“Yes, I can see where it very well could be. Did you attend here yourself, or did you receive all of your training at Cornell?”
“No,” Haines smiled; but there was something odd about the expression, a pinched look around the eyes, Holmes decided. “I did indeed obtain my baccalaureate here.”
“Excellent,” Holmes enthused, watching closely without appearing to do so. “Does your son attend?”
“I’m a bachelor, Commander. But I do have family in attendance, yes. I’ve been very active in promoting the Academy. They’ve been good to me, and I feel it’s an excellent institution. I’m pleased to have my relations attend.”
“Ah,” Holmes smiled. “Yes, family is very important. I’ve often said so myself. Whom do you have in attendance, then, if I may? Cousins? Nieces? Nephews?”
“My nephew attends the Academy,” Haines smiled, eyes remaining cool. “He was a second class cadet, last academic year. He is still here, in fact, doing some advanced research during the summer. He will be in the top class this year.”
“Ah, very good,” Holmes congratulated the professor cordially. “I’m sure you’re quite proud.”
“I am indeed. Is your son interested in the physical sciences?”
“Oh, very much so. I fear he’s read a few too many science fiction novels, but he does seem to have an aptitude for it.”
“Oh, you never know,” Haines said, in a somewhat forced tone. He laughed. “What’s in books springs to life every day. What was science fiction yesterday is often science fact today.” He glanced at Sheffield and added, “Perhaps you’d like a quick tour of the department. You’ve caught me at a good time; I don’t have another class for an hour or so. Let me show you around personally.”
“Wonderful,” Holmes agreed, suddenly cautious.
* * *
At the end of the tour, Haines, Sheffield, and “Sigerson” shook hands affably.
“Thank you most kindly, Professor Haines,” Holmes murmured. “I’m sure David will be very excited.”
“A pity he couldn’t come today,” Haines noted circumspectly, a shrewd look in the dark eyes.
“Ah, well, I wanted to surprise him, you know,” Holmes beamed proudly. “He is at work at the hamburger place today; he doesn’t even know I’m here. But he hankers to follow his Da and become a pilot, perhaps even an astronaut, so I thought it would be just the thing.”
“Excellent plan,” Sheffield remarked, pleased. “Now, Dr. Haines, we don’t want to make you late for your next class. Thank you so much for showing us around.”
“You’re welcome, Dean Sheffield,” Haines nodded deferentially. “You know I’m always willing to help out. Take care, and Commander, I look forward to meeting your son in the autumn, if not sooner.”
“Likewise, Professor,” Holmes agreed cheerfully. “Shall we go, Colonel Sheffield?”
“Of course.”
* * *
The next morning, Williams brought word from a number of sources. The search for an Air Force Academy connection was bearing fruit. There was evidence all of the Air Force officers suspected of involvement had been students of Jenkins, with indications that the civilian members also had connections of either friendship or employment with various Academy alumni. Still, as Holmes pointed out, in a town like Colorado Springs, that wasn’t automatically damning. But it was still interesting.
Colonel Jones sent word that Pete Jenkins had called a few contacts at Schriever, curious to know about their new RAF liaison, Commander Sigerson. Fortunately, Jones and Morris had set up a full cover story for Holmes when he’d first assumed the disguise, and the word had gotten back to Jenkins that he was legitimate.
“But,” Skye noted, “that means Sherlock rattled somebody’s chain at the Academy, enough to want to follow up.”
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “In all likelihood, this Professor Haines reported in to Jenkins. Or possibly the dean of admissions, Colonel Sheffield.”
“Sounds like it,” Williams agreed. “Better keep an eye on matters. Maybe we can arrange to have some phones bugged…”
“La la la,” Skye suddenly sang loudly, right over top of Williams. “I hear nothing…”
“Oh,” Williams said, remembering her FBI connection. “Never mind.”
* * *
The military police chief also sent an urgent request. It seemed Harry Parker, one of the suspect contractors, had been called to a meeting at his corporation’s office on Inverness Drive. Since that was off base, Jones and his people had no jurisdiction, and he’d not been able to reach Agent Smith. He had hopes Holmes could keep an eye on matters, and had arranged a meeting with the company’s food services manager, complete with unescorted badge, explaining this would get Holmes inside the building, whereupon he could promptly “get lost.” Appropriate credentials were enclosed with the request.
* * *
“I guess that means I’m back at the Baked Bean today?” Skye decided.
“It would appear so, my dear,” Holmes agreed. “Do you need my help preparing? I shall have to move quickly if I am to make it to the office building in time…”
“Nope, you go put on ‘Mycroft.’ I’ve got an idea for a disguise I can do on my own. I’ll be fine.”
“Good. Though I think I shall forego the bulk this time. All that padding proved devilishly hot the other day.”
“Ew, I bet,” Skye screwed up her face sympathetically. “Well, go ahead and get ready. I’m in no rush, and you are.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Holmes said, headed for the bathroom and makeup. His hair became brown, his eyes, hazel; grey trousers, light blue shirt, navy blazer, and scarlet tie clad his body.
Half an hour later, he was out the door.
* * *
Holmes arrived at the company while Parker was still signing in. He got in line, signed in himself under his nom de guerre, received his visitors badge, and sauntered deeper into the building. Holmes managed to keep Parker in sight, and watched from a distance as he entered a conference room with a large group of men and women. Obviously Holmes could not follow, but it was unlikely Parker could manage any serious covert contact in the middle of a business meeting, especially as he noted the entire lot leaving their cellphones and palm computers outside the room with a security guard.
So the detective wandered casually around the area, careful not to attract attention, waiting for the meeting to end. An hour later it did, and Parker picked up his cellphone and headed for the front of the building without dissimulation. Holmes ambled behind, turning in his badge and following Parker out the door.
But instead of going to his automobile, Parker wandered across the parking lot and down the street, headed for a nearby park. Holmes meandered behind, his tracking skills in full effect.
As he followed the contractor, Holmes noticed a group of teenagers moving down a side street toward him. One glance told him they were looking for trouble, and he cut across the street, trailing down the opposite sidewalk while he kept Parker in sight ahead.
Unfortunately, he didn’t see the other group of teens hidden in the alley—at least, not in time.
* * *
Skye was sitting at the counter of the Baked Bean, dressed as a woman of questionable reputation, quietly sipping a café breve and clandestinely watching Jenkins, when the special cellphone in her pocket began vibrating. She pulled it out and opened it, noting the caller ID as Williams’ number before casually murmuring, “Hi, sweetie.”
The soft voice on the other end said, “Bobcat, this is Footman. Toby is down, I repeat, Toby is down. You are being recalled immediately. Return to Base at once.”
Skye’s head spun and her heart began to pound in fear.
Sherlock got taken down. SHERLOCK got taken down. How?! What happened?? How bad is he hurt? Do they have him? Is he…oh, dear God. He’s not dead, is he? Please, God, don’t let him be dead. Not him, too. Oh, please, God!
“Got it,” she managed to breathe into the phone. “Returni
ng A.S.A.P.”
She left the remains of her coffee and a wad of bills on the table and hurried out the door, getting into the nondescript rental car and leaving as fast as she could without attracting attention, trying to avoid peeling rubber as she did.
Chapter 6—Distressed Detectives
A DISREPUTABLE-LOOKING SKYE SLUNK THROUGH THE hotel and into the saferoom without being seen by guests or regular staff, aided by the MI-5 operatives who awaited her. There, she found the bedroom door closed and Williams waiting for her in the den with makeup wipes and tissues to remove her streetwalker disguise.
“What happened?” she demanded, as she scrubbed away her exaggerated makeup and discarded the battered denim jacket and scruffy brunette wig. She snatched up the t-shirt Williams held and threw it on over the skin-revealing bandeau she wore, tugging it down over skintight jeans. “How bad is he hurt? Who did it? Where did it happen? Is he in the hospital?”
“Calm down, Dr. Chadwick,” Williams soothed. “I recalled you as much for your own safety as to be at his side. He’s here, in the bedroom, resting. He’s not seriously hurt, just thoroughly bruised and banged up and not in the best of moods. Nothing broken, and nothing ruptured. Evidently a street gang who felt he was invading their turf accosted him. Supposedly he was wearing the wrong colors or some such. Something about a Bloods necktie, I gather. I’ve contacted Ryker, Smith, and Jones, as well as a few other operative friends, and we’re still trying to ascertain if it was a legitimate gang misunderstanding, or if somehow they were sicced onto Holmes.”
“How do you know he’s not hurt badly?”
“Because I have paramedic training. I’m not only the team lead, I’m the ‘patch ‘em up guy’ in my unit, and I have access to our service doctor if we should need him. It took some doing to persuade Holmes to let me examine him, I guess because of Victorian attitudes, but I’ve already taken a good long look at him. Nothing serious. Trust me. It was merely a case of beating on him by way of ‘teaching him a lesson.’ Admittedly, we’re fortunate they didn’t pull knives. But,” Williams paused, uncertain how to proceed.
“’But’ what?”
“Well…” Williams gave her a helpless look. “Forgive me if I offend, Doctor. But I know you and Mr. Holmes have…an intimate relationship, and…well, I’m afraid you’ll have to be very gentle with him for a few days.”
“Why?”
Williams grimaced sympathetically as he explained.
“Among other injuries, Mr. Holmes took a knee in the groin. Nothing bad,” he hastened to add, “but he’s…bruised. And while it isn’t much, it doesn’t take much there to be very painful.”
“Oh,” Skye said, nonplused, before pulling a face. “Poor Sherlock. No wonder he balked at an examination.”
“Yes. He looks rather beaten up, black eye and such, but keep in mind when you see him: It looks worse than it really is. He’s decidedly annoyed, I suspect at himself as much as anyone, so he could use a little calming and probably some TLC, too. He’s had ice packs over half his body for awhile; I removed them about five minutes ago. He’ll have to endure them again later, I’m afraid. I’ve already given him something for pain—no, it wasn’t a narcotic,” he added, seeing Skye’s alarmed look. “I know his history, and he himself requested something non-narcotic, I’m pleased to say. So I gave him a horse-sized dose of naproxin for pain, and some diphenhydramine to help him rest. He might even be asleep by now.” Williams jerked a thumb at the door. “Why don’t you go in? I’ll wait out here for a moment should you need anything.”
“Okay,” Skye murmured consent, opening the door and slipping into the darkened bedroom alone.
* * *
She eased the door closed behind herself and stood, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim illumination from the nightlight in the far corner. After a few moments, she was able to discern the outline of Holmes’ body in the bed. Seconds later she saw the glitter of eyes in the shadowed face.
“I guess you’re awake,” she murmured, moving toward the bed.
“I am,” Holmes said brusquely.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a damned fool.”
“No,” Skye shook her head. “Don’t blame yourself. I should have…it was my fault,” she said miserably, offering herself as a scapegoat. “I know you had gangs back in the Victorian timeframe, but street gangs like this developed in the last, oh, half century or so, what with illicit drug smuggling and internationally-organized crime. Some of ‘em are damn near paramilitary groups. So there are some neighborhoods it’s dangerous to go into, in any city. You didn’t know. I’m your liaison—I should have warned you, should have told you what to look out for. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I let you down, and you got hurt.”
* * *
Holmes watched her, seeing her distress, knowing in the next moments the blue eyes would likely well with guilty, worried tears, although seldom did such tears ever overflow. Frankly he was in no mood for it, but neither did he want to make matters worse by being too sharp. Her expression when she’d entered the bedroom indicated Williams had abruptly recalled her with little explanation save that he’d been injured. Undoubtedly she had spent an anxious time of it until she could get back and find out what happened.
She was frightened, and she will always associate such things with finding her parents, no doubt.
At the thought, Holmes’ irritation deflated. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh, then patted the bed beside him.
“Come here, Skye,” he said softly. “It is not your fault. Truthfully, I saw one group of them and was manoeuvring to avoid the confrontation I perceived coming. It was the other group I failed to notice,” he admitted unwillingly, “because I did not know the neighborhood as well as I should have liked. As well as I would have, had I been in my London.” He let out a sigh of regret. “I was, quite simply, outmanoeuvred on unfamiliar territory. I suppose it could happen to anyone, in the circumstances. I suspect I needed more time to learn my way around the city before taking up such an intensive case as this is proving to be.”
While he talked, Skye kicked off her shoes and crawled onto the bed beside him, sitting cross-legged next to him.
“Maybe we should team up for awhile. I still don’t know some parts of the Springs that well, myself. It might be safer. With the two of us working together, we ought to learn even the seedy parts pretty well, and fairly safely.”
“It will be a few days before I am able to take to the streets again for anything,” Holmes said sourly, annoyance returning as he realized how his plans had been derailed. “I seem to be one large bruise.”
“Well, then it’s time to let me take care of you again, for a change. That’s how relationships are supposed to work, you know.”
“You need to keep following Jenkins. We must stay close to our prey.”
“Maybe Williams can help us there. He has a whole network of operative friends. If we sic ‘em onto our suspects directly, instead of using them only as my backup…”
Holmes chuckled, stopping abruptly at the pain in his pummeled rib cage.
“The twenty-first century Colorado Springs version of the Baker Street Irregulars, eh? It might work, at that.”
“And it has the advantage of not raising suspicion by our suspects seeing the same old broad wandering around all the time,” Skye grinned, lacing her fingers in his.
“What is an ‘old broad’?” Holmes wondered, tugging her down onto the bed by those same fingers. He stared at her in confusion.
“Oh, it’s a reference to an older woman, and not a very complimentary one. As in, ‘broad in the beam.’” Skye laughed as she stretched out beside him.
“Ah. Then the term does not belong in any reference to you,” he declared, trying to put his arms around her and failing.
“You didn’t see my disguise today,” Skye snickered. “You’d already left by the time I got it on. It was pretty…disreputable.”
“Still,” Holmes replied
firmly, dismissing the entire concept with a single word. He made another, more determined, attempt at drawing her into his arms, and only stopped when his shoulder balked. Holmes sighed, realizing just how stiff his body was, and fully cognizant of the fact it was only going to get worse before it got better. At the same time, he knew Skye needed the comfort of closeness; the blue eyes gazing at him still held the same distress in their depths that had appeared only minutes earlier. For that matter, the thought of warm, soft arms around his battered body sounded wonderfully soothing to the detective. So Holmes swallowed his pride.
“Skye, hold me.”
“Wh-what?”
“Hold me. I fear I cannot get my insulted muscles to cooperate.”
“Okay, I’ll try,” Skye said hesitantly. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You will not hurt me. Just hold me.”
* * *
Quickly she sat up and disrobed, then slid under the sheets, reaching for him and gathering him gently into her arms. A chary Holmes rolled over, cautiously allowing her to pull him partly on top of her. He curled his body slightly, tucking his top knee between her thighs and resting his head on her shoulder. His long fingers skimmed across her belly before his hand tucked itself beneath her far side in a loose embrace.
“Mm,” he sighed in obvious relief, after a few moments. “This is likely the most comfortable I have been since the fight.”
“Good,” Skye murmured in his ear, rubbing his bruised back in a soothing fashion, careful to keep her touch feather-light. “You should try to get some sleep if you can.”
* * *
“Provided you will stop blaming yourself, I will try.”
“…Okay.”
Holmes’ aching body relaxed against his mate’s, and he finally allowed the medications to take effect. In minutes he was sound asleep.
* * *
Roughly an hour later, a light knock fell on the bedroom door. Holmes never stirred. Skye, who still cradled the detective’s sleeping form, was briefly alarmed.
Oh, joy. Sherlock will not like this. Aside from the fact neither of us has a stitch on, he’s snuggled right up to me, and I know how he hates for people to see his private, intimate side. But if I move, or get out of bed, he might wake up, and he needs to rest, SO badly.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 59
