The Clockwork Man (32 page)

“Let me sleep on it,” Herr Linnhoffer said.

During the actual dinner the chef emerged from the galley, and any questions or conversation in the room were focused upon him. I stood in the corner of the dining area, monitoring the fullness of the wineglasses. No one present actually attempted to engage me in conversation, or ask about my history, or my travels with the Master. No one, not even Herr Linnhoffer, called me by name, nor praised my performance. And as Herr Linnhoffer and his assistant drove me back to the store, refastened the restraints, and locked the gate to mywindow, their conversation was focused on store business; neither said a word to me.

I believe my tolerance has reached its limit. While I do not know the Master’s original inspiration for creating me, I can say with certainty it was not to be a commodity, a curiosity to be gawked at and abused with impunity for the amusement of paying clients. Though I harbored some small hope that his attitude might change, it is now clear that my new master will never value me in the same way Herr Gruber and Giselle had; perhaps I must now accept that no living person does.

Today is Bastille Day—if my memory of history has not been corrupted, this is the day that French citizens stormed the prison symbolic of royal tyranny and ushered in a new order. In many ways, then, this morning’s events are most appropriate. I am, by a measure of luck (and some unexpected assistance), once again free of my window prison. And this time I shall not be returning.

As I pen these lines, I am in a long drainage tunnel next to a vast, tree-filled park on the outskirts of the city. Only the occasional duck wanders in here, and upon seeing me it flutters away. It is dark in here, but I can hear a few vehicles rolling over the bridge above us, and the day’s first light is beginning to reflect off the thin trickle of water that runs through.

Herr Greeley is nearby, cozily sleeping under his overcoat, snoring softly. I write by the light of a dying fire he had set in oldnewspapers, rags, and sticks in a car hubcap, to cook packaged wieners for himself. We do not fear discovery, as the police rarely come down here, and according to Greeley, many of the city’s officers have been assigned to the lakefront to monitor the annual festivities held there. For the moment, we are safe and well.

After the store had closed, I was alone but for the security guard posted at the barred window entrance—the same guard, in fact, who had attended me during the incident on the promenade. He, like Mr. Cyznyk before him, sat in a chair on the other side of my curtain, reading a magazine, and for nearly four hours all was quiet. Then, at 2:15 a.m., as I was standing in my display winding myself, I heard a quiet, almost imperceptible tap on the window frame, coming from outside. It was Greeley, looking warily about him in the dim streetlamp glow. His face was covered from the nose down by a black handkerchief, but I recognized him instantly.

I waved to him, unable to speak to him through the thick glass. I was, I admit, very pleased to see him, though circumstances made his visit impractical. He waved back, then motioned for me to come outside, perhaps unaware of the new security measures holding me there. As quietly as I could, I pointed to the cables binding my ankle to the floor, the bars keeping me inside the display. He pressed his face close to the glass to peer inside, and when he saw the restraints and the bars, he shook his head in disgust. He stroked his chin for a moment, as if in contemplation, then raised his index finger and slipped away quietly into the night.

Seven minutes later I heard a loud knock at the rear entrance to the store. I assumed it was Greeley, banging his fist against the glass door, and expected the police to arrive at any moment. The securityguard rose from his chair, his hand on his sidearm, and hurried to the door to investigate.

“Help!” a loud, gravelly voice called. “Help! Somebody’s dyin’!”

I heard the security guard fumble with his keys until he found the right one; then the door opened.

I wasted no time; the moment he had gone outside, I seized the bars with my gloved hands and tried to pull the gate loose. Unfortunately, it seems Herr Linnhoffer had considered my strength when implementing his new security measures; the bars were very close together and extended deeply into the floor, and I found I could not bend them enough to slip through, nor pull the gate from the wall.

I heard another tap, this time louder. Herr Greeley stood on the walkway outside, motioning for me to move back. I did so, until my back rested against the metal bars, unaware of his intentions. Then, he bent over and lifted a large cinder block with both hands, swinging it back and forth to build momentum. After several swings he reared back and heaved the block into the glass.

The windowpane cracked on impact, a deep, weblike indentation marring its surface, but it did not break. Greeley threw up his hands and shouted something I could not quite hear over the alarm, and picked up the block again, spinning once and then letting it fly. The glass buckled, and for a moment I believed it might be breached, but it held firm.

My escape thus thwarted, I was about to bid him to flee; I did not wish to see Greeley incarcerated, and was certain he would be if caught. But, though I regret to say it here, a particularly selfish impulse came over me. Whether or not Greeley suffered on my account, Herr Linnhoffer was sure to be incensed, and would nodoubt seal me in his promised vault, so impregnable as to prevent me from seeing daylight again. Then, quite unexpectedly, I felt a soft, unseen hand caressing my cheek, and over the noise of the alarm, a gentle whisper sounded in my ear, so real I could sense the breath behind it. “You know what to do,” it said.

I began to pull at my restraints.

The cables were stronger than I had originally thought. I felt them stretch, but they would not break easily. Finally they extended all they could, snapping off a few inches from where they had been fastened to my ankles. The recoil nearly caused me to topple over, but I kept my footing. I motioned for Greeley to stand back and took hold of the heavy chair. Pulling it free of the bolts fixing it to the floor, I swung it at the glass with all my strength. The window exploded on impact, causing tiny shards to fall onto the sidewalk, a two-foot diameter hole marking where the chair had hit. I grasped the sharp edges and peeled the glass back until the hole was large enough for me to slip through.

“Okay,” Greeley said. “Time to run like hell.”

Unfortunately, the security guard had heard the commotion, and had reentered the store as I was stepping through the opening. “Freeze!” he said, his weapon drawn and pointed at me. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

“Bustin’ out,” Greeley yelled from behind me. “He don’t belong in here.”

His weapon still aimed at me, the guard quickly unlocked the bars. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Greeley looked around, motioned toward the bars, the broken cables. “This ain’t right,” he said. “And you know it.”

The security guard stood, wordless, for nearly a full minute, and I feared he would simply try to hold us there until the police arrived. He did not lower the gun, but stood before us a moment longer, trembling, as if wondering what to do. The only sound in the store was his quickened breath.

I could not allow the standoff to continue, lest Greeley be harmed by a stray shot, so I slowly reached out for the weapon. He jumped back slightly; his finger tightened on the trigger but did not squeeze. “Do not be afraid,” I said, and took hold of the gun by its barrel. His hands shook violently, but he slowly released his hold on the handle; I pulled the gun free of his hands and let it drop at my feet on the display floor.

“C’mon,” Greeley said. “Let’s go.”

We turned to leave, but the guard stopped us, his face ashen. “Wait,” he said. “I saw what you did for that kid. That was really something.”

I thanked him, then followed Greeley across the darkened parking lot as the first sirens sounded in the distance. We kept to the shadows until we reached Sister Judith’s shelter, knocking loudly on the window of her private room.

She ushered us in quietly. “I’ve been expecting you.”

While she offered us sanctuary for the night, I refused, as the police would no doubt be looking for us and I did not wish any sanction to fall on her. She helped me to don a raincoat and hat from the storeroom, which she had procured in anticipation of this moment. As a gift she handed Greeley a bag of sandwiches for the trip and me the Bible I had left behind, that I might find some peace in its pages. “There’s a park on Howard with a long drainage ditch,” she said. “Some of our people have slept there when they couldn’t get to a shelter. Staythere until morning, then get out of the city as fast as you can.”

Before we crept off into the night, I took her hand in mine. “Thank you. I fear I shall never be able to repay your kindness.”

She smiled. “Read that and we’re even,” she said, and waved us away.

We headed for the park through the darkened, shoddy part of the city, flashing red and blue lights always within sight. Finally, just before sunrise, we found the promised hiding place.

Where we will go next, I do not know, but Greeley thinks it wise for us to stay out of sight for a while. To the south and west are a number of smaller towns where we may find refuge, free from prying eyes and Herr Linnhoffer’s inevitable efforts to recover me. Eventually, he says, they will give up, and we can go where we please. He has mused that we should walk the streets combating ruffians and saving hapless victims from certain doom, though if we do this, he insists that we acquire costumes and adopt pseudonyms for ourselves. While I might simply continue on as “The Clockwork Man,” he will require a suitable name for himself. He pressed me for ideas; I had none. From a purely romantic (and, I must admit, not entirely rational) perspective, I find this option attractive, though I suspect Herr Greeley underestimates the danger involved. Once we are free to leave our current hideout, I will entertain the discussion, within reasonable limits.

While we wait for the furor over my departure to ebb, we will be making one prolonged trip, regardless of the risk involved. When I began this account, I had always intended it to be delivered into the hands of Professor Wellesley, whose sense of me as a person in my own right was my impetus for beginning it. Though, sadly, that isimpossible now, I remain a man of my word, and I mean to see that it reaches someone who will value it. Therefore, over the next few nights we will travel the back roads south to Kenosha to the residence of Felix Lentz. I have determined that he, of all who live, best understands my true nature, and the vision of the man who brought me into being, and thus is the best candidate to present this diary to the world; more importantly, he is a decent and honorable man, and I believe he will honor my request.

It is my hope that, once these notes are made public, I will find some vindication for my actions, or at the very least, understanding. I also deeply wish that the Master’s reputation, damaged because of me, will be restored, and that any future audiences will be reminded of the full measure of his genius. Perhaps it will even aid Frau Nehring’s efforts to preserve her great-grandfather’s legacy; I deeply regret any pain my escape has caused her, and would make it up to her. Though I no longer wish the fate she envisioned for me, I find her efforts no less noble.

This, then, is the last service I can perform for him, and I do it gladly. Since my arrival in this new world, I have dwelt mainly in shadow; for him, for my beloved Giselle, and for myself, I now offer this diary as my first, cautious step into daylight.

Reva Blackmon is a reluctant probate judge in the small town of Sand Valley, Alabama. She lives in a rock castle with turrets and a moat thanks to Franklin Roosevelt and the New Deal and walks on one leg thanks to a drunken railroad engineer on the Southern Pacific. She sings Wednesdays and Sundays in the choir at the Methodist Church and believes in reincarnation the rest of the time. Her husband, Wendell, is the love of her life, stretching back down the corridors of time.

Wendell Blackmon is the disgruntled policeman in this same small town. He rides herd on an unlikely collection of reprobates, rogues with names such as Deadhand Riley, Gilla Newman, Otter Price, and Blossom Hogan. Law enforcement in this venue consists of breaking up dog fights, investigating alien abductions, extinguishing truck fires, and spending endless hours riding the roads of Sand Valley. Unlike his wife, Wendell does not believe in reincarnation. Nor does he believe in Methodism, Buddhism, or Santa Claus. But he does believe in Reva, and that belief has been sufficient to his needs over their many years together.

But the routines of Sand Valley are about to change. A burned body has been discovered at a local farm named Sorrow Wood. The deceased is a promiscuous self-proclaimed witch with a checkered past. Wendell investigates the crime, and the list of suspects includes his deputy, the entire family of the richest man in town, and nearly everyone else who knew the departed. As the probe continues, a multitude of secrets is revealed, including one that reaches from the deep past all the way to the rock castle. Who was this woman who met her end at Sorrow Wood? Where did she come from? What were the mysterious circumstances surrounding her death, and what did her presence mean to Wendell, Reva, and the remainder of the inhabitants of Sand Valley?