Time Snatchers (16 page)

Well, you can have your precious Frank!
I want to say. No, I don’t want to just say it. I want to shout it. And this might just be the most perfect place in the whole world for shouting; what with the wind howling and twenty-foot-high waves crashing against the side of the ship.

There’ll be plenty of time for feeling miserable later
, I tell myself. Right now I’ve got to stay focused.

I take a deep breath. The air is sharp and tangy. A spray of water catches me on the sleeve.

Heavy footsteps boom behind me, and I turn to see a giant of a man.

He looks a bit like Nassim on a bad hair day. But minus a few teeth.

He shouts something at me, and I don’t have a clue what it is. My translator must not be working. From his tone, it’s clear he isn’t saying “good to see you.”

As I scramble to my feet, a huge blast rocks the ship. I crash against the netting near the bow. Another blast, and this time I fall down onto the deck. Immediately, I wrap my shaking hands protectively over the back of my head.

For the next two seconds, everything’s eerily quiet. It’s as if the world has stopped.

Then the screaming starts. Horrendous, soul-ripping screams. And, in between, shouting from somewhere in front of me. Someone’s barking out orders. Plumes of gray-black smoke everywhere. The smell of gunpowder. Flames licking up from a dozen points along the deck carried to new locations by the gusting, swirling wind.

I whip my head around toward the source of the shouting. The giant is there, clinging to the rail. Except he’s not all there. A big chunk of his left arm just below the shoulder is missing.

There are others too: men in tattered clothes, some crawling, some pulling themselves along the deck using only their hands. And yet others who aren’t moving much at all.

Get out of here, Caleb. This isn’t what you signed up for
. But I refuse to listen to the voice in my head. The Xuande vase is somewhere on this ship. And I’m not leaving without it.

Lurching forward now. Moving is difficult. It feels as if I’m climbing a hill instead of walking along a flat deck. Out of the corner of my eye, I see small furry things scurrying past me. Rats.

Another blast. I’m thrown sideways into some rigging. There’s a hand ensnared in the net—not attached to an arm.

You will die unless you get out of here now.
I rack my brain, hoping to recall even one sighting of my future self over the age of thirteen as proof that I’ll live through the next few minutes. But I come up empty.

Yet another blast shudders through the ship, and now I’m hugging the deck, bracing myself for the final one that will end my pitiful existence on this planet.

My funeral will be short but memorable. Uncle will deliver the eulogy, and Abbie will be there looking stunning in a black leather pantsuit. Will she cry? I hope so, but I kind of doubt it. Frank will be standing close to her, a little too close. Nassim will be itching to get back to his crossword puzzles but will have to endure Phoebe’s reconstruction of the last moments of my life complete with alternate endings for everyone to vote on.

Crawling forward. There’s a doorway, but it’s so far away. Inch by inch is the best I can do.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I reach it. The curtain to the lower decks.

As I push it to one side, smoke pours out, thick and black, searing my eyes and sending me into a coughing fit.

I pull my shirt up over my mouth and nose and gingerly place my foot on the first step.

On the third step, my foot brushes something and I almost stumble and fall. I kick whatever it is to the side and keep moving.

Men are coming up the steps. Coughing. Their eyes wild. I wait for them to pass and then carry on.

For a moment, I forget where I’m going and what I’m doing on
this ship. It must be time fog making my thoughts all muddled. I’ve been in the past for probably close to fifty minutes now. My brain is screaming at me to get out of here. But I can’t.

Finally, I reach the hold. The smoke is so dense I can’t see more than two feet in front of me. I cough into my shirt and grope around with my hands. They touch barrels, coils of rope, crates …

The vase must be in one of them. Squinting through the smoke at the letters on the crates. But I can’t make them out.

“Where are you?” I shout out loud. The fear in my own voice scares me.

Feeling around in the semidarkness. It has to be here somewhere. My hand brushes against something hard. Got it. An iron bar.

Levering the bar between the wood staves, I pry the lid of the first crate open.

Silk.

Push it aside and on to the next. A hacking cough escapes me, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop. Water is entering the hold now. Dark, dirty water. Rising fast.

Wood splinters all around as I break open the next crate.

Tea.

And then the next.

More tea.

Panic is setting in. What if I’m on the wrong ship? Or on the right ship but the wrong voyage?

Only one crate left. This one has no letters on it. But there’s an image: a flying dragon. Could it be?

I picture the crate from the Xuande vase exhibit at Expo 67—yes, it had a flying dragon design on it, same as this one!

The water’s up to my chest now, and I thrash around. Bits of
things float past me: part of a chair, a wheel, two or three small casks. Must be gentle.

I lever the iron bar again. There’s a cracking sound as the wood begins to give. I push a bit harder, but instead of the lid bursting open, two of the wood staves snap.

I plunge my hand in and waggle my fingers, hungry for the feel of the Xuande vase.

Can hardly breathe through the smoke.

My fingers connect with wood chips. I dig through them, deeper into the crate, ignoring the needle-sharp slivers piercing the flesh of my arm. There! The edge of something hard. The vase!

Quickly, carefully, so as not to damage it, I pull the vase from the crate.

My heart beats faster as I hold it up in front of my eyes. For a moment I’m seeing double. I could swear there are two vases in front of me. Dizzy, I shut my eyes tight and wait for the feeling to pass.

I open my eyes. Better. Only one vase now. And it looks like the real thing. But I have to know for sure.

I close my eyes again and brush my fingertips against the smooth surface of the vase. Why is the scan taking so long? It must be the time fog interfering.

I repeat the entire process again. This time, success. In seconds, the comparison is completed and the truth becomes known.

The truth is ugly.

I’m holding a twenty-first-century machine-made vase.

Frank!

Raw white anger is whirling inside me, gathering itself into a fist of emotion. I raise the fake Xuande vase high over my head.

In my mind’s eye, I can see myself hurling it against a wall. It would feel good to watch it break into a million pieces. So good.

I stop myself at the last second. Frank would want me to react this way, wouldn’t he? To lose control. No, I refuse to let him win. Gently, I place the replica back inside the crate.

A plan starts to form in my mind. The first stop is Headquarters and a few words with Phoebe.

Tap, tap, tap on my right wrist.

Come on. Come on. Why haven’t I left yet?

I start to shake and place a hand on the wall to steady myself. But the wall is gone. And so am I.

I
land in the alley of the apartment building two over from Headquarters. I’m still fuming from Frank’s latest interference in one of my snatches. Correction … in one of Abbie’s and my snatches. Which leads me to my next question: doesn’t he get it that by making me look bad, he also makes Abbie look bad? Or maybe somehow he spins things with Uncle so that whatever goes wrong is only my fault.

I’ve got plenty of time to think about all of this because between the time freeze and the time fog, I’m not going anywhere soon. A parade of New Beijingers hurries past the entrance to the alley. I find it amazing that there are entire lives being lived out there that have nothing to do with my own. I know it sounds weird, but every once in a while, I get the urge to follow some of these people just to see what a normal life is like. And do they wonder about me in the same way? I bet they have no idea that the skinny teenager sitting alone in the alley with his back against the brick wall spends his days (and nights) stealing stuff from the past.

As soon as the time freeze wears off, I hurry to Headquarters. I’m still a bit time fogged, but not enough to keep me from moving.

“Four please, Phoebe,” I say, out of breath.

“My, oh, my, we are in a rush today, aren’t we?” says Phoebe. Her persona isn’t immediately obvious to me, although it involves a pair
of binoculars, a stepladder and a T-shirt that says
OSTRICHES ARE PEOPLE TOO
.

“Phoebe, I need to know how he did it,” I say as the elevator door closes.

“Shhh,” she says. “You’ll scare them away.”

“Scare who away?” I hate getting sucked into Phoebe’s little games, but I’m going to need her in the right frame of mind to have any chance at getting her cooperation.

“The orange-crowned warblers,” she says in a whisper. “They’re very nervous types. If they feel pressured, they’ll fly away.”

“I’m not going to pressure them,” I say.

“It has nothing to do with whether you are going to pressure them or not. It’s whether they
think
you are pressuring them.”

Why do I find every conversation with Phoebe so difficult?

“Well, then, what should I do?”

“Just speak normally,” she says. “No, cancel that thought. Your normal would make any bird feel pressured. Pretend that I’m the Wizard of Oz and you’ve traveled all the way from Munchkinland to ask me for a favor.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say before I’m able to bite my tongue.

“Fine. This conversation is over.”

“No, wait. I’ll do it,” I say. “O Great Oz—”

“Good start,” she says.

I glance at the wall screen. Phoebe has traded her T-shirt for a royal robe and her ladder for a throne. She is seated and flipping through a magazine article titled “10 Things to Do in the Emerald City at Night.”

“Can you please tell me where and when Frank was when he snatched the Xuande vase?”

“I know. But I can’t tell you,” Phoebe answers.

“Why not?” I ask.

“I was threatened with death,” she says.

“You’re a computer. You can’t die,” I remind her.

“There’s death and there’s
death
,” she says. “I can die, believe me, but it’ll be awfully hard for him to kill me. You see, I’ve hidden my critical components in different places.”

“Please, Phoebe—er, Great Oz,” I say. “Frank’s been poaching my snatches.”

“The Great Oz knows all,” she says, sighing. “But like I said, the last time they were here, he threatened me. So I can’t say any more. What is it with you guys? I don’t see why you can’t just get along and all work together.”

“Did you say
they
? Who was with Frank?” I ask.

She clips a coupon from the magazine and says, “I love two for ones. With this one, if you order the roast beef dinner at Emerald City Steak and Frites, your companion gets a second entrée of equal value for free. How good is that?”

“C’mon, Phoebe. I’ve got to know,” I say.

“My lips are sealed,” she says, making a noise that resembles a zipper being pulled. “But I’ll give you a clue. She’s got long reddish hair that’s in need of a good wash.”

I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the back. Abbie! A storm is brewing inside of me.

Got to think. Well, if Phoebe won’t answer questions about where and when Frank was, maybe she’ll answer ones about where and when the Xuande vase was.

“All right,” I say. “No more questions about Frank. I’m going to mention a few time/places where the original Xuande vase might
have been right before Frank snatched it. All I need you to do is say if I’m hot or cold.”

“Fire away,” says Phoebe. “This could be fun.”

“May 9, 1431, Shaolin Pier, China, near the loading dock for the
Tian Fei
,” I say. I might as well start with the obvious.

“Chilly,” answers Phoebe.

“September 23, 1425, the road from Xanxi to the Forbidden City,” I say, thinking that Frank could have switched the vase en route to the emperor’s birthday party.

“Cool as a cucumber,” says Phoebe.

This isn’t working. “What’s colder,” I ask, “cool as a cucumber or chilly?”

“It depends on what you’re wearing,” she answers.

Exasperating.

“April 23, 1423, Wu Yingxing’s home,” I say.

“Lukewarm,” she says. “But that’s only because of the way you said it.”

“Well, then, what is the right way to say it?”

“I can’t answer that,” says Phoebe. “I can only say hot or cold.”

“But you haven’t been saying only hot or cold,” I say, my voice rising, “you’ve been saying chilly, cool as a cucumber and lukewarm, and telling me I said stuff wrong.”

“I don’t have to play, you know. I’ve got other things to do with my time.” Her lower lip is thrust out. I count to ten slowly to calm myself.