Glassford Girl: Boxed Set (Complete Series) (Time Jumper Series)

by Jay J. Falconer

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The cell phone on the nightstand next to the king-sized bed vibrated like an angry insect. The rattling noise was amplified by the wooden surface, which was the main reason why Duane Morris put it flat on the table every night before he hit the sack.

  Its position and placement allowed him to hear the clatter from inside a deep sleep, just in case a member of his security team was trying to reach him about a situation at work. But at the same time, the noise wasn’t too loud, allowing his wife, Nora, to remain asleep next to him.

  A week before, he’d used the adjustable ringtone and vibration settings on his new smart phone to selectively assign unique notification settings for each person on his phone list. Yet the vibration pattern for the incoming call was the default used by the device. That meant the call was probably not an emergency, since it was coming from an unknown number.

  It was a logical assumption, but then again, with his security company’s night shift crews patrolling three different shopping center locations around the Phoenix metro area, he couldn’t be sure.

  His paranoia kicked in, reminding him that someone might’ve been calling from a pay phone somewhere, or possibly using someone else’s cell. There were a number of reasons for an unknown caller buzzing his house this early. Since Duane wasn’t one to leave his people hanging, he decided he needed to answer the call.

  He rolled over and picked up the phone, being careful not to wake the boss of the house in the process. He looked at the caller ID. He didn’t recognize the number but still wanted to answer it. Before he could run his finger across the screen, the phone stopped vibrating and the display went dark. The caller must have gotten tired of waiting and hung up, he decided.

  Relief hit his chest, just as the phone’s LED clock ticked on to the subsequent minute. There was still time remaining before he needed to get in the shower before work, so he could catch some additional rack time.

  He exhaled and put the phone back on the table, knowing that if it was important, the caller would ring him again. Hopefully, not until after his entire household was awake and he’d fired down a fresh pot of joe.

  But no such luck. The moment his head hit the pillow and he closed his eyes, the phone began vibrating again. This time he answered the call before the annoying device could vibrate a second time, pressing the phone to his ear as he sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

  “Duane Morris of Morris Security. How may I help you?” he asked in a whisper, glancing at his wife behind him. She was still tucked under the edge of the covers and snoring away, lying with her back to him.

  “Duane, thank God,” a young female’s voice shrieked across the phone’s receiver.

  “I’m sorry, who’s calling, please?” Duane asked, standing up and planning to step into the hallway and close the door behind him.

  The caller said something, but Duane couldn’t hear the girl’s voice. Not with Nora suddenly bombarding his ears with, “Who the hell is calling so early?”

  He spun his right shoulder around just in time to see Nora sitting up in the bed and aiming her angry eyes at him. “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know yet, baby,” Duane said. “Go back to sleep.”

  He left the bedroom and went down the hallway and into his modest home office. He shut the door.

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Who is this?”

  “Duane, it’s me. Emily.”

  The words caught him by surprise, sending his backside falling onto the seat of a swivel chair. It was sitting in front of a mahogany roll-top antique desk that had been in his family for generations. The desk featured a louvered cover with beautiful inlaid maple carvings along its center, which he rolled up to make room for his elbows.

  Duane took a moment to process the revelation, his mind still not functioning properly without his usual caffeine fix. He cleared his throat.

  “Emily? As in Emily Heart?”

  “Yes, Duane. How many Emilys do you know?” the girl said with attitude.

  “Ah, sorry,” he said with a stammer, feeling more awake now. “Just surprised to hear from you, that’s all. It’s been, what? Like two years? Where you been, girl? We’ve been worried.”

  “I know, Duane, I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “You okay? What’s wrong?”

  “I need help.”

  “Okay, okay. Tell me. Where are you? Are you in trouble?”

  “No, not exactly. I’m . . . Duane, it’s complicated. I think I need . . . Nora. Can you send Nora? Please? Just Nora? She’ll know what to do.”

  “Nora’s in bed, but I’m sure she’ll want to help as soon as I tell her you’re back,” he said, pausing to find the proper words. “She’s concerned about you. We all are.”

  “Thank you, Duane. I . . . I trust her and right now, I really need her. Sorry I’ve been gone so long. There was nothing I could do about it.”

  “That’s okay. Now, tell me where you are. Do you know where you are?”

  “I think so. It’s 212 North something,” Emily said, her voice trembling. “Just give me a second. There’s a, um, a flyer or a business card around here somewhere.”

  Duane heard a shuffling of papers, then Emily’s voice returned. “I’m at 212 North Canyon View Drive.”

  “I’m not sure where that is. Is that Phoenix?”

  “Ummmm. The brochure doesn’t show a city. All it says is Village on the Links Golf Community. Does that help?”

  “Give me a minute,” Duane said, pulling his laptop from its space under the shelves on his desk. He flipped the top open. The screen sprang to life.

  “Are you hurt? Is that why you need Nora?” he asked, waiting for the cursor to appear on the screen. Once it did, he clicked the Internet icon.

  “Not exactly. But it’s complicated. Can you just send Nora, please?”

  Duane brought up his favorite Internet map and directions website. “All right, here we go. You said 212 North Canyon View? Village on the Links?”

  “Yes, Duane. Please hurry.”

  “I am, Em. Just give me a second.”

  Duane typed the address into his computer and pressed the search button. The busy icon started spinning in the corner of the browser software.

  “Can you have Nora bring me some clothes?”

  “Clothes? Sure, sure. If that’s what you need. All right, one more second here.” Duane’s eyes scanned his computer screen. “Okay, found you.”

  “You did?”

  “Yup. But tell me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “What the hell are you doing in North Scottsdale?”

  ***

  A minute or so later, Emily finished her conversation with Duane, hung the phone up, and let out a sigh of relief. She leaned her butt against the bottom cabinet and slid slowly to the floor. Duane told her it would take Nora about forty-five minutes to get there.

  Help was coming.

  Female help.

  Someone who’ll know what to do with a time-jumping teenage girl who’s . . . pregnant.

  It was hard to say that word: pregnant. Even harder than knowing that a tiny life form was growing inside her womb. A precious little boy who’d need his mom to be his everything. And do so twenty-four-seven. For the next eighteen-plus years. She had no idea how to be a mom or what to do, which is why she needed Nora. A woman she trusted.

  Emily wasn’t used to calling people for help when she came out of a jump. Actually, she wasn’t used to asking people for help, period. Jump or not. She always prided herself on being self-sufficient and resourceful, ever since the night of The Taking—the night she and her mom were abducted and tortured by an unknown group. The same night her mom was killed and she started jumping through time whenever she became too emotional.

  Her life had been a constant struggle ever since. Being all alone and living on the streets of Phoenix wasn’t easy. Not for a teenage girl who’d just lost everything. Always having to figure out how to s
tay alive and off the radar was a nightmare and completely exhausting. There was a steep learning curve in the beginning, but once she realized what was happening—that she was jumping forward through time and that she always came out naked—she created a set of rules and came up with a system. A system that worked. Ten simple rules to live by, plus her post-jump check list: clothes, food, place to stay.

  Focus, Em, she thought. Over-thinking everything never helps. She took a deep breath and told her mind to run through the checklist.

  Clothes: Nora was bringing them—check. She was disappointed in herself for relying on someone else, but she had to face the facts—she couldn’t do this alone. She didn’t want to do this alone.

  Next up on the list: food. She remembered the plastic bag in the fridge—Oreos first. Then soda. Then eat the rest of the snacks. Check.

  Emily bent over and used her arms as a wedge to lift her body to its feet. She groaned, knowing she was a tired wreck. The side effects of a jump usually faded away after a few minutes, but this time was different. It had lingered longer than normal, draining her energy reserves in the process. Her headache had dwindled to a dull throb and was mostly gone, but her body was useless.

  Next on the checklist—place to stay.

  She didn’t want to deal with the places where she usually slept—homeless shelters—not in the weakened and pregnant state she was in. Maybe she could crash with Duane and Nora. She liked their home—it was clean, spacious, and devoid of the creepers and smelly bag ladies usually found in the shelters. But creepers and bag ladies weren’t the worst people she’d have to share space with. It was the drug addicts and hookers—always trying to get her to do a line of blow with them, or turn tricks on the corner for some easy cash.

  The baby’s voice spoke from deep within her, interrupting her thought process. “Hungry. Me.”

  Emily’s stomach gurgled an erratic, rumbling tune, sounding like a troll groaning under a bridge. “Mommy’s hungry, too,” she answered telepathically.

  “Hungry. Me,” baby said, sounding a little like Derek. Albeit a much younger version.

  She went to the fridge and pulled the door open. “Food is on its way.”

  ***

  “Are you serious?” Jim Miller said into his cell phone after sitting up in bed. He was exhausted from staying up late while working on a story about the growing number of homeless street kids in the Phoenix area—a story inspired by Emily and her friend Junie. He hadn’t been asleep for long when Duane’s shocking phone call interrupted his shuteye.

  “Yep,” Duane answered on the other end of the line. “She just called me. Nora is going to pick her up. The address she gave me is in North Scottsdale somewhere—a development called Village on the Links. Sounds like Em’s in pretty rough shape. ”

  “What the hell is that girl doing in Scottsdale?”

  “I don’t know. She doesn’t know, either. But that’s where she is.”

  “I’ll be damned. Does Nora need any help? Maybe we should head out there, too?”

  Duane laughed. “I wouldn’t go there, Jim. You know Nora as well as I do. If she says she’s got this, then it’s best if we just sit here like we’re told and wait it out. As soon as I told her that Emily had asked for her and only her, Nora was out the door in a flash.” Duane paused. “I didn’t like the feeling I got, Jim. Something is seriously wrong with Emily.”

  “As opposed to all the other times, when she’s just, you know, jumping through time?”

  “Nah. I get the feeling this is different. She doesn’t sound like the same old Emily. Something’s off. Can’t put my finger on it but she definitely sounds pretty shaken up. And you know me; I have a sense about these things. And right now it’s telling me that something about Little Red has changed.”

  “Gotcha,” Miller said. “Well, what can I do? Want me to head over? You might need an extra pair of hands when they get back. I know Nora’s a nurse and all, but my field medic training might come in handy.”

  “Better not, bro. Em asked for Nora specifically. Just her. Not us. We better let the women handle this on their own. I’ve learned over the years that once the Nora Train gets rolling, it’s best to just wait until she asks for help. Otherwise, we’ll just be in the way. Once I know more, I’ll call you.”

  “All right. Thanks for the call. Tell Emily... well, shit. Tell her that I’ve missed her. If she needs anything—anything at all—I’m here for her. No questions asked.”

  “Awww, you old softie. I always said you needed kids of your own.”

  “Different conversation, Duane.”

  “Yeah. All right then. I’ll call you later.”

  “Thanks,” Jim said, swiping his thumb across the screen to disconnect the call before changing screens to his texting application.

  He knew someone who’d want to know that Emily was back. Time to let him know.

  * * *

  Derek was on his back and lying in bed, trying to get back to sleep, when a text message chirped across his phone. The notification ping was almost too faint to hear with his phone tucked away inside the pocket of his jeans. He’d taken them off and tossed them into the growing pile of dirties taking up most of the space in the corner of his room.

  Normally, he’d ignore an early morning text message since it was usually not worth crawling out of bed for, but the hairs on the back of his neck were tingling and the sudden pain in the pit of his stomach told him this message was important.

  He tossed the covers off and flew out of bed, crossing the room in his bare feet. His chest was pounding under the torrid beat of his heart, making his hands shake as they rummaged through his jeans. It seemed like forever until he found the phone in the third pocket he checked. He tapped his security code into the device and scrolled through the options to find his text messages.

  When the most recent communiqué met his eyes, his jaw flopped open. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. When it sank in, his heart lit up and a big, dumb grin washed over his face.

  The simple, two-word text message from Jim Miller read: “She’s back!!!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  “I’m starving, too,” Emily replied to the tiny voice of her son, closing her eyes and sending the words with her mind. “How ‘bout a cookie? Cookies make us happy.”

  “Hungry. Me.”

  She tempered her thoughts, keeping them calm as she focused on the spark of light inside. She sent him feelings of comfort and joy along with her words, and visualized herself hugging a child—a baby boy—in her arms.

  “Happy. Me,” came the reply.

  A feeling of warmth rose up inside her, knowing that the baby understood her message.

  Then the tiny being changed its tone abruptly from happiness to discontent. “Starving. Me.” Then the volume and intensity shot up a level, sounding almost angry. “Starving. Me. Hungry. Me.”

  “Yes, Mommy knows,” Emily replied, wanting to calm her son. “Starving is very hungry. But getting upset doesn’t make things happen any faster.”

  Emily sent a string of comfort feelings again, stronger this time, and added to it an image of her hugging a child. Then she imagined herself cooing and rocking a baby in her arms and sent the new imagery along with the words, “Mommy loves you.”

  It didn’t take long until the feeling of discontent to begin to fade. Emily realized she was going to have to develop a new skill—bundling up and sending words, emotions, and images to get her message across to her child. Consistency and repetition might be needed too, depending on her son’s ability to comprehend new concepts and feelings.

  She continued eating the Oreos on the plate, pausing between chews to send more soothing thoughts and comforting images to her baby.

  It worked: a feeling of warmth rose up again, bubbling with a tingle along her spine. Emily now understood that feeling to be a response, and it meant her son was happy and content. For now anyway, until it was time to eat again.

  Going forward, she was going t
o need a much bigger supply of food, meaning her life on the streets would now be that much harder.

  When she was finished with the cookies, she opened a can of soda—San Pellegrino Mandarin Orange—a brand Emily had seen businessmen consuming while walking the downtown streets of Phoenix on their lunch hour. Those same men were usually eating a premium hotdog smothered with onions and jalapeños from one of the many street venders peddling food from their pull-behind carts.

  She remembered the tantalizing aroma, bringing back fond memories of her days with Junie—the precocious young girl with a dangerous shoplifting habit. Emily wondered how her skinny friend with the super fast legs was doing.

  And what about Junie’s deadbeat of a mother? A grossly underweight woman, she always seemed to be more interested in shacking up with some lowlife douchebag so she could score more drugs. Emily never understood it. Who left their precious daughter alone in a disgusting shelter for days on end, just to go get high?

  Emily’s eyes found the can of Pellegrino Mandarin Orange in her hand again. A brand Emily had always thought of as a fake. Something only for rich people who were too snobby to drink real sodas, like Pepsi or Coke.

  Fake or not, she was thirsty and needed to wash down the last of the Oreos remnants in her mouth. She brought the can to her lips and downed half of it in five rapid gulps. It tasted delicious—something she didn’t expect from a fake soda. Then she belched like a drunken college student and giggled.

  “Mommy. Funny,” her baby sent back.

  She smiled. My baby boy likes burps!

  Emily finished off the can and crushed it in her hand, letting out another three burps. More joyful thoughts came from her baby, making her happy as well.

  “Want more food?” she asked her child, wrapping it with a smile and the warmth of a hug.

  “More. Me,” said her boy. The words were accompanied by a feeling of anticipation.

  She tore into the other items in the fridge, ripping the plastic wrappers off the deli mini-sandwiches. There was also a quart-sized container of something sitting on the next shelf that looked like a takeout left over from someone’s meal—Chinese food, by the looks of the container and the stenciled markings on its side. The light inside the fridge illuminated a shadowed outline of its contents. She could see it was three-quarters full.