The Clockwork Three (16 page)

“Stop!” Frederick shouted.

Mrs. Treeless halted. Roger Tom glared, and the children nearby stopped to stare.

Frederick had not meant to raise his voice. “You witch,” he said, and pointed at her. This was not what he had planned to say. “You will tell me my mother’s name.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and stroked her dog’s remaining fuzz. “I’ll do no such thing.”

Frederick took a step toward her, and suddenly Roger Tom was there blocking his path.

Mrs. Treeless flapped a hand like she was shaking water off her fingers. “Get out of my factory, boy.”

“Tell me her name.”

Mrs. Treeless turned to the children nearby. “Back to work,” she said, and walked away.

“Tell me!”

She never glanced back.

Roger Tom looked down at Frederick. “I’ll show you out,” he said.

Frederick thought about pushing past the foreman and chasing after her, but he knew Roger Tom or one of the others would catch him. And
probably beat him. And his recklessness had ruined any chance of getting the information he wanted from Mrs. Treeless.

Roger Tom grabbed his arm, but Frederick shook it off.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

Moments later Frederick was back out on the street, staring in through the gate as Roger Tom tightened the chain.

“Don’t come back,” the foreman said.

“Sir,” Frederick managed to say. “Do you know who my mother was?”

The foreman frowned. He looked at his boots. “Go back to your home,” he said, and then he left.

Frederick lingered for a long time. What had he done? Why had he shouted and made demands? It was like he had slammed the door on himself. He shook his head. He should be glad to be out of that place. He should never have come back. Mrs. Treeless was right. There were no answers that would mend him.

The acid of his rage drained away, and he felt exhausted and limp legged. He slogged to Master Branch’s shop as if dragging his feet through a foot of mud. When he arrived he found he had no appetite for the supper the clockmaker had prepared. He had no will to join Master Branch in the workshop. He lay down on the floor by the fireplace and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again it was dark, and there was a pillow under his head. Master Branch sat in his armchair and looked down at him from his book.

“I did not know whether to wake you or not,” the old man said. “You were finally sleeping. Are you hungry?”

Frederick sat up and felt a wave rush inside his head. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about how today went?”

“No. It was pointless, like I knew it would be.” Frederick got to his feet. “I think I’ll just go down to bed.”

Master Branch nodded. “Very well. I will see you in the morning.”

Frederick clomped down the stairs and threw himself onto his cot. He felt as lifeless as the clockwork man in the basement beneath him, and for a moment he envied his creation’s handicap. He wanted to empty his head of all its contents, all its memories and questions and doubts. Just spill it all out and crush it under his heel and start from scratch. He had been getting by just fine. He had ordered his world, set its components in motion, and then watched the predictable rhythm unfold.

Frederick could do nothing to rearrange the past. He could not repair it, so he had ignored it, shut the door on a chaos of broken glass, bent gears, and twisted metal. But then Hannah had come and asked him all about it, even though the past should have nothing to do with him now. But it did. And now he could no longer ignore it.

A Memorial Stone

H
ANNAH LEANED AGAINST A TREE TO CATCH HER BREATH. A
single ant crawled from the rough bark onto her hand, and she watched it explore her skin before blowing it off into the dirt. She was sweating in the midmorning heat. She scratched her scalp, wishing in that moment her hair were thinner and shorter. McCauley Park spread away from her in all directions, dense and high. Every branch stretched upward, like hands swaying overhead in slow warning, urging her back.

It helped to pretend the forest was enchanted. Hannah spotted a circle of mushrooms, a fairy ring, and imagined tiny eyes peeking at her through the leaves. Translucent wings fluttering at the edge of her eye. Elves lurking in the shadows beneath the trees. It was more comforting to see these phantasms than to consider what might really be stalking her.

The path she trod had long ago lost its gravel to hard-packed dirt. She had no map, and took those tracks that seemed to lead inward, to Grover’s Pond near the center of the wood. She did not feel lost, exactly, but unmoored and alone, and wished for a trail of bread crumbs leading the way back out of the forest. Of course, the birds flapping and calling up in the trees would probably swoop down and gobble them all up, just like in the story.

Her decision to enter the park had been made out of desperation, but now seemed more like stupidity. She had no idea what she was looking for at Grover’s Pond. All she knew was that McCauley held the key to Stroop’s happiness, Stroop had a clear view of the pond from his suite, and Mister Grumholdt and Miss Wool had circled a part of the pond on a map. With those facts Hannah had decided that Grover’s Pond was the next place to search for … something.

Back in the city, in her family’s apartment, her father lay stricken. If she did not return with money that evening, there would be no medicine, and her father, the strongest man she knew, the finest stonemason in the whole city, would lose his leg.

Time passed, and the sun crossed its halfway peak, sliding down toward afternoon. The dirt trail gave way to matted grass, hard to distinguish from the forest to either side. As she walked along, something faint reached her ear, a slight rushing sound, perhaps a brook. If it was, it might lead her to the pond. She took several steps in the direction it came from, head up, listening. She took a few more steps toward it, and a few more, before deciding it was only the wind through the trees.

She looked down at her feet and found them buried in underbrush. She looked back. More underbrush. Hannah had lost the tiny path she had been clinging to. She rushed to find it, eyes sweeping the green all around her, but saw no sign of the trail. It was as if the forest had just swallowed it up.

Hannah’s heart sounded an alarm in her ears, a rapid drumbeat goading her to action. Any action. She ran a short way in the direction she felt that she had come from. No path. She hurried back and chose a different direction. Still no path. After several attempts at this she felt like
a mouse that had fallen into a barrel, crisscrossing the bottom in a frantic scramble for a way out. But there was no way out, and running around like a rodent would not solve anything.

Hannah took a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly through pursed lips.

All right.

When she calmed down, closed her eyes, and let the needle of her inner compass point the way, there was one direction that felt more
in
, and one that felt more
out
. If she kept going in she would have to reach the pond soon, and from there perhaps find a different path, or at least orient herself toward the city. And search for the treasure. Out, on the other hand, would certainly be the safer choice. But it also meant failure.

What was she doing? What did she hope to find? A pile of jewels just sitting out here in the middle of the park? Hannah looked over her shoulder and thought about going back. But then what? Where could she go for the money? Who could she turn to?

No. She had to keep going. Deeper.

She reached out and bent off a twig from a nearby branch. She coiled her braid up on the crown of her head and stuck it in place with the stick. She bent and tied up her skirts to keep them from snagging and tripping her. Who was out here to see her ankles, anyway?

She followed the terrain down little draws and back out again, over white and gray boulders splotched with yellow lichen, and through scented pine thickets. A short time later, as she crested a low rise, she caught a glimpse of blue through the trees. She craned her neck and squinted at a patch of smooth water. It had to be Grover’s Pond. She wiped her brow and sighed.

She started down the little bluff and strode into a sunny glade, smiling. She caught sight of something large spread out on a rock to one side. It moved as she turned to look at it.

An enormous cougar rose to its feet.

Hannah stared at the beast, feeling as though all her body had stopped working. Her heart. Her breath. All of it frozen. The beast was longer than she was tall, from nose to black-tipped tail, all tawny fur and heavy paws. It stared at her, eyes golden, unblinking.

Hannah lurched backward, arms in front of her like a shield. Her mouth was open, but she was afraid to make a sound. The cougar padded toward her. Its lips rippled and then lifted in a snarl. Hannah stared at its long white teeth.

She heard a sound nearby. What was it? A fiddle? Out here?

“Help!” she shouted.

At her outburst the cougar flinched. Then it roared, a sound to tear the air apart between them. It dipped its shoulders low to the ground, haunches high and taut. It crept toward her, shifting its paws like it was looking for the right footing.

The violin had stopped. She had imagined it.

“Help me!” she shouted.

The cougar roared again and seemed ready to lunge.

Someone appeared out of the trees on Hannah’s right. A boy. Familiar.

“Pullman!” he shouted. He bent and scooped up a rock, never taking his eyes from the animal. The cougar had changed its posture, ears back, eyes darting between Hannah and the boy. “Hold still,” the boy said to her.

Hannah nodded.

A third figure entered the clearing, a man dressed in leathers. He held a rifle at his shoulder, sighting down its barrel. “Steady, now,” he said. “She knows what this is. I’m going to fire a warning shot.”

A deafening crack, and Hannah flinched. A plume of smoke, and a spray of dirt kicked up from the ground near the spot where the cougar had been crouching. The animal had already vanished into the trees.

The man lowered the rifle. “Everyone all right?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

Hannah took longer to respond. “Yes.”

“Good.” The man peered into the trees. “Follow me back to Alice’s.”

Alice?

Hannah and the boy fell in line behind the man in leathers. She trembled and made fists to tame her hands. Her heart still raced. She reined in her breathing, feeling as if she were stepping down from a knife edge. The attack had happened so fast there had been no time for thought, but now thoughts came in a suffocating rush.
A cougar
. She could have died, been clawed and chewed, eaten, gone. Her mother and father had no idea where she was and never would have known. With the thoughts came tears, and the boy stared at her.

“You all right?” he asked. His eyes fell to her ankles.

She let her skirts back down, embarrassed. “I’m fine.” They walked in silence.

A short distance later she saw a small cabin. Gardens surrounded it like a wreath of flowers and vegetables. Hannah smiled. It had to be the same Alice. The sight of the flowers cast off the last edge of panic, and she finally relaxed. A little path led from the cabin door down to the edge
of Grover’s Pond, a mirror of water in the middle of the park. Hannah wanted to head down to it that moment and start looking for clues. The map in Grumholdt’s office had an area circled up on the north side.

“I have a few questions,” the man said to her. The muscles on his jaw tightened. “Have a seat, if you please.” He motioned toward a bench in the flower garden. “You too, Giuseppe.”

Hannah did not have time for questions. But she sat down, and the boy plopped down next to her. He smelled like he had skipped a bath too many weeks in a row, and she realized where she had seen him. The cemetery, at Mister Stroop’s tomb. And here he was at Grover’s Pond. Had he been carrying a fiddle when she saw him before?

“First,” the man said to her, “I’m Pullman. The park warden. What’s your name?”

“Hannah.” She turned to the boy. “You’re Giuseppe?”

He nodded.

“Was it you I heard playing?”

“Yep,” he said.

“You heard me call for help?” she asked.

He nodded. “Then I called Pullman.”

“Good thing I was here,” Pullman said. “Mirabel looked awful agitated.”

“Mirabel?” Hannah asked.

Pullman pointed off into the trees. “Mirabel. The cougar.”

“You named her?” Giuseppe asked.

“Sure. There’s only a few left in these parts. Not hard to keep ’em straight.”

“Why didn’t you shoot her?” Hannah asked.

“I just said there’s only a few left. The park needs her.”

Hannah did not understand that.

“How’d you come to be in that clearing with her?” Pullman asked.

“She was lying on a rock in the sun.” Hannah shrugged. “I think I startled her.”

“Probably did,” Pullman said. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Just what are you doing out here?”

Why was this park warden being so rude? “Begging your pardon, sir, but that is my business. What matter is it to you?”

He leaned forward, hands on his hips. “It matters to me because it matters to the park. Say I’d come a second later, what then? Mirabel would have been on you, and I would have had to shoot her dead.”

Hannah would probably have also died. But it seemed he forgot to mention that.

“So I’ll ask again,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

Hannah looked at Giuseppe. “I’m searching for something.” The boy showed no sign of recognition or reaction, but he had to know about Stroop’s treasure. First, the cemetery, and now all the way out here. Why else would he be in both places?

“What’re you looking for?” Pullman asked.

“I’d rather not say.” But she had to start looking for it. Now.

Pullman grunted. “Suit yourself. Two kids in as many days.” He shook his head. “You’ll be all right here till Alice gets back.”

“Where are you going?” Giuseppe asked.

“I need to track Mirabel for a bit and make sure she’s all right. Don’t worry, she’s long gone from here.”

Hannah was glad to see Pullman go, but the boy looked uncertain. Pullman made it seem like the whole incident was somehow Hannah’s fault.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

Pullman nodded. He marched away and left Hannah and Giuseppe sitting on the bench. Neither spoke, and Hannah was not about to be the first. She tried to figure out what to do. How much did Giuseppe know about Mister Stroop? How could she look for clues with him around?

“You’ll like Alice,” Giuseppe finally said.

“I know her,” Hannah said.

“You do? How?”

“I work — used to work at the Gilbert Hotel. She’s a gardener there.”

He tipped his head to one side. “Oh, so that’s it.”

“That’s what?”

“I knew I’d seen you before. You were the maid in the cemetery.”

She nodded.

“You were looking at Mister Stroop’s tomb,” he said.

“So were you.”

He dropped his eyes to the ground. “Yeah,” he said with sadness in his voice. “Yeah, I was.”

Hannah softened inside. “I, um, never said thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me from the cougar.”

“Well, Pullman had the gun. All I had was a lousy rock.”

“But you came just the same. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled, and there was an impish charm in it. “So, Hannah, what are you looking for out here?”

Hannah leaned back and considered him. There did not appear to be any guile in his question. He had that same restlessness she had seen in
the cemetery, somehow swaggering as he sat there fingering the rim of his cap, but innocent, too, like a hound pup still big-eared and big-pawed.

“You really don’t know?” she asked.

“How would I?”

“You were at Mister Stroop’s tomb, and now you’re here.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing about you. I still don’t have a notion of what you’re talking about.”

“I’m looking for Mister Stroop’s treasure,” Hannah said.

Giuseppe blinked. “Mister Stroop had a treasure?”

Hannah nodded. “I was certain you knew.”

“Nope.” Giuseppe seemed to be thinking things over. “But what would his treasure be doing out here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, and this could all just be a waste of time.”

Giuseppe hopped to his feet. “Well, whatever it is, maybe I can help you find it.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, I could use a bit of treasure, if there’s enough to go around. Forty-five dollars ought to do it.”