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Big Game

The Most Dangerous Game part 3

Jim was in a fairly good mood, but his patience was wearing thin. His excitement was causing him to pace up and down his ledge, waiting for the radio to go off, or for a bird to bring him news.

"What's wrong?" he muttered to himself. "You're better than this. What's taking so long?"

Sebastian observed his master's impatience with calmness, waiting until he was needed and ever watching for enemies that did not come.

Seeing the tiger's imposing figure out of the corner of his eye, Jim went to the cliff's edge and looked down on the marsh until he spotted a small group of impala. "Sebastian, go get me a young impala," he ordered.

Sebastian was well aware that Jim's other henchmen would bring him food on schedule, but he made no protest. He stretched once and trotted down the path.

Jim went back to his pacing, knowing it would take the tiger a minute or two to reach flat ground. "Something happen," he muttered. "Something happen, something happen, something happen..." the four syllables matched his footfalls as he paced.

Then he saw Sebastian again and planted himself to watch the hunt.

Sebastian paused a few hundred feet from the impala, sniffing the wind and scanning the marsh for other creatures. Then he stalked forward very slowly, head up, completely focused on his target.

"Come on, come on, come on, come on," Jim murmured, not even aware that he was saying it aloud.

When he was within a hundred feet, Sebastian had slowed still more, crouching as he placed one paw in front of the other. Jim knew that keeping up this stance for long put a lot of strain on joint and muscle, and his breath quickened slightly at the thought of the lean body supporting that tense frame.

Closer and closer, the tiger stalked. Every second he risked being spotted, he gained a little more ground. Another step. And another.

It happened almost quicker than Jim could see, and at this distance only his knowledge of prey could explain to him what had sprung the ambush. Sebastian leaped forward at the same moment that a long-horned buck lifted its head. The tiger must have seen a change in the creature's demeanor that said it was not merely scanning for any danger—it had sensed some and determined to find it.

The prey was a young fawn, scarcely a week old. Sebastian's strength was not in running, but his sense of strategy made up for it. All he had to do was run after the dam. The fawn was following its mother's every move, so in targeting her, Sebastian could predict exactly where the fawn would go next. In a few strides, the chase was over.

The excitement shivered Jim's whole frame. His mouth hung open as his eyes hungrily watched the tiger dragging the still-struggling impala fawn back to the cliffs. He realized he was purring again.

Still, while Sebastian was out of sight making his ascent, the ennui threatened to return. If Sherlock doesn't do something interesting soon, I'll take action, he decided.

Finally, Sebastian appeared, holding his neck up stiffly with the weight of his captive, which hung by its neck from his powerful jaws. He dropped the nearly unscathed fawn at Jim's feet where it curled up in a ball and stared at them, shuddering and wide-eyed.

An involuntary smile spread slowly over Jim's face and he leaned in. "Hello, my little dinner."

The fawn's eyes twitched toward the path it had been carried up, but the tiger effectively blocked that route of escape. It looked back up at Jim. "He... hello," it said in a squeaky, shaky voice.

"I'm going to eat you," Jim told it, matter-of-factly.

The fawn was probably too young to really understand what was about to happen to it. It merely stared and trembled in response.

Jim knew it was against the law to play with his living food, particularly when that food was an innocent youngster, but breaking the law had never bothered him before, and it didn't now. He leaned closer.

Instinct controlling it rather than reason, the fawn scrambled away, looking desperately toward the path as if the tiger were no longer there.

Jim sprang after it and snapped its delicate neck with one bite and toss of his head. Blood from the fawn's throat flooded his mouth and he savored it before settling down to feed.

Sebastian laid himself on the ground to rest, head turned away to watch for danger as usual.

He's the best help in the world. No stupid questions. No unwanted advice. No favors expected. Immediate compliance. One day I want Sherlock to give me this level of devotion. When he finished, Jim went to plant himself in front of Sebastian to be groomed and was immediately gratified.

"Did you ever read any human books, Sebastian?" Jim asked lazily.

"A few. I like to find things they said about hunting."

"Yes. One of my favorite stories concerned hunting. The two principal characters discussed which they thought was the most dangerous game to hunt."

"Was it the tiger?" Sebastian asked, his tone belying more interest than he normally showed in Jim's prattle.

"No. At that time no creature could compete with man's reason. So, they determined that the most dangerous game was one of their own—another human."

"Humans do not hunt their own."

"Ah, but they did in this story."

"I'd like to read it."

"I'll send someone to find a copy. Alexandria will have it if nowhere else," Jim said, referring to the great human library which had fallen to the use of animals after the former owners were gone. He licked Sebastian's face, even though it was already clean.

"So, then... is your most dangerous adversary another leopard?" Sebastian asked before continuing the grooming he had already finished.

"Oh, no. Not necessarily. The most dangerous game is one who can match your own cunning. For me, that may or may not be another leopard." It might be a tiger. Or it might just be a cheetah.

Sherlock had spent the last hour or so performing tests on a blood sample at the lab. It was tedious work, but he had been able to narrow his theories somewhat.

Unexpectedly, static came over the radio sitting on the table. Sherlock reached over and pressed the talk button. "Hello?"

He heard the same distraught voice of a young male: "The clue's... in the name. We Water Treatment." He could still hear the faint rumbling noise.

"Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone... do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock."

Oh, really? "Then, talk to me in your own voice."

"Patience." The radio went quiet.

Sherlock turned back to his experiment and smiled. He quickly gathered his things and radioed Lestrade to meet him back at the scene of Monkford's disappearance.

"How much blood would you say was spilled on the ground here?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno... about half a cup?" Lestrade suggested.

"Not about—exactly half a cup. That was their first mistake. Blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it was drawn some time ago and frozen until needed. There are clear signs. They saved it for this little charade here."

"Who did?" asked John, who was ever hovering near Sherlock.

"We Water Treatment. The clue's in the name."

"We? Like... you mean a secret organization or something?"

"No... back in ancient times, when humans were over-populace on earth, there was a snake born in captivity with two heads and two separate and opposite sets of genitalia. The snake's name was We."

"You're saying Monkford's really a girl?"

"NO." Sherlock was beginning to get frustrated. "Two complete, yet opposite lives in one. That's the business for which We Water Treatment is a cover. Get in trouble with the prides, need to collect insurance on your own death, WWT can fix it up. Help you fake your own death and start a completely new life somewhere else.

"Ian Monkford was up to his mane in trouble—financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish... if his tracks ended in a bloody mess of vulture sign... everyone would think he'd met with a violent end and been carried off by scavengers."

"So, where is he?" asked John.

"Your area, John—the rainforest."

"The rainforest?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"When Ewert nosed about in his bag of valuables, I caught a glimpse of shiny plastic and the distinct scent of prosthechea fragrans."

"Of what?"

"Orchids. Specifically, an orchid that remains only in the Amazon. The pride doesn't have much reach in the deep forests yet, and local tribal law protects these orchids from being destroyed or harvested indiscriminately. Periodically, the local elders press the orchids between sheets of plastic and issue them as currency; I expect that's what was in the bag. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently; but we both saw the sunburn on his muzzle. He hadn't gotten pale-skinned from staying indoors at work—he'd become so under the dense canopy of the rainforest. Just walking to and from work each day would have built up more resistance to the sun than that. Then there was his neck."

"His neck?"

"Kept scratching it. He'd probably recently gotten an immunization; medics tend to inject at the insensitive scruff. No doubt he required some sort of vaccine before traveling to the vastly different climate. Conclusion: He'd just got back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in the Amazon rainforest. Quite an adjustment for an aardwolf, but well worth it. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance issued to her husband as staff at the new bank, and she splits it with We Water Treatment."

"Mrs. Monkford?" asked John.

"Oh, yes. She's in on it, too. Now, go and arrest them, inspector; that's what you do best," Sherlock told Lestrade. "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." He felt satisfied. More than satisfied—eager for more. "I am on fire!" he told John as they walked away.

John seemed a little disapproving, but he kept quiet.

Back at 221B, Sherlock had typed up a little message on the typewriter and given several copies to John to distribute to his story fans: "Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to the rainforest!" Judging by the bomber's knowledge of John's writing, one of the chatty animals would inadvertently pass the message on to a spy very soon. In the meantime, the detective cleared away most of the debris from the cave-in and then settled down to wait.

John returned soon after he was done and they had only a short time to wait together.

"He says... you can come and fetch me," the distraught voice told them over the radio. "Help... help me, please."

The round was officially won. Sherlock smiled at John.

"I... I'm by the river. I'm afraid to move for fear I may fall."

"Don't try to move," Sherlock instructed. "We're coming for you." He switched the frequency and held the talk button again. "Inspector?"

"What is it?" asked Lestrade.

"As you know, the dry season is upon us. The wildebeest are migrating across the river."

"Yes?"

"You'll find the victim on a large rock in the midst of their path going down to the river. They've been rushing past him all day."

"Good god," John exclaimed.

"Got that," Lestrade answered. "We'll find him."

Wildebeest crossings were always grizzly affairs. The crocodiles didn't even have to hunt—miscalculations on the part of the less intelligent creatures led to many drownings, and the meat floated about for the taking. Many more wildebeest were injured in the drop down the riverbank, or in trying to climb up the far side. Some were even trampled under the hooves of their fellows.

While the Yard lions proceeded in a fearsome wall to redirect the stampede away from the rock where a wired and terrified bat-eared fox had lain all day long, Sherlock darted in and dragged away a trampled youngster for John to get a meal off. Sherlock settled down for a nap in the setting sun, fearing no foes with the cadets so close. Soon he felt John snuggle up to him and they both slept.

They woke before dawn and stretched their stiff limbs.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm," John said sleepily. "You realize we've scarcely stopped for breath since this thing started. Has it occurred to you—"

"Probably."

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? Typewriters and 221C and that radio... it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"

"Perhaps." Sherlock was distracted by something in the predawn light. A secretary bird was flying toward them, and though he couldn't be sure, he suspected it might be the one that had killed the Egyptian cobra.

Two long beeps and one short came from the radio as the bird dropped an envelope to the ground in front of the cheetah.

Sherlock spared no more thought for the bird and tore open the envelope to reveal another photograph. This one was of an unusually chubby genet. "Oh, lovely. That could be anybody."

"Well, it could, yeah," John agreed. "Lucky for you, I haven't had much in the way of work lately, and I'm the chatty, newsletter type."

"How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I gather far too much gossip."

Sherlock watched in bemusement as John scampered away to find a fossa camped out near the wildebeest track, selling snacks and souvenirs to those who came to take advantage of or to watch the wildebeest crossing. The tourist has become the tourist trap, He thought, knowing that the fossa was native to Madagascar.

Soon, John came back holding two sheets of paper, one of which he gave to Sherlock. The paper sported another picture of the genet, this time decked with flowers and feathers. "It's Connie Prince. She sets the fashions for female carnivores round here—got her own newsletter and all. Loads of people read it."

"People pay for these? You just exchanged goods or currency for this?"

John looked sheepish. "I get bored, too." He gave Sherlock the second paper.

This one was a news bulletin with the headline "Fashionista Found Flatlined" and yet another photo.

The radio crackled and Sherlock picked it up hastily. "Hello?"

"This one," said a very strained voice, "is a bit... defective, sorry. She's blind. This is... a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I like... to watch... you dance." The voice sounded very frightened.

Sherlock looked at the newspaper again. The genet had been discovered dead by her brother who shared a tree house with her on the edge of the acacia wood. Time to consult Lestrade again.

The lions had already gone back to the Yard after rescuing the fox and gathering food for the pride. Sherlock took John back to their headquarters to see his favorite inspector, who took them to the morgue.

"Connie Prince, middle age, had a very successful fashion newsletter," Lestrade reviewed for them. "Very popular. She was going places."

"Not anymore," said Sherlock. "So, dead two days. According to a member of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she caught her paw in a poacher's trap in the wood—nasty wound."

They observed the cut between the digits of one forepaw, which could well have been made by the teeth of a trap.

"Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream... Good night, Vienna."

"I suppose," said John.

"But it can't be that simple, or the bomber wouldn't have directed me to this case." Sherlock studied the cut, then looked at the small, albeit fat, body all over, up close. "John?"

"Mm?"

"That cut on her paw is deep. It would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

"But the wound's clean. Very clean, and fresh." Sherlock sat up. "How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"In a genet..." John considered. "I'd guess around two weeks, but it varies." Slow, as usual, he realized what Sherlock was getting at. "The cut was made later."

"After she was dead," said Lestrade, also understanding at last.

"Must have been," said Sherlock. "The question is, how did the tetanus enter the genet's system?" He turned to John. "You want to help?"

"Of course."

"Get on that gossip chain of yours and get me data: Connie Prince's background, family history and all."

John nodded and scampered off, seeming glad to have something to do.

"There's something else we haven't thought of," the lion said when John was out of the room.

"Is there?"

"Yes. Why's he doing this, the bomber? What does he care if this creature's death is suspicious?"

"Good Samaritan," Sherlock suggested dryly.

"Who rigs up animals to explosives?"

"Bad Samaritan," Sherlock amended.

"I'm serious, Sherlock. I'm cutting you slack here, I'm trusting you. But out there, some wretched creature is gonna wait hours wondering if they're gonna be spread from Sahara to Serengeti. We dug up fifty feet of wires to that second typewriter yesterday..."

Sherlock stopped listening for a moment. Dug up? He didn't want them getting trampled... They were buried there before the migration began. He's been planning this for a long time...

"So just tell me: What are we dealing with?"

Sherlock couldn't help the hint of a smile when he answered, "Something new."

The Most Dangerous Game is a story by Richard Connell. I recommend it very much, but don't bother with the 1932 movie version. Terrible. "We" was a real snake.

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