Tony Richards - The Astonishing Adventures of Sherlock Holmes in the Twenty-First Century

His mind turned sadly to the young folk in the desert. But he tried to forget about them for a while, fixing his attention on the details of the movie’s plot.

By the time the tale was over, the scene outside his window – which was just beside the TV – was completely black. It was gone nine o’ clock. Holmes crossed over to the glass and peered out sombrely.

This far from any light pollution, the desert sky was simply wonderful, huge clusters of stars twinkling like gemstones. The terrain beneath them looked like an enormous cardboard cut-out. A shooting star flashed through the firmament. It seemed a shame to spoil it all by motoring out.

But Holmes had a job to do, an important and – when his thoughts turned to the young woman again – an urgent one. Checking that he had his room keys, he went out to the vehicle he’d hired for himself earlier today. He had not told Sheriff Moore of this.

He had been careful in choosing the right make for the job, and had settled upon an Isuzu Trooper, one of the sturdiest examples of Japanese manufacturing. Holmes had kept its existence to himself. He needed to do a little reconnoitring on his own, and doubted that the good sheriff would be overly happy about that prospect.

Yes, there was an element of danger. This was unfamiliar territory for such as he. But Holmes had lived a good long time, had travelled much and was entirely capable. So he did not expect that he was going to come to any harm.

When he climbed inside, there was a small bag on the passenger seat, which he had packed with the equipment that he needed. Holmes turned the ignition and flipped on the powerful headlights. And before long, he was headed back the same way they had gone this afternoon.

He had been extremely careful, when Sheriff Moore had brought him out here, to take note of every detail that went past him. The shape of each bush, the size of each cacti, and how many lifted arms every saguaro had. He had created a mental map, in fact, in three dimensions. And he recognised these details even in the dark.

Holmes turned off the freeway at the exact right spot, then followed the rutted track. He killed his headlights again long before he reached the camp, navigating easily by starlight.

A large bonfire came in sight, its flickering amber glow washing across the conical walls of the nearby tepees. Human shapes were moving around it. Should he stay inside the car? But his view down here was limited. He would be better going on the roof.

If the Sonora had been dead during the daylight hours, that was no longer the case. A wall of sound closed in around him as he opened the car door. The hum of insects, the chirrup of cicadas and crickets, and a clicking noise that he supposed might be beetles. A nightbird was crying somewhere, and he heard shuffling sounds from the undergrowth.

Everything had been asleep and hidden when he’d first arrived here. But now it was awake and on the search for food, and that included pumas and coyotes.

Still, he had a powerful handgun inside the bag. The detective hefted it out and then clambered up onto the Trooper’s roof. He sat down crosslegged underneath the diamond-spangled sky, and produced from the bag a pair of powerful binoculars.

How had these people survived in this impossible terrain for quite so long? They had water, he knew that. As for food, well, several species of cacti were edible, the prickly pear for instance. As for meat, it was not hugely palatable, but could be found. Holmes adjusted the binoculars’ focus, and could see that one young man nearby the fire was roasting something on a pointed stick. It appeared to be a lizard, maybe three feet long.

Sheriff Moore had already described their backgrounds. Amy Hamilton might be a runaway, but a good deal of the rest were not. They were college educated, from professional families. They had been raised with every benefit of modern society, in other words. But then they had rejected it.

The whole thing still bewildered him. In his day, ‘progress’ was the watchword of the age. Modern science, modern innovation were the real hopes for the human race’s future. Whereas today, with such astonishing amounts of progress made, some people were turning their faces from it.

Yes, some people were turning their gazes back towards the realms of superstition, and a more primitive way of life. Technology had not given them what they wanted, what they needed.

There was a sudden heavy rustle in the bushes nearest him. Holmes’ left hand went for the gun inside his bag, but no creature emerged. The great detective smiled ruefully. He had similarly surveyed a location during his attempts to discover the truth behind the Baskerville case, but the Sonoran Desert was a considerably more challenging environment than Dartmoor.

He returned his gaze to the people round the fire, tightening the focus of his glasses even further. They were eating now, and passing flasks of what he supposed were fermented drink around. There were several cacti, he recalled, that had hallucinogens in their sap, and knowing Krane’s past as he did he had no doubt that that kind of substance was involved. In which case, these misguided young folk would begin becoming wilder soon. He scanned the encampment desperately for Amy, but he could not find her.

As he had supposed, most of the drinkers climbed to their feet in another while. They were dancing frantically, heads lurching from side to side, arms waving in an almost spastic fashion. The firelight made their eyes like mirrors. They seemed to have forgotten the modern, normal world completely.

He finally caught a glimpse of Krane, and homed his glasses in on the unkempt, rangy figure. Krane was not dancing, but was standing very near the fire. His head was tipped right back, and his arms were raised the whole way to the heavens. And he seemed to be chanting something.

Holmes had taught himself to lip-read – it was quite a useful trick – but he realised after a few moments that the words the man was saying were not English, nor any language he had ever come across.

A sudden rumble brought his own head up. His brow furrowed with genuine surprise. A few minutes ago, this had been a perfectly clear night. But now, a storm was gathering. The stars were being blotted out. The clouds forming above the camp were black as ink, impenetrably dark. When he looked at Krane again, the man was shouting out those obscure words. And the dancers all around him looked like they were in the grip of a trance.

Lightning began flashing downwards almost frantically. Bolts struck the desert all around the camp. Anyone in their right mind would have headed for cover, but none of these people did.

Was it Holmes’ imagination, or were the clouds forming into a shape? The sensible part of his mind rebelled against that notion. It was merely a coincidence – it had to be.

Krane was now straining as high as he could, almost as though he were trying to lift himself into the air. Holmes could see the tendons standing out in his gaunt limbs. Veins were bulging on his forehead, and his eyes were showing too much white.

When suddenly, three bolts of lightning hurtled down at once. They joined together, halfway to the man.

Then struck him.

Holmes practically dropped the binoculars. His heart was banging in his chest, his breathing was constricted. And when he finally managed to re-gather his wits, when he focused on the spot where the fellow had been …

Eli Krane was still standing there, alive and upright.

And the man was grinning wolfishly.

It took quite a while for Holmes’ fogged mind to take in the event he’d witnessed. And it was not simply a matter of Krane’s remarkable survival either. At the moment that the lightning had flashed down and joined, Holmes’ gaze had risen to it.