by Joe Hart
Something didn’t let you feel good here, my friend.
Evan let the gap in conversation stretch. He didn’t know what else to say. The sense of betrayal had given way to unease, and something else. Even though it sickened him, he recognized it for what it was: intrigue.
“I’m glad you got ahold of Justin. The clock story sounds good, he’ll print it.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry, I really am, Jase. I didn’t mean it—”
“Save it, you sound like a whiny little bitch.”
Evan couldn’t help but laugh. “So I have your blessing to write it.”
“Yeah, make it good. Maybe I’ll put a bug in Justin’s ear about finding a full-time position for you there.”
Evan smiled. “Thanks, Jase. You’re my brother, you know that?”
“Sure do. I only want the best for you guys.”
“I know.”
“Good. Give Shaun a hug for me, and try not to call when I’m taking a shit, okay?”
They both laughed and hung up. Evan sat staring at the wall, through it. The slight glow of knowing his and Jason’s friendship was still strong paled in comparison to the numerous questions that grew from the new knowledge. He stood and made his way to the windows overlooking the dock and the lake beyond. He half expected to see the floating form of a body there. Instead, the water rippled and the pine boughs bent, while the wind chimes tinkled in tones that didn’t sound pretty anymore.
Shaun stirred on the couch, and Evan went to him. Sitting beside him, he stroked his son’s hair as he opened his eyes.
“Hi, honey, good sleep?”
Shaun smiled and yawned, stretching his arms over his head.
“Let’s get you up and do some exercises.”
For the next hour they worked on balancing and range-of-motion routines. The strength in Shaun’s arms surprised him at one point, and he actually lost his grip on his small wrists. This brought about a shocked look on Shaun’s face before he erupted in a series of excited shrieks. Evan clapped his hands over his ears in mock dismay, which only caused him to yell louder.
“You’re getting too strong, son,” he said, once Shaun became calm again. “Can you say ‘strong’?”
“Strog.”
Evan smiled and reached for the iPad to run through some flash cards, but he stopped. Putting his hands on Shaun’s, he looked into his son’s eyes.
“Do you like it here, Shaun? Should we stay?”
“Stay?”
“Yes, do you want to stay? We’ll leave if you say so, right now, buddy. You tell me. Give me a sign.”
He put a palm against the boy’s cheek and waited. Shaun’s eyes roamed across his face for some guidance.
“Stay?” Shaun repeated.
Evan dropped his hand into his own lap and nodded.
“Let’s go down to the lake.”
~
They watched the sun set behind the trees, its burning orange coalescing into a deep red, and then it was a purple bruise hidden behind a wispy crop of clouds. A floatplane roared into view near dark, its flashing wings close enough to see lines of rivets in its aluminum hide. Evan watched Shaun’s face turned toward the whirring prop, and for a moment he imagined that the truck had not slid through the stop sign. He imagined the white line of scar evaporating, leaving smooth, unblemished skin and an undamaged brain beneath it. He watched the wonder in Shaun’s features catching the last light of the day, and when he turned his head to issue an excited yell, Evan almost expected full sentences of questions to come out of his mouth instead.
“You can ask me, buddy,” he said, holding one of Shaun’s hands as the plane touched down on the lake, its skis slinging up jets of water. “How does it fly, Dad? How can it land on the lake?”
Shaun vibrated in his chair, his head turned away as the plane slowed before taxiing toward the right, out of view.
“You can ask,” Evan whispered.
19
That night, after Shaun fell asleep, Evan began working on the clock.
He went downstairs with his laptop, intending to make some notes and begin an outline to send to Justin. Sitting at the worktable, he cleared a spot, moving the diagrams and Bob’s scribbles out of the way. It felt natural to write in the presence of the clock, an inspiration whenever he glanced up from the screen.
Soon he found himself staring at the clock more and more while typing less and less. Its obsidian luster deepened further under the glow of the new light bulbs. The four hands on its shining face were still, but he could imagine them moving. He could see the shortest one buzzing around faster than the other three, like a fly caught under glass. The longest would move slower, placid in its surety. All of them spinning backward.
Evan jerked at the cold touch of the encasement’s glass, and only then realized he’d stood and moved in front of the clock. Dropping his hands to his sides, he saw the places where his fingertips had brushed the pane, the fine lines of his fingerprints visible like road maps. The strange symbols and hash marks in place of numbers shone. Now that he looked closer, he saw they were separated into ten groups. Ten, not twelve.
Frowning, he turned and grabbed the chair near the table and pulled it before the clock. When he stood on the chair, his head came slightly above the clock’s face. Yes, the symbols were definitely in groupings, with small spaces defining their outlines. Evan reached out and placed an index finger on the group at the twelve o’clock spot. He traced the raised markings, trying to ignore the shaking of his hands. The brass was colder than the encasement, and he shivered. Dropping his hand away, he leaned in close to the face, the grin of the crescent moon looking even more gruesome at this distance.
Something in the center of the group caught his eye: a minute O that looked incongruous with the rest of the cryptic figures around it. It took another moment for the rest of the shape to come into focus, and then suddenly it was there.
A zero was buried within the grouping.
Evan pulled back, blinking. Had that been there the entire time? No. Maybe. He looked again and saw in the spaces between the symbols, a clear path cut through, forming the number.
“How did I miss that?” he whispered.
He waited, staring at the spot, for something to change or the zero to disappear, consumed by the nonsensical etchings again, but it didn’t. It remained. With trepidation, he focused on the next distinguished cluster. Sure enough, a one hid in its center. A two could be seen in the next, a three in the one after. All of the numbers were buried in the negative space between the cast symbols. He counted up to nine before coming back to the zero at the top.
“It’s like a fucking rotary phone,” he said.
The idea struck him as funny, and he laughed. Harder and harder, he shook with giggles as his legs grew weak beneath him. He stepped down to the floor and steadied himself on the worktable until the laughter began to taper off to chuckles and snorts. Evan wiped his eyes and looked back at the clock, expecting the numbers to be gone, hidden once more in the strange calligraphy.
They weren’t. Apparently, once seen, you couldn’t un-see them.
“Curiosity killed the cat and nothing in the world could bring him back.”
Evan swallowed, not liking the sound of his voice in the basement. He needed to get to work, enough messing around. But as he turned away, his eyes snagged on the four hands of the clock, now pointing at distinguishable numbers. He froze, feeling as though he stood at the edge of a bottomless cavern, his toes encroaching on empty air. Which way to step? Onto solid ground, or into the emptiness?
You know why you’re down here and not upstairs punching away at Justin’s outline, just like you know why you haven’t left this island like any sane person would have by now. You know. Dispense with the self-serving lies. I am the self, you can’t bullshit me.
Hating the voice inside, Evan noted the placement of the clock’s hands and took in which numbers they pointed at. One, nine, one, nine—1919. He tried to remember if he’d bumped the hand
s. No, he hadn’t. He rubbed his face, swiping at his eyes, which were much too tired all of a sudden.
How many people had been around the clock over the years? How many curious fingers had touched, prodded, spun the hands? A warmth glowed in the base of his stomach, the same as earlier that day on the boat when Selena kissed him. Excitement. The possibility of something impossible. He opened his mouth as though to speak, to chide himself out loud, and then shut it.
The idea, hidden beneath the dark waters of obscurity over the past days since finding Bob’s notes, rose from the depths, becoming clearer and clearer. For a moment he tried to refuse it, to push it back below to where it would return to the indefinable shadow it once was, but instead, he let it come fully into view. The enormity of the possibility, along with its insanity, almost floored him. Evan gripped the back of the chair and slowly slid into the seat, the strength leaving his legs.
Once seen, it can’t be unseen.
Evan looked at the monstrosity standing indifferent against the wall.
“He tried to go back, back before she got sick.”
He didn’t know if he spoke of Abel or himself. His jaw worked soundlessly, and if the lights were to wink out, he knew he would die, crushed by the immensity of the concept that now breathed—pulsed—with life.
“I can go back.”
Bob’s words spoken aloud should have chilled him, but they didn’t.
Evan shut his laptop, went to the diagrams at the far end of the table, and began to read.
~
When he awoke hours later in his bed, it was to the sound of a pistol cocking. A very round, very cold circle of steel pressed into his cheek, and he saw the outline of a man standing over him. Evan’s heart went from a normal beat to a full racehorse gallop in less than a second. Adrenaline rushed through his recumbent form, and he trembled beneath the light blanket that covered him.
“You yell, I kill you and then your son, you understand me?”
The man’s voice was low and unsteady. It wavered as though he were shaking too, but Evan couldn’t feel any vibration through the barrel of the gun.
“Yes,” Evan said, his voice a sleep-filled croak.
The man leaned over him, and the pressure of the gun increased. He wondered if the intruder had changed his mind and would pull the trigger in the next second, sending him on to whatever waited. The bright thought of seeing Elle flared, extinguishing as he imagined Shaun waking to a single gunshot, frightened beyond anything he’d known before as a strange man entered his room to end his life. The worst part would be Shaun wouldn’t know what was happening or why. This thought kept Evan still, waiting for the man either to speak or to let down his guard enough for him to launch an attack.
“Where is it?”
So it was a robbery.
“What?” Evan said. The barrel pushed so hard against his cheek, his teeth ached.
“The clock, the fucking clock,” the man said, his voice coming out in a rasp.
“Downstairs,” Evan said, readying to fling his hand up and roll his body at the same time.
The gun drew away, and the man stepped toward the door. Evan saw his arm reach out for the switch. Light flooded the room, and he found himself looking at a late-middle-aged Asian man with close-cropped dark hair. His eyes were narrowed against the glare of the sudden light, and his mouth was a hard line drawn at the bottom of his face. The revolver in his hand was so large, it seemed like a prop out of an action movie. Evan sat up, careful not to make any movements too fast.
“What do you want?”
The man’s mouth quivered. “I want to see it.”
“You can have it, as long as you don’t hurt my son.”
The man grimaced and stepped forward, leveling the gun at Evan’s forehead.
“What did you do to her?” he asked. A tear slid free of his left eye and caught the light before rolling out of sight under his jaw.
Evan brought his hands up to his shoulders and leaned back. “Who, who are you talking about?”
The man’s lips moved, but his teeth remained locked together. “Becky, my daughter. What did you do to her?”
Evan’s mouth dropped open, and he took in the likenesses of the man before him and the young PCA—the same color hair, the same cheek bones.
“I didn’t do anything to her.”
“Bullshit,” Becky’s father said, thrusting the handgun forward.
“I didn’t. When I came home, she was acting strange, and before I could talk to her, she left in the boat.”
Another tear traced the same course as the first one, and Becky’s father wiped it away. “She came home from here almost catatonic. She barely said hello and then threw up in the upstairs toilet. We put her to bed, and in the morning—” His voice rose like a roller coaster before the big drop. “I found her broken on our sidewalk. My baby girl, gone. Do you get that?” He tilted his head, as if speaking to Evan in another language. “Do you understand having someone ripped away from you for no reason?”
Yes, I do.
Evan remained quiet, still not knowing if the other man would pull the trigger or not.
“Please don’t hurt my son.”
Becky’s father blinked and licked his lower lip. “She left a note, but it didn’t explain anything, no reason why. But she must’ve been up all night writing, while my wife and I slept. She wrote ‘clock’ over and over and over on a piece of paper until there was no white left anywhere, only the word ground into it with ink.”
A cold clarity gripped Evan. He should agree with Becky’s father, tell him there was something wrong with the clock, that it was unnatural. He should go with him down to the basement to destroy it, and when Becky’s father wasn’t looking, take the gun from him and kill him.
Evan shook his head. No, he hadn’t just thought that. He didn’t want to hurt the man any more than he wanted Becky’s father to hurt them. The uncharacteristic blood thirst receded, and he gazed into the gun’s unblinking eye before looking at the man who held it.
“I’m sorry about your daughter, I really am. I called the hospital after she left to make sure she got home safe. I was worried but—”
But you were too fixated on the idea to really care, too enamored with Selena and—
Evan closed his eyes, cutting the voice off mid-sentence. He spoke with slow care, his words metered out with the truth he felt. “I’m sorry, I can’t say how sorry I am, but I didn’t do anything to her.”
Becky’s father watched him with his dark eyes. “Get up,” he finally said, motioning toward the door with his gun.
Evan swallowed, hoping his legs would hold him. He stood and walked out of the room, Becky’s father following him. The surreal quality of the light and sensation of clinging sleep made him wonder if this all was a dream, a nightmare that was a little too real. They moved down the hall and across the living room. The darkness outside the window was thick.
The night will never end.
“Where’s the basement?” Becky’s father said.
“The door on the right,” Evan said, pointing.
“You first.”
Evan could smell the other man’s cologne or shaving cream, and pulled open the basement door. He flicked the light switch on and started down, hearing Becky’s father several steps behind. Panic still gripped him, but it was separate now, detached in a way that made him feel sleepy. He wanted only to go back to bed and lie down, pretend this all was a dream that would fade with the light of morning.
They stepped into the basement after Evan turned the next switch on, and he moved to one side, giving the other man a clear view of the clock. Evan watched his reaction, waiting for an outburst, either tears or maybe a crazed battle cry, but Becky’s father did nothing. He stood motionless, taking in the clock’s wide-shouldered encasements, its black shine. For a moment he thought the man might be transfixed, hypnotized by the sight, but then he was moving, walking in a straight line toward it, his eyes never leaving it. Evan took a half
step toward the stairs, trying to judge whether he could make the turn and race up the treads, out of sight before the gun would go off. He needed to get Shaun out of the house and into the pontoon, away from this man whose grief was driving him to things Evan was sure he would never even consider normally.
He glanced at the stairway and then back to Becky’s father as he set the gun on the table and bent to pick up something from the floor near the workbench.
This is your chance. Go while he’s not looking, get Shaun safe and then call someone to get this man some help.
All of his thoughts ceased when he saw what Becky’s father held in his hands.
The can of mineral spirits looked old, the top holding a slim layer of brown rust, and cobwebs first stretched from its handle and then broke, floating back to their tethers on the wall. Becky’s father held the can at arm’s length, then spun the cap off.
“Tessa’s always after me to stop smoking,” he said, digging in one front pocket. “Now I’m so glad I haven’t, because I don’t see any matches down here.”
He drew out a silver lighter, the refillable butane kind, and pivoted toward the clock. Before he turned, Evan saw a manic smile stretched across his lips.
Evan ran.
He didn’t wait to see if Becky’s father would actually go through with what he intended. He didn’t try to talk him out of it. He ran. A solitary pain lanced through his heart as he realized his chance to make things different, as insane as it seemed, would be a pile of ashes soon, possibly with the rest of the house. He almost stopped and turned back, a powerful pull trying to lock his feet to the stairs.
You’re giving up the chance to save Elle, to save Shaun from the disabled life he is cursed to lead. You’re running away again.
The last words came in Elle’s voice, and he stumbled, nearly falling into the kitchen. Evan grunted and continued to move, shoving away everything else besides the need to get to Shaun.
He stepped into the kitchen and ran across the floor, for the first time noticing the chill on his bare legs.
