The Initiation (13 page)

“So he is testing Jamie. Why?”

“I think Dr. Crudgeon knows a great deal more than he lets on about everything that goes on in his institution. Never underestimate the resources of a strong leader. They have spies, technologies, and treasure at their disposal.”

“You are very strange,” I said, without meaning to.

“‘Very' is a wasted word. We've touched on this. It has no strength or meaning. I advise removing it from your vocabulary at once, along with ‘just' and ‘a lot.'”

“See what I mean?”

He laughed. Arched a brow in an insightful way. “Yes, you keep saying so! Guilty as charged.”

I laughed with him. He was having no luck getting past the computer's opening password prompt.

We heard it together: someone slipped and fell at the bottom of the stairs. Now I understood Sherlock's putting the wet paper towel on the floor by the stairs. He'd made a slippery spot, a way to slow down and announce an unwanted visitor.

Sherlock and I ducked beneath the table, balled up, arms around our shins. The lights in the big room switched on.

Proctor Sidling, coach of football and wrestling, wore XXL gym clothes around campus, and carried himself like one of those army generals in a World War II movie. His wiry mustache was broken by a thickly curving harelip scar; he wore a permanently twisted smile to one side of his face. A math proctor, he had a head for numbers and ran the computer lab. It seemed conceivable he had followed one of us—unlikely Sherlock, since . . . he's Sherlock. I cautioned myself to be more careful in the future—if I had a future at Baskerville after this.

Sherlock pulled us knees to knees to make us smaller in front of the chair so our shadowy form might blend into it. I'd not seen Sherlock scared prior to this moment.

Proctor Sidling disappeared into the shelving of the computer servers. He reappeared at one end or the other—I didn't have the greatest view of the
other room. He was looking for something. The two of us, I figured.

He patrolled efficiently, being the general that he was. When that effort led him to the glass door of the terminal room in which we were hiding, I held my breath. He tested the doorknob and found it locked. That seemed to satisfy him. He returned to the lab's main door, switched off the light, and let himself out.

Sherlock breathed for the first time in minutes.

I scooched out and started for the door. Sherlock tackled me and we lay on the floor side by side, his arm across me to keep me still.

The lab door opened quickly, sharply.

Proctor Sidling had played a trick on me. He leaned his head in and switched on the lights, hoping to catch me. I could imagine the man looking around. At last, he switched off the light for a second time and shut the door.

Sherlock released me. I whispered, “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“How did you know he'd do that?”

“It's what I would have done,” he answered, whispering in the dark. “We can get to the bottom of this, Moria, but only if we can trust each other with our secrets. Any sharing of those secrets will
bring this thing to its knees and us along with it. There's something going on here that's bigger than James, bigger than you or me, and involves people at the very top of the school. Do you understand the importance of the reliability of our alliance?”

About all I heard was:
our alliance
. I was feeling a little light-headed as it was; this didn't help any. I nodded. Never mind that he couldn't see me well given the dark; I had a feeling he knew I was with him.

“I
S THAT ANOTHER?”
S
HERLOCK ASKED
J
AMES
as my brother struggled to stuff the red envelope into his top drawer. The dorm room smelled of athletic socks and chewing gum. James failed to notice that Sherlock was sweating from our close encounter with Proctor Sidling.

“No. An old one.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Do you want to know why I don't believe you?” Sherlock said, rhetorically, for James was not to escape the answer. “I was working on that
paper for Cumming's class, ‘The Rise of Tyranny in the Twentieth Century,' and I was in the library, in Reference, up on a stool. Sound familiar?”

“Don't know what you're talking about.”

“There it was: a red envelope poking out from the pages of a volume titled
Secrets in Society and Secret Societies.
I didn't remove it, nor did I open it, as I'm on direct orders from Crudgeon not to help you.”

James sat up straighter. “Why?”

“I thought you might know.”

“No clue.”

“Telling, don't you think, that it was in that particular volume?
Secret Societies
? Clearly, he wants you to find these things,” Sherlock theorized. “Doesn't want me to offer any help. But I suppose if I were napping,” he said, climbing onto his bunk and lacing his fingers behind his head of oily black hair, “and you were ruminating aloud, I might dream we were actually discussing the contents of the latest clue.”

“I don't need any help.”

“Well, there you have it!” Sherlock said. “So I'll just have a much-needed nap.”

“I'm tired of these stupid clues,” James said.

“They are only stupid if they're smarter than us. Ironic, don't you think?”

“I don't need your help.”

“Crudgeon would agree. Let's look at the bigger picture, then, shall we? Do we assume the clues are leading you to the Bible ahead of everyone else?”

“Then why not give me one clue?”

“Precisely! Why indeed?”

“Did you do this, Sherlock? Is this some sort of sick joke you're playing on me?”

“It is not. I swear. I have nothing whatsoever to do with the clues. Someone is manipulating you. As for me, I've been instructed to take a step back, so it's all yours now, James. That said, only a fool would ignore someone's efforts to help. And you're no fool.”

James shot a glance in the direction of the bunk.

Sherlock continued looking straight up. “Doesn't it intrigue you at all that someone has singled you out and is likely trying to help?”

“I'm not so sure about that,” James said.

“Is your self-esteem so low you can't see someone taking the time to help you out? James, you are a direct descendant of the founder of this school! Your anonymous guide could be a faculty member, the headmaster, Chaplain Browning. How can you ignore that?”

“I'm not ignoring anything,” James said. “I'm just tired of being run around like a bull in
a bullfight. You know what they do, right? The matador keeps sticking knives in the bull to tick him off and make him charge. That's what I feel like! If someone wanted to help me, then the first clue would have led me to the Bible.”

“It is a reasonable deduction,” Sherlock said.

“I thought you said you're done with it.”

“You reported me to Crudgeon,” Sherlock said, rocking his head to the side for the first time. The two boys locked in a staring contest. “Why would you go and do that?”

“You annoy me.”

“Bully for me! Because I'm smarter than you, or because you're lazier than me?”

“You're a righteous jerk, Sherlock Holmes. A stuffed shirt. Where do you get off acting so superior to everyone?”

“I
am
superior to most everyone. You and your sister, I'm not so sure about, which is why I like you both. It's why Crudgeon picked us to room together. Is there any question about that?”

“So you know it was arranged.”

“It's intriguing. I assume I am to tutor you.”

“Other way around.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Crudgeon told you to stop tutoring me.”

“Indeed. Most interesting.”

“Stay away from Mo.”

“I like her. We're friends.”

“Leave her alone. She's just a kid.”

“Au contraire! She's a bright young woman who wants to help her older brother, who adores her older brother.”

“I said, leave her alone.”

“You and Crudgeon have every right to ask me to stop assisting you with these clues. Accepted. As to Moria, she can think for herself. I have no intentions beyond an intellectual discourse. She stimulates me.”

“You are using all the wrong words. I ought to crush your face.”

“Provoking fisticuffs or taking out your aggression on my person will only endear me to her, James. If you want her to forget about me, stop making me into a victim and try being nice to me. Try working with me, and by that I'm referring to sharing the most recent clue.”

“No thanks. I thought you were all done.”

“Yes . . . well, I find I have a difficult time separating myself from mystery. I find clues, quests, puzzles most invigorating.”

“Find something else to invigorate you. These clues are just running me around in circles.”

“And here we are.”

“Okay. I agree that you and I have to get along, or this year is going to stretch on forever.”

“Moria has told me what a good brother you are, James. I'm sure we can work this out.”

“If you would just keep out of my business, it would work out better.”

Sherlock rolled away. “Ouch.” He spoke to the concrete block wall. “What if the latest clue is the last clue? What if whoever's sending them has merely wanted to make sure it's you looking for them? I stick my nose into it, Crudgeon hears about it—which is interesting—and I'm reprimanded.”

“You really think it's the last clue?”

“No idea. But it could be, which would make it a pretty irresponsible time to stop figuring them out, wouldn't it?”

“That's your only interest? A mystery?”

“I love a good mystery,” Sherlock said. “Whether someone's trying to help you or mislead you, the person's identity is of keen interest to me.”

“I guess I hadn't looked at it that way.” It was a rare admission for James. Sherlock took it as a bold step forward in their friendship. “I suppose you're right.”

“This once,” Sherlock said, rolling back over and offering a smile to James.

James grinned and nodded. “Yeah, this once.”

W
ITH
S
HERLOCK FINALLY GIVING UP AND
heading down the hall to take a shower, James took a moment alone.

The note read:

copper copper everywhere

He reread it several times. Police? he wondered. “Coppers.” Pennies were made of copper. Some roofs. Some gutters. What else? He was studying the clue curiously, eating a protein bar and tipping back in his chair, when he knocked over a squeezy-box of
lemonade and spilled it across the card. He instantly snagged it, shook the spill off, and watched in amazement as within the stain ghostly letters appeared. He examined the card more carefully. He couldn't read the letters, or any words, but there was no denying something was written.

He conducted a web search for “invisible ink.” The Wiki page listed lemon juice as a developer for some invisible inks. The juice he'd spilled! He read on. Copper sulfate was one of several legit chemicals used to create early spy-level invisible inks. The copper sulfate could be developed by one of four chemicals: sodium iodide, sodium carbonate, ammonium hydroxide, or potassium ferricyanide.

“Sodium carbonate.” James spoke aloud. He knew exactly where to find it on campus.

Study hall hours forbade third-form students from leaving their choice of study areas for any reason other than a bathroom break. Because of the added missing-Bible curfew, following study hall hours all academic buildings except the library were off-limits, some locked—including the chemistry lab. School regulations did not allow the wearing of hoodies, but sports caps were okay. James slipped on his Boston Bruins cap, opened the window further, and climbed outside into a brisk autumnal night.

It was nearly a straight shot to the art building—but he would have to cross the playing field for field hockey. He could be easily seen from any rooms facing the playing fields and gym, including apartments belonging to the hall masters of all four Bricks. He could try his best to look like an upper classman, but the truth was he was a few inches too short, a few pounds too skinny.

That was when he spotted a maintenance department golf cart parked outside the door to Bricks Lower 3, the ground-level dormitory adjacent to his own.

Knowing maintenance, he thought, the key was probably still in the ignition; if not, he'd jumped his father's golf cart on Cape Cod multiple times. It was a matter of crossing two wires. He climbed back into his room and located a paper clip.

Minutes later, a dark green golf cart with a canvas awning top motored along the sidewalk that bisected the two playing fields in front of the gym. James parked the vehicle to the side of the gym so it wouldn't lead to him. Below the curve of the hill, he made his way along to the back of the art building and let himself in on the ground floor, where the sculpture and glass arts studios were located.

The glass arts studio roared with the sound of
two kilns that ran around the clock. Two girls worked at one of four stainless steel tables. They wore heavy aprons, gloves, goggles, and had their hair tied back with kerchiefs. Glass being a fluid medium, they didn't so much as glance toward James. One spun a long metal punty rod and blew into it while the other pinched the growing mass of glass with what looked like a giant pair of scissors.

James located the bags of materials and chemicals at the far end of the studio and sorted through the labels. He found one marked as sodium carbonate and quietly thanked his father for taking him on a tour of Dale Chihuly's glass studio on the canal in Seattle a summer earlier. Their guide had explained the chemistry of glassblowing.

He collected a cupful of the white powder and approached the studio's soapstone sink, where he mixed it with water. He used a ratio of a cup of the agent to a liter of water, mixed thoroughly, and carefully dipped the corner of the card into the plastic bucket.

“Help you?” one of the girls called out.

“I've got it!” James answered. “Science homework.”

The girl returned to her work, unbothered. James lowered the angled card slowly, worried
that he could easily ruin everything if he'd guessed wrong. As the line of sodium carbonated water reached the middle of the card, the quality of the coloring changed. And then he saw the first black line. He nearly squealed with excitement.

The glassblower hadn't been offering to help James. This was the mistake he'd made—assuming the world revolved around him and only him. The offer had been to me.

“What have you got there?” I asked, startling him.

“Mo? What are
you
doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

“It's past curfew.”

“It is, isn't it? So you can imagine my curiosity at seeing my brother cross the JV field after hours in a stolen golf cart. What is that on the card, Jamie? A key of some sort?”

The chemical had rendered a previously hidden image that looked like something one might draw in art class, only a lot better. It was a pen-and-ink sketch of a key with a tree growing out of its end.

“It's the third clue,” James said. He added proudly. “I just solved the third clue.”

James took me forcibly by the arm and dragged me to the door of the glassblowing studio.

“Hey! Let go of her!” one of the other girls called out.

“She's my little sister! Shut up!” James shouted.

The one with the metal tongs rushed to the door. She held up the implement at James, looking like a lobster. “I said: Let go of her!”

“It's all right,” I said, “he's just being annoying.”

James loosened his hold on me, though only slightly.

“You sure?” the girl asked me, eyeing James suspiciously. Now the tongs looked more like the mandibles of a trap-jaw ant.

“Positive,” I answered, “but thanks. I appreciate it, really.”

He led me outside and laid into me in a grating half whisper, half shout. “Why are you spying on me?”

“I told you: I saw you. I was curious.”

A panicked James looked back and forth between me and the studio.

“Explain yourself,” I said. “What do you mean this is the third clue?”

“Invisible ink.”

“That couldn't have been easy to figure out.” Boys respond well to boosting their egos. My early
Baskerville education wasn't for nothing. “Can I see?”

He explained the lemonade spilling.

“Bravo.” I wondered if Sherlock had had anything to do with making the connection. Not much got past Sherlock.

James reluctantly showed it to me: a small skeleton key with a tree growing out of the top. I now saw the numbers below it as well.

921737

“What's it mean?” I asked.

“Whatever the answer is, it's the hardest of the clues so far.”

“I heard you went over to Headmaster's house.”

James recoiled at my mention of it. “Where'd you hear that?”

“There's not a lot anyone does here at Baskerville that everyone doesn't know about within five minutes, James. If you haven't learned that yet, it's
worth taking note.” I hadn't directly answered his question, but by going on the offensive I'd kept him from noticing.

“There was this guy. He knew about the clues.”

“What guy?”

“A guy. He told me to forget the Bible and follow the clues. He basically said, why be like everyone else?”

“So, you're sticking with the clues. That's good,” I said, pointing to the red notecard.

“Is it? How do we know that's true?”

“The clues are obviously important. They're getting harder, like you said.”

“I don't know!” he snapped at me. “How should I know?”

It was the first somewhat civilized conversation we'd had since coming to Baskerville and I didn't want to ruin things. I had my brother back; I didn't want to lose him again. “Sorry!”

“Why send them to me?” He sounded troubled, close to tortured by the thought. The light from the studio windows played on his face, a mixture of yellow from the kilns and the bluish ceiling lights. He looked almost sick. “Why does some creep attack me in the dark and make it seem like he's about to kill me?”

“Wait! What?”

“A guy. Two, actually. The first was a proctor, I think. He grabbed me one night in the dark by Bricks Lower One. That breezeway area. I never got a look at him. I had this creepy feeling he'd been following me, you know? Like it wasn't coincidence, his surprising me like that.”

“And the other guy?”

“Yeah . . . well, he was scary. Flat-out terrifying. Told me the clues are all that count. There's something weird going on in this place, Mo.”

I was about to sting him with sarcasm when I thought better of it. “Why are you so mean to Sherlock?”

“You have to ask?”

“He wants to help.”

“I know that. He wants to prove how smart he is. Guys like that are all the same. Remember Donnie Hinchman? Guys like that.”

“He's nothing like Donnie Hinchman! Donnie was arrogant and stupid. He
thought
he was smart. Sherlock actually
is
smart. Way smart. What's wrong with that? Smart is good.”

“It's a guy thing.”

“He can help us, Jamie.” I hoped by using “us” I might soften his resolve.

“Please don't call me that! I've asked you not to call me that! I don't need his help. I've got Clay,
Robby, Bret, Evan. What do I need stinking Sherlock Holmes for?”

“And I thought you were good at math.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“The four of them don't add up to one of him. Why would upper-formers spend time with you anyway? That makes no sense.”

“I'm such a nice guy,” he said, though sarcastically.

“They're using you—us—our name.”

“Wrong.”

“Then why?”

“I mean, sure, that's what probably got them to at least acknowledge I existed. But you know what I think, Mo? I think some of us are meant to lead and some to follow, regardless of how old we are or what grade we're in. I came along at the right time. They need me as much as I need them. It's like pilot fish and sharks, soldiers and generals. It's prehistoric or something.”

“How can they possibly need you?”

“Thanks a lot!”

“I mean it! What do they get out of it?”

“They want the Bible found. They want study hall over. They think the clues are part of that, and that's fine with me because I can use all the help I can get.”

“But not Sherlock's help.”

“You have a crush on the guy. What do you know? A British accent doesn't make you smarter, it just makes you sound smarter.”

“I do not!” I spoke a little too adamantly, even for myself. Did I have a crush on Lock? “He's just smart.”

“There is no ‘us.' Not in this, Mo,” James said. He might as well have stabbed me in the heart. “I'm the one getting the clues, not you, not Sherlock. As long as you're on his side, you're on his side.”