Clocktower

by C. A. Valentine

  Mari nodded shortly and looked back down at a small puddle that had started to form between them.

  “What about Mei Goto? When I first saw you from her window, she was pointing right at you.” Johnny motioned his head toward the wall behind him.

  Mari put her hand on the wall and closed her eyes. “She can, but it hurts her. Trying to communicate with her is like trying to pour water in a vase full of cracks. It all just falls away.”

  Fresh tears began to well up in her eyes, but she wiped them away as they took shape. “I don’t know what to do.” Her voice quivered. “I don’t want to live like this, please.” She grabbed Johnny’s hand and held it in her own. “Help me, Mr. Tokisaki, please. Help me.”

  Johnny squeezed her hand, affirming her existence. “Look, kid,” he said. “I’m here on a job. And to be honest, I’m starting to think that my employer might not have my best interests at heart.”

  She squeezed his hand tighter. “I know. You’re here to find out about me and Ayano, aren’t you? About why we killed each other? I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Please, Mr. Tokisaki.” She buried her head in his chest and wept. “I’m begging you.”

  The storm above them had surged to its zenith. Heavy drops of rain slapped against the ground and seeped through the bottom of his well-worn shoes. His socks had begun to soak up the cold moisture, and his soles were starting to numb. Johnny closed his eyes and tried to conjure the figure of his wife once more.

  “What would you do?” he asked her beclouded face. But she offered nothing in response, and her form turned to dust before him. He was alone, posing questions to the emptiness of his own self.

  When he opened his eyes, Mari was gone. The only thing left of her presence was the stain of hot tears upon his coat.

  *

  Johnny was completely soaked through by the time he returned to his stolen car. He removed his jacket and threw it across the back seat, then took his place at the wheel and turned the ignition. For several minutes, he left the car in park and rubbed his eyes vigorously. There was a swelling pain that pressed against his skull. He sought relief from the last cigarette in his pocket, but his hands shook as he held the lighter to his mouth, and after a few failed attempts he threw the lighter down by Mutsumi Baba’s mobile phone and tossed the cigarette aside.

  “Think, Johnny. Think,” he said to himself. Ayano and Yama had gone to the school, but attempting to follow them there now would certainly be folly. Returning to the cathedral, too, was out of the question. His exit was surely noticed by nearly every attendee, not the least of whom were the Indices themselves.

  He looked down at his Casio and noted the time. Without any clear course of action, he set the car in drive and made a U-turn back toward the hotel.

  The rain continued its relentless downpour for the duration of his journey. He parked the car at the front of the hotel, leaving the keys in the ignition before making the short sprint to the front doors of The Wheel Bridge.

  “Mr. Tokisaki,” the concierge greeted him as he emerged from the entryway. “Your guest has arrived. She is waiting for you in your room,” he said with a courteous bow.

  Johnny had no need to ask who it was. It could only be Saito, he was certain. He thanked the concierge and proceeded to the elevator, where he began stripping off his jacket and tie, leaving his holstered revolver naked to the world. He didn’t care. He was angry and itching for a fight.

  The elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened to a fourth floor devoid of potential adversaries. His shoes, still a swamp on the inside, leaked out water with every step, and by the time he got to his bedroom door he could no longer bear it. He kicked off his shoes and peeled back his socks, then picked them up and let himself inside.

  “You could have called,” Johnny said as he closed the door behind him. Mrs. Saito was standing at the window, watching the storm. She wore an elegant black business suit, with a tight, knee-length skirt and black pantyhose. She had the same emerald necklace that she had worn when they first met, and she ran trepid fingers across it.

  “It would have been easier,” Johnny continued. He threw his coat and tie down onto a waiting seat and dropped his shoes on the floor. Cracks had begun to form along his cool exterior, and her silence only drove the needle in his nerves deeper.

  “So, what game were you playing at?” he spat as he removed his holster and threw it on his bed. “You lured me here, got me going up and down town interrogating half of Sonnerie about a crime that never happened. Who fucked up? Were you keeping Ayano in a cage somewhere? Hoping to extort her father for money or power?” he asked, beginning to approach her. “Will Mari be making an appearance next, hm? ‘Surprise, Johnny! We fooled you!’” he mocked. He was standing only a few short feet behind her now, but she kept her gaze fixed on the storm.

  “Or maybe it was something more sinister. Were you there when they were experimenting on them? As they meshed gear and cog with flesh and bone? Your shinsei dasshinki?” He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, but she made almost no reaction to his assault. “You people are the real criminals here. Playing God with your gadgets. I bet these girls killing each other must have been a thrill for you all.”

  Mutsubi Baba had told him Ayano’s appearance had been a message. Something that his employer would not have expected. Looking at Saito now, he almost pitied her. On one level, he understood that she had likely been deceived, but Johnny was not functioning on that level. His anger tightened inside his chest, its gravity pulling hot blood into his heart.

  “They gave one girl an escapement, and let the other escape.” Johnny stared Saito down. “That’s what happened, isn’t it. Ayano’s took, Mari’s didn’t. If they had both worked, then something could have been done to cover up this whole affair. But something went awry,” he said, squeezing her arms and shaking her. “Say something!” he demanded. “Tell me what you did to them!”

  “I did nothing,” she said in barely a whisper. Her deadened eyes suddenly widened, as if she had just been jolted from a dream.

  “You lie,” he said.

  “I’ve spoken nothing but the truth!” she yelled, pushing Johnny away. “Which is more than what I can say about you, Mr. Tokisaki.”

  “Don’t think for a second you can . . .” he started.

  “Oh I can, and I will. You went to the Goto house on Monday, didn’t you? You spoke to Mei and her sister without consulting me first. You broke our deal, Mr. Tokisaki, not I. Not I!” she insisted.

  “And what exactly would have you done to her if I had requested it, hm? If you had seen the state she was in beforehand, you would’ve denied me permission to speak with her outright.”

  “It was not your decision to make,” she said.

  “Just what the hell kind of job did you hire me for? An investigation where I can only talk to select people and ask them select questions about select topics? If you wanted an inquisition, you could have well enough conducted it without my help. No, you wanted me to do the things you can’t do. To reach where you can’t reach. To ask what you can’t ask. So if I’ve offended your delicate Sonnerie sensibility by doing my damn job, then so be it.”

  Her face flushed with blood, and she threw out her right hand to slap him. But Johnny was quicker. He grabbed her arm before it struck and pushed her away. In his own anger, he raised his hand to strike her, but the urge passed as quickly as it had come, and he lowered his arm back down to his side.

  He wanted nothing more than to return to the car that he had stolen and drive it straight back to his office in Los Angeles. To go back to spying on lecherous husbands for their wives, or help their kids get out of whatever trouble they had fallen into. The world he knew. A world where if words didn’t work, he was free to pursue other methods.

  But the hot tears Mari had left on his coat seeped through the fabric and into his skin, where it pooled in his veins, circulating
a fevered purpose to his heart. He reached into his pocket and took out the mobile phone Mutsumi Baba had given him, and tossed it on the bed next to Mrs. Saito.

  “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the phone and flipping it open.

  “Something I got from one of your cohorts upstairs,” he said, taking a seat at the desk by the window.”

  “Baba?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “What does she want?”

  “An exchange. I do her a favor, she gives me Mari’s diary,” he said, taking out a cigarette and giving it a light.

  “You mentioned nothing of this,” she said, setting the phone back down.

  “That’s because I haven’t accepted yet,” he said, blowing out gray smoke from his lungs.

  Mrs. Saito stood up and began to pace back and forth, her hand tugging on the chain of her necklace as she did. Johnny watched her for a few seconds before she stopped and turned to him.

  “She’ll want more,” she said. “Mutsumi Baba is intelligent and cunning. They say that she’s the only Index that not even the First would challenge.”

  “You think she’ll renege on our agreement?” Johnny asked

  “Not as long as you have something she doesn’t.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Knowledge,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Mutsumi Baba prizes knowledge above all else. She has a passionate hate for what she doesn’t know, and right now, you are a veritable font of information that she would love nothing more than to possess.”

  “About who you are.” He leaned back.

  Mrs. Saito nodded. “She’ll try to find some way to keep you on her hook,” she said. “And I’m not sure I can pull you back if she starts reeling you in.”

  Johnny exhaled deeply and looked up at her. “She’s not your only problem,” he said.

  “Yes, Ayano . . .”

  “No,” he interrupted. “Mari. She’s not dead.”

  Mrs. Saito tilted her head, puzzled. “You told me you saw her body in person.”

  “I did.” He raised his hand up and looked at it. “I touched her. Felt her cold, lifeless flesh against my own. Her body is in locker number 006 at the morgue. I am certain of this. But I am also certain that, not half an hour ago, she threw herself upon my chest and begged me for help.”

  Johnny put out his cigarette and stood up. “And I intend to help that girl, Mrs. Saito,” he said, looking her square in the eyes. “No matter where—or when—she may be.”

  Twentieth Movement

  Omelet

  It was half-past ten when Saito took her leave. Johnny watched from his window as she scolded the driver who had done her the dishonor of having his vehicle stolen. After a succinct verbal thrashing, she took a seat in the back and the car sped away. The early-morning downpour had begun to lighten somewhat, though not enough that Johnny wanted to venture outside again.

  He set out a fresh suit and undergarments on the bed before taking a long, hot shower. The bruises on his face and body from his altercation at the nightclub had started to turn shades of brown and purple, and even the gentle stream of hot water from the showerhead caused him to wince in discomfort. Despite this, he spent the better part of twenty minutes cleaning and recleaning his extremities until he finally emerged, satisfied.

  The rain had lightened to a soft drizzle when he set about dressing himself again. Once in a while, he would spot a passing car or two, but there were no mothers out walking their toddlers today. As he stood observing, the clocktower began to ring, and by the eleventh bell the rain had stopped completely, leaving the world of Sonnerie damp and gray and smelling of wet concrete.

  After putting on the last of his clothes, he retrieved his revolver from the bed and gave the cylinder a few spins before holstering it and giving himself one final check in the mirror.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked his reflection. He studied himself for a moment, then watched his right hand move up and over his heart, the spot where Mari’s movement had been gruesomely lodged. He left it there for a few moments until he was convinced of his own humanity, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out Mrs. Saito’s wristwatch.

  It was unnaturally heavy for its size. Though its color was that of stainless steel, it was far too substantial, leading Johnny to wonder if the entire thing had been cast in platinum. Johnny ran his fingers along the bracelet, then up to the crown which he gently pulled open. He wound the piece until the second hand started its first revolution around the dial.

  Here, too, he was impressed. There was no hint of stuttering or slowdown—just one perpetual motion that made its way forward. His own Rolex had been broken far too many years now, and he had forgotten the simple pleasure of winding a watch and setting the time every morning.

  After pushing the crown closed again, he flipped it over and found something he hadn’t noticed before. An engraving, tiny and barely legible. Johnny tried to tilt the watch into the light so as to read the characters, and after a few tries, his eyes adjusted and words began to form in his mouth.

  “To my darling Aiko on our wedding day, 12/12/70”

  “Aiko,” he read the name aloud. “Hmm.”

  Johnny turned the timepiece over again, suddenly aware that his own watch was still in Pinion’s shop. He took another look outside to check the weather, then stood up and reached for his coat. Instinctively, he put his hand on the telephone to dial for a ride, but thought better of insisting upon Saito’s driver so soon after relieving him of his vehicle.

  The elevator was waiting for him when he got to it, and he rode it down to the second floor cafe. As the door opened, he was immediately greeted by a lively group coming in and out of the dining area. Most of them still had on the equivalent of their Sunday best, and the air was full of the scent of pancakes and the sound of silverware clanking against fine china.

  Not wanting to waste any time waiting, he maneuvered through the crowd until he found an empty seat at the counter next to a portly gentleman in his mid-fifties.

  “May I?” he asked, motioning to the chair.

  The man grunted in affirmation. His plate was empty, and he was nursing a half-full cup of coffee while reading from a passport-sized booklet with bold text and handwritten notes in the margins. Johnny took his seat and waved down the nearest waiter. He glanced at the man next to him again, then ordered his own black coffee and a three-egg omelet.

  The waiter scribbled down his order before disappearing and reappearing with Johnny’s coffee. It was scalding hot. Johnny picked up the mug and blew on it a few times, then took the smallest sip he could before setting it back down.

  The man next to him turned to the next page of his little book, humming as he did. Whatever he was reading, he was completely absorbed in it. He kept a finger on the page, and followed every word with it. Occasionally he would stop and pick up a ballpoint pen he kept next to his empty plate and circle a word, or make another note in the margin.

  “Can you believe what happened this morning?” a woman asked from the table behind him. Johnny turned around to see a group of three middle-aged women seated around a small booth.

  “What happened?” the oldest-looking of the three asked, blinking her eyes in anticipation.

  “Oh, dear! Didn’t you see the man in the back stand up during the middle of the sermon and rush out?”

  “Someone ran out in the middle of the Grand Luminary’s sermon? My word. Who was it? Did you get a good look at him?”

  The main gossiper shook her head. “It was over so quickly. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but I’d wager someone must have.”

  “Whoever it was, he’ll be in for it. That’s an infraction at the very least, right? What could he have been thinking?” the third woman asked.

  “Yumi, did you see him?” The older woman leaned in.

  “No,” she
said. “But I saw who he was sitting next to. That fat lout Nakahara. It’s no wonder that mystery man got up and left. He probably couldn’t take the stench!”

  The three women cackled like a coven of witches for several seconds before a young waitress appeared and began setting their food in front of them. Johnny turned back around, his ears red. He suddenly felt an invisible pressure from the eyes of every human in the room upon him.

  “Damn clucking hens,” the portly gentleman to his right muttered.

  “Excuse me?” Johnny asked.

  “Oh,” the man looked up and gave Johnny a smile full of crooked teeth. “Some people would be better off reading from the good scripture than worrying about who did what during the sermon,” he said, tapping at the pocketbook on the table.

  “I see by your pin that you’re an honored guest here in Sonnerie,” he continued. “What brings you to our lovely town?”

  “Oh, I’m here working with Dr. Tonimura over at the hospital. We’re studying a recent uptick in the flu,” Johnny said. It was the first and most appropriate lie that came into his head, and since he had already played the part of Dr. Tokisaki once, he figured he could do it again.

  “Well that’s just fine,” he said. “It’s good to know that there are people on the outside that can be trusted and relied upon. How about you? You ever think about making the move here permanently? It’s a fine town.”

  Johnny leaned back, startled at the notion. “I wasn’t even aware that one could immigrate to Sonnerie,” he said.

  “Can if you got the blood, and by the looks of you that isn’t an issue. Born here?”

  “No,” Johnny shook his head. “Japan. Kyoto.”

  “Kyoto’s a fine city too. I do miss the old country sometimes,” he said, reaching over for his coffee.

  “Can you tell me more about immigrating to Sonnerie? Is it common?”

  “Common? No, not these days. Not anymore. Back in the sixties and seventies, we had all sorts of new arrivals. Most were from the camps. Eager to have some land of their own outside of a government that’d just as soon lock ’em up for being who they were. Sonnerie was kept pretty hush-hush from most of the United States, so getting the word out to people and establishing a proper city took a long time.”