2005. We can maybe get back, if you help us.”
Quint’s eyes were wide. “I . . . you . . .” he began.
“I know I sound crazy,” Brandon said. “There’s no way to tell it without sounding crazy.” Then he asked, “Where’s your tattoo?”
“My what?”
“In 2005 you have a tattoo on your arm. You said you got it when you were eighteen.”
Quint rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “I’m plannin’ on one,” he said. “Got the design folder last week. Circled the one I want last night, in fact.”
“A green-link chain around your bicep?” Brandon asked.
Quint’s hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Brandon but made no reply.
Brandon reached into his pocket and brought out the snapshot of Quint and himself. “This is you and me in 2005,” he said, handing it over.
Quint studied the picture, and then he studied Brandon. “That’s definitely you,” he said, handing it back. “And I’ll admit the old guy looks a little like my daddy.”
A faint beep went off. Stephen checked his watch. “Three thirty,” he said. Everyone looked at him. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“May I?” Quint asked, extending his hand.
Stephen unclipped his watch and passed it to him.
The breath went out of Quint as he examined it. He checked the time against his own watch. “No dial, but it’s accurate,” he said, passing it back. “Just what the hell kind of watch is that?”
“Digital LCD,” Stephen replied. “Liquid crystal diode. Lots of watches are like it where—when—we come from.”
“And look,” Sarah said, unclipping her cell phone from her belt and handing it to Quint. “My phone has the same kind of numbers. I can’t make a call to show you because the rest of the network’s not there—yet.”
Quint turned the phone over and awkwardly opened it. He checked the display and moved his hand up and down. “It’s really light,” he said, giving it back. “Y’tellin’ me y’make telephone calls with that thing?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“And, sir,” Stephen said, “look at these books.” He took the two volumes out of his backpack and passed them to Quint. “Check out the copyright dates.”
Quint opened the books to the copyright page. The Almanac of American Politics 2005 was dated 2005. The Twentieth Century Digest was dated 2001. Quint paged through Digest entries from 1980, 1985, and 1995. He closed the books and passed them back. His face was expressionless.
“Y’said an accident got y’all here,” he said to Brandon. “What was the accident?”
Brandon told him about the niche and how it had transported them from New York in 2005 to New Orleans in 1965. He told Quint about his aunt’s shock at finding them in her house and their escape before she could call the police. He told Quint about the cemetery, the Cajun Grocery, Jackson Square, Thaddeus Monroe, and the walk to 751 Decatur.
When Brandon was finished, Quint was rubbing his temples again. “I have t’ask,” he said, “can I see this funny money from 2005?”
Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the five-dollar bill. He handed it over. Quint held it up to the light, crinkled it, and smoothed it out. Then he gave it back. His face was still a blank.
“And so y’all want me to . . . ?”
“Get us back in Aunt Faye’s house so we can make the niche work again,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded vigorously.
Quint rose from the orange crate. “Amazin’, truly,” he said. “Look, uh, Brandon, was it? I can’t explain the Dick Tracy toys or the books or the picture or the tattoo. Or the money; it’s weird, but at least the paper feels right. But what the hell do y’all take me for? A time machine niche! Good grief.”
“Quint,” Brandon exclaimed. “Please.”
“Please, nothing,” Quint snapped. “If y’all didn’t look so bedraggled, I’d swear a pal of mine had put y’all up t’this as a gag. But I know folks in trouble when I see ’em, and y’all are in
Quint’s eyes were wide. “I . . . you . . .” he began.
“I know I sound crazy,” Brandon said. “There’s no way to tell it without sounding crazy.” Then he asked, “Where’s your tattoo?”
“My what?”
“In 2005 you have a tattoo on your arm. You said you got it when you were eighteen.”
Quint rubbed his temples as if he had a headache. “I’m plannin’ on one,” he said. “Got the design folder last week. Circled the one I want last night, in fact.”
“A green-link chain around your bicep?” Brandon asked.
Quint’s hands dropped to his lap. He stared at Brandon but made no reply.
Brandon reached into his pocket and brought out the snapshot of Quint and himself. “This is you and me in 2005,” he said, handing it over.
Quint studied the picture, and then he studied Brandon. “That’s definitely you,” he said, handing it back. “And I’ll admit the old guy looks a little like my daddy.”
A faint beep went off. Stephen checked his watch. “Three thirty,” he said. Everyone looked at him. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“May I?” Quint asked, extending his hand.
Stephen unclipped his watch and passed it to him.
The breath went out of Quint as he examined it. He checked the time against his own watch. “No dial, but it’s accurate,” he said, passing it back. “Just what the hell kind of watch is that?”
“Digital LCD,” Stephen replied. “Liquid crystal diode. Lots of watches are like it where—when—we come from.”
“And look,” Sarah said, unclipping her cell phone from her belt and handing it to Quint. “My phone has the same kind of numbers. I can’t make a call to show you because the rest of the network’s not there—yet.”
Quint turned the phone over and awkwardly opened it. He checked the display and moved his hand up and down. “It’s really light,” he said, giving it back. “Y’tellin’ me y’make telephone calls with that thing?”
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“And, sir,” Stephen said, “look at these books.” He took the two volumes out of his backpack and passed them to Quint. “Check out the copyright dates.”
Quint opened the books to the copyright page. The Almanac of American Politics 2005 was dated 2005. The Twentieth Century Digest was dated 2001. Quint paged through Digest entries from 1980, 1985, and 1995. He closed the books and passed them back. His face was expressionless.
“Y’said an accident got y’all here,” he said to Brandon. “What was the accident?”
Brandon told him about the niche and how it had transported them from New York in 2005 to New Orleans in 1965. He told Quint about his aunt’s shock at finding them in her house and their escape before she could call the police. He told Quint about the cemetery, the Cajun Grocery, Jackson Square, Thaddeus Monroe, and the walk to 751 Decatur.
When Brandon was finished, Quint was rubbing his temples again. “I have t’ask,” he said, “can I see this funny money from 2005?”
Brandon took out his wallet and withdrew the five-dollar bill. He handed it over. Quint held it up to the light, crinkled it, and smoothed it out. Then he gave it back. His face was still a blank.
“And so y’all want me to . . . ?”
“Get us back in Aunt Faye’s house so we can make the niche work again,” Brandon said. Sarah and Stephen nodded vigorously.
Quint rose from the orange crate. “Amazin’, truly,” he said. “Look, uh, Brandon, was it? I can’t explain the Dick Tracy toys or the books or the picture or the tattoo. Or the money; it’s weird, but at least the paper feels right. But what the hell do y’all take me for? A time machine niche! Good grief.”
“Quint,” Brandon exclaimed. “Please.”
“Please, nothing,” Quint snapped. “If y’all didn’t look so bedraggled, I’d swear a pal of mine had put y’all up t’this as a gag. But I know folks in trouble when I see ’em, and y’all are in
Similar Books
