by Dixie Lyle
“This is basically a laser pointer on steroids,” I said. “Easily obtainable via the Internet, and capable of igniting trinitrotoluene. The bomber climbed the tree, attached the laser, and aimed it directly at the top of the chimney. Must have been a little finicky, but if you took your time and used binoculars, you could do it.”
Catree nodded. “Then you use a mirror to reflect the beam down into the chimney. Once you’ve got it lined up properly, you turn off or block the laser, and lower the bomb down the flue on a fireproof line. The explosion would destroy the mirror and the line, and the chimney would blow the pieces far away—like buckshot from a shotgun.”
“But that would require two people, would it not?” Oscar asked. “One to lower the bomb and one to turn the laser on and off.”
Shondra tapped the box taped to the laser. “Not if you used this. Programmable timer. Set it to go off for ten minutes every twelve hours, and you can use the first ten-minute block to align the laser. Wait until it turns off to lower the bomb, then leave and establish your alibi for the time people think the bomb was planted.”
“The flashing blue light I saw that night,” said Keene. “That’s what it was.”
“Yes. But up on the roof, the perpetrator made a crucial mistake.”
“What?” asked Lucky Trentini.
“We’ll never know for sure,” I said. “My theory is that after placing the explosives, the bomber was startled by something. Something they saw, or maybe heard. It was enough to make them lose their balance—and fall to their death.”
“Rolvink?” gasped Keene. “The murder victim was the bomber? But—”
“But there was no murder,” Shondra said. “Only an attempted one—that of Natalia Cardoso.”
“Why?” asked Jaxon. “Why kill his female lead?”
“Because principal shooting was already done,” I answered. “And there’s nothing the tabloid press loves more than a controversial death on a movie set. I thought the paparazzi showed up here awfully fast, and the reason they did was that they’d been tipped off. Rolvink dangled a juicy piece of bait in front of one of them, and he went for it. With the right kind of publicity, a zombie movie with a dead leading lady would have made him a lot of money.”
“That’s why he told us he was going into town that night,” said ZZ. “He was planning on being in a public place with plenty of witnesses to establish his alibi.”
I nodded. “I think his actual plan was to get arrested—being in a jail cell is about the best alibi there is.”
“Ingenious,” Max Tervo murmured. “But needlessly elaborate. Why didn’t he simply use an ordinary timer on the bomb?”
“Why did he finance a movie about Sherlock Holmes fighting zombies?” I said. “It wasn’t just the potential for profit. Rolvink had a flair for the theatrical, and he couldn’t resist staging a crime that Professor Moriarty himself would have been proud of.”
Yemane Fikru held up a single finger. “But the body was mutilated, wasn’t it? How did that happen?”
“Yes,” I said. “The missing head and hands. As it turns out, we did have a killer roaming the grounds—but not a human one. And in this case, he wasn’t so much a killer as a scavenger.” I told them about the honey badger, and how they’d been known to rob graves and hide body parts to eat later.
“But—an entire head?” Jaxon said.
I shrugged. “What can I say? He likes crunchy things.”
“There’s still one problem with your theory,” Catree pointed out. “Rolvink must have used a ladder to get onto the roof. What happened to it?”
Keene cleared his throat. “Ah. That would have been me. While I have no clear memory of it, at some point I did use a ladder for my … creation. It seems I must have found it leaning against the house.”
“So there you have it,” I said. “A devious plan by a devious man, who discovered that all the planning in the world wasn’t quite enough when it comes to the goings-on at the Zoransky estate.”
What I didn’t tell them was I knew what Rolvink had to have seen that startled him so badly he lost his footing and plunged to his death: a ghost. Most people can’t see them, but some—like Yemane Fikru—could. I wouldn’t have pegged Rolvink as psychically sensitive, but then I wouldn’t have pegged him as sensitive, period. And when Unsinkable Sam had first appeared, it was Rolvink who’d spotted him. I didn’t know which spirit he’d seen on the roof, but it could have been any of the ones Yemane Fikru had sensed, or even Ambrose; the sight of a glowing blue-green sea turtle flying at you out of the night sky would boggle just about anyone, and Ambrose was fond of his nightly flyovers. I planned to do a little more investigating in the Great Crossroads to pin that detail down, but I was confident I was right.
“Well done, Foxtrot,” said ZZ. “I understand now why Lieutenant Forrester isn’t present. There’s no one to arrest, is there?”
“Not as such,” I said cheerfully. “However, there is tea and pastries, if anyone wants some.”
The general consensus was that yes, tea and pastries were exactly what was called for, and I had Consuela bring them out. Then, when everyone was busy stirring and spooning and sipping, I took Catree aside to talk to her in the hall.
“What ZZ said about there being no one to arrest?” I said quietly. “That’s not completely true.”
“What?” she said, returning my stare. “You think I helped Rolvink? Neither aerogel nor TNT is hard to obtain—”
“I’m not talking about Rolvink. I’m talking about Jaxon, and what Rolvink was blackmailing him with.”
The hard look on her face softened into understanding. “Oh. I should have known you’d figure that out. Look, he already told me what happened that night. It was a freak accident—okay, not as freaky as what killed Rolvink, but still nobody’s fault. He panicked. Rolvink was supposed to drop the girl at the hospital, but he dumped her thirty miles away instead. Jaxon’s just sick about it—he checks on her progress constantly, pays all her medical expenses anonymously. I’ve been trying to get him to go to the police and turn himself in.”
I nodded. “Well, now you can make him. Tell him he’s got two days; if he hasn’t done it by then, I’ll tell the press.”
She could see by the look on my face that I meant it. “Wow. You are hard-core. You know how much he’s going to hate you for that?”
“Better me than you, right?” I smiled. “Consider it a professional courtesy.”
She smiled back, then sighed. “I’ll tell him tonight. Thank you.”
“You may regret saying that.”
“Nah. I rarely regret anything.” And with that, she went back to grab an extra-large mug of coffee and a plate full of French pastries to share with her movie-star boyfriend.
Ah, well. He did flirt with me at least once.
* * *
[I’d like to remind you,] said Whiskey, [that I wasn’t present, either.]
“I didn’t want Whiskey there because Yemane Fikru makes me nervous,” I said. “He can see spirits, and he seems to know you’re no ordinary canine. I thought keeping Whiskey out of the room just made sense. You, on the other paw … well, there’s a certain piece of information I’ve been keeping from you. I didn’t know how you’d react when I revealed it, so I decided to wait until later. Which is now.”
[May I?] asked Whiskey, his eyes bright.
“Considering what Tango put you through, I think you’ve earned it,” I said. “Go ahead.”
Whiskey came to a halt. He sat and studied Tango intently. She watched him warily. [Tango. I’m afraid we deceived you as to the nature of the device you and I discovered in that tree. It was not, as we told you, an electronic remote control for a small robot spider
designed to climb down a line and push a button.]
[With a laser pointer.]
[I’m afraid so. Attempted murder … by the Little Red Dot.]
If there’s one thing Tango holds sacred, it’s the Little Red Dot. She fervently believes that one day, it Will Be Caught, and on that day many great mysteries will be revealed. She isn’t sure what the purpose of the LRD is, or what it’s supposed to teach; she just knows her faith in it is unshakable. Or was, until today.
[And yet, it was. Maddening, isn’t it?]
Her eyes narrowed.
[So you’re feeling mystified and frustrated?]
Whiskey nodded. [I see. I’ll take that as confirmation. Thank you, Foxtrot.]
“That’s it? After what she did to you? You’re getting off light, Tango.”
[Getting off light? If I were more inclined toward verbal gymnastics, I might take that as an opportunity for a pun.]
“Yeah, but you’re not, so I’ll have to run with it on my own. Getting off light? What are you, hooked on photons?”
[No, you’re not. I’ve saved the best for last. The Little Red Dot that was used to set off the bomb? It wasn’t even red—it was blue.]
I stopped and looked down at Whiskey. “You know she’s just going to use the color as an excuse to dismiss the whole thing. She’ll claim blue is the color of the feline devil or something.”
[Yes, but in order to reach that point she’ll have to question her entire belief system and consider the fact that she may have been wrong. There is no greater revenge—not to a cat.]
“Nicely done. Now, shall we get to work in tracking down the mystery ghost that caused all this?”
[There’s no need, I’m afraid. I know exactly who it was—it was Oskar, aka Unsinkable Sam. While unable to bring down Tango’s production, he did manage to send one more victim to their doom.]
That disturbed me. I’d been thinking of what happened to Rolvink as an accident—a well-deserved one, but an accident nonetheless. “You don’t think he did it on purpose, do you?”
[It’s worse than that, Foxtrot. I believe he may have been an agent for a greater evil, one that enlisted him for his skill at deception. I’ve been secretly investigating on behalf of Eli; I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but when you’ve heard the full explanation you’ll understand.]
I heard the flapping of ghostly wings, and an albino crow swooped out of the sky and settled on the cross-shaped headstone of a nearby grave. My other boss, Eli.
“Oskar’s escaped,” Eli rasped.
“What? How?”
“I can’t talk about specifics, unfortunately. But sometime between Whiskey delivering Oskar to me and the cat going where he was supposed to go, he managed to slip away. And now we can’t locate him anywhere.”
That was even more disturbing. Though I didn’t know exactly what Eli was, I was pretty sure he was a lot more than the ghost of a white crow. Anyone who could escape from him had to be bad, bad news. “So this wasn’t the series of freak accidents it seemed to be? It was orchestrated?”
“Exploited would be a better term. Precarious events were encouraged to implode.”
“Why? By who?”
Eli fixed me with a beady crow eye. “The Unktehilas, Foxtrot. They’ve returned.”
Wait, don’t go! There’s more!
As a special bonus, I’m presenting this short excerpt from the script for Sherlock Zolmbes. Any gory bits have been edited out by my ace assistants Whiskey and Tango (by which I mean I read those parts out loud and altered them if either of my assistants began to drool. They are carnivores, after all). Enjoy!
THE SCENE: a spooky old graveyard. SHERLOCK HOLMES and his intrepid assistant WATSON are walking and talking.
WATSON: But I’m telling you, Holmes—that corpse I examined was precisely that—a corpse. But animated somehow, brought back to a semblance of life.
HOLMES: Nonsense, Watson. As a medical man, you must understand the sheer absurdity of what you’re proposing. It’s like saying a factory can still function once you’ve taken away all the machinery, stripped the wiring from the walls, removed the lighting, and dismantled the plumbing.
Behind them, a grimy hand claws its way free from the dirt of a grave.
WATSON: Then how was it done, Holmes? Answer me that.
HOLMES: All in good time, Watson. All in good time.
The ZOMBIE rises from the ground. Its (squishy parts) dangle from (some not-so-squishy parts. That doesn’t sound dirty, does it?) It shambles forward, and (something repulsive) spews from (I’m just going to go ahead and skip this description, okay? It’s a zombie. It looks gross and sounds scary and oh-my-gosh, the smell. Which in real life actually smells mostly like corn syrup, which isn’t scary at all.) The ZOMBIE lurches forward, though neither WATSON or HOLMES has noticed it behind them yet.
HOLMES: There’s always a scientific explanation, Watson. No, I’m more bothered by the mind behind this atrocity. A mind we’re all too familiar with.
WATSON: Who are you talking about, Holmes? The only similarity I see to previous encounters with the purportedly supernatural is the Baskerville case—surely that’s not what you’re referring to?
HOLMES: Let us consider the facts, Watson. The choice of venue for the attack: a hospital, an environment you’re intimately familiar with. The victim of the supposed revenant: a doctor specializing in diseases of the brain, and well known to you. And most important, the reanimated body itself: that of your beloved former nanny.
WATSON stops and puts a hand to his eyes. He is clearly shaken, momentarily overcome with remorse. The ZOMBIE reaches out and grabs him around the throat with both hands. HOLMES continues on, oblivious.
HOLMES: Mrs. Ogilvie, yes. All choices coldly calculated to invoke the maximum sense of horror and foreboding in you, Watson. Who would be so cruel? Who would deliberately attack my most trusted colleague in such a nefarious way? There can be only one answer, my friend: our old foe, Professor Moriarty. He is striking at me through you, for he knows how valuable you are to my investigations. With you hobbled by a surfeit of overwhelming emotions, Moriarty thinks he can diminish our effectiveness enough to ensure his success.
The ZOMBIE chows down on (eeewww. And I thought the last description was vivid. This one is a lot worse, and it goes on for at least half a page. Let’s just say that Watson doesn’t fare well, and afterward the zombie should probably consider going on a diet. Also, as a side note, Holmes is blathering on with his speech during this whole thing. I know he’s self-obsessed, but deaf? Anyway, I really feel like someone needs to stick up for the spunky assistant here. Poor Watson.) HOLMES finally notices what’s going on and leaps to Watson’s aid. He pulls out a revolver and shoots the ZOMBIE in the chest, but when it has no effect he tries again, this time aiming for the head. The ZOMBIE’s head (oh, for Pete’s sake. This description is just completely gratuitous. It’s like the scriptwriter is getting paid by the adjective, but only if the adjective is disgusting. The point here is that while shooting the zombie in the chest doesn’t work, shooting it in the head does. This clearly bothers Holmes, who you think would be more upset by his best friend getting eaten in front of him.)
WATSON collapses to the ground. (Well, what’s left of him, anyway. Though he looks surprisingly robust later on when he’s trying to turn Holmes into Victorian steak tartare.)
HOLMES: Watson! Watson, hold on! Your wounds—they’re mostly superficial.
WATSON: You’re a terrible liar
… old friend. Remember who you’re speaking to; I know a fatal injury when I … encounter one.
HOLMES: I … you’re right, of course. As usual.
WATSON: You must promise me, Sherlock. Promise me that if Moriarty brings me back as one of those … things, you won’t hesitate to put me down.
HOLMES: I … yes, of course. I promise.
WATSON: It won’t be me, Sherlock. No matter what I say, or do. You didn’t hear the horrible things Mrs. Ogilvie whispered as she tried to … to rip out my throat.
HOLMES: That’s … that’s not going to happen, old man. I swear.
WATSON: I … never thought these would be my last words, Sherlock. You’re … wrong …
HOLMES: Watson! Dear God, no!
WATSON dies. (Geez. A mindless zombie turns someone into a meal and the writer goes on for three paragraphs, but the most beloved sidekick in literary history expires and all he’s worth is two lousy words? Assistants get no respect.)
MORIARTY steps out of the shadows.
MORIARTY: Oh, don’t worry, my dear Sherlock. He’s not gone—not really. The interstitial state is extremely short; it raises many questions about the nature of the soul and where, precisely, it resides. But as fascinating as those questions are, they must take a secondary position to more pragmatic matters; such is often the case with scientific research. Still, one gathers data when one can.
MORIARTY consults a pocket watch in his hand.
MORIARTY: There’s some variation, of course, but considering his age, intelligence, and relative health at the time of his demise, I would say Dr. Watson will be returning to us right about … now.
The body in HOLMES’s arms shudders. Its eyes open wide; they’ve changed, the irises now a vivid red. WATSON’s mouth opens and an eerie moan issues forth. Horrified, HOLMES drops the body to the ground and leaps to his feet.