“What’s Holmes’ preferred weapon?” Jones asked. “I’ll try to make sure the range master has something appropriate.”
“Revolver, preferably a Webley Metropolitan Police model, in a .450 calibre. If,” Holmes considered, recalling the time difference wistfully, “that is not available, a similar centre-fire revolver will do.”
“Short barrel, eh?” Jones remarked, overhearing Holmes. “Okay, a short-barreled .45 caliber double-action revolver it is. I expect it’s gonna end up being either a Colt Python or more likely a Smith & Wesson, because Webley doesn’t manufacture firearms anymore. If you want a snub nose or short barrel you’re probably gonna have to come down in caliber, too. I’d recommend a Smith & Wesson 60. It’s got a short barrel, but it’s only a .357 magnum. It comes in a three-inch, or a five-inch barrel, if you want more accuracy. You could go for a model 619 in the middle, four-inch barrel, same caliber…”
“Hm,” frowned Holmes.
“Hell, I’ll have the range master get out a selection of revolvers, and Holmes can choose his poison,” Jones decided.
“That will work,” Holmes nodded.
“Can you be down here in about an hour, hour and a half?” Jones wondered.
“Make it an hour and a half, Colonel,” Skye suggested. “I—we—live at the top of the pass.”
“Done. See you soon.”
* * *
Skye went to her study and opened the closet, revealing a gun safe in the back. She opened it, got out her range bag and pulled her Glock from its case, checking it thoroughly. She had cleaned it the previous weekend, so it was ready to go. She replaced the weapon in its case and the case in the bag, then pulled out two boxes of cartridges. Digging in one of the side pockets, she produced a bulk package of earplugs, then checked to ensure she had two sets of hearing protectors. She only had one set of shooting glasses, however, and she frowned.
* * *
Holmes watched in approval as she went through her ritual, surveying her equipment; he had watched with interest the previous weekend as she’d cleaned the semi-automatic.
She went to her desk and dug in one of the pockets of her laptop case, pulling out a pair of wraparound sunglasses.
“These will do,” she decided. “They’re polycarbonate sport frames, so they ought to stand up to any spit flashing.”
Then she returned to the gun safe, fishing out her old duty belt and checking it, then getting out a paddle holster as well. These went into a separate gear bag. As an afterthought, she tucked her big Desert Eagle .357 magnum semi-automatic pistol into the range bag. Holmes’ eyebrow rose precipitately; it looked like far too large a weapon for Skye to handle effectively, but she had a wide smirk on her face as she checked it out.
“Okay, hotshot.” She grinned at Holmes. “Let’s go make some noise.”
* * *
At the base range, they found Colonel Jones, Agent Smith, and the range master, Master Sergeant Kevin Phillips, waiting. There was no one else there; evidently the military range saw little use over the weekend, especially first thing on a Saturday morning. This turned out to be exactly why Jones and Smith had arranged for the session when they did.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Smith murmured, “but I needed to see what the two of you are capable of.”
“Not at all,” Holmes agreed. “Perfectly reasonable, in the circumstances.”
“Okay, eye and ear protection, everybody,” Phillips ordered. Skye handed Holmes a pair of earplugs, a set of ear protectors, and the range glasses, reserving the sport sunglasses for herself; everyone donned their safety gear. “Dr. Chadwick, you’re up first. You have a Glock 17?”
“That’s right. Holstered or not?”
“Casual is fine, but it’s your call. Holmes won’t have a holster. I’m more interested in seeing how well you shoot than whether you have a fancy retention holster.” Smith shrugged.
“Casual it is.” She pulled the weapon case, extracted the Glock and several magazines, and loaded them. The men moved back as she took up a position at the shooting table. One sharp hand move slid the magazine home, a thumb hit the slide release, and Skye racked a round into the chamber.
Phillips had a target in place, and now he flicked a switch to move it to the correct distance along a series of overhead cable pulleys. Skye took up a square, two-handed isosceles stance and raised her weapon.
Five seconds later there was a tight, two-inch cluster in the center of mass of the target. The men exchanged impressed looks.
“Very nice, Skye,” Holmes murmured. “You are an excellent shot.”
“Single hand?” Smith queried.
Skye dropped her left hand, took up a side stance, and fired three rounds. They joined the others in the center of mass. She dropped the spent magazine and slid a new one home without looking at her hands; switched to her left hand and repeated the shots. Those were a little wider of the mark, but for the non-dominant hand, shot with a cross-dominant eye, it was still very good.
“Excellent,” Smith purred in satisfaction. “Did you bring any other weapons?”
“I brought another pistol,” Skye admitted.
“And I am quite interested in it,” Holmes murmured, eyes gleaming.
Skye fished out the Desert Eagle, and Smith groaned. Jones laughed until he was doubled over, and Phillips grinned from ear to ear. By this time, Skye had shown Holmes her copy of “The Matrix,” and even the detective was smirking at the veiled reference to the Matrix agents’ weaponry.
“Sorry,” Skye grinned sheepishly. “It wasn’t intentional, I swear. I just like this one.”
“Whatever. Go ahead and shoot the damn thing,” Smith waved her off in exasperation.
* * *
Skye pushed jacketed magnum rounds into the magazine, shoved it home, racked a round, and drew down on her target. The extra mass of the large handgun compensated nicely for the magnum round’s recoil, and in rapid succession she’d emptied eight rounds into the head of her target. If anything, Skye was more accurate with the Eagle than she had been with the Glock. Holmes noted, despite the pistol’s size, Skye’s long, slender hands had no trouble managing it. Her hands are strong from working the horses, and her fingers just long enough to wrap around it.
“Can you manage a .45?” Smith asked her.
“I can, but it’s a little awkward. That’s getting too large for my grip.” Skye held up her right hand for illustration, waggling her fingers at Holmes; he held up his own hand and pressed it against hers, palm to palm: He had a good inch on her, almost able to curl the tips of his fingers over hers.
“Ah, right,” Smith nodded sagely.
“I think we can say Dr. Chadwick knows what she’s doing with a semi-auto,” Jones decreed, and the other men agreed. “Mr. Holmes? Your turn.”
* * *
Phillips led Holmes to a counter nearby where the range master had a selection of revolvers laid out. There was a full-sized Smith & Wesson .45, a Colt Python .357 magnum, and a five-inch S&W model 60, also a .357 magnum. There was a Glock .45, too, in case Holmes decided to try it.
In the end the detective tried them all, to see which he liked best. He picked up the big .45 revolver as if it were an old friend, carrying it to the shooting table and loading it with the nonchalance of an expert. A few minutes later, the central inch of his target was completely missing.
“Damn,” Jones muttered, impressed.
The model 60 was next, complete with a fresh target, and said target met the same fate.
“Not bad,” was Holmes’ verdict on the weapon. “Small, easily concealable; but with a nice punch.”
The Colt Python was verging on snub-nosed, and it proved less accurate by its very nature. Still, Holmes clustered a tight grouping in the groin of the target, sufficient that the range master found himself crossing his legs. Jones nodded approval; Holmes obviously knew the lethal zones.
Holmes picked up the Glock and stared at it, captivated. Phillips stepped forward, but Jones put
out a discreet, restraining hand; Skye was already at Holmes’ side. She showed him how the slide locked back and how to eject the magazine. He nodded understanding, and they brought the pistol to the range table. Skye demonstrated loading a bullet into the magazine, then handed it to Holmes, who quickly got the hang of it. He slid the magazine into the base of the grip, then released the slide lock. He gave a confirming glance at Skye, who nodded approval; so Holmes raised the pistol and aimed it downrange.
* * *
The pistol was lighter in weight than he’d anticipated, and the kick correspondingly greater. So the first shot at the target took off the imaginary top of the skull.
“Hm,” Holmes rumbled, thinking about what he’d felt as he’d fired the weapon and how to adjust.
The next shot was right between the eyes.
He emptied the 9-round magazine into the head of the target, leaving a grand total of three holes in the target from the weapon; he’d put four bullets into two holes.
* * *
“O-kaay,” Smith murmured, impressed. “I think we can say these two can handle most handguns.”
“What he said,” Jones agreed, and Phillips just nodded.
“How about shotguns?” Smith wondered. Phillips brought out a 12-gauge pump action shotgun. Skye and Holmes both grinned wolfishly. “Ah-huh,” Smith remarked, seeing their expressions. “Holmes, you first. Note it doesn’t break to load, and it has a magazine something like a Glock, so you’ve got several rounds.” He put a box of shells on the table. “Standard load.”
Holmes studied the configuration of the gun for a minute or two, figuring out its mechanism based on what he had already seen, then loaded the magazine with several shells. Phillips swapped out the target. Holmes started chuckling.
“What?” Skye wondered.
“I feel like I should call, ‘Pull!’” Holmes admitted.
Instead, he raised the shotgun to his shoulder, emptied the magazine, and shredded the center out of the target.
“Nice,” Jones decided. “Skye, your turn.”
* * *
Skye loaded the magazine while Phillips replaced the paper target. Then she grinned mischievously and opened the front of the shooting bay. Smith and Jones both raised eyebrows.
“Wha…?” Phillips wondered.
Skye snugged the stock of the gun tightly into her hip with her right hand, tipped the barrel up slightly with her left hand, and fired. She stepped forward, racking the pump action as she did, and fired again. Step…pump…fire. Step…pump…fire, right up to within a few yards of her target. There, she emptied the last of her shells into the target. By the time she was done, there was nothing left of either the paper target or its cardboard backing.
Holmes’ slate-colored eyes were gleaming in appreciation. Smith grinned from ear to ear.
“You never said you were qual’ed for FBI style,” the agent noted.
“You never asked,” Skye grinned back.
“Anybody else just see Annie Oakley walkin’ down Main Street in the middle of a shootout?” Jones wondered, and the other men chuckled as Skye blushed and grinned wider.
“Yep, I’d say. You two are some serious bad-asses with weapons,” Phillips allowed. “Remind me not to ever get either of ya pissed.” He gathered the empty weapons and carted them into the back for cleaning.
“Not bad at all,” Jones agreed with the range master in his absence. “Smith, you satisfied?”
“I am. I’ll see about it first thing Monday. I’ve still got to get it through the approval cycle—a ‘temporary pending’ status is kind of unusual, and I’m not even sure if it’s ever been done before—but under the circumstances, we’re actually working with…certain other groups…and I think it’ll work. Anyway, I should be able to get Dr. Chadwick temporary special agent status in a week or so. Mr. Holmes is another story, of course, not being an American citizen; but I’ve got some…friends…who are on that, too. That all rests on the other paperwork going through, though.”
“Sonuvagun,” Skye muttered, surprised.
“No, more like daughter, I should think, at least in your case,” Holmes quipped, “though it does not come quite so trippingly off the tongue,” and they all laughed.
* * *
Early Tuesday morning, Skye was in the loft of the historic old barn dropping hay, while Holmes prepared the coffee cans of feed, when the cacophony reached her ears: A clattering, banging crash accompanied by a grunt and an exclamation. Skye’s eyes went wide and she scrambled for the ladder, shouting, “Holmes! Holmes, is everything okay?”
Getting no answer, she ran for the feed room and pushed open the door. She found Holmes flat on his back on the floor, covered in debris and blood. The weathered wooden shelf over the feed bin had pulled loose from the wall, dumping itself and all its contents on top of Holmes. Skye let out an alarmed cry and waded in, grabbing the detritus and pitching it off the detective, who sat up, stunned, once the large boards had been dragged off him.
But as soon as he sat up, blood gushed from the aquiline nose, and Skye saw blood on his torn t-shirt as well.
“Whoa, whoa, there,” she said, pressing her hand against his shoulder to keep him from rising. “Tilt your head back. You whacked your nose but good. It’s bleeding like a stuck pig. Let me see,” she said, palpating his nose with her fingertips.
“Id is nod broken,” he observed, wincing, “bud id is a bid paidful.”
“I bet,” Skye noted regretfully. “I’m sorry. This barn is a historic structure like the cabin part of the house, so everything’s really old and worn. I love it, and I try to keep it maintained, but I didn’t know that shelf was loose.”
“I will go lie dowd, and sood I will be all righd.” Holmes waved a dismissive hand.
“I’ll help you get to the house. You need to keep that head back. Here,” she grabbed a nearby roll of paper towels and yanked off a large wad. “Use these on your nose.”
* * *
Holmes took the wad of absorbent paper and pressed it gingerly to his nose, then allowed Skye to help him rise. He looked down and a surge of red brightened the toweling.
“No, no, keep your head back,” Skye commanded.
“Skye, I caddot see where I ab goig.”
“Trust me. I’ll lead you back to the house.”
Holmes nodded, tilting his head back, and blindly permitted Skye to lead him. She held onto his elbow and applied gentle, herding pressure against his side as needed. She also offered verbal instructions and went slowly, so they made it back to the house without further incident. In his bedroom, Skye sat him on the edge of the bed.
“Thag you, Skye,” he murmured. “I will be fide dow.”
“Hold your horses,” Skye noted, and Holmes felt his t-shirt tugged from his trousers and whipped over his head.
“Skye!” he objected, one hand grabbing for the wad of bloody paper towels he’d nearly dropped when the passage of shirt disrupted his grip, while the other snatched at his shirt. “Whad are you doig?! Stob thad!”
“Holmes, you have a nasty, bloody scratch across your chest. I’m not going to let that go,” Skye declared, keeping the t-shirt out of his reach as he grabbed with his free hand. “It could get infected, and you could have some real problems.”
Holmes pressed the paper towels tighter to his nose and glanced down at his bare chest. There was, indeed, a bright red weal across his left breast, five or six inches long and oozing blood—not as profusely as his nose, but still enough to make a mess.
“Oh. So thad’s whad hurds…” He paused, then added, “Abong oder thigs.”
“Now lie down there and relax, so your nose will stop bleeding, and let me clean this cut. You took a good crack to the noggin in order to have a nosebleed that bad, and I don’t want you wandering around with a concussion and maybe passing out and smacking your face on the tile floor in the bathroom. That’d finish off your nose.”
“Ub. True. Bud I cad badage, Skye.”
“Withou
t Watson?”
“Yes,” was his terse, but intelligible, response. “I hab dod so before.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t doubt it, but there’s no need to when I’m here to help. Now hush. This won’t take a minute, if you’ll only relax and let me do my thing. It isn’t like I haven’t been trained in first aid. I was a first responder, remember.”
“Thad is true. Bery well.”
Skye headed for the bathroom and was back in minutes with her first aid supplies. A bowl of warm water and a clean washcloth was her first selection, and Holmes felt the warm wetness swipe soothingly across the cut on his chest. Skye took her time, cleansing the wound of all debris, including bits of grain. Once the debris was removed, she picked up a cotton pad and the bottle of alcohol.
“This is gonna burn like hell.”
“Alcohol?” Holmes queried, and she nodded. “Dab.”
“Had you rather…?” she offered, but he shook his head.
“Do, go ahead. Id bust be dod.”
“What?”
Holmes scowled and enunciated very precisely, trying to force the sounds past his swollen, blood-congested nasal passages, “It…musd…be…done.”
* * *
Skye nodded understanding, and saturated the cotton pad. Then she looked up at him, her forehead furrowing with compassion.
“Ready?”
“Doo id.” Holmes nodded.
Skye swiped the alcohol-soaked cotton along the cut.
* * *
Holmes hissed loudly, then let out a nasal and unintelligible stream of expletives, only biting off his words when he remembered he was in the presence of a lady.
“Forgib be, by dear Skye. Bud id does stigg lig fury. Ode would thig dad, by dis cedury, you would habe sobedig dad would nod stigg so buch.”
“I know,” Skye agreed, bathing the wound with alcohol while he panted hard against the burning sensation. “Been there, done that, and I hate like blazes to hurt you, but it’s the best I’ve got.” She tossed the cotton in the waste can, then grabbed another cotton pad and blotted away the residue. “Now I’m going to put on an antibiotic cream and tape a Telfa pad on it.”
“Whad id a Delfa pad?”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 26
