The Initiation (6 page)

“S
IT DOWN, SIT DOWN!”
T
HE HEADMASTER
looked bigger than he had in the auditorium, not taller but stout like the former rugby player he was. The photos on and behind his desk, along with those hung throughout the spacious office, told of an athletic family man who liked to travel, especially to jungle temples and ancient ruins. He'd apparently spent much of his life seeking out such places, for he aged on the walls. One of the man's many degrees filled in the blanks for James: a PhD in archaeology; a master's degree in religion; yet another master's in education. He looked to be in
his forties, but there was too much history spread around; he must have been much older.

Once James had settled onto the green leather cushion of the dark hardwood chair, Crudgeon took his place behind his desk.

“Welcome to Baskerville, James.”

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

“I trust I didn't embarrass you and your sister too badly just now. It's important the students understand the severity of the crime involved. That Bible—your family Bible—is an essential historical artifact here at Baskerville. Why, we can't exist without it, quite honestly! This is why it's kept under lock and key at all times. Upon its return—and it will be returned, Mr. Moriarty—we will be forced to reconsider keeping it on display in the chapel, which is nothing short of a crying shame.” His direct address of James made him feel as if he were being accused of the theft himself. He wasn't sure if he was supposed to defend himself or not.

“Tell me about yourself! Please!” The man expressed far too much enthusiasm to be taken for real. Why put on such a show? James wondered.

“I don't know,” James said.

“You don't know about yourself? That's telling in and of itself. Or you are uncomfortable talking about yourself?”

James shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Yes, I believe we established that. Let's try again: Tell me about yourself, James.”

The man was unhappy with James. His eyes were unrelenting and powerful. “I live in Boston with my father and sister. Our mother . . . left us, or something like that. She's not around.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Father says she's not coming back. Moria and I think he does that to protect us. He won't actually tell us she died. You know. Family stuff. It's just weird.”

“Your father's a good man.”

“You know him?”

“I knew of him. He's a Moriarty. But I was two years behind him.”

“Here?”

“You sound so surprised.”

“I guess I am.”

“How is he? Your father. Doing well?”

“I don't—” James caught himself. “I suppose. I'm not sure what you want me to say.”

“That's better than ‘I don't know.' Worlds better! He's teaching, isn't he?”

“He is. He likes it.”

“Everything's good at home?”

James hesitated before answering. It sounded
like one of those required things to ask, and he didn't feel like gratifying Crudgeon by answering every single thing. “Why am I here, talking to you? Not that I'm complaining.”

“It sounds as if you are.”

“Not at all. Is it about the Bible?”

“It's about you, James. Likes, dislikes? Strengths, weaknesses?”

James nodded. “Yeah, okay. Sports. Video games. Food; I like food. Cape Cod in the summer. Movies; the action ones.” Crudgeon said nothing, awaiting more. “Dislikes? Long winters. Idiots. Being bored. Indian food. My strengths? Seriously, Headmaster, I think that's for others to say. My weaknesses? That's a long list, I'm sure. I can't sing a note but wish I could. I can only do six pull-ups, which su— which is pathetic.” The headmaster nodded, holding back a grin. “I have endless patience for things I like, like computer code and tech stuff. I'm incredibly short on patience when it comes to reading my homework assignments and writing papers.”

“You see? Not so difficult.” He sized up James. “Why Baskerville?”

“Excuse me, Headmaster?”

“Your aspirations? What do you hope to get from your time here? How will you be different on
graduation day from the young man you are now?”

James had no clue what an aspiration was. It sounded like something bad, maybe something to do with breathing. “I hadn't really—” James caught himself again. Talking to the headmaster was a steep learning curve. “I suppose I want to be smarter. Get into a good college.”

“Was it your idea to attend Baskerville?” the man asked bluntly.

“Well, no, not exactly.” James hung his head. “I'm kind of a city guy, Headmaster. My father . . . Baskerville . . .”

“The legacy issue.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Crudgeon took a deep breath of either consideration or restraint. “Our heritage, our history is everything, James. It shapes who and what we are. What we are to become. Acceptance is a hurdle hard to fly over gracefully. Most of us prefer to smash into the hurdles several times before allowing ourselves the strength of will to carry us over. It may become difficult for you. For your sake, I hope not. I encourage you to make the best of your situation here at Baskerville. Will I put you in detention, suspend, expel you if I need to? Absolutely. You will get no special treatment from me or the other teachers or coaches. None. But, at the same time,
you and your sister are family here. Your name means a great deal here at Baskerville, and I'm sure your father would join me in encouraging you to keep that in mind at all times. Heavy a burden as that may be, it is also a badge of honor. It's your choice how you deal with it.”

“Yes, sir. Headmaster, sir.”

“I will ask you this only once. Did you have anything to do with the disappearance of your family Bible?”

“What? Me? No, sir! I didn't know we had a family Bible, Headmaster. Much less one here at Baskerville.”

“Very well. Unless you have any questions I may answer, we're done here. You may leave.”

“There is one question I have,” James said, standing.

“Speak.”

“My roommate, Headmaster. Do we . . . ? Is there . . . ?”

“No.”

“The whole year?” James asked, exasperated.

“The terms are seventeen weeks, separated by vacation. During a student's first term there is no opportunity to change roommates. From then on, rooming situations can be applied for every eight weeks, every half semester, both by room and
residents. Seniority is given precedence in every such decision. Mrs. Furman can answer that kind of question for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I would have thought Mr. Holmes would suit you.”

James wondered how the man could possibly know the name of his roommate. Perhaps, he thought, it was contained in some of the paperwork on his desk. He hoped so.

“No. I mean, he's okay, I guess. Just a little—”

“British.”

“There is that, but he's—”

“Mr. Holmes was my personal choice for you, James. I rarely am involved in the selection of roommates, but in your case—”

“I thought you weren't going to treat me special.”

The headmaster's eyes flared.

“Be careful, young man. You're on thin ice.”

James recalled Mrs. Furman's warning about being too casual.

“I'm sorry for interrupting.”

“I believe we're done here.” Head down, unpleasant.

“I'm sorry, Headmaster.”

“You can see your own way out. I trust you will
make every effort to enjoy the academy, James. I trust you will come to think of us as a home away from home.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” James made for the door, his hand slick on the doorknob.

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES HAD FILLED THE DORM
room with fog in an apparent attempt to brew a cup of tea. Upon entering, James hacked his way through the mist.

“It's like you took a shower in here! Ever heard of opening a window?”

“That's a rhetorical question, I presume. I rather enjoy an atmosphere reminiscent of London. Good for the lungs, you know!”

James threw open the window with a flourish. “Well, this is Connecticut, so get used to it! Steam enough in the summer to press your shirt.
You'll just have to wait.”

“Or you can learn to enjoy a good cuppa.”

“Cup of what?”

“No, it's one word: cuppa. It means ‘cup of tea.'”

“Then why not just say ‘cup of tea'?” James was exasperated. “Why can't you Brits just say what you mean?”

Sherlock harrumphed indignantly. “Yanks,” he exclaimed derisively.

“What's this?” James held up a red envelope with his name on it, gleaned from his desktop.

“A red envelope.”

“Where did the red envelope come from?” he said, petulantly.

“Your desk. It was there when I arrived following the assembly.”

James turned it over in his hand. “Looks like a valentine.”

“I wouldn't count on it. From your sister, perhaps? I would also remind you that given the absence of mobile phones, notes and letters are our only means to communicate. I assume we will all be using these methods quite a bit.”

“I hate the phone rule. So stupid.”

“It's intended to level the playing field,” Sherlock said, “and reduce distractions. Hating it won't change it. Acceptance puts the mind at ease.”

James glanced hotly, encouraging Sherlock to shut up. He tore open the envelope and read:

Aloft in the middle of the seven ribs you will find it, but only by night.

The message had been printed from a computer, or possibly typed using a typewriter. James turned it over and over, rereading it each time.

“The love note you anticipated?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Something involving the missing Bible perhaps.” Sherlock sounded so sure of himself.

“How . . . Shut up! I said it's none of your business.”

“Hey, Jamie, hey, Lock.” I waved my arms to dispense the fog. “Mind if I leave the door open? It's like a sauna in here.” I realized immediately that I'd interrupted a strained conversation or discussion. The tension between my brother and his roommate was thicker than the mist.

“Just what I was telling him,” James said, quickly stuffing the card and red envelope into his back pocket. “You two know each other? What's that, a nickname?”

“We do, and it is,” I answered. “Sherlock introduced himself at dinner two nights ago.
You wouldn't have noticed,” I said, putting as much sting into it as I could. “We became instant friends, didn't we, Lock? The nickname just kind of happened.”

“I like it,” James said. “Lock. Not bad.”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I don't respond well to nicknames—from either of you—but if you're going to insist, since your brother's middle name is Keynes, he could be called—”

“Don't go there!” James declared.

“Where?” Sherlock said, goading him.

“Lock and Key?” I said. Both boys groaned. I grinned. “Adorable. And as for your snooty demand of no nicknames, I nickname everybody, don't I, Jamie? And Lock it is. Don't ask me why, but it suits you.”

Sherlock huffed and returned to his job at hand: studying a campus map included with the orientation folder.

“Did you even know we had a family Bible?” I asked James.

“First I've heard of it.”

“How weird is that? You know? We get a shout-out from the headmaster, which I could have done without, and then he brings up some family heirloom we've never heard of.”

“I think Baskerville is filled with stuff we
haven't heard of,” James said.

“Meaning?” I asked.

“It's hyperbole,” Sherlock said. “He's exaggerating to make a point, in part because of the note in his back pocket.”

James turned to Sherlock Holmes as if ready to decapitate him.

“Jamie?”

“It's nothing. And I said cool it with the nickname!”

“We can assume it has to do with the missing Bible,” Sherlock said. “And because of the way
Jamie
responded to it—bewilderment with a dash of curiosity—we can further extrapolate that whatever is written there is not entirely clear. A puzzle, perhaps? A clue?”

“Moria's the only one calls me Jamie,
Lock
. You'd better remember that!” He stabbed his sister with his eyes. “And not here at school ever again. Got it?”

“Easy, Dexter. I get it.”

“Another middle name?” Sherlock asked.

“TV show,” I said. “Cultural reference. Serial killer.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said. “I love a good mystery. Doesn't everyone?”

“What's the card say?” I asked.

“It's for me, not you. Forget about it.”

“If it has to do with our family Bible, then it's for me, too.”

“It doesn't.”

“If I read it, then I'll know you're right,” I said.

“If he knew what it meant,” Sherlock interjected, “he'd be more willing to share it. Your brother is embarrassed because he has no idea.”

“As if you'd know!” James barked.

“Why do you suppose I'm perusing a map of the campus,
Jamie
? For my entertainment? Do you actually believe I don't know every building on the campus? There are fourteen total. What's interesting is that if that note contains a clue to the whereabouts of the Bible, as I believe it must, and if it suggests a campus location or a specific structure, or perhaps an element of one or more structures, then isn't such a map the first place one should, would, turn to?”

“As if I've had time! And where do you get off acting like you know about my note? You don't know anything.”

“Let me see it, Jamie,” I said, offering my outstretched hand. “Seriously.” I shook my open palm.

He was stuck on Sherlock's meddling comments. “How could you possibly . . . What
is it
with you?”

“Am I close? Warm? Warmer?” Sherlock was pointing to various buildings on the school map. “Let's see. What do they have in common? Windows. Floors. Doors. If I were directing you in a kind of scavenger hunt, it would need to be more specific. Chimney? Clock tower? Ivy covered? Something else structural? Contents? There are books in the library and Main House. A lab here and there: language lab, science lab. Also hymnals in the chapel. Music? Marble in the chapel. An organ. A piano in the common room and in the music rooms. This is fun, don't you think! Give us a clue, won't you,
Jamie Keynes
?”

“Shut . . . up!” he hollered.

“Is he right? Has Lock guessed your note? Seriously?”

“He's a freak! I don't get him. I don't get you!” he said, shouting in Sherlock's ear. I pulled him back.

“James! Come on! Back off! What is it?”

James looked as frightened as Sherlock looked amused. “He's just . . . It's just . . . plain weird, is all.”

“Because I'm painfully close?” Sherlock asked
James. Then to me he declared, “Because I'm painfully close.”

James stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind.

I looked over at Sherlock apologetically. The English boy grinned back at me. When he lifted his hand slowly, I saw he held a red envelope and a small white piece of notepaper.

“You picked his pocket! How clever, Mr. Holmes,” I said.

“Let us get to it before he realizes he's lost it. Afterward, I think it best if we leave it on the floor, don't you?”

“Clever and mischievous!” I said, drawing James's desk chair to Sherlock. “We're going to get along great, you and me.”

“You and
I
,” he corrected. “You Yanks have butchered the use of ‘me' to the point it's barely recognizable.”

“Whatever,” I said. “Show me the note.”

I read the note my brother had received.

Aloft in the middle of the seven ribs you will find it, but only by night.

“
I can understand why Jamie went nuts,” I said to Sherlock. “You were right about what it
said. That is uncanny.”

“Lucky guess.”

“You're not psychic or something, are you?”

“I am something,” he said, and I laughed.

“Yes, you are.” I didn't mean to smile as widely as I did. It felt like I was flirting, which was definitely not the case. “‘Ribs.'”

“Only at night.”

“Is that significant?”

“It's interesting, certainly.”

“Because?”

“Because there's either something waiting there, or there isn't. Right? It's a curious choice to add night into the equation, given that the entire school is now in required study hall followed by an imposed curfew.”

“A prank? Someone angry at James because of Dr. Crudgeon's assembly, and trying to get back at him by getting him into trouble? Oh my gosh! I'll bet you're right!”

“I didn't say anything of the sort,” Sherlock said, “though it is an intriguing theory, that.”

“What else is there? Why else tell him it has to be done at night?”

“Why else, indeed? For that, one first must assume it is not a prank. So let us take that position, shall we?” The boy had a curious way about
him. I got the feeling his mind worked at supernatural speeds, that he was somehow five steps ahead of me. I didn't appreciate such arrogance, even if unspoken, and realized I would either have to admire it or, as James had done, resent it.

“You won't make many friends if you're always like this, you know.”

“Always like what? Myself? Then the friendships aren't worth making, dear Moria. Would you have me a chameleon, always changing myself to fit the color of those around me? To what purpose? Am I to be six people? Nine? And what if I'm one color with one friend, another with another, and suddenly those two and I are together? What color then?” I'd hit some nerve, a dentist with a probe. “No! Better to know than to not know. A pillar of wood split into toothpicks won't support a thing.”

“That is so random. Forget I said anything.”

“That's an impossibility. Of course I can't forget what you said. How is one supposed to forget what has already been heard? You realize scent and sound are the only two senses we cannot control. We can elect not to touch, to taste, to see. But once you say something, you'd better be able to live with it, because it can't be forgotten.”

After just ten minutes with Lock, I was
beginning to understand why James had fled the room. I admired the boy greatly, I even felt drawn to be in his company in order to see what might come out of him next, but the idea of not being able to turn him off like I could a confusing TV show was indeed somewhat terrifying.

“I've bothered you,” he said, sounding anything but sincere. “My apologies.”

I snorted. He understood I wasn't buying the apology. Later, I would look back and realize this was one of those moments we'd connected in ways two people always hope to connect, but rarely do. “Why do you think ‘night' is part of it?”

“It's a test, of course.”

“Of course?”

“A test of your brother's determination. His will. Fortitude. Daring. Resolve.”

“Enough!” I said, stopping him. “Just because one is a know-it-all does not require one to demonstrate it at every opportunity.”

“Noted.”

“You're saying he or she wanted to make it as difficult as possible on James. But what if the person sending this can't get to the place, can't leave the Bible until—”

“Study hall, when everyone else is accounted for.”

“Oh, you are the devil, Lock! Of course!” I thought about it for a moment. “But actually, no. I mean, who could do it if we're all accounted for? Besides, you can't take a bathroom break, run to your room in the Bricks, grab the Bible, put it somewhere else, and get back to study hall in any kind of believable time. The proctor will come looking for you.”

“If you're a student.”

The way he just dropped that into my lap startled me. “What? You think a proctor is going to play a prank like that? Why?”

“The logical deduction is that it cannot be a student to place whatever it is, wherever it will be,
if
we accept it can only be placed during study hall. You must agree with me here. There is no other way to see it, Moria. Since, as you have so astutely pointed out, a fellow student's role in such an act is unlikely to the point of impossible. And, since it is also highly questionable a proctor would engage in such activity, it leads us back to where we began: that the requirement for James to accomplish this task at night can only be seen as a challenge. A test. Someone is daring him. More to the point perhaps, he or she—or they—is also overly confident he won't take the note to a proctor or the headmaster himself. That's an interesting confidence. James is
known to this person, I should think.”