“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.
The door itself—a thin, pliable metal—was no obstacle, and I forced it open easily, pushing aside the wooden table placed behindit as a barricade. I spotted him at the far end of the greenhouse, huddled behind a bench lined with rows of marigolds. He was clutching what appeared to be a length of pipe, fear in his eyes, poised to strike at me. I watched him for a moment, my ticking echoing over the trickling water.
“I can see you,” I said. “The police will be here soon.”
“Whatever you are, keep away from me!” he said.
>
“You should surrender now.” I walked toward him.
This must have caused him to panic, for the florist screamed and rushed at me with the pipe, swinging it clumsily at my head. My mobility limited as it was, I could not entirely avoid the blow, and it caught me across the chest, briefly throwing me off-balance. (He did not have the strength of his larger companion, so I incurred no further injury.) Having swung the pipe so hard, and his injured leg unable to support his weight, the florist collided with me, and we toppled together across a wooden table full of petunias, displacing many, their planters shattering on the floor all around us. I grasped at his leg, but he was quicker than I; with a loud and pained grunt he crawled through the terra cotta shards and ran for the rear exit.
It took me nearly ten seconds to rise from the floor. Even under ideal conditions this has never been an easy task, but with my damaged arm and dented side, it was all the more difficult. Were it not for his injury the florist would likely have eluded me, but when I emerged from the greenhouse he was still hobbling awkwardly toward the van, presumably to make his getaway. I gained ground rapidly as he fumbled the keys, once dropping them on the grassy lot. Finally, he managed to unlock the door and pull himself inside.
The engine began to chug to life. Before the vehicle could roll away, I took hold of the front end and lifted it a few feet off the ground. I should note that this was unwise—had my strength ebbed in the slightest, I might have been crushed under its tires. But at the time I gave no thought to avoiding injury.
The front wheels spun uselessly in empty air, spitting dust and trapped gravel from the tires. The florist looked at me through the windshield, eyes wide with terror and confusion. A shrill, wailing sound penetrated the engine hum and the sharp mechanical hiss of the suspended wheels, growing increasingly louder. I looked down the road; a long line of red and blue flashing lights, seemingly independent of any other body, was fast approaching.
It was at this moment of exertion that my internal workings began to slow, my ticking echoing in my head and chest, drowning out the wheels and engine and sirens. I did not have long, and could not free my right hand to wind myself. I turned toward the shop; there was no sign of Greeley, and I assumed he was still inside with Carrie. As my vision blurred and the sounds began to blend together into an incoherent mess, I became aware of my left arm buckling, one of the castoff screws stressed to breaking.
I saw no other choice; with my remaining strength I tilted the van to the left and toppled it onto its side, its right wheels boring impotently into the grass. The florist fell out of his seat and toppled to the passenger side of the cabin, his head striking the window pressed against the ground. In the front window I saw myself silhouetted against the blue and red light, heard the sirens all around me, so loud my whole frame shuddered. I turned to surrender, but all went dark and silent, and I felt my body tilt earthward, striking the hard ground. Then, nothing. I awoke in a windowless room with walls of white plaster, lying on a metal table, a strong hand reaching into the flap at my hip and turning my winding key.
I heard an unfamiliar man’s voice. “Is that it?”
“That’s what he said to do.”
As soon as I was able, I sat up, turning to see several men and women—some in dark blue uniforms, some in suits, all strangers—jump back, startled.
“Hello,” I said, but the only reply came in anxious, silent staring. After two full minutes I attempted to ease the discomfort by asking the time. (As my internal clock had stopped when I wound down, I was also curious as to how much time had passed.)
Finally the man I came to know as Sergeant Albright approached me, cautiously at first. He reached out and, with a single finger, touched the tamped-down suede of my forehead. “So it’s true,” he said. “Amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said, causing him to quickly draw his hand away.
I apologized for frightening him, and asked after Herr Greeley and Carrie. He informed me that Carrie was recovering in a local hospital, and that Greeley (whose first name, it was revealed to me, is Marvell) was in protective custody for questioning.
At first I expressed some concern that he might be blamed for the florist’s crimes due to his race, but the sergeant assured me that the culprits were in custody.
“You and your friend saved the girl’s life,” he said. I offered my testimony, having witnessed two of the men’s crimes; Herr Albright indicated to me that he was certain his colleagues had morethan enough evidence to convict the florist and his accomplices. “Besides,” he said, “we don’t even know what you are.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and drew out this journal. “Perhaps this will explain,” I said. Sergeant Albright reached out and gently took it from my hand. I should here indicate that I was not eager to share its contents, considering that some of the passages (particularly those dealing with Giselle and Herr Gruber) are of a private and revealing nature, and I have no wish to darken their memory. Nevertheless, I believed this account provided a much better understanding of my nature and history than I could have given at that moment. Also, while never intended for that purpose, I hoped it might prevent my destruction, should it find a sympathetic eye. I do not believe either would have minded in that case.
“Thank you,” he said. “You wrote this?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing.”
“I should like it back when you have finished,” I said. I would sooner have destroyed this volume than have it passed around as fodder for the amusement of the curious, and I remained committed to delivering it to Professor Wellesley’s successors.
“Of course.”
Soon after I was taken to the small room where I now sit, monitored by a small electric eye in the corner behind me. Herr Albright has visited me on several occasions, but has not questioned me; rather, he has simply stood by the door and watched me. He did not speak to me again until the third day, at which point he merely asked me if I needed anything. (He was surprised at my request for a can of WD-40 and a new pen, but within fifteen minutes he had delivered both.) While at first he seemed nervous in my presence, he has since begun to engage me more directly.
On the fourth day of my captivity, he entered this room carrying this very tome. I stood, out of respect.
“This is all true, then?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Even the part about the girl? Gazelle, was it?”
“Giselle,” I corrected him. “And yes.” At that moment, however, I cared very much that my diary should in no way darken her reputation. “I would appreciate it if you did not share it with too many others.”
“Not unless it’s subpoenaed.”
“How long do you intend to hold me here?”
“I don’t know. Truth is, nobody here even knows what you are, much less what to do with you.”
“I understand.”
He stared at me for several seconds. “You do, don’t you?” He set my diary on the table in front of me. “You can have this back now. We have to wait for a judge’s order before we can release you to anyone. We’ve already called two, and they thought someone was playing a joke on them.”
“I have had that reaction before.”
“I’m sure you have,” the sergeant replied. “I know that Linnhoffer fellow wants you back pretty badly. But we need a judge who’ll hear the case.”
“I would like to see Greeley,” I said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, and left me.
I must, then, accept that I will likely not know my fate until someone comes to claim me. Perhaps I will be dragged back to my storefront window in chains, or, now that I am revealed to the world, disassembled for analysis. The decision now lies in the hands of the magistrates. Until then, I will wait, and hope for the best.
25 June 2005
4:42 p.m.
This morning Sergeant Albright informed me that I had a visitor. As I expected Herr Greeley, who is oblivious to such formality, I neither rose nor attempted
to straighten my clothing. Instead, when the sergeant opened the door, Herr Linnhoffer entered. He was dressed in a gray suit and red necktie, a few wispy, dark hairs combed over his otherwise-bare scalp. I quickly stood, standing as straight as possible. Slowly, he crept toward me, and as he looked into my remaining eye he reached out carefully with his right index finger and poked at my chest.
He said nothing at first, only looked me over and smiled. “Hello, Ernst. So you’re the real thing after all.”
“Yes.”
“And you were playing possum all that time? Just standing there watching us, right under our noses?”
“Yes. I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course not,” he said, his gaze fixated on my intact eye. “In fact, I should thank you for stopping that robbery. I thought Ed was either crazy or covering for himself when he told me the story.”
“He was not,” I said, seeing my opportunity to restore Herr Czyznyk’s reputation.
Herr Linnhoffer seemed unconcerned. “So Gruber’s story was true. All of it.”
“Yes.”
A wide smile slowly spread across his face. “Guess I got my money’s worth after all.” He looked me over once more, brushed the dust off my jacket, and wiped at my damaged eye with his thumb. “You’re pretty banged up, though. Guess I’ll have to call a specialist.” He laughed, looked me in the eye again. “You’re going to make me a lot of money, my friend. People will come from all over just to see you.”
“We are going back to the store, then?” I asked. While this would not have been my first choice, as I was his legal property I felt I was honor bound to comply.
“That’s right. And after that, who knows? I could take you to Broadway. You’ll be world famous.” At this point Sergeant Albright interjected himself. “Now hold on, sir. You can’t take him yet. We need a judge’s permission to release him.” Herr Linnhoffer sighed. “Ernst is my property, Officer. Why can’t I just take him back now?”
The Clockwork Man Page 21