“Okay,” Skye grinned, plopping the washcloth back into her water basin, to Holmes’ secret disappointment. “Let me do that and you can be sipping it while I doctor your chest.”
“Very well.”
Skye discarded the basin and scurried out of the room, returning several minutes later with a tall glass of fizzy, iced liquid, and a plastic bendy-straw.
“Okay, let’s get you sitting up a little more,” she noted, placing the glass on the nightstand and slipping her hands under Holmes’ shoulders. With her help, he pushed up to a sitting position, and Skye grabbed the pillows, piling them into a comfortable back support. Her chest was mere fractions of an inch from his, the shirt over her breasts occasionally even brushing him, and he could feel her body heat. He struggled to keep the color from rising in his face, and evidently managed it well enough to be taken as only fever flush, for she made no remark as she helped him ease into the pillows.
“There. Comfortable?”
“Very much so,” Holmes agreed, settling into the pillows. Skye handed him the drink, and he sipped it while she investigated his chest cut.
“Oh, that looks much better,” Skye noted once she’d gotten the bandage off. “It’s a lot less red and angry this morning.”
Holmes glanced down at his chest and nodded.
“Indeed,” he decided, examining the cut. He aimed a finger at it with the intention to poke it, but Skye grabbed his hand before he could.
“No, your hands aren’t clean. I just washed mine. What is it you’re trying to do?”
“See if it is still sore.”
“Okay.” Skye slid a fingertip gingerly across the cut, watching Holmes’ face as he watched her finger. “How’s that?”
“Excellent. Much better than yesterday.” Holmes nodded his satisfaction. He returned his attention to his electrolyte solution while Skye replaced the bandage. “And this tastes rather better than I would have expected,” he noted, staring into the glass and stirring it with the straw.
“Good. Drink up. Be forewarned, I’m gonna push fluids into you today until you float away. You ran quite a fever last night and you’re dehydrated.”
“I am agreeable,” Holmes nodded, sipping his drink.
“Good. You drink that, and I’ll go fix breakfast.”
* * *
Skye brought a tray about twenty minutes later. She’d made a western omelet, accompanied with buttered toast, strawberry jam, tea with cream, and orange juice. By the time she arrived with it, Holmes’ eyes lit up at the sight.
“Looks like somebody feels better,” Skye observed, seeing the empty glass sitting on the bedside table.
“Yes,” was Holmes’ succinct answer as he launched into an enthusiastic consumption of breakfast. After several minutes, he looked up. “What about yours, my dear?”
“Oh, I’ll eat later. I’m not too hungry this morning.”
* * *
Holmes paused, scrutinizing her, then reasoning from his observations. “You got insufficient sleep last night. You stayed up tending me.”
“No big deal.” Skye shrugged, avoiding his gaze.
Holmes eyed her for a long moment; unbeknownst to him—though it would not have surprised him to find out—said eyes were two silver orbs set within black circles in the midst of the aquiline face. He watched Skye as she puttered around the room, an unassuming, unprepossessing expression on her face. He grasped if he said any more on the subject he would embarrass her and make her self-conscious, so he let the matter be, and resumed eating, surreptitiously watching her all the while. Once she had tidied up, Skye moved to the door.
“I’ll be back in awhile to get the tray. Kick back and relax. Later, if you feel like it, you can go into the den, watch TV or something.”
“Very well,” Holmes agreed, devoting his full attention to breakfast as she left.
* * *
As the day progressed, Holmes’ constitution stood him in good stead, as did Skye’s diligent tending. She made him rest as much as he would permit, fed him well, and made sure he was well hydrated. By the end of the day, he was almost back to normal.
But when he went to sleep that night, his dreams were filled with warm hands massaging his bare, wet chest.
* * *
Holmes was still a little limp the next morning, but refused to let it keep him from his investigation, and as the day progressed, his full strength returned. When he and Skye arrived at their office on Schriever after lunchtime, there was a message awaiting them from Colonel Jones. Holmes called Jones immediately, while Skye made a fresh pot of coffee, and in less than fifteen minutes, Jones arrived for coffee and conversation.
“I’ve got news,” he declared right off the bat as they settled into chairs, then stared as he got his first good look at Holmes’ battered face. “Ow.”
“Then let us hear it,” Holmes said, an eager glimmer in the steely, black-circled eyes, choosing to ignore the editorial exclamation.
* * *
“First of all, we’ve got a connection up in the Mountain,” Jones noted, focusing his thoughts back on his purpose.
“Cheyenne Mountain?!” Skye exclaimed.
“The same,” Jones said smugly. “We’re still trying to trace it, but there’s a record of a two-minute call from Thompson’s cell phone to a number somewhere inside the Mountain. Those are classified, so we’re having to go through channels to get it.”
“We’re going international,” Skye determined.
“Not necessarily, Doctor,” Jones disagreed. “Yeah, it’s NORAD, but the contact could be from the States. Still, I’d have to think a spy ring this big is likely international, all right. Why else would espionage be conducted, except to get information for a different nation-state?”
“Hm,” Holmes hummed to himself.
“You said first of all,” Skye observed. “That presupposes a ‘second of all.’”
“True,” Jones chuckled. “I got more info on Thompson—including why he was passed up for promotion, and it’s juicy.” Holmes sat up straight as Jones explained, “It seems he has a past history of computer hacking. Prior to enlisting, he’d gotten into trouble with the authorities for hacking into at least one porn site. Since he’d just turned 18, and a lot of the hacking took place while he was a juvenile, they copped a plea deal, and he got slapped on the wrist and went on. But they found some questionable pictures on his work computer about six months before the promotion review board, and that raised the whole hacking and porn question all over again. They jerked him off F-16s, and there was an investigation. They never found evidence he’d been hacking again, and while the pictures were a bit much, they weren’t over the line; but by that time, the review process was over and he’d been passed up. The powers that be have discreetly declined all requests to transfer him back to F-16 maintenance. That says he’s dead-ended. His career’s over.”
“Interesting,” Skye muttered. “Holmes, did you follow that?”
“More or less. Dr. Hughes gave me a general description of ‘hacking,’ so I have some idea of what happened. I must admit to finding the thought of…erotica…on the internet distasteful, to put it mildly.” Holmes paused with an expression of disgust on his aquiline face, then shrugged. “At any rate, yes, I do understand. And retaliation is a reasonable motive for crime.”
“It sure is,” Jones agreed. “So we’re keeping a close eye on him.”
“Has there been any sign of a connection between Thompson and Harris?” Holmes queried.
“Nothing overt yet,” Jones said. “But we have discovered they frequent the same bar. That’s interesting; it seems Harris only started going there a couple months ago—he’s generally there two or three times a week of late. But Thompson is there almost every evening.”
* * *
“But I thought he wasn’t going anywhere,” Skye protested.
“That lasted for a couple of weeks, it seems—from about two days after Michaels bit it, to some time late last week.” Jones shr
ugged. He glanced at them both, his expression deadly sober. “A telling timeframe, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Skye agreed, crinkling her forehead in thought.
“And what is the name of this bar?” Holmes wondered.
“The Low Buzz,” Jones informed him. “As opposed to High Flight, I suppose. A popular dive off Terminal Avenue, near the intersection of North Powers and East Platte. A lot of the non-coms hang out there, and a fair number of civilian types. Blue-collar, mostly, but a pretty good bunch of cowboys, too.”
“My dear, do you think you would be up to an evening out tonight?” Holmes’ eyes shone with excitement as he turned to Skye.
“Oh boy,” Skye groaned.
* * *
That night, a ranch hand and his girl showed up at The Low Buzz. He stood only five-foot-eight in battered old cowboy boots, with brown hair sun-bleached almost blond, and darkly tanned, weather-beaten skin. He wore stacked straight-leg jeans, threadbare at the knees, with one torn hip pocket. A ragged old t-shirt, bestained with grass, horse slobber, and what looked like blood, ripped and neatly mended across the left chest, then topped by a faded denim jacket, clad his torso. A sweat-stained black felt cattleman-style hat covered his head; steel-grey eyes peered out from beneath its brim, dark shadows hugging close beneath.
His girlfriend was a pretty little curly-haired brunette with bright blue eyes, a cropped t-shirt, and low-cut jeans that were at least one size too small. Her bouncy dark brown hair was pulled back into a fluffy ponytail, she wore a trifle too much makeup, and giggled girlishly at something her boyfriend murmured in her ear as they took a seat in a corner booth. She slid in first, and the cowboy joined her, sitting close.
“Whaddaya wanna drink, Susie?” the ranch hand asked his date as a waitress walked up.
“Aw, ‘bout anythin’ll do, Charlie,” she replied, a distinct west-Texas twang in her voice. “Um…a Corona?”
“‘At’ll work. Two Coronas, ma’am,” he told the waitress.
“With lime,” Susie added. “An’ some water. It got hot outside today.”
“Ohmygaw,” the waitress, whose name was Sally, exclaimed, getting a look at Charlie’s bruised face. “What’d you do to y’rself, cowboy?”
“Aw, hell,” Charlie grumbled in intense, embarrassed annoyance. “Damn horse.”
“We jus’ got a mustang,” Susie explained, “beautiful horse, an’ he’s been tryin’a break it. Th’ mustang had other idears.”
“It ain’t as bad as it looks,” Charlie noted. “He kicked me inta th’ wall, ‘s’all. No big deal.”
“He’d as soon we didn’ talk about it too much,” Susie observed, rubbing her date’s arm. “He’s real good with th’ horses, my Charlie is, but this ‘un’s purty wild. He’ll get ‘im trained, though, you wait an’ see.”
Charlie’s grey eyes flashed, intrigued and proud, at the obvious sincerity of the possessive praise.
“Ow,” the barmaid winced at the tale. “Okay. Well, you be careful. Anything ta eat?” she asked.
“Nah, jus’ th’ beer,” Charlie declined. “Start a tab, please, ma’am.”
“Sure thing, cowpoke.” The waitress left, and “Susie” tucked her head.
* * *
“No laughing, my dear,” the “ranch hand” remarked under his breath. “I swear I shall never take you on an incognito operation again should you expose us with indiscreet laughter.”
“I won’t,” Skye murmured, loud enough for Holmes to hear. “But damn if you don’t look and act the part! Not bad at all for someone who hasn’t been here two months yet. Your back has to be killing you, taking so much off your height.”
“I am used to it. Should we have to stay in character for many hours, then yes, I shall feel it. But for now, all is well.”
Sharp grey eyes scanned the bar from the shadows of his wide hat brim—which also served to disguise his black eyes from the rest of the bar—before he returned his attention to Skye.
* * *
“Three tables over, near the end of the bar proper. That is Sergeant Thompson.”
Skye let her eyes wander the roomful of enlisted men, factory workers, and cowboys; then she fixed her bright azure gaze upon Holmes’ grey orbs and giggled again, pretending to flirt.
“I see him.”
* * *
“Good,” Holmes murmured, gazing deeply into her sapphire eyes with the ardent expression of a man who is thoroughly smitten. His calm, matter-of-fact tone, however, was in distinct contrast. “Keep an eye on him. You can do that better than I; if he catches you looking, simply bat those lovely lashes at him, then blush and look away.”
“Awright, Charlie,” she answered, resuming her character. “Oh goody, here comes our drinks.”
“Great,” Holmes answered, not bothering to turn around, merely observing Skye’s eyes to ascertain the position of their server. “I reckon I’ve earned a brew tonight.”
“They got live music later on,” Skye noted, scanning the meager menu as the waitress put down their drinks.
“Even better. Beer, music, an’ my girl. Don’t get better’n ‘at, does it, darlin’?”
“Not hardly, Charlie,” Skye fired back with a grin. “Not hardly. Wanna do some boot-scootin’ later?”
“Aw, I dunno, sweetheart. We might, if I c’n get m’ hip workin’ where th’ damn horse kicked me.”
“Oh, that’s right. I wadn’t thinkin’. Nev’r mind then, sugar. I’m jus’ happy t’ be here with ya.”
Skye took the lime wedges and shoved them into their beer bottles. Holmes raised his and took a pull from it, then surreptitiously nodded approval at his companion—he had never heard of lime in beer before. They sat and nursed their drinks, and soon the live band started; afterward, they could say anything they pleased without being overheard. Holmes downed his first beer and ordered two more, mostly for the effect of having several bottles and mugs on the table. The pair pretended to drink and chat. Meanwhile Thompson went through only one beer, and appeared impatient, checking his watch frequently. “Highly suggestive,” Holmes observed.
Occasionally Holmes put his arm around Skye and hugged her to his side, as befitted a cowboy on a date with his girl; and once Skye risked a quick peck on Holmes’ cheek. Holmes flushed a little at that, but grinned sheepishly, like any shy but pleased cowpoke.
“Ah, we’re going to play that game, are we?” he murmured in her ear.
“You’re the one who declared the game was afoot before we ever left the house,” Skye retorted in a pert undertone. “You wanted me along because you wanted my social guidance, and you devised the cover, so I’m playing it as realistically as I dare. If it doesn’t suit, choose something else next time.”
Holmes chuckled, his eyes constantly roving the entire bar. Smoothly he turned his attention to Skye.
“My dear, you appear to be quite the actress. Have you performed on stage?”
“It’s been awhi—”
“Have you ever stage-kissed?” he interrupted.
“Uh, yea—”
* * *
Holmes’ lips came down on Skye’s, as his near arm pulled her close. It was chaste, a theatrical kiss allowing only lip contact, yet presenting the appearance of a passionate clinch. Skye blinked in surprise, then fell into character, slipping her arms around Holmes’ neck with a sigh.
* * *
Holmes “deepened” the kiss, tilting his head so Skye’s face and head were hidden from the bar denizens. When he broke the kiss several minutes later, he laughed, grey eyes sparkling, then removed his cowboy hat and plopped it on her head. Being substantially too large for her, it fell down over her eyes and she pushed it back, only to have Holmes impishly tug it down again with a playful grin.
“Wear that. Thompson has had a guest join him. It would not do for Harris to recognise you.”
“Bob? Here? Tonight?”
“Indeed. I had not expected this to occur so soon, or I would have made your disguise more elabo
rate. Forgive my familiarity, but I was concerned he might recognise you as he passed our table. At this distance, and with my facial bruising, he is less likely to notice me.”
“What are they saying? Can you tell?” Skye asked, taking a swig from her bottle of beer.
“Yes. I believe we have our connection. One of them, anyway.” Holmes watched while pretending not to, surreptitiously reading lips.
* * *
The pair maintained character and unobtrusively surveyed the clandestine meeting for over an hour. Holmes ordered another round of drinks, which they proceeded to transfer between bottles by the expeditious means of taking a mouthful from a full bottle, setting the bottle down, pretending to swallow, then picking up an empty one and allowing the beer to trickle into it. Thus it appeared they’d consumed far more alcohol than they actually had.
By periodically scooting indecently close, then coaxing her to inch away, Holmes worked Skye deeper into the U-shaped booth. In this way he managed to position them to best advantage, hiding Skye from the one man in the bar who might recognize her while himself still able to read the lips of their quarry. From time to time, to keep up the façade, they stage-kissed.
Finally, as the band’s last set drew to a close, Thompson summoned the waitress. He paid for his drink, nodded to Harris, rose, and left the bar. Holmes drew Skye into an intimate embrace, holding her there for several minutes, until Harris too dropped several bills on the table and departed. Holmes maintained the pseudo-kiss for another minute, then eased back from his companion.
“Finish y’r drink, Susie girl,” he told her, signaling the waitress. “I think it’s time I gotcha on home.” Mindful of modern sexual attitudes, he gave Skye a leer and a wink for the benefit of the waitress, extracting cash from his wallet and dropping it on the check, with some extra for good measure. Then he retrieved his hat from Skye’s head, placed it firmly on his own and ran his fingers around the rim. “Thank ya, ma’am,” he tipped his hat to their waitress, slid out of the booth and assisted Skye to her feet.
With their arms about each other’s waists, the couple sauntered unsteadily out of the bar.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 29