“Help . . . help . . . ” the man coughed as he crawled. “Anybody, please!”
Johnny rushed to his side and flipped him over on his back, revealing a deep gash that stretched from his right shoulder to his left hip. Blood spilled from the wound ceaselessly, and it was a miracle the man could still draw breath.
“Who did this to you?” Johnny asked, holding up the man’s head.
“M-monster,” he replied. “She’s taken the Second Index to the clocktower.”
“She?” Nakahara asked.
“Please,” the dying man begged. His breathing became lighter and lighter. “Help the Grand Luminary. Help . . . ”
The man breathed his last, and fell limp in Johnny’s arms.
“What the hell is going on here?” Nakahara asked. “Who was he talking about? ‘She?’ She who?”
“Ayano.” Johnny put the man’s head back down and stood. “She’s here.”
“The Hanekawa girl? Why? How?”
“It’s too much to explain right now. Come on, let’s get inside.”
Nakahara clapped his hands together in prayer for the fallen man, then followed Johnny as he entered the cathedral. Much of the brutality they had witnessed in the dungeon below manifested here as well. The empty eyes of another dozen dead watched the pair as they made their way through the main hall, and into the nave.
“How well do you know this place?” Johnny asked.
“So-so, I suppose,” Nakahara answered.
“Ninomiya must have an office here somewhere. A place where he does his work.”
“Upstairs.” Nakahara pointed at a stairwell at the west end, between two of the murals depicting Sonnerie’s rise. “I’ll lead the way.”
Johnny followed Nakahara up the stairs, then down toward the back end of the cathedral. Unlike the first floor, the second was a long, U-shaped hall with doors every so often marked as prayer or meeting rooms. At the end was another set of double doors, decorated not dissimilarly to the giant doors that marked the entrance to the cathedral itself.
The left door remained closed, but the right was open, and the two men stepped through unimpeded. It was a grand office, though much humbler than Dr. Tonimura’s at the hospital. The bookcases that lined the walls were filled mostly with small sculptures and archeological pieces. Little in the way of actual literature was present in the room at all.
On the floor was a mess of documents and stationery, and it was clear that the Second Index had not left his office of his own accord.
Johnny moved straight to the desk in front of a large, partially open window that overlooked the clocktower, and began opening drawers one by one.
“What did they take from you again?” Nakahara asked as he opened a tall wardrobe along the west wall.
“My gun, my notebook, and a pair of watches.”
“Don’t forget your shoes.” Nakahara leaned into the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of black leather loafers. He tossed them to Tokisaki, but they fell short, landing on the desk.
“Socks are inside,” he said.
Johnny lifted them from the table and quickly put them on. They were a size too small, but he was instantly grateful for the warmth.
Shoes tied, he returned his attention to the desk. Some of the drawers had already been opened, including one which held two of the items he had been robbed of. His notebook, and his Casio watch, which he deftly set back to its place on his right wrist.
Johnny tore over every last inch of the remaining drawers, but found nothing of his revolver or the Rolex his wife had gifted him. After the last of the desk’s contents had been emptied, he balled his hands into fists and slammed them down against it.
Next to him, Nakahara stood silent and unmoving.
“Hāfu,” he said, pointing out the window. “Someone’s out there.”
Johnny rose and joined him at the window. Outside was a clear view of the clocktower, standing at the end of the arch that jutted out into the Pacific. It was the closest he had ever been, and seeing it now brought his thoughts back to Aiko Tonimura’s observatory hidden in the cliffside below, and the secret Antitower that hung from the roof of the arch. Mari’s secret tower. Her Inverness.
Approaching the clocktower were two figures: one taller and sturdier, and one shorter and feminine. The sturdier of the two appeared to be carrying something over his shoulder, and walked directly behind the female. Even from this distance, Johnny had no doubt as to her identity. It was Ayano. In her hand she held something slender and long. A staff or perhaps a spear, but he could not make out which.
After a few seconds, she stopped walking and turned her head back toward the cathedral. She was looking at him, just as she had found him as he sat in the audience of the Wednesday mass. His heart swelled, and would have burst if not for a sudden crashing noise from behind the two men.
“Stop right there!” a man shouted. Johnny recognized the voice immediately, and turned around.
At the entrance of the office stood a sweat-bathed and beleaguered Yama. In his shaking, blood-stained hands was Johnny’s revolver, which was pointed directly at him. Johnny raised his hands up, and Nakahara followed suit.
“Don’t move!” he shouted. His lips were quivering, and it was clear he was at the edge of hysteria. “Did you kill those men downstairs?” he asked. “Don’t lie!”
“We didn’t kill anyone,” Johnny said. “Yama, put the gun down. We aren’t your enemies.”
“Never killed anyone? You killed the man at the hospital. You killed Zachary Finch. You’re a murderer.”
“Yama-chan,” Nakahara said, taking a cautious step forward. “Look at us. We’re unarmed. Those men down there were butchered. Do you really think we could’ve done that with our bare hands?”
“You’re lying. If it wasn’t you, who was it?”
“You know who it was,” Johnny said. “And she’s just outside. Heading toward the clocktower as we speak.”
“You think I’m going to believe that?” Yama’s voice cracked. Tears had begun to well in his eyes, his sanity broken by the brutality below. He placed a finger on the hammer and pulled it back.
“Don’t do it,” Nakahara pleaded. “If you pull that trigger, you’ll be killing an innocent man.”
“Shut up!” Yama shouted. “Do you take me for a fool? There’s no one else alive in here!”
“Yama-chan, look at me,” Nakahara said, taking another step forward. “You remember when you were a little boy? Before the collapse? You’d come to the shrine on holidays. Do you remember?”
“Stop talking!” Yama moved his sights from Johnny to Nakahara. “None of that matters. Mr. Hanekawa took me in after I lost my parents. He brought me into his own home, raised me like a son. You think I would just betray him because some fat old priest says so?”
“I didn’t say anything like that, Yama-chan. I know Mr. Hanekawa’s been good to you. I’m not saying he’s done anything wrong.”
“Yama,” Johnny interrupted. “Ayano’s outside, right now. She’s got Ninomiya, and I think she plans to kill him. We can’t waste time. Come with us. Keep the gun if you want, I don’t care. But come, see the truth for yourself.”
For a moment, Johnny thought his words had reached him, but Yama shook his head and trained his sights back on Johnny.
“No,” he said. His shaking hands had steadied. The tears in his eyes had dried. His countenance had darkened.
“You’re an enemy of Sonnerie. Even if you didn’t kill those men downstairs, you’ve been at the center of every tragedy that has happened in our city for the last week. I can’t let you go.”
Yama centered the revolver at Johnny’s heart, but as his finger squeezed the trigger, Nakahara shouted, and leapt between the men. Only one shot was fired, catching Nakahara in the abdomen and sending him slumping to the floor.
“Nakahara!”
Johnny yelled, rushing around the desk and to his fallen comrade’s side.
Startled at his own action, Yama dropped the gun to the floor. His whole body convulsed, and the last thread of his sanity began to fray.
“It’s not my fault,” he whimpered. “It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault!”
Johnny ignored him and focused on the wound in Nakahara’s stomach. “Hang on,” he said, putting a hand to the gunshot wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “Hang on, I’ll get you some help.”
“It’s okay, hāfu. It doesn’t hurt,” Nakahara said.
“Try not to talk. I’ll patch you up, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m cold, Tokisaki,” Nakahara whispered.
“I know, I know. Here, put your hand on the wound. Keep it there while I get something to cover this.”
Johnny turned to Yama, who had fallen limp on the ground. His eyes stared heavy with regret into nothingness.
“God damn it, Yama, help!” Johnny shouted.
“Help . . . ” Yama said. “Okay.”
He looked at the gun that had fallen to his side and picked it up. Johnny pulled back, ready to jump at him, but to his shock Yama turned the gun upon himself, and pulled the trigger.
“Shit!” Johnny yelled as Yama’s body fell sideways. Before he could do anything, however, he felt Nakahara’s hand tugging against the sleeve of his shirt.
“Tokisaki,” Nakahara said. “I don’t want to die here.”
“You won’t, alright? I’ll fix you up, and you’ll be losing to me again at shogi before you know it.”
Nakahara let out a quiet laugh. His skin was covered in goosebumps, and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I would have liked that,” he whispered.
Johnny put his hand back on the wound, but it did little to stem the tide of fresh blood that poured from it.
“Hāfu,” Nakahara’s voice was faint. “Do me a favor.”
“What is it?” Johnny asked. He leaned his ear in close.
“Take the medallion,” he said. “It’s in my p-pocket. I’d take it out but I can’t seem to feel my hands.”
Johnny reached over and pulled the medallion out of his pocket. “I got it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
When Johnny looked back, something small and black had landed on Nakahara’s right hand. A mourning cloak butterfly, much the same as the one that Dr. Tonimura had passed to him in the garden at their second meeting.
“G-give it t-to . . . ” He stopped as his breathing weakened. “A-Aiko . . . Tonimura. She—she’s the last . . . the only one . . . ”
Johnny watched as the light from Nakahara’s eyes faded. The last of his breaths escaped his lungs, and as it did, the butterfly that had landed upon his hand took off. It hovered over Nakahara for a few seconds before fluttering toward the ceiling, then flying out the open window toward the clocktower.
Nakahara was dead, but the tears that flowed down Johnny’s face were quickly dammed by a burning rage that consumed him. He wiped his bloody palm on the carpet of Ninomiya’s office, then closed Nakahara’s eyes, and let his body down gently upon the floor. There was no time to pay respects now. Nothing in his heart but an irreplaceable desire for revenge.
Johnny turned to the revolver that had fallen alongside Yama’s body and lifted it up, popping open the cylinder as he did. He upturned the weapon, dropping the brass into a waiting palm, and counted his remaining ammunition.
Two rounds.
Two shots.
Two enemies.
He snapped the cylinder closed and pulled back the hammer, then began his long walk to the clocktower.
Thirty-Second Movement
Angel
The waves were crashing far below the arch, but he could not hear them. The road ahead was lined with camellias and kaffir lilies, but he could not smell them. The biting wind brooked no pain against his wounds, and the only taste left to him was bitter vengeance, which he swallowed down to fuel every step. There were no clouds in the sky; only stars and the waning gibbous moon above bore witness to his conviction.
His eyes were focused on the clocktower, and the closer he got to it, the bigger and bigger it appeared. Much more the marvel of engineering than he had ever imagined. Far below the ever-rotating hands of time that marked the end of his path stood two immense metal doors, in front of which was a large, rectangular dais.
Now, there was movement. One of the doors was slowly beginning to open.
“Ayano!” Johnny shouted. But she was still too far away. “Stop!”
Here, something else distracted him. A trickling from above that he hadn’t noticed before. Johnny returned his attention to the giant illuminated dial, and narrowed his eyes until the silhouette of a person began to form at its center. His legs came to a stop as his realization grew. The man impaled against the great face of the clocktower was none other than Second Index Ninomiya. Fresh blood fell like rain from his lifeless body, staining the concrete below.
The horror washed over him in an instant. He shook his head violently, and picked up his pace. When at last he could make out the details of Ayano’s face from just beyond the clocktower door, it began to close.
“Ayano!” he shouted again. This time, his voice reached her. In the last moments before the portal was sealed, she looked up at him and smiled.
He raised his revolver and took aim at her, but it was all too late. The hands of the clocktower fell into the one o’clock position, and a single bell tolled as the door slammed shut.
The remaining man kept his back to Johnny. He was dressed in a long, hooded robe that hid his features, but Johnny needed no hints to discern his identity.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” the man said, tapping at a watch on his wrist as he turned around. Johnny kept his pistol trained on him as he ascended the steps.
“Was it worth it, Finch?” he asked. “Murdering all those people? Only to have it end here?”
“End?” Zachary Finch said, lowering his hood. “You’ve got it all wrong, Johnny. It all starts here. Tonight, my mistress ascends the clocktower. Tonight, I become the right hand of an angel. A Goddess!”
“There are no gods here, Finch. Only demons and the delusional.”
“Hmph. What would you know? Just your being here is an affront to this resplendent occasion.”
“If I offend you so much, how about I put another bullet through you?”
“How crass,” Finch said. “Besides, you’ll be disturbing our guest if you make such a racket.”
“Guest?” Johnny asked.
Finch motioned at the dais that separated the men, and the body that rested upon it.
“Ayano thought bringing her here might cause Mari to reappear. Oh yes, she’s told me everything. About that night in the hospital. About your little getaway with Jack Amano. How is Jack, anyway? Bleeding to death on Mutsumi Baba’s floor, I hope?”
Johnny looked down at the body bag, then back up at Finch.
“Where is she?” Johnny seethed.
“I don’t know,” Finch answered. He took two steps forward, then bent down and unzipped the body bag from head to toe, revealing the cold corpse of Mari Mishima.
“Such a pretty girl,” Finch said. “When Ayano found out about us, it was hell!” He laughed. “But how could I resist? Poor Mari Mishima, trying to save up pennies so she could run away from Sonnerie. She used to talk about it. Talk and talk and talk,” Finch said, imitating a yapping mouth with his hand. “The thrill of fucking her was really something else.”
Johnny squeezed the grips of his revolver tightly, but resisted the provocation. He kept his eyes focused, and his arm steady.
“I know that if I shoot you, you won’t die. Or at least you won’t stay dead,” Johnny said.
“That’s right,” Finch replied. He took a step back from Mari’s body and removed his robe, re
vealing a familiar ticking movement inside his chest.
“It really is something else,” Finch continued. “It’s like being connected to time itself. I feel it like I’ve never felt anything else. It blows past me like a gentle breeze, but also courses through me like a fire in my veins. Maybe a demonstration would illuminate you?”
Johnny took a step forward and pointed his .38 at the port in Finch’s chest. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, but no sooner had the words escaped his mouth than the wheels of Finch’s movement started spinning. Faster and faster, until the sound from the ticking gears suppressed all other sounds he could hear. Like a swarm of mechanical bees—the same sound he had heard from Ayano upon her resurrection at the hospital.
Sensing danger, Johnny squeezed the trigger, sending a single bullet flying straight at the clockwork heart. The round passed through the snub-nosed barrel in a flash of fire, but failed to hit its mark.
With inhuman speed, Finch lashed out, lunging forward and knocking the revolver out of Johnny’s hands and down the stairs behind him.
Johnny had no time to react, and two swift blows to the solar plexus and stomach were enough to send him to his knees, gasping for air. The oppressive sound from Finch’s movement grew silent, and for a moment he seemed to move in slow motion as he circled around him.
“It really pisses me off, you know?” Finch said. “Ayano told me I wasn’t to kill you, but what are you to her?”
Johnny could give no answer. The blow had left him without breath in his lungs, and what little he could take in, he choked on in a fit of violent coughing.
“Pathetic,” Finch said, sending a knee to Johnny’s temple that split the stitches in his head. He fell to his side in a blood-red daze. His mind raced for answers, for some method of attack, but found nothing but pain.
“What am I to do with you, good Investigator?” Finch stated more than he asked. He turned around and proceeded back to Mari’s body resting upon the dais. “And what am I going to do with you, my dear girl?”
He ran a hand down her cheek, then across her breasts and hips.
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