Time Trapped (7 page)

“
Feasgar math.
Good evening, people.” Uncle sweeps into the room and takes his place at the head of the table. “Did everyone have a great day today?”

We all nod. Uncle is looking sharp in a red and green tartan kilt and argyle jacket.

“Raoul, will you say the blessing?” says Uncle. “In Mandarin, please.”

Mandarin? That was yesterday's news. Uncle is already on to his next obsession—all things Scottish. Not that saying the blessing in Scottish Gaelic would be any easier, mind you. That said, Raoul was right. Uncle is definitely after him.

Raoul looks up at the ceiling for a moment.

“I've forgotten,” he says, finally.

Uncle's eyes flash.

“Say again?”

“I . . . I have forgotten, Uncle, the words for the blessing.”

There is a heavy silence around the table.

Uncle's face is unreadable.

Then he says, “It appears that lately, you have forgotten quite a number of things, Raoul. Perhaps you need to go to a quiet place where you will have time to regain your memory.”

Raoul's face drains of all color.

Uncle picks up a saltshaker and drops it to the floor.

“Oh, how clumsy of me. Raoul, will you be so kind as to pick it up?”

Raoul blinks rapidly. The fear on his face is plain.

Slowly, he bends down to pick up the shaker. Before he can reach it, Uncle kicks it under the table.

“Go ahead, fetch it,” he says, as if talking to a dog.

As Raoul begins to crawl under the table, Uncle grabs his arm and twists his wrist up. Three quick taps, and Raoul is gone. Just like that.

I'm in shock. I can't believe it. I look around at the others. Except for Frank, they are all staring at their plates. My eyes meet Frank's for a moment, and he smiles. I want to slug him.

Uncle smooths a crease in the tablecloth. “Now, then. Caleb, will you say the blessing, please?”

My hands begin to tremble. I haven't spoken Mandarin in at least five months. But that isn't going to catch me any sympathy from Uncle. All I can see in my head is Raoul's terrified expression. Where did Uncle send him? The Barrens. It had to be. Even if I dared, I wouldn't know where to start looking for him, because when Uncle banishes people to the Barrens it's never the same year that he sends them to. Plus, according to Abbie, ever since my escape from the Barrens, Uncle's tightened up security so that not even Phoebe knows the year. But Raoul still has his wrist patch. He can get himself out of there . . . can't he? And then I remember Frank saying that the new patches can be remotely disabled. I shudder. Raoul's not going to be able to escape.

“Caleb?” Uncle repeats.

My face is getting hot. I can't do this. I'm drawing a blank. I glance quickly at Abbie. There's compassion in her eyes. Why didn't Uncle pick her instead of me? She's much better at Mandarin than I am.

“
Zhù n
i
sheng rì kuài lè,
” I blurt out.

I can almost feel the silence.

After a moment, Uncle smiles. “That was not very good, Caleb. In fact, you just wished me a happy birthday. But I will accept your effort. Very well, everyone, let's eat. I'm famished.”

I try to calm my breathing, but this thing with Raoul has got me really rattled. I'm definitely next on Uncle's hit list. I try to count up all the wrong answers I gave him today, but my mind is jumbled. If it wasn't as many as Raoul, it must have been close. Plus, Uncle still has it in for me from before. So why hasn't he punished me?

My hands shake as I lift the fork to my mouth. I eat the tasteless food in silence.

After he's done, Uncle dabs his mouth with his napkin and clears his throat.

“Welcome, everyone, to the year 1978 and to the cruise ship
Bonnie Prince Charlie.
We are presently cruising on the Sound of Sleat in the Inner Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland.”

He pauses, looks out over the room and recites,

“In the highlands, in the country places,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces,

And the young fair maidens

Quiet eyes;

Where essential silence cheers and blesses,

And for ever in the hill-recesses

Her more lovely music

Broods and dies.

“Those, my friends,” says Uncle, “are the opening lines to ‘In the Highlands,' a poem by the Scottish-born writer Robert Louis Stevenson. Not only was he a poet and writer, but also a playwright, composer of music and inveterate traveler. In July and August 1874, aboard a ship called the
Heron,
he cruised these very waters and passed the same islands that we are presently passing.

“But his travels were not confined to his native Scotland. Stevenson journeyed to many parts of the world. Although for much of his short life he was afflicted by illness, he never stopped writing, traveling and marveling at the world around him.

“In our own life journeys, we must retain the wonder and curiosity of a Robert Louis Stevenson. We must never let our sense of excitement and adventure wane. And we must teach these same qualities to our new recruits.”

My eyes wander toward Abbie. She is twirling a loose strand of hair. Her fingers are long and delicate, and I find myself staring at them. She catches me looking and raises her eyebrows slightly. I look away quickly.

“In 1886,” Uncle continues, “Stevenson wrote a novel that would later be acclaimed as one of the finest adventure stories ever written. In it, a lad awakens bound hand and foot on board a sailing ship. He is, as the book's title suggests, kidnapped. In today's final event, each of you will snatch a child between the ages of six and eleven years old for training as a new recruit. You will timeleap with him or her from this ship back to the Compound. It is now eight o'clock local time. You have exactly one half hour to complete the snatch.”

I can't do it.

I might as well pack my bags for the Barrens right now.

“Before we adjourn, does anyone have any questions?”

No hands go up.

“All right, then, we are adjourned. I will see you all back at the Compound with your guests. Your arrival time at the Compound will be October 5, 2061, at 7:30
P.M.
”

Everyone gets up and starts filing out of the room.

“I can't do it, Abbie,” I say, once we are out of earshot of the others.

“Yes you can,” she says. “You don't have a choice.”

“I do have a choice. I'll go back to 1950 or 1980 or, even better, 1880.”

“Don't you get it?” she says. “If you try to run, he'll track you down again. If you don't do what he wants, he'll send you wherever he sent Raoul. Or worse. Besides, you being a hero isn't going to make one bit of difference. Lydia or Frank will gladly snatch an extra kid to make up for one you don't grab.”

“What about you?” I ask. “Don't you have a problem with it?”

“Maybe. But—”

“Maybe? There's no maybe. I will not kidnap a kid to help Uncle grow his business. I'd rather die,” I say.

“Well, you just might get your wish,” she says before turning and stomping away.

May 24, 1978, 8:07
P.M.

Aboard the cruise ship
Bonnie Prince Charlie
Inner Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland

I
've really done it now. Abbie probably won't speak to me for a thousand years. But does she really expect that I can march into a cabin and snatch someone's kid? There's no way I want anything to do with that.

I head out to the deck and lean over the rail. It's too dark to see the water, but I can hear it lapping against the side of the ship. The wind picks up and blows my hair back from my forehead.

A scuffle behind me catches my attention.

“Leave me alone, you mingin' bampots!” a voice shouts.

Good luck with that. Being left alone only works for people who have communicable diseases or eat stinky cheese. Everyone else is fair game for
not
being left alone.

But the owner of the voice doesn't appear to get that. He's cursing up a storm.

Many of the curses are standard gutter stuff I've heard a million times. But a few of them are colorful ones I've never heard before, and they're drawing me in despite myself.

I look over my shoulder and am surprised to see that the owner of the voice is a stick of a boy. Hey, isn't that the kid I saw on the deck when I first landed?

The two trying to hold on to him are dressed in white crew uniforms.

For a moment, my brain has trouble processing the scene. Have these crew members been hired by Uncle to bring kids to him?

But then one of them says, “Bite me again, girlie, and that's all you're having for breakfast, lunch and supper tomorrow.”

Well, that's interesting. The troublemaker is a girl. Or Mr. Bitten thinks he's dealing with a girl.

I follow at a safe distance. They drag her, protesting, to the central stairway. I'm not the only gawker. Five or six cruisers wander over from the casino to see what all the fuss is about. One of the bolder ones asks, “What did she do?”

“Ship's business,” is all the white shirt on the left says, which of course isn't an answer at all.

“Get your filthy hands off me, bootlicker!” the girl spits out.

One of the casino crowd, a man with bluish hair and an impressive pinkie ring, takes a half step forward, which looks to me to be more like a stumble than a challenge, but the closest white shirt isn't taking any chances. He glares at the man and says, “I wouldn't interfere, sir. She's a thief. Been stealing from the passengers.”

“Liar!” the girl screams, and then proceeds to rake his forearm with her nails. Ouch.

The white shirt grabs the hand that did the damage and twists it until she squeals in pain.

“Your daddy's gonna whip you when he finds out what you've been up to,” he says to her through clenched teeth.

“Wrong again, Jack,” she says. “The only thing my
policeman
daddy's gonna do is whip your sorry butt so bad that you won't be able to sit on the throne for a week.”

Like I said, colorful.

I glance at my fingernail. Thirteen minutes left to complete the snatch.

Hmmm.

They lead her down a long corridor, and I follow at a safe distance. Where are they taking her? To a jail cell? On a luxury ship? Why should I be surprised? Of course they have a jail cell. How else to deal with people who have had too many rum punches?

The small contingent stops at a door about midway down the hall. The beefier white shirt unlocks the door, and they shove her roughly inside. Before they shut the door, the one who got scratched lays in a kick for good measure.

I wait until the men are out of sight, then walk up to the door and place my ear to the wood.

Nothing.

The lock would be a cinch to pick if I had a skeleton key or even a piece of wire. But the only thing I have on me is a slightly bent piece of Juicy Fruit gum that I scored from a candy machine outside the Loch Linnhe Lounge. Not that I'm all that concerned, though. I've got a much easier way to get in.

I walk away and then, a minute later, do another pass-by. This time when I put my ear to the door, I hear breathing. Mentally, I place her at five feet away from the door. That leaves me with a good-sized landing strip. I tap away on my wrist. Delicate now. A tiny leap forward in space with minimal time displacement.

Bingo. Here I am. And there she is. Staring at me from across the room. I can really only see her right eye, on account of her messy hair covering the left. But I can tell from the high blinking rate that my entrance has made an impression.

Still, she doesn't say anything.

“Nice place you have here,” I say, going for pleasant.

“Piss off.”

“All right. Have a nice day.” I touch my wrist, land just outside the door and immediately put my ear to it.

Scuffling sounds and then, “Wait. Come back.”

I sigh, count to five, tap my wrist and then reappear inside.

“How did you do that?” she asks.

“Magic,” I say.

“Show me,” she says, her voice surprisingly husky for someone so scrawny.

“I'll show you . . . after we strike a deal,” I say.

She looks at me sideways. I think she's weighing what the odds are of successfully attacking me and forcing me to reveal how I got in and out of the room.

Then she looks at her fingernails and says, “Man, these are getting long. And sharp too. Good thing I don't have an itch that needs scratchin'. ”

I almost smile. She's tossed out the attack option and is now playing the intimidation card. I have to admire this girl's street smarts. But I'd better not admire her for too long. Time is running short.

“Here's the deal. I can get you out of here,” I say.

“So what?” she says. “You get me out, they round me up again. Unless you can get me off this stinkin' tub I ain't interested.”

“Off the ship? What about your father?”

She laughs hard. “You bought that story? I ain't got no policeman daddy. But my mom's the queen of England, and if you touch me, she'll send the Mounties after you.”

“The Mounties are Canadian,” I say.

“What's your point?” she says, looking bored now.

“I can get you off,” I say.

She holds a ragged fingernail up to the light, studies it and says, “Where's the catch, Jack?”

“You've got to come with me to where I work. Peacefully. No biting, scratching or fighting. And when we get there, if my boss or anyone asks, tell them I kidnapped you.”

She hoots with laughter and then says, “Where's your office?”

“New York City.”

Her eyes light up for a second and then she narrows them to slits. “I'll do it for a hundred bucks.”

I rapidly calculate how much cash I've got on me. Forty bucks and maybe three dollars in change, tops.

“Never mind,” I say, “I'll try the girl in the jail cell down the hall.” I begin to make as if I'm leaving.

She shrugs her shoulders, lies down on the floor, sticks a hand inside her shirt and pulls out five rings and a sparkling necklace. “Suit yourself,” she says, trying the rings on. “I kind of like it here anyway. Got my own room . . .”

I'm running out of time. I root around in my pocket and pluck out a twenty.

“This is the best I can do. I can give you another twenty when we get where we're going . . . and I'll pay for all transportation,” I throw in.

“I dunno,” she says, examining the bill. “How do I know you aren't scamming me? That when we get there, you won't take off?”

Heat is rising in my cheeks. Maybe I should forget this whole thing and go snatch some six-year-old from her bed. But I know I could never do that.

“I guess you'll have to trust me on that,” I say.

She studies me for a long moment. “All right. Lead on, Jack.”

“And since we're going to be traveling together, you can call me by my name. It's Caleb.”

“Okay. And you can call me Queen Beatrice the Third. But if that's too long for you, Jack, some people call me Razor.”

“Razor?”

“Yeah. It's 'cause I'm a sharp dresser.” She sniggers. “By the way, I'll be needing a snack soon.”

There's a knock on the door.

“Don't know why they bother knockin',” Razor says. “I mean, there's no way I can open it.”

A voice comes over the intercom. “I'm Dr. Posner. Can I speak with you for a few moments?”

She rolls her eyes and mouths the word
shrink.

“Sorry, Doctor. The place is a mess,” Razor says looking at me. “I wasn't expecting company.”

“That's quite all right,” his voice crackles over the intercom.

“All right, give me a minute to freshen up,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

She turns to me. “You're on.”

“Fine. Take my hand.”

“I don't hold hands on the first date, Jack.”

“This isn't a— I need to hold your hand for the magic to work,” I say.

“You're not scammin' me, are you?”

“I don't think I could if I tried,” I say.

She reaches her hand out, and I grab it.

“So now what?” she says. “You gonna do your vanishing act again?”

I look straight at her. “That's right, Razor. And this time you're coming with me. All you have to do is say the magic word.”

“Could it be . . .
scumbag
?” she shouts as she presses the button on the intercom.

“Close enough,” I say, touching my wrist.

Scuffling from the other side of the door. A key rattles in the lock. But the good doctor is too late. Razor and I are already halfway to 2061.