The Clockwork Ghost

by Laura Ruby

  “What do you mean, you’re working on it? I thought you had captured it.”

  “We did. But it seems it escaped.”

  “Escaped? How could it escape?”

  “It’s a smart little bugger,” Duke said.

  “It’s not little, and that’s the point. There are very few of the larger chimera available to work with, particularly not chimera made up of more than two species. I need that specimen.”

  “More than two species? What are you talking about? I thought it was a cat mixed with another cat.”

  The doctor’s newt eyes seemed to glow the way the rabbits had. “Oh, it’s much more than a cat, Mr. Goodson. Much more. I need to study it.”

  “I have my best people on the job. It won’t be long.”

  “Your best people? Candi?”

  If newts could have crushes, Duke might say that the good doctor had a crush on Candi. Most men did. And almost everyone believed her. Candi, like all Duke’s ladies, disarmed people, soothed or inflamed them, depending on what she wanted them to feel. Her blandly pretty face—with hair bleached to the color of spun sugar, black spiky lashes, the lipstick applied just so—was arresting, mesmerizing. She could say almost anything and people took it as gospel. “Science has proven that to get rich, you just have to have the right attitude!” “Lazy, good-for-nothing thieves raid your fridge when you’re at work!” “The president is a spy for Greenland!” “Are your neighbors stealing your Wi-Fi?” Quite extraordinary when you thought about it. But that was the point. Many folks simply didn’t enjoy thinking. It was far too much effort. They preferred to have someone else doing their thinking for them. And who better to tell you what to think than someone who looked like a more accessible version of a movie star or the Barbie doll you played with as a child?

  “Yes, Doctor, Candi is on the job. Along with many others. They’ll get it done.”

  The doctor’s face hardened. “I hope so. Otherwise, I don’t think I’ll be able to fulfill your friend’s other requests.”

  Friend? Requests? Duke laughed. “He is not my friend. He isn’t yours, either. And he doesn’t make requests. You have an arrangement.”

  “That’s right. We have an arrangement. An arrangement that includes the specimen. Delivered here to me, safe and unharmed.”

  Well. The doctor had steel in his spine, Duke had to give him that.

  He would also have to give him a good crack on the head when the time came.

  But not just yet. The doctor had a reputation and a history. He came from a long line of men known for their brilliant scientific discoveries, their flexible sense of morality, and their penchant for professional disaster and financial ruin. In the middle of the nineteenth century, one of the doctor’s ancestors had abandoned promising experiments in the treatment of infections in order to study spiders, of all things. He emptied his bank account and drained his wife’s inheritance traveling the world to gather as many species as he could. He was killed by the bite of a black widow. When his wife found him, the story went, his body was covered in the numerous tarantulas he kept as pets. To repay his considerable debts, his wife had to sell his lab, his equipment, his papers, and his creatures to the highest bidder, who didn’t have to bid very high to get them. That same bidder went on to develop medicines and even weapons derived from spider venom, and made a killing.

  Ha, killing.

  Duke smiled at the doctor. “You will have your kitty as soon as possible. I give you my word.”

  “Your word,” said the doctor. He blinked slowly, slowly, as if ticking off the seconds. Then he went to the glass cage in which hung the oversized eggs. He tapped the glass. One of them twitched, then twitched again.

  The doctor did not peel his eyes away from the eggs when he said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, Mr. Goodson. I have a birth to attend to.”

  “Of course,” said Duke. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, you will,” said the doctor.

  Before heading out the door, Duke took one last glance over his shoulder at the man, at the twitching cocoon-eggs that were gestating who-knows-what. The doctor was murmuring to the things. “Hello, there,” he whispered softly to the mottled, gray husks. “Welcome to the world.”

  Not for the first time, Duke wondered if the name you were born with shaped you from the very beginning, or you defined the meaning of your name through action and experience. Whatever the case, the doctor’s name suited him perfectly.

  “I’ll speak to you soon, Dr. Munsterberg,” Duke said. But the man didn’t even hear him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tess

  Tess’s grandpa Ben always said that if you want to know the future, read about the past.

  Mohican historian Hendrick Aupaumut once wrote:

  A great people traveled from the north and west. For many, many years they moved across the land, leaving settlements in rich river valleys as others moved on. Reaching the eastern edge of the country, some of these people settled on the river later renamed the Delaware. Others moved north and settled in the valley of a river. . . . They named this river Mahicannituck and called themselves the muh-he-con-neok, the people of the waters that are never still.

  He was writing, of course, about the migration of his own people. One wonders what the Mohicans, the Munsee, and the Lenape thought when they saw the first European ships sailing up the Hudson or blundering over the sharp rocks toward Manhattan. What did they make of the unwashed white people who stank of sweat and beer piling onto the shore? Did they realize that the Puritans, so persecuted in their own countries, believed that this rich, forested land was theirs for the taking, and that they did not have to ask or share?

  And what did the natives make of Dutch explorer Adriaen Block in 1614, as he maneuvered his ship through Hell’s Gate, up the East River and into the Long Island Sound, to become the first white man to view Astoria? Were they more curious than scared? Perhaps it was the storytellers among them, the wives and mothers, the ones who would tear the world apart for the sake of their children, who got a bad feeling in their guts, who were haunted by uneasy dreams. Perhaps they were visited by their ancestors, and warned of a coming storm. But then maybe even the storytellers couldn’t anticipate how many colonists would arrive, and how quickly. Who among them could know they would soon be forced to migrate west, or stay and wrestle for slivers of the land they had inhabited for thirteen thousand years? How could they have guessed that the treacherous rocks and reefs in Hell’s Gate would be dynamited, or that thousands upon thousands more strangers would pile onto the shores of Queens to join them: Italians, Greeks, Colombians, Chinese, Guyanese, as well as Indians, Dominicans, Ecuadorians, Romanians, Filipinos, and Koreans?

  Most of whom were asleep at four in the morning.

  All except Tess Biedermann.

  She must have drifted off for a little while, at least, and had a nightmare she didn’t want to remember, because Theo was slumped next to her bed, snoring, his hand around her wrist. Gently, she unclasped his fingers and pulled her arm away. She slid down to the end of the bed and slipped into her sneakers and a sweatshirt. Then, she crept downstairs as quietly as she could.

  The house was dark and still. Well, mostly still, as the spiders that cared for the plants never slept. A faint giggle followed Tess out the front door.

  On the street, only Tess and the Rollers were up and at work. The Rollers picked delicately at any stray trash that littered the sidewalks and the glass cobbles, rolling the rubbish into balls, the same routine they’d been performing for over 150 years. Tess barely took notice of them as she walked one block, two blocks, three—searching yards and alleys, in bins and under dumpsters. New York City, which always felt so small and familiar to her, was enormous and odd at four a.m. She imagined it filled with hidden dangers and lurking strangers, ready to take what wasn’t theirs. Finders, keepers, the strangers might say, unmoved by the fact that what they found had been stolen, not lost at all.

  Aft
er searching till dawn for any sign of Nine, Tess sat on Aunt Esther’s stoop, defeated. Someone must have taken her. That was the only explanation. Someone knew she was special and was keeping her for themselves. Instead of tears, frustration burned Tess’s eyes dry, and she scrubbed at them with angry fists. That was how her mother found Tess—eyes itchy and red, her hands curled on her lap.

  Her mother sat down next to her in the pink light of the early morning. “Were you out looking for Nine?”

  Tess didn’t answer, simply tracked a nearby Roller as it scraped a banana peel from the walk in front of the house.

  “I guess you’re not talking to me yet, huh?”

  Tess most certainly was not.

  “Okay, you don’t have to talk to me. Maybe you could just listen?”

  Again, Tess said nothing.

  “Look, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” her mother said. “I’ve called in favors at animal control. They’re on the lookout for her.”

  Tess pressed her lips shut.

  “They’re searching everywhere. They know how special she is. How important.”

  At this, Tess said, “You shouldn’t have done it.”

  Because Tess’s mother was her mother, she knew Tess meant that Nine should never have been given up in the first place. That this was the mistake Mrs. Biedermann should be sorry for. “I know you’re upset. But what I shouldn’t have done is pulled strings to get you a license for Nine in the first place.”

  At this, Tess gasped. “What?”

  “If other people couldn’t get large chimera licenses, why should we get one? It wasn’t fair to use my influence. I was wrong.”

  “That’s not what you were wrong about!” Tess shouted.

  “Isn’t it? Don’t you think there are other people who deserve a companion like Nine, but couldn’t get one? What I should have done is lobby for new city regulations instead of skirting them for the kid I love.”

  Tess was so angry she thought she might burst, but she wasn’t sure what or who to be angry at. Her mother was wrong, but she was right, too. Everyone should have a Nine.

  “If it helps, my new partner agrees with you.”

  Tess remembered her mom’s new partner had said that the blond lady’s story did seem to be full of applesauce or custard or something like that.

  “Oh, he can’t say it directly because I’m his superior,” said Tess’s mom. “I’m supposed to be training him and he’s not supposed to question my judgment. But I can tell he thinks I was wrong.”

  Tess unclenched one of her fists. “I like your new partner.”

  “I do, too,” said her mother. “Even when he mutters under his breath that he doesn’t know what the peanut brittle I thought I was doing.”

  “So what the peanut brittle did you think you were doing?”

  Her mother rubbed her forehead. “Beats me. You’re supposed to be wiser when you’re older. Doesn’t always work that way. But listen, I’m doing everything I can. Seriously. I won’t stop looking, okay?”

  Tess couldn’t help the tears that made her vision glassy. “Okay.”

  “So maybe you can come inside now and eat breakfast with me before I go to work? Aunt Esther is too angry with me to cook, so she sent Lance into the kitchen. He made enough flapjacks for an army and it doesn’t appear as if he’s going to quit anytime soon.”

  They went inside and tried their best to make a dent in Lance’s pile of pancakes. Soon, Tess’s dad came downstairs to help. And then Theo. Aunt Esther grudgingly sat with them, nibbling the crispy edges off a single pancake. The doorbell rang, and the twins’ mom got up to get it. She came back into the kitchen with her new partner, Detective Clarkson.

  “Ooooh! Pancakes!” he said.

  “Please have some,” said Tess’s mom. “Lance won’t stop cooking them.”

  Detective Clarkson saw Lance clomping around the kitchen, so he stuffed a pancake into his mouth, as if he were afraid Lance would attack if he didn’t.

  They were almost through with their breakfast when the doorbell rang again. Not just once though, three times—frantic and insistent.

  “Okay, okay,” Tess’s dad shouted. “Hold your zebras.”

  This time, Jaime appeared in the doorway, breathing hard, as if he’d run all the way from Hoboken.

  “It’s Karl,” he said.

  “What about him?” Tess said.

  “He’s missing!”

  “Wait,” said Detective Clarkson. “So this Karl is a raccoon?”

  “A raccoon-cat,” Jaime said. “I think. Maybe there are bits of other animals in there, too, hard to tell. Mostly, he looks like a raccoon. With antlers.”

  “Antlers?” said Detective Clarkson.

  “Not real ones. Cricket puts him in a lot of hats with horns or antlers. Things like that.”

  Detective Clarkson frowned so hard his eyes nearly crossed. “Who’s Cricket?”

  “My neighbor,” said Jaime.

  “Your neighbor is . . . a cricket?”

  “She’s a girl.”

  Tess said, “First Nine, then Karl. I don’t think this is a coincidence.”

  “Hmmm,” said Theo, pulling on his lip. “Felonious bears.”

  “What bears?” said Detective Clarkson.

  “No bears,” said Tess’s mom. “Just felonies.”

  “Mom, I think someone might be stealing hybrids,” Tess said.

  Tess’s mom nodded. “Could be.” She turned to her partner. “Clarkson, I want you to check with animal control and see if they’ve gotten any calls about missing chimera.”

  “I thought the bigger nutter butters were outlawed,” Clarkson said.

  “They were, but people who already owned them were grandfathered in. That’s why we could keep Nine. But these bigger chimera are valuable. And it looks like whoever is doing this believes the smaller chimera are valuable, too. Who knows why they were taken.”

  “Or who took them,” said Tess.

  Clarkson nodded. “I’m on it.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in some numbers. “Connect me with AC, would you, Nancy? I don’t care if the phone system is confusing, just do it, okay? It’s not for me, it’s for Biedermann. I don’t know where in the Wheaties the cat is, that’s why I’m calling. It’s not just the cat anymore. We could have a gang of felonious bears running around. What? I meant thieves. Felonious thieves. I’m not repetitive, you’re repetitive.” His voice trailed off as he marched out to the back porch to take the rest of the call.

  “That’s my cue,” said Tess’s mom. “I have to get to work.” She stopped to kiss the top of Tess’s head. “I know you’re worried, I’m worried, too, but I promise I’ll get to the bottom of this. And, Jaime, we’ll ride out to Hoboken and talk to Cricket and her parents and anyone else we can get ahold of. We’ll find out if anyone saw anything strange.”

  “All of Hoboken is strange,” Jaime said.

  “Then I guess we’ll get a lot of statements,” said Tess’s mom. “But I want you kids to try to relax. Maybe do something fun today. Go to the park. See a movie. Rent some exos and play some ball. Get your mind off of this for a while.”

  “Sure,” Tess said, who had no intention of doing any such things.

  After both her parents had left for the day, Tess, Theo, and Jaime went upstairs to tackle the ledger again. They figured that if they couldn’t do much to help locate Nine or Karl, they could at least figure out the next clue to the Cipher.

  But as it turned out, figuring out the next clue was as difficult as figuring out what had happened to the animals. Maybe more so.

  Days passed. Tess’s mom and Detective Clarkson interviewed people and made calls and conducted searches, while Tess, Theo, and Jaime looked through the ledger. They analyzed the figures in every possible way, they tried to find some sort of relationships between the lists of words, they examined each page, and came up with nothing. Jaime, who now carried Ono everywhere, would take the little robot out of his pocket and set it on
the floor as they worked. Sometimes, Ono would seem to follow their analysis, its eyes shining, other times, it would explore the twins’ room, bumping into boxes and shoes and walls. Still other times, it would fall over with a thunk and appear to sleep, making a slight buzzing noise like a fridge.

  “Tyrone adores it,” Jaime said. “And she doesn’t like anybody. I think it speaks hamster-hog. Or she speaks Ono.”

  One afternoon, more than a week after Nine first vanished, Tess, Theo, and Jaime were sprawled on the floor with the ledger in the middle. They had researched the families who’d owned the Kingsland house and surrounding properties; they had studied lumber outputs of mills in the early 1800s; they had tried to pin down the identities of Young Bob, Old Bob, and Wiley Dan; they had racked their brains and racked them some more, and could still not come up with a way to make the clue reveal itself.

  “All right. It’s official. I hate this book,” Jaime said.

  “Me too,” Tess said.

  Jaime took off his glasses and cleaned them on his T-shirt. “Maybe we took a wrong turn somewhere?”

  “Yeah, but where?” Tess said. “Maybe every turn was a wrong turn. What if the wrong turn wasn’t with this clue, but three clues ago?”

  Theo put his hands behind his head. “We need a fresh pair of eyes,” he said. “A different perspective.”

  “I don’t know about you,” Jaime said, “but my eyes are shot.”

  Ono, who had been dozing in a pile of Tess’s stuffed animals, roused itself. It sat up, then got to its feet. As if it had taken Theo literally, its jeweled eyes flashed, then glowed. It marched over to the ledger, turning its tiny head this way and that. “To the Land of Kings!” it said.

  “Been there, done that, bro,” Jaime said.

  “To the Land of Kings!” the robot insisted. It marched in a circle: “To the Land of Kings to the Land of Kings to the Land of Kings.” It marched so fast it tripped and fell on its face. “Oh no,” it said.

  “Hmmm,” Jaime said. He crawled to where the robot lay and then pressed himself to the floor to observe the ledger from Ono’s point of view. He pressed down on the pages, fanning the edges. Then his eyes snapped wide.