“Okay. Just a minute,” and Holmes closed the window again.
True to her word, he heard the side door open sixty seconds later, followed by the sounds of Skye washing up in the mudroom.
When she arrived in the kitchen, Holmes had two plates set, each containing a sandwich and a generous pile of salad. He’d also poured two glasses of iced tea from the pitcher Skye kept in the refrigerator. They sat down across from each other and began to eat.
Noting Skye’s arms had been scrubbed to the elbows in the mudroom, as well as spying several grimy smears on her shirt, he murmured, “Cleaning tack?”
“Yeah. One of the spare saddles had some mold.”
“Ah. Good you caught it, then.”
“Yeah.”
Silence fell.
Holmes studied his companion, puzzled, sensing something wrong, but having insufficient data from which to extrapolate a cause. Uncomfortably, he wondered if she had deduced the nature of his distress on the way back to the ranch from Spice the night before. He had been frankly unable to quite meet her eyes, especially after that finale. But no, he decided; Skye was sensible enough to understand such a thing would be fundamentally disturbing to him without needing to specify any particulars. Finally, by way of drawing her out, he remarked, “I had thought you would have asked after the transcript by now.”
“I figured you’d tell me what you wanted me to know if and when you were good and ready. You said earlier you didn’t want to be bothered, so I wasn’t bothering.” Skye shrugged offhandedly.
Holmes blinked, wondering if she’d intended the dual meaning of her statement. A twinge of something akin to pain went through him, and he pondered whether he might have pushed her training too hard in recent days; it was conceivable he had burned her out, and she didn’t, in fact, want to bother.
“Well, it is complete now, and if you wish, we shall peruse it after lunch. I believe it’s quite telling, and we can now piece together our adversaries’ plans.”
“Okay,” Skye nodded, expression lifting a little. “That sounds good.”
* * *
After lunch, he took her into the study, sat her down at the desk, and pushed his papers in front of her. Then he retreated to his bedroom, fetching his pipe. Returning, he moved to the window, considerately opening it before filling and lighting his pipe. Holmes stood, smoking his pipe and staring out the window, while Skye read.
* * *
Thompson: There you are. About damn time.
Harris (sitting down): Keep your shorts on. I told you what time I’d be here.
Waitress: Something for ya, boys?
H: Crown and Coke.
T: Coors.
W: Comin’ up. (departs)
T: Are we still on schedule?
H: Yeah. No deviation.
T: And you head out the next day?
H: You betcha. Hell if I’m gonna stick around after. Is the package ready?
T: Been ready for a week or two now. I’m just havin’ a helluva time playing hide and seek with it, that’s all.
H (laughing derisively): I’ll bet. Better you than me.
T: You? You’re in the middle of things. They’d be all over your ass like a john on a whore.
H: Like hell.
T: Yeah, yeah.
W: Here ya go, boys. A Crown an’ Coke, and a Coors. Want me to start a tab?
T: Two, yeah. (Waitress departs)
H: So what’s the Boss up to this time, you think?
T: I don’t think. That’s a bad place to go, man.
H: Aw, he ain’t such hot shit. Besides, I’m curious. I don’t see it.
T: You’re not supposed to. Curiosity’s bad, man. Just do your job and be there in three weeks and you’ll keep your head attached. Get too nosy, and it’s liable to get bit off.
H: What’s the package this time?
T: Wouldn’t you like to know.
H: Smart-ass.
T: Smart enough, yeah. Just because my mama couldn’t afford to send me to college don’t mean I’m stupid, geek boy.
H: Never said you were. That last package was a beautiful thing to behold. Way I hear it, though, you better watch your back. You already got busted once, and nearly twice.
T: Hey, is it true some pencil-neck got himself caught in the thing when the package went?
H: Yeah. Hardware geek. Damn, what a mess.
T: What happened to him?
H: Exploded. Then this other guy starts blowin’ chunks after seein’ it. Damn, the smell! I was glad I wasn’t on the custodial crew for the place. I got the hell out as soon as I could.
T: Shit.
H: Pretty much, yeah.
T: Whoops, the show’s about to start. Hey, baby! (signals waitress) Another round before the show.
W: Sure thing, guys. Be right back.
(Nothing of substance was said during the performance. A brief conversation resumed afterward, as they were paying their cheques.)
T: Well, I guess I’ll see you there.
H: You don’t need me.
T: No. But He’ll expect it anyway.
H: True. Okay. Later.
(They paid their bills and departed the club.)
* * *
Skye raised her head. Tears filled her bright blue eyes.
“Bastards,” she hissed viciously. “Those low-down, dirty sons of…!”
Holmes spun in surprise at the outburst and looked at her, seeing the tears and her trembling lower lip. He discarded his pipe on the windowsill and crouched before her.
“Skye, what is wrong?”
“Chad’s death was funny to ‘em!” Skye growled. She scowled, refusing to let the tears fall. “They made FUN of him! But Bob was there!! How the hell could he have seen…the look on Chad’s face, the scream…dear God…and this son of a bitch MADE FUN OF HIM!”
“Hush, Skye, hush,” Holmes murmured, taking her by the shoulders and rubbing through the sleeves of her shirt to soothe her. He considered pulling her into a hug in an effort to settle her, but after his rather fervent responses of the previous evening, decided against it. “Calm down. We will avenge Chad, rest assured. But you must put aside this anger. We need clear heads if we are to think this through and solve the matter.”
Suddenly Skye grew deadly calm and quiet. Startled, Holmes met her eyes and saw something there that gave him pause, something dark and menacing that he had never expected to see in those soft blue eyes.
“Skye?” he whispered, troubled.
“You know me pretty well, Holmes, but not quite as well as you think you do,” Skye said in a low, taut voice. “It’s when I’m furious that I’m the most dangerous. My old police chief noticed it, years ago—a perp who made me mad WAS going down. I channel it, Holmes; I use it. I don’t discard it. I’m not somebody to mess with when I’m really, really mad. If you make me mad, I get calm, and cool, and I will flat take you apart at the seams, in whatever fashion is best suited to upset your little apple cart. And they’ve pissed me off royally.”
“Very well. Use it. Let us see what you have deduced from their conversation, and I will tell you if it matches what I see.” Holmes sighed and sat back on his heels, perturbed.
“That’s no problem. There’s going to be another sabotage attempt on the 25th of this month, because Harris told us he was leaving on the 26th for his ‘family vacation.’ That also fits what you picked up in the Low Buzz, when Thompson was talking about the ‘car’ he was working on for Harris.”
Holmes nodded.
“Thompson has the sabotage package prepped and ready. The term ‘package,’ especially in reference to sabotage, usually means an explosive device of some sort, so I’d say C-4, although our options are open. Harris is going to let Thompson into the Chamber, then Harris will get the hell outta Dodge the next day, and Thompson will go back to the shop until he’s needed again.”
Holmes nodded.
“What did you think of the relationship between the two men?”
“No l
ove lost. Harris thinks Thompson’s background is a liability, and Thompson thinks Harris is lazy and his nose is too big.”
Holmes nodded again; she’d missed nothing. He was glad he’d chosen to omit the discussion comparing the scientist to the stripper. He hated to think what kind of response that would have evoked.
“Very well, we have a target date,” he declared. “Now we need a plan.”
Chapter 12—The Best Laid Plans
BY THE END OF THE WEEKEND, the plan was set. a Monday morning meeting with General Morris and Colonel Jones in Morris’ office put matters to rights, and the wheels were turning.
“Colonel, I have a requisition to make,” Skye informed the security chief. “But I don’t know if I need to request it of you, or Agent Smith.”
“Either of us will do, Dr. Chadwick,” Jones remarked. “If it doesn’t fall under my jurisdiction, I’ll see Adrian gets it. What do you need?”
“A bulletproof vest.”
Holmes raised an eyebrow, and Morris looked startled.
“You don’t have one?” Jones’ eyes widened in shock.
“Never had the need,” Skye noted, flushing. “The reservation wasn’t violent. I only thought about it this morning, when I was reviewing our plan on the drive down the mountain.”
“Well, better now than afterward, I suppose. But you know we don’t have enough time to customize one for you.” Jones drew a deep, worried breath.
“I know,” Skye said, subdued; Holmes frowned, not liking the sound of that. “But anything’s better than nothing.”
“Good point,” Jones agreed. “Come on over to my office and let me get our procurer in here to measure you while I call Adrian. Maybe he has connections I don’t, and can get you something that’ll be a better fit. Meanwhile I’ll have a proper vest ordered for later.”
“Okay,” Skye acknowledged, and she and Holmes rose to follow Jones to the security building.
* * *
But Smith couldn’t help any more than Jones; it took time to customize a bulletproof vest, and the process couldn’t be rushed. So Jones arranged for a loaner vest for Skye. Unfortunately the only style available that would fit her decently, given her feminine build, was open on the sides. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would stop a direct shot to the torso.
“So remember that,” Jones told Skye gruffly. “Whatever you do, don’t turn sideways. Weaver or isosceles stance, whichever you prefer; as long as it’s square on.”
“Yes, sir,” Skye murmured, accepting the vest.
No one saw the worried expression flickering across Holmes’ face.
* * *
The next day a classified memo went out to all members of Project: Tesseract. The Chamber would have some minor refurbishments, and would be closed, effective that Saturday, June 14th. Maintenance would continue through the end of the month, when the facility would again be open for use, pending approval of the electrical work. All security codes would be changed for the duration.
“That gives us the option of extending the closing, if we need to,” Skye said with cool satisfaction.
“True,” Holmes agreed, “but I still fail to understand why you pushed so hard for it to be shut down this Saturday, Skye. It strikes me it could as easily have been a week from this Saturday. It might have given us more time to plan.”
“Trust me, Holmes. We picked the right date.”
“Very well.”
Holmes opened his safe, and the pair dug through the reports, looking for any scrap of information they’d overlooked, something to add a piece to the puzzle. Just over an hour later, the phone rang. Holmes grabbed it.
“Commander Holmes here.”
He listened closely, only occasionally uttering an attentive grunt, and Skye saw the grey eyes sparkle.
“That is excellent news, Colonel,” Holmes said enthusiastically. “Yes, we shall most certainly be there. Thank you.” He hung up.
“WHAT?” exploded from Skye’s mouth.
“Harris was just observed by the guards, going out one of the side gates to get away from the electronic fence, and pulling his cell phone. Jones and Smith were ready, and had the transmission monitored.”
“And?”
“How does Italian sound for dinner tonight, my dear Skye?” Holmes asked in an apparent non-sequitur, but his eyes crinkled.
“It sounds wonderful, my dear Holmes.” A wicked smirk spread across Skye’s face.
* * *
Calzones was a delightful little mom-and-pop Italian restaurant in a strip mall near the airport. Around seven that evening, an older, retired couple arrived for dinner. She was a rotund little woman of five feet, with short, dark brown salt-and-pepper hair and hazel eyes; he was around six feet, heavyset, with dark hair going grey at the temples and bright blue eyes. They gave their names to the hostess as Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Bryant; five minutes later, they were seated in a little booth near the back of the tiny restaurant. Mrs. Bryant sat with her back to the restaurant, but Mr. Bryant faced the door.
“May I get you something to drink?” the hostess asked, as they glanced over the menu. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
“Yes, please,” Mr. Bryant said, in a thick Southern accent. “Lily, sweetheart, would yew care for a bottle o’ red wine, dear?”
“That’d be lovely, Steve,” Lily Bryant answered, in a voice even more Southern than her husband’s, if that were possible. “Ah do think a nice merlot would go nicely with what Ah think Ah want. Oh, an’ don’t forget to ask her.”
“Oh, thank ya, darlin’. Ah’d have forgotten, sure.” Holmes—or rather, Bryant—scanned the wine list and selected a nice middle-range California merlot. “An’ ma’am, if ya please, we’re here from Georgia on vacation, an’ we were wonderin’ about gettin’ up ta Pikes Peak tomorrah. How’s th’ best way t’ get there?”
“Oh, I’d say take the cog railroad,” the hostess offered. “That way you don’t have to worry about the road or anything. You can sit back and enjoy the scenery. That road…” she shivered. “I’m a local, and I don’t like driving it.”
“That sounds perfect, don’t yew think, Lily?” Holmes looked at his companion, and Skye nodded. “Do yew think yew could tell us how t’ get t’ this railroad?” he asked the hostess.
“I’ll do better than that. I think we have one of the brochures in the stand near the cash register. It has a map, and a discount coupon too, I believe.” The hostess smiled.
“Perfect,” Holmes said in satisfaction. The hostess slipped back to the wait station and passed on the order for a bottle of merlot, then returned to the front. Moments later, Holmes and Skye were in possession of a Pikes Peak Cog Railroad tourism brochure, so they had something to pretend to scan as they furtively surveyed the restaurant.
“No one here yet, that I can discern,” Holmes informed Skye in an undertone. “Then again, Jones said the meeting was set for seven-thirty.”
“Enough time to get an appetizer,” Skye decided, scanning the menu. “I’m sorry, hon, but I’m hungry.”
“Next time, take a moment to eat lunch,” he suggested under his breath with a chuckle. “I know you wanted to ensure your disguise was beyond detection, but really, my dear.”
“Did you eat?”
“No…”
“Then hush. Besides, we could be here awhile, which means we’ll need to keep eating. So I wanted to make sure I had room to stuff away several courses.”
“Now that is a good plan. Antipasti first, I should think. Calamari, perhaps?”
“Err, no, I’d rather not. I’m not fond of squid. Do you like mushrooms?”
“I do. The stuffed mushrooms, then?”
“And maybe some bruschetta.”
“Soup or salad?”
“Salad.”
“And for an entrée?” Holmes queried.
“Oh, here comes our wine,” Lily Bryant beamed at her husband, who smiled at her. “Honey, Ah’m havin’ such a good time.”
�
�Well, Ah’m glad, sugar,” Steve Bryant’s eyes lit up. “Ah wanted ya t’ have a good time f’r your birthday an’ all.”
The waiter sat down the tray, containing two wineglasses and a bottle of merlot, and proceeded to pour them both a glass, setting it before each of them in turn. Holmes tasted it, nodded approval, and the waiter placed the bottle in the center of the table with a flourish.
“Do you know what you would like?” he queried of the couple in a soft, friendly tone.
“We were talkin’ ‘bout that,” Holmes said, then paused, and Skye saw his eyes flick to the front of the restaurant. The artificial blue eyes met hers, and she knew one of their targets had entered. “Ah b’lieve we’ll have th’ stuffed mushrooms, an’ some bruschetta to start, then a salad.”
“Dressing?” the waiter asked, jotting their order on his pad. This gave Holmes opportunity to look at Skye, then shoot his eyes in the direction of the table where one of their marks had been seated.
Skye cocked her head. Which?
“What’s the house dressing?” Holmes wondered.
“Creamy Italian, sir.”
“Would that suit, Lil?” Holmes looked inquiringly at Skye.
“Sure, honey,” Skye smiled at him.
As soon as the waiter began writing again, Holmes picked up his wineglass, using it as cover to point his long index finger toward Skye. Skye pursed her lips in understanding. My man. Harris.
“Entrées?” the waiter added, turning to Skye.
“Um, Ah’ll have the cheese ravioli with marinara,” she decided in a soft voice, careful to ensure it wouldn’t carry to other tables in the restaurant, without seeming obvious.
“And you, sir?”
“Th’ mixed grill, medium rare.”
“Excellent. I’ll have your appetizers out shortly,” the waiter said, and vanished. Skye sipped her wine, then leaned forward.
“Harris?” she mouthed and Holmes nodded.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 38