Bad guys. Hm, maybe that would work. If she were to think about things she didn’t like when Nick invaded her brain, she might associate him with them and feel revulsion. But every time she pictured Banting Waltz or Professor Darktower with Nick she felt sick to her stomach and that just made her hate them more. So she tried associating him with lima beans and brisket but that didn’t work either. She would have to alter her tactics.
She decided that she needed something drastic: pain. She would try shock treatment. If that didn’t work nothing would. She betook herself to Professor Tumble’s disguise classroom and rummaged in the sewing cupboard. There she found an envelope of the most disgusting needles she’d ever seen outside of a doctor’s office: long, sharp, and terrifying.
She sat down at a desk in which someone had carved “Darktower eats eggs” and removed one of the needles from its envelope. Would it give her tetanus? No, she’d had her shot before she left the U.S. They lasted for ten years. She’d be fine. Well, not fine but at least she wouldn’t get lockjaw. Now that would make her stop thinking about Nick but that was probably a little too drastic.
She pictured him as he’d looked the day they’d gone skiing: electric in his newfound freedom from Blixus, dazzling against a background of glistening snow. He was absolutely magnificent and the image made her heart beat faster. She held the thought, then withdrew one of the needles, gulped, and slammed it into her right index finger. She gasped, dropped the needle, and slid off the chair. The pain was so intense she thought she might pass out. Grimacing, she grabbed the finger and held it tight, unable to focus on anything but the lightning running up and down her arm.
After a couple of minutes she opened her eyes. She could feel the finger throbbing, but the pain had subsided enough that she could get up off the floor and sit back down. Still holding the finger she looked for the needle. Yes, there it was beneath her, shiny just like the snow, and now she was thinking about Nick again, gazing into his eyes, feeling his arms around her and . . . nuts. Maybe she should try pricking herself again, harder this time, in her good hand. Yes, that would make her suffer. If she couldn’t use her left hand she’d have trouble functioning. Good.
She removed another needle and transferred it to her right hand. She raised her arm and plunged the point into her left index finger. This time she screamed and Professor Kindseth, whose photography classroom was right next door, came running in.
He must have seen the blood because he grabbed the first piece of cloth he could find—Professor Tumble’s award-winning costume for Sybil Contini in the film “Clouds of Killarney”—and wrapped it around Amanda’s finger. Then he led her to the nearest drinking fountain, pulled the cloth back, and ran cold water over the finger as it bled into the fountain. When the bleeding had stopped he took hold of her hand and examined it.
“Come with me,” he said, and led her into his classroom. He opened his desk drawer, rummaged around, and grabbed a tube of something. Then he squeezed some ointment onto her finger. “That’s quite a wound you’ve got there. What were you doing, Amanda?”
“Oh, just sewing,” she said. While the finger was still throbbing—both fingers, actually, but this one more—she had recovered enough that she could talk. Nick’s face was still filling her head though, which may have been why the wounds didn’t hurt so much now.
“You should be more careful,” he said. “We need to put ice on that. Come on.” He motioned toward the door.
“It’s okay. Really.”
“Nonsense. Look, you’ve stuck your other finger too. What were you sewing?”
“A hair shirt,” she said.
He looked at her sharply, then shook his head.
“Now look here,” he said. “I’m going to say this once and once only, but you listen to me, do you hear? It wasn’t your fault.”
“What wasn’t my fault?” she said, knowing that he could see right through her dumb act.
But he’d misunderstood, or she had. “Nick’s hearing. You can’t blame yourself for that. Fighting crime can lead to casualties. All detectives know that. You’re a detective. Do the logic.”
She exhaled. This she could handle. She’d never thought Nick’s deafness was her fault. That was all down to Blixus.
“I’m not, Professor. Don’t worry.”
“Well, whatever it is, and I have a pretty good idea, you need to stop punishing yourself. We all make mistakes.”
It occurred to her that he was still blaming himself for his breakup with Charlotte Mosca, the artist who led the wretch society, even though it hadn’t been his fault, but she wasn’t about to say anything.
He gave her an “Are we okay?” look. “Now let’s get some ice on that and I want you to promise me that you will never, ever purposely hurt yourself again.”
He looked into her eyes and held them there until she couldn’t stand it anymore.
“I promise. Thanks, Professor. For everything.”
Obviously, trying to distract herself wasn’t going to work, nor was causing herself pain. Perhaps the thing to do, then, was not to try to stop loving Nick, but to make it up to Holmes in some way. Perhaps she could do something nice for him but keep her efforts anonymous to prevent his inevitable negative reaction. The problem was that she had no idea what to do.
“Bad idea,” Ivy said when she told her. “You can’t make it up to him.”
“Why not?” said Amanda, who knew the answer.
“Because you can’t just erase bad things. You hurt him, and no matter how sorry you are that won’t change. You have to learn to live with the consequences.”
That was it! Ivy was so wise. She would live with the consequences. That would be the best atonement possible. She’d suffer for years that way.
But Ivy saw it differently. “Don’t make this about you, Amanda. It’s just the way life is sometimes. You need to acknowledge what happened and move on.”
Amanda pondered this advice for a moment but decided she wasn’t convinced. Being philosophical was all well and good, but she had seen the pain in Holmes’s eyes and she couldn’t bear it. Even after all this time he was still suffering because of her. She could not watch that and just go on with her life.
She kissed Ivy on the cheek. “Thanks for listening. I really appreciate it but I can’t. I just can’t.”
Breaking and Entering
Nick was on his way into town for supplies when the Jaguar almost hit him. Not having heard it, he didn’t realize it was there until it whooshed past him, nearly knocking him down. Then, in the silence, he could see the driver shaking his fist and mouthing something, and he realized how close he’d come to dying. When he returned to his camp he broke down and for the first time in years, he cried.
Amanda eyed Stencil Moriarty’s doggie door. Not too big, not too small, it might or might not be large enough for her. She glanced around and saw no one, so she whipped a tape measure out of her pocket and held it up to the door. Hm, this was going to be touch and go. Oh well, if she felt that the door was too tight she simply wouldn’t force it. No sense in getting stuck.
She crossed the street to get a good view of the house. No way did she want to run into the Moriartys. If the lights were on she wouldn’t go in. What she’d do about the glasses in that case she had no idea but she’d figure it out.
She checked the ground floor. Good, no lights. First floor, no lights. Better. Second floor, no lights. Excellent. She was in business.
She crossed to the sidewalk and went back around the side. Uh oh. It looked like the sky was about to open up. All she needed was to get wet and track water all over the house. Not that they’d know it was her, but the fewer clues she could leave the better. She was sure she was high on their list of people to watch and didn’t want to provoke them. Not enough to refrain from the mission, but within reason.
Here goes nothing, she thought, then pressed on the doggie door. It didn’t give freely but as she applied more pressure it moved. Good. All she would have to do was po
p the panel in, then wriggle through. Piece of cake.
She pressed again, harder. Within a couple of seconds the panel had popped in and fallen onto the floor. She stooped down and looked through the opening. Whoa! She could see the Moriartys’ kitchen and it was gigantic, easily as big as Legatum’s. Of course she could tell from the outside of the house that it was huge. Considering that only two people lived there it was absolutely palatial. All that ill-gotten gain sure bought a lot of stuff.
Suddenly she wondered if Nick was rich. She knew he had money—he’d told her he’d stashed some here and there for emergencies—but it had never occurred to her that he might have a lot of money. Certainly his dad and uncle did. Wait, not his dad. His dad was Wink Wiffle and he was dead. His adoptive dad and uncle: Blixus and Stencil Moriarty. At any rate it probably didn’t matter except to solve the practical problems of living. He’d never indicated that he cared about money one way or the other. She certainly didn’t. It was another way in which they were so right for each other, and why couldn’t she stop thinking about him for one tiny second?
She focused on the view through the opening. The kitchen sparkled. A huge white island stood in the center of a gleaming stone floor of some kind. Surely not marble. That would be way over the top. Some kind of travertine, perhaps, or polished concrete. It sure looked slippery. It would be a great place to skateboard—it was that big. On top of the island she could see burners and some bottles that looked like they might hold sauces. Off to the left stood a bowl of green fruit—apples? She could also see cupboards—tons of them—all white like the island. It was a light and bright room that didn’t seem to fit the Moriarty personality, but then Stencil might be quite different from his brother, or maybe the decoration was all down to his wife, Bubble.
She took a deep breath and pushed her head through, then her shoulders. So far so good. As she moved farther through the door she could tell her strategy was going to work and breathed a sigh of relief. One obstacle down. She’d better be quick though. Who knew if the Moriartys would come back and find her?
Once inside and standing, she tested the floor. Good, it didn’t squeak. Not that she thought stone would, but she had to be careful. Moving slowly she made her way into the kitchen and noted the far end, where a door led to a hallway. She tiptoed across and listened. Nothing.
The hall was carpeted in something deep, plush, and beige. Amanda stuck her head through the doorway and looked both ways. To the left there appeared to be a closet or powder room. Since the door was closed she couldn’t tell, but from the location that seemed to be a logical assumption. To the right was more hallway with several doors leading off it and at the end, what appeared to be a living room.
She entered the hallway and made her way to the first door on the left. Nope, that was the powder room. That meant the door at the other end was probably a pantry or utility room. Across from that she found the dining room and on the other side a study with a gigantic desk, a computer, and a couple of chairs. The study looked promising. If the glasses were anywhere, Stencil’s office was probably where they would be.
She snuck into the room and glanced around. No spectacles. Well, what did she expect? That they would be sitting out waiting for her? She opened the top drawer of the desk: postage stamps, pens and pencils, a gun—a gun!—and a candy bar. No glasses. The second drawer held blank pads of paper, a handmade address book, and scissors. No glasses. The bottom drawer was strung with hanging file folders labeled “Utility bills,” “Remodeling,” and “Large envelopes.” Gosh, Stencil sounded like an ordinary person. There was nothing about the Moriarty cartel in his files, at least as far as she could tell from a cursory glance. She wasn’t about to take the time to look deeper.
The sensitive stuff might be on the computer but she didn’t have time for that either. She had to find the glasses and she was pretty sure they weren’t inside the machine, Hugh’s ability to manipulate matter notwithstanding. There was a vase full of chrysanthemums on the desk. She lifted the flowers and reached in, just to be safe, but there were no glasses hidden there either. Nothing in the wastebasket, inside the lampshade, or . . . wait a minute. Those pictures on the wall. Maybe there was something behind them, like a safe.
She tiptoed to the largest picture, a painting of a cavern that looked suspiciously like one of Professor Browning’s creations. It was a striking piece, all dark and creepy. Amanda loved caves and tunnels. If she hadn’t been so upset the time the Moriartys had captured her and her friends in the Penrith tunnels she would have been in her glory exploring them.
She reached out and grasped the frame, a faux gold affair with bumps and engraved bits. She lifted the painting—it was heavy—and peeked underneath. Nothing. She did the same with the other pictures, two nauseating abstracts. Still nothing. Oh well. It was a shot, anyway. Truth be told she would have been disappointed if Stencil had been that predictable. She’d have to try something else.
If I were a safe, where would I be? Under the carpet? She examined the baseboard to see if the carpet had been loosened. It looked securely nailed down. The furniture? There was a comfortable-looking armchair in the corner. She felt the cushions, tried to pull them off. The seat gave but there was nothing suspicious underneath.
That seemed to be it for the study. There was nowhere else to look. Or was there? As she caught sight of Stencil’s desk it occurred to her that something about it looked odd. It was extremely large and yet the drawers hadn’t been very deep. She peered around the back and lo and behold there was another door smack in the center with a keypad attached. The safe!
Ugh, another keypad, this one with both alphabetic and numeric characters. The chances of Stencil using the Devil’s Interval as his combination as Blixus had done at the sugar factory were infinitesimal. However since there was nothing to lose she tried it. Zilch. Big surprise.
She studied the keypad. It was huge, like a computer keyboard. That meant the possibilities were virtually endless. This was not a good development.
She phoned Ivy and told her what she’d found.
“A huge keypad, you say?” said Ivy, who had stayed behind at the tube station. “Oooh, that’s a tough one.”
“I know,” said Amanda, searching the device for a clue. If she stared at it long enough something might come to her. “Now what?”
“Let’s think a moment,” said Ivy. “What do we know about Stencil?”
“He’s Blixus’s brother,” said Amanda. “Hugh’s uncle. His wife is Bubble. He’s a criminal.”
“Yes, but what is he like as a person?”
Amanda glanced around the room. Except for the cave painting it was as bland as Ramon’s face. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen him in my life.”
“Nick never said anything?”
“He talked about him, of course, but not that much. I got the impression there isn’t much to say.”
“What can you tell from his house?” said Ivy.
“Surprisingly little,” said Amanda. “It’s expensive but generic.”
“He’s never lived underground with Blixus, has he?” said Ivy.
“Not that I’m aware,” said Amanda. “What are you driving at?”
“It sounds like he’s not a risk taker like Blixus,” said Ivy. “He’s a businessman. You know, a bean counter. He goes by the book.”
“Maybe,” said Amanda. “So what though?”
“So he isn’t imaginative,” said Ivy. “He’s going to do the expected. I’m betting his code will be a cliché. Spell out the words ‘Sun Tzu.’”
“The author of The Art of War?”
“Yes. If that doesn’t work try ‘Machiavelli.’”
“Are you serious?”
“It’s a guy thing. Just try it.”
Amanda reached out and typed ‘suntzu’ on the keyboard. The lock clicked.
“It worked!” she practically screamed.
“Then hurry up,” said Ivy. “Mr. Boring might not be quite so dull with a gun in his hand
.”
Amanda’s palms were sweating, both because she couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if the Moriartys came home and found her there and because she was so excited about what Ivy had discovered. She had no idea what the criminals’ schedule was, if they even had one, and had no difficulty imagining the awful things they might do to her. She’d better speed things up.
When she got the safe door open she saw a pile of cash, another gun, a bunch of file folders stuffed with papers, and a picture of a pair of glasses with some scribbles off to the side. She lifted the picture and examined the writing. It was difficult to read but she thought it said, “The eyes are windows into the soul.” Below that was the word “Taffeta.” That was weird. She’d had no idea that Stencil was so poetic. Maybe Bubble had written the aphorism. She knew nothing about the woman. She might be the literary one in the family. But either way, what was that stuff supposed to mean? Were the glasses really a sentimental thing for them? Perhaps they had belonged to Stencil’s mother. Was her name Taffeta too, or did the glasses have something to do with Taffeta Tasmania?
What did he, or she, mean that the eyes are windows into the soul? Yes, sometimes it did seem that way, especially with Nick, whose eyes held the universe, but was that true for Ivy, who couldn’t see? And what about Simon, with his poor vision? Even if it were true, eyes weren’t glasses, so why would he have written those words on that picture? Unless . . . no. That was crazy. She’d been watching too many fantasy movies. Or was it? She’d thought the secret of the glasses lay inside the frames, but what if they did something special to the eyes to let you see into the soul literally? Could they be a way of peering into someone’s mind? Maybe they emitted some kind of waves that acted on the brain. Now there would be a reason to break into someone’s house and steal them. You could find out what people were thinking that way. Did Stencil want to use them to interrogate someone, maybe Taffeta? She did have some of Legatum’s secrets. Maybe he was after those.
Amanda Lester and the Gold Spectacles Surprise Page 7
