The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “I expect Thompson soon,” he breathed into his wineglass.

  The appetizers arrived quickly, and they both noshed, maintaining a soft running chat in a thick Southern dialect based loosely on Skye’s own, while Holmes kept an eye on the table where Harris sat alone. Harris appeared anxious, and while he ordered a beer and breadsticks, he didn’t consume much of either. He did, however, spend considerable time checking his wristwatch.

  The investigative couple finished their appetizers and started on the salad when Holmes’ eyes slid past the restaurant door again. Skye muttered, “T?”

  “Yes. Joining…”

  “Right.” She silenced, allowing Holmes to concentrate on what was being said at the other table.

  They ate the remainder of their salads quietly and started on their entrées. Occasionally they commented on the delicious food, or made otherwise-pleased sounds, but said little. Holmes’ eyes stayed fixed on Skye’s face, but she knew from the vacant look in them that he was not truly seeing her; his attention was on Thompson and Harris. Both his peripheral vision and excellent hearing were being put to full use.

  * * *

  When his main course was almost finished, Holmes saw the two operatives reach an agreement: They nodded to each other, then knocked back their beers. Harris ate a couple more bites of a breadstick, then they called for the checks, paid, and departed.

  * * *

  Skye saw Holmes’ body relax, and she knew their targets had left.

  “They are gone. Would you care for dessert, my dear?”

  “Not unless you wanna share it with me,” Skye observed, patting her full belly. “That was good.”

  “Yes, it was. What about a brandy, or perhaps a glass of port?”

  “No.” She nudged her half-full wineglass. “This is only my second glass of wine, for all of that food. I still have to drive us home. Feel free to get one if you like.”

  The waiter wandered up to take their plates, and Holmes dropped into his Southern patter.

  “No, hon, Ah think Ah’ll get somethin’ outta the wet bar in th’ hotel room. That’ll give me a chance t’ walk off some’a this delicious food.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it, sir, madam,” the waiter smiled. “Would you like your check?”

  “Please,” Holmes nodded. He scooped up the cog railroad brochure and tucked it in a pocket.

  Moments later, the older couple left the restaurant, sauntering hand-in-hand down the street, window-shopping as they went.

  * * *

  On the drive up the pass, Skye glanced at Holmes.

  “Well?”

  “They will meet in front of the security airlocks outside the elevators to the Chamber, this Friday night at ten o’clock. Harris is insurance to make sure Thompson gets through the airlocks, and Thompson will plant the package.” Holmes smiled in placid satisfaction.

  “Those security airlocks have image recognition. How are they gonna get Thompson in there?” Skye frowned.

  “Something was mentioned about a security hack. Thompson said he had the details worked out already.”

  “Hm. Jones will want to know that.”

  “Indeed he will,” Holmes agreed. He settled back in the car seat to ponder the trap that had been laid and the part already sprung.

  “Holmes?”

  “Mm?”

  “Why did you bring me along tonight?”

  “What?” Holmes said, rousing himself and sitting up straight. “What do you mean?”

  “Why did you bring me tonight?” Skye reiterated. “All I did was sit and eat. You could have accomplished everything that needed doing without me.”

  “Possibly, but first of all, the incognito work functioned better as a couple than singly. A married couple of any age is always less conspicuous, and less threatening, in a restaurant environ than a single man.”

  “So I was there as window-dressing.”

  “Hardly,” he replied, surprised by her viewpoint. “Backup is always welcome. I assume you have your Glock with you.”

  “I do. And the borrowed vest. But you didn’t have backup at Spice the other night. Glock was a long way away if you’d needed it.”

  “Skye…did you…not want to be there?” Holmes regarded her for a long moment.

  “No, it wasn’t that at all. I’m always glad to help. I just wish I thought I HAD helped, instead of…being offered a bone, because I’m not good enough to do anything else.”

  So that is the problem. She is wise enough to understand her skills, while formidable, still require honing, but not yet comfortable enough with them to feel useful. Holmes pondered before replying.

  “Skye, the environment tonight was very different from the one at Spice. Aside from the fact I would never willingly take a lady such as yourself into an establishment of that nature, though I’d not been in such a club before, I have been in equally…sordid…places. And I am well aware of how to instigate…disturbances…in such places, should it be required for my own defence or safe escape.” He watched her face to make sure she understood. “Tonight, however, was very different. The restaurant in which we dined was a quiet, respectable establishment, quite pleasant, and the tactics to which I have just alluded cannot therefore be effective there. Your presence was required, and most welcome.” Holmes paused, then deliberately added, “I would never bring along a companion on a potentially dangerous endeavour who was not useful, or who was incapable of handling him or herself, should matters go ill.”

  * * *

  Skye shot him an inquisitive, confirming glance. Holmes met the look calmly and forthrightly. She was aware he had paid her several impressive and varied compliments, compliments obviously sincere and intentional. By way of response, she gave him an appreciative half-smile, and his eyes crinkled, shining softly. Suddenly he put his hands to his face with a wordless exclamation.

  “Holmes! What’s wrong?!”

  “For God’s sake, Skye, get us home so I may peel these blasted lens-things out of my eyes, before I go stark blind,” he grumbled, trying not to dig his fists into his eyes. “Sandpaper would feel better.”

  Skye couldn’t help the snicker. Holmes fired a dirty look her way, then caught the lopsided, sympathetic grin on her face, and chuckled.

  “I prefer blue over hazel, by the way,” he informed her. “It was highly effective, and I certainly have nothing against the colour, but your face looked…odd…with hazel eyes gazing back at me.”

  “I felt the same way about those blue ones you’re wearing. And they’re not doing me any favors, comfort-wise, either. Besides, I’ll be happy to stand up straight for the first time in hours. We’ll be home in about five minutes.”

  “Hallelujah,” Holmes said in a heartfelt tone.

  * * *

  Wednesday and Thursday were spent fine-tuning their plan. Jones came to their office with blueprints of the various sections of the Chamber and its security level above, and they pored over them, working out locations, distances, and sight angles. Jones let the two do as they would, knowing their plan was calculated to prevent harm while still permitting the saboteurs to think they were getting away with their task up until the last minute. As such, extra guards would not do. But the base police chief ensured backup would not be far away.

  * * *

  Friday morning was extremely tense on the ranch. Holmes and Skye were both running on adrenaline, and both prepared themselves. Skye seemed unusually strained, even given the situation; but Holmes was intent on their plan, and didn’t notice.

  * * *

  Skye wore blue jeans and a lavender t-shirt over her bulletproof vest, the outerwear in a cotton/Lycra blend for ease of movement, pulling her hair into a ponytail to keep it out of the way. She debated French-braiding it as she usually did, but decided against it: A braided lock was as good as a rope if an adversary grabbed it. Athletic shoes shod her feet. Her Glock went into its concealment holster, and that, in turn, slipped into the small of her back.

  * * *


  Holmes meanwhile clad himself in athletic shoes, loose navy trousers and a pale blue polo shirt, for similar reasons: Ease of movement. He was prepared to fight if necessary. But as he knew Skye would be armed, he was unconcerned. Jones had left a collapsible police baton for his use, and he intended to carry it. Otherwise, his mind and his body were his weapons.

  * * *

  They both ate breakfast, though neither was hungry; Skye insisted it was essential to maintain energy for the evening’s activities. The drive down the mountain to Schriever was simultaneously the longest and shortest it had ever been.

  The day dragged by. Neither spoke much. About four, Colonel Jones came by to check on the pair one last time. He’d come to respect these two, and wanted to make sure everything was in place. Insofar as anyone could ascertain, it was.

  * * *

  Around six-thirty, well after any office workers had left the building, Skye and Holmes slipped down the fire escape stairwell to the security floor above the Chamber. There, they stood and looked at each other for a long moment. Holmes raised an eyebrow over shining, twinkling silver eyes. Skye understood: You are ready, my dear. She pressed her lips together, only partially disguising the hint of a proud smile lighting her own sapphire eyes. They nodded at each other.

  Then Holmes turned to his right, and entered the dark storeroom beside the regular elevators, leaving the door slightly ajar. Skye turned to the left, moving one door down before entering one of the day-guard offices. She closed her door noiselessly.

  The corridor grew silent.

  * * *

  Holmes settled down on a stack of paper boxes to wait. The baton was at his side, clipped to his belt, and he was ready for action. Adrenaline coursed through him, making his grey eyes sparkle with excitement, as he had noted in his reflection in the window of the door. But, as he had done so many times with Watson by his side, he schooled himself into serene repose, and waited. There were several hours yet until ten o’clock, and it would not do to let tension drain his alertness.

  * * *

  Skye picked up an office chair and moved it into position behind the door, arranging it so it was neither in view nor blocked swift egress. Then she sat down and tried to relax.

  She wasn’t as successful at it as Holmes. Her thoughts raced, and she ran over her preparations and equipment. Her clothing was agile and flexible; her badge was in her hip pocket; her pistol in the small of her back; two additional spare magazines were in her left pocket.

  Am I missing anything? I have to protect Holmes, if it comes to a shootout. I hope the body armor is okay. Face front, girl. Take it in the chest if you have to.

  Despite herself, Skye cringed at the thought. Looking down the barrel of a gun was far easier said than done.

  Well, this is Schriever, not Peterson. Chances of him getting a gun in here are low. But the chances of getting C-4 in here should be low, too. That would be his main focus, though. He won’t want to arm the thing until he gets it onto the apparatus. Pistol oughta be moot. And most people can’t hit the broad side of a barn in a gunfight, anyway. I’ll do what I gotta do. Today of all days, I’ll do whatever’s necessary. I won’t let Holmes die, too.

  Skye leaned back in the chair and tried to relax.

  * * *

  Promptly at ten o’clock, one of the elevators from the upper levels started up. Several seconds later, there was a soft ding! as it arrived on the security floor. The doors opened and Sergeant Thompson stepped out. He glanced around, looking for his compatriot, but Bob Harris was nowhere to be seen, which was not according to plan. Nor was anyone else, though, and this WAS according to plan; Security didn’t make their sweep through the area until eleven p.m. And by that time, Thompson would be long gone.

  Thompson moved down the pink granite hallway toward the security airlocks at the far end. As he neared the airlocks, he paused.

  “Harris?” he called softly. “Where the hell are ya?”

  There was no answer, and Harris didn’t appear.

  “Sonuvabitch,” Thompson cursed in a low voice. “The bastard cut and ran on me. The hell with it. I don’t need him. I can manage it on my own at this point.”

  “Is that so?” a clear voice rang out behind him in clipped English tones.

  Thompson spun. Holmes was standing there, calm and assured. Thompson stared at the man.

  “Commander Holmes? What are you doing here? Especially at this time of night? And why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “More to the point is: What are you doing here?” Holmes asked, taking a step forward. “You are not part of this project, and no one should be down here who does not belong to it.”

  “I’m here to help set up for the maintenance tomorrow,” Thompson covered smoothly, not realizing the maintenance was fake. He advanced on the detective, noting the baton on one hip, sizing him up. Thompson was younger and stockier in build than Holmes, while being approximately the same height, and he figured he could take the detective if it came to a fight. “I don’t think you ought to be here, though. Especially out of uniform that way.”

  “I need no uniform,” Holmes noted, standing his ground as the sergeant advanced. “But I believe your hacking and sabotage career has reached its zenith—or should I say, its nadir? The game is up, Thompson. Surrender now, and matters may go well for you. Continue, and I promise you, nothing good can come of it.”

  Thompson’s eyes widened at Holmes’ words, then narrowed as he realized the other man apparently knew everything.

  “I don’t think so,” he snarled. “You’re at a disadvantage, Commander. I’m bigger than you, and you’re all alone here.”

  “Hardly.”

  “What do you mean?” Thompson growled, his hand floating toward the cargo pocket of his coveralls. The hidden pistol was halfway out of his pocket before Holmes responded.

  “Surprise,” Holmes said airily.

  On cue, Skye stepped from the door in the opposite side of the corridor, between Holmes and his opponent.

  * * *

  “FBI! Freeze!” she cried, holding up her badge in her left hand. “You’re under arrest! Drop your weapon! Dammit! HOLMES, GET DOWN!” she shouted as Thompson ignored her warning and raised his own weapon. Instantly Skye had her Glock in hand, drawing down on the saboteur.

  How the blazes did he get that in here?! she managed to think, before all hell broke loose.

  * * *

  Holmes prudently dove for the floor, rolling around the corner of the carved granite wall into the storeroom as Skye and the saboteur opened fire simultaneously. The detective counted at least twelve or thirteen shots and several shouts before there was the thud of a body hitting the ground. He raised his head cautiously and looked around the doorjamb.

  Skye stood a couple of yards from the detective, looking down the corridor as she lowered her weapon. Some thirty feet away, Thompson sprawled on his back. Even from that distance, Holmes could see the red puddle and the glassy eyes telling him the man was dead. He scrambled to his feet and approached Skye, brushing himself off.

  “Capitally done, my dear Skye!” he congratulated her enthusiastically. “By Jove! Beautifully handled! Perfectly timed, as cool a confrontation as ever I—”

  He broke off in horror as she turned toward him, her face white and drawn. The left side of her lavender shirt was covered in scarlet blood.

  “Dear God,” he whispered in shock, as she took a single step in his direction, then staggered. Holmes lunged forward to catch her as she fell, easing her to the floor and seating himself beside her. “Skye?” He felt the blood drain from his own face, and briefly the corridor spun. Skye smiled up at him, eyes clouded with pain.

  “Holmes…I did good?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he breathed, managing to manufacture a smile from somewhere and donning it like one of his disguises, wondering all the while why his anguished heart was still functioning. “Yes, my dear. You did excellently well. I’m very…” he choked, then continued, “very
proud of you. But…” he gazed down at her, trying to hide his agony, “why did you not take cover?”

  “I was your cover until you could get around the door. I couldn’t hide without getting you shot. But I messed up—I musta turned sideways or something…” She shook her head, forcing out the explanation in short, choppy breaths.

  Holmes opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He swallowed hard, searching for his voice. Loyal to the death, is my Skye. No. Don’t think of it, Sherlock. Not her. Not The Woman. You may as well rip out your own heart and shred it to bits. Now quit being a maudlin ass and do something!

  Several guards ran out of the stairwell, drawn by the sound of gunfire, and his voice returned. Holmes glanced up and barked, “Stretcher. Doctor. NOW.”

  “Yes, sir!” one automatically saluted, completely missing the fact that this commanding man was clad in trousers and polo shirt, not a military uniform, before running for the stairs, reaching for his radio.

  Holmes returned his attention to the woman in his arms, gathering her close, lifting her into his lap.

  “Hold on, Skye. Help is coming.” Holmes searched with his long, sensitive fingers, managing to stop their trembling long enough to find two bullet wounds in her side, one in the upper abdomen, the other through the ribcage into the left lung.

  She did turn sidewise, and let two rounds get into the opening. Collapsed lung, and probably punctured spleen, but it does not seem to have reached the heart, he decided, extrapolating from the locations of the wounds, her ragged breathing, and the quantity of hemorrhage. I hope the physicians in this continuum are swift, or she will bleed to death, right here.

  “It’s okay, Holmes,” she murmured, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth. “You know what today is?” Skye smiled up at him beautifully, pale and somehow almost angelic.

  “What?” he wondered, once more fighting down the thought she was dying, putting it away from his mind. He patted his pockets with his free hand and discovered he had nothing to staunch the bleeding; men of this era seldom carried pocket-handkerchiefs, so he had ceased carrying his. Abstractedly he realized such a small thing would be moot in the face of her blood loss, anyway. With the back of his knuckles, Holmes almost tenderly wiped away the blood on her lips, smearing his hand across his pale blue shirt to clean his fingers.