Time Snatchers (24 page)

“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.

I spot a small pile of garbage off to one side. I take slow, plodding steps toward it. “Good work, Caleb,” my brain is telling me. Since there’s no more pie left in the tin, then it can be only one thing:
garbage. Proud of my logic, I set the pie tin on top of the garbage. The perfect solution to my problem.

Something is niggling at me: the beginnings of a thought. Trying to push aside my perfect solution. I mustn’t let it.

There’s no stopping it, though; the thought keeps buzzing around in my brain like a moth near a flame. There is something else I must do. What is it?

Think! But I can’t. It’s so hard.

I must leave this place.

But if that’s the thought, it makes no sense at all. Why should I leave? Instead, I sit down in the rain. Yes, it’s much better to sit here and watch the raindrops fall.

Something is going
plink, plink.
The sound is like music. I must find out what’s making such beautiful music.

Again.
Plink. Plink.

Looking to my left I see a pie tin atop a small pile of garbage. That’s where the wonderful music is coming from.
Plink, plink
go the raindrops into the tin. Filling it up.

Another thought breaks through, telling me to touch my wrist.

Such silliness.

I would much rather continue listening to the rain music.

But the thought keeps coming back, pestering me.

All right, I will do what the thought says. But only so that I can go back to watching the pretty raindrops and listening to the rain music. My fingers reach up and tap lightly at my wrist in time with the raindrops.

There. Done. Now I can go back to my rain music. But what happened to it? I listen hard, but the music is only faint now. Maybe if I bring the pie tin closer to me. Yes, that’s the answer.

I reach out my hand to the pie tin and, as I do, I feel something
happening to me. Disturbing my perfect peace. It feels as if my entire body is vibrating.

Just before I slip away, just before I leave 1871, I curl my fingers around the pie tin and slip it under my jacket. Good. Wherever I’m going, at least I’ll have my music with me.

I
land in the alley beside Headquarters. My body aches all over, I have a horrible headache and I can’t move. Otherwise I feel great. The only thing I can do is wait for the time freeze to melt away and for the time fog to begin to dissolve.

I close my eyes in an effort to ease the throbbing pain in my head, and after a moment, I’m able to move my hands enough to cover my ears against the traffic sounds that feel like arrows piercing my brain.

This must be what a hangover feels like.

Slowly, my thoughts start to make sense. That was close. It was stupid of me to stay in the past that long. And it was stupid of me to hit Blackberry Breath. But he started it.

I stand up slowly. It’s a good thing my patch is preprogrammed to land at home. In my time-fogged state, there’s no way I could have even hit the right century.

Leaving the alley, instead of turning right, toward Headquarters, I turn left. Better to walk off some of the time fog before I face Nassim. As I cross under West Street and head for the Greenway, it begins to rain; not quite the steady downpour that I just left behind in Bridgeport, but I’ll take it anyway.

Some people can’t stand the rain. I’m not one of them. In fact, there are some times, like right now, when rain definitely suits my mood. The fact that I almost botched Operation Fling has left me a
jangle of nerves. But it’s not only that. It feels like everything is spinning out of control.

As I continue to walk, some of the power comes back to my legs. Two bicycles pass me, and their tires kick up water, spraying my pants. I’ve got a good view of the Hudson now and, across it, the skyline of Hoboken. The buildings on the New Jersey side look dark and dreary, crowned by a thick canopy of rain clouds.

I think about Zach. Maybe I should just forget about him. His life is none of my business. They say if you save a life, that makes you responsible for it. I don’t believe that. Zach has two parents. He doesn’t need me. But what if Frank tries to snatch him? I can’t let that happen.

I’m still holding the pie tin under my jacket. I take it out and point it toward the Hudson. A good toss would probably make the river. It would be so easy—just bring my arm back and let it fly. I know it would be stupid and that Uncle would seriously punish me for it once he found out. But strangely enough, even knowing all of that, it’s still hard to resist. I remember reading once that people who are afraid of heights can sometimes find themselves drawn like magnets to stand at the edge of a steep cliff. That’s kind of how I’m feeling right now … being pulled to do something totally crazy.

With effort, I slip the tin back under my jacket and keep walking. The rain has let up, but the sky is still blanketed by clouds. As I turn onto Franklin, a gray cat rockets across the street in front of me and scoots underneath a parked rickshaw.

Arriving at Headquarters, I take a deep breath to steady myself. “Four, please, Phoebe.” I can hear the fatigue in my voice.

“Certainly, Your Wetness,” replies Phoebe. “But first take your shoes off and carry them. I just vacuumed.”

Phoebe’s persona is dressed in a low-cut leopard skin leotard.
The dark smudges around her eyes match her jet-black Mohawk. A tattoo proclaiming
DEATH LIVES
is etched on her right biceps.

“There. Can I go up now?” I ask, after I’ve removed my shoes.

“Certainly. But when you get off, I suggest you hold your nose,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because Raoul is cooking tonight … if you can call it that.”

“What’s he—”

“Broccoli,” she says.

“And what else?” I ask.

“There is no what else,” says Phoebe. “Just broccoli.”

I nod. Let the others complain about the meal, or lack of it. I’m not hungry anyway.

I head straight for the dorm. What I really should be doing is turning the pie tin in to Nassim. If I don’t, I’m sure I’ll hear about it. But I’m just not up for it right now.

Thankfully, the room is empty. I flop down on my bunk, pull out my carving and get to work on the area around the eyes. The weight of the knife in my hand feels good and the repeating motion of the blade digging into the driftwood is comforting, almost hypnotic.

“Good evening, people,” says Nassim’s voice over the intercom. “Dinner will be in five minutes. The word for this evening is
xiao
, translation: ‘the respect that children give to their parents.’ Everyone must use the word in a sentence of their choosing at dinner.”

This is no language lesson. It’s a new form of torture. Since none of us have parents, my guess is that Uncle wants to hear all about how much we respect him. There’s no way I’m going. Abbie probably won’t even notice I’m not there. She’ll be too busy gazing into Frank’s broccoli-colored eyes.

I strike hard with my knife and twist up, the blade flush against the wood. The cautious part of me says to be more gentle so I don’t ruin the carving.

Well, too bad. I strike the wood again and again. Each strike is harder than the one before.

I hate getting up early on nonmission days. But today we’re all going to SoHo for a briefing on Uncle’s latest project, and not showing up isn’t an option. So I’m up, dressed and in the kitchen by ten to seven.

Everyone else is here, jockeying for position around the toaster.

My stomach’s grumbling from missing supper last night, so I feed it an extra bowl of cereal while I wait for the toaster to free up.

“Caleb, where’s the snatch object from Bridgeport?” asks Nassim.

“Oops. Left it in the dorm. Be right back,” I say.

I’m two steps out of the kitchen when he says, “Why didn’t you turn it in yesterday?”

He’s got me there. “Sorry, Nassim,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “It was kind of a rough day.”

Nassim nods and says, “I’ll be waiting in my office.”

“Okay.” I hurry to the dorm and check under my bunk where I stowed the pie tin. For a panicky moment I can’t feel it. My first thought is, Frank: he must have found it! How stupid could I have been to stash it in such an obvious place? I really should have turned it in yesterday. And then my fingers connect with a cool, rounded edge. Relief washes over me.

I tuck it under my arm and hurry to Nassim’s office.

“Here it …” The words die on my lips. It’s pitch-black and I brace myself.

A blow across my ankles sweeps me off my feet and sends me toppling to the floor. The pie tin goes flying. Lucky for me, flying is
what it does best. If it was anything else, I could have been punished for improper care of a snatch object.

Before I can even think of standing, my arms are locked in a vise grip. It’s impossible to do anything but sit there and wait for the clue.