Where All Paths Meet, page 15
part #3 of The Adventures of Holloway Holmes Series
“Wowzer,” I said, and Blackfriar chuckled.
He didn’t give us noogies. He didn’t squeeze the back of my neck. But he was doing it, the whole routine, like he was a favorite uncle or an old family friend. He stayed behind us, and the force of his presence sent me walking, against my better judgment, toward the front door.
Inside, the house was a contrast of light and dark: the white walls, the wide rooms, the desert brightness that flooded the house from so many windows; and then the dark beams framing the ceiling, making me think of the hull of a ship, and the graywashed, aggressively rustic furniture juxtaposed to plush, rounded sofas and curved armchairs upholstered in blacks and browns. Blackfriar herded us down the length of the house until we reached what must have been a family room, where more windows and a pair of French doors led out onto the deck. My skin began to crawl, and I tried to figure out why. Paintings and photographs hung on the walls—all of them minimalist, all of them abstract, all of them expensive. Other pieces of art were displayed on stands: a deerstalker cap covered in what I thought might be Greek writing, with what looked like a bullet hole in it; a cell phone that had been disassembled and wired together with what I thought was an old-fashioned syringe; a floral arrangement with each flower made out of pages of books—when I got closer, I saw Holmes and Watson on the pages. Ms. Prinze might have known what to call it, some modern or postmodern aesthetic, maybe even something new and cutting edge. Me, though? Well, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs didn’t exactly sound like an artistic movement, but it came close.
And then I figured out what was bothering me: there were no smells. No people smells. No food smells. Not even new smells—new furniture, new carpet, new paint. A chill ran up my spine, and I fought off a shiver.
Voices broke the silence. “—knew where he was, I’d tell you,” Noneley said. A moment later, she emerged from a hallway. Today she was dressed in leggings and a chunky sweater, and she’d added strands of glitter to her hair. “If only to get rid of you.”
Behind her, Tom trotted along, clutching the old black doctor’s bag to his chest. He was in another of those ill-fitting but somehow expensive-looking suits, and for a moment, Noneley’s back was to him, and he hadn’t seen the rest of us yet. It only lasted an instant, but hatred made his face incandescent. Then he saw the rest of us, tripped over his own feet, and went headfirst into a pouf. Whatever he had in the doctor’s bag, it clattered and clinked when it hit the floor.
Noneley didn’t look back at the noise; she shook her head and said, “Thank God, Father. He followed me all the way from Sundance. Can’t you put a leash on him or something?”
“Holloway,” Blackfriar said, “go to your room.”
“It’s not my room.” Holmes’s voice was cold, uninflected, the way he spoke when every piece of armor was in place. “I no longer live here, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Tom was picking himself up, the contents of the bag rattling and chiming, and now his glare was directed at me.
A hint of color infused Noneley’s cheeks. “I had the most wonderful conversation with the governor, Father. I think I’ve convinced him to sue Zodiac.” She smiled. “It’s going to be a bloodbath.”
“I’m going to have a chat with Jack,” Blackfriar said as though no one had spoken.
Holmes’s head came up. His eyes widened, caught the desert light.
The color in Noneley’s face darkened. “What about your pet? I’m going to have to hang a bell on him; I swear I almost stepped on him last night.”
“Jack—” Blackfriar said.
“My training.”
The words were so disjointed that, for a moment, I didn’t understand what Holmes had said. I glanced at him. A pinprick of blood marked the corner of his mouth where he’d bitten his lip, and the light turned his eyes into mirrors.
Blackfriar turned to face his son.
“We spoke about continuing my training,” Holmes said.
The silence lasted almost a full minute. Then Blackfriar smiled, and it was the rictus again, a winter of teeth. “I recall you telling me, quite forcefully, that you considered your training complete.”
Holmes’s jaw worked twice before he managed to say, “I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry?”
Holmes raised his head and said, more loudly, “I was wrong.”
“Ah.” Blackfriar clasped his hands behind his back. “I see.”
“Father—” Noneley began.
Blackfriar shot her a look, and Noneley retreated a step, bumping into Tom, although neither of them seemed to notice it. When Blackfriar returned his gaze to Holmes, Holmes ducked his chin.
“Really, Holloway,” Blackfriar said, “this inconstancy. You’ve made so many…pronouncements lately.” His gaze flicked to me, although I didn’t understand what he meant. Turning his attention back to Holmes, he continued, “How will anyone take you seriously if you change your mind so easily?”
The corner of Holmes’s mouth trembled, but his voice was steady when he said, “I believe now would be a good time to resume my training.”
“Do you? But we have a guest.”
The tremor, this time, seemed to run through Holmes’s whole body. “Jack does not mind. You don’t, do you, Jack?”
Blackfriar cocked a look at me and broke into a soft laugh. “Good God, his face.”
I knew I needed to say something. I just didn’t know what.
“I believe now—” Holmes began.
“I heard you.” Blackfriar considered his son again. “I hear you telling me, my son. I hear another pronouncement.”
Holmes looked at me, his eyes silver, and for a moment, I thought they were full of tears. Then he turned his head, and the light changed, and I couldn’t tell. Whatever resolve he’d clung to, it shattered now, and he bit his lip savagely. When he spoke again, his teeth were crimson with blood.
“Please.” He stopped. Once again, I was witness as he brought that tremendous will to bear again. His body stilled. And then he seemed almost relaxed, his voice even as he asked, “Please, Father. Would you consider resuming my training?”
Blackfriar glanced at me. I couldn’t read the look on his face. It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. Then the rictus stretched his cheeks, and he nodded. Another shiver passed through Holmes.
“Of course. Jack, make yourself at home. The Watsons always do.”
Holmes left first, heading down a hallway, and he didn’t look back, didn’t try for one last glance. Blackfriar followed, his posture loose, verging on jaunty. When the sound of their steps faded, Tom let out a shuddering breath. Noneley pressed her fingertips to her eyes, and for a moment, the way she stilled herself was so reminiscent of Holmes that another chill ran through me.
Then she dropped her hands, smiled brightly, and said, “Well, that was something. Want a drink?”
I stared at her as she moved across the room to a well-stocked bar. She found a can of hard seltzer, opened it, and looked an invitation at me. After a moment, she shrugged and took a sip.
“I’d like a drink,” Tom said.
Noneley let out a vexed breath, waved at the bar, and drifted over to one of the plush, rounded chairs. She dropped into it, curling her legs underneath her, and fixed me with a look.
By then, I’d recovered that classic Jack Moreno poise and panache and said, “What the fuck was that?”
“Father and Holloway playing their games. Father knows Hol’s making a play, of course, and Hol knows Father knows, of course. But then, it’s a gambit, and it’s Hol, so that’s all standard. God, who even drinks hard seltzer? But I’m drinking it, so I guess someone does.”
“What do you mean he’s making a play? What do you mean a game? That was—” Fucked up sounded debonair, like Jack Moreno, so I said, “That was seriously fucked up. H was terrified—he was on the verge of a panic attack.”
“Oh yes, I think so.”
I wanted to say, And you stood there and didn’t do anything. I wanted to say, What the fuck is going on? I wanted to say, I’m supposed to help him, but I have no idea what to do. The best I could actually put into words, though, was, “Where are they? Where’d they go?”
“One of the training rooms, I imagine.”
“Where?” She didn’t answer fast enough, so I asked, “Down that hall, right?”
“Why? You’re not thinking of—Jack, for God’s sake, don’t do that.”
“He’s going to—” What? Hurt Holmes, yes, that much was obvious. Break him. Try to break him, the way he’d been trying all of Holmes’s life. Again, words failed me. “He’s going to do something to him!”
“Yes, of course. That’s the whole point.”
I took a step, and a half-full can of seltzer missed my head by about an inch. It hit the wall, spraying foam and filling the air with a fruity, alcoholic tang.
“You cannot be this stupid,” Noneley said, “or my brother wouldn’t bother with you. Use your head, Jack, and think.”
I tried to think. I did. But all I could see was the way Holmes’s lip had trembled, the way he had braced himself like a man reaching into the heart of a fire to grab a live coal.
“If you go,” Noneley said with the deliberate delivery of someone trying to be insulting, “he will hurt Hol more. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand—”
“Hol does not want you to go. Hol does not want you to see this.”
“But he’s—I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s bad, and—” He needs me, I almost said.
“And he’s doing it for you, you stupid boy.” And then, as though the words finished the conversation, she said with disgust, “For heaven’s sake.”
I stared at her. I stared at the hallway where Blackfriar had taken Holmes. I tried to listen, and I couldn’t hear anything except my heartbeat.
That was when I realized Tom was gone. It was easier to focus on that than on the helplessness curling its claws in my belly.
“Where’d he go?”
“Who knows? He’s always popping up, disappearing, scurrying around underfoot.” Noneley rose and stretched, and as she retrieved another can of seltzer, added, “It’s exhausting, really. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? God, you aren’t old enough, are you? Would you like to try a beer?”
I rubbed my face. A laugh was welling up in me, and I thought if I let it out, my brain would short-circuit, and that would be the end. But I couldn’t stay here, with this bright-eyed girl who spoke so casually about her brother being tortured, with the spiky smell of the seltzer turning my stomach. “He’s in there, and he’s—he needs you, and you’re sitting here acting like it’s a joke—”
“It is a joke, Jack.” The sharpness of her tone made me raise my head. “Everything is a joke. You and Holloway would do well to learn that.”
Somewhere, someone was screaming. It took a moment to decode the sound as the shriek of a violin. Shaking my head, I turned, heading back the way we’d come through the house. Without looking back, I said, “I’ve got to…I don’t know. Get some air. Pee.”
She laughed. The sound, high and tinkling, chased me down the corridors. My brain kept churning images: Holmes biting his lip; Holmes flinching; Holmes’s guards and barriers stripped away, his face naked with fear. The night terrors, I thought. I wanted to laugh again, and I swallowed the sound. No wonder Holmes didn’t sleep; I didn’t think I’d ever be able to shut my eyes again. He’s doing it for you, you stupid boy.
Somehow, I got outside. The day was bright enough that I had to squint, and when I leaned against the wall, the stucco was rough through Paxton’s borrowed shirt. They’d laid down fresh mulch, and it covered up the sweetness of the flowers. I took out my vape, put it between my lips, asked myself if this was the best I could do. He was in there, hurting, being hurt, for me. And I might as well have been jerking off, standing out here with my fucking vape, getting high so I wouldn’t have to hurt. Well, Holmes didn’t have that option, did he?
So, after that, I took the vape out of my mouth. I looked at it. I dropped it on the brick walkway, and I stomped on it until it was nothing but broken slivers of plastic. My foot hurt. My head hurt. My whole body hurt, and the smell of the cannabis oil mixed with the mulch burn, making my stomach flop. Then I picked it all up, every tiny piece of plastic, my fingers slick and stinking from the oil. If I didn’t, they’d probably punish Holmes for that too. I didn’t know what to do after that. Wait around. Maybe if I asked nice, they’d let my dad come pick me up, and I could go home and pretend I hadn’t seen Holmes made to beg.
It took a little while—I’m tough like that—but eventually, even I got tired of feeling sorry for myself. I knew what it was like to feel helpless, to feel guilty, to know you were responsible for awful things happening to someone else. That had been the story of my life since the night I ran and left my mom to die in the accident. I could either stand here and have my one-man orgy of feeling like shit, or I could do something. Something important. Something that would make me feel one percent less awful. Something like prove Blackfriar murdered Lynnissa Baca.
I went inside, found a bathroom, and dumped the pieces of my broken vape. I waited what I thought was a believable amount of time and flushed the toilet. I washed my hands, and I made sure I closed the door loudly when I left.
Nobody had come to investigate. Nobody had come to check on me.
Yet.
I started off down one of the high-ceilinged halls. I didn’t know which way to go, so I picked a hallway at random, choosing one that led away from where I had left Noneley, away from where Blackfriar had taken Holmes. Thick carpet swallowed the sound of my steps, and the only sound was the occasional screech of the violin. Every time it came, it startled me, sent my pulse racing and a fresh flush of adrenaline running through my body. It would stop just as suddenly, and for a moment, I would think that someone was screaming. And then it would happen again. And again. And again.
I found another large, open room that must have been another kind of family room—with another bar. I found two bedrooms that were perfectly made up in the same neutral tones, looking like no human had ever set foot inside them. I found a bathroom, a linen closet, and what I was pretty sure would have been called the billiards room if I’d been playing a game of Clue.
I was coming out of what was clearly some sort of studio, filled with paint and canvas and scraps of fabric and tote bins full of pins and ribbons and sewing gear, when a voice said, “You shouldn’t be here.”
I started at the words. When I looked over, Tom stood down the hallway, back the way I had come, clutching that stupid doctor’s bag to his chest.
“Hot damn. Do you do that to everyone?”
I started toward the next door, and a quick check showed me Tom was following me.
“You were supposed to wait with Noneley.”
“Oh, right.” The next door led to stairs, and I had zero intention of going anywhere near a (potentially haunted) Holmes basement, much less with Tom, who probably would have pushed me down the steps as soon as I gave him the chance. “I’ll go right back.”
As I continued down the hall, Tom trotted after me. He didn’t come too close, and the jingle of—I wanted to say metal instruments, but I had no idea what was truly in that doctor’s bag—helped me keep track of him.
“Mr. Holmes wanted to talk to you. Mr. Holmes wanted you to wait.”
“What’s your deal?” The next door revealed a library. It was…awesome. Like, Beauty and the Beast-level awesome. But it didn’t look helpful for proving that the senior Holmes was a psychopath and a killer, so I shut the door. Leaning against it, I gave Tom another long look. “Is this an act?”
He tossed sun-streaked hair. “I don’t have a deal.”
“Really? All this stuff with the Holmeses? The suits? The doctor’s bag?”
Those words made him clutch the bag closer, as though I might take it. All he said, though, was, “I’m a Watson. A proper Watson—”
“Jesus Christ. Nope, I can’t do this. Not today.”
As I resumed my search, he followed, a bit breathless as he continued, “—trained in a family of Watsons, so that I know my place.”
“Let me guess: your place is to serve nutcases like Blackfriar Holmes.”
“Watch your mouth!”
The shout made me stop and turn. Tom was still hugging his fucking bag, but his eyes looked, well, crazy. It’s not a polite word, but I didn’t have a better way of describing those eyes: huge, wild, looking through me. My skin pebbled at that look.
“Watch your dirty, trashy, gutter-boy mouth,” Tom said in a quieter voice. Almost a whisper. He adjusted the bag against himself—clink, clink. “You shouldn’t be here. You don’t deserve to be here.” The final words were full of a rage that threatened to tip the whisper over into more. “You’re ruining everything!”
For a moment, I was wordless. Then, like the poet of our age, I came up with “Fuck off, man.”
But he didn’t fuck off. He came after me. And my brain started thinking about all the sharp, pointed, metal things that could go clink-clink in a doctor’s bag. We were all alone in this fucking labyrinth of a house. If I screamed, no one would hear me. Cecilia was probably topping off her Valium, and Noneley was probably planning her next round of bubbly, attention-seeking arson. Hell, if either of them heard me screaming, they’d probably pop popcorn and pull up a chair to watch Tom finish me off.
I risked another look. Tom was still ten feet back, still lugging that stupid bag, but I thought, maybe, ten feet was closer than he’d been a moment before. His color wasn’t good, and he was breathing harshly. I wasn’t sure he even noticed me looking at him, but he stumbled as he came after me—more like he got tripped up by his own two feet than anything else, and it reminded me of how he’d taken a spill in the living room a little while before.
