Tinderbox

Chapter 11: A Great Perturbation of Nature

Then those Things ran about with big bumps, jumps and kicks
And with hops and big thumps and all kinds of bad tricks.

-Dr. Seuss

To get to the empty toilet, Gustav had to start a kilometer away in an abandoned tube spar. A bit of excavation connected the basement with the spar; back stairs led him to a ventilation pipe which dumped him in the toilet. The office block was not of high concern, being out of the range of most rifles, but because Mycroft was paranoid, it was monitored. Gustav was undetected, however, and now stood with his rifle barrel trained out of the narrow window. His thermal sight indicated two bodies sitting across from one another. As he watched, both men stood and shook hands; then one left. Gustav took a deep breath and held it, tensing- His mobile vibrated. Damn! Muriel was a good soldier and would ring him only for an emergency, but it had taken him so long to get this shot! "What? … Sherlock Holmes? She did? Is she sure? … Did he follow her?" He glanced in the scope-Mycroft! At the window!-Then he stepped away, the shot lost. Gustav snorted in frustration. "Okay, I'll come." He closed his mobile and started packing his equipment. Elaina!

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When Gustav rang off, Muriel snapped the mobile shut and took up the shining cleaver. She turned to pitiful Elaina: "Come! We shall find Sherlock Holmes."

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Crouched behind boxes, Sherlock was ready. When the two passed, he grabbed Muriel's arm and swung her in a circle, knocking her into Elaina; then ran to the side wall and started toward the back. Stage one: Done.

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It appeared suddenly-Like thunder!-and threw her to the ground; but it was not Magical, it was a man: That detective! There! Running along the wall to the back! A Terrible One came in an explosion and jabbed Its colossal sword, shrieking words that shook Muriel to the core: Smite! Strike! She rose, grasped her cleaver and flew; the celestial winds driving her to her magnificent purpose!

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Ow! Damn! Elaina sprawled. Sherlock Holmes. Damn. Pulling herself up, she jogged after Auntie Muriel.

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Pressed behind the next row of boxes, Molly and John watched Elaina go by, then snuck out and headed for the camp. They had five minutes to do their work.

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Sherlock approached the back corner at a full sprint, rounded it and continued along the back wall. He could hear them pursuing him: Six meters behind; now seven. At their relative velocities, he should have a nine meter discrepancy soon, which would give him the necessary fifteen seconds of ascension time. Ah! He approached the midpoint. They, well, one of them, had rounded the corner behind him and was now-Oh, good!-ten point five meters behind; she must be tiring. He would round the opposite back corner and progress approximately six meters along that side wall before climbing, which would provide an appropriate visual, yet prevent any interference. When he was clearly inaccessible, his pursuers would return to camp. Hopefully. Also hopefully, John and Molly would be ready. Stage two was almost complete.

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Speeding like a true bullet, a kestrel in full dive, Muriel tore along the back wall as he danced before her. When she reached him, the Wrathful One would take her arm and hack him until there was nothing left! The detective rounded the far corner out of sight. With a lightening burst of speed, she rounded the corner after him, lifting her righteous cleaver-and stopped. He was slithering straight up! Already, above her head! The Furious One floated beside him, weeping, waving Its arms helplessly, glowering at her and moaning: GO BACK! Protect their home! Gasping, Muriel turned and ran shamefully, the Magical Ones shunning her as she passed.

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Near the corner, Elaina stopped, watching Auntie Muriel in consternation. She was coming back, stumbling and muttering, her face crumpled. What had happened? Elaina stepped to the corner and looked up: Oh, no. That detective had climbed a pallet rack and was swinging onto a rafter! There would be trouble, no matter what happened. Grimacing, Elaina continued forward. She would make the circuit around the warehouse and decide what to do when she reached the front.

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One meter between the rafters, each rafter fifteen centimeters across, braces for balance if necessary. Sherlock made his way to the front center. He was impeded by safety concerns; fortunately, the slowness was mitigated by his efficient route.

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On the ground, Molly and John were waiting in position when Molly noticed Sherlock leaping from rafter to rafter: A dark clad hop frog, high in the air. Although she was still quite annoyed with him, she couldn't help thinking how graceful he looked.

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Following Molly's gaze upwards, John's heart flew into his mouth, and he dropped his eyes quickly. Sherlock had said he would make his way to the front, he had said nothing about this! -Sherlock stepping; Sherlock plunging- John took a deep breath: Back straight and face forward, Watson. Focus on the job. Don't look.

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When Sherlock reached the front, he climbed down and got into position behind the van. Stage three: Done.

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The Natters were coming. Muriel couldn't see them yet, but she could feel them around her, skulking, oozing; the Magical Ones were gathered in reproving silence. All was not lost; she still had the cleaver. Where was the man? The camp looked empty; but what was this-? The walk-in door! Wide open! The Terrible Ones expanded, singing their war cries. Muriel crept forward, hands tight on the cleaver, and peered in. There! He was inside, looking at her! Snarling, she leapt-

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John slammed the walk-in door behind her and latched it as a crash and tinkle of breaking glass sounded from inside. Stepping out from behind the van, Sherlock waved his hands with a flourish: "Abracadabra." Stage four: Done.

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At first, it was completely dark. Muriel was afraid and stood perfectly still. When nothing happened, she reached forward and pulled the light string in the center of the ceiling: Elaina's full length mirror was on the ground in front of her, broken. Otherwise, the walk-in was empty; the hooks in the ceiling swaying: A testament to her failure.

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From behind boxes, Elaina peered as that skinny girl joined the detective and the tired looking man-Those two had been on the bus! Elaina's stomach clenched; she had led not one but three people right to this camp. Stupid! She hunched more tightly, mind racing: In London, Great Britain, most of Europe, even America, Uncle Gustav or one of his bosses would track her down and make an example. She would go back to prison. Must. What she did in the next few minutes-if she fought convincingly-would determine whether she survived her stay until she could work out some kind of a deal; if she didn't, they would get to her in the holding cells. This had to be good.

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In the walk-in, Muriel sank to her knees, the cleaver dropping from her nerveless fingers. The Natters were gathering outside, and no one was there to help her.

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Molly took a good look at the camp: Empty. They had the one with the cleaver-Muriel-but what about-? Suddenly, a woman-Elaina!-ran out and jumped on Sherlock's back, gripping him with her legs; one arm around his neck- locked with the other, choking-! He pulled at her, spinning and flailing, but could not- Molly and John flew to help, and the group of them stumbled toward the shelving unit. A vase! Molly seized one and lifted it high-She stopped. John had his hand on her arm; he stepped in front and slipped something-a teddy bear body-over Elaina's head, pulling it tight. Elaina grasped at it and released Sherlock; he lurched away, leaving John and Molly to wrestle her to the ground.

"Get me something to tie her hands!" yelled John, and Molly ran, bringing a handful of stockings from Elaina's cot. Together, they tied her arms and legs, uncovering her face.

"Okay, good." Sherlock was frowning, rubbing his neck. "They always go for the-"

"Good?" Catching his breath, John glared. "You were almost strangled! That was a terrible plan! And what the hell were you doing up there in the rafters?"

"Moving quickly." Sherlock went to the shelving unit and eagerly touched the laptop, then stared at the plastic tub. "Ah! And look!" He lifted down the tub and opened it: Long white bones. Gazing for a moment, Sherlock smiled and took out his mobile.

Face like granite, John crossed his arms. Molly kept her distance.

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Inside the walk-in, the first Natters were slinking under the door, soiling the space behind them. Their jabbering made Muriel's head spin and her stomach clench: No! She must-

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The sound of something ripping, and John ran with Molly to the walk-in. Molly called out, "Sherlock! She's tearing her clothes! She might hurt herself!"

Sherlock, texting, glanced at them. "We can't open the door. She still has a cleaver."

John stared; then squared his shoulders and spoke in his emergency room doctor voice, "Sherlock, I am going in. Come here. You and Molly stand outside the door to push it closed if she tries anything." Sherlock lowered his mobile with a sigh and came to them. With Sherlock and Molly poised, John opened the latch and peered inside. The light was on and the woman-hair disheveled, face red-was on her hands and knees, muttering and scrubbing the floor with a cloth ripped from the bottom of her shirt. She made no reaction as John reached in and dragged out the cleaver and cracked mirror. Enough madness!