Elementary, My Dear Watkins

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Holding onto the rail, Bradford turned his head to whisper in return.

  “Let’s just say that I heard it from a friend who was in a position to know.”

  “Oh, good grief, Bradford, stop being so cryptic and just say what you came here to say. Lay it out on the table.”

  He lowered his voice even more and whispered, “Just wait. I’ll tell you everything I can once we’re on the train. In the end, you’ll probably want to skip your father completely and go strait to see your grandmother instead. She’s really the only one who might be able to help.”

  They reached the bottom of the escalator platform, and because of the proximity of crowds, they once again had to stop talking. Bradford stood closely by her side, this time with both hands clutching her arm at the elbow, holding on tightly as a throng of people closed in around them. Jo’s senses were on hyperalert, picking up the smells and sounds of the throng: garlic, curry, cheap perfume, aftershave, body odor, sneezing, coughing, chattering, one-sided cell-phone conversations. For someone who no longer lived in the city, it was overwhelming. A sense of light-headedness briefly threatened, but she took a deep breath and inched as close as she could to the yellow line at the edge of the platform, relieved when a train whistle sounded in the distance.

  As the train drew closer, Jo’s mind swirled with doubt, confusion, and fear. She thought about the questions she would ask Bradford once they were on board, and how she could figure out what was truly going on. Was she really targeted to be killed? If so, why—and how did Bradford know? What did her father have to do with any of it? Did he really want her to be married so badly that he had gone so far as to buy her husband? And how did that tie in with this supposed threat on her life?

  Another whistle sounded and then the train rounded the bend and began to roar closer toward them. By now the platform was completely full, and Jo could feel the crowd pressing in from every side.

  Suddenly, Jo felt the distinct pressure of a hand on her back. The hand pushed and Jo lost her balance, falling forward, directly toward the path of the oncoming train.

  She screamed. Bradford was still holding her arm with both hands, and as she started to fall, he jerked backward, hard, turning at the same time, trying to twist her around and back into balance. As he did, she managed to find her footing and recover. But their movements caused him to lose his balance.

  Before she could scream again, Bradford fell from the platform—right against the hard, steel side of the speeding train.

  4

  Alexa quietly shut the door and slid the lock into place. She had been given a lot of things since she moved on to the estate, but privacy wasn’t one of them. She knew it wouldn’t be long before someone started banging on the door, asking why it was locked, insisting that it be opened. At least the old lady wasn’t around today. She had gone into the city for a meeting and then to take her granddaughter to the doctor. But for everybody else around here, it was business as usual.

  Alexa knew she had better move fast.

  Quickly, she tiptoed across the study to the shelves that held the oversized part of the collection. When she had been in the room that morning, working on a research paper with her tutor, she had spotted what looked like a bunch of blueprints up on a high shelf. But this was the first chance all day that Alexa had had to come back alone and take a look. Her desperate hope was that she’d find a drawing of the entire Bosworth compound, one that included the outbuildings and the perimeter of the old stone wall that surrounded the place.

  Nervously, she stood on a step stool and reached high, grabbing from the pile, retrieving a cardboard tube about three feet long and capped with white plastic. Climbing down from the stool, she pulled off the lid and then tilted the tube so that the contents slid out onto the nearby table. Trying not to make much noise, she unrolled the large paper and took a look.

  As her Uncle Rick liked to say, Close, but no cigar.

  It was a blueprint, all right, but just of one building. From the looks of it, it was the gardener’s cottage or the carriage house. She rolled it up, managed to get it back into the tube, and then climbed up on the stool, put it away, and tried again. Her physical therapist wouldn’t have been happy to see her up there balancing on the stool as she went through the tubes, but Alexa wasn’t worried about getting hurt; if she did fall, her biggest concern was that the crash would be so noisy it would alert everyone in the house to what she was doing.

  There were ten cardboard rolls, and Alexa went through them one by one, still hoping for a master plan, one that showed everything. To her mind, it could be the key to her freedom—not that she was being held prisoner here in the compound, exactly. But getting away still wasn’t a simple matter, at least not if she wanted to go alone and unobserved. If she had the blueprints, her hope was that she could find a better way to come and go, all on her own, despite the high stone wall and the security guards.

  She’d already escaped twice. The first time went off without a hitch, but the second time she’d been caught on her way back in by a security guard. That had earned her a stern lecture from Dr. Stebbins, a loving reprimand from his wife, Nicole, and a cold warning from the old lady. They all kept saying the same thing, that Alexa was free to leave, but not like that, not at night, not when she would be putting herself in danger. Of course, Alexa didn’t really want to leave—or, at least, she didn’t want to stay away.

  She just wanted some freedom, some air. A night to visit the old neighborhood and maybe meet up with some friends at the Grave Cave. A few hours to chill with her girls where no one was studying her or teaching her or examining her.

  A chance to be a normal 14-year-old again.

  They kept saying they would take her wherever she wanted to go, which wasn’t exactly true because no way would they take her to the Grave Cave—not if they knew what went on there. But even if they did, if they gave her permission, drove her somewhere, and then waited for her, where was the freedom in that? She wanted out of here on her own, even if it meant going to a lot of trouble and putting herself in a little danger.

  “Yes!” Alexa whispered now, peeking inside the second-to-last tube. “Sweet!”

  Alexa’s right arm and leg were starting to feel tired and shaky. She carefully climbed down from the stool, finished pulling the paper all the way out of the tube, and spread it open on the table.

  She had found what she was looking for, a map of the whole joint.

  Quickly, she traced her finger around the stone wall, searching for hidden gates or openings she hadn’t been able to find simply by strolling around and looking.

  There had to be a way to get out of there somehow.

  Everything was a blur—of impressions, of sounds, of movements. Jo wasn’t even sure how much time was passing. Mostly, there were hands, lots of hands, pulling Bradford to safety, gripping his lifeless wrist for a pulse, guiding Jo to a nearby bench to sit. Cell phones, there were cell phones, and she could hear someone calling for the police and ambulance. Jo took that as a good sign, that an ambulance was called.

  That must mean that Bradford was still alive.

  The noise got very loud for a while as more people gathered, as the paramedics came, worked on Bradford, and carted him away. Then the noise grew more quiet until Jo realized that the area had been cordoned off, with only a few cops inside the yellow tape line. One of those cops was sitting on the bench beside her, trying to talk to her, but Jo couldn’t really understand what the woman was saying.

  Jo blinked, forcing herself to focus, not surprised when the policewoman waved over another paramedic, who began taking Jo’s vital signs. Maybe she was in shock. No, that wasn’t it, she hadn’t lost any bodily fluids or anything. She wasn’t in shock.

  She was just shocked.

  Luc snored.

  Several feet away, in his own berth, Danny tried to block the noise by holding his pillow over his ears, but it didn’t help. He felt as though he were standing on the runway at the Moore City airport, airpla
nes taking off over his head at the rate of about one every five seconds.

  Danny had already poked Luc once and asked him to turn over, but that had only helped for a short while. Danny did it again now, clutching the metal side of his bunk and leaning across the space between them to jab his friend on the shoulder. Without truly awaking, Luc grumbled something and flipped so that he was facing the wall. For the moment, at least, the noise stopped.

  Thank goodness.

  Danny was glad Luc had come along on the trip for logistical and language reasons, but he would almost be glad when it was time to move on to Africa and send Luc back to Paris. The young Frenchman was helpful, sure, but he was also aggressive and impertinent, like asking Mr. Bashiri if he could have one of his sandwiches because he “might want a midnight snack” or flirting shamelessly in the hallway with an attractive Dutch woman who was staying in the end compartment.

  It wasn’t that Luc was uncouth, really. He just didn’t seem to sense the need for calmness and decorum or pick up on the very quiet and reserved nature of Mr. Bashiri. Danny was mortified, but the famous photographer seemed, if anything, amused. He didn’t say much, but his eyes sparkled at Luc’s antics, and when Luc actually scored a date for later in Zurich with the Dutch woman, Mr. Bashiri had merely shaken his head in quiet disbelief.

  Danny fiddled now with the air vent over his head, feeling hot and restless despite the cool air pouring over his face. The train itself was nice, the bed comfortable, the ride much smoother than he had expected, considering how fast they were going. Maybe what was bothering him was just that he had never had the chance to speak directly with Jo and tell her what was up.

  Earlier, when Luc was getting ready for bed, Danny had given him ten euro and borrowed his cell phone to make that call. Pacing out in the hallway, Danny’s heart had raced with excitement to talk to Jo and tell her his good news, but all he had gotten was her voice mail, first on her cell and then at her home. He had left a rambling message on the machine at the house, giving her his big news that way, sorry that he hadn’t been able to tell her in person. Something just felt weird and kind of wrong not to have actually talked to her. For no good reason at all, Danny felt unsettled—almost worried—about her.

  In any event, that was no reason to lose sleep now; he could always catch up with her tomorrow. He turned over on his other side and tried to force himself to relax, wanting to seize whatever snore-free moments he had to cross over into slumber before the racket started up again.

  Danny actually was almost asleep when he heard it, a steady tap-tap-tapping on the wall. For a moment, he was confused, and then he realized that the sound was coming from Mr. Bashiri’s room. Quickly, Danny rolled from the bunk to the floor, pulled pants on over his shorts, and stepped out into the hall, smoothing down his T-shirt.

  He knocked, noting a sliver of light coming from under the door. After a moment of quiet, a soft voice said, “Come.”

  Danny opened the door to see Mr. Bashiri sitting in the chair opposite the folded-down bed, wearing beige cotton pajamas and holding a tobacco pipe.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” Danny said, smoothing his hair. “I thought I heard you knocking. Did you need something?”

  It took a moment and then understanding crossed Mr. Bashiri’s shiny, dark features. He glanced down at the pipe and then back at Danny.

  “Oh, my young friend, it is I who should be sorry. I was only packing the tobacco. It makes for a better smoke. I completely forgot about the signal.”

  He did it again now for demonstration, tapping the pipe against the metal armrest of the chair. Danny exhaled slowly, glad there was nothing wrong. He couldn’t imagine why the man had been knocking in the middle of the night.

  “I feel so bad. Did I wake you up?”

  “Not really,” Danny replied gamely. “For some reason, I’m kind of wired up tonight anyway.”

  Mr. Bashiri nodded.

  “As am I. Perhaps we could pass some time together. Would you like to come in?”

  Danny hesitated, wondering if he should.

  “I do not bite, you know,” Mr. Bashiri added. “In fact, I am a mere mortal, just like you.”

  Surprised, Danny inhaled sharply. Then he smiled. He supposed he had been a bit intimidated, not to mention a tad obsequious.

  “Please. Fold up the berth and join me.”

  Danny tried to relax, stepping into the room, putting up the bed, and taking a seat opposite the man whose work had appeared in everything from Life magazine decades ago to National Geographic last month. He was a legend, an icon, with a lifelong career of hopping the globe and documenting it in pictures. By Danny’s calculations, Mr. Bashiri had to be almost 80 years old, but it wasn’t obvious by looking at him. His body movements were those of an older man, yes, but his dark features were almost youthful, and his closely shaven hair was deep black without a hint of gray. Only his hands belied his age; they were gnarled and wrinkled and told of years spent out in the sun, exploring and photographing.

  “So tell me why you treat me like I am made of glass. Did Ms. Tatou instruct you to be so helpful and polite? Or is that just the sort of man you are?”

  Mr. Bashiri posed his question and then let it sit there as he continued fooling with his pipe, stuffing in more tobacco and tapping it down some more.

  Danny wasn’t sure how to answer. What could he say? That the man sitting here in his cotton pajamas was Danny’s hero, his professional example?

  “I guess it’s because you are everything I want to be,” Danny said finally, hoping he didn’t sound too stupid. “I’ve been dreaming of success like yours for many years. I never thought I’d be in such close proximity to it.”

  Mr. Bashiri nodded, tucking away his pouch of tobacco and then striking a match and holding it to the pipe, sucking deeply on the stem. Danny had a feeling that pipe smoking wasn’t allowed on the train—but he sure wasn’t going to be the one to stop him.

  “Success comes at a price, you know,” Mr. Bashiri said finally, a puff of smoke swirling from his lips. “I did not just wake up one day and snap my fingers and make it happen. I sacrificed much. I worked hard. I have…” he hesitated, pipe poised in the air, eyes distant. Then he zeroed in on Danny, looking directly at him with eyes black and deep, the irises the same color as the pupils. “…regrets. I have regrets.”

  Danny shook his head enthusiastically.

  “But you’ve accomplished so much! Your career is unrivaled.”

  Mr. Bashiri finally got the pipe to light and a gray haze filled the tiny room. He spoke in vague generalities about the cost of fame, but Danny didn’t need to hear this. It was the standard be-careful-what-you-wish-for-because-you-just-might-get-it speech that wizened old professionals always tried to toss the way of aspiring hopefuls. He’d heard it all before and had a feeling that most of it was bunk anyway.

  “What I am saying,” the man continued, “is that sometimes we cannot undo what has been done. Success does not come cheap, my friend, and it is not always worth the price paid.”

  “I’m not worried about any of that,” Danny said, settling back into the seat, eager to change the subject. “And I’m no stranger to hard work. But I’d love to hear some stories from the road. Tell me about your most exciting photo shoot.”

  Mr. Bashiri smoked several long puffs before he answered, seeming to accept the change of subject and moving in the conversational direction of Danny’s choice.

  “There have been many, too many to choose,” Mr. Bashiri said, resting the hand that held his pipe on his knee, “but there was this one time in the Sudan…”

  Alexa carefully folded the blueprint and slid it down the front of her shirt. Then she put the cap back on the empty tube, climbed up on the stool, and put it back where she had found it.

  What was it her tutor was always telling her? Knowledge is power?

  You bet, baby.

  With this map, she had everything she needed to make her escape. Now she just
had to get it back to her room without being spotted, hide it somewhere safe, and go over it again more carefully tonight. From just a quick glance, she had found several possible routes. Right now, she was more happy and excited than she’d been in weeks. She was going to get some freedom after all.

  She crossed to the door, listened for a long moment, and carefully unlocked it without a click. Holding her breath, she pulled it open and peeked out into the hall. No one was there.

  So far, so good.

  If only it weren’t so far back to her bedroom. Sometimes this house felt bigger than the Newark train station. Alexa crossed her arms in front of her chest, nervous about the crinkling noise the blueprints made, and headed off. She tried to walk casually, as if nothing were wrong, as if she hadn’t just stolen a map of the whole estate and tucked it into her shirt.

  She passed two of the part-time maids in the hallway, but they were chatting with each other and barely noticed her. Alexa kept going. She still had to get all the way upstairs and down the hall without running into Consuela, the full-time cook and housekeeper. Consuela was nice and all, but she was always too much in Alexa’s business, always asking how she felt and if she missed her mother.

  “Señoritas need their mamacitas,” Consuela liked to say. “They belong together.”

  Alexa had overheard a conversation once between Consuela and the physical therapist, Yasmine. Consuela kept saying how wrong it was to remove a girl from her mother’s home and plunk her down in a mansion without any parents at all, even if it was for the sake of science. Yasmine just parroted Dr. Stebbins, saying that Alexa was a “medical miracle” and an “astounding prodigy” and that living here gave her opportunities far beyond anything her mother could ever provide.

  “Don’t kid yourself,” Consuela had responded sharply, taking her anger out on Yasmine, even though she had nothing to do with it. “I think Mrs. Bosworth is getting a lot more than she’s giving with this arrangement. Or at least she will once Dr. Stebbins brings home his Nobel prize.”