Time Trapped

by Richard Ungar

  Two of the policemen frisk Houdini from head to toe. Next, they fit the manacles onto his ankles, place his wrists in the cuffs and then tie him up with a thick rope. Houdini smiles through it all, which I find amazing.

  A slight woman steps forward and kisses him square on the lips.

  “The crate in which Houdini will be submerged is not waterproof,” continues the announcer. “As soon as it immersed, it will fill with water, and he will have only as long as he can hold his breath to escape from his constraints and break free from his watery prison. Although the Great Houdini has assured us that he can hold his breath in excess of three minutes, he has agreed that if he does not emerge from the crate after two minutes, we may send down the rescue team.”

  He gestures to three stout men in swim trunks positioned in a rowboat by the barge, axes in hand.

  They look pretty sure of themselves, but if it was me in that box, I’d definitely want a backup plan for my backup plan. None of those guys look like they can hold their breath longer than ten seconds.

  Houdini waves to the crowd, then folds himself into two and squeezes into the crate. As soon as he’s in, the policemen pound nails into the top, sealing it.

  “There is nothing quite like the sound of death knocking at your door to bring out one’s zest for living, is there?” says Uncle.

  His voice in my head startles me. I’ve been so mesmerized by the show that I almost forgot about Uncle and the others.

  Two of the policemen push the crate to the edge of the deck. For a moment, it just teeters there, half on and half off the barge.

  My mouth goes dry.

  I hastily add death by heart attack to my list.

  With a final shove and a gasp from the crowd, the crate splashes into the East River.

  The water churns for a moment and then smooths over. The crowd goes deathly quiet. All eyes are riveted on the spot where the crate disappeared.

  A minute goes by.

  There’s no way he’s going to escape.

  A woman screams. Another faints. The men in the rowboat clutch their axes.

  The suspense is killing me. Maybe I should hop forward in time by another minute to see if he makes it.

  Then Uncle’s singsong voice comes over my mindpatch.

  “Ahh, the glory of living in the moment. Raoul, I’d like you to tell us all what is happening this instant.”

  Lucky for me, but a bad break for Raoul. Going first is never easy.

  “Uhh . . . Houdini is inside the crate, trying to escape.”

  “And?”

  “And everyone’s watching to see if he can do it,” adds Raoul.

  “And?”

  A bead of sweat is forming on Raoul’s forehead. He’s done as good a job as anyone could, but Uncle doesn’t seem satisfied.

  Raoul pauses for a long moment and then says, “That’s all, Uncle.”

  “Are you certain?” says Uncle.

  “Yes,” says Raoul, but his voice sounds shaky.

  “Does anyone else have anything to add?”

  Only silence.

  “Well, then, let me add my own observations,” says Uncle. “There is a woman making her way through the crowd. Do you see her?”

  I look to my left. At first I don’t see the woman, but then I spot her—middle-aged and wearing an ankle-length forest-green dress and matching hat. She’s hurrying along, parasol in one hand and hot dog in the other.

  I nod along with the others.

  “Good,” says Uncle. “Keep watching her.”

  That’s really asking a lot, given that Houdini is about to drown.

  The next moment, the woman stumbles and falls forward. Her hot dog goes flying—which is a real shame, because it’s a waste of a good dog—and a big dollop of mustard flings through the air, landing on the tan pants of a balding man in shirtsleeves.

  The man glances back and swipes a hand on the seat of his pants, which is a big mistake, because now his fingers are smeared with mustard and there’s no obvious place to wipe them.

  The woman is on the ground, looking dazed and holding her ankle. Mustard Man seems unsure what to do. His gaze ping-pongs from his yellow fingers to the downed woman. A boy shouts “Mother!” and the crowd parts to let him through. He’s got blond hair and is as skinny as a wire; I figure him to be a year or two younger than me. He kneels by the fallen woman and helps her to her feet. As soon as she’s up, the boy turns toward Mustard Man, pulls out a handkerchief and begins dabbing at the man’s stained trousers. Mustard Man attempts a retreat, but is blocked by a wall of people behind him.

  Mustard Man shouts at him to stop, but the boy ignores him and keeps swiping at the pants. Finally, the boy stands up, folds his handkerchief neatly, takes the woman’s arm and leads her through the crowd.

  The duo passes right by the hot dog vendor’s cart, and she rests there for a moment, placing a hand on the cart.

  “Houdini has been submerged for one minute and thirty-seven seconds.” The announcer’s voice wavers, and he looks nervously at the guys with the axes.

  “Constable, stop that boy. He stole my billfold!”

  My eyes flick back. Mustard Man is racing through the crowd, waving his arms.

  I turn back toward the water. There are bubbles coming up.

  The crowd gasps.

  The policeman lunges.

  The boy cries out.

  The hot dog vendor starts packing up.

  And then, most amazing of all, Houdini’s head breaks through to the surface.

  The crowd erupts into raucous applause. A few of the men throw their hats into the air.

  Houdini waves to the crowd before backstroking to the pier. As he hauls himself up onto the dock, my eyes flick back to where the police officer is patting down the protesting boy and coming up empty. The next moment, at the insistence of Mustard Man, the woman offers up her purse for inspection.

  “Very well,” says Uncle after a moment. “Lydia, how did he manage it?”

  “Houdini must have hid a key somewhere on him,” Lydia says. “When he was underwater, he managed to pick the locks, untie himself and break out of the crate.”

  “And the boy?”

  “The boy must have lifted the wallet when he was dabbing at the mustard stain on the man’s pants.”

  “Yet Houdini was subject to a full body search before the restraints were placed on him. And similarly, the boy was searched from head to toe. Neither search turned up anything. How could that be . . . Caleb?”

  I look up at Uncle, and we lock eyes. My heart is hammering. It isn’t lost on me that this is the first time he’s spoken directly to me since I escaped with Zach.

  “The boy must have slipped the wallet to his mother before he was searched,” I say.

  “Yet when his mother’s handbag was searched, no wallet was found,” says Uncle.

  He’s got me there and he knows it. A smile plays at the corner of his lips.

  “And Houdini?” continues Uncle. “How did he manage his escape from the restraints?”

  “He had a key hidden on him,” I say, repeating what Lydia had said. “It was so well hidden that they didn’t find it when they searched him.”

  Uncle shakes his head.

  “The key to Houdini’s escape was an event that by its ordinariness went unnoticed by all of you,” says Uncle. “Similarly, the snatch of the man’s wallet was masked by an event that appeared quite normal.”

  He pauses for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if anyone will guess. But there are no takers.

  We’ve all failed miserably. Everyone is looking at the ground, except for Frank. He’s smirking and looking out over the water as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Well, he’s a fool to be so relaxed. Because there’s no way Uncle is going to let this one go by. One of the first lessons he tau
ght us when we were small was how important it was to be aware of our surroundings. And not one of us got it right today. In my mind’s eye, I see Uncle nodding to Luca, then Luca tying us up, strapping on some of Houdini’s iron weights and throwing us into the East River, one by one. He’ll probably do it in reverse order of how we came here, which means I’ll be the lucky one to go first.

  “No one?” says Uncle. “All right, I will tell you. First, the boy. When he was frisked, the wallet could not be found because he had already passed it off to his mother, who had safely disposed of the wallet to the hot dog vendor as she passed by his cart.

  “As for Houdini,” Uncle continues, “some of you may recall that a woman stepped up and kissed him on the lips moments after he had been searched but before he got into the crate. When they kissed, the woman passed a skeleton key from her mouth to Houdini’s. Once out of sight in the crate, he gripped the key in his teeth to undo the locks on his hands and then used his hands to free himself.”

  I never would have guessed that in a million years.

  “You should all have seen these things. There is no excuse. This is not the first time I have spoken of the power of intelligent observation, of not accepting without question what your eyes are telling you has taken place, of seeing with your mind.”

  My eyes flick to Luca. Any moment now, Uncle is going to give him the signal. I find myself holding my breath, which is a stupid thing to do, because I should save that for when he throws me in the water. Not that it will make much difference, though. Assuming he does a half-decent job tying me up, I’ll never be able to hold my breath long enough to break free.

  “Soon you will all have new recruits to train,” Uncle says. “And I want you to teach them intelligent observation. It will be the key to their future success as time snatchers.”

  He removes his hat and throws it into the air. Reflexively, my eyes follow the path of the hat. When I look back down, Uncle is gone.

  That’s it? No punishment? I can’t believe it. Abbie is right: Uncle’s turning soft. There’s no other explanation. Well, maybe one . . . and that is he’s gone off the deep end with his obsession about Robert the Bruce and being king and hero to us, his loyal subjects. Whatever the reason, it’s too early to celebrate. After all, Frank can do nasty just as well as Uncle, and if Abbie’s right about Frank’s power increasing, then we’re all in big trouble.

  Luca hands each of us a satchel. “Here is your clothing for the next stop. Find a place to change. We leave for Paris in ten minutes.”

  I nod along with the others, but my eyes are scanning the crowd. He’s got to be here somewhere. Intelligent observation or not, there’s no way even Uncle would have picked up on all of those details unless . . . unless he has been to this time/place before.

  Gulls land on the seawall, shrieking. A man, wearing shabby clothes and a fisherman’s cap, shuffles toward them, flicking bread crumbs their way. As they dive for the bread, the man removes his cap for a moment to wipe the moisture from his forehead. In that moment, I glimpse Uncle’s shiny head. Gotcha!

  I smile to myself. Maybe I’m not such a slow learner after all.

  July 4, 1884, 12:49 P.M.

  Paris, France

  I land in an alcove of a building, facing a brick wall. Laughter, shouting and chamber orchestra music waft over to my landing spot. As my time freeze thaws and I’m able to turn, I see maybe two hundred people gathered in a large square. Beyond the crowd and framed in scaffolding is a gigantic sculpture of gleaming copper.

  My jaw drops when I recognize what I’m looking at. I’ve never been this close to it before, and it’s not only the size that throws me, it’s also the location.

  What in the world is the Statue of Liberty doing here in the middle of a city square in Paris, France?

  I spot Luca and Uncle at the rendezvous point. As soon as everyone is present, Uncle begins.

  “Your eyes are not deceiving you,” he says over our mindpatches. “That is the original Statue of Liberty, conceived by Frédéric Bartholdi as a gift from the French people to the American people. We have arrived here in Paris in time for its grand unveiling.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he continues. “After today’s festivities, the statue will be disassembled and each piece placed in a separate shipping crate bound for New York Harbor. But the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty is not the reason we are here today.”

  Why does that not surprise me?

  “Nor are we here to study the techniques of the Parisian pickpockets, even though they are all around us.”

  Now he’s got my interest. If we didn’t come for the pickpockets, then why are we here at all?

  “Do you see the red-haired man standing by the scaffolding near the statue’s right foot?” Uncle asks.

  “Yes, Uncle,” Frank says, and I realize for the first time how quiet he has been this whole trip.

  “His name is Julien. He is an . . . acquaintance of mine. Lydia, what do you suppose is Julien’s métier, his profession?”

  “Stonemason,” she says.

  “That is a fair guess,” says Uncle, “but incorrect. Look, it appears he is leaving. Let us follow him and see where he goes.”

  As we follow Julien, I wonder for the umpteenth time what the point of today is. I mean, it’s not like we’re snatching anything. They say that people mellow when they grow older, and maybe that’s what’s happening with Uncle—and this trip is his way to show us, his senior time snatchers, how much he really appreciates us.

  Nonsense. I think he really believes that today’s little excursion will sharpen our skills to deal with the next wave of fresh-faced recruits. Which is more proof that Uncle’s losing his edge. Because none of the stuff he’s talked about today is new. They’re all old lessons he taught us years ago.

  Following Julien is easy at first, because there are lots of people milling around to use as cover. But then he turns into a back alley, and not being noticed becomes trickier.

  Crumbling buildings line the alley, and there’s a strong smell of sewage. This isn’t the side of Paris you usually see on postcards. I consider holding my breath until we reach a better part of town, but then our guy stops at a narrow doorway and slips inside.

  Uncle signals us to wait.

  The alley is deserted, except for a man with an eye patch, who passes with hardly a glance our way.

  A few moments later, Uncle beckons us forward and raps on the door.

  No answer.

  “Our friend is not accustomed to having visitors,” Uncle explains.

  He knocks again. Still no answer.

  “Luca, if you please.”

  Luca positions himself in front of the door and gives it a solid kick. It splinters open with a loud bang.

  Uncle enters first, and we follow. The room is small and plain. Sunlight streams in from a tiny window set high in one wall.

  The only piece of furniture in the room is a large wood easel, scuffed and marked with random splotches of paint. Julien stands in front of it, paintbrush in hand.

  He turns slowly toward us, and I catch a glimpse of the painting resting on the easel. It’s breathtaking: a swirling landscape of ochre and green with a majestic violet mountain in the distance.

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” says Julien, his eyes wide.

  “Bonjour, Julien,” says Uncle, smiling.

  “Oncle?” Julien’s voice is fearful, shaky.

  “I have been looking for you for quite some time, Julien,” says Uncle. “You didn’t mention to me that you had moved.”

  “Mais non . . . I have not moved,” he says, his eyes flicking from Uncle to Luca to the rest of us. “This is my brother’s place. I look after it for him while he is in the country.”

  “I see,” Uncle says. “But why did you not tell me, Julien? In fact, it is only by chance that I have found you.”


  Julien says nothing.

  “Julien is a painter,” Uncle tells us, although that part I pretty much figured out. “He has all of the skill and talent that it takes to be one of the most important painters of his generation. And he would be, were it not for one small shortcoming.”

  Uncle paces the small room, stopping to examine the painting on the easel. “You see, my friends, Julien has no imagination. He cannot create original works of his own. He can only copy the great works of others. Isn’t that right, Julien?”

  Julien stays silent, but his hands are trembling.

  “Up until today, we had an arrangement. I own a modest building not far from here. I let Julien stay in one of my rooms, and for that he pays me with his copied paintings. But I have received no payment for going on two months now. Is that what this is about, Julien? Have you been hiding from me to avoid paying rent?”

  “Non, monsieur. Ce n’est pas vrai. I am an artist. Artists do not hide.”

  Uncle smiles. “Good. I am glad. Since you are not hiding, you will not object to me taking the rent painting now.”

  I watch Julien’s expression. The line of his lips gets tighter, and his eyes flick to the left, where a canvas, half-covered by a cloth, leans against the wall.

  “Frank, why don’t you select a painting?” says Uncle, making it sound as if there is a whole roomful of them, when in fact there are only two—the one on the easel and the one by the wall.

  Frank takes two steps toward the painting leaning against the wall and uncovers it. My eyes go wide. It’s the exact same as the painting resting on the easel.

  “Non!” exclaims Julien. “It is an original Cézanne! I have only borrowed it from a dealer. Please, monsieur, this will be the end of me!”

  Uncle smiles a thin smile. “It is not I who chose to break our deal, Julien.”

  Then Uncle turns to Raoul and says, “Here is your chance to redeem yourself. Do you remember the lesson of earlier this morning?”

  Raoul nods.

  “Excellent. I’d like you to apply that lesson now. Look with your eyes, but more important, with your mind. Without performing a replica scan, I’d like you to tell me which is the original and which is the copy.”