The Initiation (9 page)

J
AMES AND HIS THREE ACCOMPLICES WALKED
calmly around the back of the library through a series of connected parking lots that included the dining room, and across a section of treed lawn to behind the chapel. From there they entered through the choir room door and into the chancel, their steps reverberating inside the cavernous structure.

James pointed to the ceiling's center truss. “That's where it is.”

“That's a tricky climb,” said Clay.

“I know. There's probably another way to get out there, but I don't see it.” James sounded somewhat
confounded. “We'll use the rope Bret brought to make sure I don't croak. The girls' dorm is only going to buy us so much time, so we'd better get to it.” With that, James took the rope, moved up the pews to the wall, and tried to throw the rope over the overhead beam. It took the boys five tries to realize they had to tie a series of knots in the end of the rope to make it heavy enough to carry the rope over. Finally, they got it, but they'd wasted a good five minutes.

Tying the end around his waist, James instructed the others, “I'm going to climb and the three of you are going to keep the slack.”

“Like having you on belay,” Clay said. “I rock climb in the summer.”

“Whatever. Wait a second! If you rock climb . . .” James took off the rope and handed it to Clay. “You just volunteered.”

Clay didn't like it, but he accepted James's delegating the job to him.

“Do any of you fools know anything about belay?” he asked.

“I'm good to anchor,” said Bret, the stockiest of the four.

A minute later, Clay was climbing, the rope held taut by James and Bret. He slipped twice trying to reach the lower lip of the inset stained-glass window. He bounced against the rock wall but his
team kept him aloft. Once he was standing in the recess of the tall window, he took a breather.

“A little light wouldn't hurt. I feel like I'm cave climbing.”

“How about . . .” James made sure Bret had the rope. He hurried over to the kneeling Sir Galahad and turned on the small electric light used to help the minister when preaching.

“No, you idiot!” Bret shouted a little loudly. “Turn that off! It'll throw his shadow! We talked about this!”

James switched off the light. “Oh, right.”

“Next time,” Bret said, “try thinking. Or better yet, leave the thinking to me, and ask before you act.”

“Shut up!”

“I'm serious.”

James took his place back on rope crew, but he wasn't happy and let Bret know it.

The attempt to climb the distance between the stained-glass window and the beam failed miserably. For such a short distance overhead, it remained unattainable. Clay fell twice. Returned to the window, he was then hoisted by the three, but his weight and the friction of the rope prevented him getting within reach.

“You've been seen,” came an indistinguishable voice from the balcony. James thought it could have
been a man or an older boy—a fifth or sixth former.

Startled, the boys holding the rope let go. Clay zoomed toward a disastrous reunion with the pews. Only Ryan saved him, by sitting down. Or maybe God intervened, James thought, it being his house and all. Clay bounced inches from injury.

“The light, I assume,” said the balcony voice.

“Who's there?” James called out. He helped get Clay to standing, and untied the rope.

“You have less than two minutes,” decried the voice.

There were bad words spoken, mixed with anger. James explained this was his roommate. There appeared a silhouette standing in the darkness of the balcony. The figure, likely a boy, wore something over his shoulders that looked like and behaved as a cape or Ulster overcoat.

“Behind the choir,” the voice instructed, “you will find a telescoping pole used to replace the chandelier light bulbs. It's heavy, and will require two of you to hoist it. If you hurry, you should be able to displace the card on the beam with just enough time remaining to put away the pole. I'd act quickly if I were you, and for heaven's sake—forgive the pun—don't forget your rope. Good luck, gentlemen.” The figure took two steps back and disappeared entirely.

Another volley of crude language that has no place in these pages, nor in a chapel. James acted upon the advice. He located the pole; it took two strong boys to handle it when extended. Within a matter of seconds they knocked the note off the beam. It fluttered like a wounded bird.

James and Ryan lowered the heavy pole. It clanged loudly to the marble floor just as the chapel's heavy front door groaned open, prompting a wedge-shaped slice of light to spread across the floor.

James raced to retrieve the note. He snatched it from the floor and took off running.

“Who's there?” called a gruff voice as the door opened.

The other three boys raced through the choir room and, according to plan, separated once outside. James took the same route that had gotten them there: through the trees as fast as he could possibly run, behind the dining room, across the parking lot, to behind the library.

James reached the brick wall of the lower dorms, and moved window to window, staying out of sight. A hundred yards later, he reached Bricks 3. He arrived to his room sweating and out of breath.

Sitting at James's desk, unruffled and seemingly at ease, sat Headmaster Thomas Crudgeon.

S
HERLOCK ARRIVED TO THE DOOR, PULLING TO
finish zipping his fly. “Oh, sorry, Headmaster. Am I interrupting?”

“Out,” Crudgeon ordered Sherlock, pointing.

James turned and pressed something made of paper into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock crossed his arms, hiding it. On his way out, Sherlock moved past the arriving Mr. Cantell, their hall master. Cantell entered wearing a decent imitation of Crudgeon's obvious displeasure. Sherlock slipped what turned out to be a red envelope into his back pocket as he slid down the wall and sat out in the
hall, his ears attuned to the conversation inside his own room.

“Mr. Moriarty.”

“Headmaster.”

“You will stand when addressing me.”

“Yes, Headmaster.” James stood, though begrudgingly, which proved to be a mistake. Body language and the conveyance of Attitude—capital
A
—it turns out, was everything to Dr. Crudgeon.

“You visited Upper Two,” Crudgeon said, naming a boy's dorm closer to Main House, “earlier this evening. You were seen there.”

James said nothing.

“Do you deny it?”

“No, of course not, Headmaster. I didn't hear a question, that's all.”

“That sharp tongue of yours will not carry you well, young man. To whom were you paying a visit, and with whom, since as I understand it you were in the company of at least two others?”

The truth was that James and his pals had not visited anywhere other than the boys' bathroom. But James was learning his way around the truth, or at least becoming adept at manipulating it to his advantage.

“Clements and Ismalin, Headmaster. A failed attempt, I'm sorry to say.”

“Is that so?”

“I guess they weren't back from study hall. At least I couldn't find them. They were going to talk to Coach about getting me onto the varsity soccer team. I wanted to hear how it went.”

“Were they?”

“Yes, Headmaster. I very much want to play for varsity.”

Mr. Cantell leaned forward like a tree bending in a strong breeze and whispered into the headmaster's ear, which, judging by Crudgeon's face, was an unpleasant encounter. Mr. Cantell was known in the dorm as Mr. Can't Tell due to his general cluelessness, strained eyesight, and poor hearing. Crudgeon found him about as welcome as a horse finds flies.

“I'm looking for volunteers, Mr. Moriarty,” Crudgeon said. “There's been a small plumbing problem in the girls' dorm, Lower Two, and I'm looking for real leaders to jump in, to pitch in. What do you say?”

“Plumbing problem?” James struggled mightily to contain his grin.

“Something appears to have adversely affected the pressure in the system. Can you believe that? As a result, there's been some spillage, some overflow. If you have rubber boots, what the Brits call
Wellingtons, I would keenly suggest finding them.”

“Volunteer?” James asked.

“Then it's settled! Excellent! I'm glad to hear it,” Crudgeon said. “I knew you were a leader, Mr. Moriarty. Well done!”

“I was only asking—” James stopped himself, realizing Crudgeon wasn't going to take no for an answer.

“And let me just say that anyone found to be responsible for the mishap will not only be immediately expelled from school, but will be held financially liable for any damages, and the case will be referred to local authorities as vandalism. If—and I only say ‘if'—any of the persons is caught it will be a black mark on his or her résumé for years to come. May I just add that, in all my years of association with the school, I have never known of such a prank being perpetrated. It required calculation, coordination, and planning. Were it not so loathsome an outcome, one might applaud such resourcefulness.” The headmaster's mixed message had James's head spinning. On the one hand he seemed ready to lynch James from the nearest tree; on the other, to celebrate the kind of mind that could conceive of such a thing.

“O . . . K.”

He approached James and whispered, to keep
away from Cantell. “Mr. Moriarty, a word to the wise: if you are endeavoring to retrieve your family Bible; that is, if you know of its location, you and your associates are advised to leave a note with that location. I spoke of this, did I not? Remember: no questions asked. The clock is ticking for such amnesty. Know this: the Bible must not be handled. This is imperative! It's why we keep it under lock and key.”

“Why would my family's Bible be dangerous, Headmaster? Is it the contents you're worried about?”

Crudgeon gestured for Mr. Cantell to leave the room. The hall master did so and closed the door.

“I said: watch that tongue!” Crudgeon's face went a fiery red.

“You know what I think?” James asked rhetorically. “I think there's something in it. A document folded up in its pages? Or maybe it's that our genealogy is off. We can be traced back to some revolutionary, or slave owner or pirate or something. The point being: you don't want anyone to see it.”

“I cautioned against handling it. I will say no more on the subject. This, for the health and well-being of the handler. Do you take my meaning? I do hope so!”

“I don't know anything about the Bible's location, Headmaster. But if you don't want us looking for it, why did you tell us about it and then add that until it's found we'd all be in study hall? You
must
have wanted us looking for it.”

The two conducted a short but meaningful staring contest.

“I think we both know better. Listen to me, James. You would not be the first Moriarty to make trouble in hopes of being free of Baskerville. But, as it is said: be careful what you wish for. This school, this administration, has your best interests at heart. Your future in mind. At this point in your development the outside world will prove far less tolerant and a good deal more demanding. Mark my word.”

“My father said nearly the exact same thing to me.” James did not appreciate the coincidence. “What's going on here? What's with this Bible?”

“Mr. Cantell!” the headmaster called loudly. The hall master returned.

“I thought,” Crudgeon said, addressing Cantell, “perhaps we might enlist Messieurs Richmond and Thorndyke to assist Mr. Moriarty with the cleanup, since the three are so often seen in the company of one another. A caution, James: be careful of the company you keep.” Raising his voice
again to conversational, Crudgeon offered James a snarl masked as a smile. “Guilt by association can prove as damning as willful participation.”

Mr. Cantell stepped forward, sensing he was allowed to speak. “I'd dig up some rubber gloves and goggles, if I were you, Mr. Moriarty. The science lab would be a good place to look. You'll be doing a little exercise in the study of bacteria for the next few hours. You might want a face mask as well if one can be found. You may expect a particularly noisome environment.” The two men departed, snickering. James quickly Googled the word “noisome”—
causing or able to cause nausea; a sickening stench
—and understood why the men had been moved to amusement.