Rebel Fire by Andrew Lane Page B

current state.”
    Booth! Sherlock tried not to react, but inside he felt a warm glow of satisfaction. The man was John Wilkes Booth, not John St. Helen.
    The burly man was still talking. He gestured at Sherlock with his gun. “And now, because of him, we’re saddled with a witness.”
    The bald man stopped what he was doing and looked up at Sherlock for the first time. “What are we going to do with him, Ives?”
    The burly man—Ives—shrugged. “I don’t see we’ve got much of a choice,” he said.
    The bald man was suddenly nervous. “Look, he’s just a kid. Can’t we just, you know, let him go?” He turned towards Sherlock. “You ain’t seen anything, have you, kid?”
    Sherlock tried to look terrified. It wasn’t hard. “Honest, guv,” he said, putting as much sincerity into his voice as he could muster, “I’ll forget all about it. I promise I will.”
    Ives ignored him. “What’s the verdict on Booth?”
    â€œThe sedative worked a treat. He’ll be out for a few hours.”
    Ives nodded. “That gives me enough time, then.”
    â€œEnough time to do what?”
    Ives raised the long-barrelled revolver and pointed it directly at Sherlock. “To kill the kid and dump his body. Rule number one, remember—never leave anyone behind who’s seen your face.”

 
    F OUR
    Sherlock felt a shudder run through him. They were going to dispose of him, just throw him away like a sack of potato peelings! He glanced back and forth between the two men, looking for a way to escape, but Ives was standing in the doorway and the small, bald man was between Sherlock and the barred window.
    â€œPlease, mister, I ain’t seen nothing,” he whined, trying to buy himself some time.
    â€œDon’t come the innocent with me, son,” Ives growled. He moved back into the corridor and gestured to Sherlock to follow him. “This way, and be quick about it.” He glanced over at the short, bald man—who Sherlock assumed had some kind of medical training, as he seemed to be the one Ives deferred to when it came to injuries and insanity. “Berle, you secure Booth good and proper, and then you look to getting Gilfillan up and moving. I want to clear out of this place. There’s too many people already who’ve spotted something odd. I guarantee our friend here didn’t sneak around because he was looking for some lost ball, but because of some kind of dare, or because he wanted to see what we were doing.”
    Sherlock moved out into the hall. He glanced back at Berle, who wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Please, mister, don’t let him hurt me,” Sherlock said in the best whine he could manage, but Berle turned away, back to the unconscious John Wilkes Booth. “Sorry, kid,” he murmured, “but there’s too much at stake here. If Ives says you got to die, then you got to die. I ain’t going to get involved.”
    Berle hesitated for a moment, looking at something on the dresser.
    â€œWhat about this thing?” he asked Ives.
    â€œWhat thing?”
    Berle reached out and picked up a jar. It was made of glass, and the top was covered with a piece of muslin cloth held on with string. From where he stood Sherlock could see that tiny holes had been pricked into the muslin with a sharp knife. It was the kind of thing a kid would do to keep a caterpillar or beetle alive—cover the top of the jar so that the creature couldn’t escape but punch some airholes in the top so that it could still breathe—but he couldn’t see any insects or other creatures inside. The only thing in the jar was a mass of glistening red stuff, like a piece of liver or a massive clot of blood.
    Ives glanced at it dismissively. “We take it with us,” he said. “The boss wants it. He wants it almost as bad as he wants Booth, here.”
    Berle shook the jar