The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

  The Unprintable Big Clock Chronicle

  Jill Winters

  Copyright © 2011 by Jill Winters

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I dedicate this book to my sweet, handsome husband, who makes all great things possible.

  Special thanks to my parents, who are wise and generous beyond words, and to all the family & friends who have asked about and looked forward to my next book. I am forever grateful!

  Prologue

  At five minutes till midnight, the town of Big Clock was nearly quiet. Tucked in a hillside pocket outside of Minneapolis, Big Clock was apart from the city noise. The only sounds in the town square on an icy December night like this were the faint humming of the back-up generator and the off-key whistle of the wind.

  Light snow slanted leisurely across the brick and stone buildings that lined the square. The decorative candy canes that were strung high between lampposts clumsily wobbled with the breeze. There was a deceptive serenity to the scene.

  On the north side of the square stood the clock tower for which the town had been named. It was an office building now, eight stories high with the majestic old clock crowning the top like a proud antique. There was a certain invincibility about that clock, a certain comfort in its endurance.

  The clock building, as it was simply referred to, was dark—except for the dim light that filled two windows on the eighth floor. On the other side of the glass was the hurried sound of footsteps.

  Running past an aisle of cubicles, the blond woman headed frantically for the main door of the Metropolax Company. Already in hand was her ID badge which would get her to the elevator. The plastic edge of it nearly cut into her palm as she unwittingly tightened her grip.

  She cursed silently as her heel snagged on the carpet again, lamenting both the annoying rug and her own vanity; she never should have worn high heels tonight. In fact, with a frightening clarity she realized: she shouldn't have come at all.

  Nothing had gone the way that she had pictured. When she had played out this scene in her mind earlier, she had never anticipated—

  Finally the entrance was in reach. Waving her ID badge across the magnetic scanner that was attached to the wall, she lurched toward the gold door handle. She pushed her weight on it but it didn't budge. “Damn it!” she whispered, realizing that the scanner hadn't registered her badge. It was a dated and temperamental security system that stopped just short of being a joke.

  She whipped her head around to see any signs of her pursuer. No one was in view yet, but a familiar voice rang through the office. “Come back here! Why are you running away? I just want to talk to you!”

  She couldn't resist yelling back, “Then why do you have a hammer?” Goddamn it! she thought. Why had she let herself be baited? Her own mother had always criticized her hot-headedness, warning that it would lead to trouble. But who really listened to their mothers, until it was too late?

  At least she hadn't called her pursuer “Mr. Media,” as she had done tauntingly once or twice before; Sox hated being called “Mr. Media.” “Sox” was a nickname, too, of course, but it didn't carry the same uncomfortable implications.

  As soon as she heard the thump thump of encroaching footsteps, she realized that she would not have time to get safely out of the building. By the time the elevator climbed from the lobby to the eighth floor, surely Sox would have caught up to her.

  As a plan B, she waved her ID badge across the scanner again and gave the glass door a hard shove. It flung open, the hinges making their trademark squeak. Instead of exiting, the blond continued on—cutting through the maze of cubicles, past the kitchen and down toward the back stairwell. She hoped Sox had heard the door hinges and assumed that she was on her way to the lobby. If she hurried, maybe she could make it down the back stairwell and out to her car.

  But Sox must not have been fooled, because the menacing voice rang out again. “This ends now. Tonight, we settle it once and for all.”

  The blond swallowed hard, discerning at once that the voice was getting closer. Instinctively, she brought her hand to her neck and rubbed it tensely. It was something she did only when she was anxious. This couldn't be happening, she thought with a certain cognizant futility.

  But really—how could it happen? “Mr. Media” wasn't a killer. Could anyone just kill? The two had known each other for years. Yet...Sox's face tonight was a side the blond had never seen...and the hammer...there was no doubt Sox could overpower her...

  Desperately, the blond decided: If I'm going to die tonight, I'm not going quietly. She ducked through the nearest door, which led to the ladies' room, and raced to the sink. She bent over the counter, getting as close to the mirror as possible without touching her lips to it, and puffed hard. She shifted by inches and kept puffing, until there was a fat cloud of steam on the glass. With her fingers, she scribbled as fast as she could. Maybe nobody would ever find this, but it was her only hope. She had no paper or pens on her, her purse was still at her desk, and she couldn't risk running back toward her office.

  She cracked the ladies' room door just enough to see if Sox was anywhere around. The corridor appeared to be empty, so she ducked out again. Just then, she heard the door to the stairwell open. Her heart jumped, as panic coursed through her body. The stairs were just around the corner!

  Haplessly, she froze in place for a few seconds, looking all around, before she finally got her feet to move.

  She doubled back and ran down the hall until she noticed the supply room door on her right. It was only partially closed. The door had an automatic lock, but its antiquated magnets often precluded it from shutting all the way.

  With relief, the blond stepped inside and closed the door soundly behind her. Her panting was steep now. It was the first time she realized fully how terrified she was, how precious her life really was...

  She backed away from the door and further into the room. Suddenly she heard the big clock above the office gong. The sound reverberated through the porous walls of Metropolax as it always did. The clock chimed ten times and then stopped.

  Several quiet minutes passed. The blond almost let herself feel relief when the doorknob began to rattle. She gasped. Then, with a choking lump in her throat, she watched as the lock turned.

  The door opened. Sox stood there, still holding a hammer. Despite that, the blond suspected that Sox could be reasoned with and probably didn't really want to kill her. Pleadingly, the blond said, “We can work this out...don't be crazy...”

  Sox nodded and agreed, “You're right. Things are going to work out—but my way, for once.”

  “What are you talking about? You did get your way!” the blond blurted and then quickly shut her mouth before she made things worse. If things even could be worse.

  “Listen up, honey,” S
ox said, scowling. “Because this is how it's going to go...”

  Chapter 1

  Things will always catch up to you. No matter how you think you've gotten away with something or clutched a secret. Somehow the past will come back, in one form or another. It's just another slap in the face for humanity, really. No matter how much you long to, you can't go back to the past—but it can come to you.

  This is where my part begins.

  It all started on that Monday, the morning I thought I knew everything. I see now that I didn't know a damn thing. I had embarked on an investigation with a brash certainty that was misplaced (and usually is, even under the best of circumstances). In short time, I found not clear answers, but layers of questions.

  Now, after finally figuring everything out, I found myself stuck—literally spinning my wheels.

  “Damn it!” I burst and pressed on my accelerator again, dreading that grinding sound of my tires fighting against the ice. I had left the Chronicle office just a few minutes earlier, but stupidly decided to take the shortcut through Park Street. Of course I hadn't realized that the narrow road had barely been paved and salted, and I say “stupidly” because Big Clock, Minnesota was such a small town, the concept of a “shortcut” was almost redundant. But I had just been so impatient, after what I had learned tonight. Finally the pieces had come together and all of my admittedly amateurish efforts had come to fruition. My first thought had been: I had to find Ian.

  At least tonight wasn't one of those treacherous Minnesota nights with snow falling in buckets, but it was still a half-frozen maze of frustration. As usual, my strategy of stomping on my accelerator pedal and overworking my tires was a big fail. With a deep sigh, I clutched my steering wheel and willed myself to calm down. Things always seemed scarier at night. I glanced around to make sure all my doors were locked.

  There was no reason to get flustered over this. I tried to remember exactly how I got my car un-stuck the last time this had happened. I knew it involved something my dad had showed me once involving inching the car forward and backward.

  Thinking of my dad made me momentarily homesick for New Jersey. Where my roots were—my parents, my brothers—and where my “direct” approach to various aspects of life was considered normal. Being from New Jersey, I was also used to snow in the winter—just not as much and not as constantly. But I couldn't complain much about Big Clock, which to my surprise, had turned out to be an adorable, hidden postcard-of-a-town.

  Speaking of my roots, I will give you the basic sketch: my name is Caitlyn Rocket. At the time all this happened, I was twenty-six-years-old and a graduate student at Westcott College in Minneapolis. I was working toward a degree in Journalism, with a focus on Print Media & Linguistics. In addition to that, I had been employed as a “general assist” at the Big Clock Chronicle for about six months. Literally that was my title. And if you are thinking that “general assist” might be prestigious like a “general manager” of a baseball team or something, let me disavow you of that adorably naive belief now. The truth was, I was the equivalent of a paid intern; my tasks at the paper were diverse and scattered, and there didn't seem to be a cap on the number of new things that could be added.

  Just then a sheet of ice broke against the windshield, startling me.

  I took a breath. Then, for some reason, I watched it slide down the misty glass and I thought about the contrast—how what had assailed my windshield at a fevered, frantic pitch just a moment ago, was suddenly moving in slow motion. It made me think about how elusive and strange Time really was. Just two short weeks ago, I had never even heard of the Metropolax Company. And now, here I was...

  Knee-deep in the whole convoluted mess.

  But I suppose I should start at the beginning. As I had said, it was a Monday morning. The Big Clock Chronicle office was the same as always—battered but cozy, had seen better days, which were probably in the Fifties. Despite the woodsy “decor” (i.e. mismatched wooden desks and chairs, and a plank-wood floor partially covered by a threadbare Oriental rug), the office was bright with sun, which shone brilliantly against all the snow piled up outside.

  The air was thick with that decadent aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. My boss, Ian Beller, and I gravitated right toward the pot. “Ladies first,” he said and waited for me to fill my mug. As always, Ian and I were the first ones here. I always came early, because I had to go through all the voicemails and emails that accumulated in our general mailbox the night before. Ian arrived early, because he was the Managing Editor of the paper, and pretty uptight in general.

  After I stepped aside, I took a sip of coffee and turned my attention back to the Sunday edition of the Minn. Ledger, one of Minneapolis's largest newspapers. Ian had his copy folded beneath his arm, as he poured his own cup.

  “Hey, Ian, did you see this?” I said, as I sat down at my desk, which was burrowed in the far corner, diagonally across the room from the front door.

  “What's that?”

  “This article about a robbery here in Big Clock,” I replied, then looked up at him. “In the clock building. Did you know about that?”

  “No...oh, wait, yes. Do you mean that supply closet thing? Over at—what was the name of the company...” he said, thinking aloud.

  “Metropolax,” I read, pronouncing it just like “metropolis,” but with “ax” at the end. “Am I saying that right?”

  Ian didn't respond; he was scanning his own paper now, as he walked back to his office. “Where is it...oh, wait, here it is,” he mumbled as he walked, loudly folding the pages over. It wouldn't take him long to read the piece, which wasn't an article so much as a blurb.

  “How come we didn't cover that?” I asked curiously, wheeling my chair far enough out of the corner to see Ian's office. “The paper said it happened last week.”

  Ian sat down at his desk, tossed the Sunday edition off to the side and called back through his open door. “Fredriksen told me not to, unless more came out about it.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I think he's friendly with the president over there,” Ian remarked, but didn't elaborate any further.

  Mr. John Fredriksen was the owner of the Big Clock Chronicle as well as a Minneapolis-based arts and theater guide called, Culture & Performance. Whereas Culture & Performance ran bi-weekly, the Chronicle put an issue out every Wednesday and Sunday. Typically, the Chronicle consisted of weather, classified ads, horoscopes, local sports and community updates. Sunday's issue added two feature articles—one with a local focus, and another that dealt with a topic of regional or even national significance. Sunday's paper also had an expanded sports section, with updates on professional teams and an opinion column, tons of coupons, and just added to the paper was a “Movie Spotlight Corner” that I was put in charge of (well, sort of—Ian still had a plethora to say.)

  Mr. Fredriksen didn't actually live in Minnesota. He was based in Los Angeles, where he was apparently a successful theater producer. He visited the Chronicle office only sporadically, and he was always pleasant to Ian's staff. But it seemed that whenever he left, Ian called a meeting and somehow at the end of it, I wound up with a few more responsibilities.

  “It wasn't really a big deal anyway,” Ian added now, obviously to justify our lack of reporting on a news item that had literally happened in our backyard. Or front yard, as it were. The old store building that housed the Chronicle was on the south side of the town square, so there was about a football field's distance between the big clock and us. I was in and out of the clock building on a weekly basis, because the print company we used had its office on the first floor.

  “Granted, I am surprised that the story found its way to the Minn. Ledger,” Ian added.

  “Well, it says here that the supply room was broken into after hours. That the receptionist went in on Wednesday morning to find things missing.” I looked up toward Ian's office. His eyes were fixed on his computer screen and he was clicking away on his mouse. “Was anyone arrested since then, do yo
u know?”

  “No. But if it happens we'll certainly cover it.”

  “Well...” Perplexed, I set down the paper. “If the receptionist reported this Wednesday morning, it means that the robbery actually happened on Tuesday of last week.” Ian didn't ask me to elaborate, but kept clicking his mouse. I chose not to take the hint and continued, “The story is in the Ledger in the Weekly Recap section, which is pretty much just fluff.”

  “And your point?” Ian replied, sounding faintly bored with the topic.

  “My point is, if there had been any developments with the investigation, the Ledger would have covered them. Clearly, this is like a sound bite—it's a blip, a nothing. Are the police actually even doing anything to solve the crime?”

  At that, Ian snorted. “Rocket, you make it sound like someone shot a bank teller or something. We're talking about some office supplies that went missing. I don’t know why the receptionist would even call the police—versus going to a manager or supervisor first.” He gave a shrug. “Either way, maybe there was a legitimate reason the supplies were taken and the receptionist just wasn't in the loop. That's possible.”

  I held up the paper. “But it says also that the lock appeared damaged.”

  Again, Ian shrugged. “The police will figure it out, I’m sure.”

  “Ha—I doubt that,” I said and got up to re-fill my mug.

  “What's that mean?” Now Ian got up from his desk; he stepped out into the main office again, this time carrying some papers. He was looking at me and I couldn't tell if his expression was amused or curious or bemused. Ian was always so poker-faced it was hard to tell exactly what he was thinking. He was still relatively new in town, having moved from Seattle to Big Clock four months ago when he took the job at the Chronicle.

  Once I was seated at my desk again, I tucked in my chair and clicked open my inbox. “You know my feeling on the Big Clock police,” I said.