“Where’s the rest? Can you see?”
“Nope. Want me to look around?”
“NO! Stay put,” I say.
Something is wrong. This was not supposed to have happened. The mission data said nothing about the stone being in two pieces.
I watch the girl carry her bundle past our position toward the lane.
“Abbie, one of the birds has flown the coop,” I mindspeak. “She only has part of the stone.”
“That’s not possible,” Abbie says. “The briefing data didn’t—”
“I know,” I cut her off. “What do you think we should do?”
My patch is silent for a moment. Then she says, “We can’t let her take off without knowing where she goes. I know. Take Razor’s wristband and somehow get it inside that car. The band has a tracking function.”
“Uhhh . . . Razor is unavailable right now,” I say meekly.
“What?” Abbie says. “Okay, forget her wristband. Grab Dmitri’s, then.”
“Will do.”
“Dmitri, give me your wrist,” I say.
Amazingly, without a word, he extends his hand to me, palm out.
“I’m borrowing this,” I say, as I undo the clasp of his band.
He smiles, looks past me and says, “This is turning into a most excellent adventure. It appears that we have more company.”
I look up. A flashlight beam is bouncing off the sheds up the line from us. The night watchman! He’s not supposed to be doing his rounds yet! Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can’t worry about him now. I’ve got to get the wristband in the car before she drives away.
“By my estimate,” Dmitri says, “in seven point five seconds, unless we relocate, the flashlight beam will shine on my left shoulder and your right elbow.”
I grab Dmitri’s arm, and we scramble to the back of the shed. We won’t be able to see the door anymore, but at least we won’t be seen either.
A motor starts up. No!
“Dmitri, here,” I say, shoving his gizmo back in his hands. “You know the car you started up before? I want you to shut off the engine.”
He squints at me. “I do not understand. Only moments ago, you were quite adamant that I was not to use my device. Are you having a change of heart?”
“Yes!” I mindshout. “I’m having a change of heart. Just do it!”
“Very well.”
He pushes some buttons. The roar of the engine fades and then stops altogether.
Two seconds later, it starts up again.
“What happened?”
“I turned it off. She turned it back on,” he says.
“Keep turning it off,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
I hurry up the lane, hugging the walls of the abbey to stay out of sight.
As soon as I see the back of the car, I crouch down. If she looks in her rearview mirror, she will probably still see me, but I’m counting on her being distracted by trying to get the car going.
“Ahem,” says a voice over my mindpatch. It’s Razor.
“What now?” I mindshout.
“The other two are heading your way . . . with the rest of the stone.”
No. This is not happening. They aren’t supposed to have the stone with them! At least not the first time.
“Got it,” I say. “Abbie, the other two birds are flying the coop. They’ve got the stone.” I switch to Dmitri. “Stay out of sight!”
“Affirmative,” he answers.
“Have you got the wristband in place yet?” says Abbie.
“Almost.”
“Do it! I’m on my way. The mission intel was all wrong.”
You’re telling me.
Staying low, I crabwalk the rest of the way to the car. I’m close enough to hear her pounding on the steering wheel and cursing.
I fish Dmitri’s wristband from my pocket. The car starts up again. I’ve got to do this quickly and get back.
But where can I put the wristband? The obvious place would be inside the trunk or inside the car—neither of which is an available option right now. I glance quickly at the rear bumper—there’s no place to hang it.
My hands are clammy, and I wipe them against my pants. Come on. Where?
The engine is still going. Why hasn’t Dmitri shut it down yet?
There! Right beneath the rear window—the gas tank door. But she’ll see me.
No time to think about that.
Then the sound of a gear shift sliding into place.
I sprint to the car and in a single motion, open the small flap and stick the wristband in.
A second later, the engine roars and the car drives away.
Christmas Day, 1950, 2:27 A.M.
Westminster Abbey
London, England
Operation Coronation
The band’s in place. I’m coming back!” I yell over Abbie’s and Dmitri’s mindpatches.
“No!” shouts Abbie. “Stay there and get out of sight! The thieves have got the rest of the stone and they’re heading your way.”
Out of sight where? I glance left and right. Solid stone walls on either side of the lane. No doorways, no alcoves, not a single place to . . . Wait. There! Twenty feet away. A narrow break in the wall. I race to it and press my back against the shallow recess. In broad daylight, this would be a laughable hiding place. But I’m counting on the night shadows to hide me.
The sound of footsteps and grunting kick-starts my senses into high alert.
I can do this. I am a tree. Solid and unmoving. Wrong image. Now all I can think of is Razor yelling “timber” and that giant tree coming down and missing me by inches.
“Damn thing weighs a ton, Angus,” says the voice of one of the thieves. I don’t dare look, but by the sound of his voice I’m guessing he’s not more than five feet away.
“It’s a wee bit heavy, I’ll grant you that, Colin,” says the other thief. “But it’s a good weight, if you get my meaning.”
I get his meaning. I know all about good weights and bad weights. A good weight is a mile-high stack of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup. A bad weight is the feathery touch of Uncle’s blade on your little toe.
“Put her down a minute, mate, so I can catch my breath,” says the one called Colin, in between huffs and puffs.
They set the stone down right there in the lane. Just as they do, I hear footsteps approaching.
They must hear them too because Colin whispers, “It’s the night watchman. He’s not supposed to be on his rounds.”
Good. Their intel is as bad as mine.
“Don’t panic,” Angus says.
“I ain’t,” Colin says. “But we don’t want to get caught here with our trousers down.”
Trousers down. I’m beginning to like these guys. Or at least Colin. He knows how to be miserable just like me.
“Right,” Angus says. The next second they’ve abandoned the stone and are hightailing it down the lane.
The footsteps stop for a moment. I watch the beam of the watchman’s flashlight as it shines first on the wall opposite my hiding place and then onto the lane.
My left leg is cramping. I badly need to massage it. But there’s no moving from here yet.
“Anyone there?” yells a gravelly voice. All the while the flashlight beam bounces here and there but amazingly doesn’t land on the stone.
I am a statue. Strong, silent, unyielding, motionless—
The night watchman’s footsteps start up again. This time they are receding—he’s walking away!
I peek out from my hiding place. There’s no one in sight.
Taking a deep breath, I step out and massage my leg.
“What’s happening Cale?” Abbie asks over my mindpatch.
“They just took off . . . without the stone,” I tell her.
“All right,” I say, peering down at the stone. Draped in shadow and sitting on the cobbles as it is, it doesn’t look too impressive. Still, I’m tempted to sit down on it myself and see if it makes me feel kingly.
“Cale, change of plans. Hide!” Abbie’s voice sounds frantic.
“What’s happening?” I mindshout.
“Thief number four just left Poets’ Corner. He’s coming your way.”
Did she say thief number four? That’s impossible. Because there’s only supposed to be three. But then again, nothing surprises me at this point.
I slip back into my hiding spot and wait. Seconds later, I hear footsteps followed by heavy breathing. Right after this snatch, I’m putting them all, except maybe thief number one, on an exercise program.
I sneak a peek and see Number Four taking off his overcoat and sliding it under the stone.
Next he’s dragging the stone along the lane.
“Where’s Dmitri?” I mindshout. “I can’t snatch it without him!”
My patch is silent for a moment and then Abbie’s voice comes on. “Sorry, we’re having a little trouble here. Dmitri says that there is something important he has to do first.”
“What could be more important than snatching the stone?” I say.
Down the lane, Number Four is making good progress. In another few seconds, he and the stone will be out of sight. But how is he going to . . . ? A car. He must have his own car parked nearby.
“Razor,” I mindpatch, “get over here, and bring Dmitri. I don’t care how you get him to come. Just do it. And tell him to bring his gadget.”
“That’s a big ten-four, boss man,” answers Razor.
I take off my shoes to muffle my footsteps and race to the end of the lane. Peering around the corner, I see Number Four open the passenger door of a black car. Then he heaves the stone up so that it is standing on end and pushes it through the door.
Footsteps come clattering behind me. It’s Razor and Dmitri.
Just then the car’s engine starts up.
“Dmitri,” I yell, “do your thing. Stop that car!”
Mid-stride, Dmitri pulls out his gizmo and starts pressing buttons.
But nothing happens. No, that’s not true. Something does happen—the car starts driving away.
“I’m afraid my device is not calibrated for a V-12,” says Dmitri.
“What are you talking about?” I yell.
“That car is a 1938 Allard,” says Dmitri. “It uses a Lincoln-Zephyr V-12 engine, which is basically a flathead V-8 that has been updated to narrow the angle between cylinder banks and add four more cylinders. Now, if it had been a later model Allard, it would likely have the much more common but less powerful V-8 engine, in which case my device would function admirably but—”
“Okay,” I say, cutting him off. “Then we have to find a way to follow him. You and Razor stay—”
Razor! Where is she?
A horn blasts and I look up. Twenty feet away there’s a rusted red van, engine idling.
Razor’s head pokes out the driver’s side window. “Hop in, everyone!”
“Where did you—”
“Learn to break into and start a van?” she finishes for me. “At art school. Where else? I majored in the Art of Stealing Motor Vehicles. I got lucky, though . . . he left the keys for us.”
“Dmitri,” I say as we squeeze into the front seat beside Razor, “can you make your device drive this van?”
“Yes,” says Dmitri. “Reconfiguring for an autopilot feature is certainly—”
“Forget that,” Razor says. “There’s no time. Besides, I want to drive.”
“And I want to retire and live by the lake,” I say. “We can’t always get what we—”
Razor ignores me and steps on the gas. The van lurches forward and glances off the side of the building. She promptly reverses, and we smack into a trash bin, sending the contents flying.
“I am experiencing heart palpitations,” says Dmitri. “It may be the result of stressors such as a perceived loss of control.”
“Razor! You are not driving,” I shout. “Move over.”
“Sorry, but there’s no time to switch,” she says, throwing the van into first gear. “The bad guy is getting away.”
Wrong. The bad guy is sitting next to me.
Christmas Day, 1950, 3:02 A.M.
Westminster Abbey
London, England
Operation Coronation
You and Dim should relax and close your eyes,” Razor says, turning onto Northumberland Avenue. “I’m an expert driver.”
Relaxing is the last thing on my mind. “Dmitri, get this thing on autopilot ASAP,” I say.
Unbelievably, I can still see the Allard’s taillights. It’s stopped up ahead.
“I’m gonna ram him,” says Razor.
“No! Don’t!” I yell.
“Just testing to see if you’re still awake,” says Razor, laughing. “I’d never ram someone . . . unless he deserved it.”
Dmitri nods to me and says, “It’s ready.”
Finally, something is going my way. “You can let go of the steering wheel now, Razor. Dmitri has set up the autopilot.”
“No way,” says Razor. “I’m not putting my life in his hands. Did you see what he did to that poor tree?”
“You are the one who wagered that I could not move the tree both temporally and geographically, which I succeeded in doing,” Dmitri says.
“Hands off, Razor,” I say, trying to sound firm.
A car swerves in front of us. Razor jerks the wheel to the right and slams on the brakes.
“Whew. That was a close call. Good thing I didn’t listen to you, isn’t it?”
“Cale, what’s happening?” says Abbie over my mindpatch.
“We’re gaining on ’em, Abs! Got the pedal to the floor, hear this baby roar!”
“Razor, I want to speak with Caleb. Kindly get off this frequency.”
“Hi,” I say meekly.
“Hi? What’s going on?”
“Everything’s under con— WATCH OUT!” I yell.
Razor zigs right and brakes to an abrupt halt, barely avoiding a street lamp. And it starts to snow.
“That’s it, I’ve had enough,” I say, jumping out and running around to the driver’s side. “Move over.”
I grab the keys from the ignition and wait. I can barely make out the taillights of the Allard.
“Aww, c’mon,” says Razor. “You’re no fun.”
I say nothing.
She opens her mouth again but then closes it. She moves over.
“Okay, Dmitri, take over,” I say, starting the ignition.
“With pleasure,” he says, sitting up to get a clear view of the road.
The steering wheel starts to move by itself, and the car lurches forward.
As it does, a wave of dizziness comes over me. That’s strange. I don’t usually get dizzy . . . unless I’m time fogged. But it can’t be time fog. I took an anti-time-fog pill, and Luca said they’re good for three hours.
Yeah, but he also said there would be only three thieves.
“You drive like a granny, Dim!” Razor yells. “Step on it, or we’re going to lose him!”
“Very well,” he says. He presses a button on his gizmo, and the van begins to go faster. In moments, we’re zipping along.
For the next hour, Dmitri somehow manages to keep the van on the road with Number Four’s car in sight. I’m not doing as well, though. I go in and out of feeling dizzy, whether my eyes are open or closed.
When I can final
ly focus, I see Number Four’s car just ahead of us. It has its brake lights on.
“Looks like he’s stopping,” Razor says.
The thief’s car turns onto a small dirt track off the main road.
As we reach the place where he turned off, I signal Dmitri to stop the van.
“Don’t stop! We’re gonna lose him again,” Razor says.
“We wait here for a minute,” I say. “If we turn too soon, he’ll know we’re following.”
The getaway car climbs a slope.
As we watch, a siren wails behind us. Wow. That was quick. The stone was stolen only about an hour ago, and the police have already tracked down the getaway car. The Allard is about three-quarters of the way up the hill now.
“Move us over a little so the police car can get by,” I instruct Dmitri.
He edges the van over, but instead of passing us, the police car slows and then rolls to a stop. A burly-looking police officer steps from the vehicle and heads toward us. My stomach does a quick flip.
I adjust my night vision to full zoom. The Allard is stopped at the top. The door on the passenger side is open, and the thief already has the stone halfway out.
“Quick, grab my hands,” I say to Razor and Dmitri. “We’re timeleaping the rest of the way.”
Neither of them makes a move, so I grab Razor by the wrist and reach around her to nab Dmitri.
“Your hand, Dmitri!” I shout.
But by the time he looks up, the officer is already tapping at my window, motioning for me to roll it down. Rats.
“Good morning, Officer,” I say, letting go of Razor.
The policeman shines his flashlight full in my eyes and then does the same with Razor and Dmitri.
“Driver’s license, please,” he says to me.
I make a show of patting my pockets and then say, “Uhh. I must have forgotten it at home. Look, I live just over that hill . . . if you wait here, I can drive over to my house and get it.”
“Kindly turn the engine off and step out from the vehicle,” he says to me. “And your friends, too.”
I’m focused on the scene unfolding at the top of the hill. The thief has the stone out of the car now and is duck-walking it to a spot on the hillside near some snow-covered shrubs.
Time Trapped Page 16
