) says
TIMELESS
TREASURES
.

Luca pushes me ahead of him down the hall. At the end there's a door emblazoned with the design of an hourglass with a snake coiled around it. My heart skips a beat. I've seen that logo before.

He stops at a door halfway down the hall and presses his thumb against a pad on the wall. The door slides open.

I stumble into the room, and the first thing I notice is that it's chilly, a good five or ten degrees colder than the hall. The walls and ceiling are white, and in the center of the room is what looks like an operating table surrounded by various machines that I can't identify. My stomach clenches. Why did they bring me here?

A boy about my age stands by the bed. His head is a mess of black wavy hair, and he's wearing a green silk bathrobe with a dragon design on the front.

“Hello, Caleb,” he says, smiling.

How is it that everyone around here knows my name?

“I'm sure this is all a bit of a shock to your system,” he says, “coming home after such a long time away. But you'll find that not much has changed, really.”

“I don't know who you are and what you're talking about.” I struggle to keep my voice even. “And this isn't my home!”

He smiles again. His teeth are brilliantly white. “My apologies. I really should have introduced myself first. My name is Frank. You and I go way back. And this
is
your home. But of course you have forgotten all of that. It appears that someone has wiped your memory. I am vaguely curious about who did that. But don't you worry. A little brain surgery, and you'll be as good as new.”

He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair, sweeping it back. That's when I see the top of his right ear is missing.

This is a crazy house, and I've just met the chief crazy. I turn and make a beeline for the door. But Luca blocks it with his massive bulk.

“Relax,” says Frank. “No one is going to hurt you.”

There are those teeth again. Nobody's got teeth that white. If I had a pocket mirror, I bet I could blind him with the reflection. They must be false. Why am I even thinking about his stupid teeth? I need to figure out how to escape before Dr. Frankenstein here gets to work.

“Luca, will you kindly prep the patient for surgery,” Frank says.

Luca grabs my arms with his meaty paws. He throws me down onto the operating table and begins strapping my arms and legs.

“This is kidnapping!” I yell. “If you don't let me out of here this instant, I'm going to call the police.”

Frank chuckles, nods to Luca and the big man places a mask over my nose and mouth. He's not kidding. They are really going to do this. I tug at the bands holding me down, but it's no use.

Breathing in something sweet now. Getting drowsy. No. Got to fight it.

“It will go easier for you if you relax and breathe normally,” says Frank. “He'll be here in a moment and then the procedure will begin.”

He? Who is he?

Lungs bursting. I take a breath in. Everything is fuzzy. Waves of thick wool cloud my thoughts. Drowning them. Can't move my arms. No power. Someone has come into the room. The others step back.

The new guy leans over me, icy-blue eyes, a green surgeon's mask.

“Has he been prepped?” he says, and somewhere in my muddled mind there's a spark of recognition. I know that voice.

“Yes, Uncle,” says Frank. A shudder goes up my spine. I sense that my life is in danger.

Too late. Can't fight it anymore. Eyes closing. Then sweet thickness rolls over me, taking me away.