The Detective and The Clockmaker – Chapter 13
The First Attempt
The black sedan glided through the city streets, past shuttered storefronts and boarded windows. The press conference had done its job: people were scared. Boards were going up. Radios were being unplugged. But fear also meant chaos, and chaos meant opportunity.
Victor Lamont sat across from Mara in the back seat, his hands folded on his knee. He was sixty-two, silver-haired, with the kind of face that had spent decades learning to show nothing. But his eyes betrayed him. They were tired. Afraid.
“You know who Caspian is,” Mara said. “You’ve known for years.”
Lamont nodded. “I funded his early research. Not the weapon—the mathematics. I believed, like Daniel Ashby, that the Chronos Equation could be understood without being wielded. I was a fool.”
“You introduced Pendel to the forum.”
“I introduced Pendel to Caspian. At Pendel’s request. He wanted to see the proof. He begged for it. I told him it would kill him. He didn’t care.”
Mara’s jaw tightened. “And Finch? Did you pay him?”
“No. That was Caspian. I only learned about Finch after Pendel’s death. By then, it was too late. Finch was already gone.”
The car stopped at a red light. Mara looked out the window. Across the street, a crowd had gathered around a electronics store, watching the news coverage of her press conference. Her own face stared back from a dozen screens.
“The first attempt,” Lamont said quietly. “Do you know what that means?”
Mara turned. “Explain.”
“Caspian doesn’t just kill randomly. He tests. He probes. He sends a small dose—a whisper of the proof—to see how a person reacts. If they resist, he studies why. If they succumb, he considers them ready.”
Mara’s hand went to her neck. “You’re saying he’s already tested me?”
Lamont reached into his jacket. Mara tensed, but he pulled out a small evidence bag. Inside was a single brass gear—identical to the ones from the crime scenes. But this one was smeared with coffee.
“I found this in my espresso machine this morning,” Lamont said. “I don’t know how it got there. I don’t know when. But I know what it means. He’s already inside my home. He’s already inside my head.”
Mara took the bag. The gear was warm from Lamont’s pocket. On its inner rim, barely visible, was an inscription: CV: 11:47.
“CV,” Mara said. “Caspian Vega? Your initials?”
“No. Those are yours, Detective. He’s telling you when.”
Mara’s blood went cold. 11:47. Thirteen minutes before noon. Thirteen minutes before the Great Liberation.
“He’s not just targeting the city,” she said. “He’s targeting me specifically. A personal demonstration.”
Lamont nodded. “You’re the only one who ever came close to catching him. The only one who didn’t give up after Daniel Ashby died. He wants to prove that even you—especially you—cannot resist the proof.”
The car began moving again. Mara looked at her watch. It was 7:23 PM. Sixteen hours until 11:47.
“Take me to the clock tower,” she said.
“Now? It’s not safe.”
“Nothing is safe. But if Caspian wants me at 11:47, I’m not going to wait until 11:46 to show up. I’m going to be there early. I’m going to find his hiding spot. And I’m going to make sure he never gets the chance to test me.”
Lamont hesitated. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Cathedral Square. Quickly.”
The sedan accelerated. Mara stared at the gear in her palm. CV: 11:47.
She thought of Clara’s words: You shoot him. Before he speaks a single word.
She thought of Elena Vance’s ticking. The SOS pattern. The cry for help that wasn’t a cry—it was a lure.
She thought of Daniel Ashby’s smile in the bathtub, seven years ago.
“I’m not going to be your next victim, Caspian,” she whispered. “I’m going to be your last.”
The sedan turned the corner. The clock tower loomed ahead, its face illuminated against the darkening sky.
The hands moved toward midnight.