Clocktower

by C. A. Valentine

*

  The clocktower rang three bells by the time Johnny was able to crawl his way out the front door and onto the lawn. Everything below his waist was still an intangible mass that he could neither feel nor control, and his upper body fared little better. Fresh blood poured down the side of his face and into his right eye, and every inch he crawled, he crawled in agony.

  Halfway across the lawn, Johnny stopped, unable to bear himself any further. He buried his face into the cold, wet grass below him and waited for his heartbeat to calm. The round he had sent through Zachary Finch had attracted no attention from the neighbors. All around him were dark houses filled with the sleeping faithful of Sonnerie. Teachers. Shopkeepers. Watchmakers and wives. Heedless to the reservoir of blood that fertilized the lie of their perfect city.

  Johnny turned his head to his right, and gazed out across the skyline. At the top of it all was the clocktower. The hands of time silently marched on, cold and indifferent to the misery of the world below. Even if his death should come at this moment, the hands of the clocktower would carry on ever forward.

  With the last of his might, Johnny spat at it and reached a numb hand into his coat pocket. “Not today,” he said. “I won’t die today.”

  But the mobile phone he had carried with him had been broken under the stomping kicks of Zachary Finch. The buttons on the front panel gave no life to the machine, and after a few attempts, he gave up and let it fall to the dewy earth below.

  Time continued to tick by, but the cold and loss of blood began to take their toll. Johnny turned his head back to the clocktower, but his blurred vision could no longer make it out. He no longer knew how much time had passed. Part of him didn’t care. And at the last moment before consciousness left him, he heard the sound of a car door closing, and the distinct click-clack of a woman’s heels upon the pavement. Then, he heard nothing at all.

  Twenty-Ninth Movement

  Observatory

  “You’re back.”

  Johnny opens his eyes. He is at the hospital again. Los Angeles. Five years ago. In the endless corridor. Mari is there. She reaches up to him and rests her hand on his cheek. Every so often, a nurse or an orderly passes by, but they never seem to take notice. Johnny blinks several times, then looks down at Mari.

  “Am I dead?” he asks.

  She shakes her head. She is no longer wearing her school attire, but instead wears something wholly angelic. A sheer white kimono with gold, feather-like lines that bend upward from the bottom. “Almost,” she says. “But not quite.”

  He lifts the flowers in his hand up in front of him and stares. One in the dozen has petals that are lighter than the rest. He takes the lightest petal he can find in his hand and plucks it out, then watches as it floats down to the floor.

  “Were you ever able to give her those?” Mari asks.

  “No,” Johnny says, taking another flower petal in his fingers. “She died before I arrived. Our child died with her.”

  “I see,” Mari says. “Is that why you dream of this place?”

  Johnny shrugs and takes a seat in the middle of the hall. Mari does the same. “Some people’s eyes show them the future,” he says. “Some show them the world as it is now, unfettered by wishful fancy. But that day I lost my family, I think I lost one of my eyes with them.”

  Mari puts her hands on her knees and says nothing.

  “This one,” Johnny continues, pointing at his right eye. “This one still sees what’s in front of me. Not very far, but a little. But this one”—he points at his left eye—“this one sees into the past now. Into all the things that were. Into all the things that could have been. It sees this place, and all the people that were in it. It sees you, and it sees me. But nothing else. Nothing.”

  “I think I understand,” Mari says. “Since I died, it feels like I’ve been caught at the center of a maelstrom. I see people. Real, living people as they get sucked in, but no matter how I yell, they don’t change course.”

  Johnny looks at her quizzically. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  Mari clears her throat and stands. “You said that in your dreams, you walk down this hall that never ends.”

  Johnny lifts himself up and gives her a nod.

  “You hear the screams of a newborn child, but can never get to it. The child is infinitely far away.”

  “That’s right,” Johnny says.

  “But you’re in a hospital,” Mari says. “There are so many other paths you might take. So many other halls. So many doors leading to rooms not yet explored.”

  She motions to one such door directly next to them. “What possesses you so,” she asks, “to walk this unending path, when so many others are open to you?”

  Johnny tilts his head. The screaming of the child seems much closer than before. But something is wrong. A fear is welling in him that stays his hand.

  “What’s in there?” he asks.

  “It’s your dream, Mr. Tokisaki,” she says. “You decide what’s behind that door, no one else.”

  Johnny takes a step forward and puts his hand on the brass knob. When he does so, the staff surrounding him stop and turn toward him. They stare at him in utter silence, waiting, watching.

  Johnny turns the knob, and slowly pushes the door open. In front of him is an ordinary room, with a single bed. The room is impossibly bright, though there are no windows he can see. He takes a single step forward. Someone is in the bed. A woman, her hand is outstretched at something in front of her, but she cannot reach it. She is frozen in time, unable to move.

  Johnny takes another step forward. The features of the woman become clearer. Her hair, her eyes, her lips, her nose.

  She is Ayano Hanekawa.

  Johnny’s heartbeat quickens. The expression on her face is one of sadness, of loss. He follows the direction she is motioning toward to the end of the bed, where another person is standing. A man with square hands wearing a two-piece suit. His face is featureless, but in his arms, he holds a newborn child. A tiny, pale thing, wrapped only in a towel.

  On the babe’s forehead rests the hand of another. But this person, he cannot see. When he tries, he is met only with a blinding light. A presence is there. Something more than human. Golden tendrils of light radiate from it. Johnny is suddenly overwhelmed by the presence. He can hear a voice. A woman’s voice.

  “Wake up,” she says. The voice is familiar.

  “Wake up.”

  Johnny takes a few steps forward, and reaches a hand out to touch the radiant entity in front of him.

  “Now, Mr. Tokisaki,” the voice says. “It’s time to wake up.”

  *

  The dam that was keeping back the waters of reality cracked instantly, flooding him with consciousness. He shot upward and gulped in oxygen as if he were taking his very first breaths.

  “Easy now,” the voice of Mrs. Saito said. She put a hand on his shoulder and held him down.

  Johnny looked around. The room he was in was wholly unfamiliar. A bed chamber that looked as if it belonged in an old European castle. The walls were lined with dust-blanketed tomes, and a giant window invited in the deep red rays of a sunset over the Pacific. The bed he was in was soft and large, with silk sheets of royal blue and a mountain of pillows at his back.

  When he had calmed enough, Saito let go of his shoulder and took a seat in a large, wooden chair at his side. She wore a black blazer and matching black suit pants, and a tray at her side was filled with bandages and suturing equipment.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re in the home of my father,” Saito said. “You’ve been asleep for almost two days.”

  Johnny looked down at his naked chest to find a large bandage covering the spot where Zachary Finch had stabbed him. He raised his hand to his neck to find another dressing, and finally came to his face, where he felt the bumps of stitches lining his right side f
rom temple to jaw.

  “I shot him,” Johnny said as the memories of his struggle materialized one by one. “Is he dead?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” Saito said, not hiding her irritation. “The only person who could have told us more is now on a steel slab in the morgue.”

  “I didn’t have a choice,” Johnny replied. “He injected me with some kind of drug.”

  “I know,” she answered. “Did he tell you anything useful before you killed him? Anything at all?”

  Johnny pressed his eyes shut. “He called Ayano his ‘mistress.’ Had some kind of branding on his chest. Clock hands pointing at the one o’clock position.”

  “A brand?”

  “Yes,” Johnny nodded. “And there’s more. A knife was missing from his kitchen. Finch is the one who armed Mari, I’m positive.”

  “So you were right all along. They killed each other over a man. I never thought it would be their own teacher,” Saito said in disgust. “I want you to know that I don’t blame you for pulling that trigger. He got what was coming to him.”

  Johnny gave no answer. He couldn’t say that he hadn’t taken some small pleasure in killing the man, but he also knew that he had cut off his best lead. His mind replayed the events of his confrontation, begging him to ask himself what he could have done differently. But there was no answer. It was finished. Finch was dead.

  “Something feels wrong,” Johnny said, breaking the long silence. “Finch left the knife in Mari’s backpack with a note that said, ‘Defend yourself.’ But why? He must have known that Ayano would come for her. Why give Mari the chance to defend herself at all?”

  “Maybe he sought to free himself from Ayano’s service?” Saito offered. “There’s also the question of how Ayano even came to know about their affair. She must have found out about their meetings at The Buckle somehow. But how? Who would tell her?”

  Johnny straightened up and stretched out his arms. His whole body was stiff, and his bones cracked with relief with each new movement.

  “I can’t see what anyone would have to gain by tipping Ayano off to Finch’s sexual misconduct. There’s something missing here. I just can’t see what.”

  Saito stood and walked to a table with a waiting tea kettle and a set of ceramic cups. She carefully poured enough for them both, then brought them back to the bedside. She handed one to Johnny, and sipped on her own before setting it down on the bedside table.

  Johnny drank the tea in one long gulp. It was scalding hot, but it quenched his thirst and filled him with renewed vigor. There was another mystery on his mind now. One he wished to put to rest before their conversation continued.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” Johnny said, looking Saito in the eye.

  “What do you mean?” Saito asked evasively.

  “I guess I should have said ‘mother-in-law.’ I saw your picture on her desk after she . . . ” Johnny stopped himself, unable to finish the sentence.

  “Hmm.” Saito smiled wryly. “Cat’s out of the bag, huh?”

  “Did she know? That you were the one that had hired me?”

  “I’m sure she suspected. She was an observant woman. My mentor, and the last person on this earth that I could call family.”

  “Why are you doing all this?” Johnny asked. “Hiring me. Going behind the backs of the Indices. What do you want?”

  “I want justice,” Saito said, coming to her feet. “And if you had seen the things that I have seen, you would be no less fervent in your convictions.”

  “Who are you?” Johnny asked.

  She came to the end of his bed and turned to him, a fire in her eyes that he had never seen before.

  “My real name is Dr. Aiko Tonimura, née Shimotsuki. Daughter and last surviving family member of the Eleventh Index. Widow to the heir of the Twelfth, and now, with the death of the doctor, the heiress of both positions.”

  “You married into the Tonimura family, saving you from the collapse, yet denying you your birthright.”

  “The office of Index was never meant for me. I had three older brothers, all of whom would have made fantastic leaders before the quake. Before the collapse. Before Itsuka’s damn invention turned this city upside down.”

  “What happened?” Johnny asked.

  Aiko circled back around and stood directly over Johnny. How much anger had she kept hidden behind those eyes? For how many years had she endured the scorn of her peers? Johnny hadn’t the heart to ask.

  “Can you stand?”

  Johnny shook his legs a few times and gave her a nod. “I can manage,” he said. “Where are we going?”

  “Come,” she said. “There’s something I’d like you to see.”

  *

  Aiko excused herself and let Johnny dress with a set of clean clothes that she had laid out for him. All of his possessions were organized on a dresser by the window. He did a cursory check of each item—his notebook, revolver, and two watches—before setting them all back down save the Rolex, which he buckled to his left wrist. Outside, the sun had set about halfway, sending its rays reflecting across the ocean and into the partly cloudy sky above.

  Once he finished dressing, he exited the room to a large, open hallway and a waiting Aiko Tonimura, and they began their journey through the untenanted mansion. It was a castle in its own right—they passed more than a dozen bedrooms and leisure spaces before coming to the foyer.

  “No one has lived here in years,” Aiko said as they descended. “To be frank, I’m surprised they never ordered the place torn down.”

  They reached the first floor, then proceeded down another hall toward the back of the mansion. After a minute of walking, they entered the kitchen, finding a flight of stairs in the rear that led to a wine cellar, still fully bottled and ready for guests.

  “My father loved wine,” she said as they navigated a maze of shelves and spirits. They continued through the cellar until at last they reached an entryway into what looked to be an old pantry—an apparent dead end. Fatigued, Johnny stopped and watched as Aiko moved toward the far wall.

  “I hope you don’t mind me taking this back,” she said, rolling up her sleeve and revealing the watch he had demanded as a condition for taking the job. “It was my father’s. The only part of him that survived. My late husband found it amidst his remaining possessions and had it restored.”

  “It must mean a lot to you,” Johnny said. It had only been a short walk, but he already felt winded and weak.

  “It means everything to me,” she responded as she removed it from her wrist. “If I didn’t have it, I would never have been able to find this place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watch closely,” she said. “We’re almost there.”

  She approached an empty space in the middle of the wall and began pressing her hand against it. After a few attempts, he heard a clicking noise, and something small and rectangular popped out. Johnny stepped closer to examine the protrusion. What looked to be some kind of retractable switch or button with a circular indentation in the middle. It had no markings nor any apparent function, but when Aiko set her wristwatch inside, something happened.

  At first, the wall itself made no change. Only a series of clicks and clanks began reacting from inside the wall. Then, four prongs emerged from the protrusion and clasped the timepiece, locking it into place. The bezel of the watch began to spin automatically back and forth, until finally, with a sudden jolt, a second crown sprang out from the other side. Aiko pinched it between her fingers, and gave it a turn.

  The effect was immediate. Lines and cracks began to form in the wall, punctuated by the sound of ticking clockwork and rusted gears. Deafening groans of metal against metal, the result of years of neglect and disuse. Johnny watched as the wall began to fold in on itself, until nothing was left except another hallway. Black as night, with no apparent end. It could
have gone on for a meter or a mile. Just like the stairwell that had conveyed him to The Buckle.

  “It’s not far,” she said, urging him forward. “Just walk straight ahead, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

  “Be where?” Johnny asked.

  She answered him only with a half-smile, then disappeared into the passage. Johnny looked down at his worn and weary body, whose aches and pains told him to return to bed. But he had come this far, and after a few short steps, he entered the tunnel.

  Unlike his trip down the stairwell to Mutsumi Baba’s domain, his journey through this passage lasted no more than a few seconds. After five or six paces, he emerged in a cozy yet small observatory. Aiko Tonimura stood in the middle, and beyond her was a wall of solid glass. A window to the ocean below, built into the cliffs of southern Sonnerie.

  “Look,” she said, ushering him forward.

  To the west, the last rays of the dusk-fallen sun illuminated a picture that was both familiar yet wholly inconceivable. It was the scene painted on the picture in Mei Goto’s house, although from a different angle. Below them, between two walls of jagged rocks, was a spattering of buildings half sunken in the sea. Some of them were barely rooftops, and others had at least one or two floors still standing above the waterline. On the beach was a series of huts, and in the last flickering moments of daylight, he swore he could see people—or what looked like people—moving between them.

  But all this was dwarfed by what was directly ahead. The picture of physical impossibility. A second clocktower, pointed downward jutting out from the ceiling of the arch, opposite its partner tower above it. A vast, towering obelisk that by all logic should have pulled everything above it crashing down to the ocean below long ago.

  At the top—or the bottom in this case—was the massive clock. Every feature of it was identical to the one he had seen: except one. Its hands moved in a counterclockwise motion, counting the seconds backward in time.

  “Inverness,” Johnny whispered, thinking of the audio adventure he had briefly listened to in Mari’s room. “What is this place?”