Time Trapped

by Richard Ungar

  A long moment passes as Raoul studies the two paintings. Then he clears his throat and says, “The one on the easel is the copy, Uncle. He was putting the finishing touches on it when we came in.”

  “I see,” Uncle says. “Does everyone else agree?”

  “The other one is the copy,” Frank says. “Julien did not immediately react when we burst into the room. That meant he knew we were coming. My guess is that the man with the eye patch tipped him off.”

  “Go on.”

  “He had time to switch the paintings so that we would think the one on the easel is the copy . . . when in fact it’s the original.”

  “Excellent observation, Frank. Does anyone else have something to add?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” says Abbie. “The brush he is holding is dry. He is using it as a prop to make us think that he is completing the painting on the easel.”

  Uncle gives Abbie a radiant smile. Then he turns back to Julien and shrugs. “I’m afraid my little band of detectives has sniffed out your lie.”

  Uncle gives a nod to Frank, who grabs the painting off of the easel.

  “Non,” says Julien, and I can see sweat beading on his forehead. “I beg you, Oncle. Do not take that painting. The dealer, Monsieur Letourneau, will be enraged if I do not return it to him. Please, come back demain. Or even better, on Thursday next. I will have two new paintings for you then!”

  “It is too late for bargaining,” says Uncle, drawing a knife from inside his jacket. I recognize it immediately. It’s one of the dirks that was hanging in the Great Hall at the castle.

  Julien is on his knees, clutching at the fringes of Uncle’s coat. “Non, monsieur. You do not understand . . . this will crush me!”

  “Calm yourself, Julien,” Uncle says. “It is not quite that bad. You are an artist, remember? Artists are meant to struggle. So, in a way I am helping you . . . by providing you with a struggle to overcome.”

  Uncle shakes free of him and takes two quick steps over to where the second painting leans against the wall.

  Holding it up for Julien to see, he stabs at the painting with the blade. There’s a terrible ripping sound as the knife slices diagonally through layers of pigment and canvas.

  Julien is sprawled on the floor, sobbing.

  “I’m afraid we must be going now,” says Uncle, pocketing his dirk. “Adieu, monsieur. Come along, everyone.”

  Uncle nods to Luca, who hangs back with Julien while the rest of us exit.

  “Did anyone notice whether Julien is right-handed or left-handed?” Uncle asks as soon as we are out of the narrow hallway.

  “He was holding the brush in his left hand. So I would say that he is left-handed, Uncle,” Lydia says.

  A terrible scream comes from Julien’s studio.

  Uncle smiles and says, “That was true, Lydia, up until a moment ago. From now on, however, I can assure you that Monsieur Julien will be painting with his right hand. And as adaptable as our friend is, the paintings he will produce with his right hand will never approach the sheer brilliance of his earlier forgeries.”

  “I . . . I don’t understand, Uncle,” says Lydia. “If he is not able to paint as well, won’t that mean less money for us?”

  How caring. A guy has just had his hand chopped off and all Lydia can think about is her allowance going down.

  “An excellent question, Lydia. One that I am afraid will take longer to answer than the time allotted to this part of today’s outing. Suffice it to say that lately I have done some deep thinking about life’s big questions, including the flaws of history and how mankind would be better off if certain historical wrongs were corrected. And I would count as a historical wrong any event that diminishes one of the greatest attributes of civilized humanity—creativity. It is the charlatans and the fraudsters and the second-rate forgers like Julien who by their actions pollute the pristine waters of artistic expression and taint the purity of the world’s creativity!”

  Lydia nods. No one else says anything, but I’m sure they’re asking the same question I am: what the heck is he talking about? Correcting “historical wrongs”? It sounds crazy. And who gets to decide what part of history needs correcting?

  The alley is shrouded in fog, and everything seems dreamlike. For a moment, it’s as though the haze is penetrating more than just my surroundings . . . it’s also inside me. I watch as Uncle turns out of the alley and gets swallowed up by the fog.

  Luca’s voice cuts through the mist. “Grab your clothes packets and change quickly. Uncle and I will meet you at the next time/place.”

  Judging from what I’ve just seen, I take back anything I ever said about Uncle getting soft or losing his edge. And as I change clothes, an even scarier thought occurs to me—Uncle made Julien wait for two months before punishing him. But in the end, Julien’s punishment came. In spades.

  I wonder how long he’s going to make me wait for mine?

  May 24, 1978, 6:41 P.M.

  Aboard the cruise ship Bonnie Prince Charlie

  Inner Hebrides, off the coast of Scotland

  I’m lying on my back, looking up at the sky, feeling the ship’s gentle vibration beneath me.

  I know from the quick briefing Luca gave us that we’re cruising somewhere off the west coast of Scotland.

  As my time freeze thaws, I’m able to move my head. I’ve landed between two empty deck chairs.

  I check the time on my fingernail. 6:41 P.M. I’m surprised there aren’t more people out on the deck. Except for a couple playing a game of shuffleboard and two teenagers having an evening swim in the pool, I’m all alone.

  “Hey. Are you dead . . . or what?” says a voice.

  A skinny boy with straggly black hair is staring down at me. He looks about ten years old and is wearing a bomber jacket that is two sizes too big for him.

  “I’m stretching out my back,” I say. “The deck chairs aren’t any good for that.”

  “Whatever moves you, Jack.”

  The boy glances around and then runs off.

  Something about him strikes me as odd, but I can’t figure out what it is.

  I stand up and walk over to the rail. A stiff wind comes up, and I hold on, gazing out at steep cliffs across the gray-blue water.

  We’ve got a break until dinner, and that suits me fine. I need some time to figure things out. Everything has been so confusing. Arriving at Headquarters yesterday, having my brain poked and then going on this whirlwind tour with Uncle.

  I wonder what Zach, Jim and Diane are thinking. That I ran away? Or that I was kidnapped? Either way, they’ll never believe me when I tell them. And how can I tell them if I never make it back? Or what if I do find a way to time travel there but Uncle yanks me back again?

  “Hey, Caleb,” says a voice, and I whip my head around to see Raoul standing there.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Dinner is in twenty minutes . . . in the Clan MacNaughton Room,” he says.

  “Thanks. What about our cabins?”

  “We don’t have any,” he says. “We’re not sleeping here. After dinner, it’s the final event and then we go back to the Compound.”

  “All right, thanks.” I turn to look out over the rail again, but Raoul doesn’t move.

  “The others don’t think I should be talking to you,” he says, lowering his voice.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  “Not Abbie so much. But Frank and Lydia. They say that you’re in for it because of trying to escape.”

  I look at him for a moment and say, “So then why are you talking to me?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I do. There’s something I need to ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you . . . do you think I’m in trouble with Uncle?” he asks.

  That’s a tough one. There’s no question that Uncle has been picking
on Raoul more than anyone else today. But does that mean he’s in real trouble?

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” I say. “Sometimes I think this is all a game for Uncle. And part of his game is finding someone he can pick on. He used to pick on me before I . . . went away.”

  Raoul looks around nervously for a moment, as if to see if there is anyone else within earshot. Then he whispers, “I want to leave Timeless Treasures, Caleb. Can you help me?”

  I bite my lip. Does he even really know what he’s asking? And why me? I’m the king of failed escapes, not successful ones. Besides, I probably won’t be around long enough to help him. Uncle is bound to banish me to the Barrens any day now for my past deeds.

  I look out over the water and say, “Are you sure about this? If you get caught—”

  “I’m not going to get caught,” says Raoul. “There’s a place I know where he’ll never find me.”

  I almost feel pity for him. He’s naïve if he thinks there’s any place or time where Uncle can’t reach him. I of all people know how hopeless that is. But I also know that if I had another chance to escape, I’d be gone in a heartbeat.

  I glance over at Raoul, nod and say, “Okay.”

  Immediately his expression changes, and there’s a grateful and relieved look in his eyes. As if talking for a minute lifted a huge burden from him.

  “Thank you, Caleb, really,” he says. “And if you don’t mind—”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone. In fact, we never had this conversation.”

  “Thanks,” he says again, and I watch him walk away.

  I hang out by the rail for another couple of minutes. I have no idea how I can help Raoul, but I’ll try. My thoughts return to Zach. I wonder what he’s doing right now. I run a hand lightly over my wrist. Blocked. But what if I go back to 1959 and just wait a few years? Or to 1980. But Zach will be grown up by then and won’t remember me.

  A bell rings and interrupts my thoughts. “Good evening, everyone,” says a man’s voice. I look up at the closest screen. He’s dressed in a crisp white uniform, and his face is deeply tanned.

  “This is your captain speaking. Since our departure from Oban yesterday, the weather has cleared, and the temperature is a pleasant eighteen degrees Celsius. We are cruising at nineteen knots, and in a few minutes, we’ll be passing between the isles of Rum and Eigg. If you have a look off the starboard deck, you’ll be able to glimpse Askival, the tallest mountain on Rum.”

  His voice is soothing. It has the same rhythm as the waves. If I wasn’t standing up, I could easily fall sleep.

  “I’ll now turn you over to the cruise director for a few announcements,” he says.

  There’s a brief pause and then another voice, this one high-pitched and squeaky, comes on.

  “Helloooo, cruisers. I am Minky MacPherson, your DOFBPC—that’s short for Director of Fun on the Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  It’s a woman in a pink shirt, wearing pink eyeglasses and with perfectly coiffed pink hair. Something tells me she likes the color pink.

  “I see you, standing there all alone, doing nothing!” says Minky accusingly, and for a panicky moment, I think she’s actually talking to me.

  “Well, your alone time is over!” She continues, “Time for a wee bit of fun! And there’s no better place for fun than the Bonnie Prince Charlie, your home away from home. Tonight,” says Minky, “there’s a Scrabble tournament in the Captain’s Lounge and a séance in the Pitlochry Pub. And don’t forget to claim your purchased items from this afternoon’s art auction of original works by Cézanne.”

  Maybe if I cover my ears I can block her out.

  “Don’t forget, cruisers!” Minky enthuses. “In ten minutes in the Loch Linnhe Lounge, I’m giving my popular talk on priceless but affordable Scottish woolens. The first ten people to arrive will receive a complimentary, that means free, ladies, genuine, made in Scotland, cashmere neck warmer, so hurry on down to the Loch Linnhe Lounge!”

  It’s not working. She’s got the type of voice that cuts through skin and bone. The elevator door opens, and I dive for the entrance.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in!” says a voice.

  For an awful moment, I worry that Minky’s tracked me down, but the image on the television screen is of a large woman in a flowery bathing suit, sprawled on a lounge chair reading a book. The title says Scotland on Five Turnips a Day.

  “Phoebe?” Wow, Uncle must be getting really paranoid if he’s brought Phoebe along. I wonder what he has her doing . . . tinkering with the ship’s security system so that no one bothers us? Or, siphoning the take from the ship’s casino to Uncle’s offshore bank account? Probably both.

  “Do you think I’m fat?” she says.

  “No,” I say. “I think you’re normal . . . I mean for a computer.”

  “Good. Because I’ve already eaten my five turnips today and guess what?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’M STILL HUNGRY!” she wails.

  “Well, then have something else,” I say.

  “It’s not that simple. I need to lose ten pounds. I want to look good for Minky’s Scottish woolens talk.”

  “But . . . her talk’s in ten minutes. No one can lose ten pounds in ten minutes,” I point out.

  “Are you saying that I have no willpower?” Phoebe says.

  This feels like old times. If I closed my eyes right now, I could easily be on the elevator at Headquarters. I wonder absently what it would be like having a silent ride in an elevator for a change.

  “I think you have great willpower,” I say. “Now, can you take me up to five, please? I need to join the others for dinner.”

  Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Dinner? You’re having dinner while I stay here alone, suffering? How can you be so insensitive? You’re no different than the rest. You don’t care about me.” Phoebe starts to sob.

  “That’s not true,” I say. “Don’t you remember the time I brought you back those earrings from Peru?”

  “Y . . . yes,” she says in between whimpers.

  “Well, doesn’t that show I like you?”

  She doesn’t say anything. Just sniffles quietly.

  “And how about that porcelain tortoise I brought back from China? I had to jump into a hot kiln to get that for you.”

  “I remember,” she croaks.

  “Good,” I say gently. “Now bring me up to five, please, and slide those doors open so that I can step off.”

  The elevator starts up and then stops suddenly.

  What now?

  “Let’s share secrets!” says Phoebe.

  “Let’s what?”

  “Friends share secrets,” she continues. “You’re my one true friend, Caleb. Ergo, we should swap secrets.”

  Ergo? Ergo, I’d like to get off this elevator before she drives me completely nuts. But I’ve got to humor her to have any chance of getting out of here before next year.

  “All right,” I say. “Here’s mine. When I was in the Barrens, I thought I was going crazy and that I had multiple personalities.” It’s not much of a secret, but it’s the best I can do right now.

  “Really?” Phoebe says. “How fascinating. Which was the dominant personality?”

  “Someone called Agnes,” I say. “She was a bossy type.”

  “Oooh, delicious,” she says. “Now here’s mine. The final event Uncle has planned for you guys is a real doozy.”

  The elevator starts up again and then stops at three. An elderly couple gets on. I look up at the screen. Ancient stones stand alone in a farmer’s field, their shadows made long by the setting sun.

  The elevator stops at four, and the couple steps off.

  “What’s the final event?” I ask.

  Phoebe’s first persona is back. Except this time she has
a T-shirt over her bathing suit that has an image of a round of cheese on it with the caption LOCH NESS MUENSTER.

  “Please, Phoebe. I’ve got to know.”

  She pushes her sunglasses down her nose and whispers, “All I’ll say is that it’s the kind of napping that you don’t do lying down. That’s a huge clue. There, I’ve already said too much.”

  The doors open on five, and I step out. A nap that you don’t lie down for. I wonder what that could mean.

  On the way to the dining hall, I take a shortcut through the casino. The place is packed with people feeding tokens into slot machines. I wonder what they would think if they knew there were time-traveling thieves on board? Which leads me to wonder what name Uncle used to check us in under so that he could score the private dining room: Portree Pipes and Drums Band? Lower Manhattan Frisbee Golf Team? Or maybe he didn’t check us in at all.

  The dining hall is packed and full of the sounds of clattering plates and people talking. There’s even live jazz—three performers—a clarinet player, a guy on keyboards and a singer. I wonder how they’re going to get to their next gig after they finish their set. Then it dawns on me. In a way, they’re prisoners. They can’t just pack up and leave. They have to wait until the cruise ends or comes to port to get off the ship like everyone else.

  At the far end of the dining hall is a set of double doors labeled CLAN MACNAUGHTON ROOM. As I approach the doors, I take a deep breath before opening them. The room has a giant mural of rolling green hills sprinkled with farmsteads. In the center is a burnished mahogany dining table with seven settings.

  But no one is at the table right now. They’re all lined up at the buffet next to it.

  I join the back of the buffet line behind Raoul. Wow—there’s so much food here! All kinds of salads, pasta, seafood, pizza, you name it. There’s even a guy in a chef’s hat cutting slices off a huge hunk of roast beef.

  I heap food on my plate and join the others at the table. No one dares touch the food until Uncle arrives. And for some, including Frank, it’s a particularly tough battle. I look at his plate. Lots of eel. You are what you eat, I guess.