Page 33 of Girl, Reborn

‘Shame. This town has character. Orit could.’

The lonely caw of a crow broke thesilence as they ambled down the dusty street. Ella eyeballed shops, most ofwhich were either closed or boarded up for good. She heard the wheeze of abusted screen door somewhere in the distance.

But then her ears pricked up – thethin, reedystrains of an acoustic guitar, warbling from the town square. She glanced offto the side and saw a busker on the corner, sitting on a crate with an opencase in front of him. He was old, leathery and sun-weathered, with a wildtangle of beard streaked with gray.

But it wasn't the musician that caughtElla's eye. It was the structure behind him, rising from the concrete like arelic from a forgotten age.

At first glance, it could've been afountain, one of those sad municipal numbers that collected more trash thancoins. Tiered basins, scummy with mineralized scale, an abstract figure perchedon top like a malnourished pigeon.

But there was something off about it,something that niggled at the base of Ella's brain stem. The shape of it, theplacement of what should have been pools. She nudged Luca and made a beelinetowards it.

Up close, the oddity of the structure waseven more apparent. The basins were bone-dry, not so much as a trickle of waterto be found. And the statue was no modernist bird or cavorting cherub.

It was a clock face, the hands frozen at aquarter past three.

Mid-way through some country number, thebusker muted his guitar and nodded at the agents. ‘Afternoon, folks. You’re notfrom around here.’

‘Correct,’ Ella said. ‘You a local?’

‘The name’s Clyde,’ the busker said as hestrummed what Ella’s brain recognized as an E chord. ‘Been here since God was apup.’

‘Do you take requests?’ she asked.

‘Sure do.’

‘Can you tell me about this fountain?’

Clyde laughed like it was the first jokehe’d heard in years. In a place like this, maybe it was. ‘This ain’t nofountain, lady. It’s a gen-u-ine water clock, just like the old timers used.’

Ella cocked her head, studying the oddstructure with narrowed eyes. A water clock, huh? In the middle of Podunk, USA?What were the odds? She glanced at Luca, saw the same curiosity reflected onhis chiseled mug.

Clyde strummed another lazy chord, and thetwang reverberated in the dusty air. ‘So what brings a coupla suits like you toour little slice of paradise? Lemme guess – Toledo.’

Ella's gaze snapped to him with hacklesraised. ‘What makes you say that?’

A dry rasp of a chuckle left Clyde'sthroat, like leaves skittering across the pavement. ‘Word travels fast aroundhere, little lady. 'Specially when it involves our dearly departed councilmantakin' a dirt nap in Jessup's cornfield.’

Ella tamped down a sigh. Of course. Sameold song, different verse – just like back in Abingdon. A bunch of boredhousewives and gossipers blathering over the back fence like it was their job.She should've known better than to expect anything else. She jerked her chinback at the ersatz timepiece.

‘So what's the deal with this thing,anyway?’ Not exactly your typical town square decor.’

‘Nope.’ Clyde popped the 'p'. ‘S'posed tobe some kinda art installation. City council commissioned it 'bout five yearsback, wanted to 'beautify' the place and make it a 'destination'. Load of crapif you ask me.’

Luca spoke up. ‘You know a lot about thisthing.’

‘I've been buskin' this corner sinceCarter was in office, figured it was only fittin' I learn the history of mystage, so to speak.’

‘A water clock.’ Ella shared a glance withLuca, who looked equally intrigued. ‘How's that work, exactly?’

Clyde leaned back, settled in for a yarn.‘Well, see, the water drips down from that there spout, trickles through allthe gears and whatnot. Keeps the whole contraption turning, nice and steady.But that was before the drought sucked us dry.'

Ella studied the mechanism with new eyes,tried to imagine it in its heyday. Water coursing through its veins, gearsclacking and spinning, a marvel of ancient ingenuity. Hard to believe such athing could exist out here, in the armpit of nowhere.

All roads seemed to lead back to water –or the lack of it. A town withering on the vine, sucked dry by bureaucrats andfat cats funneling the lifeblood upstream.

‘What do you know about Mr. Toledo?’ sheasked.

‘I’ll tell you what I know if you tell mewho you people are.’

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