He struggles with the stone for a few more feet before laying it down and kicking snow on top of it. I can’t believe it. He’s just going to leave it there—in the middle of nowhere!
“Step out from the vehicle, now,” repeats the officer, this time with an edge to his voice.
I turn the engine off, and we all clamber out of the van. As we stand by the side of the dirt track, he pulls a notepad out of his pocket and shines his light on it. Then he aims the beam at the van’s license plate.
After a moment, he looks at me and says, “How old are you?”
My mind races. For the life of me, I don’t know what the legal driving age was in England in 1950 but I’m guessing it was either sixteen, seventeen or eighteen.
“Nineteen,” I say, just in case. “I’ve got a rare skin disease. Makes me look younger than I really am.”
Razor guffaws.
“These are my . . . brothers,” I continue. “We’re on our way home from visiting our grandmother.”
Razor smiles up at the officer. Dmitri, as usual, doesn’t appear to be paying any attention to the goings-on around him. He runs his fingers over the buttons on his black box.
“I’m not buying your story, son,” says the officer to me. “For starters, if you’re a day over fourteen my nan’s a pilot with the RAF. I’m afraid I’m going to have to take all of you back to the station,” he says. “This vehicle is reported as stolen.
“You ride with me in the front,” he says to Razor. “You two go in the back.”
As Dmitri and I slide into the backseat, the officer talks into a radio receiver.
“Central Dispatch, this is car forty-seven. I’m just south of Catclaw Hill and have located the stolen vehicle. The three occupants are children, approximate ages, thirteen, ten and ten. No adult in sight. I’m bringing them in to sort this out. Over.”
“Car forty-seven, this is Central Dispatch. Copy that. Carry on. Over.”
I look up the hill. The getaway car is nowhere in sight. The stone sits on the hillside half covered in snow.
Why did the thief just leave it there? Then it occurs to me. Half of England is soon going to be on the lookout for a black Allard carrying the Stone of Destiny. He must be hiding it until the heat is off and then he’ll come back in a different car and drive it the rest of the way to Scotland.
“Any update, Cale?” says Abbie over my mindpatch.
No sooner does she say this than another wave of dizziness hits me, this one stronger than the first.
“Abbie, are you . . . have you experienced any symptoms of time fog?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Why? Have you?”
“Yup.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it,” she says. “Try to hang in. What’s going on right now?”
“Not much,” I say. “I’ve just been arrested for vehicle theft and underage driving, and we’re all about to head to the police station.”
“What about the stone?” she asks.
“I can see it from here,” I say. “Number Four dumped it and drove off. My guess is he’s going to come back for it later.”
“There’s no time for you to go to the police station,” says Abbie. “We’re already running behind on the snatch.”
She’s right. What seemed like oodles of time has now dwindled down to a measly forty-seven minutes. And it’s bound to get even tighter, since now I’ve got to budget some time for busting out of prison.
“Don’t worry, Abs, they’ll never take us alive,” says Razor, cutting in.
“Razor, get off this frequency!” I mindshout.
“Can you get any decent rock stations on your radio?” Razor asks the police officer.
“What?” he says.
“Rock and roll,” repeats Razor. “You know . . . some Stones, or even Moody Blues? Oh cripes, I forgot. What about Elvis? He was big in the fifties, wasn’t he?”
The officer gives her a strange look. “No more talking, son.”
The car starts up, reverses and then turns onto the main road.
As we bump along, I can see the back of Razor’s head through a small mesh window, but I can’t reach out and grab her. Which is what I’ll need to do in order for the three of us to timeleap out of here.
I’ll just have to be patient and wait for my chance.
I turn to look at Dmitri. He’s completely occupied with what looks like a plastic mouthpiece, alternately putting it in and taking it out of his mouth. It amazes me how he can tune everything out. Maybe if I lived in my own little world like he does, I’d be a lot happier.
He curls his lips around the mouthpiece and glances my way. His eyes are full of mischief.
“Car forty-seven. Car forty-seven, this is Central Dispatch, come in. Over,” says a voice.
I do a double take. I swear that Dmitri is saying the words, but they sound exactly like the voice of the police dispatcher. And not only that. It sounds like his voice is coming from the police radio in the front seat.
“This is car forty-seven. Over,” says the policeman from the front.
“Update on the stolen vehicle report,” Dmitri says in the dispatcher’s voice. “The vehicle reported stolen has been recovered and returned to its owner. I repeat, the vehicle has been recovered and returned. Over.”
“Copy that, Central Dispatch. Over,” says the policeman.
“Car forty-seven,” Dmitri continues, “the three you have picked up check out. They live on the north side of Catclaw Hill. You had best return them to their vehicle. Over.”
“Are you certain?” says the police officer. “The driver looks awfully young. Over.”
“Car forty-seven. We located the father of the driver, and he confirmed that the boy suffers from a rare skin condition that makes him look much younger than his years. He has a valid driver’s license. Over.”
“Copy that,” says the policeman. “Will bring them back now. Over.”
The police car turns around and starts heading back.
Dmitri removes the mouthpiece and smiles at me.
Ten minutes later we arrive, but something about the scene is different.
There are ten or fifteen vehicles parked at the top of the hill, including a mixture of cars and horse-drawn wagons. About thirty men and women are milling around, a few of them putting up tents. They must have just arrived, because only twenty minutes ago, the place was deserted.
The officer opens the back door for Dmitri and me. “Out you go,” he says. “It seems there’s been a bit of a mix-up. You’re free to carry on.”
“Thank you, Officer,” I say. “Come along . . . children.”
He tips his cap at us, gets back into his car and drives away.
I scoot in behind the steering wheel. Razor and Dmitri scrunch in beside me.
I’m surprised that Razor hasn’t said anything to me about wanting to drive, but I’m not about to bring up the subject.
“Hurry up and start this thing,” says Razor, rubbing her hands. “It’s freezin’ in here.”
I fumble around in my pocket for the keys but can’t find them.
“Dmitri, did you—”
“Looking for these?” Razor asks, dangling a ring of keys from her fingers.
“How did you get those?” I say, grabbing them from her.
“I learned from the best!” she says, leaning across to toot the horn. “Now, step on it, Jack. Next stop, the Stone of Destiny!”
Christmas Day, 1950, 4:22 A.M.
North of London, England
Operation Coronation
I throw the van into gear and it skids for a moment before the tires grip the snow. We’re halfway up the hill when Abbie’s voice comes over my mindpatch.
“Cale, we snatched our part of the stone.”
“Good work,” I say. “We’re s
till working on ours.”
We reach the top of the hill, and I park near a beat-up gray sedan. As I step from the van, I’m hit with another wave of dizziness so bad that I have to grip the door to keep from falling.
“What’s the matter, Jack?” Razor asks.
“Nothing. Just a little dizzy, that’s all.”
A boy appears out of nowhere. He’s as tall as I am but looks younger, maybe Razor’s age. His hair and eyes are dark. Although he’s dressed in only a thin shirt, the cold doesn’t seem to bother him.
“Lemme handle this,” Razor says. “Hey, kid, what’s up?”
The boy doesn’t answer. He only looks at us and then trails behind as we continue making our way across the top of the hill. Other boys join him, and soon we have our own small contingent following us along.
We walk through an area where men are busy putting up tents and then past a campfire where about a dozen people are gathered around, sitting shoulder to shoulder. One of the men is playing a lively tune on a violin, and a few of the women are clicking their tongues in time to the music.
A dark-bearded man in a faded green parka approaches us.
“Nice setup you’ve got here,” Razor says to him. “Real cozy.”
He stares at her.
Razor has started prattling on about something else when he raises his hand. It’s got a lot of miles on it; it’s all wrinkled, and the fingers are gnarled. But it does the trick—she stops talking in mid-sentence.
For a moment, I think he’s going to speak. But instead, he beckons for us to follow, leading us along a path in the snow that has already been pounded down by boots. We pass within two feet of the stone, and I frown when I see two men seated on it, chatting.
Our silent companion leads us to the flap of the only tent that’s fully up. As soon as we enter, I pause and look around. The inside of the tent is filled with a hodgepodge of mismatched and worn-looking pieces of furniture.
There’s a small fire going, and we’re instructed to sit on the layers of blankets covering the ground near the fire. This place reminds me a little of Temüjin’s hangout in the Barrens, minus the smell of camel dung.
The man gestures for us to sit and then escorts two others into the tent. I recognize them immediately: Colin and Angus from Westminster Abbey! They sit down on the ground next to us, confused looks on their faces.
Razor’s eyes are wide, and her jaw hangs open. I have to admit that I prefer her this way. Dmitri has his usual distracted look.
“I know why you are here,” says a new voice. It’s deep and husky; a woman’s voice.
Through the swirling smoke, I see the outline of a figure sitting on a cushion behind the fire. Her head is covered by a dark blue kerchief, and she’s wearing multiple layers of faded patterned clothing.
“I have been expecting you,” she continues, and her words chill me. It feels like she is speaking to me and me alone.
The smoke clears, and I can see the woman more clearly. She has a strong face with large eyes and a generous mouth. I can tell that she must have been beautiful when she was younger.
“You each believe that you have a claim on it,” she says. “But you are all mistaken. For it cannot be claimed. It is the stone that decides.”
I gulp. How can she know that we’ve come for the stone? This must be some trick. No, not a trick. Simple observation, seeing with the mind, like Uncle says. Before they set up camp, they must have seen Number Four unload the stone. And they must also have seen us getting into the police car. There, I solved it. No mystery here at all.
The tent flap opens again, and Abbie, Gerhard and Judith are standing there. Gerhard’s foot is furiously tapping.
“Ahh, the other travelers,” she says. “It appears that all are here. We can now begin.”
This lady is seriously spooking me. How does she know we are time travelers? No, she didn’t say that. She said “travelers.” That could mean almost anyone.
She gestures over the fire, silver bracelets gleaming on her wrist and a ring on each of her fingers.
The flames suddenly leap up a good foot, and I feel a rush of heat on my face.
Tricks. These are all parlor tricks. Just like Houdini. I force myself to relax.
The woman has cards in her hands now, and as she shuffles them, she looks at each of us in turn, eyes gleaming and lips curled up ever so slightly. When her eyes meet mine, the intensity of her gaze makes me look away.
“Five times lost and four times found,” she says. “Three times captured and two times freed. The heads of kings and the heads of state. All have vied for the stone. And all have failed to hold her. A journey of a thousand years, a thousand wars and a thousand tears.”
That all sounds pretty and poetic, but if she’s making a point, it’s completely lost on me.
“Among you are those whom I shall call the ‘patriots’—ones who would have the stone to wake a nation from its slumber and stoke the flame of independence.”
I look across at Colin and Angus. Even in the firelight I can see that the blood has drained from their faces.
“And there are also those among you who are the travelers—who seek the stone for reasons less noble.”
That would be us.
“But it is not for you to decide what shall be the fate of the stone. The stone does the choosing.”
I’m feeling lightheaded again. Sweat starts pouring down my forehead. A chill comes over me, and I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. This must be time fog. What else can it be?
I glance at my fingernail. I can’t believe it. Only thirteen minutes left to complete the snatch!
With knobby fingers, the woman smooths the patch of blanket in front of her and lays down the deck of cards. Next she cuts the deck three times, all the while staring straight ahead.
“I will need two now. One patriot and one traveler. You decide who.”
“You go, Cale,” Abbie says.
“Yeah, Jack,” echoes Razor. “You’re the man!”
“I don’t want my fortune read,” I say.
Abbie gives me the look of death, so I look up at the woman and say, “Count me in for the travelers.”
She nods and caresses the cards.
“And me for the . . . patriots,” says Colin.
She nods at him. “We shall begin with you, then.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. For once I don’t have to go first.
She draws a card from the top of the deck and places it facing Colin.
The image on the card is of a man seated at a table. In his right hand he holds a wand, and resting on the surface of the table are a knife, a cup and some coins.
“The Magician,” says the woman. “Very good.”
Then she draws another card and places it next to the first. The card shows a woman seated on a throne. In one hand she holds a sword, and in the other, a pair of scales.
“Justice,” she says.
Her fingers move to the deck for a third time. The card she chooses depicts a woman riding on a chariot pulled by two winged horses, one black and one white.
“And finally, the Chariot.”
She pauses for a moment, studying the cards. Then she taps the Magician card and says, “Past,” taps the Justice card, “Present,” and the Chariot card, “Future.”
This is all very confusing, but at the same time, I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Patriot,” she begins, “the Magician, which is your past, symbolizes creative energy and action. This card speaks of infinite possibilities for expressing yourself.
“The Justice card,” she continues, “is your present. It is a card that is concerned with fairness and doing what is right. That is your present predicament, is it not? You are here to do what you see as honorable and just.
“And finally, the Chariot ca
rd. This is your future. This card speaks of travel—of a journey you are about to take or have already embarked on. When combined with the Justice card, it tells me that your journey is . . . how shall I say it . . . ‘morally justified.’”
I gulp. There’s no mistaking what Colin’s “journey” is; it’s the same as mine. To steal the Stone of Destiny. But she’s saying that he’s doing the right thing.
She collects the cards, replaces them in the deck and shuffles. My palms are sweating. Is it too late to back out? Maybe Dmitri wants his future read. Or maybe I can bribe Razor to go in my place.
Only seven minutes left to complete the snatch.
“You are next, Caleb,” she says. The woman knows my name. That’s an easy one. She heard Abbie say it. No, that couldn’t be. We’ve been mindpatching each other, not speaking out loud.
She cuts the deck three times and lays three cards in front of me.
The first card shows a man holding an hourglass hunched over a walking stick.
“The Hermit,” the woman announces, “your past.”
The second card is of a man hanging upside down, with one foot tethered to a tree.
“The Hanged Man,” she says, “your present.”
The final card gets me shaking. The image is a horned and winged beast with the face of a man. In his mouth, he holds two naked figures, one male and one female.
“The Devil. Your future,” she says.
Well, I’ll be going now. And not at a leisurely pace either. I want to run screaming from this tent and never look back. Because no one wants the Devil card, do they? And that Hanged Man doesn’t look like a winner either. The problem is my legs feel like jelly and the only things on me that move right now are my eyes.
“This is very interesting,” the woman says, which doesn’t help my blood pressure.
“Hang in there, Jack,” Razor mindspeaks. “Oops, sorry . . . bad word choice.”
“The Hermit,” says the woman, “is a solitary figure whose path through life is guided by his own inner strength. This is your past.”
That doesn’t sound too bad. Can we turn the cards around and make this one my future?
“Your present is dictated by the Hanged Man. The Hanged Man symbolizes that your life’s path is not yet decided, but that in order to realize your full potential, you must be open to seeing things from a different perspective, to changing your way of viewing the world.”
Time Trapped Page 17
