In a strident thunderclap, the mansion erupted into a fireball, the doors blowing off the structure and the windows disintegrating into twinkling shards. Holmes nimbly ducked as a glass dagger zinged dangerously by, and Watson grabbed the reins of the cab to keep the rearing horses under control.
"Down, boys," the physician whispered to the frightened animals. "Easy now, easy." They whinnied in reply and reluctantly obeyed their master.
More and louder explosions followed the main blast as the acid vat in the cellar added its fury to the growing conflagration until red tongues of fire licked at the distant twinkling stars.
From the nearby village, a fire bell began to softly ring as the burning building began to collapse inward upon itself as the main support beams snapped apart to the sound of ancient splintering wood.
"Finito," sighed the doctor, tying off the reins and wincing from the effort. His old wound was acting up again. Bedamn that Jezebel's bullet! The royal war in India had been much safer than his chronic romances.
With the dancing light of the blazing inferno illuminating the English countryside, the great detective crossed his arms and blinked in somber thought. Then slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock Holmes turned to stare at his old friend with new found respect shining in his eyes.
"Indeed," murmured Holmes, an excited smile playing on his lips. "And it has just this moment occurred to me what a truly excellent opponent in this game you would make."
"Eh? What was that?" asked Dr. Watson standing perfectly still.
"You are a graduate of two universities," said Holmes coming closer. "A military officer with knowledge of weapons and explosives. A practicing physician with a detailed command of chemistry and biology, plus the only other living man trained in my own specialty of deductive logic."
Watson slowly turned about, his features as controlled as a redoubtable cribbage player. "Hmm, yes. Interesting. Quite. However, old man, I am not a criminal."
Holmes started to chuckle that his dear friend took the schoolboy jib so deeply, then paused as he noted something odd in the way the man answered. After listening to a thousand lies, one becomes sensitive to such altered permutations in speech.
"We each all have our secrets, John," stated the great detective carefully. "Is there no crime in your past in which Scotland Yard would be interested? A crime of passion, perhaps?"
A deathly pale Watson stammered something inane in reply about overdue library books and taxes.
"Nothing more?" purred Holmes, resting his ebony cane on the shoulder of his Inverness coat. "Your reputation as a ladies man precedes you, and out of respect I have never asked before, but exactly under what circumstances did you truly receive that old bullet wound?"
"The Jezel rebels!" cried Watson, breaking into a sweat despite to coolness of the evening air.
Behind them the fire raged on, and the clanging bell of the village fire-wagon was coming ever closer.
Holmes scowled deeply. "But I have seen the wound and it is much too small for a military rifle. More likely a .22 caliber. A size suitable for a lady's pocket pistol. Perhaps you received the wound from a jilted lover, or a cuckolded husband?"
The doctor gave a hard gulp. "Holmes! Really now!"
"And precisely what happened to the person who gave it to you?" demanded Holmes sternly while advancing. "Are they still with us, or have they taken a French leave of this world, sir?"
Seeing that infamous hunting expression on the thin man's face, the physician knew the decade-long jig was up and swung his Gladstone as a diversion. However, Holmes easily ducked with the speed and grace of a professional fencer. Backing away, Watson dropped the bag and desperately drew the Adams. Holmes contemptuously knocked it aside with the walking stick, the wood shattering from the force of the blow. Cradling his stinging hand, Dr. Watson turned and bolted but Holmes dove forward to neatly tackle the man.
Hitting the cold ground, the two men fought wildly, Watson punching and kicking with the sure anatomical knowledge of a military doctor, Holmes jabbing with the painful precision of a devout practitioner of the martial arts.
Locked in the fierce struggle for supremacy, each man sadly realized to himself that this could very well be the end of a beautiful friendship.
-THE END-
"Now that particular story has been reprinted a dozen times around the world," Nick said, fondling a letter opener in his sweaty hand. "And has the dubious honor of being the very first Holmes vs. Watson story."
Looking at the booth, Nick went cold when he realized that the Sound Effects man was nowhere in sight, and the warning sign had been savagely ripped down, small shreds of paper and tape still clinging to the soundproof glass.
"As for the next story," he managed to say in a normal voice. "I was working on a similar idea to 'Bureau 13' when I accidentally discovered the role-playing game. I liked how its world was set up as a bizarre mixture of reality, horror and humor, so I decided to join forces with the creator of the game, Richard Tucholka."
There came the sound of shattering glass from the hallway outside the control booth, and Nick vividly recalled a safety alcove, and behind the breakable glass was a chemical fire extinguisher, a rolled up waterhole...and a brand new fire axe, its blade shining razor sharp. Oh crap.
"This was originally just a sample to show how I would handle the concept," Nick said, twisting his hands on the flimsy letter opener and trying not to hyperventilate. "But when I showed it to Rich, he fell over laughing, and we ended up shaking on a deal. here, she is..."
INITIATION
I finally found the murderer, and he was a lulu.
It had taken me months of freelance work to track down the guy who killed my partner, and, if the truth be known, I broke more than a few laws doing it. But I didn't give a damn. As far as I could tell, the sick bastard had slaughtered over forty people across a dozen states. Each done the same way he killed Bill Smithers, my partner in Chicago. Slit their throats and drained the blood like he was a freaking vampire or something.
The castle was up on the old New York Palisades, deserted for years. I hid my car in the bushes, so nobody could spot the out of state plates. The lock on the front door was good, an expensive French model. It took me almost ten minutes to get through. Inside, the place was surprisingly clean, some of the rooms even carpeted. Not the usual thing for an undead. But playing on the Count Dracula routine, I checked in the basement.
The place was huge, large enough to land a plane, with a high vaulted ceiling and granite-block walls. It more closely resembled an underground warehouse than a cellar. In a corner was a big-screen TV and a brace of DVD players. Overflowing bookcases lined the walls and in the middle of the place, on a marble pedestal, was a large stainless steel coffin, with US Army Claymore mines wired to the outside. Yikes. Ever so carefully, I snipped away the wires on the anti-personnel charges. All those years watching the Discovery channel finally paid off.
The lid was locked from the inside, so I filled the keyhole with stiff wire from my keywire gun. A lazy locksmith's best friend. A simple twist and the coffin opened on silent hinges. So much for stereotypes. Magnum in hand, I was surprised to find it empty. As I bitterly cursed, a chuckle sounded from behind. I turned and there the bastard stood.
He resembled a computer hacker with that deathly pale skin and weird eyes. But he was sporting a natty Armani suit that was worth more than I had ever made, woven Italian shoes with tiny tassels, and a gold Rolex watch. What, no caviar-scented cell phone?
A cop would have arrested him and sent the kook to a lunatic asylum. But I wasn't planning on reading this guy his rights. As far as I was concerned, he didn't have any. Not an animal like him.
The murderer came at me with arms extended, as if greeting a long lost relative, his mouth full of those phony vampire teeth you can buy at any novelty store. Pitiful. I didn't have to draw my .357 Magnum; it was already in my hand. Without a qualm, I gunned the freak down, the thundering retorts of the Smith and Wesson echoi
ng around the cellar. But he kept coming, as if my copper-jacketed hollow points had no effect. Must have been wearing a bulletproof vest.
We went hand-to-hand and he had me in a second. Loonies are always strong. Adrenaline, or something. Maybe he was on PCP. The Count dragged me kicking across the basement and chained me to the stone wall. The chains felt oiled and were spotted with red flakes. I had a bad feeling Nut Boy had used these often.
Chuckling, he went away and soon came back with two women. A blonde and a redhead. Real hot numbers wearing skimpy denim shorts, sleeveless T-shirts and also sporting those phony teeth. That was when I went cold. I sure hoped whatever they had wasn't a contagious disease. Death was infinitely preferable to insanity.
They gathered around and made the expected remarks on how tasty and juicy I looked. I invented a few curses, which they took in stride. Then the Count waved the women on and they came at me with hands raised, their fingernails glistening like steel. Probably razorblades glued underneath.
This was no time for finesse, so as they got close, I kicked the blonde in the left breast. She didn't bat an eye. That was impossible. There was no way a bra, much less a Kevlar vest, could be hidden under her T-shirt. Kicking a woman in the breast is like kicking a guy in the balls. Blondie should have dropped big time.
Smiling, Red grabbed my hair and twisted my head about as if I were a child. Then she opened her mouth wide, exposing every inch on those long white fangs. They actually looked like her own teeth. That's when I realized the freaks were really going to drink my blood. I had faced death lots of times in 'Nam as a kid, or in the back alleys of Chicago. But there was a big difference between a bullet in the chest, or a knife in the stomach, and having a trio of drugged out wackos suck me dry like a free cherry soda. That was no way for a nice PI to die.
My brain was whirling with escape plans, none of them worth a damn, when the door over in the corner slammed open and in strode a SWAT team.
Or at least that's what they resembled. There were three of them, two men and a woman. All were dressed in camouflage outfits with backpacks, satchels and dozens of weapons hanging off them. One guy was tall and skinny, like he hadn't had a good meal since his last birthday. The woman was kind of short, slim and muscular-looking in a nice way. The other guy was downright fat. But he had a genuine shit-eating grin on his face as he worked the bolt on the huge M60 machine gun in his hands. I could tell this was a man who enjoyed his work.
My three freaks spun about at the sound, and hissed louder than steam radiators. Geez, they were really putting in overtime on the old vampire act.
As two of the SWAT guys separated, Skinny pulled out of his shoulder bag a melon-sized crystal ball and smashed it on the floor. Instantly, every door and window was covered with stonework sealing us in. In spite of the situation, I dropped my jaw. Impossible. Yet I had just seen it happen. Maybe the ball was actually some sort of electrical device, an EMP bomb maybe, whose command signal pulse triggered the control mechanism for hidden sliding panels. It sounded lame, but what the hell could have happened? Magic? At this point, I began to wonder if they were really a rescue squad, or merely more loonies in on the fun.
The vampires advanced slavering and growling. Red came at Fat Boy, and he let her have a full burst at point blank range, the heavy-duty combat rounds blew holes in her the size of Montana. She burst into flames and dropped to the ground, still screaming and trying to get at the lard bucket.
One tough bitch.Incendiary bullets?I wondered.
That was when I realized that the sphere must have contained BZ, military hallucinogenic gas, because everything started to get real funky.
The other two vampire types flapped their arms and turned into freaking bats! No smoke, no special effects. And not dinky little zoo bats, but great big mothers who soared into the air and began circling around the room as if this was Wild Kingdom and I was Marlin Perkins.
Suddenly, Chubby moved in front of me, his machine gun spraying hot lead protection. At least that was no hallucination. I felt the stinging blast of the blow-back gas, and a red-hot shell casing bounced off my hand, burning the flesh.
The short lady jumped up on the coffin and, reaching behind her, pulled out a long curved sword so highly polished that the blade seemed to ripple with rainbows. Flipping it over, she knelt and buried the sword to the hilt into the rectangular box.
Big deal, I thought. But Batguy didn't care for the idea a bit. Rearing backwards, he opened his jaw and vomited a lance of fire at the swords-woman. She ducked, but it wasn't necessary. A river of ice launched from the cupped hands of Skinny and the two streams hit in midair with a deafening thunderclap worse than an overload at a rock concert.
As I shook the ringing from my ears, I suddenly noticed that Batgirl was gone. I couldn't see her anyplace, but a weird patch of fog was drifting towards Mandrake over by where the door used to be. Impulsively, I shouted a warning.
However, the coffin was in the line of fire for Rambo and Ninja Girl was dancing with Igor the human hang glider, so Mr. Wizard was alone on this one.
Muttering something, in Latin I guess, he threw a fistful of sparkle dust at the cloud with no effect. What a surprise there. The cloud advanced. Quickly, he pulled out a cross and a water pistol, and started chasing the cloud around, shooting streams of water at it. This is where I lost my tenuous hold on reality and started laughing. Chubby gave me a quizzical glance over his shoulder as he yanked a fresh belt of ammunition out of his shoulder bag and shoved it into the breech of his weapon.
"You okay?" he asked in a husky voice.
"Shit, no," I replied. "Must have hit my head on an overhang somewhere and I'm having one hell of a dream."
He seemed to accept that and dashed off. I kept laughing.
The two men managed to corner the cloud and let her have it. There was fire and water and lightning and screaming and explosions and gunshots. In the middle of all this, the cloud turned into a wolf, a giant rat, a bear, a beautiful nude blonde, a nightmarish thing with tentacles and finally a lump of oozing flesh. Then they set the mess on fire by sprinkling it with communion wafers.
It may have been nothing but a drug-induced illusion, but I rattled my chains at the victory and shouted wa-hoo, even though I don't like fantasy. If I had caught this show on cable, I would have turned to another channel. I prefer a good mystery, with plenty of conflicting clues and a hot seduction or two, that kind of stuff. But magic? I believe in hard facts, science, human dignity, cold beer and the Chicago Bears. Not mumbo-jumbo voodoo gumbo. That's crazy. Or at least it seemed crazy until tonight.
Meanwhile, Shorty had gotten into a bad way. She was flat against the wall with the Count moving in for the kill. A flurry of sword thrusts to his head missed, but instead of attacking, the nut just stood there and stared at her. His eyes started to glow a bright red. Hesitantly she began to lower her sword when an arrow took the ugly thing right in the ass. Where the arrow came from I have no idea.
He grabbed his butt and howled in pain. Coming awake, she charged forward, her sword slashing off a wing. Snarling, the bat raked her chest with his claws, the front of her uniform ripping away to expose molded body armor. Nice. These guys were definitely government. From the sidelines, Chubby angled the M60 so he wouldn't shoot the woman. The big machine gun stuttered away, Lardo riding the weapon like a professional, spent shells forming a glittering golden arc in the air.
A net materialized above the one-armed bat and dropped onto him. But the Count ripped it apart without even trying. Across the room, Skinny cursed and started digging about in his shoulder pouch. I realized he was the source of the magic stunts.
In yammering fury, the machine gun finally blew away chunks of the Count's skull. The rainbow sword flashed and a clawed leg fell to the floor. That should have killed anybody, but the Count shimmered like bad TV reception and was a man again. Whole and undamaged. Instantly the three closed in as if this was what they had been waiting for. Now I was cheering them on who
leheartedly. Hallucination or not, the sonofabitch had killed my partner and I wanted him dead.
Laughing confidently, the Count unexpectedly doubled in size. His clothes too. A neat trick that. But the woman leapt into the air and thrust her rainbow sword straight through the guy's chest, as Skinny threw what resembled a wooden dagger into his throat and Chubby shoved a grenade down his pants. Then everybody but me took cover as the big guy fell face forward onto the stone floor and thunderously exploded.
In the enclosed space, the blast was so loud I couldn't hear it at first. Then sound painfully returned and the shock wave smacked me flat. Acrid smoke tore at my lungs. The ground quaked. The building shook. A rush of heat cooked me to the bone. The ceiling cracked, chunks of stone falling everywhere. I abruptly understood that this was no illusion and braced myself for death.
A short eternity later the rumbling world finally settled back into place. There was no sign of the Count except for a few smoking bones, and a melted cell phone. For the first time in three months, I allowed myself to relax and said goodbye to my partner . We got him, buddy. We got him .
Rising from the rubble, Shorty, Chubby and Skinny dusted themselves off and came over, carefully picking their way through the charred wreckage.
"I'm glad you survived, Mr. Alvarez," the skinny fellow said, offering me a canteen. "We have been following you since O'Hare Airport, Chicago."
I gagged on the water. "Huh?" I asked brilliantly.
"As you seemed to be tracking the vampires much better than we ever had, I saw no reason to interfere with your progress until some intervention was needed. Actually a most impressive job, considering your lack of formal training."
My thanks consisted mostly of four-letter words.
Unperturbed, he opened a leather wallet, showing me a badge and ID card. "FBI," he announced. "Special Agent Richard Anderson, on permanent assignment to Bureau 13. This is George Renault and Mindy Jennings."
They were feds. "Bureau 13?" I asked.
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