Trapped!: The 2031 Journal of Otis Fitzmorgan Read online

  Copyright

  The Inspector photos: p. 1/NASA Marshall Space Flight Center (NASA-MSFC); p. 2NASA Headquarters—Greatest Images of NASA (NASA-HQ-GRIN), Ablestock, Medioimages/PunchStock; p. 3 Ablestock, © Royalty-Free/Corbis; p. 4 Drew Hallowell/Icon SMI/Newscom, Colin Anderson/PictureQuest, Ablestock

  Text copyright © 2006 by Bill Doyle

  Compilation, illustrations, and design copyright © 2006 by Nancy Hall, Inc.

  Crime Through Time is a trademark of Nancy Hall, Inc.

  Developed by Nancy Hall, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  www.twitter.com/littlebrown

  First eBook Edition: September 2009

  ISBN: 978-0-316-08458-1

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  JANUARY 1, 2031: Day 1 of 6 11:45 PM

  JANUARY 2, 2031: Day 2 of 6 12:35 PM

  JANUARY 2, 2031: Day 2 of 6 6:45 PM

  JANUARY 3, 2031: Day 3 of 6 7:30 PM

  JANUARY 4, 2031: Day 4 of 6 11:20 AM

  JANUARY 4, 2031: Day 4 of 6 5:20 PM

  JANUARY 5, 2031: Day 5 of 6 10:50 AM

  JANUARY 6, 2031: Day 6 of 6 1:50 PM

  JANUARY 6, 2031: Day 6 of 6 4:30 PM

  JANUARY 6, 2031: Day 6 of 6 7:30 PM

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  A Preview of THE INSPECTOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A thank-you of historic proportions to Nancy Hall for making this book and the Crime Through Time series a reality. To Kirsten Hall for her insightful grasp of the overall picture, to Linda Falken for her skillful editing and amazing eagle-eye for detail, and to Atif Toor for bringing the books alive visually.

  Special thanks to the editors at Little, Brown: Andrea Spooner, Jennifer Hunt, Phoebe Sorkin, and Rebekah Rush McKay, Who are always dead-on, always incisive, and never discouraging. And thanks to Riccardo Solmona for his constant support.

  THE SPACE ELEVATOR TERMINL WAS BUZZING WITH PEOPLE AND HOVER CARTS.

  JANUARY 1, 2031

  Day 1 of 6 11:45 PM

  “Watch out!” a woman screamed. She leaped to the side as a speeding hover-cart almost ran her down. The driver 'bot didn't even touch the brakes, and the woman shook her fist angrily as it zipped by. No one else but me seemed to have noticed the near-collision. Then, in a second, both the cart and the woman disappeared back into the crowd.

  The long hall of the Carl Sagan Elevator Terminal was buzzing with about a hundred passengers. Most were rushing about, worried about catching their climber on time. Others stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows. They oohed and aahed, mesmerized by the view of Earth thousands of miles below. A few passengers touched the walls and seemed surprised by the rough feel of the knotty wood.

  “Why'd they use wood in this space station?” I heard a little girl ask her father.

  “This is the new frontier,” he told her. “The builders wanted this place to look like the Old West, one of the last frontiers on Earth. That's why they covered the walls with fake wood and that's why …”

  They walked down the terminal and out of earshot, but I knew the rest. The Old West theme was why the restroom signs looked like they came straight out of a saloon. Why the chairs that lined the walls were replicas of rockers from the 1800. And why the hover-carts, which carried luggage and passengers to the gates, didn't beep. Instead, they neighed like horses.

  I almost laughed as a human-looking worker 'bot plunked a large object down on the desk where I sat at one end of the hall. Even the 'bot was wearing a cowboy hat on its metal head. When I saw what the 'bot had left behind, I really did laugh. It looked like a weirdly painted giant set of those novelty chattering teeth. Each putrid green tooth was the size of a paperback book.

  Carefully, I ran one gloved finger along the top row of teeth. Without warning, the razor-sharp incisors clamped down. I barely had time to yank my hand free.

  “Whoa!” I shouted and counted my fingers to make sure they were all there.

  “Isn't it beautiful?” I looked up to see a portly passenger standing on the other side of my desk, gazing adoringly at the jaws. He wore a black suit and had a full head of silver hair. Tufts of hair were also sprouting out of his ears—a sure sign he'd taken too many NuHairGro pills.

  Beautiful is not the word I'd use, I thought, eyeing the scary piece of art. I was careful to keep my face and hands far away from it.

  “Is this your …art?” I asked him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I'm James Bennett.”

  MR. BENNETT GAZED FONDLY AT HIS ARTWORK.

  “I'm sorry. You really can't take this on the Elevator,” I said in the friendliest way I could. “The trip down to Earth will take six days. Too many chances for someone to get bitten by this … this …” What the heck was it? The dentures of a monster?

  Mr. Bennett sneered. “It's called SHARP TEETH. The artist is that computer H1267 that everyone is talking about. You clearly don't understand that SHARP TEETH represents the human spirit as it faces the challenges of space exploration.”

  He's right, I thought. My major in college was art, but I didn't get that at all.

  “I absolutely refuse to leave it behind,” Mr. Bennett said, putting his hands on my desk and leaning toward me. “I just paid a fortune for this piece at the big auction. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that.”

  Of course I did, I thought. After all, that's the reason I was on this space station. The Out-of-This-World art auction had been held last night at the new hotel. It was part of the celebration that marked the opening of the first Elevator to space—at the top of which we now sat.

  Most of the art sold at the auction had been created by computers called “virtual artists.” But there were also a few objects made by humans within the past two hundred years. My job was to take a look at each and every piece of art—and use my skills as an art expert to make sure they weren't fakes.

  Art fraud has been around forever, but it's really taken off in the past few decades. People are copying all sorts of things—paintings, cars, jewelry, medicine, clothes—you name it. There was even a goofy rumor that a fake Eiffel Tower had been swapped for the real one.

  Normally, I'd spend New Year's Eve skiing in New Hampshire with my family or training secretly to perfect my detective skills. But in December, the government had contacted me—as they had a couple times in the past. They said their art expert had been hurt in a reality video-game accident. (I think it was Skate Rat's Revenge) They knew about my “secret weapon” and told me that I'd be perfect for the job. I had agreed to help—especially after they offered me two extra Elevator tickets for my mom and dad. My parents and I were always together during the holidays, and I didn't want this New Year's Eve to be any different.

  But now, as Mr. Bennett glared at me, I was starting to question my decision to make the trip.

  “I won't be told what to do by a genetically enhanced child,” he snapped.

  I took a deep breath. “Sir, it's true I'm fourteen years old, and some people might call me a child if they wanted to be insulting,” I said quickly before he could interrupt. “But I'm not genetically enhanced. I don't have time to discuss my DNA with you. I still have one more work of art to inspect. And I have to get this plane loaded onto the Elevator.”

  THE BIPLANE

  I gestured toward the magnificent 1925 biplane with wooden wings that stretched halfway across the hall. The plane had been
retrofitted with jet-powered hovercraft capability, but its original, sleek design had been kept intact. After all, it was this design that made it a work of art. A 'bot was carefully hauling it toward the entrance of (climber B, which would carry it back to Earth.

  COME HOVER WITH US!

  When you're looking for the ultimate in hover engine technology, turn to the Cockerell Corporation! Named after Christopher Cockerell—who tested his designs for the first hovercraft in the 1950s with a hairdryer and two cans—our company has been in the air-propulsion business for two whole years!

  Just like the hovercrafts that used to ferry passengers across bodies of water, our vehicle comes equipped with mighty whirling fans. Their spinning creates a cushion of air around the craft, allowing it to move in all directions or simply float. AND our new powerful engines are so small and efficient, they can be adapted to nearly any vehicle. Add them to your plane, your boat, or even your car!

  But Mr. Bennett seemed unimpressed by the ancient aircraft. “What's your name?” he demanded. “You're acting a lot like a private detective,” he said, spitting the last words out like they were something disgusting. Calling someone “private detective” today was like pointing and screaming, “Witch!” at someone in Salem, Massachusetts, in the 1600s.

  Starting in the last century, the powerful Notable family had launched a campaign to convince Americans that private eyes were a security threat. The Notabes had made a fortune by developing ways to clone humans—and they spent that money freely on their pet cause. It took a few decades to finally get their message across, but private investigation had finally been banned in the United States. Detectives had to either give up being detectives—or work for the government.

  “I'm Otis Fitzmorgan,” I told him, bracing myself for the reaction I knew was coming.

  “Fitzmorgan?” His bushy eyebrows shot up. “As in the Fitzmorgan and Moorie family of private investigators? So I was right—”

  “I'm extremely proud of my name,” I interrupted, “but right now it's not important. I'm a Deputy Customs Official with the Federal Space Agency. That means I check to make sure that nothing phony or dangerous gets on the Elevator. And this, I'm sorry to say, qualifies as dangerous. I'm not going to allow it on board.”

  Mr. Bennett's reaction caught me by surprise. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. He gazed at the mammoth steel doors behind my des, which led to the Climber, which moved up and down the Elevator ribbon. The doors were large enough to easily fit the airplane, and they were currently open. A giant clock hung above them. It read:

  DEPARTURE FOR EARTH: 13 MIN 12 SEC

  Mr. Bennett's face collapsed and tears spurted out of his eyes. “But the elevator is the only way back down to Earth … and I love this artwork so much!”

  “Mr. Bennett!” I said, alarmed.

  I knew I shouldn't be swayed by displays of emotion, but I was actually starting to feel sorry for him.

  I glanced over at my supervisor, Ms. Jenkins, the customs guard who was clearing passengers at the desk next to mine. I indicated that Mr. Bennett should step closer so that we couldn't be overheard. I said in a gentle tone, “I'll tell you what, Mr. Bennett. Let me remove the power source from this … work of art. That way it won't go snapping anyone's head off. The 'bots will load it into the storage area on Level 5. That level isn't accessible from the main part of the Elevator. It will be safe there.”

  This seemed to soothe him. “Thank you,” he said, wiping away his tears. Then I noticed his thin lips forming a small smile. He quickly covered it with his hand. For a second, I wondered if he'd been acting. But before I could say anything, he was gone, rushing over to Ms. Jenkins's security checkpoint, where the other passengers were waiting to be cleared.

  MR. BENNETT SMILED SLYLY.

  I should've known better, I thought. I can sometimes judge a work of art better than I can judge a person.

  Sighing, I called over a 'bot and asked him to put his two-ton arm on top of SHARP TEETH to keep the jaws from opening. I took a screwdriver from my belt and carefully removed the panel at the bottom of the teeth. As I began disconnecting the wires from the battery, I felt a message come up through the floor and into my feet:

  CLIMBER B DEPARTS FOR EARTH IN TEN MINUTES. ALL TICKETED PASSENGERS MUST BE ON BOARD AT THAT TIME.

  I ignored this announcement as best I could, which wasn't easy since it was a “smart” message. Only passengers with Climber B tickets like mine could receive it. The words traveled through the floor as vibrations, up the correct passengers' legs and into their heads. There, the vibrations became sounds. It was a great way to keep noise down in the Terminal, but annoying if you were trying to concentrate.

  Two minutes later, I'd disconnected the last wire inside SHARP TEETH. I tossed the battery in the trash and removed my microprobe from a loop in my belt. It was about the size of a cereal spoon, and I placed the thicker end lightly on the artwork. The probe made a gentle chime that let me know the procedure had been successful. I had just given my DNA stamp of approval to SHARP TEETH. I signaled for a 'bot to load it onto the Climber.

  Once it was gone, I turned my attention to the last item waiting for inspection. I had been saving this one as a special treat for myself. I threw back the tarp.

  Underneath was a larger-than-life marble statue that captured a moment just after the assassination of President Lincoln in 1865. Lincoln himself isn't part of it. Instead, it shows Mary Todd Lincoln reaching out toward John Wilkes Booth, who is leaping backward as if to avoid her touch.

  ESCAPE BY A HAIR

  Now, this was my kind of art! It was sculpted in 1866 by the famous artist Maginold Moylan. The lines were smooth and elegant, and it actually made you feel something—besides queasy, like SHARP TEETH did. You could really see the anger and confusion on Mrs. Lincoln's face as she grabbed at Booth and just missed him.

  It's easy to see why the statue's name is ESCAPE BY A HAIR.

  Part of my job was to fill out a Condition Report for the valuable artworks. Filling in the blanks about the statue helped me to determine if the piece was a fake or not.

  As the sculpture was loaded onto the Elevator, I thought it was strange that “human hair” was listed as one of the materials. Must have belonged to the artist, I decided.

  ALL TICKETED PASSENGERS MUST BE ON BOARD AT THIS TIME.

  Done just in time, I thought, as I received another Climber B ticket announcement. I glanced again at the clock above the huge steel doors. It read:

  Condition Report

  OBJECT ID. IN CASE IT IS STOLEN:

  * * *

  TYPE OF OBJECT: Statue

  MATERIALS: Marble: human hair; tin

  TECHNIQUE: Carved by artist with chisel and hammer

  MEASUREMENTS: base, 10 feet by 8 feet; height, 12 feet; weight, 510 pounds

  TITLE: ESCAPE BY A HAIR

  SUBJECT: Mary Todd Lincoln and John Wilkes Booth in a box at Ford's Theater

  DATE OR TIME PERIOD: 1866

  ARTIST: Maginold Moylan

  DEPARTURE: 2 MIN 35 SEC

  I snapped off my plastic gloves. It was time for me to join my parents on board. I could see Ms. Jenkins was wrapping things up and packing up her gear.

  “Wait!” a female voice cried. “Come on, Dad!”

  A teenager with curly blonde hair, and a short, plump man were rushing toward Ms. Jenkins.

  “Now, now, let's not panic, dear,” the man told his daughter. As he followed her, he read from a pamphlet about the Elevator. “Did you know the Elevator is more than 60,000 miles high? That's like going from New York to Los Angeles and back—ten times. No wonder the trip taxes six days!”

  Without a word, Ms. Jenkins cleared the girl and her father through customs.

  But when they passed within a few feet of me, I jerked around. I raised my hand urgently to get Ms. Jenkins's attention. Her head snapped up, and I signaled for her to stop them. Something definitely wasn't right.

  “Halt!” Ms.
Jenkins bellowed. She placed a hand on the shock stick slung through a loop in her belt. The man noticed this and started to squeak in terror.

  The girl stepped in front of him protectively.

  There was no reason to threaten such force. I didn't want things to get violent. I rushed over to them. “Hold on!” I called to Ms. Jenkins.

  MS. JENKINS PULLED OUT HER SHOCK STICK.

  “Let me handle this,” Ms. Jenkins told me and grabbed my arm to pull me back from the man and girl. As she did, I caught a whiff of Ms. Jenkins's petunia-scented perfume.

  Her grip was strong, and I spun around. Ms journal—this journal—flew from my pocket and landed on the floor with a thud! And the mini DogBot I use as a lock flicked off.

  About the size of a large box of matches, the 'bot instantly leaped to life. DogBots were the most popular holiday gift a few years back, and it had been almost impossible to find one. Then it seemed like they were everywhere, and suddenly, people didn't want them anymore. Not me. I had given mine as much artificial intelligence as his little circuits could hold. He was a kind of pet and went everywhere with me. His brown bio-real eyes—which looked like a baby seal's—clicked open.

  TEDDY

  “Teddy, stop it!” I commanded. But Teddy was cranky at being so rudely awakened and wasn't listening to me. He bounced about like a flea on his little steel legs.

  “Nice toy,” the girl said sarcastically, eyeing Teddy. “I think I had one of those when I was four.”

  But she was nervous. I could tell by the way she was flipping through the pages of my journal without looking down at what she was doing. I wanted desperately to snatch the journal out of her hands, but I was worried that I would just draw more attention to it.

  Meanwhile, Teddy was facing off with Ms. Jenkins's shoes. They were the new kind that had high heels in the front. It made my shins hurt just looking at them, but I guess some people will do anything for fashion.