With every step of smoke, the train got closer to Cheyenne. There was a nervous air that stuck to the walls of the train car as native Wyomingites began to recognize the trappings of home. After their ordeal in the blizzard, they refused to believe that they were going to live. An aspiring ranch hand onboard even believed that he had actually died, and that the preacher back home didn’t come close to describing just how beautiful Heaven was. In spite of the blizzard that had chewed the earth into foam behind them, the land here was fresh as a book that had never been opened. The wind breathed life into the rippling fields that were as yellow as yolk. In the distance, they could just make out a mirage of mountains that were the color of steel, swords forged by no man.
But where others felt the excitement of coming back home, Nellie was filling up with dread, drop by drop. She felt like she was walking across words to the last page of a story that she didn’t want to end. Nellie couldn’t have imagined herself thinking the same just a few days before. When she had first met Ian, she had found the man to be unbearable, like a thorn that digs deeper when you try to pull it out. He was an arrogant man who probably believed that he was living a second further into the future than anyone else and who certainly acted like it.
She still found Ian to be annoying – of course. It was just that after all they had been through together – the blizzard, the murders, the conspiracy – she felt that she had grown up a little bit with him. Like continents brushing against each other, there was a friction that she hadn’t found before and likely never would again. It reminded her of the time when she was on assignment on Siam and had met a Buddhist nun. In broken English, the elderly bhikkuni – her head shaved and her robes stained a deep red – told Nellie that when two people live through a tragedy together, that they become the same person. Nellie hadn’t understood what the nun meant until that moment, because she had never shared something so profound before. Of course, she had shared her outrage with the reading public through her pieces in the paper. But she was a journalist in those moments, and her editor once told her that journalists couldn’t also be people.
She thought of this, unaware that she was sitting next to the biggest story of her lifetime. Ian still hadn’t admitted to her the truth about who he really was, and he was planning on keeping it that way. He wasn’t planning on telling anyone, let alone a journalist, a secret that many people would kill for. So he would have to stay Ian Hunter, professional drifter, to her, as much as he regretted it. She shared her soul with him now, and she still didn’t know his secrets.
Nellie knew what she had to do next, but she was surprisingly shy about it. Finally, she leaned over on the bench and tapped Ian on the shoulder. Ian was napping, using the shoulder of a sleeping giant next to him as a lumpy pillow, and yet he was stubborn to wake up. It was only after several nudges that Ian woke up, and he made it more dramatic than it needed to be. He sat upright on the bench, his eyes wide, patting his shoulder as if he was trying to put out a fire. After a few moments, he calmed down.
“What was that about?” Nellie asked, baffled.
“I was dreaming that there was a spider crawling on me,” Ian said, feeling a bit sheepish. “It was a big spider.”
“Are you saying that I have big hands?” Nellie wondered. “I was trying to wake you up.”
“Why? Are we there?”
“No, not yet,” Nellie replied.
“Then why did you wake me up?” Ian asked, ruffled.
“It’s just that – well, I have a question to ask you. How interested would you be in joining me on my trip to San Francisco?”
Ian stared at her dumbly for a few moments, and Nellie continued, “Someone who can piece together a puzzle can always be useful. And I need someone who can take a punch for me. You don’t know how rough it is out there for people who can’t stop asking questions. And I need someone to have a conversation with. Most people take months off my life with their small talk. So what do you say?”
As Nellie rattled through her reasons, she noticed a look that rinsed down Ian’s face. She wasn’t exactly sure what emotion was going through his mind at that moment. The only thing she could think of was that he was trying to express pity but he was unsure how. So before Ian even had a chance to speak, she spoke for him. “Let’s be honest. You’re not going anywhere in particular – you’re just going wherever the breeze takes you. I’m offering a free vacation to the slums of San Francisco. From there, I’ll be at the mercy of my editor. This time next year I could be in Brazil or Sweden. Personally, I prefer Brazil, but…”
“And you accuse me of wandering?” Ian asked with the sketch of a smile.
“At least there is a method to my madness,” Nellie retorted.
“Isn’t madness enough sometimes?” Ian said, suddenly thinking of a surveyor he once knew who went insane after trying to make a property a perfect circle. “But in all seriousness, you’re right – I don’t have any direction to my life. But your friend from Pittsburgh was kind enough to give me a map, in the flowery, metaphorical sense.”
“You still haven’t told me what happened with him.”
“And we’re keeping it that way. Needless to say, I thought my little adventure would end in Cheyenne. But I’ve come to realize that it means more than just saving a friend. I have to kill another friend, one who I thought was already dead, but who is staying alive just to spite me.”
“You have the strangest friends.”
“Don’t we all?” Ian said distantly.
“No, most people just say that and don’t mean it.”
But Ian was no longer paying attention. His wrinkled brain was already onto another subject. He had to find a way to outwit the professor’s ghost and soon. The clock was ticking fast like a dying man’s heartbeat and it wouldn’t be long before civilization fell. But while Moriarty had seemingly planned for every possible outcome, he still could not have predicted the unnatural cold that had caused his henchman’s gun to misfire, sparing Ian’s life. And that was the only weapon Ian had against the mad professor: unpredictability. Moriarty believed that since he understood Ian’s past, that he could control him. After all, his love for Irene had almost led to his downfall hours before. No, he wasn’t going to live in his past any longer. Instead, he was going to live in the future that even Moriarty himself could not see. It would be the only way that Ian could stop his Devil. And Ian knew exactly what to do next.
It was not long before the train pulled into the station. No one on board had ever been so happy to see a bunch of pieces of lumber sloppily nailed together before. Amazingly, the lazy craftsmanship managed to support the weight of what seemed like the entire town. The whole platform, from end to end, was brimming with people from all walks of life, so full that some were even in danger of spilling out onto the train tracks. Everyone had heard of the people who plumbed the abyss and came back with a story to tell. When they saw the train pull into the station, everything suddenly seemed possible.
Nellie peered through the smudged window and saw the smiling faces, strangers happy to see strangers. She turned to the bench next to her, about to make some comment about this, when she noticed that only the sleeping giant was sitting next to her. Ian had vanished.
She peered through the throng of people inside of the sweaty train car, hoping to catch sight of Ian drowning in the rolling sea of limbs. But there was no sign of the vagrant. It was at that time that the door rattled open and sunlight poured into the car like a waterfall. The people inside shielded their eyes from the sun, feeling reborn in that moment. As the people poured out of the car and mingled with those on the platform, Nellie navigated between the hugs and handshakes, trying to find Ian before he disappeared for good.
And that was when she saw him – or rather, she saw his slimy beard and thick hair, hard to miss even in a crowd of unwashed faces. Nellie gave chase, brushing away the people like curtains of vine in the jungle. She was only ten feet
away when she saw something that made her stop in her tracks. She saw Ian pat a woman on the shoulder to get her attention. The woman turned as beautifully as a globe spun. Her skin the color of cream and her hair a mousey brown, she had the looks that poets hunted for in their writing. And her eyes – even through the rustling crowd, Nellie saw those blue eyes that were soft but could still pierce, like the ocean chopping down cliffs. And there was a little smirk that seemed to be dug into her face, as if she already knew the punchline to life itself. Everything about her seemed so overwhelmingly perfect that Nellie felt invisible.
The woman, who was laughing over something with an acquaintance, turned to see who was standing behind her. It took her a few moments to recognize who it was. But when she did, her laughter died away, the sound dripping from her mouth. Her eyes widened. The only language she could speak was silence.
“Ms. Adler?” Sherlock said with an exaggerated flourish of his hand. He bowed deeply. “We meet again.”
“What…?” Irene managed to say after a few attempts.
“You know, I’ve been rehearsing this moment countless times over the past few days. All of those times, you jump on me and kiss me like you’re trying to suck the venom out of my mouth. I can’t say you’re exactly following the script at the moment.”
“I wasn’t expecting you…I was expecting…”
“Trust me when I say you’re clever, absurdly so. But this one time, just admit that you didn’t know,” Sherlock said, gently taking her by the arm and leading her away from her acquaintance. Irene absentmindedly waved goodbye to her friend as Ian continued, “I know what’s been going on. I know that you were here, expecting a new assignment from Moriarty. What you didn’t know was that he was sending his associates to fire you – and when I say fire, I mean fire you out of a cannon.”
“Is that so?” Irene asked, finding her lost vocabulary, little by little.
“Yes, but lucky for you, I have a job offer that you might be interested in,” Sherlock said casually. “Let’s talk the details over dinner. What’s the third-finest restaurant in town?”
“Third-finest? That sounds extravagant, coming from you. You must have stumbled onto a fortune since we last met,” Irene said with a little laugh.
“Oh, I have – and it didn’t involve any relatives dying under rather suspicious circumstances.”
“But seriously, I accept your dinner invitation,” Irene said as they stepped off the platform and onto one of the dusty streets of Cheyenne.
“Your husband won’t mind, I hope?” Sherlock asked.
“My husband?” Irene said, looking confused. After a few moments, her face brightened with realization. “Ah, I forgot about our last meeting – it was when I married my mark.”
“Mark? I seem to recall his first name being Godfrey.”
“No, no, I meant that he was a mark – as in I was running a scam on him.”
“True love,” Sherlock said wistfully. He added coyly, “At least tell me the honeymoon made it all worth the trouble.”
“Frankly, the honeymoon was awful. He took me to Calais for some inexplicable reason. Why go to Paris or Venice or somewhere else terribly romantic, when you can just sit in drizzly Calais and watch the ships come and go at the docks?”
“Maybe your dear Godfrey misunderstood when you said that you always enjoyed a nice port?” Sherlock offered.
Irene laughed, having finally found herself. “Perhaps.”
“If it’s any consolation, your marriage wasn’t a complete ruin.”
“What do you mean? I had married a complete horse apple of a man.”
“During the ceremony, when the priest asked your husband if he took you as his wife, I whispered, ‘I do.’ So, in a way, we got married that day.”
“Well, a pity you didn’t speak up.”
Sherlock looked at her for a long moment and smiled a little. “Yes,” he said, “a pity. Shakespeare couldn’t write tragedy this well.”
Sherlock then changed the subject, asking, “So, what restaurant are you stealing me away to?”
“It’s a nice steakhouse – it’s just a few more blocks down.”
“A steakhouse in Wyoming? What a change of pace,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “If you tell me that again, I promise I’ll be more surprised next time.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Irene asked. “You do realize that food still costs money, right?”
“Like I said,” Sherlock said, while taking out his billfold and fanning the cash, “I’ve come into a bit of money lately.”
Irene’s eyes were hungry but not for steak. It was the reaction that Sherlock was looking for. He couldn’t love Irene again, because if he fell for her, he would fall into another of Moriarty’s traps. His trip had suddenly become business. He needed to know what Irene knew, and nothing else mattered. And he knew that a conman was just as easy prey as their marks – everybody loves money. Sherlock knew all of this, and that was why he was waving a handful of cash in Irene’s face.
But as he did that, he saw his idea of Irene wilting in his eyes. Sherlock remembered when they had first met. He had been hired by the King of Bohemia to retrieve a very incriminating photograph that Irene had in her possession. But when he had met her, Sherlock felt like the last of his species just happening to find a mate. Irene was a brilliant wit, a juice of electricity on a hot summer day. And when Irene had outsmarted him, he felt the warmth of respect for her where others would have felt insulted.
But now, things have changed. Moriarty was using her as a weapon against Sherlock, and so Sherlock had to use her as a weapon against Moriarty. And with that, any illusion of love had evaporated, and the lion realized that he was no man’s pet, that his master was just another prey. She was disposable, one of the many means he had to the end, and Sherlock hated Moriarty venomously for making him think that.
Sherlock was so deep in thought that he forgot to walk and he slowly idled to a stop. Irene kept walking for a few paces, not realizing that her companion was frozen in the quicksand of his own footsteps. When she did realize that, she turned in the street and looked curiously at Sherlock.
“Sherlock,” Irene called out. “If you think I’m going to bring your food to you like some housewife, you’re mistaken.”
“Huh?” Sherlock asked, snapping out of his train of thought.
“Are we going to talk business or what?” Irene asked, gesturing at the steakhouse that sat just ahead, seeming to take up the whole block.
“Yes.”
Delaware
December 2014-July 2015
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