The watchmaker

chapter two

what is that?

From his squeaky chair in the warm office. the big man sipped coffee and squinted through the bright morning light towards the far end of the pier. He was the morning supervisor of the tugboat repair operation, located on the Hudson river North of Greenwich village. There was a Moran with a bim diesel due to dock in forty minutes but at the moment the pier was empty and the supervisor was enjoying the warmth of the shed, where he sat with his feet up on the desk, coffee cradled against his chest. He wiped some condensation off the window and looked again.

What is it.?

A small black box sat at the edge of the pier, the side that faced Jersey. It hadn't been there when the facility had closed by six yesterday, and nobody would have docked after that. Had to come from the land side. There was a chain link fence to prevent pedestrians and passerby from getting into the facility but as the man knew from the missing trash drums and tools, if someone wanted to break in they would But why leave something?

He stared for a while, thinking, It's cold out, it's windy, the coffee's just right. Then he decided, Oh hell, better check.He pulled on his thick gray jacket, gloves and hat and, taking in a last slug of coffee, stepped outside into the breathtaking air.

The supervisor made his way through the wind along the pier, his watering eyes focused on the black box.

The hell is it? The thing was rectangular,less than a foot high, and the low sunlight sharply reflected off something on the front. He squinted against the glare. The whitecapped water of the Hudson slushed against the pilings below.

Ten feet away from the box he paused, realizing what it was.

A clock. An old fashioned one, with those funny numbers (Roman numerals) and a moon face on the front. Looked expensive. He glanced at his watch and saw the clock was working; the time was accurate. Who'd leave a nice thing like that here? Well, all right, I got myself a present.

As he stepped forward to pick it up though, his legs went out from under him and he had a moment of pure panic thinking he'd tumble into the river. But he went straight down, landing on the patch of ice he hadn't seen and slid no further.

Wincing in pain; gasping he pulled himself to his feet the man glanced down and saw that this wasn't normal Ice. It was reddish brown.

"Oh, Christ," he whispered as he stared at the large patch of blood, which had pooled near the clock and frozen slick.He leaned forward and his shock deepened when he realized how the blood had gotten there.He saw what looked like bloody fingernail marks on the wooden decking of the pier, as if someone with slashed fingers or wrists had been holding on to keep from falling into the churning waters of the river.

He crept to the edge and looked down. No one was floating in the choppy water.He wasn't surprised; if what he imagined was true, the frozen blood meant the poor bastard had been here a while ago and if he hadn't been saved, his body'd be halfway to Liberty island by now.

Fumbling for his cell phone, he backed away and pulled his glove off with his teeth. A final glance at the clock, then he hurried back to the shed calling the police with a stubby quaking finger.