Turnkey (The Gaslight Volumes of Will Pocket Book 1) (58 page)

“What?”

“Yeah, I’ve got
what you’re looking for. Hold tight. Here, read the paper or something.”

“Uh…all right.
Thanks.”

The gent lumbered
off, leaving me with a greasy wad of newsprint. I flipped through the pages
with minimal interest, the beer-gummed edges sticking to my fingers. I grimaced,
the stink of the room turning my stomach. “I've got what you're looking for.”
What could he have meant by that? What could possibly be waiting for me,
me,
William Bloody Hopeless Pocket, under a nonsense word from a bad dream? A
coincidence? No...couldn't be. Could I have done it myself....without
remembering? Was I going crazy? Ridiculous, I told myself. Even if I
had
somehow
lost my grip on sanity, wandered here, left something under a false name,
wandered back, and rewrote the whole damn affair into a dream, even
if
such
a scenario had played out...I had nothing to stash away, nothing missing from
my meager collection that I could've called “Foxley” and hidden in this dirt
hole. I flipped another sticky piece of newspaper. What then had led me here?

The Doll.

Yes, but...that
was just a dream. A puppet of my own wandering mind singing a sleep-written
script.

Right?

I thought of how
Lady Alexia might handle such a situation. After the unusual slumber we had all
shared during the mystic's tea steam reading, she had warned me not to take the
presence of dreams lightly.

“So many, my good
Mister Pocket!” she had lectured me. “So many dismiss the lives we live during
our unconscious hours. On what, the premise that those moments aren't truly
real? What would happen, I wonder, if we all looked upon our dreams with the
same conviction we spend on our waking hours.”

It was an
interesting supposition, albeit a terribly childish one, and I shook my head at
it. Sorry, tea lady, but I couldn't consider myself anything but half-mad were
I to start chasing after dreams.

And yet, here I
was, doing exactly that.

I pushed the
debate out of my head and glanced down to read the bold-lettered headline that
stretched across the news page.

GREN SPADER, KNOWN ACCOMPLICE TO FUGITIVES POCKET AND SUNNER,
SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE OF NEW LONDON PROPER

My eyes twitched.
Drops of sweats ran down my neck. I felt that I couldn't breathe.

“Gren...” I
whispered, squeezing the pages. I thought I was going to vomit. That fleeting
last image of Gren Spader, fallen and surrounded by riflemen, haunted my vision
to the point that I could barely see anything else. I became dizzy. Phantom
tears welled up in my sockets and slid down my cheeks.

It was all my
fault. After all of that dodged gunfire and last second chances, he was gone,
and it was all my fault. If things had been different, Gren wouldn't have been
along with me when I approached the city. He wouldn't now be...

It was my fault.
And Kitt would probably fall to the same fate, if he hadn't already. He could
be in print as soon as tomorrow, and as for the Doll...well...I couldn't
imagine what the authorities would do with her.

The dizziness got
worse. I wanted to go, just go and hide somewhere. Under a pillow, maybe. I
wanted to be done with all of this and just sink into mediocrity.

I wanted to give
up.

But I couldn't.

Because the other
image filling my eyes was that of the girl I had kissed over the ocean. She was
still sleeping out there somewhere, and if I gave up now, I would be breaking
the promise I made at her bedside.

And if there's one
thing that I have trouble doing, it's saying “no” to a pretty girl.

I closed the
newspaper and set it aside.

“Don't worry,
Gren,” I murmured. “I'm not out of this yet. I'll give them one hell of a punch
for you.”

But this
confidence was short-lived. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a man
approaching me, dressed in the familiar trappings of black. Another cursed
Magnate! Damn it, Pocket, I told myself, of course they’d start checking sleazy
hideouts for a missing fugitive! The soldier loomed like a ghoul, his face
hidden behind a high, upturned collar and the low-riding brim of his helmet. I
watched only a moment further, and as he took three more steps, it became clear
that he was indeed watching me. I sprang from my seat, wove my way through the
sordid crowd, and darted out of the Gutsplitter as fast as my clanging boots
could move me.

I looked for a
subtle escape route. When I found none, I just ran, huffing and wheezing my way
down the middle of the street. I didn't get very far very quickly. My body was
exhausted following an inadequate night's sleep and, let's be honest, perpetual
fatigue over the previous weeks. My pace was soon a wobbly stroll, my feet
dragging in the earth. It wasn't long before I could see that I was being
followed. The Magnate stood behind me in the distance, one hand resting on the
strap his weapon hung from, and the other holding what looked like a stack of
papers tied with string. I made myself run, my chest burning like fire. I squeezed
between two neighboring buildings and moved desperately down the crevice until
I came to a dead end. A tall fence blocked my further escape. I punched
furiously at it, cursing my luck. Turning back, as expected, I found the
Magnate in pursuit, his rifle leveled on me as he came at his captive.

No, I thought. Not
like this. After all that has happened, all I have endured, it can't end like
this.

Pushing my tired
back to the wall, I held my hands up in surrender. The soldier neared, making
crunching noises with his polished boots. Without word or expression, I slid
down to the ground and awaited seizure or execution.

“Pocket,” the
Magnate said, standing before me.

“That's right,” I
said, eyes cast to the ground. “Will Pocket. It's me. I won't put up a fight.
But if you're going to shoot me, can I have a moment to come up with some
decent final words?”

“I outta shoot
you, all right!” the man grumbled. “Leaving me behind like that! What in God's
name were you thinking?!?”

My head shot up,
unable to believe what I had just sorted out. Quickly, I stood up and pulled
the low-hanging helmet from the Magnate's head.

Gren Spader's
usual, irritated expression stared back at me.

“You're...you're
alive!” I gasped, unsure if I should cheer or scream.

“Don't change the
subject!” Gren spouted. “What were you thinking?!? There I was, down on my
back, and you're nowhere to be—hey!”

I had grabbed him
by the shoulder and hugged the noisy lout, laughing hysterically as I did. The
Half-Luck, I realized, was also strapped to his back. It swayed as I took hold
of my friend.

“Yeah, yeah, glad
to see you too,” he muttered. “Now let go of me. I'm not through being angry.”

“How?!?” I asked,
emotionally delirious by that point. “How, Gren? How did you escape from those
men? They had you covered!”

“Oh, I know! I was
there! I'm surprised you noticed, though. I thought you were too busy running
off without me!”

“I panicked! I'm
sorry, but I'll remind you that storming the firing squad was
your
idea!”

“Well, I wasn't
planning on being thrown out on my...look, it's not important. We're both
alive.”

“Oh, so now the
great angry Spader has a sense of scope! When'd this—”

“We are both
alive,
Pocket. Let's shut up and leave it at that.”

“Right,” I nodded.
“Again, I can't believe you walked away from that.”

“Well, they didn't
think I did.”

“What?”

“The kick from the
rifle, the drop to the ground, it slammed into me pretty hard. Got a little
blood in the dirt.”

“Jesus, Gren...”

“I'm fine. Just a
minor scratch. But at that moment, those idiots raced me, screaming 'he's down,
he's down,' and I decided to go with it and play dead, hoping the bullet holes
in my shirt and the red splatter around me might buy a few moments to think.”

“I take it that it
did.”

“Fortunately. I'm
sure that they would've inspected me closer, see if I was breathing at all, but
they seemed more concerned with finding you and making your corpse look like
mine.”

“That’s right, I
remember. They took off after me.”

“Right into the
woods. Didn't they catch up to you?”

“You think I'd be
here if they did?”

“Good point.
Anyhow, they left only one clown behind to take care of what they thought was
my remains. First thing the bastard did was go for my gun. When he grabbed the
stock, I grabbed the barrel. The surprise caught him for a moment, and I
smacked the thing up and at his jaw. He dropped the Half-Luck and hobbled back,
swearing and holding his bleeding mouth. Cursing and screaming, he went for his
pistol, but by that point I already had my weapon back and aimed between his
stupid, glassy eyes. I took his gun, his uniform, and got the hell out of there
before his friends got back to finish me off. You impressed?”

I ignored the
request for praise. “But...the paper. News said you were shot dead.”

He grinned. “Did
it? Good.” I scratched my ear at him and he explained. “You think I don't have
any connections in this city, Pocket? Think a guy like me can't fake a death
story if he needed to?”

“So...you're
connected to the printing industry? The journalists?”

“Of course not.
Don't be stupid. I'm not
that
connected.”

“But you said—”

“I play cards with
a guy who works in a printing factory, operates the press. As luck had it, the
slob's lousy at poker.”

“So?”

“So, he’s owed me
a large number for a long time. I tracked him down and made him a deal to pay
me in a favor instead. You know, go to work, change a few letters in the press
while no one’s looking.”

“That’s a lot of
letters,” I commented. “Just how much did he owe you?”

“Enough,” Gren
said. “Let’s leave it at that.”

“Sure, but…come
on, Gren. I know you needed that money.”

“Eh, priorities.
Besides, thanks to the heist, I’m not walking around completely broke for a
change.”

“If you say.” Then
something struck me. “Wait. The Magnate you stole your disguise from. Is he
dead?”

“Of course not. I
don’t need any unnecessary blood on my hands. Besides, my scattergun was still
jammed from the misfire. He didn’t realize that though, thankfully.”

“So what did you
do with him?”

“Just what I said.
Took what he had and left him behind. He had a pair of handcuffs, so I chained
his arms around a post and got the hell away from the scene. Why?”

“I’m sure he’s
been found by now and reported that you’re still alive. That fake headline’s
not going to fool the monarchy.”

“Yeah, but it’ll
fool everyone else long enough for us to slip away. In theory, of course.”

“Right. Well, at
any rate, we need to get out of the open before a real soldier comes along and
finds us. Follow me. I’ve got a room nearby and it’s pretty secluded.”

“Wait, wait,” Gren
countered, holding up the stack of papers in his possession. “Aren’t you even
gunna take a look at this?”

“We need to get
hidden. Why, what is it?”

“I thought it was
yours. The man at the Gutsplitter said you asked—”

“It was a
misunderstanding, that’s all. I said ‘Foxley’ and he…it’s not important. That
doesn’t belong to me, so just leave it behind and let’s go.”

Gren just stood
there gawking, completely bewildered.

“What?” I exhaled.
“What’s the problem?”

“You’re…you’re
serious? You didn’t know anything about this?”

“How could I? I’ve
been running for my bloody life every waking moment! You know that!”

“But…that’s
impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because…this is
meant for you.”

“What are you
talking about?”

Nervously, he
handed me the bundle. “Just look,” he whispered.

I held the papers
tightly, and as I read what was there, I felt the winds of a thousand winters
punched out of me. “No…” I trembled. “How?”

The manuscript
that sat in my palms was topped with a front page, containing only a simple
title written across the center in precise, curvy letters.

“To the One Who Will Awaken Me:

The Collected Diary of the Watchmaker's Doll”

“You’re joking.”

“No, Alan.”

“You’re
joking!
”

“I’m not.”

“But, but…
how?!?
”

“That’s pretty
much how I reacted.”

“But…wait, no! How
did…I mean…all you did was listen to a dream, and—“

“I know.”

“And
Foxley?!?
What
did that even mean to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Then…then none of
this makes any sense!”

“Calm down, Alan.”

“But—“

“I’ll explain.”

“Sigh…yes. Please
do.”

“All right. So
after I overcame my initial shock, Gren and I retired to my rented room, where
we warmed up and I gathered enough stomach to sit down and read, believe it or
not, an actual diary the Doll had been keeping in secret.”

“In secret? You
mean while she was traveling with you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you never
knew?”

“Never.”

“Unbelievable. So
what did she write?”

“I’ll let her tell
you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve got it.
Right here in my coat. See?”

“I’ll be damned.
Hmmm, cute handwriting.”

“I thought so too.
So how about it, Alan? Want me to read a bit?”

“Would she mind?
Diaries are usually pretty personal things, you know.”

“True. But I’d
like to think she’d approve.”

“Then by all
means, Pocket, go ahead.”

“Very well. What
follows are the captured thoughts of a girl, no, an extraordinary young—“