Holmes: The Hanging Mystery: Holmes, #1

By Michael John Light

Holmes is begged by a man who has nothing but humor to pursue a case that is both tragic and desperate.

Can Holmes discover what has happened to a lifelong friend of Samuel Clemens before it's too late and he becomes a victim of a dark and mysterious cattle baron.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael John Light
• Release date: Oct 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781537870069

Book preview

Incident One: Explosion

HOLMES AND HARRY HOUDINI ran after the man who had just murdered an older woman using a hex bomb. Harry had been onto him, having glimpsed him doing such in his crystal ball.

He had told Holmes, who immediately knew where the man was.

They had run out the door, leaving behind a flabbergasted Watson, who was still huffing and puffing behind them, trying to catch up, but having enough sense to not holler after them.

Here! Harry cried out.

They froze in front of a warehouse door.

It appeared harmless enough.

Don’t touch it, Holmes. It’s supercharged with....

He never got to finish his warning. Watson dashed between him and Holmes and eyed the door. So this is where the blaggart hid, hey?

Harry tried to warn Watson. Don’t touch the door!

But Watson already had the door handle clutched at the moment Harry finished his words.

Nothing happened.

Watson quickly let go.

Nothing happened.

Watson turned a cheerful face on Harry.

See, all that worry over...

The door exploded open.

Incident: Ritual Murder

SLAM!

Chuckles.

Swing.

Swing.

Cheers.

Applause.

Yodels and song.

A furious fire ate at the Mississippi sky, grasping at the moist blackness, infuriated that it couldn't enfold and ignite it with the passion it felt as it illuminated the ghastly celebration going on.

Cowboys danced in a circle around a dead tree with limbs curled towards the sky like skeletal claws, grasping dried bird nests that harbored no more flying creatures, than a hollow tomb carries drinking water for the living.  They danced in their boots, but not much else, their right fists holding bottles of beer and liquor, taking swigs, spitting and swallowing between more bursts of song and cheers.

But what made the scene not only madly crazy, but insane, was not just the tree of the mostly naked cowboys with their tuffs of manly hair, bare skin, mustaches and long, scraggly hair. No, it wasn't that at all.

It was the forlorn figure that was kicking at the air, as if somehow it might catch hold with its toes something solid, even though that was not possible, nor would ever happen.

The man strung from the highest branch of the tree was not free to dance with the cowboys. They danced with him instead. Taking out their lust for violence; their passion for anger and destruction; their hatred for all that was holy and right about the world. What they saw as wrong with a world that ignored them.

A tall man stood next to a slightly shorter man, who watched with approval.

Boss, this is the best one yet, the Hollow Hand, also known as H.H., told Mister Bleak, his chieftain, cattle baron, captain, boss and employer. The man who would one day rid the world of all its problems and the vile creatures that got in the way of progress. Their progress. Not anyone else’s. No one else deserved to have more. They were heathens deserving nothing but scorn and despite.

Oh, this is nothing; H.H. It can surely get much better than this, Mister Bleak said, scratching at his face and mustache. His eyes glinted with a kind of sullen malice that the death before him did nothing to ignite. He was a hollow man standing at a bleak horizon, doing his best to destroy all that he found disgusting in life. Which meant anything of beauty or kindness.

He was a complex man. Not just a villain. Not just pure evil let loose with every hope of destroying the world. No, he was a hollow man consuming everything in the hopes of filling up that void we all have, but not seeking redemption or safety in truth, but rather hiding from it in deeds of violence that draped his own emptiness with something distracting so he didn’t have to feel the hollowness that filled him up from head to toes.

H.H. knew that and catered to it. He was hollow in a different way. His hand. He held up his hollow hand, a metallic construction that replaced his living flesh with good solid, reliable, vengeful steel. I'll get him broken soon, boss, I swear it.

Mister Bleak ignored him, his eyes feasting on the dying man dangling from the tree. He preached goodness and kindness towards all men; except for us. He called us vile, heartless and as cold as the arctic winds. As unforgiving as a hurricane ravaging the shores.

Mister Bleak turned to eye H.H. Well, he was right about one thing. We are unforgiving. But he was wrong about something more important: there are no shores here...for him!

Mister Bleak broke the top of his liquor bottle and drank deeply from it, spitting out broken glass after he was through. It didn't cut him one bit. This was strange.

He put the shards of broken glass on the palm of H.H.'s hollow hand