His Clockwork Canary (25 page)

She’d answered on first ring.
“Dr. Caro.”

“It’s Simon Darcy.”

“Who’s dying?”

“I’m worried about Jules.”

The woman’s tone had been as cold as ice, but the mention of his brother’s name had
snagged her interest. Simon had asked whether she’d heard from Jules. If she knew
where he was and if he was on official business. Simon had mentioned the tele-talkie
and the fact that there’d been no response to his emergency calls in close to ten
days. She’d said she’d be in touch. He’d expected a call, a telegram, or a Teletype.
Now here she was in all her chilling arrogance.

“Would you like some coffee?” Simon asked.

“And risk contracting gastroenteritis or hepatitis?” she asked whilst frowning at
the bare-armed, stained-aproned attendants and the dingy, battered surroundings. “No,
thank you.”

Simon noticed then that she was still wearing her gloves and seemed averse to touching
even the tabletop.

“We’re here for the location, not the ambience,” Phin said, obnoxiously blowing cigar
smoke in her direction.

“Willie’s attending to some business in that shop across the way,” Simon said, leaving
it at that.

“I was sorry to hear that her recovery’s been slow, but I did warn you,” she said,
sounding somewhat defensive.

“We’re grateful for all you did,” Simon said. “What have you learned of Jules?”

“Conflicting conjecture. I’m leaving for Australia within the hour.”

Simon blinked.

“Did the agency sanction this jaunt?” Phin asked. “Or is this a personal mission?”

“I’m acting in Jules’s best interest.”

“Meaning?” Simon asked.

“If he is broken or malfunctioning, I am the only one who can fix him.”

Simon frowned. “What the devil does that mean?”

“Never mind her,” Phin said. “Bella has an unusual way with words and ofttimes speaks
in a language all her own.” He extinguished his cigar, narrowed his gaze on the pale-faced
woman with the bloodred lips. “I’ll fly you.”

“Your piloting services are not required, nor your company wanted. I’m warning you,
Phineas, stay out of this.”

Even though Simon kept stealing glances at Thimblethumper’s storefront, he was more
than aware of the war raging between Phin and Bella Caro. He was also more concerned
than ever about his brother’s welfare. “Do you have reason to believe Jules has been
injured?” he asked the doctor.

“I do not.”

“But you implied—”

“I merely intend to ascertain Jules’s situation and to make myself available should
he need assistance.”

Phin snorted.

“I must go,” she said, gesturing for Simon to move out of her way. “Contrary to popular
belief, I do have a heart. I did not wish to leave you wondering and worrying, hence
this visit.”

“You could have called,” Phin said.

“That would have been unwise,” she said, rising.

“What is the speculation?” Simon asked. “Within the Mechanics?”

Posture ramrod straight, expression enigmatic, she lowered her voice to a near whisper.
“Some say his mission is known only to the director of HMM and the queen herself.
Some say he has gone rogue.” Her sensual lips flattened. “I’ll contact you as soon
as I know anything,” she said to Simon, then turned on her booted heel.

For a moment he sat there stunned. “How can I know so little about my twin? What the
hell is he about? What is
she
about?”

“Bella and I have our differences,” Phin said, “but I can tell you this. She’d walk
through fire for Jules. He’s her greatest accomplishment.”

“She loves him.”

“Like Dr. Frankenstein loved his monster.”

Simon shook off a chill, watching as Bella Caro glided past the window and disappeared
into the throng of pedestrians. “What exactly is her supernatural skill?”

“Superhuman mentality. An intelligence quotient far above that of a genius.”

He thought back to Edinburgh when she’d said Jules’s legs had been blown off and just
now, her concern that he could be broken or malfunctioning. Both she and Phin had
waved off her odd word choices, but Simon suspected now that she meant exactly what
she’d said. He met his friend’s gaze, demanding an honest answer. “What is Dr. Caro’s
area of expertise? Specifically?”

Phin blew out a ragged breath. “Something called
bionics
.”

Upon leaving West Norwood Cemetery, the grave-poking threesome (as Willie had begun
to think of herself, Simon, and Phin) had returned to the Covent Garden town house
in order to wash away the odor and grime of the underground before setting off for
Notting Hill. Fletcher had fussed over their “deplorable” outerwear, determined to
pound away patches of dirt. Simon and Phin had ducked into the library to consult
the city map, and Willie had slipped into another room to ring Dawson. Simon hadn’t
flinched when she’d said she needed to touch base with her editor. She was, after
all, officially on the job.

“How are you faring?” Dawson had asked. “Please tell me you’re in the midst of a rollicking
adventure.”

“You have no idea.”

“Intrigue? Peril?”

“A brush with death and forbidden love.”

“Brilliant!” Dawson had bellowed, no doubt punching his fist to his desk to emphasize
his exuberance. “Readers will be enthralled. The
Informer
will flourish. I knew I could count on you, Willie. The Clockwork Canary at his best.”

“Yes, well . . .” Adopting her former and feigned manner of speaking had proved surprisingly
difficult. At some point she would have to come clean with Dawson about her true self,
but for now, one challenge at a time. “I read about the attempted kidnapping of Prime
Minister Madstone. Who did you put on the story?”

“Bloomenboyd.”

“Bloo is a narrow-minded ninnyhammer.”

“Everyone is a ninnyhammer in your book, Canary. Just carry on with Darcy and the
Triple R Tourney and leave the delicious rest to me. There’s a reason I’m managing
editor.”

Willie had been thrown by her extraordinarily ordinary discussion with Dawson. Had
Strangelove’s taunt been a red herring? “On the run,” she’d said in her affected boyish
tone. “What’s the blether around the pressroom?”

Dawson had spewed a dizzying amount of gossip before ending with “But the latest kerfuffle
revolves around an anonymous tip that there’s an impostor on staff. Someone who’s
leading a double life. Naturally there is much speculation and imaginations are running
rampant. Abbernathy started a betting pool. And before you interrupt,” Dawson said,
“yes, I know and quite agree that Abbernathy is a ninnyhammer. Still and all, a bit
of intrigue and fun is jolly good for the spirits. Speaking of, you must be flying
high with this Darcy assignment. Any scuttlebutt on Project Monorail?”

“Working on it. Speaking of, I best be off.” Willie had ended the conversation quickly,
her pulse pounding with dread. Strangelove
had
flexed his browbeating muscles. Since she intended to come clean with her identity
the moment she’d completed this mission, she couldn’t care less if anyone at the
Informer
pegged the Clockwork Canary as the impostor. She did worry, however, that Strangelove
would step up his game and threaten the well-being of her family, which now included
Simon.

Intensely motivated to manipulate the bastard toff and to bring this exasperating
chapter of her life to a close, Willie had procured a secret keepsake from her cherished
copy of the Book of Mods. Something with which to snag Thimblethumper’s attention.
As a bonus maybe she’d finally learn the name and purpose of the thingamabob she’d
found tucked into a secret crevice when she’d painstakingly re-covered the book years
ago in an attempt to disguise its true content.

Now, less than an hour later, Willie entered Thimblethumper’s Shoppe of Curiosities
with a dual sense of anticipation and dread. Call it a revelation, an epiphany, or
divine intervention. Whatever the reason, she was most certain she would glean valuable
information pertaining to the Houdinians from the former Mod Tracker. She’d bet her
wedding ring, her most valued possession aside from her BOM, that Thimblethumper knew
far more than he’d first shared. Considering he’d been guarded and crotchety after
learning Simon had gotten his name from a Mechanic, Willie thought it best to start
with a clean slate, as a new acquaintance.

Upon her last visit, she’d been introduced as Willie G. She’d been dressed as a boy.
Her hair had been dyed black. She had slouched her shoulders and spoken in a lower
tone, using a more brash vocabulary.

This moment her hair was a brilliant red and she wore a fashionable and shapely ModVic
greatcoat and a feminine, accessorized derby. Instead of brown corneatacts, she’d
opted for the color of her youth, the same vivid green shade as her mother’s, and
she planned to introduce herself as Mina. Her goal was to engage Thimblethumper in
casual conversation and then to segue into a subject that would set her up to time-trace
specific memories.

Her pulse skittered as she crossed the threshold. A bell tinkled as she shut the door
behind her.

“With you in a moment,” Thimblethumper called from the till.

“Just browsing,” Willie called back.

He was speaking with another shopper and she preferred to have the merchant to herself.
She’d wait until this customer left and pray for a slow period.

Willie pulled off her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket. She skirted a few tables,
examining collectibles past and present, as well as a few reproductions of futuristic
devices. Merchandise as described by the Peace Rebels or portrayed in the Book of
Mods. She recognized a bong and a model of a moonship. Her mother had owned a similar
model, a reminder of her time at NASA.

Intrigued, Willie skimmed more items—a jar of marbles, a telephone with buttons instead
of a dial, and a mug sporting the sign of peace—but spied nothing similar to the thingamabob
in her purse. The thin black square was a little over twenty centimeters in diameter,
near the size of the front cover of the Book of Mods, and had a hole in the center.
When she’d first discovered it, soon after her mother’s death, Willie had shown it
to a few Mod enthusiasts, but no one recognized the article. Someone had likened it
to a futuristic beverage coaster. Someone else, a durable page keeper or perhaps a
portion of a modern ringtoss game. Willie had ended up tucking the black square back
into its secret pocket, cherishing it simply because it had belonged to her mother—whatever
it was. Perhaps Thimblethumper would have an inkling.

The sole customer, aside from her, brushed past Willie and out the door. Intent on
taking advantage of the privacy, she pulled the plastic square from her sizable drawstring
purse, turning just as the old Mod Tracker approached.

Thimblethumper winced as though slapped, stumbled back, and knocked into a table.
“Mickey?”

Willie blinked at the sound of her mother’s modern nickname. She grasped Thimblethumper’s
arm as he tripped over his own feet, connecting not only physically, but mentally.

“There was too much information for one disk. This is but one of three.”

“So the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium is in fact a trilogy?” Mickey said. “Where are
the other two volumes?”

“As far as I know, Professor Merriweather is still in possession of one disk. The
other he entrusted to Dickey Everest.”

“Dickey was killed last month.”

“I know.”

“So where is that disk?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone stole it. Maybe he hid it. All I know is that I don’t
want the responsibility anymore. As if protecting the clockwork propulsion engine
isn’t enough. I’ve been saddled with this additional enterprise for twenty years.
I’m too old for this cloak-and-dagger bullshit. My eyesight is going and my reflexes
are poor. I want out, Mickey.”

“But you’re a pledged Houdinian.”

Willie broke contact and blinked out of the memory, her chest tight, her heart racing.
Out of habit she glanced at her time cuff, but since she hadn’t checked the time before
tracing, she could only guess how long she’d been in this man’s memory. Three seconds?
Five? He was staring at her now as if in shock. She was more than a little stunned
herself. “Ollie Rollins,” she choked out. She’d seen him in Filmore’s memories, but
as a much younger man. The years had not been kind.

He licked his thin, chapped lips. “How . . . how is this possible? You’re dead.”

She realized then that Thimblethumper,
Rollins
, still thought she was her mother. Michelle Goodenough had had red hair and green
eyes and she was probably around Willie’s age when she and Rollins first met in the
future. Worried the man was on the brink of having a heart attack, Willie corrected
his misassumption. “My name is Wilhelmina Goodenough, Mr. Rollins. I’m Michelle . . .
Mickey’s daughter.” Her previous plan of how to handle this situation had been blown
to smithereens. Like any good journalist, she would now operate on the fly.

Rollins pushed his thick spectacles to the top of his balding head, shut his milky
eyes, and rubbed his wrinkled lids as if trying to dispel a hallucination. “Lock the
door.”

Willie rushed over and turned a locking mechanism. She also flipped the
WELCOME
sign to
CLOSED
.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his weight propped against a table. “Where did you
get the memory disk?”

So that was what it was called. “My mother bequeathed me her copy of the Book of Mods.
The . . .
disk
was hidden in a pocket devised into the inner cover.”

“I can’t decide if that was a brilliant or hideous place to conceal such dangerous
and valuable information. And it’s been in your possession these past seven years?”

“It has.” One-third of the legendary Aquarian Cosmology Compendium. Willie was beyond
incredulous. “I have some questions, Mr. Rollins. Some concerns.”

He winced, looked over his shoulders in a cautious and worried manner. “Please. I
am known as Thimblethumper now.”

She nodded. “You are retired. No longer an active Houdinian and afraid of being publicly
branded a Mod. I understand.”

“No you don’t. No one understands. No one is capable of understanding what I have
seen. What I have done. I want only to live out what is left of my life in anonymity.
But I will answer your questions, Wilhelmina Goodenough,” he said whilst pushing off
the table and gesturing her to follow. “Out of respect to your mother and because
I sympathize with your dismal and colossal responsibility.”

She did not understand how an innocuous black square translated to a collection of
scientific designs from the twentieth century. She could not believe her mother, a
woman who had been so emotionally and physically distant, had entrusted her daughter
to keep something so valuable and volatile safe. As Willie followed the retired Houdinian,
an original Peace Rebel, to the back of his shop, her heart swelled even as her knees
quaked.

•   •   •

“Willie just turned the ‘Welcome’ sign to ‘Closed,’” Simon said, whilst peering across
the street. “Why?”

“To assure privacy?” Phin ventured.

“I don’t like it.”

“Of course you don’t.” His friend gestured for an attendant. “Something stronger,”
he ordered.

“I’m sorry,” the female server said with a tight smile, “but we don’t—”

“Of course you do,” Phin said, flashing a banknote.

“One moment,” she said, then scurried off.

“I’m going over,” Simon said.

“Don’t be a mug,” Phin said. “Give Willie a chance.”

Being likened to a half-wit chafed, but Simon recognized the good intention behind
the cocky slur.
Relax and show trust in your wife’s abilities.
Simon tried but to no avail. He’d allow Willie ten more minutes and then he was busting
in. “Tell me about Dr. Caro.”

“What about her?”

“Jules’s lover?”

“For a time.”

“Your lover?”

“No. Although I was tempted.”

Intrigued, Simon raised a brow.

“When Jules backed off from the affair, Bella turned to me. For a cool and aloof woman,
she’s extremely . . . passionate. I almost succumbed to her wiles, but then I realized
she was only using me to make Jules jealous.”

“Did it work?”

Phin shook his head. “Jules cares about Bella, but he doesn’t love her. Although,
damn her obsessed heart, she believes otherwise.”

“What led up to this?” Simon asked, an ancient and buried question flaring back to
life. “Why was Jules declared a war hero? What did he do and why is he living a double
life?”

Phin rolled back his shoulders, obviously relieved when the server returned with their
heavily spiked coffee. Simon could smell the whiskey fumes even before raising the
cup to his lips.

“Not within my power to reveal details pertaining to the mission that led to Jules’s
injuries nor his affiliation with the Mechanics,” Phin replied. “However, I will say
this. A lesser man would not have survived or fought as fiercely as he did to live.
The only time his spirits flagged dismally was after the reconstructive surgery.”

Simon and his family had been barred from visiting Jules for several weeks. The extent
of his injuries too severe, they’d been told. The risk of infection via outside sources
too great. Early on they’d seen Jules only through a window and at a distance and
only from the chest up. Their visitation rights during rehabilitation had been rigidly
restricted as well, but part of that had been due to Jules’s determination to push
through the ordeal in private. It had been a trying time for the Darcys. Most especially
for Simon, who’d felt literally severed from his twin. Respecting Jules’s
privacy
had proved one of Simon’s greatest challenges in life. Knowing Jules had chosen a
friend as a confidant over his own brother stung Simon to the core. But he didn’t
blame Phin. “What can you tell me of the reconstruction?”

“Bella . . . Dr. Caro exacted drastic measures to save Jules’s life and, as it were,
to make him whole again. After spearheading a mind-boggling surgical procedure, Bella
pushed forth therapeutic measures. She made it her personal mission to convince Jules
that although he was not wholly normal, he was fully functioning by normal standards.”