The Clockwork Man

by William Jablonsky

  But one thing is clear to me, after this evening: I have done myself a great disservice in choosing not to trust in the people of this new world. Despite the depravity of my circumstances, Herr Greeley and Sister Judith have reminded me that there are still good people here—strangers to selfishness and betrayal—and for that, I am most grateful.

  11 June 2005

  8:38 p.m.

  It has been decided.

  Tomorrow, under cover of darkness, Herr Greeley and I will make our way to Sister Judith’s shelter, and, if her invitation was indeed sincere, I shall find sanctuary there and serve her to the best of my ability. It is not the fate I would have imagined upon waking in this place, but it is a good and respectable one; safe, hidden, I shall spend my time serving those in the direst need. Though I have but memories to inform my judgment, I believe the Master and Giselle would have been pleased—the only criteria that matter to me.

  The decision was not an easy one; Herr Greeley and I spentmuch of the day debating the merits of putting my fate in Sister Judith’s hands. Ultimately, Greeley emerged victorious, simply by insisting with the utmost sincerity, “She a good woman.”

  I have learned to trust in his counsel, and I very much desire a place of safety where I will no longer have to cling to the shadows.

  In the meantime we had but one piece of business to attend to. I still had in my possession three books taken, under less than legitimate means, from the public library, and so at this moment Greeley is returning them. Slipped between the pages of the book on Frankfurt’s history is a note, written on a page torn from this very tome, in which I have thanked the staff for the use of their books, and apologized to the poor man I assaulted upon my hasty exit. (While necessary, I still believe my behavior was ungentlemanly, and I would yet make it right.) Perhaps he has forgotten me already, or will simply see my note as an odd joke, but I offer it anyway.

  When Greeley returns I will help him pack up his few loose belongings, and he will then escort me to the shelter, where, for the first time since my abrupt and unexpected awakening, I will know peace.

  13 June 2005

  3:37 a.m.

  With some relief, I can now report that Sister Judith was pleased to see me upon our arrival, embracing me gently and saying she knew God would guide me here. (Because of my spiritual education, I do not believe God has played a part in it, but if at any point in my travels He has assisted me, I extend my most profound thanks.)

  As she instructed, we came to the rear entrance and enteredthrough the large bay reserved for shipping trucks. She advised me to restrict my movements to the kitchen and storage rooms for now; as the days pass, she will gradually move me out front, so as to avoid frightening those who stay here.

  After Greeley assumed a bed in the main shelter area, I insisted on helping Sister Judith sort napkins and breakfast items for the next day. Once she had retired and all was quiet but for a few snores, I crept out as quietly as possible to view my new home.

  The shelter is deceptively large, with yellow plaster walls covered in various religiously inspired paintings on one end of the main hall, and a large crucifix on the opposite. There are cots and gurneys lined up on either side and throughout the middle, gathered tightly enough that it would be difficult for me to walk between them. In the background is the low whisper of the two small air conditioners in the windows, which Sister Judith says were a gift from one of her patrons.

  There is a small supply closet near the rear entrance, which she has allowed me to adopt as my private quarters after lights-out. Here, she says, I may read or write or do whatever I wish. It has been a long time since I sat in my small nook in the Master’s library, and I have missed my private space ever since Herr Greeley entered my existence.

  My hands are not idle, however; in the past twenty-six hours I have mixed soup in large vats, ladled it into small bowls which Sister Judith then delivered to her charges, cleaned the floors in the back rooms, and (albeit stealthily) carried heavy bags of refuse out to the dumpster. I shall repay her kindness in any way I can, and no task is too great.

  Moreover, I am not bereft of company. While Greeley left early yesterday morning to procure more necessities, he returned thatevening, arriving at the rear entrance to see how I have settled and to tell me about his panhandling adventures in the city. He has promised me a late-night outing in the near future, to see a marvelous place called Miller Park, the roof of which opens and closes like the shell of a titanic beetle. I look forward to this, and the other wonders of this city I have yet to see.

  As the reader might assume, however, it appears my journey has come to an end. After some consideration, I believe I will pass this journal on to Sister Judith. She is on good terms with several business leaders in the community, as well as many learned gentlemen at a place called “Marquette,” a Catholic university several blocks from here. Perhaps she will find a sympathetic and obliging ear, someone who will appreciate this volume for whatever scientific merits it possesses, and who, more importantly, will recognize its validity. They may profit from it if they wish; my only concern is the restoration of the Master’s reputation in the eyes of history. But this can wait, for now. I hesitate to impose upon her kindness any further, and wish only to settle into my new life, whose rewards I am only beginning to realize.

  16 June 2005

  12:48 a.m.

  It is with some urgency that I write these lines, but the possibility exists that my story might soon come to a sudden, violent close. As with so many decisions I have faced since arriving in this place, it would seem the one preoccupying my thoughts since my unfortunate encounter with the florist has been made for me.

  Greeley and I are currently in a stolen automobile, which he procured from the parking lot of a loft complex three blocks from the shelter. I must also admit some complicity in the theft, having smashed out the window to give him access. Though such unseemly activities are contrary to my nature, there was no other way—neither Sister Judith nor her assistant owns a vehicle, and for obvious reasons we cannot take public transit. We are, as I record this account, traveling at a very high speed over a long bridge with high yellow arches which passes near the lake, our destination a flower shop in a neighboring district to the south of the city. Our time grows very short, and I must rush to complete these lines before we reach it. I would not take the time to do so, but if my previous encounter with the spectacled man and his two accomplices is any indication, I may be speeding toward my doom.

  Exactly twenty-two minutes ago, as Greeley slept in the main shelter and I sat in my storage closet, examining the King James Bible Sister Judith graciously loaned me, there came a loud and desperate knock on the shelter door and a voice calling for Greeley. I glanced around the corner and saw Vernon’s face in the window, his cheeks moistened by tears, small streaks of blood coming from the corner of his mouth and his right eye.

  Greeley rose quickly to help him inside, and the others who had been sleeping there slid from their cots to tend to him. Sobbing and gasping for breath—having run thirteen blocks to reach us—he told us that Carrie had been abducted, less than an hour before. Greeley asked him for a description of her abductors: three men, one of them exceptionally large and covered with tattoos, in a florist’s van. A man with glasses approached her bearing a flower, but she hadremembered my warning and attempted to run. Unfortunately, they had laid a careful trap.

  Vernon, who had been relieving himself during the assault, had attempted to stop them and been cruelly beaten—perhaps they saw no point in killing him, as his account to the authorities would hold no weight. He begged Greeley for help—if anyone could get her back, he said, the two of us could. (Some of the dozen regular inhabitants of this shelter seemed confused, as they had not yet laid eyes upon me.)

  Greeley seemed to falter for a moment, appearing slightly dizzy, his hand over his mouth. “Oh no,” he said. “Carrie …” Three seconds later, Sister Judith appeared from her private study in back, pulling
on her habit. She seemed irritated at first, but when she saw Vernon’s miserable state, she rushed to his aid.

  “My word,” she said. “What happened?” She ordered someone to grab the first-aid kit from her study, and she knelt over him, holding his hand.

  When Vernon reiterated his story, however, she rose to her feet. “Do you know where they went?”

  “No,” Vernon muttered through bloody lips.

  “Did you get the license plate number? An address on the van? Anything?”

  “Just a number,” he said. “A phone number. I think I remember it, though: 555-2212, I think.”

  “I hope it’s enough,” Sister Judith said. “I’ll call an ambulance for you, then the police. Are you sure that number is right?”

  “I think so,” Vernon said, attempting to pull himself to his feet, but failing due to his injuries. “I got to go help her.”

  Greeley turned to Sister Judith. “Call that number. Might be an answering machine. If there is, we can find her.”

  She shook her head. “No. We should leave this to the police.” She raised the telephone receiver and began to dial, but Greeley reached out and took hold of her hand.

  “They’ll never get there in time,” he said. He took the receiver from her and dialed the number Vernon had seen. He listened for a moment, then pressed a button to hang up. “Lakeside Floral,” he repeated, “1512 Superior Street.”

  “That’s Bay View,” she said. “It’s about ten miles from here. Can you make it?”

  “Let ol’ Greeley worry about that.” Then, looking toward my closet in back, he called out, “Let’s go.”

  Several guests turned to see whom he was talking to. Finally, as there was no other choice, I emerged. Everyone in the shelter immediately stopped their chatter to stare. “We will find her,” I said, breaking the strange silence in the room.

  Greeley stared into my remaining eye for a moment. “You sure you wanna do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then.” He snatched up a thick, long-handled lantern from the corner, and we headed off into the night. I paused but once, to take Sister Judith’s hand and thank her for her kindness, lest I be denied another chance. Greeley instructed Sister Judith to call the police, but as the florist and his companions have proven deadly, and because of Carrie’s transient status, her rescue is in our hands. We walked to the nearest vehicle, whereupon Greeley instructed me to smash in the windshield while he hotwired the vehicle. This timethere was no fumbling, no shaking in his hands, no irritated grumbling. In three minutes, seven seconds he was finished, and we were on our way.

  Greeley claims to know the approximate location of the flower shop; we can only hope they have not chosen another place to commit their barbarism. When we reach it, I will insist he remain in the car, so as not to risk himself; even in my present condition I am more capable of withstanding their assault, and would not see him come to harm.

  For now I shall merely trust in the Master’s many gifts to me; and though I am not as sturdy or perfect as in my early days, I will not allow myself to fail again.

  V

  REUNIONS

  24 June 2005

  5:34 p.m.

  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 s
tealth.)

  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.