Chapter 1
Utah desert, 1920
The heat seemed to shimmer before them, the small troop of brim-hatted tourists on horseback, squinting up at the enormous rock formations about them and trying to hear the thin voice of their guide over the nearly audible swelter of the heat-quavered air about them.
"The Ute Indians used to inhabit this valley," the guide was saying, fanning himself with his hat as he rode along, gesturing in a vague circle. "The state is of course named for—"
"Are there any here still?" asked a slender, gawky lad on a dark bay, his accent suggesting an expensive English education. "Might we see some?"
"No, no, my boy," the guide assured him. "The last Utes were driven out some years ago."
"Pity," the youth replied. "Though 'Indians' is quite a stupid name, since they weren't actually native to India…"
The boy's father waved a hand to shush him, and the rotund boy riding abreast of the thin one suddenly slumped in his saddle and groaned. "Billy's got heatstroke," the slender boy announced with just a hint of glee.
The party reined into the shade of narrow, rocky hill and dismounted, helping Billy off his horse and providing him with water. The adults pulled squares of fabric from their packs and sat upon the ground, taking a light snack and cooling themselves. The slender boy paced in frustration, occasionally asking the guide a detailed question about the silica content of the rocks or the likelihood of poisonous snakes, but mostly being pointedly ignored by the quietly-chatting adults.
Billy was leaned against a rock, eating an apple and apparently regaining his strength with some speed. Looking back at the adults to make sure they weren't watching, the thin boy motioned to Billy, and the two slipped away, "Just for a walk," the boy said.
They hiked a ways along a narrow valley created by the rise of two short, sheer walls of reddish sandstone. Around the far side of the hill, some distance from where their families had taken shelter, they found a rather interesting cliff-face split by a tall, narrow opening. The tall boy regarded it curiously and said, "I wonder if this is a pueblo. Come on." Billy, though still sweat-sheened and red in the face, scrambled up the hill after him.
The opening led quickly to a narrow, dark passage, but it seemed, curiously, that there was light ahead as the boys crept along. "Ssh," the tall one admonished as Billy thought to mention it, and he crouched down as they drew nearer to the source of the light. The chubby boy imitated him.
The scene they found was at first confusing—lamps lit a work-site manned by three: a young, stocky boy with ginger hair, a taller man with long black hair and a kind of flat-brimmed cowboy hat that the boys had seen in American Westerns, and an older man wearing glasses, a fedora, and a leather jacket. He was speaking as the boys entered the scene.
"Careful, now, careful, lads. Got anyfing yet?"
"East End accent," murmured the thin boy. "Fascinating."
"I got something!" the ginger boy exclaimed. "I got something right here!" He turned and presented a wooden chest to the man in the fedora. The man stepped forward to open it while his companions shoved and jockeyed for the best view. When he withdrew his hand and turned toward the lamp-light, he was holding a bejeweled gold cross as long as a rugby ball. At first, the men only gasped or whistled low, but then Ginger gave a whoop and said, "We're rich! We're rich, ain't we?"
"But he's American," the boy murmured, apparently to himself, "possibly Southern by the sound of it. Hmm."
Billy plucked at his arm, whispering "Sherlock! Sherlock! We should go back!" But Sherlock only waved a hand at him and crept forward. He seemed mesmerized by the golden cross that the man in the fedora was turning in the light, blowing the dust from its cross-beams and assessing with a practiced eye.
Billy inched forward until he was next to Sherlock once more, who whispered, "That's the Cross of Coronado. Cortes gave it to him in 1521. That is a very important artifact. It belongs in a museum." He frowned, calculating. Time taken to find the others and return to town = too long.
The man in the fedora at last laid the cross on a rock and turned back to where his men were continuing to dig for more treasure. Sherlock saw his opening. He turned to his companion. "Run back and find the others," he whispered. "Tell Mr. Havelock—no, tell my father that there are men looting in the caves. Have him bring the sheriff."
Billy blinked. "What about you?"
Sherlock turned back to the men in the cave. "I'm not sure. I'll think of something."
Once Billy had shuffled back down the dark passage, Sherlock set to work creeping down into the cave as quietly as possible. His penchant for sneaking into places he did not belong served him well, and he successfully retrieved the cross without drawing their notice—at least, until one of the ladder-rungs snapped beneath his foot on his return ascent. The men turned and saw that their loot was fast escaping on a pair of gangling, short-panted legs now disappearing over the top of the ladder and into the gloom.
The shock of sunlight made him wince, but Sherlock was so focused on speedy escape that he hardly noticed. He looked quickly about for signs of life, or Billy, but saw nothing. He whistled hopefully for his horse, with whom he'd been building quite a good relationship, and sure enough, the brown head appeared around a nearby copse of tall grass. The horse good-naturedly trotted forward to stand next to the outcropping on which Sherlock stood and, picturing an Errol Flynn sort of moment in his mind, Sherlock leapt. The horse had other plans, however, and Sherlock found himself on his arse in the dust. He quickly mounted, ignoring the pain in his backside, and heeled the horse to a quick run.
He could hear the sounds of vehicles moving through the narrow valley behind him, and he looked about for his tour group, but once more, saw nothing. There was, however, a train several hundred yards off to the right, moving in the direction of the town. It seemed as expedient as anything, and in moments, his excellent horse had pulled even with the train-cars.
Sherlock leaped on board and climbed atop the cars—feeling really very much like Errol Flynn for just one moment—before realizing that the three men from the cave had followed him. He ran along the top of the car, calculating—circus train, full of animals—oh, hello, giraffes—and what else? Trapeze equipment—no, rubbish—clowns and acrobats—possibly useful, but not at such short notice—bearded ladies, dog acts, hoops of fire—and magicians. Yes. There had to be a magicians' car, if he could just find it.
He was making good time along the tops of the cars—being younger and lighter than his pursuers—until he broke through the skylight of one car and fell into—
Oh. Horrid. Snakes.
Snakes everywhere.
He was literally bathing in a sea of snakes. Snakes inside his clothing, snakes in his hair, snakes across his face, snakes crawling into places they had no business atall to be—dear God, he'd never minded snakes before, but this. This.
He bellowed from the depths of his soul and somehow managed to leap—or fly—from the sea of snakes and move to the next car. But it slowed him down, pinpointing him handily for the three men pursuing him, and on the top of the next car, they nearly got him. It was only a tumble down yet another skylight that saved him.
And this time—oh, joy, no snakes—but oh. Oh.
A lion. A full-grown male African lion was pacing toward him with a look that spoke placid hunger. And though he'd have been thrilled to see a lion any other day of his life, this was not the venue he'd have chosen for the experience. He backed quickly into the wall of the car, waiting for the pounce, and saw—a whip.
Well, of course, a whip, what else? He snatched it up quickly and unfurled it, giving one, two, small, experimental lashes, then a mighty crack that snapped back and bit him on the lip—just there, in the bottom corner, probably going to leave a scar—but another snap reached its goal and the lion snarled. Sherlock gave the whip another smart crack and the beast backed away, looking surly. Sherlock grinned. He could definitely get used to this.
"Throw up the whip, boy!" came a call from above, and the man in the fedora was nodding, gesturing to him. There was nothing for it. He threw the whip and the men hauled him up just in time to avoid a pounce and slash from huge, clawed paws.
They had him penned at last. The ginger boy, with a smirk, took the opportunity to knock him down a few times before hauling him to his feet and shaking him with satisfaction before the other two men. The man in the fedora stepped forward, the sun glinting off the thick, round lenses of his spectacles.
"You've got 'eart, boy," he said, "but that belongs to me."
"It belongs to Coronado, actually," Sherlock snapped. "Cortes thought so, anyway."
"Coronado's dead," the man replied, "and so are all his grandchildren."
Ginger gave him another sharp shake and barked, "Now hand it over!" He yanked the cross from where it was tucked in Sherlock's belt. Sherlock grabbed the cross, refusing to let go of his prize, and for a moment, the two played at tug-of-war for the gleaming artifact. But just then, a stray snake wandered from Sherlock's shirt sleeve, across the cross and onto the other boy's arm, and Ginger screamed, flinging the creature from him and giving Sherlock the moment he needed to grasp the cross to his chest and dash for the next car.
Oh joy, oh bliss, the one he'd been waiting for. He'd been studying magic on his own for years and of course understood how all of it worked. All he needed to find was—
Yes. The Disappearing Box—that disappeared people and not itself. He was just tucking himself inside when the man in the fedora came through the door, and it wasn't until he was safely running down the tracks and away from the train that he looked back and saw the man regarding him from the rear of the caboose.
He didn't stop running until he reached town.
His family were there—he could see them near the police station, thankfully. He ran gasping up to his father and to Mycroft, who was sneering coldly at him.
"Father! Father!" Sherlock called as he ran up to them, and he noticed that his father was speaking with a man in a white lawn suit and a matching panama hat. "Father, there were some men back at the—"
But his father put up a hand without turning to him. "In good time, Sherlock. You can see that I'm occupied. Count to twenty and then I'll deal with you."
Sherlock's brows were thunderous as he began to count. "One, two…"
"In Latin, if you please."
Sherlock's jaw clenched, but he switched to "Unus, Duo, Tres…" and scowled at Mycroft, who was now smiling smugly at him. He turned and dug his toe into the dirt, and his mother said, "Sherlock, you'll spoil your…"
She trailed off, apparently becoming aware of just how filthy and sweat-streaked her son was, with dried blood on his lip and rips in his clothing. "Oh, Sherlock, the trouble you do get into!"
Just then the sheriff emerged, and Sherlock left off counting to accost him. "Sheriff! There were men looting in the caves, three of them, and they—"
The sheriff held up a hand. "It's alright, son," he said in his flat American twang.
"They accosted me, and…"
"Do you still have the cross?"
"Yes, sir, it's right here." He held out the cross to the sheriff. It gleamed in the heavy sunlight, and the sheriff took it with a smile.
"Very good. I'm glad to see that, son, because now the rightful owner of this cross won't press charges."
He turned and handed the cross to—bollocks. The man in the fedora took the cross, and turned to hand it immediately to the man in the panama hat, who had been watching this exchange closely. The man in white motioned to the three men from the cave and Ginger and the long-haired man whooped and followed him, presumably to get their pay. The sheriff turned to shake Sherlock's father's hand, but the man in the fedora, who had not followed the man in white, turned to Sherlock.
"You lost today, sonny, but you don't have to like it, do yer?"
"I don't have to like the fact that priceless cultural artifacts end up traded for cash because of men like you? No, I don't have to like that at all. Much as you must have 'not liked' being a cabbie back in Essex. What, pay wasn't good enough for you?"
The man compressed his lips over crooked, discolored teeth for a moment, then smiled. "Well, then, a smart one, eh? A proper genius. My hat's off to you, Mistah Holmes." He lifted the fedora, revealing matted grey hair in need of a trim. "And someday, you might even look the part. 'Ere's good start on that." And he pressed the fedora down over Sherlock's unruly, sweat-soaked curls.
Sherlock caught sight of himself reflected in the windowpane of the sheriff's office. He had to admit, it was a look he liked. He turned back to the man who'd given him the hat, but he was walking away and Sherlock's mother was tutting and shuffling her dustbin of a son off toward their rented bungalow down the street. Sherlock watched the man go for as long as he could. He would have liked to have caught his name…
…And why that thought should bubble to the fore of his mind now, he really couldn't say, but he smiled grimly at the memory, as the man in the panama hat—now past sixty, by the look of him—bellowed against the roar of crashing sea, "This is the second time I've had to reclaim my property from you, Holmes!"
"Then perhaps you should speculate less and protect your investments more!" Sherlock shouted back, noting the level of wear on the white woolen suit and the panama hat—could it be the same one?—adding, "Your ex-wife agrees with me, by the way."
"My—habits are not your concern!" the man spluttered, holding up the cross. "And neither is this!"
"That belongs in a museum," Sherlock bellowed in return, a shock of cold spray coating the side of his face.
The man in the panama hat leaned in close. "So do you."
He turned to his men, who held Sherlock's arms, and said, "Throw him overboard!"
As the men shuffled Sherlock toward the edge of the wave-soaked deck, they drew near to a tall stack of oil drums stacked together. The ship gave a convenient lurch, and Sherlock pulled the two men momentarily toward him, shifting their weight, then using them as leverage, kicked at the clamp holding the band tight around the oil drums. The drums rolled out onto the deck and the two men jerked back in horror. Sherlock thrust his elbow into the gut of one and hooked his foot around the knees of the other, and both fell under the rolling drums.
Sherlock rushed toward the man with the panama hat, who had reached the ladder to the foredeck and climbed, but Sherlock was too fast for him, tackling him and pulling him off the ladder. The two men sprawled backward on the slippery, canted deck, and Sherlock was able to wrest the cross from his grip as they struggled for purchase.
He stood, only to find himself summarily whacked with a crowbar by one of the sailors who'd attempted to pitch him overboard. The cross went flying, and as he attempted to knock the man out with a vicious undercut, a huge wave crashed into the deck and sent them tumbling. Sherlock righted himself and shook the water out of his eyes—thankfully, the fedora was still in place, that wonderful old hat—and spotted the Cross of Coronado, mere inches from the edge of the deck and the nightmare sea beyond. He lurched for the cross, then clutched it to his chest as he tucked and rolled to avoid being squashed under renegade oil barrels.
"Stop him! He's getting away!" he heard the man in the panama hat shout, and Sherlock looked around quickly—yes, he remembered correctly from when he was brought on board—the Stevedore's hook at the edge of the deck would be just the thing. He clambered up the stacked crates and grabbed the hook, lifting his feet tidily as he swung over the reaching arms and cursing faces of the enraged sailors. "Careful of that TNT!" he shouted as he swung out over the dark expanse of ocean, and dropped into darkness.
But they didn't, of course, listen, and the Vasquez de Coronado made a spectacular fireball only two minutes later as Sherlock breast-stroked to the prearranged location where his hired boat was scheduled to meet him. He nabbed a passing life preserver and indulged in a look back at the sinking ship, hoping the falling wreckage wouldn't land too awfully near him. Suddenly, he spied not far away the drifting remains of a white panama hat, quite devoid of its owner.
Sherlock smiled grimly and kept swimming.