Time Trapped (26 page)

“Why don't you stay here with them, and I'll bring this stuff to Dmitri,” I say.

“Okay, but on one condition,” she says, handing me her pile of laces.

“What's that?” I ask.

She takes a brown furry hat with earflaps off of a hook.

“That you wear this,” she says, pulling the hat on me and adjusting the flaps. “There, you look like a true Ukrainian.”

“But I'm not Ukrainian,” I protest.

“Oh, well. Wear it anyway,” she says, shooing me out the door.

“I've got them,” I say to Dmitri, laying my bundle of laces on his worktable in the barn.

“Good,” he says. “Here is a knife and pan. Start scraping.”

I sit down on the floor and get to work. At first my fingers are cold, but the movement warms them up.

We work alongside each other in silence. My thoughts turn to Razor. What happened to her was my fault. No, I can't think like that or I'll be good for nothing. And that won't help the recruits, will it?

So I try to clear my mind of everything except for the task at hand.

The barn doors bang open, and I almost drop the knife. It can't be good news. Good news is something I left behind in 1968 with Zach and Jim and Diane.

I expect to hear Abbie's voice, but instead it's Gerhard.

“Caleb, Abbie needs you,” is all he says. His face looks pinched, and he can't seem to stop blinking.

I look up at Dmitri and then, at the same time, we both look at our pans. Is it enough?

“Go,” he says. “I'll take it from here.”

I nod and leave the barn with Gerhard. He studies the ground as he walks, apparently taking care not to step in any footprints he made on the way out.

When I get to the house, Abbie is sitting on the hearth, gazing into the fire.

“What is it?” I say even before I take off my coat and hat.

“We'd better talk in there,” she says, tilting her head toward the kitchen.

I glance at the recruits. Some of them are awake, fiddling with their laceless shoes.

As soon as we are inside the kitchen with the door closed, Abbie looks at me, grim-faced.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“Our supply of anti-time-fog pills is gone,” she says. “I was carrying the bottle in my pocket. It must have fallen out onto the tracks during our escape.”

My mind races. The recruits don't need the pills because they don't have wrist implants. But Abbie and I need them for sure. The last dose we took, good for three hours, was right before the escape. As soon as that dose wears off, we'll need to take another pill each or risk time fog. The other option is to have our wrist patches removed. But I don't think I could ever cut out Abbie's patch the way I did Frank's.

“How long do you think we have?” I ask.

“In fifteen or twenty minutes, we'll feel disoriented,” she says, “and thirty minutes from now, it will hit us full force.”

Thirty minutes! Even if Dmitri could fix the subway car in a minute, there still wouldn't be enough time to get all the recruits home before Abbie and I really start to suffer.

Just then, the door bursts open and Dmitri comes in. His eyes look wild. “We are all set,” he says.

“Really? You've got it working?” I ask.

“I am not certain, but we will know soon.”

Abbie, Gerhard and I wake the recruits and help them to their feet. A couple of the younger ones are still too sleepy to walk under their own steam so we wrap them in coats and carry them.

“You go on ahead,” Dmitri says. “I must lock up the cabin.”

Minutes later, we are all assembled in the barn. Dmitri enters, carrying a backpack.

“Drop me off in Hawaii,” says a voice from inside the backpack. “I've always wanted to dip my toes in the Pacific Ocean.”

“You don't have toes, Phoebe,” I point out.

“Spoilsport,” she snorts.

“Everyone on board, please,” Dmitri says.

As soon as we are all inside, he presses a button and the doors close.

“Hang on,” Dmitri says, “and saying a prayer would also be encouraged.” Then he ducks into the control booth.

I close my eyes. The lights of the car blink out.

The car begins to shake.

And then goes still.

Thirty seconds go by.

Nothing.

The lights come back on.

“Dmitri?”

“It didn't work,” he says from the control booth. His voice sounds tense.

“What happened?” asks Abbie.

“I'm checking now.”

A wave of dizziness passes through me. I thought Abbie said it would be another fifteen minutes before we start getting time fog symptoms. Well, maybe stress brings them on sooner.

A few of the recruits begin to whimper about the cold. We won't be able to keep them here for much longer unless we bring blankets and food from the cabin.

I poke my head inside the control booth. “Any luck?”

“Yes and no,” says Dmitri.

“What do you mean?”

“I have identified the problem. Simply put, we do not have enough ‘juice' to power the subway car through time.”

“But I don't understand,” I say. “There was enough to get us here in the first place.”

“True,” says Dmitri, “but during our escape, I was able to draw some power from the car's own operating system. That operating system is now sixty-five years older, and for nearly all of that time, it sat unused and was subjected to natural deterioration.”

“So how do we get more power?” Abbie asks.

Dmitri shakes his head. “I don't know. I've already sucked out all the power I can from the wristbands and Frank's wrist patch. I'm also drawing some power remotely from your and Abbie's patches. That's all we have.”

I think for a minute and then say, “What if Abbie and I gave you our wrist patches? Would that be enough power?”

He looks at me and says slowly, “Perhaps. But all of that is moot, isn't it? After all, we don't have the facilities here to surgically remove your patches.”

“Yes we do,” I say, looking over at Abbie. I don't have to mindpatch her to tell her what I'm thinking.

“Judith,” I say, “stay here with the recruits. Keep them entertained. Recite some poetry to them or something. Gerhard, you come with me, Dmitri and Abbie back to the cabin. There's something we need to do.”

As soon as we arrive back at the cabin, I send Gerhard back to the barn with blankets and any warm clothing we can find.

“We'll need your sharpest knife, Dmitri,” I say. “Also bandages, a belt to use as a tourniquet and a bottle of rubbing alcohol.”

“I don't have rubbing alcohol, but I do have a bottle of Scotch . . . will that do?”

I almost laugh out loud. “The Scotch will work just fine,” I say. The irony of using Scottish whiskey for what we're about to do isn't lost on me.

While Dmitri busies himself gathering the supplies, I turn to Abbie and say, “He may not need both our patches. Maybe we should do me first and see how it goes.”

“No,” she says. “We're in this together, Cale. Besides, it's either take our patches out or find more anti-time-fog pills. And that doesn't look like it's going to happen anytime soon.”

“Abbie, I—”

She leans in and kisses me. Not on the cheek either.

“There,” she says, stepping back. “Now that we've settled that piece of business, all that's left is to decide who goes first. If it's all right with you, I think I'll go second. By then Dmitri will have some experience under his belt.”

“Okay,” I say, laughing. But it's mostly nervous laughter.

A moment later, Dmitri enters and lays out all of the supplies on the kitchen table.

“The first step is to sterilize the knife,” I say, holding the blade over the sink and pouring Scotch over it.

Once that's done, I hand the knife back to Dmitri and cinch the belt tight around my forearm.

“Okay, it's your turn now,” I say. “Make the first cut right here.” I trace a line with my finger down the side of my wrist.

“After that, two small cuts, here and here,” I continue.

“How deep shall I cut, do you think?” asks Dmitri.

“Not too deep,” I say. “The implant is right under the skin. You'll need to peel the skin back after you make the cuts, to get at the implant.”

“And then?” Dmitri asks.

“Yank it out, pour some Scotch over the area and ignore my screams.”

Dmitri holds the knife inches above my wrist. “Are you ready?”

I nod, grit my teeth and, as the knife descends, think of Zach.

When it's done, we hurry back to the barn.

“I'm glad you're here,” Judith says once we're on board. “I have recited all of the poems that I can remember and even tried out some of my new creations.”

“Nice job, Judith,” I say.

The recruits are bundled up in the blankets that Gerhard brought. Although they don't look happy, at least there are no signs of open rebellion.

“We'll be ready to go soon,” I say hopefully.

Dmitri wastes no time in hooking up our wrist patches to the control panel.

I gingerly touch the bandage on my right wrist. It's tender, but not too bad, considering everything.

“We're ready,” says Dmitri from the control booth.

“All right,” I say. “Hang on, everyone.”

The car shudders slightly.

Ten seconds pass.

Nothing.

I want to cry. It isn't working.

But why am I surprised? Dmitri told us it might not be enough.

We are all going to be stranded here.

What a fool I was to think that I could actually pull it off. That I could rescue the recruits and bring them to their—

The car is rocked by a thundering boom.

After that, only blackness.

June 2, 1965 3:31
P.M.

Youngstown, Ohio

In my mind's eye, I picture the subway car splitting in two, with the bigger half being flung into the time-space continuum, where it spins madly like Dorothy's house in
The Wizard of Oz
before coming to a jarring landing on some distant outpost in history.

But then a dizzy feeling hits me. Dizzy is good, isn't it? Time travel makes one dizzy. But best not to get my hopes up. Best to expect the worst, so that when I find out that we haven't traveled even five seconds back in time, I won't be devastated.

I open my eyes slowly. The first thing I notice is sunlight streaming through the windows of the subway car, highlighting the dust motes in the air.

A tapping noise startles me. Someone is knocking on the doors. No, not the doors, a window. A large clown face and two white-gloved hands are pressed against the glass. The mouth is frowning, but the eyes look surprised.

I try to smile, but the time freeze only allows half of a smile.

Beyond the clown, I can see a smattering of large tents. There are people moving between them, some of them pulling cages on wheels with large animals pacing inside the cages. The smell of sawdust, sweat and sweet corn fills the air.

“Dmitri! You did it!”

“Indubitably,” he says, eyes sparkling , and I'm reminded again of young Dmitri.

“Place and time?” asks Abbie.

“Youngstown, Ohio, June 2, 1965, 3:31
P.M.
Just outside the city on the circus grounds,” answers Dmitri. “Rosa, this is your stop.”

A young girl steps forward. Her eyes are red either from crying or fatigue or both. She shoots out the door and races toward the largest tent. I follow her past an extremely tall man and a very short woman sitting on stools outside the tent, playing a game of cards. I guess they aren't her parents.

Inside, a small crowd is watching in stunned silence as a blindfolded man onstage hurls daggers in the direction of a woman standing not more than twenty feet away.

“Papa!” yells Rosa, tearing through the crowd.

The man on the stage turns his head toward the voice and says, “Rosa, my
schnucki.
Be a good girl and wait outside until the performance is over, all right?” Then he throws another dagger at the woman and misses her by a hair.

I smile, exit the tent and head back to the subway car. About a dozen people are gathered around it.

“It's a miracle,” one man says to another.

“If you want to see a miracle, look over there,” says the second man, pointing to where a man is skipping rope, jumping on a trampoline and smoking four cigarettes at once, blowing rings the size of a truck tire.

“Excuse me,” I say, stepping between the men and rapping on the door of the car.

Abbie lets me in, and the doors close right behind me.

“Opinions are split down the middle,” she says as I climb on board. “About half think we're another circus act. The other half think we're from out of state.”

I laugh. It feels good. The sun streams through the windows of our car, and I feel the tension of our escape draining away.

“Next stop is for recruits Antoine, Dominique and Pierre . . . Paris, France,” announces Dmitri, and we are off again.

After Paris, we hopscotch to Vienna, Antwerp, Helsinki, Budapest, Cairo, Madrid and Lisbon. We spend the night in an abandoned barn in Vermont, and in the morning leap to Vancouver and then Anchorage. By noon, we arrive in Munich. Just as Gerhard is about to step off, Abbie rushes over to him.

“Sorry, Gerhard, but I've got to do this,” she says, giving him a big hug.

“Me too,” I say, joining in.

He squirms a bit but lets the hug happen.

From Munich we leap to Oban and then to Wales. When we land in Wales, Judith walks up to me. If her shoulder is hurting her, she's not letting on. My eyes are already brimming with tears.

“Good-bye, Caleb,” she says, planting a kiss on my cheek. “This is for you.” She hands me a piece of paper.

I unfold it and read:

“Through a break in the pistachio sky

Rays of orange hope and drizzles of joy

Pulverize a thousand hushed yesterdays

And the time trapped fly free.

“It . . . it's beautiful, Judith. Thank you,” I say.

She smiles, steps from the car and is gone.

When the doors close, the only ones left are Dmitri, Abbie and me.

“Where to next, Abbie?” I ask.

She looks at me with a sparkle in her eye. “That's easy. Let's go home.”

“Home?” I try to keep my tone light, but I can feel my heart beating wildly.

“Yes, Caleb, formerly of no fixed address. We're going to your home and my new home.”

“Do you really mean it?” I say.

She nods. “Didn't I mention that? I found a nice family to adopt me. My new school is just around the corner. And there's a really cute guy who has his locker next to mine.”

My face drops for a second, until I realize she's talking about me!

“Dmitri, do you have any plans for lunch?” I ask.

“Let me check my social calendar,” he says, in mock seriousness. “Hmmm. It does not appear that I have any other engagements.”

“Great. In that case, Boston, Massachusetts, January 6, 1968, please. The park across the street from 55 Derne Street should provide suitable parking.”

“Wait,” says Abbie. “Isn't there anywhere that wouldn't attract so much attention?”

She's right. Landing in very public places while we were delivering the recruits back to their homes didn't matter, because we didn't stay in any one place more than a couple of minutes. And even then, we probably left headlines wherever we went.

Then it comes to me. “Well, there is another possibility, if you're willing to do a bit of outdoors work.”

“I'm up for it,” says Abbie.

“Fine with me as well,” says Dmitri.

“All right, then please take us to the Hatch Shell on the Esplanade, Dmitri. I suggest you schedule our arrival for nine in the morning.”

As soon as we land and our time freeze thaws, we put on our thick coats and Dmitri opens the doors. We step out of the car into a winter wonderland. Snow sparkles in the early morning sun, and icicles glisten from the branches of the trees bordering the Hatch Shell. I have to squint against the brightness.

To my left is a giant, crouching tiger, and to my right, a castle with towers and turrets, both made entirely of ice and snow. Other, smaller snow sculptures stand nearby.

“Wow,” Abbie says. “It's amazing! How did you know about this?”

“Believe it or not, I was skating on the river earlier this morning,” I say. “You can see some of these from there.”

Earlier this morning.
It's hard to believe, really. It seems like a lifetime ago.

There's a small chalet just beyond the tiger sculpture. I walk over, find a coiled-up hose in a cupboard near the entrance and drag the hose back to Abbie and Dmitri.

“Heads up,” I say, turning the hose on full and aiming at the side of the subway car.

On contact, the water turns into a sheet of ice. We take turns spraying the sides of the car and then heap snow on top of it.

“Impressive! It looks like an actual subway car,” says Dmitri, and we all laugh.