Time Trapped (14 page)

April 17, 1666, 2:31
P.M.

Woolsthorpe Manor
Lincolnshire, England
Operation Gravity

O
uch! A million tiny needles pierce my body. All right, maybe just five or six. But it feels like a million. I had programmed my patch to land
behind
some bushes . . . not
inside
them.

When I'm finally able to move, I pluck the thorns from my shirtsleeves and pants. About a hundred yards away is the snatch zone, Woolsthorpe Manor.

“What are your new digs like, Dim?” I hear Razor say. “Did they give you CoffeeValet?”

I snort. Even Uncle doesn't have CoffeeValet, the latest in premium intravenous coffee drips.

“I am not supposed to talk about my appointment,” Dmitri says. There's a certain smugness in his tone that I've never heard before.

“Well, excuse me for living,” Razor says. “Just remember, Dim. None of that would be yours without me.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Do the math, Dim. Whose idea was it to move the tree? And who got you the supplies you needed to do it?”

Dmitri sets his lips in a thin line and says nothing.

“We're about to move to the snatch zone, guys,” I say. “Do you all remember your roles?”

“Yes,” Judith says. “I will stay with you in the garden and compose sonnets.”

“Gnome,” Razor says under her breath.

“What was that, Razor?” I say.

“I was thinking about Alaska. I always wanted to go to Nome. D'ya think if we ace this snatch, Uncle will let us go there, you know, as a kind of reward?” She gives me her best fake sweet smile.

“Gerhard?” I ask.

“I will be standing near apple tree number one, ready to grab any apple that falls.”

“Good,” I say. “Dmitri?”

No answer. He has a faraway look in his eyes.

“Earth to Dmitri,” I say.

“Y . . . yes?”

“Your station, Dmitri. Where will you be?”

“In the garden, in the vicinity of apple tree number two,” he says.

“Correct,” I say. “And your job?”

“To wait,” he says.

“For?”

“For the apple to fall.”

“Razor?”

“Here I am,” she chirps.

“You will stay with me,” I say, and before she can object, I add, “Abbie will be stationed inside the house, in case Sir Isaac takes the apple inside. Let's go, everyone.”

I'm feeling pretty good about things. Abbie's right. The only way to deal with Razor is to take a firm line. Maybe she's finally starting to respect me. I take a deep breath and let my shoulders relax.

The afternoon is glorious. There's a light breeze blowing in the garden when we arrive. The air carries a slight scent of lilac. Under the shade of a big oak is a wagon whose doors have been painted in reds and greens. “MayFair Puppet Company” is painted in gilded letters on its side. That's strange; the briefing materials didn't say anything about a puppet play.

About two dozen chairs face the puppet theater in rows. Guests stroll about the garden, admiring the different varieties of flowering plants. A man dressed in a black waistcoat wanders among them, offering glasses of fresh julep.

“This is delightful,” says Abbie, smoothing her hair. She's looking very stylish in a silk and lace gown trimmed with silver thread. Come to think of it, I can't remember a mission where Abbie didn't look stylish. I watch her head for the house and when she's out of sight, I shift my eyes to the puppet stage. A man is standing in front of it, twirling the ends of his mustache. His long dark hair falls in loose curls almost to his shoulders.

For a split second, I glimpse another person, a tall man, who emerges from behind the puppet stage to adjust the curtain in the front. He quickly retreats behind the stage before I can see his face.

But neither man is the one we've come here to see. According to the mission data, Sir Isaac has a full head of shaggy blond hair and is of average height, which for 1666 translates to approximately five feet six inches tall.

A trio begins to play soft music. Razor, Judith and I take seats near the back. The doors of the puppet theater swing slowly open. The crowd hushes, and everyone leans forward.

The play is about to begin. So where is Sir Isaac? I crane my neck in each direction but don't see him. It looks like they are going to start without him.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” says Mr. Mustache Twirler. “My name is Henry Pendergast. It is with extreme pleasure that I present to you a play by Sir Andrew Mulcair, entitled
Mother Shipton and the Devil's Remorse.
”

Polite applause all around. A chilly wind comes up, and I can feel goose pimples on my arms. Storm clouds are rolling in. I wonder what they'll do if it begins to rain. The puppet theater is definitely too big to move inside.

The curtains of the puppet theater part. At first I see nothing but a dark shape. After staring at it for a moment, I make out jagged edges. It's a cave.

And inside the cave, something begins to stir.

This isn't starting out like any puppet show I've ever been to. In fact, now that I'm thinking about it, apart from the ones I brought with me, there isn't a single kid in the audience.

A figure emerges from the cave; it's a woman puppet. She's dressed all in black and has a long crooked nose and wild hair. That must be Mother Shipton. I can see part of a hairy wrist with a thin scar guiding the puppet, which kind of ruins the moment for me.

But the others all seem to be sitting on the edge of their chairs.

“Begone, Devile, I will have no truck with the likes of ye,” says the Mother Shipton puppet, her voice deep and husky.

Another puppet, this one red-faced with big, curved horns for ears, prances right over to Mother Shipton and looms over her.

“Was it not ye who summoned me presently? I will gladly take my leave as soon as our business is done.” The Devil puppet half turns toward the audience, and I can see a sly smile painted on his wooden face.

Mother Shipton cocks her head to one side as if considering the Devil's answer.

“I have no business with the Prince of Lies.” She practically spits the words.

The Devil laughs. “That is most amusing coming from one who only last evening uttered the words, and I quote, ‘To have the gift of far sight, I would trade my very soul to the Devile.'”

Mother Shipton stays still for a moment, apparently trying to decide whether or not to accept the Devil's offer.

“Very well,” she says finally. “Give me the gift.”

“And?” says the Devil.

“And my soul is yours, Son of Hades,” she answers.

“This is boring. I'm going to take a break,” Razor says.

She gets up to leave, but I yank her back into her chair. “Stay here until it's over.”

“How much longer?” she asks.

“Not long,” I say, although I really have no idea.

The Devil turns to Mother Shipton and smiles.

A commotion erupts at the back of the crowd.

“Stop,” shouts a voice. “Begin again!”

There's a groan from the audience. A man with frazzled hair strides up to the stage. It's him! Sir Isaac!

“Begin again, I say!”

A woman appears at his side and says, “There is no need for Master Pendergast to begin all over again, brother. You have seen this play many times before, remember?”

Sir Isaac turns to her, and his look softens. “All right, then. But, Mary, please tell him to jump ahead to the choice bits near the end.”

“I'm with him,” mumbles Razor. “Go right to the end. This play sucks.”

“No,” Mary says firmly. “The others have not seen the play. They must see it in its entirety in order to enjoy the finale.”

From the resigned look on his face, it appears that Mary has won this battle. Sir Isaac slumps into a seat in the front row.

The Devil has left the stage now, and Mother Shipton stands alone at the mouth of her cave. It must be a trick of the light, but her eyes seem different somehow, more . . . knowing.

She begins to recite:

“Carriages without horses shall go,

And accidents fill the world with woe.

Primrose Hill in London shall be

And in its centre a Bishop's See.

“Around the world thoughts shall fly,

In the twinkling of an eye.

“Water shall yet more wonders do,

Now strange, yet shall be true.”

I gasp. This is remarkable. The puppet has just predicted cars, e-mail . . . and maybe even hydroelectric power!

“Boring,” mumbles Razor beside me.

I stare at the puppet, forgetting for a moment all about Sir Isaac and the snatch.

“Iron in the water shall float,

As easy as a wooden boat.

Gold shall be found, and found,

In land that's not now known.”

Razor nudges me. “Look, he's getting up!”

But I hardly hear her. I'm totally mesmerized by the Mother Shipton puppet, who has opened her mouth to speak again.

Razor is tugging at my arm, but I ignore her.

“For travelers through both time and space,

In dress familiar to this place,

Their master's kindnesses of late,

Will turn to unrepenting hate.

“A lifelong quest, an ancient stone—

The wrongful heir upon the throne.

Death and suffering line the path.

None will be spared the master's wrath.”

My mouth has gone completely dry. She's talking about Uncle!

The Mother Shipton puppet retreats deep into the cave and then the music starts up. The curtains of the small puppet stage close to a smattering of applause.

No, that's crazy. I'm just imagining that she's talking about Uncle. It can't be. Besides, there's no connection as far as I can tell between Uncle and an ancient stone or a throne.

I must talk to the puppeteer. Something very strange is going on here. But as I get up, Razor pulls hard on my arm.

“C'mon, get with the program, Jack. We've got a snatch to do.”

I try to shake her off, but she's relentless. I sigh and let myself be pulled along. Soon I see Sir Isaac. He's sitting under apple tree number two, looking up at the sky.

And there's Dmitri, sitting on the other side of the tree, doing the same thing. They don't seem to be taking any notice of each other.

I glance at my fingernail and gasp. Only three minutes left to complete the snatch. Where did the time go? Still, we can't snatch what we don't know. There must be a dozen apples on that tree. There's no choice but to wait for one to fall.

“Pssst.”

I look up. Razor is sitting in the branches of the apple tree.

“What are you doing up there?” I say.

“Just helping things along,” she says. “Bombs away!”

“No, don't!” I shout.

But I'm too late. Apples rain from the sky, thudding on the ground. A couple hit Dmitri and Sir Isaac, but they don't react.

This is not how it's supposed to happen. I count the apples on the ground. Nine. One for every year I'll spend in the Barrens when Uncle finds out.

Razor leaps from the tree and lands beside Sir Isaac. “Here you go, Izzie,” she says, picking up a random apple and handing it to him. “Hurry up and discover gravity, so we can get out of here.”

Sir Isaac stares at Razor openmouthed. She stares back at him, hands on her hips, foot tapping the ground.

I shake my head and look for the puppeteer. There's an open space by the oak tree. The puppet theater is gone. And so is my chance to speak to the puppeteer.

“Time's up,” says Razor, snatching the apple back from Sir Isaac and handing it to Dmitri. “Here, Dim,” she says, “we'll call this your snatch.”

“Who . . . who are you?” asks Sir Isaac.

Just then Abbie arrives with Gerhard and Judith in tow.

The gang's all here, so I turn to Sir Isaac and say, “Would you please close your eyes for a moment, Master Newton?”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because we are about to travel through time, and he doesn't want you to see the part where we go poof and disappear,” Razor pipes up.

I glare at Razor, but Sir Isaac just laughs and says, “Very well. I will close my eyes for a count of three.”

Then, amazingly, he shuts his eyes,

Abbie takes Judith's hand, and Gerhard offers up his elbow. They are gone even before Sir Isaac gets to “two.”

I grab Razor's and Dmitri's hands. Right before we fade away entirely, Sir Isaac says, “Three,” and opens his eyes wide.

The last thing I see before we leave 1666 is those same eyes growing even wider.

October 6, 2061, 10:47
A.M.

Timeless Treasures Headquarters
Tribeca, New Beijing (formerly New York City)

W
e land in the alley across the street from Headquarters.

“Razor, come with me for the check-in with Luca,” I say as soon as my time freeze thaws.

“Sorry, but I've got other plans,” she says.

“No you don't,” I say. I must have added a special ingredient to my voice, because she actually stays quiet for a moment.

“Dmitri, as soon as we get to the fourth floor, find Abbie and ask her to meet me at my thinking place after check-in,” I say, taking the apple from him. “She'll know where I mean.”

“Wait, I want that job,” says Razor. “Dim, I'll switch with you. You go with Caleb to see Luca the Spooka.”

“No switching, no betting and no complaining. I've had enough!” I yell.

Razor looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Listen,” she says, “I'll make you a deal. I'll be good . . . so long as I get to do the next snatch.”

“No more DEALS!”

“Fine. See what happens if I don't help. It's your funeral, Jack.”

She sure has that right. It's my funeral.

We cross the street and enter Headquarters. As soon as we're inside the elevator, the doors close and it starts to go up.

“Who are you, the Glum Sisters?” cackles Phoebe. Her persona is a ticket seller in a little booth.

I don't say anything, and thankfully, neither do Razor or Dmitri.

“That apple looks a little wormy,” says Phoebe, handing a ticket to a tall woman whose hair is on fire. “I don't think he'll take it.”

I stay quiet. Anything I say will be twisted or used against me, so what's the point of talking? And so long as the elevator keeps moving, we're okay.

“Don't you want my advice?” she adds, stopping the elevator.

I sigh. “I'm in a bad mood, Phoebe. Can't we just make a deal—you bring us up to four and let us out, and next ride, I'll listen to all your advice.”

“Why will you make deals with her and not with me?” says Razor.

“Because you're an ungrateful, untrustworthy little runt,” cuts in Phoebe.

“Gimme me that apple, Jack!” says Razor. “I'm gonna break that screen.”

Phoebe's ticket taker persona takes a half step from her collector booth, sticks her tongue out and then runs back in.

“Enough,” I say. “Phoebe, I will take an extra ride with you once we've reported in and listen to any advice you'd like to give.”

“Make it two rides and we're there,” says Phoebe, and the elevator starts up again.

“Done,” I say. “Two rides.”

We arrive on four, and the doors open. The elevator screen changes to a close-up of the ticket collector booth sign that now says
WELCOME
TO
HELL.
SENIOR
TIME
SNATCHERS
HALF
PRICE.

Dmitri goes off in search of Abbie, and Razor and I head to Luca's office.

He frowns when he sees us. “What have you got for me, Caleb?”

“The snatch object from the Sir Isaac Newton mission,” I say, handing him the apple.

Luca holds it up to the light, turning it this way and that. “Not in great shape, is it?” he says at last.

“What do you mean?” I say. “It's a perfect apple. Not a mark on it. It came straight from the tree in Sir Isaac Newton's mother's garden.”

“Are you certain there are no marks?” he says. “What about that one?”

“What are you talking about? There are no—”

And then Luca does an amazing thing. He takes a bite of the apple.

All I can do is stare. Even Razor is speechless.

Finally, I find my voice. “Why did you . . . ?” I begin to ask.

Luca looks across at me and takes a moment to swallow, before answering.

“I believe you are mistaken, Caleb. It must have been your recruit here who took a bite of the snatch object.” He nods at Razor. “That wasn't very wise.”

Razor growls, and it looks like she's ready to launch herself at Luca. I place a restraining hand on her shoulder.

I can't believe it. Uncle would never order Luca to ruin a perfectly good snatch, even a training snatch. What's going on?

“You're right,” I say, looking him right in the eye. “I'm mistaken. Someone did take a bite of that apple. But it wasn't her. It was me.”

I can feel Razor's eyes on me. Luca studies me for a moment and then grins.

“If you insist,” he says.

As I turn to leave, Luca says, “Uncle wants to see you and Abbie after supper.”

“He's here at Headquarters?” I ask.

“No,” says Luca. “He's at his castle. He'll be on holo-feed in his office at the Compound.”

“What about?” I ask.

“Your next mission.”

It must be an important one if Uncle wants to brief us himself. Usually he leaves that kind of stuff to Luca.

I nod, and as Razor and I leave Luca's office, the crunch of him biting into the apple follows us out.

“How did it go with Luca?” Abbie asks as soon as we meet up at my thinking place in Central Park.

“It was going fine until he got hungry and took a bite of the snatch object,” I say.

“He what?” says Abbie.

“Right there in front of me, too. Took a big slobbering bite.”

“Why would he do that?” she asks.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe he needed some extra fiber. Abbie, he looked at me with a big smirk on his face and said that it was Razor who took the bite.”

Abbie pushes back a stray lock of hair and says, “I was afraid of this happening.”

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Luca's not doing this on his own,” she says.

“He's got to be,” I say. “Uncle would never allow him to ruin a perfectly good snatch object.”

“No. But Frank would,” she says quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Haven't you noticed? Luca's taking his orders from Frank now, not Uncle. And Frank doesn't want the recruits to succeed. He isn't punishing mistakes so that they'll keep making them.”

“But if they fail,” I say, “how does that benefit Frank?”

“It's part of his master plan, Cale,” she says. “He wants to show Uncle that he can take care of operations even when things go wrong. That he's the only one who can run the business right. And once he has fooled Uncle to the point where Uncle has handed over all power to him, then it's good-bye, Uncle.”

“That's crazy,” I say. “It'll never work.”

“No? Think about it. Frank already has Uncle's trust to the point where he's running the operations. Plus he's controlling the money coming in from snatches . . . so that means his plan is working.”

It takes a few seconds for me to process what Abbie is saying. It makes sense. All the signs are there, including the expensive clothes and jewelry. Frank is planning a coup. And if he succeeds, things are bound to get a lot worse for the recruits . . . and for me and Abbie too.

“Abbie, there's something else.”

“What?” she says.

“Do you remember at the snatch this morning there was a puppet show on the back lawn?”

“Sure,” she says. “Except I missed it, since I was inside. Was it any good?”

“Well, it wasn't like any puppet show I'd ever seen before. One of the puppets, an old witch type, was making predictions . . . about the future.”

Abbie beings to laugh. “A puppet prophet? Cool. What kind of predictions?”

“‘Carriages without horses shall go,'” I recite. “And, ‘Around the world thoughts shall fly, In the twinkling of an eye.'”

“Interesting,” says Abbie. “But you know, those kinds of things can be interpreted in a million different ways. It doesn't really mean the puppet was telling the future.”

“No?” I say. “Well, what do you make of this one?” I scan my brain for the exact words and recite: “‘For travelers through both time and space, In dress familiar to this place, Their master's kindnesses of late, Will turn to unrepenting hate.'”

“Wow,” Abbie says. “That one sure hits close to home. Did you see who the puppeteer was?”

“I only got a glimpse. He was really tall. I was going to find him and talk to him after, but I had my hands full with Razor and Dmitri. When I looked for him later, he was gone. Abbie, I think someone is trying to send us a warning.”

“Who?” she asks. “And if they were, why didn't they just meet us somewhere and tell us straight out, instead of speaking through a puppet?”

“I don't know. The whole thing's really weird. But I tell you, it felt like that puppet was actually looking at me and talking right to me.”

A rustling sound interrupts my thoughts.

I look toward the bushes. Nothing.

“We'd better go,” says Abbie, switching to mindpatch.

I nod and stand up. I can't shake the image of the Mother Shipton puppet staring at me. Her words run through my head over and over again. I also have a strong feeling that things are going to go very wrong very soon unless Abbie and I do something about it. But what can we do against Frank and Uncle? They hold all the cards. Well, maybe not
all
of the cards. Maybe there is still something we can do. The first inklings of a plan begin to take shape in my mind.