Chapter 12 - "Rust in the Teeth"

The imposter breaks from the Law. The detectives close in on something true. Michael prepares his hand, but the Timekeeper watches, silent and unseen.

The carving was slow tonight. Not flesh-wood. Birch, clean and bleached. The hollow would be filled later.

The clock face was set to 3:41.

The time of fracture. The moment rust began to spread in the gears.

He turned the piece over and etched a single name: Eloise Danner.

She believed pain could mimic precision. For that, she was wrong.

Not to honor. To remember deviation.

Now another deviated.

The reports he intercepted told him what he needed to know. The imposter had killed again-a woman, young, too young. Her body half-burned in a dumpster, wrist carved, yes- but the damage ran deeper. Burned flesh. Unnecessary trauma.

Not precision. Not the Law.

This one was never a student. False metal. A mimic. Mocking the ticking but unable to hear the rhythm.

He pressed his fingers to the carved face. One more adjustment would be required soon. Final. Absolute.

Somewhere, the Timekeeper watched. Michael felt it in the mechanism of his bones.

"I protect what you gave us,' he thought. 'And I will remove those who would rust your design."

-

The clocks in his notebook refused to stay still. Some bled ink. Some floated on the page. Others cracked open like bone.

He had found one of the boy's journals months ago. Pages filled with numbers, sketches, wrist drawings, whispers.

"Not your time. Not your Law."

He tried to copy the tone. The control. But every kill grew messier. Every carving less faithful. The girl in the dumpster should have been better. He'd shaved the edges, carved by candlelight.

Then the fire. The panic. The screaming in his ears.

Now the clocks melted and twisted beyond control.

In the motel bathroom, the pipes clinked in uneven beats-like a clock's heart stuttering. Once, in the darkened TV screen, he thought he saw someone standing behind him. When he turned, there was only the doorway.

-

"The first three victims," LeClair said, laying down the photos, "wrist carvings. Every one of them. Clean."

"Then the fourth," Brandt added, pointing to man found at the train station. "Same carving. Same wrist. Slightly different hand. But still within the pattern."

"And the fifth?" LeClair asked.

Brandt hesitated. "A woman. Older. Found two days ago. Also clean work. Same placement. Time: 1:06."

"They're tightening the message," LeClair muttered. "Whoever this is...they're not experimenting. They're executing a mission."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning the student is learning."

-

The Imposter deviates further. The burn was unnecessary. The extra wounds serve no purpose.

He is not a student. Just a mimic with trembling hands.

The child's death was the his first mistake-the boy was never meant to be taken. His curiosity was promising.

But now the child is gone. The Imposter desecrates what he barely understands.

But I will not allow this infection to spread.

Meanwhile, another is emerging. Across the continent, someone listens. Their gears begin to catch.

I do this not for myself.

I do it for the one who showed me the Law.

I do it for Him.

The Timekeeper watches.

He sealed the letter and left it in the hollow of a tree. No address. No name.

But time would deliver it.

-

He had seen the videos.

Listened to the theories.

But the true clocks were the only thing that made sense.

He had her photo. Eloise Danner-the loud one, the failed one.

But she had been near it. Near Him.

Now, he would get closer-swinging through each day like a pendulum, steadying toward the moment.

He wiped the brass cog clean before seating it in place, then folded the paper and slid it into the base of a clock he was building.

"I will follow the Law."