The Time of the Clockmaker (6 page)

FIVE

DO YOU HAVE
everything you need?
Henley sounded even more agitated than I was.

I threw my phone into a navy duffel bag I had found in the closet near the foot of the stairs. I wondered if it belonged to Miss Hatfield, or whether it belonged to one of the other Miss Hatfields who had come before her. But I guess there was no sense in wondering, since I would never find out.

I ran into the kitchen to reach for the one object I knew was the most important in the house.

My fingers cradled the golden edges of the clock as I pulled it off from where it was mounted on the wall. I remembered when Miss Hatfield had first explained to me its incredible capabilities. Her fingers had lingered on the face of the clock as mine now did. I touched the clock in the same way that all six Miss Hatfields before me had touched it and countless after me will.

Rebecca.

Henley's insistent tone brought me back to the present and I went back to my bedroom to place the clock in the bag.

I saw a skirt I had thrown onto the foot of my bed this morning start inching toward the duffel bag. Once there, it wrapped itself around the clock.

“Good thinking, Henley,” I said, as breaking the clock would be the last thing I'd want.

The clock was the only way I could travel from one time to another, but more importantly, it was a way for me to stay sane. I didn't have my own time anymore and therefore was only a visitor in any time period. The longer I stayed in one time period, the more uneasy I would begin to feel. It was like a growing knot in my stomach that progressed from discomfort to restlessness to insanity.

Shaking my head, I began to turn to my closet to pack some clothes, but Henley stopped me.

We don't have that much time. Rebecca, I don't think you understand exactly how much danger you're in.

He was right. I didn't understand. But neither did he.

I knew I should have been worried, but oddly he seemed more concerned than I was. It was almost as if I couldn't be bothered with it.

You've got to go now.

I grabbed the duffel bag under my arm and walked briskly out of the front door. I didn't want to run because I knew that would call attention to myself.

I smiled grimly, thinking how much I sounded like Miss Hatfield.

I raised my arm to hail a taxi. Luckily, there were always
taxis in the neighborhood going to and from the busier districts, and I caught one without having to wait too long.

“Where to, miss?”

“JFK, please.”

The driver glanced back into his rearview mirror and eyed my small duffel bag. I thought I saw him frown.

“Only that tiny luggage?”

“Yes,” I said, and I left it at that.

I spent the rest of the drive to the airport sitting in silence. I was glad the taxi driver didn't try to make conversation. I needed time to myself. I desperately needed to think.

I thought back to all the immortals I had heard about. It was a short list. They all time traveled. If Henley couldn't see the intruder, I had to assume he or she had the same ability. If the intruder was in fact immortal and could time travel, then traveling to a different time wouldn't make much of a difference. He would still find me.

I paused and glanced at the driver, but he only turned the radio up in response to my silence. If he only knew the kind of trouble I was in . . .

The car jerked to a halt and my body pitched forward.

“Here we go.” The driver turned and waited for me to open my purse.

I had just enough to pay in cash provided I fished for a few extra dimes that were living in the very bottom of my pants pocket.

“Thank you,” he said. He eyed my light-looking duffel bag again. “Have a safe flight.”

I collected my bag and stepped into the airport.

Sidestepping a crowd to avoid being trampled, I made my way toward the ticket counter.

“Next in line, please.”

I glanced around to make sure it was me, but Henley must have seen that as hesitation, as I felt something push me forward.

Catching myself on my stumbling feet, I hissed, “Stop it, Henley!”

I peeked up at the smiling face of an older woman behind the counter and smiled back. Her foundation creased farther into the lines around her mouth. I hoped she hadn't heard me.

“Where are we off to, sweetie?”

Even standing on the ledge behind the counter, the woman was a few inches shorter than I was. Her cheeks sagged a bit, giving her face a pleasant roundness.

I realized the woman was probably in her mid-sixties to early seventies—the same age I was . . . or technically, would be, if I weren't fixed in time.

“Sweetie?” The woman's smile faltered, but it was nothing like the frown the taxi driver gave me.

I realized she had asked a question. “Pardon?”

“Where are you flying to today?”

“Oh . . .”

I looked around and tried not to panic. I should have thought of this before I left, or even in the cab.

I scanned the other side of the counter, passing over an unopened box of blue pens and a work timetable with lunchtime highlighted in pink, before my eyes stopped. When they came to a standstill, I realized they were trained on a stack of travel brochures.
“¡Bienvenido a España!”
the one on top proudly
proclaimed. “Visit Madrid! You'll love it here!” I wondered if it was a sign.

“Yes . . . uh . . . I'd like to buy a ticket for Madrid.”

“Oh, how nice.” The warm smile was back as she started typing. “We can fly you to Heathrow and you can connect there to Madrid-Barajas. By the way, the weather's gorgeous there this time of year; it's not too hot or wet yet . . . Let's see.” The clicks of her typing stopped, and she sighed. “Oh, sweetie, I'm afraid all the flights to Heathrow today are full. I'm s—oh, maybe . . . Yes, I think there's a few seats on this one. It'll be arriving late, though, and you'll have to catch a morning flight into Madrid. The flight was delayed five—several hours due to a few . . . issues but the ground crew has already resolved the problem and lucky for you a few passengers transferred off the flight.”

“That's fine,” I said quickly. I would have said okay to just about anything then.

“Very well. I'll get this set up for you.” The sound of her typing resumed. “Would you like to book your return flight as well?”

“No, thank you,” I said. I contemplated whether there was ever going to be a return.

Since I would be arriving in Heathrow at night, I figured I could book a stay at some nearby airport hotel. I could figure it out when I got there.

Digging into my purse again, I pulled out the credit card Miss Hatfield had given me for emergencies only. If this wasn't considered an emergency, I didn't know what would be. With our situation, I didn't even know how she had managed to get this credit card. I also dug out the battered passport Miss
Hatfield had given me. Though Miss Hatfield wasn't handy with a computer, she had centuries to perfect forging official documents and “borrowing” the social security numbers of already deceased people. Although the photo didn't look
quite
enough like me, I hoped it would pass.

The woman at the counter was quick to swipe my card and soon enough the freshly printed boarding pass was in my hands.

“Security is that way. Have a wonderful time in Spain, sweetie,” the woman said. “Next in line!”

With the boarding pass still warm in my hands, I made my way toward the direction she had pointed.

The security line was a nightmare. A baby screwed up its face in a yowl from hell.

“Miss, take out your liquids.”

A platinum-blond woman took five minutes to simply take off her strappy sandals.

“Miss, can you
please
take out your liquids?” I looked up to see a man in uniform, huffing in front of me. I guess I was the “miss” in question. “Do you need a plastic bag?”

I honestly didn't know why this man was offering me a bag.

“For your liquids,” he said, as if reading my mind. He pointed to a sign on his left that I had missed, showing a drawing of a plastic bag with bottles upon bottles of makeup remover, hand sanitizer, and perfume.

Before I could answer, a ziplock bag was shoved at me.

I didn't have many liquids to take out. Just a bottle of soap or shampoo either Henley or I managed to pack.

I was pushed into an X-ray type machine and told to put my hands up as a sliding bar scanned me from left to right, before a
uniformed woman took a glance at my boarding pass and waved me along.

Then was the long trek to the boarding gate.

Good God, JFK is quite large.

“You're telling me.”

I had never been in an airport before—I never really had the need—but navigating it was a breeze as long as I remembered to pay attention to all of the signs. After all, that was what those characters always did in movies before reuniting with their loved ones. And Miss Hatfield had told me about airports and the generalities of how they worked.

“Gate ninety-two. Flight to London, Heathrow,” I read.

The seats around the gate were all full. There were families trying to console crying babies and young couples who couldn't seem to keep their hands off each other.

Probably due to it being so close to the boarding time, I couldn't find a single empty seat near the gate. Instead, I resolved to charge my phone at a charging station. I had seen seats set around charging stations at other gates and figured that this would be no different.

I spied a charging station nearby. Two of its seats were already taken, but there was an empty third. I walked over, and I was only a few steps away when a young man swooped in without looking and took the seat.

“Dammit.”

The man looked up at me with wide green eyes.

I hadn't thought he would hear me, but even when he did, I was beyond caring.

“I'm sorry,” he said. He had the whitest smile. “I took your
seat, didn't I?”

I muttered something unintelligible, and started turning away when he stood up.

“Here. Why don't you take the seat.” He moved his things out of the way. “I only really need to charge my phone anyway.”

I was about to refuse, as I would have done on any other day. But this wasn't any other day, and the weight of everything that had happened pressed down on me. In that moment all I wanted to do was take a seat, and so I did.

“Thanks,” I said, finally setting my duffel bag down.

“No probs. You're the one who looks like you need it.”

I wondered if I really did look that tired. I hadn't seen myself in a mirror since leaving the house.

“Say . . . I was about to get a Starbucks. You in?” A curl from the man's swept-back hair fell onto his forehead. “You need some caffeine in you, and as much as I'd like to take credit for treating a beautiful woman, I actually have a gift card I need to use.”

“Thanks, but I'm fine.”

“No, seriously. I got like five Starbucks gift cards for my birthday. It's as if my friends think that coffee is the only thing I live on.” He grinned and his green eyes flashed, reminding me of Henley. “So what do you drink?”

He was so much like Henley in some ways, and yet the complete opposite of him in others. He was kind, and to a complete stranger no less. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he talked just like Henley. But his laugh was different.

“Strawberries and cream Frappuccino.”

He laughed. “That's hardly coffee.”

When the man left, I opened my duffel bag to get my phone and its charger. My phone was sitting neatly in one of the side pockets, but I couldn't find the charger. I came to the conclusion that I must have left it behind in my hurry to get out of the house.

I sighed and looked at the two businessmen seated around the charger with me. Neither of them had the same phone. I looked at the phone Starbucks boy had carelessly left behind. It was connected and charging, but it was a Blackberry and not the type of phone I had.

There were probably at the very least a handful of people who were using the same phone as me, and therefore probably had chargers on them, but I realized it made little sense for me to charge my phone. Asking to borrow a stranger's charger would draw attention to me . . . and for what? It wasn't like I had someone to call anyway. The only contact on my phone was Miss Hatfield.

I zipped my duffel bag again and looked toward the Starbucks near the gate.

Starbucks boy had his back turned toward me as he waited for the drinks, but I could recognize him from his flannel plaid shirt and gray skinny jeans. He stood with his arms draped on the counter, relaxed. There was something so easy and uncomplicated about him. I wanted to be like him.

Soon he came back with two drinks in his hands.

“I hope you like whipped cream,” he said, holding mine out toward me.