The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Skye scampered into the bathroom and seconds later came the sound of items being dumped into a container. Holmes turned to the closet, extracting a pair of jeans and a dark grey polo shirt. He looked at Ryker and circled a finger; the other man discreetly turned his back while still maintaining his guard. Holmes’ dressing gown came off and disappeared into one of the suitcases before he slid his long, lean body into the jeans, then flipped the shirt over his head, not bothering to tuck it in. A thought occurred to him, and he added another pair of shoes for each of them to the cases, along with leather belts, just before shoving his feet into his cowboy boots.

  “Leave the rest,” Ryker murmured. “We can see to anything you need.”

  Two minutes later Skye emerged with Holmes’ shaving kit stuffed near to bursting, and a large zipper-style plastic bag of makeup, sponges, and application brushes.

  “Here’s the makeup,” she handed Holmes the plastic bag, and he stuffed it into the corner of one of the suitcases. When he held out his hand again, she plopped the shaving kit in it. “That’s all your stuff, including your pipe, plus my toothbrush, antiperspirant, and the like.”

  Holmes nodded and tucked it into the other suitcase.

  “Put on some shoes, my dear, and let us begone.”

  * * *

  Skye’s black Infiniti waited close to the side door when they slipped out. Most of the MI-5 guards clustered there to disguise how many bodies moved through the moonlight; in minutes, Holmes and Skye were huddled down in the back seat, while Ryker drove.

  They chose the very long way to Highway 24, taking several back roads and going halfway to Cripple Creek in the process. After about twenty minutes, during which time they had yet to reach the main highway, they pulled onto a gravel road leading deep into the woods. There, a small, heavily armed group awaited them in the near pitch-blackness with another car. Ryker spirited the pair, with their luggage, into the other car, a nondescript dark Taurus.

  As they continued through the woods, he murmured to the couple hunkered together in the back seat, “Don’t worry. That was the rest of my unit. They’ll take care of your car. It’ll be back on the ranch in an hour. But it’ll look like you’re still in it when it arrives. In fact, it’ll look like you’re still living in the house, indefinitely.”

  “Excellent,” Holmes purred, using his body to shield Skye, who lay beneath him. “I knew our planning would prove useful.”

  “Indeed,” Ryker agreed, letting another hint of his native dialect emerge. “It’s doubtful they’ll dare to come back, not after the capable way Dr. Chadwick handled herself. Still, this way they won’t even know you’ve gone, and that’ll really unnerve them.”

  Ryker was a skilled driver, and soon they were on the main highway, zooming toward Colorado Springs. Down in Manitou Springs, Ryker diverted again, into the old city, up a dark, dog-leg alley between two artisan’s shops not too far from the cog railroad. There, another change of vehicles awaited: A navy Suburban. The trio flitted from the Taurus to the Suburban, and in seconds they were headed into Colorado Springs proper.

  Once in Colorado Springs, Ryker accessed the freeway and checked their environment.

  “No one’s following. We’re in the clear. And this is bulletproof glass. You can sit up.”

  Holmes eased off his companion, and he and Skye sat up, straightening their hair and clothing and putting all to rights.

  Near the airport, the Suburban exited the freeway onto a kind of “hotel row” along Aerotech Drive. Skye and Holmes watched as Ryker took them unobtrusively into a posh, independent hotel, the Cimarron Springs, moving to the loading dock in the rear and driving inside one of the garage openings.

  “Righto, then. There’s Williams waiting,” Ryker pointed at the tall, broad-shouldered man with spiky strawberry-blond hair, who emerged into the interior loading area, “and this is where I pop back up the mountain. Williams is one of my best mates, and head of his own unit; you can trust him. If you need anything from your house, let him know, and one of my men will stop by with it.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Holmes shook Ryker’s hand. “Hopefully we will see you soon.”

  “I’ve no doubt, Mr. Holmes,” Ryker smiled. “Be careful, and take care of that lady of yours.”

  “As if there were any question,” Holmes chuckled. “Quite aside from…personal considerations, she has already saved my life twice; I owe her recompense.”

  * * *

  They slipped out the back of the Suburban before Ryker could register his surprise. Ryker popped the rear door to reveal their suitcases. Holmes caught one, but before Skye could lift the other, Williams was there, taking the second case. He slammed the rear door closed, then knocked twice on it.

  “Come,” he murmured, gesturing them through the service entrance of the hotel, “before anyone sees. We need to get you into the saferoom.”

  Williams led Holmes and Chadwick into the hotel as Ryker drove off into the night.

  * * *

  Five minutes of covert scurrying through darkened, empty service corridors and a short jaunt up the freight elevator brought them into a nondescript alcove in the fourth floor; inside the recess was a life-size portrait of the Cheyenne chief Dull Knife.

  “Pay attention,” Williams murmured, the hint of a Liverpool accent emerging, “and make sure there’s no one in the hall before you do this. There’s a video monitor inside the room, with its camera trained on the corridor, to ensure you can exit unseen.” He flipped up a section of the wainscoting, exposing a number keypad. He punched the digits 7593. They heard a sibilance, and the portrait popped away from the wall. “Did you get that?”

  “Yes,” Holmes murmured.

  “My name,” Skye breathed, and both men chuckled.

  “Yes,” Williams confirmed, sotto voce. “Telephone coded, shall we say. Inside. Hurry.”

  Holmes’ hand on Skye’s waist guided her through the black opening, the detective hard on her heels. Williams slipped in and closed the hidden door silently behind them. The trio was plunged into darkness, and Holmes felt Skye lean against him. It was the only hint of her anxiety, and it was eliminated instants later when Williams located the light switch.

  “Oh,” Skye murmured, dumbfounded, and she and Holmes turned to survey their surroundings.

  It was not merely some single-room bolt-hole, it was a hidden suite. As it was a secure saferoom, there were no windows, but the amenities more than made up for it. They stood in an elegant sitting room in subtle tones of mauve and grey, complete with an entertainment center, wet bar, and stocked kitchenette. Abstract pieces of artwork, in colors matching the décor, were scattered about the walls. A telephone sat on the end table beside the sofa; Holmes pointed.

  “Clean, with cipher capability,” Williams noted. “Hit the red button, and it rings straight through to me.” Holmes nodded, satisfied.

  Behind the sitting room, and just as big, was the bedroom, with a thick, pillow-top king-size bed clad in blue shades of silk, a dresser, another entertainment center, and two nightstands. The floor was carpeted in a lush, medium-blue pile. Nighttime landscapes, both photographic and portrait, contrasted with the delicate cream of the walls. The luxurious white and chrome bath had a marble shower and separate jacuzzi, twin sinks in a marble vanity, and mirrors everywhere.

  “My gosh,” Skye murmured, almost gawking she was so amazed. “I don’t know what I expected, but this sure wasn’t it.”

  “We’ve had a few celebrities and international statesmen come through,” Williams noted, “and having a posh hidden suite comes in handy, on occasion. It’s regularly swept for bugs, and it’s soundproofed. There’s another series of saferooms below this one, intended for our operatives, but they’re not as nice. Ryker thought the two of you would enjoy this one,” Williams said, putting Skye’s suitcase on the stand in the corner of the bedroom. “May…I ask a few questions? They will be…somewhat personal, but will help me work with you better.”

  Skye gla
nced at Holmes, and he read in her eyes: She defers to me. Very well. He turned to Williams.

  “We reserve the right to refuse, should your inquiries become too personal.”

  “Fair enough. My first question would be to Dr. Chadwick.”

  * * *

  “All right,” Skye murmured, surprised.

  “Is Mr. Holmes as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle depicted him?”

  “Oh, yeah. Every bit.” Skye chuckled dryly.

  “Then…” Williams hesitated. Finally he added tactfully, “Do I need to provide an additional…sleeping berth?”

  “No,” Holmes responded succinctly and definitively. Williams’ forehead creased in confusion and distress at the response.

  “So Ryker is right, and the two of you are…” He half-turned in dismay. “I don’t understand. Holmes in the stories is…he doesn’t…he’s a thinking machine,” Williams protested, his expression indicating how badly this information offended. “Am I to expect you to assist in the investigation, or will you simply stay here and…tryst…with your lady-love?”

  The agent’s insinuating tone was almost—almost—disgusted, but he evidently couldn’t bring himself to disrespect the famous detective that much. The operative’s pale blue eyes narrowed in distaste; the reddish-blond brows furrowed. It was obvious Williams held the Holmes of literary tradition in high regard, almost to the point of veneration, and was bitterly disappointed by what he saw as a weakness in the flesh and blood version.

  * * *

  An affronted Skye took a step toward the British agent, but Holmes put out a hand to halt her, his perilous grey eyes glittering. She nodded, and Holmes turned to Williams.

  “I am as you see me, Williams,” Holmes observed with a biting undercurrent to his tone. “That is all you are required to know. You may assist us or not, as you wish. But you will most assuredly find me continuing to take an extremely active role in this investigation. And, in all likelihood, Skye—Dr. Chadwick, my liaison and bosom companion, if not my Boswell—will participate, as well. Although we will have to disguise her.”

  “You damn bet I will,” Skye muttered, angry.

  Williams stood for long moments, staring skeptically at Holmes.

  “I am certain you have been provided with dossiers on us,” Holmes declared. “Have you read them?”

  “I have.”

  “Then use your eyes, man, and the brains God gave you. It is an elementary deduction,” Holmes remarked with asperity.

  * * *

  She’s right about one thing, Williams thought ruefully, feeling the sting of the detective’s rebuke. He certainly seems to act like the Holmes of literature.

  Williams turned his attention to Skye, and there was silence for several moments while he surveyed her, pondering what he knew of the case and their interactions. She blushed under the scrutiny of the big, imposing man, but stood her ground, meeting the operative’s austere gaze without faltering. The younger man was no fool, and he astutely read much in her eyes: Intelligence, determination, humor, caring, and a deep love for the detective by her side. It occurred to him that Holmes had an artistic half, and this attractive woman—a world-class scientist in her own right—had worked closely with him for many months.

  Plus, he thought, remembering the stories, Holmes wasn’t bereft of caring. The bond between him and Watson was very deep. But he lost Watson when he came here. So perhaps he sought to replace that relationship with another. Only the other happened to be female? A female possessing high intellect, an artist’s vision of beauty, and caring enough to save him from Reichenbach despite the cost to herself. Maybe it makes sense after all.

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” the agent offered, his hero-worshipping sensibilities soothed. “Beauty, intelligence, and a large heart—plus, she was your liaison and friend. And now fellow investigator. You must have been thrown together quite a lot. She grew on you, didn’t she? Probably without your even realising it at first…”

  Skye blushed deeper. Holmes watched Williams silently, but his grey eyes flickered, betraying appeasement and appreciation.

  That’s it, Williams crowed, seeing the fleeting expression on Holmes’ face.

  “Very well; I do understand now, I think. I will, of course, do my best to assist you both with everything in my power—that was never in question. I’m no Mycroft, but I get quite a lot done, just the same. Please forgive my earlier bluntness, and chalk it up to a…temporary lack of comprehension.”

  Holmes waved a long, thin hand, turning toward the suitcases. “All is forgotten.”

  * * *

  “Now, before I leave, a quick matter of logistics,” Williams suggested. “I’ll bring up breakfast late, say around nine, to allow you some rest; it’s very late already. After breakfast, we can make our plans for the day. Is that acceptable?”

  “It is,” Holmes agreed, and Skye nodded.

  “Good. Then might I suggest you retire now? You’ll be safe here; you have my word.”

  “Thank you, my good man,” Holmes murmured, gratified. “It is good to know England remains supportive of her devoted son. Regardless of time or space.”

  Williams snapped off a smart British salute; Holmes bowed. Then the intelligence operative departed.

  * * *

  The exhausted pair was in bed in record time. Skye turned out the bedside lamp and the windowless room was plunged into blackness.

  “Oh, that’s no good,” Skye muttered, fumbling for the lamp and turning it back on. “I’ll get up to go to the bathroom and kill myself.”

  Holmes sat up as a nude Skye got out of bed and wandered around the room searching.

  “There has to be a nightlight in here someplace. Sherlock, look in the nightstand drawers. I’ll check the bathroom.”

  Holmes pulled out the drawer from the nearest nightstand and fished around. He hauled out a telephone directory, Gideon Bible, travel magazine, Colorado Springs tourism brochure, notepad, half-a-dozen assorted pens and pencils…and a small, flat square of plastic with an electric plug in the back. The detective raised an eyebrow, considering the object. He shoved the rest of the items back into the drawer.

  “Skye?”

  Skye’s head popped around the bathroom door, and Holmes held up the object.

  “This?”

  “You lifesaver, you,” she remarked, coming over and taking it from him. “Wall socket, wall socket…”

  “There,” Holmes pointed to the socket on the opposite wall, near the bathroom door.

  Skye hastened to the electrical socket, stooping down to plug in the little light. It flickered, then glowed softly.

  * * *

  “Bingo,” Skye grinned, stretching her naked body. Grey eyes dilated as she did, and followed her until she lay by Holmes’ side once more. Again she turned out the lamp, and this time the room was not pitched into utter blackness. A warm orange light, not unlike low firelight, filled the space. Holmes turned to his consort and pulled her close.

  “Sherlock,” she murmured as he nuzzled her neck, “it’s past 2:30 now. Shouldn’t we get some sleep?”

  He pressed his face against her neck and took a slow, deep breath.

  “We will,” he exhaled. “It is…You were nearly shot tonight. Nearly kidnapped.”

  “’Nearly’ doesn’t count,” she told him with a grin.

  “No. But it does…affect…your especial beau.”

  “Oh,” Skye said, touched. She nudged his head out of the curve of her neck so she could gaze into his face. The silver of his grey eyes held golden glints in the dim light, and she saw disquiet there. “You need to know I’m okay, not just have me tell you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’m here. Do what you need to relax.” Skye kissed him, pressing close.

  Holmes’ slim fingers explored her body, starting with her torso. But to her surprise, he poked and prodded with the tips, rather than providing the smooth, sensuous caresses Skye had anticipated.

  “Uff…ooo
…Sherlock, what are you…THAT TICKLES!!”

  * * *

  A deep chuckle floated through the air.

  “I know,” he said, and he grinned.

  Time to lighten the mood.

  * * *

  “No fair!” Skye cried, trying to jerk away from his fingertips and finding Holmes’ long arms enabled him to follow her.

  “You know the saying, my dear: ‘All’s fair in love and war,’” Holmes replied, and white teeth flashed in the dim light as he grinned again.

  “And this is both, huh?” Skye gasped, struggling to escape his invasive fingers. “Well, there’s another saying: ‘Two can play at that game!’” and she went on the offensive, whacking him with a pillow before lunging at him, shoving the covers off his chest.

  “But I am not ticklish, my dear Skye.”

  “The hell you aren’t.”

  Skye gritted her teeth against his renewed onslaught. Her hand disappeared beneath the blankets, sliding between his thighs. Holmes’ eyes widened in shocked surprise; the grin vanished.

  “AH!” he cried, trying to crabwalk away from her in the huge bed.

  Skye let out a triumphant giggle and launched herself at him.

  Chapter 5—The Game Is Afoot

  THE NEXT MORNING THE PAIR WAS up and dressed just before Williams arrived. The operative showed up promptly at nine in the morning, bearing breakfast, news, and several bound tomes.

  The news was that Caitlin and Nathan Hughes had been spirited away overnight for their own safety, as Caitlin possessed enough knowledge of Project: Tesseract to put her in danger of kidnapping, as well. The rest of Ryker’s unit was dispatched to the Hughes ranch, both to make it appear occupied and to take care of the animals. The Hughes’ whereabouts were unknown to all but Colonel Jones and Agent Smith.

  The books were yearbooks from the Air Force Academy; Holmes had mentioned Skye’s eyeballing of her would-be kidnapper to Ryker on the drive down, and Ryker arranged for the yearbooks with Jones.

  So while Holmes and Skye tucked away the breakfast of ham and onion quiche with fresh melon, and hot tea with cream, Skye perused the yearbooks, looking for a certain moonlit face. It didn’t take long; in the previous year’s listing, she spotted the visage.