The Downward Spiral

by Ridley Pearson

  But Lehman wasn’t waiting. He pushed out into the cold and left the door open behind him for Crudgeon to step forward and close.

  Lehman slowed his car at an intersection with a flashing red traffic light. A wood sign declaring “Country Fresh: Eats, Treats, and Take Out” was lit up like Christmas, as were the windows of the establishment.

  He parked in the gravel parking lot with three other cars. He’d withheld from contacting Sherlock Holmes directly, feeling it improper to do so given that the boy was a minor. For different reasons he’d avoided mentioning Moria Moriarty to Dr. Crudgeon. Things were different now. He had, in fact, come all this way, as Dr. Crudgeon had pointed out.

  He sent a text message to Lock. There was still time to fix this.

  After all, he reasoned, he’d come all this way.

  CHAPTER 59

  “CHAPEL’S CLOSED FOR CLEANING.” THE STOUT man didn’t look familiar, was not one of the cleaners whom Natalie saw day in and day out. This guy had a single earbud in his left ear, connected to a phone in his front shirt pocket. A tattoo barely showed above the top button.

  “The chapel door was open,” Natalie said.

  “We’re cleaning the floors. You can’t be in here.”

  “I don’t see you cleaning the floors.”

  “We can’t start until we’ve locked the doors.”

  “We? You, and who else?” Natalie said nastily, never one to be polite to the help.

  His head angled and she looked toward the far end by the entrance where two men stood. If these guys were custodians, she was a nun. “Yeah, okay,” she said, the message getting through. “All done praying. I was just leaving.”

  The janitor touched his finger to the earbud. He whistled by contorting his lips, piercing the air. The two by the door jumped into action while the janitor took Natalie by the arm and slapped his hand over her mouth. He leaned his head into the crook of her neck.

  “Listen very carefully,” the man said.

  CHAPTER 60

  LIKE ALL OTHER BASKERVILLE STUDENTS, SHERLOCK was prohibited from using his mobile phone, and like all other Baskerville students he therefore kept his in his pocket, switched on at all times. His was a flip phone, limited in functions, and he felt something of a twit when it came to operating it.

  When Sherlock’s pocket buzzed on his way to the chapel to meet up with Moria, he ducked alongside a tree to try to screen himself. He fiddled with the contraption and nearly erased the incoming message before he read it.

  tennis court parking lot

  i will wait until 8pm

  Lehman

  Sherlock had fifty minutes. He elected to see Moria first. But reaching the chapel door, he found a handcrafted heart looped over the massive doorknob with a piece of powder blue yarn. He stopped. Considered.

  A) Moria was not known for such handiwork

  B) The heart implied romance

  C) He felt about as ready for romance as he did to scale Everest in bare feet and underwear

  D) Chapels and churches were serious places where couples got married

  E) See C

  F) Moria gave him “that look” every now and then

  G) See C

  H) Stood for “HELP”

  Meeting Lehman was a perfectly viable excuse to miss or be late to the chapel. If late, Moria might leave by the time he arrived. All things being equal—which they weren’t—taking the meeting with Lehman was clearly his only choice.

  Lehman’s car was old, in need of a wash, and its engine was running, the driver’s window and passenger window cracked open despite the cold, to keep any fumes from suffocating the waiting driver. Sherlock climbed into the car.

  “A little cloak-and-dagger, don’t you think?” Sherlock said. “We have visiting hours in the Bricks.”

  “Your headmaster forbade me from seeing you.”

  “Did he? How undisciplined of him.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s revealing quite a lot by doing that. Don’t you think?”

  “I do, but I’m surprised you do.”

  “Too young?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Nearly every vegetable and fruit must be harvested when young. As it gets older it becomes flavorless and goes to seed.”

  “I’m supposed to chew on that?”

  “Something like that,” Sherlock said, aping the man.

  Lehman passed the translated journal to Sherlock, setting it in the boy’s lap. “I’m done.”

  “You finished?”

  “No. Far from it. But I’m done. And you and Moria should be, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Believe me. Please.”

  “I do, of course, but I’m the curious sort. It’s dangerous?”

  “Extremely.”

  “Because? And don’t tell me I’m too young, please. If I, or Moria, am in danger, I have every right to know why and from whom.”

  “You’d make a good lawyer.”

  “I’d rather not, thank you. I like puzzles. Mysteries. And don’t change the subject.”

  “I’ll say to you what I don’t want you telling her: Mr. Moriarty was engaged in criminal activity. There’s no doubt whatsoever. That’s why I wanted to see only you. The activity is robust in nature and, I believe, dates back to the family’s origins in shipping, which still accounts for a great deal of revenue. But the shipping now includes moving oil and other products illegally into countries under sanction. The Middle East. Russia. North Korea. Vast amounts. To accomplish this, politicians and law enforcement are being corrupted or coerced on an unimaginable scale.”

  “The person or persons responsible for the death of Mr. Moriarty. Did he speculate on such things in these pages?”

  “It’s an extremely personal journal. That’s one reason I simply could not continue with the transcription.”

  “Do you or do you not have an answer for my question?”

  “You could use some social skills, young man.”

  “If you’re hoping to win a prize for being the first to advise me of such, you’ve lost. Answer my question, please.”

  “Some things are better off left in the past.”

  “And this may be one of them, but that is up to Moria and James—” Sherlock replied.

  “Not James!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “James, being the firstborn, and the male heir, is to assume the father’s position.”

  “Ancient.”

  “But just the same. Control of the trading company has been passed this way since the mid-1500s. Think about that! Think about that kind of wealth and power. Someday, James Moriarty will have no choice but to be conflicted about such information.”

  “Up to Moria to decide, then,” Sherlock said.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Call me when she’s twenty-one.”

  “How can she keep her friends close and her enemies closer if she can’t identify her enemies?”

  “You have a sharp tongue, young man.”

  “And a quick wit. I know. I know. And yet always so lonely,” he said in a mocking tone.

  Lehman chuckled to himself and shook his head. “You are different.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  He chuckled again. “You’re forcing me to read between the lines. I’m loath to do so.”

  “Then transcribe more of the journal to make sure you’re not giving false testimony.”

  “No, thank you. I don’t want that back. Neither should you, Mr. Holmes. It’s flat-out dangerous for whoever possesses that journal. It should be locked up or destroyed.”

  “Finish translating it, and we’ll destroy it together.” Sherlock returned it to the man’s side of the car.

  “The attorney, Lowry, pressured Mr. Moriarty to rid himself of his wife.”

  The car’s air system made a loud effort to keep the car warm.

  When Sherlock failed to speak, Lowry continue
d. “Supposedly it was for her own good. People outside the group, people like you and me, Mr. Holmes, do not end up well. People like Moria. The women of the family, women who ask too many questions, as Mrs. Moriarty did. She took her questions to Mr. Lowry instead of just her husband. She was not the first Moriarty woman to be the architect of her own undoing.”

  “Alive or dead?”

  “Mr. Lowry encouraged Mr. Moriarty to take matters into his own hands. Again, reading between the lines, one gets the impression she may have been sent to something like a convent overseas, or something more practical like an institution here in the States.”

  “Alive, then?”

  “Nothing to indicate otherwise. But a man as brilliant as Mr. Moriarty would not, even in an ancient language, make self-incriminating statements of that nature. It’s one thing to write of his feeling about certain business deals, quite another to use such a journal as a confessional.”

  “Was it Lowry behind his ‘accident’?”

  “As to that, I would guess quite the opposite.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “There are forces at work within this organization that troubled Mr. Moriarty. A change in direction. Nothing is specified, but as head of the organization he was in the position of making the difficult decisions.”

  “Someone didn’t like his decision.”

  “Perhaps that. Perhaps he had yet to weigh in and they wanted to put their thumb on the scale ahead of that moment.”

  “Names.”

  “There is a board member. Again, reading between—”

  “Let’s get beyond all that, please.”

  “Like other board members, a man of enormous influence, wealth, and power. A man who, Mr. Moriarty writes, leveraged his way onto the board, and was most unwelcome.”

  “A name.”

  “No. If only it were so easy. Mr. Moriarty names no one, even in ancient Greek.”

  “Between the lines, then.”

  “I have my theories. I worked like an historian, using a few interesting references and dates, and working backward. I was looking for CEOs who may have retired on or about the time this person joined the board. Men or women who fit the profile Mr. Moriarty was describing. An influencer. A judge, perhaps. Organized crime. District attorneys or state attorneys general. The individual possessed the means to demand a spot on the board, and was rewarded. Not killed. But rewarded. That’s someone you fear, someone with his own group strong enough to threaten you, even if you kill him. I knew there could be but a handful of such qualified individuals.”

  “And I am soooooo very impressed with your diligence and reason. But I want a name!” Sherlock allowed his temper to show and regretted it immediately. “I’m sorry. I’m irritable. I’m having girl problems.”

  “Moria?”

  “Maybe you’ll translate my journal someday and find out. Really, the name would be most helpful.”

  “I found a person for whom I could check all the boxes. I tried a dozen times to disqualify him.”

  “Him.”

  “I worked back, taking a long hard look at several other contenders.”

  “The name.”

  “The one man, the only candidate—as I’ve said—that makes any sense is the former head of the FBI, a man who retired only weeks before the board seat was filled. Can you imagine, the former chief detective of the United States signing on to an international crime syndicate stretching back three, four, five hundred years?”

  “That’s rhetorical, I trust,” said Sherlock. “Who else but the head cop to join the head crooks?”

  “No, it doesn’t work that way. Really, it doesn’t. You’re far too cynical.”

  “Did this man have Mr. Moriarty killed?”

  “I am nowhere near to suggesting such a thing. Did he trouble the waters, absolutely. But it’s a long way between that and the act of violence you’re suggesting.”

  “The . . . name. The only director of the FBI I’ve ever heard of is J. Edgar Hoover,” Sherlock said.

  “Eleven years as director, nine working his way up. A reputation for ruthlessness, brilliance, and hegemony. Do you know what hegemony means?”

  “Dominance, but usually by one group over another.” Sherlock considered the man’s choice of words. “You’re saying this man, this former FBI leader, built a loyal group around himself that questioned Mr. Moriarty’s competence.”

  “His name is Mathias Hildebrandt.”

  A pair of headlights caught Sherlock’s eyes, coming from an access road that ran between the tennis courts and the varsity soccer field and led around to the back of the Bricks, the gym, Alumni House, and other school buildings. A Baskerville school bus returning to campus. Sherlock watched intently as the bus’s interior light switched on and students appeared in the seat in profile. The vehicle lumbered past, the students inside in a sudden frenzy to collect their belongings.

  Among them, Sherlock spotted Jamala, my other roommate. His deviously quick mind went to work: Jamala was in photography with me, i.e., this was the photography field trip returning—late; i.e., I was not in the chapel; i.e., I had not been the one who’d left the heart on the doorknob; i.e., someone else had left that heart on the door for Sherlock to find.

  “Something’s wrong,” Sherlock said, reaching to open the car door.

  “I beg your pardon?” Lehman looked around furiously, concerned over their exposed position. He grabbed for the rearview mirror.

  “It was a trap!”

  “What was a trap?” Lehman croaked out dryly, looking to the empty passenger seat and the open door beyond it, a dusting of snow and brown leaves dancing in the breeze.

  CHAPTER 61

  LOCK ARRIVED INTO A CHAPEL SMELLING OF perspiration and a flowery perfume he knew I wore.

  He thought to himself: Moria’s bus just arrived. She can’t be anywhere near here.

  His eyes taking time to adjust to what amounted to thousands of stained-glass colors spread across stone and wood and little else, he stepped farther in.

  “Hello?” His voice reverberated. He sniffed again, picking up traces of wood oil, damp earth, and the foul smell of men—perspiring men.

  Not boys. Not perspiration. Sweat. Man sweat.

  Perfume and men. The combination roiled his stomach.

  He took several more steps into the chancel before he saw a shape in the pews.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nat . . . a . . . lie.” She sounded so nervous, but Natalie was always twitchy when around him.

  “Well, hello! I thought . . . That is . . . I’m confused,” he said. Confusion gave way to anger. “Wait just a sec! Did you and LeTona cook this up? I just saw the photography club, you see? There’s no way Moria intended—”

  Natalie let out a squeal as she was wrestled to standing, her neck suddenly in the crook of a man’s elbow.

  Two other men cut off the chapel door from Sherlock.

  From somewhere deep in shadow near the altar, a hideous-looking thing appeared. It was a man, six feet or taller, wearing a black robe and a papier-mâché mask fashioned into a raven’s beak.

  Sherlock knew that mask. The Raven had conducted the ceremony at James’s secret initiation.

  “I’m only going to say this once, Mr. Holmes, so listen up and be careful with your words. A great deal rides on what you say next.”

  CHAPTER 62

  BEING CALLED TO THE LOUNGE IN THE BRICKS could be unsettling or exciting depending on whom you were expecting. Being called to the lounge when you were hungry, having just returned from a trip that went way longer than you wanted, was nothing short of annoying.

  I wanted dinner. I had homework to get done. I wanted back the hours I’d lost to the stupid field trip. Funny, I thought, I could plan for the future, but I couldn’t do squat about the past. Annoying the way time worked. Or didn’t.

  I approached the lounge with trepidation. If Lock or Jamie, I’d send him packing. If a teacher or the headmaster or Lowry, I wasn’t sur
e what I’d do.

  Check “D”: None of the above.

  “Mr. Lehman,” I said, stunned to see the man so out of place from where we’d originally met.

  “Ms. Moriarty. We haven’t much time. I’ve been denied permission to be here, yet here I am. Do you understand?”

  “Not really,” I said. But that seemed to trouble him. “I guess.” He liked that answer better.

  Although typically monitored by the house mistress or an upperclassman, the lounge offered a more private nook away from the craziness of the television in the opposite corner, where five or six girls were gathered in front of a reality TV show involving shopping. There was a lot of snickering going on.

  He handed me Father’s journal.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I tried to pass this to our mutual friend. He refused it. I ask you to take it. To protect it.” If he spoke any softer I was going to have to put my ear to his lips, which was a nasty option I had no intention of doing.

  He looked sickly, sweating the way he was when it was so dang cold outside. Most people ended up with a red nose and bright cheeks when coming inside. He looked gray and pasty.

  “Your friend can share with you everything I told him. I warned him, and I’ll warn you: lock that up somewhere. Hide it. Don’t ever tell a soul what you’ve done. Not a soul.”

  “That doesn’t sound great.”

  “It is my opinion that family secrets should remain in the family. Any family. Yours, especially.”

  “Now you’re teasing me.”

  “Am I? I suppose that’s right. Forgive me. Mr. Holmes will catch you up. What I want to make clear . . . why I’m here, with you, Moria . . . what I said to him about your mother—”

  “Mother!?” My chest hurt.

  “One should not speculate about such sensitive things. I’m ashamed of myself. Perhaps, as Mr. Holmes encouraged, the day will come when I can translate the rest of the journal. When I can feel safe translating the rest of the journal. Perhaps I will be able to better inform you and James at that time. For now, please accept my apologies for interjecting speculation where I should have not. Most unprofessional.”