by Morris, Chad
2
Detectives and Psychopaths
Abby focused her thoughts as she read aloud. She knew her whole English class could see what she imagined as she read. Every detail was portrayed on the screen behind her. It was all due to the chair she sat in, another fantastic gadget invented by her grandfather for Cragbridge Hall. The Chair was made of cedar wood lined in places with dark metal. Something in the metal along the tall back of the chair connected to the reader’s thoughts and relayed images of them to the screen. Over the course of the semester she had imagined Oliver Twist, Little Women, and The Call of the Wild. But today was different. As Abby read, she imagined two men meeting for the first time.
“You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” the taller of the men said. He had a pointed nose and square chin, his eyes dancing with self-confidence. He knew he was right.
Abby imagined the other man’s surprise. It was easy. She just had to think of how she would feel if someone could deduce a lot of information about her after only knowing her for seconds.
“Can anyone guess who these two men are?” Abby asked, looking up from the words to her classmates. Class participation was a requirement for her end-of-semester presentation, and she needed to fulfill every requirement.
Several students raised their hands. She called on a girl with short black hair. “Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson,” she answered.
“Very good,” Abby said. She hoped she didn’t look as stupid as she felt. All of the others were geniuses and had probably known everything she said since they were in fourth grade.
As she continued to read, Sherlock explained all the clues his sharp eyes had detected. He saw that Watson had a tan face and hands, but paler wrists. Sherlock deduced it was from wearing a long-sleeved uniform somewhere warm. From simple gestures and mannerisms he could tell Watson was a doctor and had served in the military. He also noticed that Watson held his hand stiffly. “Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan,” Sherlock concluded.
Sherlock fascinated Abby. He noticed so much and was able to quickly access and use what he knew. She wished she were that way. If she were, perhaps her palms wouldn’t have been sweating and she wouldn’t be trying desperately to keep from imagining the grade she would get and displaying it for all to see.
Abby stood up from the Chair and glanced at Ms. Entrese, her English teacher. Ms. Entrese was wearing black pants, black shoes, a black belt, and a black V-neck T-shirt trimmed in pink. It was the first shard of color other than black Abby had ever seen her English teacher wear. She was the one Abby had to impress. Abby hoped her presentation wouldn’t lead to another C. At Cragbridge Hall a C was pathetic, and based on her midterms she was in danger of getting three. Not to mention two B minuses and two Bs.
“But my assignment is to show how literature has affected real lives, or was influenced by real life.” Abby continued her presentation. She tried to act like her twin brother Derick would, confident and smart. Of course he was confident because he got the family genius genes.
“The author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, based Sherlock Holmes on a real person, one of his medical school professors named Joseph Bell. Bell encouraged his students to observe patients carefully and deduce information about them because it helped in diagnosing their problems and diseases. And he showed them how. I’ll switch over to the Bridge to show you an example.”
Abby stepped away from the Chair and used her rings, a small computer on each of her fingers, to sync to her class’s copy of the most famous of her grandfather’s inventions. The Bridge showed history three-dimensionally throughout the room. It was a faded image of the past, but an image just the same. Over the semester her teachers had stood in front of their classes and used the Bridge to show Abby and her classmates real soldiers fighting for freedom, presidents addressing their nations, and artists creating masterpieces. But now Abby stood with the controls. She selected the date she wanted and soon the faded image of a small lecture hall appeared. It was history, live and 3-D in her English class.
A few rows of students from the past sat ready to take notes. A teacher stood in front of the room, tall with a thin nose—much like Sherlock.
A patient entered the room gazing around from under a hat. As he met Dr. Bell for the first time, the man explained his medical symptom; it felt like his skin was hardening on the inside of his legs.
“Well, my man,” Dr. Bell said in a Scottish accent that Abby loved, “You’ve served in the army.”
The man looked surprised, but responded with an “Aye, sir.” He was equally Scottish.
“Not long discharged?” the doctor asked.
“No, sir.”
“A Highland regiment?”
“Aye, sir.” The man’s brow furrowed, obviously trying to figure out how the doctor knew so much about him.
“A non-commissioned officer?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Stationed at Barbados?”
At this, the man’s jaw fell limp for a moment. He looked completed dumbfounded. “Aye, sir.”
The doctor turned to his class, some now with their mouths equally open, others shaking their heads in disbelief. He explained that because the man hadn’t removed his hat, Dr. Bell could tell that he had served in the military, as that was their custom. And the patient hadn’t been home long enough to drop the habit. And from his complaint, he had elephantiasis, which was much more common in Barbados.
Ms. Entrese raised her hand to signal that Abby had thirty seconds to finish.
Abby stepped back into the middle of the room. She had to try to bring it home. “It completely changed my attitude toward Sherlock Holmes when I learned he was based on a real person,” she said. “That meant it could really be done. You really can deduce a lot from observing. In fact, Joseph Bell actually helped in several real crime cases. So while literature can entertain us, it might inspire us to gain new skills and improve ourselves as well.”
The class clapped as Abby walked back to her seat. She hoped they were sincere.
The hum that ended class vibrated through the room. Student after student filed out while Abby waited to talk to Ms. Entrese. Carol, Abby’s best friend, was waiting too. Abby’s heart was pounding. Had she raised her score at all?
“Great job, Abby,” her teacher complimented. “That was well thought out, professionally presented, and very interesting.”
With each accolade, Abby felt her cheeks redden. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, I thought it was awesome!” Carol chimed in. She spoke as fast as most people could think. “Probably even better than my presentation, but just barely. I think I did a near-superb job. At first, I wanted to do a presentation on how Jane Austen books inspired the romance in my life, but somehow I didn’t think that would get me a very good grade. Plus, I don’t have a lot of romance in my life. But the coals are in the grill, if you know what I’m saying.” Carol had been flirting with Abby’s brother, Derick, for months now. Of course, she also flirted with about any boy with a pulse.
“Carol, that’s enough,” Ms. Entrese interrupted. “Abby, I think I can deduce your intentions for studying Sherlock Holmes and Joseph Bell.”
“Why is that?” Abby hoped she didn’t look as surprised as she felt.
Carol jumped in before Ms. Entrese could answer. “Maybe she wants to learn how to deduce a lot about boys just by looking at them.” Her mouth dropped open. “Wait! That is a fantastic idea! I’ll be starting in on Sherlock Holmes very very soon. Just imagine walking up to some boy and saying, ‘I see that you worked out recently, probably in gym class because the edges of your hair are still wet from the shower. And that you’ve been writing poetry because you were silently mouthing well-composed lines that rhyme in Italian.’ Okay, that last one would probably never happen, but a girl can dream.”
Abby smiled. “Very cool in concept, Carol, but creepy if you actually told a boy that—scary stalker-girl creepy.�
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“I agree,” Ms. Entrese said. “But back to the subject at hand. I think you studied Holmes hoping that somehow his example could help you when Muns strikes again.”
Abby didn’t answer for a moment. The English teacher’s solemn expression reminded Abby that, of the many people with whom Muns would want to even the score, Minerva Entrese might top the list. She had worked for him before and betrayed him.
“That is if Muns strikes again,” Abby corrected, knowing full well that she was most likely wrong.
“If?” Carol asked. “That man is an obsessed psychopath.”
“I don’t believe he’s a psychopath,” Ms. Entrese said, “but he’s definitely determined, eccentric, and very dangerous.”
“That is just a really nice way of saying obsessed psychopath,” Carol replied.
“I think we all know that Muns will retaliate. He refuses to lose. Frankly, I’m surprised it’s been so long. I thought he would strike before the semester ended.”
“He must be planning something,” Abby admitted. She had been nervous earlier about giving her presentation, but thinking about Muns brought fear in deep swells. She knew Muns would seek revenge, but he would also do it with a certain style, a sense of the punishment fitting the offense. He was well practiced at getting revenge. He had done it in his many businesses. One of his employees had used a secret bank account to steal money from him. Muns not only found a way to get all his money back, but he also arranged to transfer all of the money the man possessed into an account so secret he could not find it. Even the trouble Muns had caused earlier in the semester had the same pattern of fitting. He had placed Abby’s parents on the sinking Titanic because of something Grandpa had said years earlier—that no one should mess with time travel even if they could save the Titanic.
Muns had to be planning his revenge. Clues to what he might do were probably in the details of how they had already stopped him. Abby wished she was like Sherlock Holmes or Joseph Bell—then maybe she could know what Muns planned next.
“I agree,” Ms. Entrese said. “He will do something.”
“That’s what obsessed psychopaths do,’’ Carol added.
3
Message
Finally—lunch! Something about an entire semester of work gave Abby quite the appetite. But she still chose a salad.
She had stabbed her first bite and raised it to her mouth when her rings vibrated; she had a message. Maybe she had forgotten something in English class and Ms. Entrese was letting her know. Or maybe her mom and dad just wanted to check in. They lived on the grounds of Cragbridge Hall now and every now and then they would find a few minutes to meet. Or maybe it was Grandpa. But as she scanned the message icon, it wasn’t from any of them. It was worse. Much worse. It was a personal video message from—the name itself brought a bad taste to her mouth and a hollow to her gut—Charles Muns.
Why would that terrorizer ever send her a message? Should she even open it? It was probably some sort of terrible virus that would corrupt all her files, send him copies, and delete them. Or, knowing Muns, he had probably developed a way to make the virus seep into her contact lenses and blind her.
Abby ran a quick scan.
Clean.
She ran another.
Clean.
She switched to safe mode which would open the file on an online server. She had taken every precaution.
She clicked on the video.
In an instant, a man in his late fifties appeared on the screen in Abby’s contact lenses. His gray hair was slicked back over his head, and he wore a finely tailored suit, a light green shirt, and an orange tie. With his money, he could afford to be the high fashion type, but the combo made Abby think he looked like an inverted pumpkin.
“Hello, Abigail,” he said, his voice thin. “I probably should have tried sooner to communicate directly with you, but since you are a minor, I wondered about the appropriateness of such an action. I would like to congratulate you on your heroic feat several months ago.” He smiled, showing teeth several shades whiter than should be humanly possible. “Going back in time to retrieve your parents took a diligence and grit that many do not have. I have watched the footage several times. I am quite impressed.”
It was a compliment, but coming from Muns, it didn’t feel like it.
He sneered. “Of course, you did stop an event that would have changed our entire world for the better. I can only believe that you didn’t fully understand the situation. I was moments away from gaining the secrets to right all wrongs, to reverse all tragedies. Doesn’t that sound like a worthwhile pursuit to you?”
Abby huffed in disgust. He was the one who didn’t fully understand the situation. She had heard his arguments over and over. They sounded good at first, but changing events in the past could have huge ramifications. Changing time could destroy everything.
Muns raised a finger. “I will be bold here. You would probably expect no less. If you will help me gain two more keys so I can change time, I will guarantee your parents’, your grandfather’s, and your brother’s safety.” Abby felt sick. After following her grandpa’s clues, various people at Cragbridge Hall, most of them adults, had earned a key that allowed them to enter the past. She was one of them. Her grandpa had designed the system so that three people had to use their keys together in one of the two Bridges in existence before it would work. Requiring three keys was a protection. Muns had stolen one Bridge, and thanks to Abby, he had one key. Now he needed two more. “In addition, I will let you choose the first tragedy we fix. You decide. Do you want the world to avoid World War II, to evacuate Pompeii, to save the dodo before it goes extinct? The choice is yours.”
He was trying to convert her, to bring her over to his side—even after having threatened her parents and kidnapping her grandpa. Abby’s insides swirled with hate and anger. She would never turn on her family—or their cause.
“All you need do is respond. Give me the word. Tell me what you would want changed. I may ask a few questions, but that is all. I will do the rest.”
What information did he want and how did he plan on gaining the other keys?
He rubbed his temples. “Of course, there is a chance that you may be foolish enough to disagree with me and side with your grandfather. If that is the case, I counsel you to simply bow out. This is a dangerous game. I don’t believe children should be players in it.” That at least sounded responsible. Then again, Abby had helped to stop him the first time. Maybe he was trying to get rid of the competition. “I do not know how you ended up on the Titanic. I do not know if you have a key. I would find it strange to entrust such power to someone as young and naïve as you. I do not know how you and others managed to outwit Mr. Hendricks and my team. I will know eventually, of course. Again, I urge you to bow out.”
He leaned back in his cushy leather chair. “Something is about to happen. It will not be safe. You are a young girl, and should be worried about your friends, grades, boys, the next dance—not this. I hold no ill will toward you. Please leave this alone. As Oscar Cragbridge’s granddaughter, you have a bright future ahead of you. You don’t need to take part in an old man’s quarrel.”
He leaned in closer. “Abby: Leave this alone.”
Abby involuntarily shuddered as she closed the message. There was something about that man that gave her the creeps. It was probably how amazingly smooth he was. He sounded so logical and merciful, yet she knew he was willing to do terribly inhumane things to get his way— he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a poisonous snake in the flowerbed.
She immediately sent a copy of the message to her parents and her grandfather. They would know what to do. Maybe it would give them a clue, tell them something.
Of course she wasn’t going to help Muns. That was out of the question. She could only imagine what might happen to the world if he was successful. But she couldn’t stay out of it either.
Could she? The thought of letting others—adults—worry about protecting time did have it
s appeal. Plus, she did have her share of worries just trying to survive in a school full of geniuses.
No. She couldn’t.
Unless they already had it all under control. Muns could be right in that the adults would probably do a better job.
Abby stared at her salad. In one message, Muns had stolen her appetite. One phrase replayed in her mind: “Something is about to happen.”
“Hey, Abby,” Carol said, holding a tray with a hamburger, fries, and two side salads. “I’m sooo hungry. But that’s pretty much every day. It might have something to do with geography; just looking at tundra makes me cold . . . and hungry.” She put her food down and sat across the table from Abby. “Oh, and the fact that the Valentine’s dance is coming up brings on the appetite too. I know it’s still a couple of weeks away, but I need fuel for my moves.” She began to shift, point, and swivel, dancing in her chair. She looked over her shoulder at a group of boys seated behind her. “That’s right, gentlemen. That’s just a little taste of what’s going to be on the floor at the Valentine’s Day dance. You’re just going to have to wait until then, but know I’m going to bring my A game.”
No one appeared to be listening. In fact, they seemed to be purposefully ignoring her.
Abby couldn’t decide if she wanted Carol to be quiet or if she liked the distraction. She lifted a fork full of salad to her mouth, but then put it back on her plate again.
“I really think we need to have a ten a.m. emergency snack to keep the engine fully rebooted,” Carol started up again. “You know . . .” her sentence trailed off as she tilted her head to look at Abby. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Abby said, twisting her hair into a temporary ponytail.
“No, you’re not. You always do that when you’re anxious. I’ve been your friend for forever, which in this case is like four months, but I know you, girl.”
“Okay, something is bugging me,” Abby admitted. “But I’m still thinking about it. I don’t know if I want to talk about it yet. I’m not even sure what all of it is.”