Read The Future Door Online

Authors: Jason Lethcoe

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The Future Door (4 page)

BOOK: The Future Door
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The boy's thoughts turned to dark things, and he tried desperately not to fear the worst.

Rupert interrupted Griffin's anxious musings. “And how did you know whether the boy had hidden it or thrown it overboard?”

“Hmm?” Griffin replied. His thoughts had been so focused on his parents that he'd almost forgotten what they had been talking about.

“You know, the telescope. Where was it?”

“Oh yes. Well, that part was easy. I simply took one look at the—”

CRACK!
An explosion rattled the carriage. Griffin was nearly thrown from his seat as the carriage careened sideways. He looked down and saw that his lap was covered with broken glass.

“What the deuce?” Rupert shouted.

Griffin looked out the shattered window and saw that a second carriage had pulled up next to theirs. The passenger, a black-cloaked figure wearing a broad-brimmed hat and whose eyes were covered by a pair of opaque goggles, was pointing something at their window. Griffin didn't register what it was until it was almost too late!

A Gatling gun!
The thought had barely entered Griffin's mind before there was another series of loud
cracks.
Griffin automatically ducked as a round of bullets thudded into the wooden carriage walls behind him.

“Uncle, get down!” Griffin shouted.

Rupert, who was still stunned from the first explosion, was busily brushing glass from his hat and vest. Griffin leapt from his seat and tackled his uncle to the floor.

And it was a good thing he did. The next round of bullets hit the seat right where Rupert's chest had been a fraction of a second earlier.

Toby, who had been sleeping next to Griffin, yelped and dove beneath the seat. The hound whimpered as bullets continued to thump into the splintering wood of the carriage walls.

Griffin felt the carriage lurch forward as the driver whipped the horses to greater speed. “Out of the way!” the cabbie yelled. Bystanders screamed and dove for cover as the cab weaved back and forth through the crowded streets.

Daylight streamed into the cab from a myriad of holes, and Griffin fancied that he could hear the air whistle through them as they thundered down the road.

With his face pressed to the floor, he had no idea where they were heading or if the shooter was still beside them. He was thankful that the driver hadn't kicked them out of the cab, and assumed that the only reason for this must have been that he was as scared as they were.

“Where's your Stinger, boy?” Rupert shouted from where he crouched beside him.

“What?”

“Your Stinger!” For emphasis, Rupert made the fingers of his right hand into the shape of a gun.

Griffin suddenly remembered what his uncle was talking about. Rupert's inventions ranged from incredible crime-solving devices to futuristic pistols that could fire an array of different ammunitions, including beams of light and different types of plasma. Griffin had been given one of the weapons on their last adventure, a gun called the Snodgrass Stinger that shot an immobilizing green goo at its intended target. With an inward groan, he realized that he'd left it in his carpetbag, which the driver had loaded on top of the carriage.

“I d-don't have it,” Griffin stammered. “It's in my bag on the roof !”

The cab made a sharp right turn, and Griffin felt it tilt, the momentum lifting the left wheels entirely off the ground. He and his uncle were thrown across the floor, and Griffin felt his shoulder bang into something hard. The door that he'd hit flung open, and he felt himself sliding out of the carriage.

“Help!” he cried.

His uncle's hand shot out and just managed to grab hold of Griffin's shoe. The boy dangled outside of the racing cab, hanging upside down with his head poised just inches above the cobblestone street.

Whether it was because of the danger or an increased sense of anxiety, Griffin's mind went into overdrive, processing everything around him with intense clarity as if he were taking a series of photographs.

Two alley cats, one with eyes of green, the other yellow
.

Flash!

Shop windows with the names T. Quane, Tanner, Long's Publick House, Saint Hour's Timepieces, and Hopper's Haberdashery
.

Flash!

A discarded boot lying next to three barrels of mackerel
.

Flash!

A beggar with one eye and no socks
.

Flash!

A second carriage with a woman wearing goggles and holding a Gatling gun .
. .

And in that unique way that he processed things, Griffin saw for the first time that it wasn't a
man
but a
woman
who pursued them. Her long hair was deep red and streamed from beneath her broad-brimmed hat. She was dressed like a man, wearing not only the industrial goggles he'd seen earlier but a green silk cravat and ruby red waistcoat. Her lips were bloodred, and her perfect rows of white teeth stood out in sharp contrast as she lowered her sights on Griffin and flashed him a malicious grin.

And in that beautiful smile Griffin could see very clearly that he was about to die.

Suddenly, there was a sharp snapping noise. Griffin felt something attach itself to his coat. Then, without warning, he found himself jerked upward like a marionette on a string.

As a volley of bullets sparked off of the cobblestones where his head had been only seconds earlier, he saw his uncle standing before him with a strange contraption on his wrist. Rupert's legs were braced against the carriage wall for support as a cable spun on a large pulley, reeling Griffin in like a freshly caught fish.

“Got you, boy!” Rupert shouted as he yanked Griffin back into the cab.

Griffin's relief was only momentary. He was just about to warn his uncle to get down, for the woman in the next cab was sure to have reloaded. But the words never left his mouth. The next thing he knew, the cab that they were riding in gave a sudden, tremendous lurch.

There was a terrific
BOOM!

And as his head collided against something solid, everything went black.

3
THE MORIARTYS

T
he beefy man hesitated before knocking on the carved wooden door. His tiny eyes were glazed over in concentration, and his big jaw worked up and down, chewing a piece of stale licorice.

Chester Drummond was not an intelligent man; anybody could tell that by looking at him. But he was good at following orders . . . when he could remember them.

And as Chester stood outside the door of the most feared man in London, he desperately tried to remember what he had wanted to say.

Chester twisted his floppy cap in his meaty hands. He knew he shouldn't have stopped to talk to Sweet Katie at the fish market. Every time he talked to a pretty girl, his mind went completely blank. He should have come straightaway after getting the papers from the lamp on Baker Street.

Then suddenly it hit him. With a big smile on his dopey face, he pounded on the door, nearly breaking the brass knocker with his effort.

After a series of shuffling footsteps, the door swung open to reveal a greasy-looking manservant. The lank-haired butler didn't say a word, but stared at Chester with a pair of baleful eyes.

“I . . . I've come to see Mister Moriarty,” Chester stammered.


Professor
Moriarty,” the butler corrected. Then, after grimacing up at him, the butler stepped aside. Chester ducked his head beneath the door frame and entered the elegantly furnished apartment.

The place was dark, possessed by a gloom that no gaslight or kerosene lamp could penetrate. On the opposite wall from where Chester stood were countless trophies, the stuffed heads of ferocious beasts of one kind or another.

Chester stared at a huge rhinoceros head with a fang-like horn. The beady glass eyes looked so real that it was hard to believe the thing was actually dead. He shivered and took in the other creatures: the snarling mountain lion, several kinds of bear, and something else so strange and alien, with a tentacle mouth and large, insect-like eyes, that Chester couldn't tell what it was. The whole effect was terrifying, with each of the creatures forever frozen in an attitude of vicious attack or terror.

His eyes traveled down the rows of creepy-looking predators, finally settling on a shadowy figure that crouched beneath them. He couldn't quite determine what—or
who
—it was.

There was a hiss of steam. Then the shadow inched forward, rolling toward him on a pair of mechanical wheels. As it drew closer, Chester realized that it was Professor Moriarty. The sight of him couldn't help reminding Chester of an old spider, slowly emerging from its web.

“You were supposed to be here over two hours ago,” the professor croaked.

Suddenly, Chester had no words. He stared at the man in the chair as his mouth moved up and down with nothing coming out.

He was terrified.

“The photographs, you dolt. Did you bring the photographs or not?”

Chester felt his hand move automatically to his jacket pocket. He removed the small papers he'd taken from the gaslight and, with a shaking hand, passed them to the old gentleman. He'd long forgotten what it was that he'd wanted to say. Just being in the presence of Professor Moriarty had driven all thoughts from his head.

The professor gazed at the photos for several long moments, taking in the slightly blurred, sepia-toned images of Mrs. Hudson and Charlotte Pepper.

Then he glanced up at the hulking form of Chester Drummond and said drily, “On your way.”

Chester hesitated. He'd suddenly remembered what he'd wanted to say to the professor, but was having difficulty summoning up the courage to say it.

“Well?” the professor growled.

“Sir, I . . . I was wondering . . .”

“Spit it out, man.”

“Well . . . I wanted to . . . to know how much this job pays. I wasn't told how much I'd get when I said I'd do it,” Chester finished awkwardly.

Professor Moriarty gave him a shrewd glance. “So what you mean to say is that you feel you deserve some kind of reward for your services, is that it?”

Chester beamed, happy that the professor understood what he was getting at.

“Yes, sir.”

Professor Moriarty exchanged a knowing look with his butler. “I think that we can arrange something for you. Charles, please see to it that Mr. Drummond gets his payment.”

And as Chester Drummond followed the butler into one of the side rooms, he began to wonder, even though he was severely lacking in the imagination department, if asking for such a thing from Professor Moriarty had been such a very good idea after all.

4
UPSIDE DOWN

D
on't move, son,” a kind voice said.

Griffin observed that the badge on the policeman's hat was extremely bright and must have been polished recently with tremendous attention, that it bore the number 271, that the man's hat size was approximately seven and three-eighths, and that the officer had cut himself shaving earlier that morning.

Then the next thing Griffin realized was that he was lying on his back, and there were pieces of broken carriage strewn all around him.

“Where am I?” Griffin asked.

“You're on Beacon Street,” the policeman replied. “You were in a terrible accident, young man. And judging by the wreck and the size of the bullet holes in the wall of that cab, you're lucky to be alive.”

Griffin tried to sit up, but in doing so felt waves of pain rush through his body. The policeman patted his shoulder gently. “Don't try to move just yet. You're going to be all right, but you've taken quite a walloping.”

Griffin groaned and lay back. “It . . . it was a woman,” he said.

The officer removed a small notebook. “Can you recall what she looked like? It might be tough, but anything that you can remember would be helpful.”

Griffin shook his head, trying to clear it. “She was wearing goggles.”

The officer nodded. “Hmm. Anything else?”

Griffin took a deep breath. Then, looking up at the officer, he said without stopping, “She was approximately five foot three in height and weighed one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Her hair was an auburn color, shoulder length, and she had thirteen freckles across her nose. She wore goggles— aviator's goggles, I think—made by the ACME glass company of Long Island, New York. Beneath her glove on the third finger of her left hand was a lump; I assume it was some kind of ring . . .”

The policeman stared at Griffin with an incredulous expression as he rattled off the details.

“. . . Her kid gloves were produced at a special tannery that services only a few shops in Bologna, Italy. I've seen that style twice before, and they're very expensive. The hat she wore had a large brim, was made of wool, and was also of foreign make. The bullet holes were fired from a gun made by Richard Gatling in 1861, but the gun was the smallest version I've ever seen. She also wore red lipstick and had a tiny scar on her forehead about one-quarter of an inch long, which looked to have been made by a sword point—a Scottish sword, I believe.”

BOOK: The Future Door
11.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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