The Clockwork Man (21 page)

I now believe Herr Greeley was right in his estimation of my need for distraction; despite the awkwardness, I found it refreshing to commune with people again, and for this I am grateful. My head is clear, my incessant ticking muffled, and these remaining books await. I am once again eager to discover whatever knowledge I may glean from them.

It is but a few hours since my last posting, but much has happenedin a short span of time. Though the cause required it, I fear I have been found out, and while we remain in this old garage until daylight passes, Herr Greeley thinks it best that we move from here at the first opportunity.

Herr Greeley had drifted off to sleep within an hour of our return, and I took the opportunity to resume my research into the Fatherland’s history, that I might discover the eventual fate of my home. I am gravely concerned about two vague mentions of an attack on the city; though it is my ultimate wish to return home, perhaps even to locate the Master’s descendants and offer my services to them, I wonder if there is even a city to return to.

Accompanied by the sound of Herr Greeley’s snoring, I had begun to read in the dark. The street outside our makeshift home had been quiet for some time; the only sounds were the distant mechanical whine of a tool-and-die factory several blocks away; and the light, muffled tones of a guitar from the dimly lit window of a third-story loft two blocks away. I found it refreshing to hear music again, and I quietly stepped outside to listen. Greeley had chosen to sleep in a darkened corner of the garage, and so no longer obstructed my path to the side door.

Through the window of the loft I could see a long-haired young man picking at the strings. He was not proficient with the instrument, but the serenity on his face suggested this was not important to him. Every few seconds he began to sing over his instrument’s slow arpeggios in a raspy tenor. Though I was intent on my reading, I stopped at the end of the chapter on the 1890s to listen.

A few minutes into the song—he had stopped and started again several times, making errors in a chord progression after the secondverse—I heard another sound on the street outside: a vehicle approaching far more rapidly than the few that normally drive past this place. For a moment I thought it might collide with this structure; were that to happen the thin metal walls would tear like dried leaves, and I readied myself to snatch Herr Greeley and pull him outside. Instead it shot past at alarming speed, causing a rattling in the walls and rusty tools on the floor. Not two seconds later it was followed by a loud crash farther down the street, the sound of metal collapsing and glass shattering.

The guitar stopped abruptly. For a moment there was silence, then the faint crackle of flames in the distance.

The young man had put down his instrument, and his head emerged from the window, looking in the direction of the crash. He uttered a loud expletive, then slipped back inside. Inside the garage I heard Greeley stir.

“Hey?” he said. “Who dat? What’s goin’ on?”

“Something has happened,” I said, though I could only see a few traces of black smoke. Finally, unable to see, I risked poking my head halfway out. Four blocks down, I saw it: a bright-red automobile whose front end had twisted around a wide pillar supporting an elevated road. Even from four blocks away I could see the tongues of flame spreading from the point of impact.

I found myself wandering closer to the blaze.

Two men clad in jumpsuits and thick yellow hats—presumably from the factory—were running toward the vehicle. They tried to pull open the door, but drew their hands back painfully because of the heat. I stared through the smoke until I saw the object of their attention: a lone figure slumped over in front, too far away for me to see his face, but nonetheless in distress.

“Aw, Jesus,” Greeley said, several steps behind me. “Somebody in that thing?”

“Yes.”

Since my escape from the display window at Linnhoffer’s, I have been determined not to sacrifice the well-being of others to ensure my freedom. While I believe I have failed to keep that vow in the case of the murderers, believing others might yet apprehend them, in this particular crisis there was no one else to help. The two men near the burning vehicle seemed unable to perform the rescue, and the fire threatened to envelop the hapless driver in a matter of seconds. So I raced toward them in the cool, dark morning, toward the crash scene, with no attempt at stealth. I lack the flexibility and coordination to run, but my stride is long and quick. Greeley, in nearly a full run despite the hobble in his stride, followed me, but fell behind.

I was wearing my hat and greatcoat, which I have seldom removed since my liberation, but knew that, in this instance, it would not fully disguise me.

“Get back!” one of the men circling the vehicle shouted at me as I neared the burning wreckage. “It’s gonna blow!” They started toward me, perhaps trying to restrain me for my own protection, but once again Herr Greeley came to my rescue.

“Oh, my God!” he shouted, waving his arms frantically. “Somebody call 911!” He jumped about violently, his eyes wide, mouth agape. “Somebody help! Help!” He began to run toward the fire, but the two workers intercepted him.

“Just keep back,” one said. “Fire truck’s on the way.”

Greeley’s distraction gave me just enough time to slip past the twoworkmen. I was close enough to see my reflection in the firelit window, tongues of flame brushing against my greatcoat and singeing the lapel. Inside was a pale-skinned young man of perhaps twenty, with long hair the color of coal, unmoving, partially trapped behind a large inflated sack emerging from the steering wheel. Though I feared he might already be dead, I dug my fingers into the crevices around the door frame, depressing the thin metal, and with a single heave pulled the door off its hinges. Though I am well-insulated against heat and cold, I sensed a strange warmth from inside my chest—no doubt due to the complex web of copper wiring being heated to an alarming degree. Had I lingered any longer it might have melted and deprived me of some vital function. But I swiftly reached inside and pulled the young man out, carrying him several yards from the burning wreck. I paid no attention to Greeley’s argument with the workmen, except to hear him cursing loudly, and the men repeating their warning to stay back. When I lay the young man down on the pavement, all argument stopped.

“I’ll be damned,” one of the workmen, a stout, sweaty man of about fifty, said, running toward me. “You okay, buddy?”

“Yes,” I said, without turning to face him.

The young victim’s forehead was badly bruised, his skin reddened from the heat, but I could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest and abdomen.

A strong hand patted my left shoulder. “Never seen anything like that in my whole life,” he said.

“He needs medical attention,” I said, keeping my voice soft. It has always held a certain unnatural, reedy quality, but the mechanism behind it seems to have deteriorated with age and the effect has worsened.

The other man joined his partner, and knelt over the young man, whose eyes remained tightly closed. “Wake up, kid,” he said, gently slapping the boy’s cheeks. “Stay with us. Ambulance is on the way.”

Moments later the vehicle was consumed, the crackling flames reaching perhaps ten feet into the air. As the workmen turned to the wreckage, the young man opened his eyes and looked directly into mine. His eyes were wide in the firelight, his mouth hanging halfway open. Then he screamed.

I rose to my feet as the workers spun round to check on the victim. One of them looked up at me and, I am certain, saw my face in the bright orange glow; if not, both no doubt heard the low whine of my movements. “What in the hell …?” he began.

“See to him,” I said, and hastily turned away. In a moment Greeley’s hand was on my back, pushing me forward.

“Wait a minute!” said the one who had seen me, but before he could follow, Greeley and I had found concealment behind one of the concrete pillars. When the emergency vehicle arrived, sirens blaring, all attention was focused on the young victim, and we retreated to the garage in the shadows. For a moment I believed I had been lucky, that he had not seen my face after all, but in the distance I heard the breathless voice of our would-be pursuer. “You’re not gonna believe what I just saw,” he said.

I had opened the door and taken my first step inside, when I saw my foot descend not on the concrete walk, but on the hardwood floor of the Master’s dining hall. Giselle was holding my hand gingerly and twirling gracefully beneath it, and the sound of sirenswas suddenly replaced by the grainy tones of a string section on a phonograph record.

I am quite sure this was yet another manifestation of my defect; perhaps the heat of the flames has exacerbated my condition. In my state of confusion, my grip on her hand released, and she stumbled briefly before regaining her graceful footing. (This struck me as odd, as I recall no such moment from my past.)

“That was unlike you,” she said. “Would you rather I lead?”

“I don’t understand.”

She clasped my hand and hooked her arm round my waist. “Just listen to the timing of the music: one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. See?”

“No.”

She sighed. “That was a good thing you did, Ernst. Not very smart, but good.”

“Thank you.” I began to grow suspicious about my surroundings. “Who are you?”

She laughed, kissed my gloved hand. “You know who I am.”

“Yes. But you are …”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Do we have to talk about that now?”

“No.”

I allowed her to lead me, responding to the gentle pressure of her hands.

“Just tell me this,” she said. “Do you feel any better now? About what happened, I mean?”

I believe I understood the question, and for twenty seconds I said nothing, considering. “No,” I said, finally.

The smile slowly faded from her face. “I hope you can get over it someday.”

“Never.” I twirled her once more and then she was gone, and I was standing inside the garage, feeling sluggish, as if my inner workings had been replaced with rocks.

Greeley stood in front of me, tapping my forehead. “Hey,” he said. “Anybody in there?”

“Yes,” I said, the confusion passing.

“Heh. Went away again, huh?”

“Yes. And thank you for helping me.”

He beat his fists against his chest. “Man, that was amazing!” He laughed gleefully. “The way you tore that door off and carried that kid out, I thought I was watchin’ Superman in action.”

“Who?” I am familiar with the concept, having read some of Herr Nietzsche’s works, but Greeley’s description did not quite match. He seemed perturbed that I would not know of this man, though in light of his detailed biography I find the comparison most flattering. Still, I knew my actions might prove costly, and I apologized for jeopardizing our freedom.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it. We’ll find us another hideout. I know lots of places.” He playfully punched at my arm again. “Better get you some new clothes, too. You a little toasted.”

I looked down at my greatcoat, which was covered by patches of soot. Upon later inspection I discovered my face bore similar marks; it may be more difficult to hide my identity now. I urged Herr Greeley to lie down and rest while I wound myself, still unable to reconcile my strange hallucination with any memory. I can only hope the condition does not worsen, lest it threaten the authenticity of my memories; they are all I have left of home. But this is a concern for another time. At the moment I fear I may have exposed myself before finding the answers I seek; as often as I have risked this it was certain to happen eventually. The cause, at least, was a fitting one.

Perhaps I will be fortunate; like my own strange visions, the workman and the young crash victim might well dismiss me as a mirage brought on by the fire’s intense heat and light, and will simply have an amusing story to tell their comrades.

As I expected, as soon as night fell Herr Greeley and I abandoned the garage. Not long after the accident, policemen began prowling the area near us. Whether they were looking for me I do not know, but their presence prompted us to move on. We are currently residing in an abandoned facility once dedicated to the cleaning of automobiles, perhaps two miles from our former hideout.

For his part Herr Greeley seems to enjoy this place more than the garage; in back is what he termed a “Port-O-Potty,” which seems to be a portable outhouse, and thus at night he is no longer required to evacuate on the street corner or in an alley. (I am somewhat relieved to discover he finds the practice objectionable; for a time I was uncertain.) Though the office door was locked when we arrived, I easily broke the latch, and we discovered an old davenport inside. Its upholstery was ripped and bore many unidentifiable stains, but Herr Greeley wasted no time in curling up on it and falling fast asleep.

Thus far we have remained hidden; this facility is flanked by an abandoned warehouse and an Asian market that is only open fromnoon to four o’clock. Our only visitors have been a rather spindly, gray-haired Negro named Vernon, who came looking for cigarettes (apparently Greeley disclosed our new location to him on a panhandling session yesterday), and a girl of about sixteen, with slightly greasy shoulder-length hair dyed a faded pink, and soft, elegant features despite her rough appearance. Greeley had not mentioned her previously, but seemed to know her well, embracing her tightly when she entered. Greeley often takes part in bartering sessions with his associates, trading what few necessary items they have procured, so this is nothing unusual; however, this is the first time he has done so at our hideout. Vernon did notice me standing in the shadows of a washing bay, and began to approach. “Who’s that, Greeley?” he asked. “That ain’t your mechanical man, is it?”

“Oh, that just Ernest,” Greeley said. “He new. I’m just teachin’ him the rules around here.”

While this, and half a pack of cigarettes assembled by means of various donations, seemed to satisfy Vernon, the young woman’s curiosity had been piqued. She crept toward me as the two men exchanged various small parcels, tiptoeing silently into the wash bay where I stood. Up close her pink hair appeared unkempt and sweat-soaked, her young, soft features beginning to grow haggard.