Seattle Noir

an evening’s happiness. But it appeared I had underestimated his loyalty.

“What do you want him for?” Billings drawled with a glint of avarice in his eye.

Holmes nodded. “A good question, he…”

Billings caught sight of me over Holmes’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch under my gaze, though I could see a tick begin to flutter under his left eye.

“Don’t know him!” Billings shouted. “Get out of my way.” He shuffled down the street, casting persecuted glances over his shoulder at Holmes. Perhaps he did so at both of us, since I stood just beyond the detective and behind the coal cart.

Holmes waited until Billings rounded the corner, sidestepping two policemen and an irritated horse, before following him.

“Ah. Come in, Mr. Holmes,” I called. The music flitted quietly with anticipation.

The basement door had creaked. Sitting as quiet as death, while the day turned to night, I knew each sound intimately. Moonlight filtered down from high windows like a mist, illuminating the room. Recently slaughtered cow carcasses hung in row after row, the ribboned fat glowing in the moonlight while the blood dripped crimson to the straw on the floor. The door opened another scant inch. I saw a shadow beyond it.

“Please, come in,” I said. I’d waited so long for this moment. Was it not fitting I should fork his queen while checkmating him? Yes. Logic dictates not just a move, but a reward.

A thin hand gripped the door and it swung open. With the light behind him, I could not see his features… Something seemed odd. He was of the expected height, yet… there was something amiss. He seemed to have an enormous development of the frontal lobes. Familiarity…

As he started down the stairs, the moonlight struck him fully. The music trembled in my ears.

I couldn’t believe it. I blinked again. In an instant, confusion turned to rage and the music roared.

“NO!” I shouted. The bastard. The ultimate bastard!

Holmes had assumed his final disguise, that of my dead brother Moriarity. From the dandified brocade vest, to the wire-rimmed spectacles, curled wig, and penciled brows, he was Moriarity. He affected his walk. He even swung his head from side to the side in the same reptilian fashion.

“Jacob?” Holmes asked. “Is that you?” The music intensified. He sounded like him. “Oh, brother dear? Come out where I can see you.”

I covered my ears. He can’t do this. The music grew angrier.

“Jacob?” Holmes repeated. He gained the basement floor. “Weren’t you expecting me?” He sounded reproachful.

Rage shook me. I lifted the revolver and drew a bead on Holmes’s back. But he turned, and even though he couldn’t see me, he smiled. It was my brother’s smile.

“I heard a click, perhaps from a revolver?” Holmes teased. “Would you shoot me, Jacob?”

The pain inside my head competed with the storm of music. It became a cacophony, screaming down without harmony, without pity. I tried to hold the gun, yet even with both hands, it wobbled.

Holmes stooped and came up with a lantern. He sat it on the butcher table. I heard the scratch of a match. The light hurt my eyes, and I backed further into the shadows. Holmes kicked at the bloodstained straw at his feet.

“My, this place is filthy. I’m surprised at you, Jacob. You are a scientist, not a carver of meat,” Holmes scolded.

I watched him investigate the tables, the drainage pipes, and then the trash bins. He seemed as unconcerned as a fawn that I would shoot him.

The music complained of cowardice.

“But you are a scientist, aren’t you, Jacob?” Holmes said. He’d reached a long ice box with many compartments that lined the back wall. I heard him wiggle the lock on one of the clamps. “Locked? My, my. Dear brother. What is inside?” Holmes inquired.

He waited a moment, and then began a stroll down the aisle near me. Circling closer.

“Body parts? Am I not correct?” Holmes queried. “Why, I wonder,” he mused as he fastidiously ducked under a carcass and sauntered toward me. The lantern in his hand swung with his walk. One second he was a faceless enemy in shadow. The next, he was Moriarity. Music, sweet music.

I raised the gun.

The music moaned. I wavered, and then lowered the gun. The pain deep in my head throbbed and with it the vision of my brother turned dim. Then the music returned with a plaintive vengeance, bleating furiously.

I could not think, so I retreated behind the butcher tables.

“There you are!” Like we were playing a childhood game, Holmes gave a triumphant shout and trotted forward.

I raised the pistol and fired. The shot went wide and plowed into the carcass beside his ear. The impact blew the haunch apart, splattering him in raw flesh.

“Stand back!” I shouted.

Holmes wiped gore from his face and said, “Why, dear brother?” He took another step forward.

Close up, I still couldn’t believe the likeness. From the color of his eyes, to the way he pursed his lips, he was John Moriarity.

The music quivered inside me. Could it be?

“John?” I whispered.

Holmes threw back his head and laughed.

The music exploded and I grabbed my forehead.

“Why did you murder those people?” he asked. Through my fingers, I could see Holmes as he inched closer. The revolver felt hot in my hand. “You took the best of what they had. Strong legs, artistic hands, healthy organs. Why?”

I couldn’t hear him above the music anymore. His lips moved. He was my brother.

“You’re building a man, aren’t you? A perfect man,” Holmes stated.

Involuntarily, I glanced at the ice box and then fixed a stare upon him. The music slowed. It quieted, waiting. Gentle notes calmed me. This was what I wanted, had planned for. Breathe and victory is mine. I could see clearly again.

“Yes,” I answered, pleased that my voice did not quiver. “A perfect man.”

“And you brought me here because…?” Laughter erupted from me. I could not stop it.

The release started in my gut and built up inside of me until tears streamed down my face. Through it I screamed at him, “You’re the genius! Your celebrated brain has brought you here! What do you think I want?”

Holmes frowned. I saw a flash of uncertainty cross his face. The music pulsed like a heartbeat within me. It was time.

Deliberately, I lifted the pistol and fired. The smoke blinded me. I fired again.

In his haste, Holmes dropped the lantern. The straw around us caught, then burst into flames.

“Damnation!” I screamed.

In an instant, the room was ablaze. From below, the flames licked the carcasses, scorching them until they looked like disembodied and grotesque ghosts. Smoke billowed everywhere. As the music skittered and fragmented, I turned toward the ice box, then back toward the stairs-then back again toward the ice box. I stumbled through the black smoke. Under my hands, the ice box sweated in the intense heat. Fumbling, fumbling, finally I had the first compartment unlocked, when I heard Holmes’s voice in my ear.

“Come along, Jacob. I can’t let you burn in your own hell,” he intoned.

As I struggled, he threw me over his shoulder and hastened for the stairs. When I looked back, the music solidified, taking form.

Holmes cried, “If you die, Jacob, it will be at the gallows!” He tightened his grip on my legs as he dashed through the conflagration, pausing only to vault over burning debris.

As he ran up the stairs, I looked again for my brother.

In the flames, I saw the music building, bleeding in colors up the walls. John Moriarity stood in the flames, wearing his secret smile.

He held a baton. Conducting, of course.