The Downward Spiral

by Ridley Pearson

  So it was a shock when the SUV turned onto the narrow asphalt road leading toward the hockey rink. Woods soon gobbled up the vehicle, but, James thought, there was only the ice rink down there at the bottom of the valley. Why head toward a dead end?

  His eyes tracked higher along the treetops and, protruding from the forest, the school observatory alongside the caved-in slate rooftop of a mostly crumbling stone mansion once owned by James’s great-grandfather. As far as James knew, “Death March Road”—as hockey players who had to climb its steep hill after practice referred to it—dead-ended into a small parking lot in front of the rink. But there had to be a path that continued to the observatory.

  An equally great shock overcame James when he happened to look down at his feet. Engraved into one of the donated terrace bricks, he read three names:

  Coop—Ozzie—Dux

  1981

  His heart outpaced his brain, speeding up to where it hurt. Cooper “Coop” Carlisle. Oswyn “Ozzie” Bennett Moriarty. Danny “Dux” Ducksworth. James had heard Father tell stories involving Dux, had known Father had lived in a triple fifth- and six-form years. Had not known the identity of the third roommate until now: Lexie’s dad.

  Head spinning at the discovery of the connection, his mind struggling with why Mr. Carlisle had made no mention of it at the dinner table. His darker self deciding their friendship had continued long after school, had become a relationship balancing the Scowerers’ needs and Mr. Carlisle’s military and political achievements. All of it wrapped up in something that now connected one man’s death to the other, and all of it to a black SUV disappearing into the woods. James took off at a sprint.

  “The name?” James hissed at Espiranzo only seconds later. “You tell me the name right now or so help me—” James didn’t know how to end that threat. So help him what? What options did he have?

  But Espiranzo answered loyally. “I do not know his name,” the man said, “only that he once was the most powerful cop in America.”

  “What the heck does that mean?” a red-faced James demanded.

  An older couple approached. Espiranzo went back to shoveling, passing James and continuing up the path.

  CHAPTER 56

  “NO NEED TO GLOAT,” I SAID.

  Sherlock was making a sport out of keeping something from me, and I wasn’t thrilled with my failure to guess it. The secret had something to do with the notorious Ruby Berliner, who was quickly moving up my list of Least Wanted.

  He made the bleating sound of a goat, trying for a play on words. The success with stealing the Bible had made a real jerk out of him. Ruby’s attention hadn’t hurt anything.

  “You see that button on the wall there?” Sherlock said, standing at a lab bench in one of the four science classrooms. “Do us a favor and push the black one.”

  “I’m not your servant!”

  “What in heaven’s name has gotten into you?” Sherlock said.

  I marched over to the button and did as he said. All the drapes along the windows closed automatically. Blackout drapes rendered the lab nearly pitch-black. Only ghostlike images and shapes remained.

  “Stay there for me, please,” Sherlock said.

  “You’re beginning to really annoy me,” I said.

  “Only just beginning?” he said. “I shall try harder!” He so amused himself he thought it important to chuckle so I wouldn’t miss it.

  “I think she made something for you,” I said, testing an answer to his and Ruby’s secret I had yet to voice.

  “Warmer,” Sherlock said, using a phrase I had taught him only a few months before.

  We had history, this boy and I; I needed to be careful and protect my feelings better.

  Sherlock switched on a purple tube light that plugged into an outlet at the end of the lab bench. His white shirt collar and cuffs jumped out of the dark; his eyes glowed an eerie yellow. The rest of him wasn’t there.

  “Well, that’s creepy,” I said.

  When Sherlock spoke, his teeth appeared out of the dark. Only his teeth. “It’s working. We won’t need the lights. Come on over.”

  I felt my way and joined him at the high bench.

  “Gloves on,” he said, handing me a pair of disposable plastic lab gloves. “Ready?” he said.

  “Oh, shut up!” We’d only risked expulsion (or worse!) for this moment. Inevitably, the headmaster, intrigued by my visit, would try to open the case containing the Bible. The switched padlock would prevent him from doing so. At first, he would believe it a malfunction. But how long until he figured it out? Our plan was to use Sherlock’s master key to return the Bible to the headmaster’s office prior to the conclusion of the common room reception following Mr. Carlisle’s memorial service. But time was running out, a delay caused, of all things, by Mr. Cantell requiring Sherlock to make his bed and pick up his room. I had berated Sherlock unmercifully that he’d chosen this, of all days, to be a slob. His answer had been, “No, I’m a slob every day,” which hadn’t helped things any.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said. “You turn the pages. I’ll hold the light.”

  I opened the Bible. Under the black light, the old yellowed pages barely showed at all. “Close your mouth,” I told him, “your teeth are blinding me.”

  “Very funny.”

  I turned to the illustration of James Wilford, where it was impossible to miss the three characters running down the length of the cross he held.

  Cc3

  “Well, there you have it!” Sherlock said, proud as a peacock. “What did I tell you?”

  “You’ve told me nothing,” I said. “I’m a page-turner, that’s all. And I resent your treating me this way.” I nearly added, “You wouldn’t treat Ruby Berliner this way!” but managed not to.

  “Caesar Cipher, three,” he said. “An ancient cipher, as you can tell by the name. Either the third letter of each highlighted word is moved back three letters in the alphabet, or each highlighted letter receives the same treatment. Web search it, if you like!”

  “What letters?”

  “You’re the one turning pages, so turn.”

  I wanted to tell him how annoying he could be, but not only would I be repeating myself, but I felt competition from the perfect Ruby Berliner, and I didn’t like it one bit. The existence of another girl was keeping me from being me. I didn’t know myself! How could I allow that to happen?

  “It’s not something personal,” I said. “Ruby made you something to do with the investigation.”

  “Positively steaming,” Sherlock said, reaching to turn a page himself. I slapped his hand and he withdrew. I began turning pages.

  “Something other than the Bible.”

  “Terribly toasty.”

  We both fell silent.

  GENESIS I

  The black light revealed silvery lines on an otherwise dark page. They underlined letters and full words. There had to be twenty of the markings. I turned the page. Another ten to twenty on each of the two pages facing us.

  Sherlock chortled, sounding as if someone was tickling his feet. He dragged a camera stand toward us and asked me to place the Bible on its platform. The stand held the camera aimed lens-down to the platform. Sherlock made some quick adjustments to the camera.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “That’s impolite. You haven’t told me what to be ready for!”

  “You turn the pages. I hold the black light and take the photographs. I reckon we have twenty-two minutes.”

  “Could you be more specific?” I asked. It took Sherlock a moment to catch my sarcasm.

  “Ha ha,” he said caustically. “Five more minutes to reach the Main House makes twenty-seven. Three to replace the Bible and the padlock and be gone.”

  “Thirty,” I said, immediately regretting it.

  “Elementary school, my dear Moria? How excelled we are in the way of mathematics.”

  “The reception’s over in a half hour,” I said, trying to shore up my defense.

 
; “Correct. We are wasting time. Start turning pages.”

  I did so.

  The camera clicked.

  CHAPTER 57

  THE NEXT DAY, LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON, before sports, LeTona Heart approached Sherlock outside Studio B in the Writers House, a newish building devoted to language arts. An African American with expressive eyes, a sweet smile, and clear skin, she wore her straightened hair in an asymmetrical side part. A piercing mark on her nostril indicated where a gold hoop hung when not under school rules. LeTona, a varsity volleyball player, had a clutch of close friend-letes who trailed behind her when she wasn’t hunkered down in the library working on her honor roll status.

  “Hey!” she called.

  “Greetings!” Sherlock said. He knew LeTona only by sight.

  “Mo asked me to tell you to meet her in the chapel after dinner,” LeTona said. “Her photo class is taking a field trip and won’t be back until right then.”

  “Concerning?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You could have asked,” Sherlock said.

  “I . . . right . . . yeah. I suppose so.” She looked at him strangely. Her eyes said, “Loser.”

  “So, you did or you didn’t? Ask, that is?”

  LeTona addressed Sherlock like she was his babysitter. “After dinner. The chapel. It’s up to you, weirdo. What do I care?” She hopped down the staircase, her books nearly coming out from under her arm.

  Sherlock made eye contact with Natalie, who stood a few feet away, listening in on the exchange.

  “That’s impolite, you know?” he said.

  Natalie giggled to herself. “I happen to care,” she said boldly.

  Sherlock swallowed dryly. “Is that so?”

  “A girl like LeTona eats her young.”

  “That is foul! Most distasteful.”

  “It means she’ll devour you, Lock.”

  “Moria calls me that!” Sherlock protested. “No one else!”

  “Well, well! Maybe I’ll earn that right myself one of these days.”

  “I didn’t mean it the way it came out,” he said. “I meant only that it’s a private nickname! Gosh! That didn’t come out right either! You’ve tongue-tied me, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, good!” Natalie said. “At least I’ve gotten through to you!” She giggled as she walked away, putting some runway model into her stride.

  “I can hear you!” Sherlock called.

  Natalie raised a hand and waved without looking back.

  “I can see you,” Sherlock whispered to himself, utterly confused.

  Natalie practically cheered when Mrs. Favor, their hall mistress, stopped by the room to say that, “The van carrying Moria’s photography group has broken down. Moria will miss dinner. Please collect a box supper for her from the kitchen and bring it back here to the room after dinner.”

  Natalie nodded, hearing only: will miss dinner.

  In Natalie’s mind that translated to: will not meet Sherlock Holmes in the chapel after dinner.

  Given that Natalie had a hard time going five minutes in any given day without thinking about Sherlock, given that he’d looked at her this afternoon, had spoken to her, given that Sherlock was going to be stood up by me missing chapel, she felt it her obligation, her duty as my roommate, to pass along the information of my van being late.

  If that also happened to offer her a moment alone with the boy, in the beautiful chapel with its colorful windows lit at night, a chance to try to summon her bravery and tell Sherlock—or at least hint!—how she felt about him, then who was going to stop her?

  Better yet, she thought, her stomach grinding with excitement, why not skip dinner and get to the chapel in plenty of time to make sure she didn’t miss him? She could always run over to the kitchen door after seeing Sherlock and request the box supper they would have prepared ahead of time.

  Forced to wear her uniform, she nonetheless spent fifteen minutes adding some color to her cheekbones and filling in her eyebrows, trying to account for the low light in the chapel at night. Added at the last minute—just a slight amount of lipstick, a nice touch.

  Natalie veered away from the stragglers who were rushing late to dinner. Butterflies in her stomach. Underarms perspiring. She would have liked to wait for him outside, where the light would be more flattering. But if seen not attending dinner and wandering campus, she’d earn demerits or worse, so she left Sherlock a clue, hanging a heart on the chapel door’s oversized doorknob, and then pushed through and inside. Let him try to solve that one, she thought gleefully. She eased the door shut behind her, though it still made a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil as it closed.

  She knew better than to turn on the lights and announce herself to anyone outside looking toward the chapel. For now she would find a seat in one of the many inward-facing pews and wait for Sherlock.

  The chapel’s silence and low light created a creepy environment. Its lofted roof, tall stone walls, and marble floor reflected even the smallest sounds and sent them rumbling throughout the space. After fifteen uncomfortable minutes, Natalie considered abandoning her plan. She had added a good deal of makeup trying to look older and more sophisticated. By doing so, she now realized she’d demeaned herself. To Sherlock, she’d look desperate and somewhat pathetic, and she badly regretted the attempt.

  She convinced herself to lose the makeup. She would explain to Sherlock that our photography van had been delayed and she’d not wanted him waiting around for someone who wasn’t going to show up. She could play the good friend and hope he might notice her.

  Removing the makeup was more problematic. It would take a few minutes. The only bathroom was off the choir room, to the left of the pipe organ in the chancel. She scooted out of the pew, the sound of her feet slapping the marble as loud as hands clapping. She fought to stay calm, hoping she had time to get rid of her (hideous) attempt at fuller eyebrows and higher cheekbones.

  Just past Sir Galahad her feet dragged.

  “If you see something, say something,” Headmaster had told the school.

  She didn’t exactly see something; she smelled something: human sweat. Body odor. She felt fairly confident the marble statue of the crouching knight was not emitting it, so where was it coming from?

  Another step, and the scent was stronger still.

  Her skin itched. Her mouth went dry. Her eyes stung.

  If it hadn’t been for Sherlock coming along any minute she would have taken off. Every inch of her screamed: Get me out of this place!

  She stopped, just alongside the large pipe organ.

  If you hear something, say something! She heard a whoosh like the flapping of a giant wing.

  The smell of “man” suddenly struck as potent as skunk. She turned quickly. She jumped.

  CHAPTER 58

  “DR. CRUDGEON? I’M THOMAS LEHMAN, PROFESSOR of antiquities at Wright College, Boston.” He produced his business card.

  “Yes? Please, come in.” Crudgeon wore a cable-knit wool cardigan sweater over his shirt and tie, reading glasses about to fall off the end of his nose.

  “Sorry to trouble you this time of night.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “I’m on something of a personal errand involving one of your students, for whom I seek permission to visit.”

  “At this hour? That’s an unusual request.”

  “I came as soon as my schedule allowed. It won’t take but a minute, but I’d like to speak with him in private, so rather than apply to his dorm master, I thought it better . . .”

  “Him? And yes, I understand completely.”

  “A young man by the name of Sherlock Holmes.”

  Crudgeon did not so much as twitch. “Regarding?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I’m afraid without at least a general understanding of the nature of your visit I would be remiss and ill-advised to consent to such a visit, Mr.—”

  “Doctor.”

  “Dr. Lehman.” The visitor’
s face reflected his misgivings.

  “The young man, Mr. Holmes, contacted me regarding my expertise in antiquities, sir. And that is as much as I’m willing to share. I will leave it to my client to explain it in more detail should he choose.”

  “That’s scant little.”

  “I can assure you, it is in no way a personal visit, nor anything more than what I represent to you. It is the conclusion of a business arrangement, and I’m afraid this is the only time in my schedule that allows for such a visit.”

  “A situation I understand,” Crudgeon said, keeping his guest standing in the foyer with his coat on, “but one that continues to leave me feeling uncomfortable at best.”

  “It is scholarly in nature, Dr. Crudgeon. I would think one would encourage such efforts to expand one’s thoughts. Quite extraordinary to have a boy his age reach out to me, honestly. Can’t say it’s ever happened before.”

  “Mr. Holmes is an extraordinary young man.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  “And one for whom I and this institution are legally charged with guardianship, so you can understand my line of inquiry. I mean it as no reflection of distrust, Doctor. Please don’t take it as such.”

  “Not at all. You’re being thorough. I have nothing but the utmost respect for such care.”

  They stood there. Dead silence. Two men, one in a thick sweater, the other in a winter overcoat and red scarf.

  “I’m afraid I need more than you’re providing,” Crudgeon said.

  “Ah! A wasted trip, then. I see.”

  “You can’t be serious! You’d come all this way and turn around?”

  “Perfectly serious. Thank you for your time.” Professor Lehman turned for the door.

  “There must be some line of compromise we can find,” Crudgeon said.

  Lehman stood with his back to the man, his hand on the doorknob. “There can be a thin line between guardianship and institutional detention, sir. Once crossed, I believe it becomes criminal in nature.”

  “Now wait just one minute!” Crudgeon bellowed.