The Initiation

by Ridley Pearson

  “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.

  CHAPTER 37

  OVERPOWERED, UNDERPREPARED

  SOME 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 sai
d, 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.”

  “I’ll remember that. And so should you, Master Cantell.”

  “You see? Another veiled threat!”

  “Not veiled at all,” Sherlock said.

  “We will visit Dr. Crudgeon, you and I,” he said, dramatically twisting the toe of his shoe onto the cigarette. “Wipe the cobwebs out of your hair and make yourself at least somewhat presentable. You know how Headmaster appreciates decorum.”

  CHAPTER 38

  DECODING

  “SHERLOCK!” I SAID, AS NASTILY AS I COULD given that I was whispering. “What are you doing in there? You scared the wits out of me!” He was pressed between my favorite navy blue skirt and a top I’d given up on because it showed my middle. “Get off my shoes! Those are expensive!”

  He stepped out of my closet. “I’m glad you’re better,” he said.

  The thing about friends—real friends—is that you pick up a conversation as if you’ve never left the other’s side. Sherlock and I had crossed that threshold at some point. We didn’t spend a lot of time dancing around the topic at hand. In this case, there were many topics to address, and we both understood our time was short.

  “What were those stains on my fingers?” I asked.

  “I need your assistance,” he said.

  “I heard you were expelled.”

  “Suspended,” he said, correcting me, “until Monday. Most unfortunate. An interesting punishment that makes so little sense except to draw attention to itself. Why do you suppose Crudgeon wants me off campus for the next four days?”

  “And my clothes. Why’d you smell my clothing? That was strange, FYI, but I’m going to give you a chance to explain yourself.”

  “And I would if I could, but I can’t. September twenty-first. Nine-two-one-seven-three-seven. The numbers below the sundial on the note placed anonymously into James’s pocket? You see? Sunrise on September twenty-first—that’s today—is six thirty-seven a.m.”

  “I don’t see . . . no.”

  “Nine-two-one. September is the ninth month. The twenty-first day: two-one. Today. Sunrise is . . . was at six thirty-seven. The note calls for exactly one hour later: seven three seven. Seven thirty-seven a.m. I have”—he checked his wristwatch, an old battered thing—“twenty-one minutes to be in disguise.”