“Any feeling of intent?”
“Definite intent,” another remarked. “It was…looking…for something. A natural phenom doesn’t sweep a grid pattern. This bugger did. Nice and precise, too.”
“Blast and damnation,” Gregory sighed. “What was it looking for? Any ideas?”
“That’s the prize question, isn’t it, boss?” the second field investigator shrugged. “If we could answer that, problem solved, and on to the next issue—which is, what to do about it?”
“Yeah,” Gregory muttered. “Well, boys and girls, get your reports together fast. Headquarters is breathing down our necks. Word has it the Director General herself is involved, and you know to whom SHE reports. We’re likely to have help soon. In fact, some experts are supposed to be coming down from London as we speak, to work alongside.”
There was a collective groan from the room.
“All right, boss,” the team lead noted. “Everyone, laptops out, reports in half an hour. Type fast.”
* * *
Ryker came into the Director’s office at speed, bearing the collected dispatches from the field office.
“Here you go, madam,” he noted, handing them to the Secret Service director. “The latest on the phaenomenon. I can’t say I’m pleased with the way this is headed.”
The scowling director scanned through the reports, speed-reading. “Ah, I see your point. Are the subject matter experts on their way?”
“They are.”
“Very good. Dismissed.” As Ryker turned to leave, she changed her mind. “Ryker, wait a moment.”
“Yes, madam?” He stopped, pivoting smartly on his heel to face her once more.
“Your…friends…in America…” She pondered briefly.
“Williams, madam?”
“No, the scientist and a certain detective.” She threw a small grin at the agent.
“Ah,” Ryker grinned back at her, “Dr. Skye Chadwick and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
“The very ones. What are they doing at the present time?”
“I don’t know offhand, madam, but I can contact Williams and find out,” Ryker said. “I have strong reason to believe they may be coming across the Pond for a visit after the first of the year, however. Are you considering calling them in on this?”
“Possibly,” the director confessed, looking over one of the dispatches. “Certainly they possess the specific expertise necessary to look into so abstruse a problem as this. They…” she paused, staring at the paper in her hand. “The night vision goggles showed a HOLE in the middle of the object?” She raised her head, gazing at Ryker in astonishment.
“Yes, ma’am. It makes no sense, I know, but that’s just like it happened back in 1980.”
“And you have every confidence in Chadwick and Holmes.” She eyed Ryker sternly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ryker responded smartly, with confident emphasis.
“And this is really THE Sherlock Holmes?”
“Without doubt,” Ryker smiled. His certainty was almost palpable. Despite this fact, the Director sighed without enthusiasm.
“Very well. Yes, Captain Ryker. Contact Captain Williams and have him ascertain their availability. Provide Williams with a detailed abstract of events through appropriately secure channels, and see to it he briefs Holmes and Chadwick on the matter as soon as possible. Ensure they are instructed to stand by in the event they are called in on the case.”
“Consider it done.” Ryker snapped off a salute before spinning and exiting the office.
Chapter 1—Detective Diaries
October 30
This is certainly not my usual notion of working out my thoughts.
Then again, it was hardly my idea.
To cut to the heart of the matter: In recent nights, I have been having a recurrent dream—more a nightmare, really, I suppose, though it lacks the standard horrific setting and characters. In it, Watson, dear old chap, searches all London for me, yet even when I respond to his calls, even when he is face to face with me, he can neither see nor hear me. It is quite annoying, all in all—and, frankly, not a little disturbing. Skye seems convinced it is my subconscious response to being forcibly yanked into a new continuum and having all contact severed with my former life, friends, and family. There may, I suppose, be something to that.
Nevertheless, it was her idea to keep a journal. I am not normally one for such things, save perhaps in order to record specifics on a given criminal, and when she suggested the idea, I merely smiled, nodded, and went on constructing my second beehive. It is, of course, far too late in the season to do much with it. But the first beehive is already occupied by a healthy swarm of honeybees, and I intend to have this, and one more, ready come spring.
I am quite sure my disinterest was patently evident upon my face; Skye is nothing if not observant. But my dear Skye is also nothing if not determined. And so this morning I found myself presented with a blank journal.
It is a handsome thing; bound in soft brown leather with an illustration from the Book of Kells embossed upon the covers. So she seems to already know of my family’s Anglo-Saxon origins. At any rate, it is too bonny a gift to ignore, nor would I wound her by so doing. She believes it will help—and perhaps, a great perhaps, it will. It cannot hurt, I suppose.
So the reticent detective sits here writing upon his drawn-up knees, unaccustomedly bemused, trying to decide what one says in such a journal. I should ask Skye, saving she appears to be already asleep. Her golden hair is spilled across the pillow beside me, and her eyelashes are quivering, denoting her dreams, without doubt. Would that I could read those quivers as I read her expressions, as I read marks in the soil; but I fear they will ever remain a mystery to me. She is a delightful thing, is my Skye. One would never guess she is nearing the thirty-ninth anniversary of her birth.
Which brings up another consideration: It is one week until her birthday, and I have yet to acquire a suitable gift. I find I am again torn, as once more, the detective and the artist do battle over this relationship.
* * *
Holmes looked up as the grandfather clock chimed in the hall. “Eleven o’clock,” he breathed. “Now I understand how Watson could lose track of time, when he was setting down one of our cases.” He closed the journal and laid it and his fountain pen on the nightstand. He spared one more fully illumined glance at the lovely face lying beside him on the pillow before turning out the lamp.
Then he uncurled his “desk,” stretching his long legs under the covers with a sigh as he slid deeper into the bed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, late of Victorian England, turned toward Dr. Skye Chadwick, hyperspatial physicist of 21st century America, pressed a soft kiss against her sleeping forehead, and drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Holmes had been covertly collecting dead and scrap wood for the last month, determined to provide a proper bonfire for Skye’s birthday. It seemed only appropriate to the English-born detective, as his bosom companion had been born on Guy Fawkes Day, that her birthday should be aptly celebrated. Two days before her birthday, on November third, a heavy snowfall blanketed the Colorado Front Range, and Holmes and Skye awoke to over a foot of snow covering the yard outside their ranch house near Florissant, Colorado, in the mountains to the west of Colorado Springs. The local authorities called later that day to inform Holmes that his request for fireworks on the Fifth was therefore approved. He shot a surreptitious glance at an oblivious Skye, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief and mirth; thanked the sheriff, and hung up.
* * *
Then they went outside to shovel a path to the barn and tend the horses. When all four woolly equines had eaten, they turned the horses loose in the pasture, then stood and watched in amusement as the horses bucked and cavorted like children in the first real snow of the season.
While Skye went back inside and prepared breakfast, Holmes continued wielding the snow shovel until the driveway was passable. Only then did he come inside and eagerly partake of the hot meal
Skye had waiting for him.
But as soon as he’d finished eating, Holmes betook himself to the bedroom, where he showered and dressed in clean, warm clothes: hiking boots, flannel-lined jeans, a thermal t-shirt, and a flannel shirt. His cowboy hat went onto his head, and his denim jacket topped all.
This is nothing like my attire would have been in my own day, he thought with a mental sigh, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Victorian attire was rather more…dapper. But it is comfortable, and warm, and apropos to the time and place, so it will have to do.
As he passed through the den, Skye looked up from the couch, where she read a technical journal. “Whoa. Where are you going?”
“Out,” Holmes said, succinct.
“Yeah, but…where?”
“Into town.” This answer contained slightly more information than his previous, but that wasn’t saying much.
“Sherlock, wait.”
“Why?” Holmes paused in the southern hallway.
“You haven’t been driving that long,” Skye pointed out, fishing her boots from under the coffee table. “You haven’t ever tried to drive in snow before. Hang on a second, and I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”
Holmes turned toward her in chagrin.
“I shall be fine, Skye,” he declared, hiding dismay. “I will not be long.”
“Sherlock,” she protested, shoving her feet into her boots, “if there’s black ice on the road, you could wipe out before you blink. Now hang on, and I’ll take you.”
Holmes returned to her side, crouching in front of her.
“No.”
Skye paused, looking up into his hawklike, determined face in stunned confusion.
“No?”
“No.”
“But…”
“No questions, my dear Skye,” Holmes said, allowing a twinkle to appear in the grey eyes. “You shall stay here today. I hardly think it necessary to say anything more.”
Sapphire eyes blinked back at him, still bewildered and worried. It suddenly occurred to Holmes that Skye was focused upon his safety to the exclusion of all else; her upcoming birthday, and his likely reason for going into town, simply were not in her realm of thought at that moment. One of the most brilliant scientists in the world, he considered, and the only thought in her mind at this moment is keeping you safe, Sherlock. You are indeed fortunate, old chap. Finally he decided another, more direct hint was in order.
“Skye, what is today?”
“November third,” she answered, watching him anxiously, trying to understand.
“And what is in two days’ time?”
“November fifth,” Skye murmured, still befuddled.
Holmes’ lips twitched in amusement. My, she is fixated this morning. “And what is so important—to you—about November fifth?”
Comprehension dawned in the blue eyes.
“Oh! My birth— Is THAT why you don’t want me coming with you? You’re getting something for my birthday?”
“Finally!” Holmes exclaimed in lighthearted gratification. “I was beginning to think that brilliant grey matter of yours would never awaken this morning!”
“Well, I hadn’t really bothered to wake it up.” Skye ran a hand over her face, grinning sheepishly. “Days when I don’t need to get out, I like lazing in front of the fire.”
“And it shows, my dear.” Holmes laughed in that silent way he had. “Not that there is anything wrong with that; I have been known to do the same, when there is no case pressing. Stay here and relax. I shall not be gone over-long. Would you like for me to bring anything home for tonight? Or is there anything we need from the grocer’s?”
“Not particularly. But I still think I ought to drive you. I’d much rather spoil a birthday surprise than have you hurt…or worse.”
“I shall be fine, my dearest Skye,” Holmes assured her softly, touched by her concern. “Do you recall when I spent some little time with Agent Smith in September, training on modern FBI techniques?”
“Yeah?”
“That included all-terrain, all-condition driving. I am now quite as good behind the wheel as ever I was in the seat of a hansom. And that is saying somewhat.”
“Oh. I didn’t know. Okay.”
* * *
He turned for the door, and Skye called, “Oh, hey! Will you be back in time for lunch, or not?”
“Mm,” Holmes pulled his pocket-watch from the coin pocket of his jeans and checked it. “It is already quite late in the morning. No, my dear, I shall merely obtain a bite in town. But you may expect me for tea.”
“Okay,” Skye said cheerfully, coming to him and wrapping her arms around him. “Tea it is.” She stretched up and kissed him.
The fond gesture took him off guard, and the detective caught her close, returning the kiss. After several moments, he put her aside.
“I had best go,” he said in an uneven voice, “before you change my mind on the schedule for the day.”
“I’ll still be here when you get back.” Skye giggled mischievously. “Is there…anything in particular…you want for tea?” The devilish sky-blue eyes glimmered.
“‘All that I have to say has already crossed your mind.’” Grey eyes gleamed in response.
“‘Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,’” she smiled, continuing their quotation game, started some weeks before.
“‘You stand fast?’” Holmes cited Moriarty, but with a playful grin.
“‘Absolutely,’” Skye responded, smirking.
“I…eagerly anticipate it,” Holmes’ grin grew wider as he dropped the game. “Perhaps I shall get home BEFORE tea-time.”
And he was gone.
* * *
Holmes returned several hours later, bearing several bags and packages, one of which was hidden in his jacket pocket. The rest he left in the kitchen, putting the bottle of wine into the refrigerator to chill for that evening. A single, freshly baked shortbread cookie wedge lay on the kitchen table; he stared at it for no more than a moment before it dawned on him that the cookie had been positioned very deliberately relative to the table and the door. Upon its urging, he walked to the kitchen door and peered out.
A bright red napkin lay in the doorway to the den; another wedge-shaped cookie rested on it, pointing into the den. Grey eyes narrowed, and Holmes’ lips quirked in a hint of amusement. The game is afoot, I suppose, but not quite the game to which I am accustomed.
Holmes retreated to the kitchen, catching up the first cookie and nibbling on it as he headed down the hall. He stooped and picked up the second cookie with its napkin before continuing into the den.
Skye wasn’t there, as he had half expected. But another golden cookie and scarlet napkin lay on the coffee table, pointing toward the hallway into the north wing. Instead of following the toothsome clue, however, Holmes paused, surveying the room.
He detoured, moving to the bookcase along the south wall and pulling several books from the top shelf, well above Skye’s ready range of vision, though not his own. The small box came out of his pocket to be secreted behind the books; the books went back into place. An altogether excellent hiding place, that. I shall come back and rearrange things later, in case I should need to use it for Christmas as well. Perhaps a lower shelf…
Then he returned to the coffee table and retrieved the cookie.
He found another cookie on an identical napkin inside the arch into the north hallway. By this time, Holmes was grinning, having noted the door into the master suite was closed—and the last cookie lay on a fourth napkin on the floor, pointing to the closed door.
He bent and picked up the last cookie, adding it to the pile in his left hand. He pushed open the bedroom door and looked inside.
Skye sat on the side of the bed, clad in pale blue satin. The bed was turned down, and the blankets lay invitingly open. The near nightstand contained a large tray, on which sat a tea service for two. The rest of the shortbread lay on a platter beside the teapot, along with assorted other
finger foods. Holmes’ dressing gown draped casually across the foot of the bed, awaiting him.
“My dear Mr. Holmes,” Skye murmured demurely, “welcome home.”
Holmes moved into the room, closing the door behind him.
* * *
A call regarding a case came up late that afternoon—well after tea time, fortunately—from Peterson Air Force Base, and Holmes took the information, choosing to consider it from the comfort of home, given the additional snow flurries drifting down from leaden clouds scudding overhead. He pondered the rest of the afternoon; then he and Skye discussed it over supper in some detail, before repairing to the den. Holmes stoked the fire, Skye put some Wagner on the stereo, and Holmes fetched the chilled wine from the refrigerator, snagging two wineglasses and the corkscrew on his way past the kitchen cabinets. They settled down on the sofa before the fire as Holmes opened and poured the wine. Clinking his glass to hers, Holmes declared, “To the first snow of the season.”
“With plenty more where that came from,” Skye grinned, and they sipped. “Your pipe is on the end table by your elbow, if you want it.”
“You are indeed a gem, my dear,” he murmured.
“Well, I figured you had at least a one-pipe problem in hand. Have at it.”
Holmes sat his wineglass on the end table beside the pipe. Then he prized off his boots with his toes and tucked his stockinged feet into the corner of the sofa. In a matter of minutes the pipe was duly packed, tamped, and lit; tendrils of smoke curled about the dark head as he reached for his wineglass once more. He reclined into the corner of the couch and opened his arms; Skye leaned into his warm body. A small Siamese cat emerged from behind the sofa and curled up on Holmes’ shoes, purring.
They spent the evening in silent contentment, brooding on the ramifications of the case. Their only accompaniments were the soft strains of Wagner, gentle purring, and the cheerful crackle of the fire.
* * *
Holmes rose very early the next morning, wrapped himself in his dressing gown, and called down to Peterson. The night before, the pillow talk between himself and Skye revealed each had independently come to the same conclusion on the little puzzle, so Holmes felt quite comfortable notifying the base military police of their solution. After the phone call he checked the thermostat, nudging it upward to counter the nip in the air. A peep through the window curtains indicated the weather had cleared: A bright blue sky, shading to pink in the east where the sun rose, gleamed over a sparkling white landscape. Then he stoked the fireplace, adding several logs to warm the house more quickly.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 76
