Francesca is ready. “1961.”
“Good answer.” He smiles and scribbles her ID number on a rental form. “Sign here.”
“You have any maps?” I ask.
“Yeah. Where are you headed?”
“Scobey, Montana.”
He leans over the counter and notes our single backpack. He straightens back up and hands Francesca the keys. He addresses me. “Hope you have a warmer coat.”
When we get to the parking lot, Francesca takes one look at the snow piled near the exit, and holds the keys out toward Blake and me. “I’ve never driven in snow before. I don’t think I’m going to start today.”
Blake and I trade off driving and navigating duties for the next few hours as we head west on Highway 5. The expansive plains around us are seas of white, but I occasionally make out tracks and paw prints in the snow. At one point, we pass a small herd of buffalo grouped together near a fence. Their beards are gleaming with ice crystals and large swaths of snow have been cleared around them where they’ve foraged for grass. Francesca is huddled miserably in the rear seat but her eyes follow the buffalo as we pass.
The other vehicles on the road are infrequent and most of the miles consist of long, straight expanses of nothing but snow and highway stretching toward the horizon. The few drivers of other cars we do pass tend to wave at us.
“At least they’re friendly out here,” I say, as I wave back to the tenth pickup truck we see. Blake keeps his hands on the wheel. I consult the map for the hundredth time. “This address is right off the highway somewhere. These roads don’t seem well marked,” I say.
“Yeah. I noticed that. I don’t know if we are supposed to be looking for the road on this side of town or the other side,” Blake says.
We come upon some buildings, and cruise through an intersection where I see a couple of men pulling an old Ford truck onto a flat bed. A few minutes later we’re back to prairie.
“How far are we from town?” Francesca says.
I stare at the expansive plain stretching ahead of us and then pivot in the seat to view what's behind us. I double-check the map. “Actually, I think we just passed it.”
Blake slows down and pulls onto a dirt side road that has been recently plowed. Chunks of dirt and frozen gravel litter the drifts along both sides of the road.
“I thought you said Scobey was a town,” Francesca says.
“Yeah. It is,” I say. “They might have a broader definition of the term out here.”
Blake turns us around and heads back the other direction. The men with the flat bed truck have successfully strapped down the Ford by the time we cruise back into the intersection. Blake pulls the car up next to a man bundled up in a thick, tan, Carhartt coat.
“Excuse me. We’re looking for an address and we could use some help.”
The man crunches through the snow and leans down to take us all in. He has snow in his beard. He looks a lot like the buffalo. I hand the photo with the address across Blake, and the man reaches out a gloved hand to take it. “Where you all from?” he asks. His dark brown eyes glide from Blake and me to the pile of clothing that is Francesca in the back seat.
“We’re from Florida,” Blake says.
“Oh. Long way from home, eh?”
“Yeah. Very,” Blake replies.
The man reads the back of the photo. “This is the Parsons’ place. Used to be Hank Parson’s ranch. I think his son’s got it now. Don’t see much of him lately, but the ranch isn’t far.” He stoops, leaning an elbow on the window seal, and points west. “You’re gonna wanna go about five miles. You’ll see the grain silo on the Farnsworth farm. It’s on the right. Can’t miss it, they painted it blue last summer. Two roads past that, you’ll hit the road to the Parsons’. Just stay on it going north. You’ll find the house eventually. Hopefully they’ve got around to plowing it. Do they know you’re coming?”
“No. Not yet. We’re a little early,” Blake says.
“If you can’t make it out there in this thing, come back and use the phone in the diner. They can probably come down and get you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Blake says.
The man gives us a thumbs up and climbs into his truck.
“People are really nice here,” Francesca says.
“I hope that’s true of the Parsons, too,” I say.
Blake heads us west again until we spot the blue grain silo. We creep along more slowly after that and find the second drive that heads north. A mailbox sticking out of a snowdrift across the street is the only sign of a residence. We turn north and bounce along a dirt road that makes its way over gentle hills that would normally present little trouble, but covered with ice, make the tail end of our rental slip and slide.
We’ve traversed a dozen small hills before I catch sight of some outbuildings ahead. We pass a shed and an old farmhouse that appears to have been abandoned for decades. The road continues on, and a couple of hills later, I spot a larger group of buildings in the distance. The sight is lost to me however, because we descend the next little valley. Descending the hill, the tires of the rental slide on a thick patch of ice. Blake tries to steer us out of the skid, but we slip sideways off the edge of the road and stop with a thump, nosed into a snowdrift. Francesca lets out a muffled squeal. The front end of the car is in a ditch to the right side of the road and partially buried in white. Blake shifts into reverse and tries to back out, but the angle of the car gives the rear wheels very little traction on the icy road. The wheels spin futilely.
“Try going forward a bit and then back again,” I say.
Blake attempts to move the car forward but it won’t budge. He tries backwards again with no luck.
“Well this sucks,” Blake says.
“I think I saw the house from the top of the hill. Maybe we can just walk the rest of the way,” I say.
“Don’t they say not to leave the car in these situations?” Francesca says.
“I think that’s in blizzards and stuff. I don’t think that counts if it’s not snowing.”
I pop open my door and the blast of cold air assaults my lungs. I stuff my hands in my armpits and shuffle carefully around the back of the car. Blake joins me.
“They should issue winches with all these rental cars,” he says.
Francesca slowly emerges from the driver’s side, and mutters something I don’t catch under her scarf.
“Let’s hope they have a fireplace,” Blake says.
My sneakers slip and slide on the patches of ice on the road. I stick to the areas with gravel showing through as much as possible as we climb the little undulating rises in the terrain. Francesca mumbles something again at the top of the next hill.
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I say.
She pulls her scarf away from her mouth and points her finger ahead. “I see smoke.” I look where she’s pointing, and sure enough, little patches of smoke are drifting out of the chimney on a distant building.
“That can’t be more than a half mile,” Blake says.
With renewed enthusiasm, we trudge and slide our way over the next dozen rises. The first building we come to appears to be an old equipment barn. A rusting tractor hides in the shadows as we make our way past the dusty windows. The next outbuilding is also dilapidated, but is more encouraging, as there is a fluffy, gray cat perched on the edge of a hay bale, watching us with pale, gold eyes as we pass the open door. The interior of the oversized shed is filled with tools and a riding mower.
“How are we going to get these people to help us?” Blake asks.
“I guess we need to see if they even have the toolbox, and go from there,” I say.
Turning the next small bend in the road reveals the main house of the ranch, but to my surprise, the chimney of the house is not the one that’s smoking. The smoke is rising from the top of a long, narrow building about twenty yards past the main house. An immense barn sits across from it with an empty paddock behind it. The split rail fence of the paddock is
draped with snow and dead vines. Other than the subtle movement of the smoke from the chimney, the ranch is eerily vacant.
My toes have gone numb in my sneakers but I attempt to wiggle them as I walk toward the low porch of the smoking building. It looks like it holds multiple units, and I suspect it may have been used to house ranch hands in more vibrant times. The room with the smoking chimney is at the farthest end of the building, away from the main house.
Once we reach the porch, Blake and Francesca use the edge of the step to knock the snow off their boots. The wooden door has a fan of glass windows at the top. I can make out a ceiling light through the cloudy glass.
My knock on the door inspires movement inside. A chair scrapes the floor and a steady footstep follows until a shadow appears beyond the frosted glass. The shadow pauses at the door and contemplates me. I fear it’s not going to open the door at all, but a moment later, the deadbolt slides back. As the door opens a crack, a set of wrinkled fingers and a sharp blue eye belonging to a leathery brown face appear. The man has a thick crop of grey hair sprouting behind his ears but the top of his head is rather wispy. His jaw works the tobacco in his lower lip and he looks like he is in need of a spit. I worry from his expression that he’s going to spit it at me, but he contains himself.
“Hi there,” I say. The weathered face doesn’t respond. “How are you?” The man’s blue eyes appraise Blake and Francesca behind me and then come back to my face. “We’re looking for the person who owns this toolbox.” I hold up the photo for him.
He glances at the photo for a quick second, then garbles in a voice that sounds rough and out of use. “That’s mine. What’s it to ya?”
“Well, sir, we were wondering if you might let us see it?” I say.
“What for?”
“Uh . . .” I falter.
“We think it might be valuable,” Francesca improvises. “Um, there were some special boxes that were made that year . . . that are now collectors’ items.”
The man steps out the door and strides to the edge of the porch. He’s wearing a green-and-brown flannel shirt and his battered jeans are held up with suspenders. He spits into the snow bank along the porch. I notice there are multiple brown stains in the drift from previous outings.
“Got that toolbox off a shelf at Sears. Probably had a dozen more just like ’em sittin' on the shelf next to it. You trying to tell me that’s what goes for collectors’ items these days?”
“Well . . . there’s a market for everything,” Francesca says.
“Do you mind if we have a look at your box?” Blake says.
The man slips back inside. As he crosses his threshold, I notice he’s only in socks. The heat from his home feels heavenly on my face.
“It’s not for sale.” He begins to shut the door.
“Sir, do you mind if we at least see the box?” I say. “So we can determine if it really is one of the rare ones. It would really help us out if we knew just how many of them are still around. We could compensate you for your time.”
He considers this a moment. His eyes linger on my arm, and I notice my chronometer is showing past the sleeve on my jacket. I move my sleeve and cover it back up.
“I’ll get my boots.”
He turns away and I get a glimpse of the fire burning in the hearth and a rough-spun blanket draped over the back of a leather couch in front of the fireplace. The room looks cozy and well lived in, right until the door shuts in my face.
We could have waited for you to put your boots on in there.
I stuff my hands into my pockets and shiver.
“You think he buys it?” Blake says.
“I don’t know. It is a pretty flimsy story but it’s the best we’ve got,” I say. “No offense, Fresca.”
“None taken,” Francesca says. “You weren’t exactly wowing him with your eloquence there.”
“No, it was great thinking,” I say. “I had nothing.”
I stomp my feet a few times to get feeling back into my toes. The door clicks behind me and the weathered man reemerges in a wool coat and a hat with fuzzy earflaps. He’s carrying a set of keys. He spits into the snowdrift again as he passes and leads the way across the yard toward the barn.
The late afternoon sun finds a gap in the overcast sky and for a few moments the pasture gleams a blinding white. I shield my eyes until we reach the barn.
“I never got your name,” I say, as the man fiddles with the lock on the barn door.
“I never gave it.”
I wait for him to offer it now but he only jerks the lock open and unlatches the door. Snow and dirt rain down from the top edge of the door as he swings it open. He kicks at a few chunks of ice to get them out of the way, and then pushes the door into a drift till it sticks. He pulls a locking rod up from the ground on the other half of the door and it swings open with a moan.
The interior of the barn has been cordoned off into stalls, but there are no animals. The man strides into the open center, and as we follow him in, my attention is drawn upward to a dome of multicolored fabric strung from the ceiling. The fabric looks to be synthetic and it encompasses the entire center section of the immense roof.
“Oh wow. Is that a parachute?” Francesca asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
One of the stalls we walk past has an elaborate metal object on a table that reminds me of a jet engine. It has a perforated grill and a couple of flexible hoses coming from the center of it. Away from it in the corner of the stall, sitting on a metal shelf, are two ten-gallon propane cylinders.
The weathered man pays none of the stalls any attention until he reaches the back left corner. That stall has been made into a work area with sawhorses and a workbench. Along the floor under the workbench are four large fire extinguishers and a stool. The toolbox from our photo is sitting atop the workbench next to a leather tool belt.
The man turns to face us and gives his head a jerk to the left. “That’s it there.”
Francesca puts on a serious expression and steps up to the box. She runs her fingers over the top and sides, and then with some effort, turns it around on the bench to view the back.
The toolbox has no exceptional markings or labels. The corners of the steel lid have begun to accumulate some rust and I recognize the handle as being the same one I have riding around in my backpack.
“Hmm,” Francesca says. “I think this does look promising. Do you mind if I open it?” The man says nothing, but she takes that as a yes and begins to fiddle with the latches. The interior of the lid has a Craftsman sticker on it with some ID numbers. “Ah. Here we go.” She turns to me. “Benjamin, do you want to check the numbers against our list?”
“Um. Okay.” I pull my pack off my back and rummage around in it for a moment, before pulling out my logbook. I flip through it, and after settling on an arbitrary page of my jump entries, I pretend to be reading numbers on it. I step up and read the model and serial number of the box. “Uh huh.”
Does she want it to match or not? I hold the page up to Francesca at an angle that obstructs it from the man’s view. She pretends to check it. The man’s face is stone. He spits in the corner and resumes glaring at us.
“I think you might have a winner here,” Francesca says. “Do . . . um, do you mind if I have a few moments in private with my associates?”
The man’s jaw works and he spits again.
“Also, do you happen to have an electrical outlet nearby?” I say.
He looks like he wants to murder us.
He jerks his head toward the ceiling of the stall that is also the floor of the loft above us. A bare bulb has been wired through with two electrical outlets at the base. “I’ll have to turn on the generator for you,” he grumbles. “You need me to dial them chronometers for you, too?”
He turns and steps back into the main barn area. “We could compensate you for your time. Ha! You just tell Bob I want a raise when you see him.” He spits one more time for emphasis and walks away. I watch him g
o in amazement. The barn door bangs shut as I turn back to Blake and Francesca.
“Wait, he knew?” Francesca says.
“Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming either,” Blake says.
“Apparently we aren’t the first time travelers to come calling,” I reply.
A motor coughs and rumbles outside the barn wall and the light bulb above us flickers to life. Francesca has turned red. “God, I feel like such an idiot. He must think we’re complete jerks.”
“It’s okay.” I toss my logbook back into my pack. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like much of anybody.”
Blake holds his arms out to the toolbox. “So it’s here.”
Francesca flips it shut to look at the handle. “Looks like the one in the picture. So what now?”
“Now we figure out how to blink ourselves to 1989.” I pull out Quickly’s journal. “I was reading up on this on the plane. Apparently what we need to do is plug in our chronometers to a power source using our chargers, and then we can blink a lot farther. Our chronometers only go up to five years, but that’s plenty for us.”
“Does it say that you can do that with multiple people?” Francesca asks.
“It says you can do multiple people, and then it says you can do it plugged in. I don’t see why you can’t do both.”
“But it doesn’t say that specifically?”
“Well . . . no, but he just sort of scribbles things in here, it’s not really all that organized . . .”
“Oh God. I’m going to die.”
“If you want to have the chronometer and I can hold on to you instead, we can do it that way,” I say. “I feel confident about it.”
“No. That’s okay,” Francesca exhales nervously. “I’m not gonna make you do that. I would feel terrible if you got left floating in outer space. I’m not sure I could handle that.”
“Ben and I would feel terrible, too,” Blake says.
“Yeah, but if it happens to somebody, I don’t want to be the one feeling guilty about it forever,” Francesca says.
“You’d rather be the one launched into space, than to have to feel guilty?” Blake asks.
“Yeah. I don’t want that on my conscience,” Francesca replies.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 32
