The Initiation (16 page)

I
SKILLFULLY AVOIDED MY BROTHER FOR THE
next two days. I'd caught his burning eyes boring into me when passing in a hallway between classes and I sensed he was upset with me, though I wasn't sure why.

I elected the tactic of avoidance. Twice I hid in the girls' washroom to evade him. Several other times I used Natalie and Jamala to cover for me. I spent inordinate amounts of time in my dorm room since boys weren't allowed on our floor without Mistress Grace's permission.

I arrived to meals late so I could pick a table
well away from James, avoided the common room altogether, headed directly to the girls' locker room after classes, and waited for field hockey to start. All in all, it was a highly successful campaign, one that might have continued for a week or more had I not been blindsided by the unexpected.

There I was, leaving my dorm for dinner, late as per my plan, when, while passing Brunelli, the janitor, pushing a mop and rolling bucket, the man reached out and grabbed me. I opened my mouth to cry for help, but a hand was slapped over my lips and my brother's voice said harshly, “Not a word!” He dragged me into the washroom. It wasn't Brunelli. James was up to some new tricks.

I realized immediately several problems with my plan: seeing the janitor's blue coveralls, I'd paid no attention to who was inside them; by electing to go to dinner late each evening, I'd ended up in an empty dorm. There was no one to come to my rescue.

“James? How did you—?”

“Never mind that! You're going to answer me, Moria. You're going to answer my questions—honestly—and if I sense otherwise your life at this school is going straight down the toilet.”

With sinks and toilets all around us I was tempted to make a joke about his poor choice of metaphor, but it didn't seem like the best timing.
“So ask,” I said, trying to act casually. “I'm kind of hungry and we're both late for dinner.”

“You . . . or my nutcase roommate . . . broke into Crudgeon's office.”

Decision moment: on the one hand, I thought I could lie pretty convincingly to James. We both had lifetimes of experience as brother and sister. On the other hand, I didn't lie; I pretty much took the path that if you did it, you had to own it; if you can't own it, then don't do it in the first place. As to Sherlock's involvement . . . I would decide on that as I went.

“Fine leather appointments,” I said. “Though the artwork is all copies and photographs. He could have done better.” I couldn't help my wit; when you have it, you have it.

He raised his hand as if to slap me, and I shied away despite knowing he wouldn't do it. James and I had a history of wrestling, of pinching and pulling hair. We didn't slap. He lowered his hand.

“Sorry. I'd never hit you.”

“Let's hope not,” I said, “because I won't hit you back and then you're going to feel really awful.” The mood changed in that instant—desperate brother, frightened sister. “None of what's been going on makes any sense,” I said. “All I want to do is go to school and have friends and play field
hockey—most of the time, really poorly. I want my brother back. I want all this clue stuff and Bible stuff over. I thought if I could find out more about what's going on maybe it would be over more quickly. So, yes, I paid a visit to the headmaster, and he didn't happen to be there.”

“At two in the morning,” James said.

“Something like that. More like four, but yes.”

He pursed his lips, trying to conceal a smile. “That's my sis. And?”

“I found some files . . . on his computer of all places.”

“You hacked the school's computers?”

“His password is their dog's name—Cairo—followed by the year he became headmaster. It took me all of three tries.”

“You little genius!”

I didn't tell him that had been Sherlock's doing. I was more than willing to be labeled brilliant by my brother. It had been a long time coming. “No history. No ancient fable or mysterious clue. I did find, among other files, some blueprints and a legal document. They came up during a search for our last name. I didn't have time to read hardly any of the documents—the folder on us, on the Moriartys, is massive—but there's a money thing tying our family to the school. Upon a male heir graduating,
a large donation is made by a trust. Also, did you know, for instance, that our great-grandfather paid to have the chapel moved from Europe?”

“A recent discovery. Yes.”

“It's like we own this school or something. I don't exactly get how it all works, but you being the male heir is obviously important.”

I could see him calculating. I'd known for years the power of my brother's mind. As long as it had been focused on the Red Sox or the Bruins, on schoolwork, it had kept itself contained. In the past two years, since James's voice began to change, his attention had widened. He read the morning paper cover to cover and had detailed discussions with Father about the stock market and politics, stuff I didn't understand or care about. I thought these changes were mostly responsible for Father's sending James to Baskerville. My partial reading of the old legal document had changed that. For James as well. He'd been sent here as part of a generations-old agreement.

“So let's say there's some kind of trigger for our family's financial support that has to do with the male heir—me—attending or graduating. Maybe that agreement or that trigger also has something to do with our family Bible.” His voice grew excited. “Maybe I have to swear something using
the Bible. Like in court. In order for the school to be paid. ‘Do you solemnly swear to abide by the rules of Baskerville Academy, blah-blah-blah.' See? The Bible goes missing, and the school freaks out. Father freaks out. Maybe, even, whoever is sending these clues freaks out. I end up some chess piece in a game that you and I haven't figured out yet, meaning we're at risk. Meaning the headmaster is worried about me, worried about you.”

I was nodding so hard I was making my neck sore. “Definitely, almost makes sense.”

“Almost?”

“An oath? Really? How could that get them their money?”

“Yeah . . . you're right,” he said. “But I feel we're close.”

“We” was about all I heard. . . .

“It makes sense they need the Bible for something. They don't want it back just to display it.”

“Maybe our great-grandfather was a head case. Maybe there's some rule that the Bible has to be on display.”

“That's not impossible. Crudgeon wouldn't tell us that because he'd have to explain that our family funds the school and that would give you and me too much power over him. Interesting.”

“It is!”

I'd seen his face get red like that before. Only a couple of times, and they never ended well. He'd nearly killed London one time, strangling the dog and holding him off the ground—London, his favorite. I'd saved London; he was only scared, not hurt. But I couldn't save James. It was like he'd passed some internal threshold where nothing could reach him. It wasn't a bad temper but more like another person had come out from within him. I feared that was about to happen again—and it wouldn't be London he'd strangle.

“It's all right,” I said encouragingly.

James took me hard by the shoulders. Truth be told, I nearly fainted. I thought he was probably going to rip me in half without knowing what he was doing. He could dispose of my body in the showers, or in pieces down the toilet. My legs wilted.

“Crudgeon assumes it was you who broke into his office.”

“W . . . h . . . a . . . t?”

“If we don't figure this out, he's going to use you—I don't know how—to get to me,” he said, his eyes wide with terror.

“The Bible is separate from the clues. The guy with the key tattoo under his arm made that clear enough. Father warned me to protect you.”

“You've spoken to Father?” I cried out jealously. “When? Did he call?”

James's face was paralyzed. “Never mind that. We have to guard against anything happening to you, Mo. I'd do anything to keep you safe—”

“Never mind?
Seriously
, Jamie? No, I won't ‘never mind.' I
do
mind. I mind
very much
. What about Father?”

He told me about the bizarre underground visit, about the discussion of legacy and how Father was trying to stop someone from doing something but that it was taking more time than he'd hoped. How Baskerville, the family Bible, and Jamie and I were all part of it, but that Jamie didn't know what “it” was.

I knew the sisterly thing to do at that moment was to share the instructions Father had given me while in his study. I didn't share because Father had asked me not to, but I wasn't certain those rules still applied.

“Would you really do anything to save me?” I wished he'd say it a few times more. I felt good all over.

“Power is about leverage,” he said, sounding like a grown-up version of James. I think that's when I realized the changes in James would be forever. He wasn't a different James, he was the older
variety. “My boys and I will protect you.”

“Your ‘boys'? You sound like a bad guy in a movie.”

“I have a couple guys who help me out, Mo. You know that. Soon, there will be more.”

“You're building a posse?”

“Something like that. Don't worry about it. What I need you to do is to cooperate. Co-operate. Operate
together.
You get that? If I'm fighting you at the same time I'm trying to protect you, that's not going to work.”

“You make it sound so dangerous.”

“You'd understand if you'd seen Father. I think it is dangerous. For both of us. Me, because I'm the male heir and something is expected of me. Like I told you, Father knew about the clues, so they must be a tradition. The scary dude told me to give up the Bible search and focus on the clues. So there's that, too. You, because if I mess this up, they'll use you to get at me. Father was blunt about that. We don't know who ‘they' are. I don't know how I might mess this up, which makes it all the more likely I will.”

“You know what's weird?” I said. “As weird as this sounds, I actually know what you're saying. I get it.”

“So you'll cooperate?”

“One thing: don't ask me to give up Sherlock as
my friend. Do not go there.”

“Mo? That kid's trouble. It's you and me. Three's a crowd. I'm not going to tell you who you can have as a friend, but I'm asking, I'm
begging
. . . give it a rest until we figure this stuff out. Please!”

“M . . . O . . . R . . . I . . . A!!? Moria Moriarty?” It was Mistress Grace. “Are you in the dorm?”

I pushed James into the nearest shower and pulled the curtain shut. I wheeled the bucket and mop into a stall and pulled the stall door closed. I headed out into the hall, tugging on my skirt and rubbing my hand—a girl fresh out of the washroom.

“Down here, Mistress Grace!” She was nearly to the far end of the corridor, well past my dorm room.

I didn't know until then that a person's movement tells its own story. Mistress Grace was a motherly, round woman with soft hands and pinprick beady eyes. A happy woman, she moved around easily and lightly enough to be half her undetermined age. Presently, her face was grim, her walk slow, her eyes downcast.

As she arrived close to me I could see more the details of her worn expression: glassy eyes and streaked mascara.

I'd heard Father use the expression “The devil's in the details.” I'd assumed it meant that small details were often the biggest obstacles. But the devil was quite honestly in the details of her face. She was bewitched, overcome. And it had something to do with me.

Of that, I had absolutely no doubt.

“M
ORIA,
I
'M AFRAID THERE'S BEEN AN ACCIDENT
.” Mistress Grace's voice reflected the evidence of her tears. It was as sad a thing as she'd ever spoken.

“James? Something's happened to James?” I tried to look as if all the blood had drained out of me.

“No, dear, not James, thank heavens.”

“Sherlock?” His name just escaped my lips. It felt as if someone other than me had put them there. Why Sherlock? I wondered. And why would that same chill own me?

“I'm afraid it's your father, dear girl. There's no easy way to say this: he's . . . gone.”

I awoke in the school infirmary looking up at white acoustical tile and hearing the murmur of voices.

“She's awake!” said James.

I sat up, but too quickly. The room swirled and spun.

I opened up my eyes to James's worried and tear-streaked face close to mine. He was holding my hand and sitting in a chair that was lower than the bed, making him seem smaller.

“Jamie,” I groaned. “Water, please?”

An arm connected to the school nurse delivered a plastic cup of ice water. “Lucky for you, Mistress Grace caught you, or you'd have really thumped your head.”

“Yeah,” I said, “lucky me.” Tears practically squirted from my eyes. “Jamie . . . is it . . . true?”

He was crying as well. He nodded and hugged me and I think we stayed that way a long, long time. Headmaster Crudgeon stood at the foot of the bed watching. I didn't know how long he'd been there. I would find out later he'd never left my side. The cruel Mrs. Furman was there, as well as Mistress Grace. There was an ice pack on my head and my feet were raised on a pillow.

The infirmary room contained two hospital beds and some equipment on wheels. It was all very antiseptic and spare. I hadn't even known it existed. From the view out the window I placed it as the upper floor of the McAndrews Science Hall.

“Could we have a minute?” Jamie asked as politely as I'd heard him say anything since arriving to Baskerville.

The adults moved into the hallway.

“Is it true?” I asked.

He nodded. Tears rolled down his cheeks again. “He fell off a ladder.”

“Father on a ladder?”

“Shh. I know. Listen, Mo, do you remember my telling you he came here, to school, the other night?”

“Of course! I fainted, I didn't go psycho!”

“Hush! Not so loud! Remember? He was all worried about you.”

My body shook with grief. I felt twinges of anger, regret, sadness, and a profound sense of emptiness.

“About . . . well, that if I didn't act right it might end up on you. But him? He was freaked out, but I never thought this would happen.”

“The ladder.”

“Exactly. He was winding the wall clock in the hall.”

“Father was? That's Ralph's job!”

“I know. But don't say anything. There's something horrible going on, Mo. I'm in it. We're in it. And we don't even know what it is.” He wiped away snot from his nose. “First Mother, now Father.”

“What's that supposed to mean? Mother?”

“He was scared. Father was scared.”

My breath caught.
Not our father
. That's what Jamie—James, I corrected myself—was saying.

“The attack . . . my bedroom,” he said. “What if that wasn't for me? What if they were just using my room to enter the house and—”

“—get to Father,” I said. “James! What are we supposed to do?”

“Get you out of here. Get well, Mo. We can't talk here. You get well and we'll figure this all out. But secretly. In private, you understand? Nothing to Crudgeon or the others.”

“Of course not.”

“It's super important.”

“I get it,” I said. “I'm better right now. I'm ready.”

“You don't have to convince me,” he said, looking up. “You have to convince them.”