Rebel Fire (6 page)

And that, Sherlock suddenly thought, probably meant there was a third man at least, if the madman needed constant supervision.

Wary of noises outside, or the sudden movement of the door, Sherlock crept across to the window. As he passed the bed, he noticed a black Gladstone bag on the floor beside it. The top of the bag gaped open, and inside Sherlock could see the gleam of glass and metal. Intrigued, he moved closer and looked in.

A series of vials containing a colourless fluid were strapped into individual compartments on one side of the bag. A collection of medical instruments, scalpels and suchlike, had been thrown willy-nilly into the bottom. And separate from both of them was a long, flat box that Sherlock recognized. He'd seen boxes like that before, belonging to the doctors who had treated his sister during her periods of illness. They usually contained hypodermic syringes: hollow cylinders of glass ending in plungers and tipped with sharp needles, used for injecting drugs into the bloodstream. For a moment he wasn't in that bedroom anymore, he was in his own home, watching through a gap in the door as the doctors and nurses bustled around his sister's bed. Needles and syringes fascinated him: the light glinting on them, their grotesque functionality, the way they blurred the boundary between the inside of the body and the outside. The way they made things better. The way they stopped the screams.

He shivered. No time for memories. He had a madman with a gun just a few seconds behind him.

For a moment he thought the window was bolted, or nailed shut. It wouldn't move as he tugged it upward. It
had
to, he told himself. If this room had medical equipment scattered around then it wasn't the madman's bedroom, and there would be no point in sealing the window.

The madman's window, he felt sure, would have bars on it.

He threw all his strength into tugging at the window till, with a squeal of wood on wood, it slid upward. Blessedly cool air washed across his face. He squirmed out onto the windowsill and looked around. No sign of Matty in the garden or on the road. No sign of anyone.

He looked down. The wisteria grew all the way down to the flower beds beneath. He could climb down easily.

And then what? If the madman entered the bedroom while he was halfway down, then he was a sitting duck. The man could just shoot him in the head and watch him fall.

He glanced upward. The wisteria went all the way up to the roof, as far as he could tell, its tendrils infiltrating the mortar between the bricks of the wall, and there was a balcony, or a sill of some kind, running all the way around the edge. If—when—the madman came into the bedroom and across to the open window, then his immediate reaction would be to look downward. If Sherlock was climbing upward, he might evade capture. At the very least, he would buy himself a few more seconds.

He stood on the windowsill and grabbed hold of the wisteria vines to one side with his right hand, using his left to slide the window carefully shut. His retreat was blocked off, but it might gain him a few additional moments of safety.

He extended his right leg out to the side and felt gingerly with his foot for a point where two vines crossed and the junction would take his weight. After what seemed like forever he found something that gave a little under pressure but would support him.

Nervously, he let the vines take his weight and scrabbled around with his left foot for another point of purchase. When he found one, he boosted himself up and reached with his left hand for another vine to grip. Instead it found a gap between two bricks. He jammed his fingers in and it took his weight. Laboriously, one step after another, he hauled himself up until the window was below him and he was climbing towards the roof.

Brick dust fell past him and stung his eyes. He shook his head, eyes closed, to dislodge it. More dust and small bits of rubble pit-patted against his head and shoulders.

The wisteria lurched suddenly beneath him. His weight was pulling it out of the wall, dragging the tendrils from where they had infiltrated through gaps and nooks and crannies and were gripping the brickwork. He could feel his centre of gravity pulling away from the wall. He glanced down and felt immediately sick when the ground seemed to eddy back and forth beneath him as he swayed. The vines in his right hand became loose, and he quickly scrabbled further up, looking for a firmer handhold. His fingers closed around a thick stem that appeared to be anchored in place, and he pushed upward with his right foot. His left hand closed around a flat tile on the edge of the roof. Thankfully, he rested for a moment, getting his breath back.

From beneath him he heard the grinding sound of the window being slid up.

He froze, pulling himself as close to the wall as he dared.

Sherlock sensed, rather than saw, a dark figure craning out of the window and scanning the ground beneath. He held his breath, desperate not to make a single noise that might give him away.

More brick dust rained down. He felt the vine he was holding in his right hand begin to pull loose from the wall. He'd been holding onto it for too long—he should have transferred his weight off by now, but he didn't dare.

More brick dust blew into his eyes, making him blink.

His nostrils tickled. He wanted to sneeze, but he wrinkled his nose, clamping his nostrils shut.

The figure below him swung back and forth, its gaze scanning the ground like the beam of light from a lighthouse. Beyond, in the garden at the side of the house, Sherlock could see several wooden crates piled up. There were gaps between the slats and he thought he saw something moving behind them, but then his attention was forced back as the figure below turned around and looked upward.

At him.

“You insolent, cowardly cur!” he screamed, and fired the gun again.

The lead ball buzzed past Sherlock's ear like an enraged hornet. He felt the heat of its passage singe his hair. Desperately he dragged himself up to the flat ledge on the roof, pulling his legs after him as the lunatic shot again.

Silence for a moment as he caught his breath. Sliding towards the edge, Sherlock glanced over.

The window was empty. The lunatic was coming up the stairs to get him.

Sherlock looked around desperately. The ledge he was on was just a few feet wide. The roof proper began then, tiled and rising up at a steep slant to a peak. Dormer windows punctuated the ledge every ten feet or so—presumably second-floor bedrooms or storage rooms.

He had to find a way out, and quickly.

He knew he could never make it back down the wisteria vine, so he sprinted along the ledge to the first window. It was either locked or stuck in place. He moved to the next one, but it was the same. The third window was open a crack, but the wood had warped and it would not go up any further.

He made a move for the fourth window, but he suddenly realized that the madman with the gun was standing on the corner of the ledge where it went around the back of the house. He had obviously found a way out before Sherlock found a way in.

He pointed the long barrel of the gun at the centre of Sherlock's chest.

“Down, down to Hell,” he screamed, spittle flying out of his mouth, “and say I send thee thither!”

Sherlock waited for the lead ball to hit him and send him plummeting off the roof. He wondered for a moment if the ball would kill him before the fall did. It would be the last experiment of his life.

Another man stepped around the corner of the roof, a burly man with pale hair and broken veins in his nose and cheeks. He grabbed the madman in a neck lock with his left arm while his right hand jabbed the needle of a syringe into the man's shoulder. He pressed the plunger, sending whatever drug was in the syringe coursing into the madman's bloodstream.

The madman sagged in his arms, the gun clattering onto the ledge. He was still trying to talk, but his words were slurred. His eyes fluttered for a few moments, and then he was still.

The newcomer pulled the syringe from the lunatic's shoulder. Clear fluid dripped out and the man slumped to the ledge. Straightening up, he gazed levelly at Sherlock.

“What're you doing here, boy?”

“I was just looking for my ball in the garden,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound younger and more vulnerable than he was, “when this bloke grabbed me and pulled me into the house.” He couldn't help noticing that when the man had straightened up, he had brought the revolver up with him and was keeping it held with the barrel along his leg.

“And what did this gentleman want to do to you, once he got you inside the house?”

“I don't know. I swear I don't.”

The newcomer was silent for a few moments, thinking. The long barrel of the revolver tapped against his trousers.

“Get in the house,” he said eventually. The barrel of the gun swung casually up to cover Sherlock. “And take him with you,” he added, nodding towards the unconscious madman. “Drag him round the corner. There's an open window there. Just slide him inside.”

“But—”

“Don't argue, boy. Just do what your betters tell you.”

Sherlock glanced from his face to the gun and back again. This man wasn't twitchy, or edgy, or mad. He was perfectly sane, but just as likely to shoot.

Sherlock moved forward and took the madman by his shoulders. The newcomer stepped back to give him space. Sherlock dragged the unconscious body around the corner and along to the open window, aware all the time of the nearness of the edge of the ledge. One misstep and he would fall.

The man's body was heavy and difficult to manoeuvre, and Sherlock felt sweat springing out across his entire body as he wrestled with it. Eventually he managed to get it halfway in the bedroom window. Climbing over it with difficulty, he pulled it in after him.

And all the time, the man with the gun watched.

A pair of arms suddenly appeared over Sherlock's shoulder and took hold of the unconscious body.

“I'll take him from here,” said a high-pitched voice.

Sherlock turned his head, surprised. A fourth man was standing close to him. This man was short and portly and bald. He was also missing part of his right ear.

Sherlock stepped back and let the newcomer pull the body along the floor, out into the corridor and along to a different bedroom. This one had a key sticking out of the lock. Inside, while the newcomer was hoisting the unconscious body onto the bed, Sherlock noticed that this room did actually have bars on the windows. This was the madman's room.

The third man—the burly one with the blond hair—was standing in the doorway. He still had the gun.

“How's Gilfillan?” he asked.

“Nasty head wound,” the small, bald man replied, still arranging the madman on the bed. “He'll have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but I think he'll be okay.” He sniggered. “He's got a thick skull. You'd have to hit him a lot harder to cause any significant damage.”

“I might just do that,” the burly man snarled. “Damn fool, letting Booth get the drop on him like that. He could've derailed the entire plan. The last thing we need is Booth running wild across the countryside, especially in his current state.”

Booth!
Sherlock tried not to react, but inside he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. The man
was
John Wilkes Booth, not John St. Helen.

The burly man was still talking. He gestured at Sherlock with his gun. “And now, because of him, we're saddled with a witness.”

The bald man stopped what he was doing and looked up at Sherlock for the first time. “What are we going to do with him, Ives?”

The burly man—Ives—shrugged. “I don't see we've got much of a choice,” he said.

The bald man was suddenly nervous. “Look, he's just a kid. Can't we just, you know, let him go?” He turned towards Sherlock. “You ain't seen anything, have you, kid?”

Sherlock tried to look terrified. It wasn't hard. “Honest, guv,” he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, “I'll forget all about it. I promise I will.”

Ives ignored him. “What's the verdict on Booth?”

“The sedative worked a treat. He'll be out for a few hours.”

Ives nodded. “That gives me enough time, then.”

“Enough time to do what?”

Ives raised the long-barrelled revolver and pointed it directly at Sherlock. “To kill the kid and dump his body. Rule number one, remember—never leave anyone behind who's seen your face.”

 

F
OUR

Sherlock felt a shudder run through him. They were going to dispose of him, just throw him away like a sack of potato peelings! He glanced back and forth between the two men, looking for a way to escape, but Ives was standing in the doorway and the small, bald man was between Sherlock and the barred window.

“Please, mister, I ain't seen nothing,” he whined, trying to buy himself some time.

“Don't come the innocent with me, son,” Ives growled. He moved back into the corridor and gestured to Sherlock to follow him. “This way, and be quick about it.” He glanced over at the short, bald man—who Sherlock assumed had some kind of medical training, as he seemed to be the one Ives deferred to when it came to injuries and insanity. “Berle, you secure Booth good and proper, and then you look to getting Gilfillan up and moving. I want to clear out of this place. There's too many people already who've spotted something odd. I guarantee our friend here didn't sneak around because he was looking for some lost ball, but because of some kind of dare, or because he wanted to see what we were doing.”

Sherlock moved out into the hall. He glanced back at Berle, who wouldn't meet his gaze. “Please, mister, don't let him hurt me,” Sherlock said in the best whine he could manage, but Berle turned away, back to the unconscious John Wilkes Booth. “Sorry, kid,” he murmured, “but there's too much at stake here. If Ives says you got to die, then you got to die. I ain't going to get involved.”