Failing Upward

Chapter 5 (part 1): Strangers in the Night

Sherlock pulled the garden hose off the side of the house and rinsed what was left of the errant bird off his Cutlass. I stood, hands in my pockets, waiting. He wiped the car dry carefully with an old chamois, inspecting the damage.

"Does insurance cover replacement for windshields?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably, but depends on your deductible. How high is it?"

"Two-hundred."

"It'll cost more than that," I said, sitting down on the concrete steps, my back flat against the black wrought iron railing. I thumbed through the notepad, reading key words. "So, tell me the rest of the schoolmaster's story."

He sat down next to me on the steps--his knees touching mine. For some reason, he hesitated.

"Fine," I said. "Give me the abridged version."

"The minister killed Camden," Sherlock said, scratching at a spot of dried ink on his jeans. "Then he rummaged through Camden's home and took the notes he'd written. He wrapped the body in an old wool blankets from the bedroom, then buried him in the woods next to the church."

"How'd he kill him?" I asked, flipping the last pages of the memo pad.

"Camden turned his back on him, and first the good minister hit him in the back of the head with a cast iron door-stop, then seeing the fight was out of Camden--" Sherlock paused. "He strangled him."

I read a few of the comments Sherlock had written down. His notes seemed to end there.

"So, he got away with it," I said. My heart pounded. I was surprised that my hand holding the pad shook. I shouldn't affect me like this, my mouth trembling. Fuck, I was a mess. What was wrong with me? I needed to get a grip.

"John," he said, resting his hand on my knee, "you have a marvelous imagination. With all that's happened, it's like Peter Deal said, you so intricately wove and assimilated past and present events, it's no wonder this experience has profoundly affected you." I think Sherlock said this as much for his own benefit as mine. "You're right. He did get away with murder. Everyone believed Camden left town. A couple of people did come looking for him--his sister and her husband. You gave her the name of Emma Lestrade."

Sherlock sat silently for a few moments, then turned to me. "Think about this, John. It's an allegory for your own life, and what's happened to your family."

I wasn't surprised. This was my imagination, after all.

"She wanted to know what happened to her brother," he said. "She and her husband went to Freeport, looking for him. Someone from the congregation told them the lie that Camden became infatuated with the local pastor. She didn't believe a word of it. How is that like what's happened to you?"

I glanced down at the pad in my hand. "You. I wouldn't listen to you then. Even now. I can't believe that..."

"Let's go in--I'm sure you're starved," Sherlock said. "And I can hear Toby." It hadn't occurred to me until that moment that all I had today was coffee, no wonder I was shaky.

We found a brown paper bag of clothes from Mary at the top of the stairs. In neat black marker she'd written: have a good time tonight . Folded inside I found three pairs of worn jeans, a black sweater, assorted t-shirts, socks, plaid flannel pjs and a package of unopened briefs. I hated briefs.

Sherlock laid his keys on the kitchen counter and stretched as Toby jumped up and down around him with his leash in his mouth.

"Why don't you take a bath and relax. I'll take Toby out for a quick walk, then make dinner," he said.