Tinderbox

Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole

Please take me along as you slide on down.
-Donald Fagan

Like the rest of the house, the basement was dark. Sherlock found the light at the top of the open stairway and illuminated the space: Windowless, unfinished, clean. To the left were four steps leading to the double slanting doors; to the right, a large wooden structure; in between, a small unplugged electric kiln. Nothing else.

Sherlock descended, observing the structure: One hundred fifty centimeters across, two meters long and two meters high; made of rough lumber, nailed together; three holes down the center of the top, each fifteen centimeters across; a rectangular hole in the back with a strutted shelf on the bottom, as though to support a heavy piece of equipment; a wide, open doorway in the front with bolt holes on either side, suggesting it once contained door with a latch. Taking out his penlight, Sherlock entered: The inside was lined with spray foam insulation, approximately ten centimeters thick. On the lower left front corner, the insulation had been pulled off; the wood dented with heel impressions, and the slats pried out then returned, so the nails sat loosely in their holes. By pushing, Sherlock could create a space wide enough to crawl through. Ah!

"Sherlock? What is this?" Molly, in the structure's doorway, dropped her evidence case and peered inside.

"Homemade walk-in cooler. And kill chamber. It's what he was escaping. Look." He pointed to the disturbed corner: "Polyurethane foam insulation." The dents: "Wood splinters."

"Ah! And the ash-" Molly went to the kiln and lifted the lid. "Sherlock! It's all in pieces."

Curious. Sherlock joined her. The coils were unscrewed and hanging. "He didn't finish." Why would-? He pictured the scene: The repair man had-Pop! Pop! Flashing! "Molly! Stop!" She lowered the camera, and Sherlock exhaled, folding his hands. "Okay. Let's go through it. The kiln breaks so they call a repairman. He comes and starts the job, but before he is able to finish, they try to kill him. Why?" He stared at Molly, who stared back. Nothing? "Perhaps he saw something he wasn't supposed to see."

Molly gasped. "Drugs! You manufacture ecstasy in the cold! That's why they had a cooler!"

No. No…Why not? No, because there was nothing outside. But these people, fanatically clean. Unlikely, then, but perhaps. Oh, she was looking at him. "Perhaps." Sherlock returned to the walk-in. "They put him in there and pumped in-"

"Car exhaust. Usually." Molly joined him. "They take a hose and put one end in the exhaust pipe of a car, then run it inside...through there-" she pointed to the slanting doors of the basement "-and feed it in the walk-in…somehow."

Sherlock stepped inside and looked up at the holes. "Through here. But that wouldn't be their primary purpose, what were the holes-?" He stared, but nothing suggested itself. He glanced again at Molly, also staring, also offering nothing. Sherlock sighed, moving on. "It would have taken planning: The hose, preparing the hole- He was not meant to leave here alive."

"No. I suppose not."

Okay. "Based on the thumb, the repairman had a medium to large build; generally repairmen are fairly strong. How did they get him in there?"

"They had a cleaver. They could have had a gun."

"Yes."

Molly frowned. "But then why not cut him or shoot him?"

Sherlock looked at her. "Why not?"

A pause. "The noise might have attracted the neighbors?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Still doing all the work. "In this neighborhood? No. Molly, when happens when you cut or shoot someone? Think of our Spartan. What would she avoid at all costs?"

"The mess."

"Rivers of blood. The horror." Sherlock turned to the disturbed corner. "He is trapped in here, but before he succumbs, he is able to tear and kick his way out. He goes-" Sherlock walked to the stairs "-up the stairs, pursued by someone with a cleaver." He climbed.

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Up again. Of course. With an effort, Molly shouldered her evidence case and followed. At the top, Sherlock opened the door outward, "Ah! This is why he didn't go out the back door." and flicked off the light, plunging the stairway into darkness. Molly grasped the railing, feeling sudden vertigo.

"Why?"

"It's what he could see." Sherlock stepped out, allowing her up. "The back door is hidden behind the opened basement door; the obvious view is to the living room."

"He was disoriented."

"Yes. So he came this way-" Molly followed him to the living room window "-opened the window, or perhaps it was open. He climbed out and was hanging by his left arm-" Sherlock considered the gouge on the windowsill. Molly, eager for the evening to end, boosted her case onto the other part of the windowsill, put away her camera and notebook then stood quietly, waiting. In the silence, the sound of a key turning in the front door was tremendous. Oh-!

Sherlock turned swiftly for the back, waving for Molly to follow. She grabbed wildly at the case, and knocked it-Crash!-outside! No! Scrambling back, she hid next the oversized chair on the inner wall as-Bam!-the front door flew open and a man burst into the living room, yelling-

"WHO'S THERE!"

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Idiot! Idiot case! Czech accent-? Interesting. Sherlock, by the basement door, waited three seconds then peered round. The man was facing the window: Heavily built, in his early fifties, short military haircut, wearing non-descript, dark clothing, and holding-Oh-a long narrow knife. There was Molly, huddled next to the chair behind him, quite visible should he turn around. Okay. The man was slowly turning to his right. Okay. Sherlock straightened and darted into the toilet.

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Oh, oh, Please-chest pounding, pounding-Molly cringed.

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Make some noise: The shade. Now hide. Where-? Pantry! Quickly, quickly! Sherlock stepped in.

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He was turning! He would see-! No. He was going? Molly watched with wide eyes as the man stealthily crept toward the back, disappearing around the corner. Oh, thank- Must go! Go! Crawling forward, she stared out of the open front door. Small groups of people were wandering back down the street. Could sneak out, join-Wait. Sherlock-! Oh, no. Molly focused on one boisterous group of boys. Could-

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Sherlock waited behind the open pantry door, fists clenched. The light in the toilet came on; a grunt of disappointment. Then- Sniffing. The whiskey. Holding his breath, Sherlock reviewed: The knife in the man's right, held under hand-The light in the toilet went out-he was shorter, heavier than-Sniffing again. Close. Sherlock tensed; centered his weight: Ready. Ready. -Bam! The front door slammed shut. The man snarled and tore forward, yanked the door open and sprinted away. Sherlock peered after him, relieved. Good! But how-?

"Sherlock! Let's go!"

Molly. He turned to see her open the back door and run out. She must have-oh. Not bad. He followed and made sure the back door was locked. Where was she now? Oh. Sherlock joined her at the back corner, pausing to murmur, "Wait here." Moving stealthily along the side wall, he seized the evidence case, then continued to the front and scanned. The man was returning to the house, turning to shake his fist at a group of young men cursing him. Sherlock stole back to Molly, leaning against the back wall: She was breathing in shallow, audible gasps; eyes shut, forehead wet in the dim light. Curious. He dropped her evidence case by her feet. "We have to wait. He's coming back." She nodded with difficulty and began long, slow breaths. Oh. Some sort of anxiety attack. Okay.

Quickly, he walked across the back of the house to the other side and peered round that corner: A van with an open back and ramp pulled out was parked next to the house. On the van's side were caricatures of a pig, a cow and a chicken, all grinning and holding cleavers and butchers' knives with the words, "Pleased to Meat You!" printed in block letters beneath. The slanting doors were open, and the man was lifting a dolly when his mobile rang. Answering, he spoke in Czech, repeating the name, "Elaina" three times loudly during the conversation. When he ended the call, he carried the dolly into the basement, and Sherlock could see through the open van doors: Four full petrol cans. Oh. He pulled back and returned to Molly, still deliberately breathing. "We should go now."

Loud exhale. "Thank God."

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"How many laws did we break tonight, Sherlock?" The two were in the back of a cab near the end of a long, silent ride. Molly was utterly exhausted; muscles like soup.

He waved the question away. "Elaina."

"Elaina?"

"Our pottering artist's name is Elaina. The knifeman received a call while you were…breathing." He glanced at her curiously.

Molly frowned. Elaina, the pottering artist. There was something about that-

"Molly-"

"Frustrated." Molly nodded. That was it.

"Frustrated?"

"Elaina. She's frustrated. She's a potter, but not when it comes to her appearance. Hair, make up, nails; she's quite devoted, but everything is cheap, home jobs. Frustrated girl." She glanced at her own bare and ragged nails. Perhaps a trip to the salon was in order.

"Frustrated." Sherlock repeated, and Molly flushed. Now that it had been spoken aloud, it seemed rather pointless. Frustrated. And-? However, Sherlock was nodding. "Yes. Frustrated and poor. Okay. Molly-"

"Silly, I suppose. Frustrated. Doesn't really matter."

"No, it's good. Good reasoning, anyway. Molly, does that happen often?"

"What?"

"The anxiety attack. Does it happen often?"

"No." Molly crossed her arms.

"Because-"

"We're here." The cab had pulled to her tower.

Sherlock glanced at her. "You go ahead. There's something I must do."

Molly stared, suddenly feeling quite young. Was this because of the panic attack? That was hardly fair; she had managed it! "What more could-?"

"Just a minor point. Don't wait up."

Molly frowned but opened the door and stepped out. The taxi pulled away, leaving her standing on the pavement, evidence case dangling by her side.

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