“What was next on the list?” Francesca grabs her pack to look in the front pocket. “Damn it. My list is gone, too.”
“That makes sense actually,” I say. “Your list was written on paper from Mr. Cameron’s house. That never had any gravitites in it. I copied the list into my logbook though.”
I pull my logbook out of my pack and see Francesca’s in there also. “May as well log this jump,” I say, handing her book to her.
“So you knew this was going to happen?” Francesca says.
“No. Well I knew your paper wasn’t going to make it, that’s why I wrote it in here, but I figured all the anchors would be fine. They all came from Quickly’s lab. They must not have all been treated with the gravitites though.”
Blake is frowning down at us as we squat over the packs. “Nice if he would have stuck around long enough to tell us that.” He kicks over the bicycle.
“Hey!” Francesca says. “That’s not very nice. That’s some girl’s bike.”
Blake glares at her for a second as if he’s going to respond, but doesn’t. After a moment he picks the bike back up.
“So what are we going to do now?” He pulls out his logbook and angrily flips to the right page. I finish jotting my entries and hand him my pen.
“Let me see if there’s anything about this in Quickly’s journal.” I pull the journal out of my back pocket. “Wait!” I spin around and search the area around us.
“What?” Francesca looks up from her logbook.
“Dr. Quickly!” I say. “He was here! He wrote on the back of this photo.” I pull out the photo of the bike and show her the back. “That’s Quickly’s handwriting, so it means he took the picture. He has to be around here somewhere!”
I dash out into the middle of the street and look around. There’s no sign of anyone except a postman a few blocks down delivering mail. I trot down to the end of the cul de sac and continue looking, but see no one. A Dalmatian barks at me from behind a chain link fence. Disappointed, I walk back to my friends.
“He had to be here recently or that photo never would have been taken.”
“Well, he’s not here now,” Blake says. He and Francesca have finished with their logbooks and Francesca is pulling a couple of T-shirts out of her pack. She layers them over the shirt she’s wearing. One of them is mine, but she doesn’t seem to care.
“Where are we?” she asks.
“I don’t know actually,” I say. The back of the photo doesn’t list a city. I look around at the neighborhood but see no clues. Quickly was right, American suburbia does pretty much all look the same.
“The newspaper was The Boston Globe,” Blake says. “We must be somewhere in New England.” He walks to the mailbox and pops it open. He reads an envelope he finds inside. “We’re in West Bridgewater, wherever that is.”
“So what now?” Francesca says.
There’s a trashcan sitting at the edge of the curb of the house next to us. I walk over to it and toss the photo of the bike handle inside.
“What’re you doing?” Blake asks.
“I read in the journal that you’re supposed to dispose of your used photos immediately, so that you don’t accidentally reuse one that you’ve used before.” I flip open the journal and thumb through it till I find the page I’m looking for. “It says, ‘Maintain a careful and accurate inventory of used and unused jump anchors to avoid duplication of use.’”
“Well we already screwed that up,” Blake says. “We left half our inventory on Mr. Cameron’s lawn.”
I keep reading. “It also says as a precaution we need to ‘exit the vicinity of the jump area immediately, to avoid potential collisions with other time travelers accidentally using the same location.’”
“So I shouldn’t have been still standing here the last five minutes?” Francesca says. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Yeah.” I start walking.
“Great. Another way I could have died.” Francesca picks up her pack and follows me.
“Does it say what to do if you find yourself suddenly stranded in Boston? Because we’re kind of screwed,” Blake says.
“Hey, it could be a lot worse,” I say. “We could have died or . . . wait a minute. I actually did see something about Boston in here.”
I flip to the back of the journal and turn back a few pages. “Here. Look.” I show the journal to Blake and Francesca. “On this list of people we think are time travelers, there’s one listed in Boston. Guy Friday. Green Dragon Tavern. Marshall Street, Boston. Fridays from August 1984-1988.”
“The guy’s address is a bar? And his name is Guy Friday?” Francesca says. “Well, how could that go wrong?”
“It’s something at least,” I say. “I mean, we can research our own jump points from here to the next one we’ve got left. The research is going to take some time though. Maybe this guy can help us. He’s in Quickly’s book.”
“What day is it today?” Francesca asks.
“Monday,” Blake says.
“So we need to find this bar and get there on Friday,” Francesca says. “Cab?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I reply. “But I don’t think we’re likely to see one on this street. We should probably find a payphone.”
We find our way out of the neighborhood in short order but my hands and toes are already numb by the time we reach a main road. When we finally locate a payphone, we realize that all we have for cash is hundred dollar bills. Francesca talks a laundromat attendant into breaking her hundred and scores us some quarters. We shiver on the sidewalk waiting for the cab, and huddle happily into its warmth in the back seat when it arrives.
The ride to downtown Boston takes the better part of an hour. The cabby assures us, that while he doesn’t know the exact bar we’re looking for, that most of the good pubs are in one area and are easy to find. We have no real choice but to believe him.
“You ever been to Boston before?” Francesca asks me as we get out of the cab.
“Yeah, but not in the eighties obviously.”
I scan the street of bars we arrive on. The buildings are mostly brick architecture layered over historic sites from the 1700s. The street is narrow and bricked as well, with little room for cars. The daytime pedestrians appear to be predominantly tourists.
“God, New England girls even dress better in the eighties.” Francesca frowns. “I need to go shopping.”
“Won’t do you any good, unless you want to leave a nice pile of new clothes where we jump from, and show up at our next spot naked,” Blake says.
“I mean, we aren’t going to complain if that’s what you really want.” I smile.
Francesca shoves me in the arm. “Darn it. I should have had Dr. Quickly gravity zap me a pea coat.”
“I’ve got a nice brown jumpsuit in my pack you can wear,” I say.
“Ugh. Maybe this time traveler we’re meeting will have a girlfriend who has some cute clothes I can borrow.”
We find the Green Dragon Tavern by asking a couple of pedestrians. The tavern has a wide exterior of small paned windows in the front with a doorway in the center. A hanging wooden sign advertises that it has been in business since 1773. As it is Monday afternoon, we find the bar area nearly deserted. The hulking bartender immediately detaches himself from his conversation with his two patrons at the far end of the bar as we walk in.
“You all want menus?” he asks as we take stools.
“Actually we have a question,” I say.
The bartender lays out a few coasters in front of us. “Whatcha got?”
“We’re looking for someone named Guy Friday,” I begin. “We were told we could find him here.”
“Oh. Yeah. I think I know who you’re talking about. Young blonde guy? Kind of . . . different?”
“We aren’t really sure,” I say. “We haven’t met him before.”
“Well there’s a guy named Guy, and he only ever comes in here on Fridays, so I figure that’s how he picked up the name. I don’t know what his real last n
ame is though.”
“Okay. Do you know how we find him?”
“On Friday, yeah. He usually sits over there at that booth by the front, unless we’ve kicked him out. He can get a little mouthy with the girls sometimes. Mostly he’s all right though. Comes in with another big guy sometimes. Dark hair, that one.”
“Are you going to be working Friday?” Francesca asks. Her eyes are admiring the bartender’s muscled arms and Celtic tattoos. She smiles at him.
“Actually yeah, I think I am. I could probably point him out to you.”
“That would be great,” I say.
“Well I’m going to have a beer,” Francesca says. “Can I have a Guinness please?”
The bartender looks to Blake and me.
“I’m okay right now,” I say. Blake shakes his head also.
“So what, are we just going to sit here and drink till Friday?” Blake says.
“I’m okay with it,” Francesca replies, watching the bartender pour her beer. “That accent is so sexy.”
“I was assuming we were going to just skip to Friday,” I say.
Francesca frowns. “Just when I found somewhere I like. It’s warm in here . . . there’s good scenery . . .”
“We’re skipping,” Blake says.
“How about you guys blink ahead and I’ll stay and get to know the locals.” Francesca smiles.
“I really think we ought to stay together,” I say.
Francesca pouts. “Fine. But I’m going to drink this beer reeaaallly slow. And we’re definitely stopping somewhere for me to get something to wear. I’m certainly not coming back in here looking like this now.” She gestures to her triple T-shirt ensemble. She beams at the bartender as he sets her beer in front of her. Blake and I cave in and order beers too.
An hour later, we reemerge into the fading afternoon light of wintertime Boston.
“We need an anchor,” I say, as we look around.
“We could shimmy up a light pole,” Blake suggests, gesturing to the stoplight at the intersection. “No one will be going up there.”
“I don’t shimmy,” Francesca says.
“Yeah, we could use a roof or a locked room or something,” I say, still searching.
“Fire escape.” Blake points to the side of one of the neighboring buildings. “The odds of that being in use when we arrive are pretty slim.”
“I like it,” I say.
“How do we get up there?” Francesca asks.
We cross the street to the side alley of what appears to be an apartment building, and crowd under the fire escape.
“I bet you could reach it if I boost you up,” I say to Francesca.
Blake eyes the passersby. “We should probably get set up first, in case someone says anything.”
“Good idea.” I set my pack down and concentrate on my chronometer. “We could do four days and get here around the same time Friday, or we could do a time and date specific jump.”
“Let’s just do four days,” Blake says. “We can get here this time Friday.”
“I still need time to shop,” Francesca says.
“You should have a couple hours.”
Once we have our settings dialed into our chronometers, we compare with each other to double check. “We have enough power for this?” Blake asks. “That last one was a long one.”
“Yeah, let’s hope,” I say. “We should definitely charge them up after this.”
Blake takes the packs from Francesca and me, and turns to keep an eye on the pedestrians. “You look clear.”
I intertwine my fingers and cup my hands atop my knee to give Francesca somewhere to step. She grabs my shoulders and places her right foot in my hands.
“Please don’t drop me.”
“I got you.”
“Go for it,” Blake says.
I boost Francesca up and then wrap my arms around her knees to lift her higher. She latches her hands onto the bottom rung of the fire escape and I slowly lower her down, dragging the fire escape ladder with her. Blake grabs it when it gets low enough and I set her back down. I check the area, but no one is paying attention. Blake hands me one of the packs and we clamber up. Francesca leads the way up the ladder, and once she’s on the first platform, I gesture for her to keep going.
“Let’s go up a couple and get out of people’s eyeline.”
Nobody ever looks up.
Blake eases the ladder up behind us and it clanks back into place. He joins us on the third floor landing. Francesca peeks into the window of the apartment we’re adjacent to.
“Looks like no one’s home.”
The wind feels stronger three floors up. “Let’s make this quick. My toes are getting numb,” I say.
Flip-flops were a poor choice.
I squat down and grab one of the vertical rails of the fire escape, hoping to make myself less obvious to passersby. Francesca copies me. Blake stays standing but extends his chronometer hand and touches the tips of his fingers to the railing. “On three again. One, two, three!”
Pin in.
Blake recoils from the railing in pain. The buildings and streets around us have been blanketed in white.
“Agghh,” Blake moans, holding his hand and staring at his fingertips. I look to where his hand had been and see the half-inch of snow that has managed to linger along the top of the railing. There are two indents where Blake’s fingers were.
Shit. He got fused with the ice crystals.
I grab Blake’s wrist and dial his chronometer for him. “You gotta jump again! Here!” I drag his arm back toward the railing and touch his hand to the vertical rails. “Just a couple of seconds.” Blake’s eyes are full of pain as he looks in mine. I step away. He pushes the pin and disappears. The finest mist lingers momentarily where his fingertips were. I look down at the diamond-shaped holes in the metal floor of the landing that prevented snow from settling on it. Thank God for that.
Three seconds later, Blake is back. He’s still gripping his wrist as he pulls away from the railing.
“God, that hurt,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Is it better?” I ask.
“Yeah. A little.” He examines his fingertips.
“I’m so sorry, dude. I never even thought about snow.”
He hisses through his teeth as he touches his fingertips together. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”
Francesca has her hands over her mouth. “Are you okay?” she says, staring at his hand.
“Yeah.” Blake shakes his hand. “I think I’ll be all right. Let’s just get down from here.”
The temperature is even more bitter than the day we left. I rub my arms as we descend the fire escape. The streets are busier despite the cold. The Friday afternoon pedestrians are bundled in colorful scarves and hats. I’m happy I chose to wear pants, but standing shivering in my flip-flops and short-sleeved shirt, I’m eager to get indoors.
“I think Francesca is right about the shopping,” I say. “Let’s find a clothing store, quick.”
We draw innumerable stares from store patrons and tourists as we make our way south on Union Street. A cab pulls up to the stop at the next block and I’m elated to see it vacant. Blake flags the driver with his good hand and Francesca opens the back door for him. Blake slides across the seat and I sandwich Francesca in the middle.
“Where to?” the cabby says, eying our unusual outfits.
“We could use a department store,” Francesca replies. I slam the door shut and shiver.
“Well there’s Filene’s.” The cabby scratches his salt-and-pepper whiskers. “That’s a nice one. Got about everything.”
“Sounds perfect.” I unbuckle my pack and pull the last T-shirt out of it. It’s too cramped to attempt to put it on, so I simply drape it over my bare arms and hold the pack close to my chest for warmth.
“You having some clothing difficulties?” the cabby asks.
“Stupid airline lost our luggage,” Francesca says.
That’s a pret
ty good one.
“I had that happen to me and the wife once. They had a big snowstorm in Cleveland on our way out to California for a nephew’s wedding. Boy, they had things all screwed up. I thought my wife was going to murder that baggage agent.” He chuckles to himself. “Not that I’m saying your situation is funny.”
“No. It’s okay,” I say.
It’s a very short drive to the Filene’s. We probably could have walked it if it wasn’t so cold.
“Wow this place is huge,” Francesca says, leaning her head back to look out the rear window at the ornate multistory stone building. The cabby deposits us on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance, and Francesca pays him.
“Hope your trip gets better.” He waves as I shut the door behind us.
I take a quick glance skyward at the columns and decorated stone of the façade. A stately green clock with a white face is perched above the sign saying Filene’s. The clock reads 5:25. The last bits of sunlight are reflecting in the glass doors as we file inside among dozens of other holiday shoppers.
“How’s your hand?” I say as we step into the warmth of the store. Tinsel sparkles above the escalators as overloaded shoppers glide upwards.
“My fingertips are turning purple.” Blake holds out his hand. “Feels kind of like a blood blister.”
The skin under the nails on his index and middle fingers has darkened. “Ouch,” I say.
“It’s not hurting that much anymore,” Blake says. “Just looks bad. Hope I don’t lose my fingernails.”
“You guys just want to meet me in the women’s department when you’re done?” Francesca asks.
“All right.”
The men’s department has been relegated to the second floor. We ascend behind a mother holding her two children’s hands. The older girl is probably three. She peers shyly at us from behind her mother’s thigh. She reminds me of my niece. The slightly younger boy keeps grabbing for the railing but the mother pulls him back against her leg at each of his attempts. The trio turns right off the escalator and the little girl follows us with her eyes as she’s dragged away around a display of custom Filene’s Christmas ornaments. I get a sudden pang of homesickness as we veer left for the menswear.
I find myself a basic zip-up, collared black jacket made of some type of synthetic. It’s quilted on the inner liner and I feel instantly warmer as I slide it on. I grab a bag of athletic socks and a dark red, button-down shirt. I look down my thrift store jeans to their slightly damp pant legs and debate grabbing new pants, but opt to head to the shoe department instead. Blake meets me there.
In Times Like These: eBook Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 22
