The Initiation (20 page)

“Yes, master,” I said, annoyed with him. But I did as he asked. Just before I dropped it into his hand he spoke again.

“Unfold it! What do you think I want it for?”

“I have no idea what you want it for!” I protested.

“The tiniest, the smallest of holes, just at the corner here. Some glue or wood putty sealing it. The color is off only fractionally. It's a very good job of it.”

“A nail hole?”

“Think, Moria! Think! A reasonable deduction, but flawed. Why only one? If the entire piece is glued and done so by a true craftsman so the lines are nearly imperceivable, then why a single nail hole?”

“I was asking, that's all.”

“Then he must have been counting on James to
find this, not you.”

“James took wood shop.”

“Well, there you have it. Makes me all the more confident.”

“Of?” Having carefully unbent the paper clip, I handed it to him.

Magnifying glass in hand, Sherlock lowered the paper clip like a pin. It came to rest and he pushed once, hard. I heard a pop.

The lid of the box opened just like the cover of a book.

I reached for our family Bible.

“Y
OU'RE MAKING THIS A HABIT,”
J
AMES SAID,
sitting on the edge of an unfamiliar bed. Then I placed it: the school infirmary.

“What? Where?”

The nurse came to the foot of the bed. “Ah, there we are!”

“What do you remember?” James said. I heard the deep concern in his voice, and I considered trying to drag out his sympathy.

“He was shouting at me not to touch it.”

“Who? What?”

I realized I had better figure out what was going
on before volunteering too much information. I had no real memory, just fireflies orbiting my head. “Or was that a dream?” I said, trying to cover my mistake while I gathered my senses.

“You were found passed out by the sundial.”

“Was I?”

“Natalie found you.”

“Sekulow?”

“Who else? Yes. She was worried about you. You weren't in your bed when she woke up from a nightmare at three o'clock last night. She didn't report you right away—see who got the good roommate? Once she found you, she called for help. You're lucky.”

“The sundial?” I remembered Sherlock's face. Had there been a box? I wondered. Sherlock had shouted a warning at me right before everything had gone dark. But not like unconsciousness—more like a sack being pulled over my head. That was it! I recalled faintly. A hood. My hands slapping something soft. Or was that just my imagination?

“I couldn't sleep,” I said.

“So you violated curfew?” James said. “I told you I would protect you!” He sounded so angry. “How do you expect me to protect you if you go wandering around campus in the middle of the night?”

My head hurt. The nurse saw me reach to my forehead.

“I have some ice water,” she said, moving it to my side table. It bought me a moment to think. My mouth tasted like I'd eaten a sandalwood candle, not that I was in the habit of eating sandalwood candles.

My room held two hospital beds and a window that looked out onto the gym. A metal end table held a pink plastic vomit-dish and my water cup. I felt queasy looking at that color pink. No wonder people vomited. “So Sherlock didn't care enough to stop by?” I tried to sound like a jilted teen. It wasn't that difficult.

“He's AWOL. He's toast. He'll be suspended, no question. Maybe expelled.” James sounded far too satisfied by the prospect of that outcome.

I sat up sharply. My head ached horribly. I thought I might throw up. “What's wrong with me? I feel horrible.”

“There, there, child.” The nurse eased me back and fed me a straw. The water tasted of the plastic cup. It was delicious, nonetheless. “Easy . . . easy . . . that's enough for now.”

I'd been found by the school sundial. Sherlock was missing. What was going on?

“Why can't I remember anything? It was dark.
There were trees. Blurred trees.”

I saw Sherlock's face lit by pulsing light. He'd been with me. I spoke without thinking, my headache owning me. “Lock never made it back to your room?”

“What's that supposed to mean? He was with you?”

“It means . . . you're saying he missed curfew?” I'd spoken too quickly and James picked up on it.

“What do you mean by ‘back to' our room? Was he with you?” he repeated, a dog recognizing a scent. “Where were you two? Did he talk you into meeting him somewhere? I'll bash his head in! He hurt you and then fled campus?” Every muscle in James's body tensed. I'd never seen him quite like this. For a moment, for an infinitesimal amount of time, I actually considered lying to my brother to see what he would do to defend me and my honor.

“James! No! Nothing like that! I have no memory of anything. I have no idea how I ended up here. Sherlock did not invite me to anything. Believe me, I'd remember that! James, do you hear me?” I waited, terrified I'd unintentionally wronged Sherlock. I realized how only a few words had gotten James thinking all the wrong things. “I'm just
concerned
about him,” I said, trying to look embarrassed by the admission. It didn't take much.
“I like him, James. You know I do! Don't be like this!” I could see his anger brewing. “I don't want him suspended. I don't want him in any trouble.”

For once, I wasn't lying to my brother. I had no idea why I'd been found by the sundial, or what, if anything, Sherlock had to do with it.

Looking down, I saw a bandage on the inside of my elbow. James saw me looking.

“They're testing your blood, Mo,” he whispered as he leaned in as if to adjust my pillow.

“Why?” I asked, equally confidentially.

His eyes softened. “They think maybe you touched the Bible. Remember Headmaster's warning us?”

“The Bible? Jamie, I'm scared. I've never been unable to remember stuff before. Do you think that's possible? Do you think . . . our family Bible?”

“No clue. But they think so.” He stroked my hair. “Don't worry. I'm going to figure this out.”

“Sherlock is innocent, James.”

“Sure he is.” He took my hand. His was warm, nearly hot to the touch.

I reached for the pink bowl.

T
HE NEXT TIME
I
OPENED MY EYES, THE WIN
dow looked hollow, black with night. My room glowed in the frightful pallor of tube lighting. I heard rats scratching the floor. I dropped my jaw to release a shriek when a head popped up. Sherlock, with a long, bony finger pressed to his lips. “Shh!”

“You about scared me to death!” I said, too loudly for his liking. Only then did I process the smudges of dirt on his face, his tousled hair and bloodshot eyes. “You look horrible.”

“Quiet, please.” He moved toward the door, glanced carefully into the hallway, and eased the
door shut, leaving it open an inch.

“What . . . is . . . going on?” I asked.

“I'm not officially here. Not exactly on campus,” he said hoarsely. “You might say I'm visiting.”

“James said you didn't come back to the room last night. Was it last night?” I'd lost all track of time.

“How could I?” he asked.

I must have offered a blank expression.

“You don't remember?” he said. He followed with a brief explanation. “The Bible? Your father's house? I escaped. You weren't as lucky. I did everything I could, Moria, but I was outnumbered. There were at least three of them. My only choice was to run. I felt horrible. Your driver saved me.”

“Ralph!”

“Yes. First he tackled me, then he saved me.”

“Tackled?”

“I ran out the back door. I set up for an attack, but misjudged. The abductors removed you from the house out the front door. Bold of them, I might add. By the time I could get myself straight, you and the Bible were gone.”

“The Bible? It was at our house?”

“You honestly don't remember
any
of this?”

I shook my head, embarrassed by the tears spilling down my cheeks. Sherlock took my hand and
squeezed. “It's all right. It's all going to be OK.”

I doubt my expression altered. Holding my hand, he noticed something or was looking for something. He turned my wrist and studied my fingers. “Excellent! Exactly as I'd suspected.” He gave my hand back to me. I appreciated such spontaneity and enthusiasm; members of the Moriarty family were not allowed to show such emotion.

“Why were you crawling around under my bed?”

“Not exactly crawling around. Collecting evidence. Investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

“What have they done with your clothes?” he asked.

I hadn't noticed that I was wearing a hospital gown. I pulled up the sheet. “How would I know?”

“One moment.” He checked the drawers of my end table. Not finding any clothes, he spun around searchingly and approached the sliding doors to a small closet. “Found them!” he said.

“You stay out of there! Keep away from those!”

“Shhhh! There's a nurse on duty down the hall!”

“I'll scream for help if you don't shut that door at once.”

“Moria!” He pulled out a sleeve to my uniform shirt and . . . he buried his face in it,
sniffing
. Few
things have disgusted me as much, embarrassed me as much. It was a creepy, unsettling moment and as desperately as my brain wanted to listen to him, my instincts took over.

“STOP THAT!” I shrieked.

Both of us froze with my outburst. I regretted it immediately. In a panic, he shut the closet, headed for the window and—

The door to the room swung open, revealing a nurse.

He might have dived or flown. He'd vanished. I supposed that diving out a third-story window would either kill you or land you back in the infirmary. But he deserved it. When I felt my mattress sag, I realized he was under my bed, hanging from the mattress's springed support.

“Moria? What's wrong, sweetheart?” Made frantic by my crying out, the night nurse looked around the room, spotted the open window, and shut it. “That's odd,” she said.

“I . . . it must have been a nightmare,” I said. “Someone put a sack over my head . . .” It didn't take much to start me crying.

She said comforting things to me, helped me with my pillow. If a pen had not slipped out of her dress pocket, she wouldn't have noticed the damp grass clippings on the floor. With a few clippings
pinched between her fingers as evidence, she spoke quietly. “Boys have no business visiting you after hours, Moria. I know at this age it feels like you can't stand to be apart for a single minute, but if I catch
any student in my infirmary after hours
”—she intentionally raised her voice—“he will face disciplinary action.” She hesitated. “I'll return in a moment to inspect your room thoroughly. I suspect you might need a minute to collect yourself. I'll only be a moment.”

Assuming I had a visitor, she was generously giving me a chance to get my “suitor” out. Sherlock seized the opportunity, coming out from under my bed, kissing my hair, and climbing out the window onto the roof.

His invasion of my privacy rattled me. I'd had time to settle down. Sherlock had been looking at my shoes, sniffing my clothes, and . . .

I pulled on a string and switched on the light. I looked at my fingers, just as Sherlock had. I gasped as the nurse returned through the door. Slipping my hand beneath the covers, I wondered why my fingertips were stained a copper brown.

S
OME OF WHAT FOLLOWS
I
HAD TO BE TOLD
twice, as my memory continued to play tricks on me. My experience had put me in a delicate state—something I was ashamed to admit to others. I learned soon enough that it is best to be honest about one's health and feelings, that you can't be helped if no one knows you need helping.

I so enjoy having people depend on me. You have no idea! You also have no choice now but to trust me when I tell you what happened next:

In need of fresh clothes, Sherlock headed toward the Bricks immediately. His visit to the infirmary had caused him no end of worry about being caught, but he needed clothes before he left campus. His few discoveries about me and my condition had also thrown him into a state of agitated excitement. He elected to circumvent the open playing fields and hold close to the Bricks, hunching beneath the lower dorm windows so as not to be seen. Stepping inside the lower entrance to Bricks 3 and 4, he spun around to ease the door's panic bar in order to shut it quietly.

He was instantly lifted off his feet and dragged backward while simultaneously being blindfolded and having a pair of athletic socks stuffed into his mouth. Clean socks, thankfully.

A door was closed. The smell of disinfectant wafted. He knew at once he was inside Brunelli's janitor closet.

“We're good,” a boy's voice said. Sherlock recognized it as belonging to Bret Thorndyke.

Grit scraped beneath his shoes. The odor changed to one of overheating, like a basement room where the ironing was done. The boys
pushed, dragged, and lowered him through a hole. For a moment he feared they were burying him alive. But no. He found himself sitting on what felt like a large pipe.

He began talking, the sock making things difficult.

“I'm going to remove the sock,” James said. “You scream and you'll wish you hadn't. Nod, if you understand.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I said: nod.”

Sherlock spit the socks out without any help. “I'm not a screamer,” he said. “I find it vulgar. As to the blindfold, it's completely unnecessary. There's Mr. Richmond, Mr. Thorndyke, Mr. Knight, and you, James. We are confined in a subterranean utility area of some sort—interesting, I must say—that's accessed by Brunelli's closet.”

One of the older boys said a cuss word.

Sherlock continued. “Allow me to explain, as you don't believe I could possibly know any of this.”

“No thanks,” said James.

But Sherlock wasn't to be quieted. His adrenaline had him feeling frantic. “Mr. Thorndyke spoke, so he was easy. Mr. Richmond wears an overpowering sports deodorant that's more like perfume. There's not a student in the school unfamiliar
with its stench. Identifying Mr. Knight was more difficult. It's down to process of elimination, previous sightings, and odds. Could have been Ryan Eisenower. But I'm quite certain I'm right. May I remove the blindfold, please?”

“Go ahead.”

Sherlock looked around at four angry faces. The tunnel's existence interested him more. He drank in the details. “Of course,” was all he said.

“You nearly got my sister killed.”

“Incorrect, James. I have followed our agreement to the letter.”

“Liar.”

“Rarely. Occasionally, when the situation leaves me no choice. This is not one of those, I promise you.”

“You're going to tell me everything you know about what's going on. Then you're going to stay away from my sister and pretend this meeting never happened.”

“You've been watching far too much television, James. Might I suggest a good book instead? You're speaking in clichés.”

He spoke unkindly to James.

“But since you are steeped in the lore of motion picture,” Sherlock said, “allow me to reference
A
Few Good Men
and its most memorable line, ‘You can't handle the truth,' which in this case happens to be spot on.”

“Try me.”

“Oh, James. Really . . . Look, partial truth is poison. It has urged many a person in the wrong direction only to realize, too late, they should have waited for all the information, not acted on a poor sample. I'm close, James. Until I know the whole truth, I'd be hurting, not helping.”

“Waiting.”

“Moria is a curious one, something I cannot help. You know what they say about the cat. How well do you trust these cretins?” Sherlock took in James's gaggle.

“You can speak.”

“Your father's fall from that ladder is likely so much fiction. Staged, is a more promising explanation. I'll know more soon. When the Bible is announced as having been found—and it will be announced soon—you should insist on viewing its contents. With gloves, of course. It is your right to view it, as a member of the family, is it not? Furthermore, I think the administration's reaction to that request would prove most informative.”

“Speak English,” Thorndyke said.

“Shut your trap!” James said, chiding the upperclassman.

Thorndyke accepted the rebuke, again informing Sherlock of the leadership position assumed by James.

“I'm listening.”

“The others are not. What say we make this between the two of us, James? Being as we're roommates and all.”

“Go,” James directed the three. “Quietly. We'll meet upstairs in Three's lounge.”

If looks could kill, Sherlock thought.

When Sherlock and James were alone, Sherlock lowered his voice and carefully chose his words.

“Your father took back what was rightfully his—the Bible—and hid it in your Beacon Hill home.”

Only a few weeks earlier, James would have interrupted his roommate, this odd British student, would have contradicted him at every opportunity. James was no longer that same boy.

Sherlock had expected such an interruption, was taken aback when it failed to occur.

“He,” Sherlock said, “was involved in something either dangerous or secret. Do you know the nature of that, James?”

“No idea.” Again, James didn't question
Sherlock or react disapprovingly.

“I surmised as much about your father, and took it upon myself to investigate both the situation as explained and also in terms of the evidence. Unfortunately, Moria followed me. You must believe me, James; I had no idea such a thing might be possible. I took every precaution. But there she was, climbing onto the bus last night. We reached Boston, and Moria called your driver. We asked to be dropped off away from the house. We entered the house from the garden and were careful to not switch on lights or make any indication the house was occupied. After some time I had confirmed some of my suspicions about your father's accident, namely that it wasn't an accident. I can go into more detail if you like.”

“Room check's coming up. We have to hurry. But yes, of course I want to know. Tell me about Moria.”

“She and I located the Bible. It was hidden in the library.”

“Unbelievable . . .” James uttered softly.

“Oh, you must believe me!”

“It's an expression, Holmes. Hurry it up!”

“Someone had followed us. I would question the loyalty of your driver, but—”

“Impossible. Ralph's family!”

“Yes, he would later prove himself to me several times over.”

“Come on!”

“We were attacked. As Moria reached for the Bible, I tried to stop her. My attention waned, I'm afraid. She grabbed hold of it just as a hood was placed over her head. A hood was intended for me as well, but I have studied the Eastern defensive arts—have I shared that with you? I'm only a yellow belt, but it proved enough to avoid the intentions of this lout. I escaped, took up hiding, and misjudged my opponents. They used the front door, not the back. I missed my opportunity to rescue your dear sister.”

“Do not call her that!”

“I encountered Ralph on my way out the back. We returned to where Ralph had left the car and he generously offered to return me to school. One thing I must make note of at this juncture, James: at no time did Ralph suggest we should alert the authorities to those cretins absconding with your . . . sister.”

“The cops. You're saying he didn't suggest calling the cops.”

“Precisely so.”

“Ralph, Lois, they are like family, and they
know how the press thrives on stories of the wealthy. Like it or not, my family is rich. Father avoided all the press. He was obsessed with it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“What's that supposed to mean? As if you knew him!”

“I meant no disrespect. Apologies. What I can tell you is this: Moria was not to be found upon my return. Ralph remained on standby . . . he was so concerned. I called him just now.”

“You . . . what?”

“I promised to call when I found her.”

“And?”

“That's it. Honestly, there's nothing more.”

“I know you, Sherlock. There's more.”

“Speculation, entirely.”

“So? Try me.”

“All right, but keep in mind, it's only so much fiction until proven.”

“I got it.”

“The Bible plays a bigger role than a family record keeper, or, if that's all it is, then there are records of your family within it that might tarnish the family reputation, including that of Baskerville. People have broken into your house, not once but twice, in order to regain control of it.”

“What people?”

“Unclear. As I said, something dangerous or secret, or both. Great efforts have been taken, and at great risk. I believe the Bible to be protected by a chemical, a drug if you like, that renders the handler semiconscious and, later, with little recollection of events of the hour or hours leading up to and following contact. A chemical amnesia. Again, this supports the seriousness of its contents. Moria was taken to a confined space following her abduction. This I know. She was possibly questioned, and likely had little or no defense against speaking the truth.”

“A truth serum? This isn't a game!”

“Not a serum—the same substance on the Bible that renders one amnesic and semiconscious makes the victim subject to speaking the truth. I remind you: entirely speculative on my part.”

“I'd say. And the clues?” James sounded worried and distraught.

“I can't imagine how this must be for you, James.”

“Will you shut up? I don't need mothering.”

“It's called friendship. We've talked about—”

“Shh! Listen!”

Someone was inside the janitor closet.

James switched off the tunnel lights.

“We separate,” he whispered. “At least they'll
only catch one of us.” James moved in the direction of Main House. Sherlock stumbled through the dark in the opposite direction—Bricks 4 and the end of the dorms. The tunnel lights came back on. James ran, making himself smaller and smaller. Sherlock used the light to climb atop the pipes and wedge himself under a wire caddy. He lay on his side, facing out.

“What in tarnation is going on down there?” Brunelli's gruff voice. Sherlock wasn't the kind of boy to be scared of others—he considered himself so superior—but the janitor for Bricks 3 and 4 was no one to mess with. “Who's down there?”

Sherlock's chosen position was no accident. The location of the light nearest him would help blind a person looking up at him.

It took the old goat over a minute to climb down into the cramped tunnel. Sherlock could imagine him looking in both directions. James wouldn't be recognizable, and Brunelli would have no chance to catch him. Sensing another boy was involved, he moved toward Sherlock's position.

“It ain't properly right for you boys to be down here! You hear me? It'll get you tossed sure as Sinbad. I ain't reportin' you this time, but final warning: boys been trying to sneak around in this here tunnel for long as I can remember, and you
won't see none a them names in no yearbooks. Mind my words. You'll be going home you do this again.” The lights switched off. The trapdoor clomped shut.

Sherlock didn't move in case the man had a surprise in store. He waited a full forty-five minutes before leaving his perch. He worked his way in the dark all the way to the end of Bricks 4, where another trapdoor found him in a janitor closet. He took the exit outside.

“Well! What have we got here?” It was Mr. Cantell. He stood smoking a cigarette.

“I didn't know you smoked,” Sherlock said.

“You make too much of your own intelligence, Mr. Holmes. What you know and don't know is lost on you because you convince yourself you have no match. In this you are delusional and sadly mistaken.”

“What will Headmaster think of your habit?”

“Headmaster enjoys a fine cigar himself on Saturday nights when the wife's otherwise engaged. That, along with a brandy or two. You see what I mean, Mr. Holmes? Do not attempt to threaten a person such as myself until and unless you know you possess the requisite material or evidence to support such an effort.”