Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(89)

“Finally Denver. A little over a year ago. A man working for a service that provided entertainment at children’s parties was accused of molesting a child during one of these parties. He vanished immediately thereafter. His name, according to the service, was Milton Parks.”

“That’s quite a leap from Denver to the Twin Cities.”

“There’s one more connection, Watson. Moriarty, or Parks, as he was calling himself then, was involved with a widow. Before he fled town, he’d stolen much of the money she’d received from her husband’s life insurance.” Oliver counted off on his fingers. “M. Petters. M. Patterson. M. Parks. And now Morris Peterson. All Moriarty.”

“I still don’t understand why he would want you dead.”

“The insurance money that came from my parents’ deaths is quite a tidy sum—over a million dollars. My aunt isn’t just my legal guardian. In the event of my death, she inherits the money. If Moriarty gets rid of me, he not only eliminates his greatest foe, but all that money becomes available to him.”

“There’s your uncle,” I said. “He’s an obstacle.”

“If she doesn’t divorce him, I suspect Moriarty will find a way to deal with him, too.”

“Why would a villain as brilliant as Moriarty stoop to such petty crimes? Even a million dollars, I imagine, would be a paltry sum in his view. If he is Moriarty, why hasn’t he set his sights on grander schemes?”

Young Holmes seemed not at all perplexed by the question. “I’ve wondered that myself, Watson. But I believe he’s simply been biding his time.”

“Until what?”

“Until he could get to me. When I’m out of the way, who’s to stop him from whatever grander design he has in mind? Something needs to be done about Moriarty, Watson, and soon.”

I realized the boy’s delusional behavior had taken a sudden, more troubling turn. “You wouldn’t act on this belief, would you?”

“I already have, my dear fellow.”

Alarm bells went off.

“What have you done, Oliver?”

He gave me an exasperated look and wouldn’t reply.

“Sherlock,” I said. “What have you done?”

“I’ve simply set the wheels in motion, Watson. Moriarty’s own inertia will carry him to his just end.”

“Indulge me. What exactly do you mean?”

“Reichenbach Falls,” the boy said.

“Where Holmes and Moriarty struggle?”

“More importantly, where Moriarty falls to his death.”

“But Holmes falls to his death there, too.”

The boy arched an eyebrow. “Does he?”

“There is no Reichenbach Falls in Minnesota.”

“No, Watson, there is not.” He gave me a smile, but so tinged with sadness that it nearly broke my heart.

Our time was up, and a knock came at the door. I desperately wanted to speak with the boy’s aunt alone, but when I opened up, a man stood there. Big, bearded, wearing a ball cap with PETERBILT across the crown. He looked quite put out. “I’ve come for my nephew.”

“Uncle Walter?” the boy said at my back. “Where’s Aunt Louise?”

“She’s too upset to drive. So I’m here to get you.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Family business,” Uncle Walter said to me, much on the surly side. “Come on, Ollie. Let’s go.”

I knelt at the door and looked into the boy’s face. “Promise me you won’t do anything until I’ve had a chance to talk to your aunt.”

“It’s too late, Watson. The great mechanism of fate has been set in motion.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all right, dear friend. I can take care of this.”

I was overcome with a deep concern for the boy. I knew that despite his intellect—or maybe because of it—he was living a profound delusion, one that seemed more and more to promise harm to himself and to another.

Because I had a session immediately afterward, it was quite a while before I could sit down uninterrupted at my computer. I conducted an Internet search, in the same way that I imagined young Holmes had. It took me no time at all to find the story he’d referenced in our session about one Milton Parks, still wanted in Denver, Colorado, on a charge of fraud stemming from the scamming of a widowed woman and also a charge of child molestation. I found a picture of him, in the clown costume he’d worn while working at children’s parties, a costume very similar to the one I’d seen Morris Peterson wearing. I could find no photograph showing me what he looked like without face paint and ridiculous clothing. In short order, I also found the other incidents the boy had referenced in Portland and California. But still no photographs of what Moriarty looked like beneath the face paint.

And that’s when I caught myself. I’d begun to think of the clown as Moriarty.

I drove to the building where Oliver lived with his aunt and uncle. I buzzed their apartment. A moment later I heard the gruff voice of Uncle Walter through the speaker in the entryway.

“I need to speak with Oliver’s aunt,” I said.

“It’ll have to wait.”

“It’s rather important,” I said. “It’s about Oliver’s safety.”