The Clockwork Man (26 page)

I have been discovered.

For now at least, I remain intact, though that may soon change, depending on the whim of those in whose custody I find myself. I must apologize for the eight-day gap in this account, but my journal was confiscated and only returned to me this afternoon. At present I am being held in a small room in the heart of the local police station, the only light a bare bulb hanging over the spindly table at which I now sit, a tiny window in the door, through which many uniformed officers peer during the day. Though I have incurred many stares and much poking since my arrival, my only significant human contact has been Sergeant Albright, a uniformed officer who has, from time to time, entered this room to check on me. He has been skittish in my presence, but not unkind. As he sits across from me, both feet planted on the floor as if preparing to run, he gazes at my face with the same fascination I once saw in the eyes of the Master’s nephew Kurt, as I recited a bedtime story for him. Though he has instructed me to remain here until the matter of my custody is resolved, I amno prisoner, and under the circumstances have been treated well; it was he who finally returned this diary, and procured me a new ink pen when the one I had been using ran dry.

I have not seen Herr Greeley since I awakened here; however, Sergeant Albright has assured me he is unharmed, and was merely taken to a nearby hospital for observation. I should like to see him again, as I would know for certain that he is well. The sergeant has indicated that he and his fellow officers simply do not know what I am, nor what to do with me, and until he hears from someone in a position of authority he must keep me here. The problem, as he explained this morning, was actually convincing some judge of the veracity of my story; the last magistrate the station contacted thought the tale a tasteless joke, and warned them not to bother him again.

I have, unfortunately, incurred more damage as a result of our encounter with the florist. My hastily repaired limbs are strained beyond their capacity; my left arm, in particular, is now sorely limited in its range of motion, and the vision is hopelessly blurred in my damaged eye. (My mangled eye poses a challenge to these writings, one I have overcome by covering it with a handkerchief.) Otherwise I am unharmed. I have considered asking Sergeant Albright for any spare nuts, screws, and bolts the station might contain, and a few tools, that I might make some small adjustments.

There was some unpleasantness surrounding our confrontation with the florist, and I am now given pause to reconsider my actions. As I indicated in the opening entry of this diary, the Master instilled in me a deep aversion to violence. I was a work of art, he often said, an expression of his highest and loftiest ambitions, and to inflictor even threaten physical harm, except in the direst circumstances, would ruin that special quality. I must, therefore, wonder if there might have been some other way. Perhaps the question is meaningless; I cannot undo what I have done, and must therefore live with the consequences.

It was, by my own internal clock, precisely 1:01 a.m. when we arrived at the floral shop—a two-story, flat-roofed building of cream-colored brick a block removed from the lake, with maroon shutters over the upstairs and cellar windows. On either side were vacant lots, the nearest house two blocks away. The words
Lakeside Floral And Gifts
were painted on the front window, which was filled with red-and-white carnations and lined with cardboard cutouts in the shape of daisies and roses. Next to the building was a small greenhouse, its walls papered over, sporting signs advertising discounts on various plants. I saw no lights on from my vantage point. At the time I was concerned that the culprits might have stolen the van, or taken Carrie elsewhere to commit their perversions upon her. Had that been the case our cause would be lost and Carrie doomed. As Greeley seemed to care deeply for her welfare, and in my brief contact with her she had been kind to me, that result would be unacceptable. But in the darkness I could see their vehicle, parked behind the greenhouse, nearly out of sight.

Greeley drove past and parked the stolen automobile on a corner, two blocks away—far enough to avoid being seen, close enough to make our escape with Carrie, were we fortunate enough to find her.

“Stay here, please,” I said. “And be prepared to drive away if I return with her.”

“No way, brother,” Greeley replied, taking up the heavy lantern. “I want me a piece of those boys, too. I’ma hurt ’em.”

His eyes displayed an emotion beyond anger, and I believed further argument was useless, so we proceeded across the empty lot, my gaze ever on the windows in case the florist had posted a lookout.

I saw nothing, save an electrical fan in a darkened window—most useful to mask the sound of our approach. The ticking from inside my chest increased in speed and volume, and I fastened my coat to muffle it. (Had there been time I might have asked Greeley for another treatment of WD-40 to achieve a greater measure of stealth.)

As I thought it unwise to split up, we first investigated the greenhouse. I listened carefully for the slightest sound—a rustling of fabric, voices, breathing. Had anyone been inside I would have heard them instantly. But the only things disrupting the silence were Greeley’s raspy breath and the faint trickling of water inside—an irrigation system, perhaps.

Creeping slowly across the lawn, we approached the shop.

The double doors were locked and bound together on the inside by a thick chain.

“Hold on,” Greeley whispered. “I got somethin’.” He pulled from his pocket what appeared to be a large paperclip, bent the end slightly, and inserted it into the bottom keyhole. He tinkered with the lock for nearly three minutes, whispering curses from time to time. “Swear to God I used to know how to do this,” he said under his breath. Eventually he became angry, and raised his fist to pound at the lock.

I reached out and seized his arm before the blow could land.

“Whatcha doin’?” Greeley said. “I got this.”

“Let me.” I took hold of the heavy doors with both hands and pulled as slowly and firmly as I could. The lock soon gave way; the chain did not break as easily as I expected; despite Greeley’s repairs, my left arm still lacked strength. Nonetheless, a link finally bent and snapped, and with the greatest care I slid the chain from between the doors and laid it gingerly on the front step.

“Why didn’t you just do that before?” Greeley whispered.

“It would have been quieter to pick the lock.”

I pushed open the door, and we stepped into the showroom. The shop was dim, the only light emanating from a glass case full of flowers. I moved slowly, lest the noise alert anyone inside. Across the display room behind the counter was a closed door leading to a stairwell to the upper level. Behind it I could hear no sound.

“Stay here,” I said, as quietly as the ancient reeds of my voicebox would allow, and started toward the door. I had not gone three paces when I heard footsteps from behind it, heading down a flight of stairs. Greeley motioned for me to find a hiding place as he crouched behind the service counter. For me there was no time, so I backed into a corner, away from the light.

The door opened, and the slight, thin man emerged, clad in a white undershirt, sweat clinging to his brow. “You want a beer?” he called up the stairs. From upstairs, a muffled “Yeah,” and the faint, anguished moan of a girl. “Just don’t wear her out before it’s my turn,” he called back. The man did not notice either of us at first, reaching under the service desk and opening a small icebox, from which he drew two bottles. As the small door opened, an electric bulb inside cast its light upon me, but his back was turned. He twisted off the cap with a slight popping sound and headed back toward the staircase, but stopped halfway there.

“What the hell’s that noise?” he muttered, presumably to himself, and looked around the room. Greeley was silent, hidden on the other side of the counter, and I realized the man was referring to my ticking, which had grown faster and louder. (I often fail to notice it, as it is as much a part of my existence as breathing to a living person.) He inched a few steps closer, and when he turned, he stood face-to-face with me in the dark.

His face stretched into a mask of terror and surprise, he opened his mouth to call out, but Greeley crossed the room and, brandishing his lantern like a club, struck the man in the back of the head. There was a terrible popping sound as the metal lantern collided with his skull; the bottles in his hands hit the floor with a sharp thud, and the head of the lantern flew off and struck the wall.

As he lay at our feet, unmoving, Greeley reared back his good leg and kicked the young man in the ribs with all his strength.

Considering Greeley’s gentle treatment of me, I cannot help but be alarmed at his brutality, and judging from the wild look in his eyes, I thought he might kill the man. (I have since learned the young man incurred a severe concussion and collapsed lung from Greeley’s assault, and may suffer permanent impairment because of it, though Sergeant Albright does not seem terribly concerned—this also troubles me.)

“Hey, Bobby,” a voice called from the upper level. It was that of the florist. “Careful. That stuff’s eight bucks a six-pack.” An eight-second silence followed before we heard his voice again. “Bobby?”

Given away as we were, Greeley saw this as his cue to act, nullifying whatever remaining surprise we might have enjoyed. “Carrie! You up there?” he screamed. “Carrie!”

From the upper level there was a brief rustling, the sound of wooden chairs being kicked over, a girl’s desperate and indiscernible moaning, as if she were gagged. I started for the staircase, but Greeley outraced me and headed up alone. No more than two seconds later I heard a brief struggle on the stairs; then Greeley came toppling down, landing on his back in the narrow entryway, heavy footsteps descending on the stairs in his direction. He attempted to roll over and raise himself, but appeared too stunned to do so.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a forced entry,” said the large tattooed one. His right wrist was wrapped in a heavy cast. “Better get a couple of trash bags.” As he bent over Herr Greeley’s prone form he drew a knife from his pocket. Before he could do more harm I seized his uninjured hand by the wrist and squeezed until I felt the long, thin bones break under my fingers—brutal, to be sure, but at the time I was concerned only for Greeley and Carrie. He screamed in pain; our eyes met, and for a moment we stood perfectly still. His face was ashen, as if he were looking at a ghost, and perhaps from his perspective he was. He attempted to strike my face with his cast, then cried out in pain when it rang against the steel and nickel in my head. “Forgive me,” I said, as I struck him full-on in the chest with the heel of my hand. He smashed into the wall, leaving a three-inch deep indentation in the drywall, then slowly slid to the stairs, clutching his chest and coughing weakly, struggling for breath. (Though Sergeant Albright seemed surprised that I should ask after him, he recently informed me that the man suffered only a bruised sternum and a broken left wrist, as well as a broken right hand from our previous encounter. I am grateful it was not worse.)

In the dim doorway at the top of the stairs a figure appeared, partially cast in shadow—the florist himself. “Benji?” he asked, before his eyes fell on me. He swore in disbelief and retreated back to the upstairs chamber.

Though it would have been a reasonable course to follow him immediately, I turned my attention to Greeley, who had since managed to sit up in the doorway.

“Are you hurt?” I asked him.

“I’m okay,” he said. He kicked at the head of the one called Benji, then raised himself painfully to his feet with the aid of the banister.

“You are not,” I said, but he started up the stairs despite his pain, reaching the top ahead of me.

The upstairs rooms seemed to have been used as a storage area, judging from the piles of wicker baskets and silk flowers stacked along the walls. The only illumination came from a bare bulb near the door, but in the faint light I saw the florist standing by the window, brandishing a double-barreled shotgun. His finger moved on the trigger; half a second before the weapon discharged I seized Greeley and spun him out of the line of fire. Dozens of tiny pellets struck my back with hideous force, and I was aware of several lodging themselves beneath my skin, lightly denting my tin shell. My heavy coat and thick skin deflected the rest, which fell to the floor like hard, uncooked peas. When I turned to confront him, the florist swung one leg over the windowsill, then the other, and let himself drop. Outside I heard a loud thud and a grunt of pain.

Carrie was seated in one corner, her wrists and ankles tied to a spindly wooden chair, a handkerchief tied around her mouth. She was nude, ankles tied to the chair legs, welts covering her flesh, andwhen she saw us she began to sob. As of this writing I do not know what the florist and his accomplices did to her, and do not wish to, but I am sure it was too horrific to detail here. I went to the window to locate the florist.

“Oh, Carrie,” Herr Greeley said, kissing her bruised cheek and pulling at her bonds. “Oh, baby. What’d they do to you?”

I could see the florist limping toward the greenhouse; the fall had injured him, and his movement was slow and labored. Perhaps I could have let him go; Carrie was safe, our task fulfilled. “Stay,” a reedy, gasping voice echoed in my ear, though I could not tell whose it was. As I looked upon her in Greeley’s embrace I very much wanted to lift her into my arms and carry her to a place of safety. But if he were allowed to escape, the florist might yet strike again, and too many horrors had occurred because of my failing. I would not tolerate another.

“Tend to her,” I said, removing my overcoat and covering her marred skin. I seated myself awkwardly in the window and pitched my heavy body over the ledge.

In retrospect, this was probably a reckless maneuver; I landed on my side in the grass, severely denting my left hip and shoulder, which had already suffered damage. However, descending the stairway would have taken too long and allowed the florist more time to escape. Rising was more difficult than I had estimated, but I reached my feet in time to see him seeking refuge in the greenhouse. He glanced back at me once as he unlocked the door, then slammed and latched it behind him. Inside I heard rushed footsteps, the sound of wood sliding over concrete, then silence.