“No,” I say. “I never read the news. Too depressing.”
“You may want to have a look.”
He turns his screen and I see an image of the giant tree, framed by the large Toshiba sign. The caption under the image reads “Church Group, Bowling Alley Operator and Mothers Against Logging all claim responsibility for the Miracle at Times Square.”
I’m rooting for the bowling alley operator. It’s tough to keep a small business going these days.
“Interesting,” I say. “What does this have to do with me?”
“Don’t play coy, Caleb. I know that one of your recruits did this.”
“Are you serious? No one can move something that size.”
Frank circles the desk and comes up behind me, which is really annoying. The back of my neck prickles, but I resist the urge to whip my head around.
“You’ve caught a break this time,” he says. “Normally, this kind of attention would make Uncle very angry.”
Did he say “normally”? A small ray of light pierces the gloom of my thoughts.
“But you’re lucky. He’s not angry at all. In fact, he didn’t mention any punishment for you. What intrigued him was how the tree got there.”
My mind is racing. There’s good and bad in what Frank’s saying. The good part, of course, is that I get to keep my remaining toes for at least another day. The downside is that Uncle probably wants the intel on how the tree was moved.
“He wants to speak to the recruit who did it,” Frank says, confirming my fears.
My stomach clenches. If I say no, that will be seen as directly challenging Frank. But if I say yes, who knows what will happen to Dmitri once Uncle gets his mitts on him.
“I don’t know who did it,” I lie.
“How could you not know?” Frank asks. “You were there, weren’t you?”
“Yes and no. I was in the forest, but I was chasing down a recruit who had wandered away from the snatch zone. When I returned, the tree was already gone.”
At least that part is true.
“I see,” says Frank. “Which recruit had wandered away?”
I was afraid he would ask that.
“I forget,” I lie.
Frank smiles and says, “Play it that way if you want to. But I’ll find out anyway.”
He looks down at his handheld. “Judith, Gerhard, Razor and Dmitri . . . I will meet with them one by one. Oh, and tell Abbie I’d like to see her also.”
“I can’t,” I say. “I mean they can’t. At least not right now. They’re busy. Abbie’s briefing them on the next mission.”
I’ve got to buy some time so I can prepare Dmitri.
Frank studies me for a moment. I can tell he’s weighing the pros and cons of delaying the meetings.
Ten seconds of awkward silence follow. A single droplet of sweat forms on my forehead and threatens to make a break for it down my cheek, but I resist the urge to wipe it away.
I’m counting on him not wanting to make Uncle angry, which could be the result if we weren’t on schedule for our afternoon snatch.
“All right, Caleb. I won’t insist on seeing them right now,” he says finally. “But as soon as your team’s next snatch is completed, send all of your recruits to my office.”
“Sure,” I say.
“And to put your mind at ease, you don’t need to worry about the recruit responsible for moving the tree being punished. In fact, he or she will be rewarded. You see, Uncle has a great interest in what could be a new technology.”
As he says this, he brushes the hair away from his right ear. Or what’s left of it after Uncle lopped off the top part of it last summer as punishment for turning in a replica of the Xuande vase.
There’s something about this meeting that bothers me. Frank just doesn’t seem that interested, period. It’s almost as if the entire screw-up with the tree is a minor annoyance to him and no more than that. The old Frank would have been all over me for it.
But this Frank is eerily calm. There’s only one possible explanation. It’s what Abbie told me at the castle—he must be planning something big. But what could that be?
“Are we done?” I say, looking him square in the eyes.
“Yes, of course. Go ahead and join your little group.”
I wait until I’m out of view before running the back of my hand across my forehead to wipe away another bead of sweat.
October 5, 2061, 10:46 A.M.
The Compound
SoHo, New Beijing (formerly New York City)
How did it go?” Abbie asks. We’re standing across the street from the Compound, which is as close as you can get without having your mindpatch monitored.
“As well as I could expect.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Frank knows that one of the recruits moved the tree,” I say. “But he doesn’t know who it was . . . yet. He wants to see all of them individually. And he wants to speak to you too.”
“Right now?”
“I managed to stall him until we get back from our next snatch. By the way, what is our next snatch?”
“Didn’t you scan the mission schedule?” she says. “This afternoon, we’re off to 1886 Atlanta, Georgia, to snatch the first-ever glass of Coca-Cola. I’m calling it Operation Fizz.”
“That sounds okay,” I say. In fact, if it was just Abbie and me doing the snatch two years ago, I might have said “that sounds fun,” but lately I’ve learned to keep my expectations low.
“I’ll prep Judith and Gerhard about the meeting with Frank,” Abbie says. “You do Razor and Dmitri.”
“What’s our story?”
Abbie scrunches her eyebrows. “That it was a freak accident. A one-in-a-million shot. Some kind of malfunction with Dmitri’s wristband. That he did it but doesn’t know how. Besides, Frank can ask the others all he wants. I’m positive they didn’t see him do it.”
“But if it was a freak accident,” I say, “how could it happen twice? You know, the tree returning to the past after its little trip to Times Square.”
“I don’t know,” Abbie says. “Maybe it was part of the same freak accident.”
“I don’t think Frank will believe that,” I say.
She runs her fingers through her hair. “You’re right. But it might buy us some more time to figure something else out.”
“All right,” I say. “I’ll talk to Dmitri and Razor. Right after my meeting with Uncle.”
“Uncle wants to meet with you?” she asks.
“Yeah, with me and Frank. Eleven o’clock at the castle.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t get into details,” I say, “but it has to do with his idea about fixing history.”
“Okay, good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say grimly and begin to enter the sequence for the castle.
“Wait,” she says, putting a hand on my arm. Then she leans in and kisses me.
“Th . . . thanks,” I say. “What was that for?”
“For more good luck.”
There are no bad seats in the tower room at Doune Castle. In all directions, there’s a commanding view of the rolling countryside.
After ten minutes, Luca pokes his head into the room and says, “Uncle said to tell you he’s running a little late. He will be here momentarily.”
I nod. I don’t like waiting. It gives my brain time to think of unpleasant things. I take some deep breaths to calm myself. About a minute later, the patch of air two feet away begins to shimmer.
Even before he goes solid, I can tell from the swirl of colors that it’s Uncle. Frank is never that bold a dresser. Uncle slowly materializes in a tartan kilt in the colors of the Clan of Bruce, a Prince Charlie jacket and a wing-collar shirt with bow tie. He’s not carrying a sword or an ax or any other weapon, as far as I can see. But
then again, a person could store all sorts of knives and daggers under that kilt.
Still, I can feel my hopes creeping up ever so slightly.
When he emerges from his time freeze, Uncle tips his head toward me in greeting and takes his seat at the head of the table.
We sit there silently, waiting for Frank to appear. About thirty seconds later, there’s a shimmering in the air halfway between us. As Frank’s form materializes, I can’t wait to hear his explanation as to why he’s late.
It looks like he’s been out shopping. He’s wearing a silver and black skin suit and has on black leather boots that look buttery soft. There’s a gold chain around his neck and he’s also sporting a flashy pinkie ring. I’ve never seen Frank dress this sharp before. Where is he getting the money for his new wardrobe?
“Sorry I’m late,” he says once he’s thawed. “I had a disciplinary matter to deal with.”
That’s it? A disciplinary matter? I don’t buy it. I think what he’s really doing is testing the boundaries with Uncle . . . seeing what he can get away with.
I brace myself for the inevitable barrage of abuse that Uncle is about to unleash on Frank.
But amazingly, it doesn’t come. All Uncle does is smile and say, “Very well. Now that you are both here, we can begin. The reason I have called this meeting with you, my most senior and trusted time snatchers, is to discuss a matter that is near and dear to my heart.”
Did he just say he trusted me? Of course he said it in the same breath as saying he trusts Frank, which tells you something about Uncle’s sense of judgment these days. Still, I haven’t heard the word punishment yet.
“When I have spoken of this matter before, it was only an idea, a wisp of a thought. Of course, action does not occur in isolation; it always originates with an idea, a concept, a notion. Without the notion, the action is meaningless. The same can be said of an idea not tethered to execution—it is but a pie in the sky, a flight of fancy.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. But if there’s a choice between execution and pie, I choose pie.
“Mo charaidean—my friends—the time is ripe to take Timeless Treasures in a new direction . . .”
I glance at Frank. Outwardly, he looks calm, but my guess is he’s sweating big-time under that expensive skin suit.
“And that direction is the pursuit of what I call ‘historical correctness,’” Uncle continues. “History is fraught with events that have tainted its true and correct course. There are many examples of historical events that, had they not occurred, the world would be a much better place. And I am not talking only of wars and plagues that have decimated humanity, although those too are worthy of reexamination and in certain cases, correction.”
Reexamination? Correction? I think Uncle’s finally jumped off the deep end. Stealing small stuff from the past and bringing it back to 2061 is one thing. But deliberately going back in time to try to alter, or as he calls it, to “correct,” history is a whole other can of beans.
“Starting tomorrow, there will be a new division in Timeless Treasures called the Historical Correction Division. Caleb, I would like you to head up this new division. Together, we will right the wrongs of history!”
Did he just say Caleb? Is he sure he didn’t mean to say Frank and my name slipped off his tongue by mistake? No, he’s looking straight at me, so he must mean me.
“I . . . certainly, Uncle,” I stammer. Here I was expecting punishment, and he offers me a promotion.
“I see that you are surprised,” he says.
“A little,” I admit. “I mean, when I left, things were a bit tense between us.”
The understatement of the year.
“Here is how I see it,” he says. “You are the first one I brought on board. My first orphan, my first trainee and my first time snatcher. That is why I brought you back from 1968.”
Frank has been awfully quiet so far. His face is expressionless. What I wouldn’t give right now to know what he’s really thinking.
“But that is not why I am giving you this opportunity,” Uncle continues. “The reason I have selected you to lead the Historical Correction Division, Caleb, is because you are most like me. We both share strong convictions. We both have a keen sense of what is right and what is wrong. We are both guided by a strong moral compass.
“Inadvertently changing history is one thing,” says Uncle. “But molding it, shaping it and correcting its many flaws is another thing altogether. It requires a deft touch, an artistic flair and, above all, an unshakeable determination to do what is right. Of all my time snatchers, there is only one who possesses all of these qualities . . . and that is you, Caleb.”
He shifts to look at Frank, and I let out a long, slow breath.
“I am sure you are wondering, Frank, what this new direction will mean for our mainstream operations that you have been so capably running from New Beijing. The answer is that there will be no effect whatsoever. The growth of the time snatching side of the business will still be a priority for many years to come. Rest assured that the changes begun last year with Project Metamorphosis will continue.
“In fact, the core time snatching operation will be more important than ever. The righting of historical wrongs could be an expensive proposition. We will need the revenue from our mainstream operations to fund the activities of the new division.”
I can’t imagine that Frank is happy about any of this. Especially the part about his division bankrolling mine.
“That all sounds excellent,” says Frank. Then he turns to me. “I look forward to working with you, Caleb, in your new role.”
Frank’s face breaks into a smile. Uncle smiles at him, then both of them smile at me, and I smile back. All of this fake smiling is making me nauseous. I still have no idea what he means by historical correctness. If it’s about going back in time to stop the Braves from beating the Yankees in game seven of the 2058 World Series, then I’m all for it, but something tells me that’s not what he has in mind.
“Before you both go, I’d like to tell you a story. A true story of Robert the Bruce.”
Okay, here we go. I knew he couldn’t get through a whole meeting without mentioning his new hero’s name.
“It was a dark period in Robert the Bruce’s life; a time when he was experiencing defeat after crushing defeat at the hands of the English. Feeling desolate, he was close to giving up his lifelong dream of freedom for the Scottish people. One cold and stormy night, as he lay alone in a cave, hiding from the English, he looked up and saw a spider. The spider was trying to weave a web from one part of the ceiling to another. Six times the spider tried to sling its web from one part of the ceiling to the next, and six times it failed. But on the seventh try, a thin tendril of web clung and held. The spider had persevered and won. At that moment, inspired by the never-say-die spirit of the spider, Robert the Bruce decided that he would never give up fighting for the things he believed in.
“And so it must be with us. We must stride forward with renewed hope and confidence. We must be like Robert the Bruce’s spider: tenacious and determined to accomplish all that we set out to do.”
Uncle’s eyes are shining. The last time I saw him this excited was when he announced Project Metamorphosis. Still, this whole thing is giving me a stomachache, and I can’t wait to get out of here.
Uncle gets up first and then Frank and I stand.
“Chi mi a-rithist thu,” says Uncle, dismissing us. “And remember, I’m counting on you two for great things.”
“Yes, Uncle,” we both say at once. No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Frank vanishes.
I’m about to tap away at my own wrist when Uncle signals me to wait.
Rats.
He smiles and points at something on the floor. I look but all I can see is a small, dark speck. The next moment, the speck begins to move. It’s a spider.
<
br /> The spider is gaining speed now, skittering across the tower room floor.
Uncle takes two quick steps toward it and crouches down. His hand lashes out quick as a viper and snatches the spider. Then he walks back to me and opens his hand. The spider hops off his fingers onto the floor and again tries to skitter away.
This time, Uncle raises his leg and stomps down hard, crushing it. Then he removes his boot, examines the underside and shows it to me.
“As with people, Caleb, no two spiders are exactly alike. That little fellow did not appear to like it here. He tried to run away. The first time I brought him back and gave him a chance. But as you saw, he squandered it and tried to escape again. I’m afraid twice is unforgivable.”
I shudder. “Can I go now, Uncle?”
“Yes, of course,” he says, smiling.
My fingers reach for my wrist, but they’re trembling so badly that I have trouble keying in the sequence. I’m feeling many things right now, and not all of them are fear of Uncle, although there’s that too. When he said that stuff about me being his first time snatcher and how I want to do what’s right, I felt a warm tingle and had a flash of an earlier time—when I was a small boy on his lap, telling him about my day, feeling safe and secure.
But that was a long time ago. I’m not that little boy anymore, and Uncle certainly isn’t the same either.
Finally, I succeed in keying in the sequence and am relieved to feel the familiar sensation of the timeleap taking hold.
The last image I have before I leave the castle is of the tiny spider ground into the heel of Uncle’s boot.
“Where are we goin’?” asks Razor as soon as lunch is over.
“You’ll see,” I say. “Please change into your mission clothes and make your way to the courtyard. We’re leaping from there in five minutes.”
“Why are you acting so serious?” she asks.
“I’m not,” I say. In fact I am. I’m still trying to make sense of the meeting with Uncle and Frank. Uncle also hasn’t told me what all I’m supposed to do in my new role. One thing is crystal clear, though. If I try to run, he’ll find me and crush me, like he did that spider.
Time Trapped Page 11
