The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Keeping the animal cradled against her stomach, Skye leaned back, stretching out along the cedar planking of the deck and staring into the deep sky. Up here at well over a mile and a half in altitude, away from any population centers, the stars stood out vividly; faceted diamonds in black velvet seeming almost close enough to reach. Skye gazed into the depths of the universe for a long time, silent, musing. In the distance, a coyote howled.

  “I suppose I could try to restructure the tesseract,” she considered after awhile. Her eyes were still fixed on the heavens, and she added, “If I eliminate the time elements from the waveform and leave the spatial ones, I could adapt it into interstellar transport. NASA might be interested…”

  Finally she sat up with an impatient exclamation. The sudden movement startled Anna, who jumped up and scampered off.

  “Aw, who am I kidding?” Skye upbraided herself. “After all that’s happened, nobody will touch it, and rightfully so. It’s gonna be a long time before technology is advanced enough to make a tesseract safe. Maybe not even in my lifetime, and I invented the damn thing. Let it go, Skye. You did what you set out to do. Now it’s time to move on.” She paused, downcast and aimless. “I just wish I knew where.”

  She dragged her hands wearily over her face, then stared out over her little ranch. The horses had finished their dinner, and now moved into the pasture. Crunching sounds drifted to her ears as they grazed. Their forms were faintly silhouetted against a silver glow in the east, and Skye noted the moon would be rising soon.

  “I suppose I could always chuck the science, stay up here, and raise and train horses full-time. I’m fairly good at it.”

  “If it would make you happy, do it,” a quiet, familiar voice said from the shadows on the other end of the deck, near the steps. “But I was wondering if we could add a couple of beehives.”

  “Sherlock?!” she exclaimed in surprise, twisting around to watch him emerge into the burgeoning moonlight. He was dressed for travel, in chinos, a pale blue shirt, and a tweed jacket. “What are you doing back? You had some fancy dinner thing in Washington tonight, didn’t you?”

  * * *

  “I did,” he confirmed, striding laconically across the deck before folding his long legs and sitting beside her. “But it was cancelled.” He didn’t tell her it had been cancelled because the guest of honor chose to decamp for Colorado once more.

  “How did you get back?”

  “I flew,” he said, deliberately obtuse, and his teeth flashed as he grinned in the darkness. She made as if to get up, and he laid a restraining hand on her arm. “No, no, sit; I’ve already eaten. I had an early dinner in Dallas during my layover, a very nice barbecue brisket with a good local bock. Colonel Jones was kind enough to pick me up at the airport in the Springs and bring me up the pass to drop me off. But I had him let me out at the road and walked up the hill. After several hours confined within an aeroplane, I needed to stretch my legs rather badly. Besides, I hoped to surprise you.”

  * * *

  “You certainly managed it, then. How did everything go?” Skye wondered as he peeled off the tweed jacket and laid it on the deck nearby.

  “About the way such things usually go.” Holmes shrugged nonchalantly. “I was wined, dined, and feted.” He shot her a mischievous glance, and she wondered exactly how long he’d been standing in the shadows of the deck. “At each event, much was made of the case so recently, and so successfully, concluded. And at each event I pointed out that there were hands and eyes involved in addition to my own, at least one set of which saved my life.” Holmes gave her another look, and Skye saw approval in the grey gaze. She smiled her gratitude, but said nothing.

  “Then an offer was made,” he observed. “It was quite a generous offer, in fact. Something about a ‘James Bond’ sort of situation, which I found amusing. With remuneration even more extravagant than my Schriever contract.”

  Skye snorted, then snickered.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all. They don’t offer those to just anybody. So you came back to pack your things?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  * * *

  Holmes studied Skye for a moment, watching her face. Then he turned, schooling his expression into neutrality as he watched the moonrise over the shoulder of Pikes Peak.

  “Too much of it was simplistic, Skye,” he said at last. “Undistinguished, unchallenging, uninteresting, dare I say boring, and the sorts of trifling matters I have always eschewed. Oh, I solved a few petty little problems for them while I was there. Important from their viewpoint, I suppose—but not from mine. And yes, we have an understanding, your government and I…but not the one they expected. For they do not need me—at least, not in the capacity they thought they did.”

  * * *

  He pulled his jacket back into his lap, reaching into the inner pocket before producing his visa. Opening the cover, he held it out to her. She looked down and studied it for a moment before recognizing it was no longer the same one General Morris had procured for him. A crisp new diplomatic A-2 visa lay in his hand, prominently displaying the name William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

  “Oh,” Skye said, but her heart lifted, a glimmer of hope in it.

  “Have you ever been to Washington, D.C., Skye?”

  “Many times.”

  “What was your impression of it?”

  Skye pursed her lips thoughtfully.

  “A place of power. Power you can feel, like a heartbeat. Very intense…but not someplace I’d personally want to live for very long, precisely because of that.”

  * * *

  Holmes nodded, understanding exactly what she was trying to say.

  “It is a beautiful city. Hardly so old as the European capitols which I used to frequent, but beautiful nevertheless. A bit too artificial for my taste, too planned, but that is merely my opinion. It certainly does not represent the great dynamic, organic amalgam that was my London.” He gave her a grey glance from the corner of his eye before he spoke again. “Despite all the honours, I found it a cold place, unwelcoming and even possibly forbidding.”

  Holmes paused, watching one elk emerge, then two, from the trees at the far edge of the upper pasture. The creatures moved into the grass, unconcerned about the four horses mere yards away, and started foraging.

  “Colorado, on the other hand, is beautiful, and wild, and welcoming. With room for bees, and horses, and mountains and prairies, and classified programs, and animated cities filled with people. All the scope a consulting detective could wish.”

  “And there are airports,” Skye pointed out softly, “in case Washington should call, with an especially interesting case.”

  “Yes, there are airports, for when Washington—or London—will call,” Holmes nodded agreement. “And one more, very important factor,” he added, discarding both jacket and visa on the deck beside him.

  “What’s that?”

  Holmes wrapped an arm around Skye’s shoulders and pulled her against his side.

  “The Woman is here.”

  They were quiet for a moment. In the distance, a coyote raised its voice in song.

  “Lovely,” Holmes murmured dreamily. “Do you know, I found I missed the coyote song, while I was in Washington. I had already gotten used to hearing it. There was a song in my mind, during the flight home. Do you have any idea what it was?”

  * * *

  “No,” Skye replied, content to sit beside him and listen to his voice.

  Then, to her surprise, he began to sing softly, in a clear, resonant baritone.

  “’When it’s springtime in the Rockies,

  I am coming back to you,

  Little sweetheart of the mountains,

  With your bonny eyes of blue.

  Once again I’ll say I love you,

  While the birds sing all the day.

  When it’s springtime in the Rockies,

  In the Rockies, far away.’”

  * * *

  When the song ended, they wer
e quiet for several seconds. Finally he murmured, “There. Now you have had your…” he paused, retrieved the modern term from his memory, “‘significant other’…sing it for you.”

  Skye smiled at him, her blue eyes sparkling.

  “And it was wonderful.” She paused. “There was just one problem.”

  “And what would that be?” Holmes stared at her, anxiety in his grey eyes.

  “It’s not springtime anymore. It’s August.” Skye gave him a cheeky grin.

  “Summertime, then.” Holmes snorted his amusement.

  Skye leaned into him, accepting. For long minutes they said nothing, merely watched the moon move higher into the sky.

  “You have never answered my question,” Holmes observed.

  “What was it again?”

  “Is there room on the ranch for a few beehives?”

  “As long as you keep ‘em away from the horses, I think we might manage a few.” Skye grinned.

  “Good. Tomorrow I may take the lorry into town to get material for hive frames, then.”

  “Okay. Can you pick up a couple bags of horse feed while you’re at it?”

  “Of course.”

  Anna returned, greeting Holmes with a purr and depositing a dead cricket beside him as a welcome-home offering. Long male fingers rubbed under whiskers, and the purr grew louder. The little Siamese clambered over Holmes’ near leg, sprawling herself contentedly across both his and Skye’s laps, literally laying claim to her human couple. Holmes chuckled.

  “Anna,” he addressed the feline, “I believe I know precisely what that feels like.”

  “Do you, now?” Skye queried, glancing up at him mischievously.

  Holmes nudged her head down onto his shoulder, his arm tightening about her. Her hand slipped affectionately around his back, and he sighed contentedly.

  “I do,” he told Skye confidently. “I most definitely do.”

  The Case of the Cosmological Killer:

  The Rendlesham Incident

  Prologue—Encounters

  LEEMING TOWER, THIS IS BLUE-ONE-NINER; Tower, this is Blue-One-Niner.”

  “This is RAF Leeming. Go, Blue-One-Niner.”

  “Tower, I have visual at one o’clock low, approaching coast along south-southeast heading; range, estimated twelve klicks. Request verification and possible change of altitude.”

  “Blue-One-Niner, this is Tower. Please repeat visual info.”

  “Tower, Blue-One-Niner. Visual at one o’clock low, estimated range ten klicks and closing.”

  “Blue-One-Niner, Tower. I thought you said twelve klicks.”

  “Tower, One-Niner. I did; it’s incoming.”

  “Blue-One-Niner, radar shows no other aircraft in your vicinity.”

  “Leeming, better look again. It’s right there, range now…HOLY SHIT! It just accelerated! Range now seven kilometres and closing fast! I am executing evasive manoeuvers! Climbing to twelve thousand metres! Bogey heading south-southeast, nearing coastline…”

  “Copy, Blue-One-Niner. Evasive manoeuvers; you are cleared to twelve thousand. Be advised, radar still shows no—hold one! Where the bloody hell did THAT come from?! Contact Fylingdales—you did? They don’t? Roger that! All other traffic on this channel, this is Leeming Tower; please move to Channel Four immediately. Blue-One-Niner, this is Tower! Do you still have visual on bogey?”

  “Roger, Tower! Closing fast…”

  “You are authorised to pursue and bring down, peaceful preferred. Scrambling backup.”

  “Copy, pursue and bring down. If peaceful refused?”

  “You are authorised to use whatever means necessary. If peaceful refused, consider hostile.”

  “Roger that. It’s passing below me now. Turning to pursue.”

  “Copy that. Blue-One-Niner, can you identify aircraft? Radar signature is…inconclusive.”

  “Uh…Tower, that visual is an inconclusive, too. It doesn’t look like any bloody aircraft I’ve ever seen. In fact, it doesn’t even look like an aircraft…”

  “Description?”

  “It’s a…big fuzzy ball, glowing kind of…yellowish-orange. And moving like a bat out of hell.”

  “Blue-One-Niner, please repeat last transmission. It sounded like you said a big fuzzy ball?”

  “Affirm, Tower, that’s exactly what I said. Think…giant tennis ball, only more orange. Still approaching coastline near Scarborough… correction! Bogey has changed heading! Damn! Stand by, Tower…”

  “Leeming Tower standing by.”

  “Tower, this is Blue-One-Niner. I don’t know what the blazes they’ve got, but it’s way the hell more manoeuvreable than my Typhoon. They just executed a sharp turn to port, and I do mean sharp! I overshot by several miles inland, trying to make the turn. They are now paralleling the coastline, bearing southeast.”

  “Roger that, Blue-One-Niner. We…saw the turn on radar…”

  “Yeah, you probably see something else, too.”

  “Roger that. Bogey is…ACCELERATING?!”

  “Like that bat out of hell—on warp drive. Punching ‘burners…”

  “Blue-One-Niner, this is Leeming Tower. Report.”

  “Leeming, this is Blue-One-Niner. Sorry, mates, she’s outstripped me by a long shot. Keep ‘er on radar as long as you can, and try to anticipate and scramble interceptors. I’ve already almost lost visual.”

  “Roger that…”

  * * *

  Inside the radar room at RAF Fylingdales, the Officer of the Day discussed the situation with his chief technician.

  “Are you sure?” the OD pressed his radar tech.

  “Positive, sir,” the tech replied, grim. “We’ve been watching it for the last five minutes, ever since it showed on radar. The only thing I know of that can travel that fast is a blasted Space Shuttle, and even they couldn’t make manoeuvres like this ruddy thing is making. We’re gathering all the radar data on it we can, profiles and such, but so far, we’ve not been able to put a plane close. Blue-One-Niner got a good visual on it, but that was sheer dumb luck.”

  “What kind of craft was One-Niner in? Recon?”

  “A Typhoon, sir. And the bogey left it in the dust, even on full afterburners.”

  “Bollocks!” the OD exclaimed, shocked and gawking. “Left in the DUST? A TYPHOON?!”

  “Like it was sitting still, as near as I can tell from air-to-ground transmissions. Radar supported the assessment, too.”

  The OD thought hard for several moments.

  “Any idea where it’s headed?”

  “Yeah.” The techie scowled.

  “Well?”

  “You’re not gonna like it.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “Bentwaters.” The engineer gazed solemnly at his superior. The OD blanched.

  “Bugger. Get the brass on the bloody horn!”

  * * *

  Deep beneath the seemingly abandoned RAF Bentwaters base, ciphered telephones were ringing off their hooks. Frantic officers and enlisted personnel scurried about, attempting to ascertain under what sort of threat they were operating.

  The underground facility itself was under full lockdown, with absolutely no sign of life visible to the outside.

  And that was precisely how they wanted it.

  Far overhead, in the deepening twilight sky, a glowing golden sphere floated, searching.

  * * *

  In the Headquarters of Her Majesty’s Secret Service, the Director General was in her office, reviewing the dispatches as soon as they arrived.

  “Not again,” she muttered under her breath, obviously deeply concerned. “I thought we were done with this decades ago.”

  “Doesn’t look like it, madam,” Captain Braeden Ryker noted, subdued, handing her another report. “All hell is breaking loose out there, by the sound of it. Some of the public reports are probably spurious, and some of it—seventy-five percent, I’d say—likely due to hoaxes and copycats and just plain power of suggestion. But that still leaves the remaining tw
enty-five percent as real. We’ve got jets scrambled all along the coast, and except for the initial intercept, which was accidental, not one of our aircraft could even get close enough to see the thing.” He looked down at the paper in his hand. “We did luck out on one point. Our local field office got a heads-up from Fylingdales at the same time they notified Bentwaters, and Gregory got his ass in gear with record speed. He mobilised a field team in time to have a gander at the object. They’re still in the field, so we don’t have word yet.”

  “Is it still out there?”

  Ryker glanced again at the communiqué in his hand.

  “Not according to the latest information, no, madam.”

  “Get a detail out there and start looking into the situation.” The director shook her head, obviously gravely concerned.

  “What about…?” Ryker began, then added candidly, “Do you want me to override Gregory, madam?”

  “No, I want you to work WITH him,” the Director declared with a wave of her hand. “Get some of the Headquarters experts out there right alongside his team—specialists, to aid him in his assessment, not supersede him. I know Gregory. He’s a good man, with a good team. I simply want all the data we can gather. I want to know what this thing is, where it’s from, what it’s after, and I want to know five minutes ago.”

  “Right away, madam,” Ryker nodded, exiting swiftly.

  * * *

  The field excursion team filed into the back of the nondescript office building, entering an equally bland conference room. They appeared to be college students and young professionals, clad in jeans or chinos and shirts, carrying attaché cases or backpacks, as appropriate. When the last of them arrived and the conference room door closed, they turned to the man in the corner.

  “Here we go again, Gregory,” the field team lead sighed, shaking his head. “It’s the Halt transcript all over again, right down to the imagery in the night vision goggles.”