The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  “Then we do have a disaster on our hands,” Chadwick whispered in shocked dismay.

  “Do, you don’d,” an identical voice—though decidedly more nasal—came from the doorway.

  Sherlock spun with a wordless exclamation. Skye stood there wrapped in his dressing gown, which, he assumed, had been handy. She was clutching at the doorframe and leaning heavily against it to keep herself upright.

  “Defocusing. Get her!” he heard his other self exclaim as he lunged for his wife.

  “Skye, my dear, what am I going to do with you?” Sherlock muttered, trying hard to sound annoyed and reprimanding, but not quite succeeding, as he scooped her up and carried her to the nearest chair. “You should be in bed.”

  “I dow, but I’b deeded here worse jusd daow,” she murmured, allowing him to spread a lap rug over her. “Sis, are you dere?”

  “Of course, dear,” Chadwick replied. “I take it you remember, after all?”

  “Yeah,” Skye nodded. “Bud I’b jusd doo dired and headachy doo work on id righd daow. Doo bud id bludtly, I feel like dog poo. Add I’ll probably be like dis for adother couple ob days. So I was woderig if you waded doo dake de nodebook add see whad I’b dode, den dry to pick ub where I lefd off, udtil I’b able doo cobe back doo id.”

  “You mean tag-team the calculations?” Chadwick wondered.

  “Yeah,” Skye grinned weakly, obviously exhausted already. “You work od id for awhile, add I resd add stubb, you dow, add ged bedder. Den you cad had back off doo me whed I’b a liddle more healthy, add I cad fidish dem ub while you sdard makig de chages doo de desseracd. Are you gabe? Add doo I ebed bake sedse, wid all dis sdot for braids?”

  There was a long pause. Evidently the other side of the tesseract is attempting to work their way through the effects of Skye’s congestion on her speech, Sherlock decided. Even the other version of her is having trouble comprehending. “Snot for brains,” indeed. He stifled a snort. Thank God I can understand her, or life would quickly become even more confusing than it is already, what with two of both of us.

  Finally Chadwick offered, “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “It might even prove beneficial so, as we can see where you are going with your theories, and I can commence a more detailed planning of the modifications while Chadwick works on the calculations.”

  “Excelled,” Skye sighed, relieved. “Sherlock, udlock de filig cabided add obed de middle drawer. The nodebook is od de dob of de sdack.”

  “I have it,” Sherlock noted, going to the filing cabinet and doing as she directed. “Holmes, Chadwick, how shall I give this to you without risking…?”

  “Hang on a second,” Chadwick said. “We’ll invert…”

  Slowly the room around them faded, revealing the pink granite of the Chamber in the other continuum. Chadwick waved with a grin from her seat behind the control console, and Holmes rose, moving between two of the monoliths, just outside the core itself, where Sherlock and Skye sat.

  “Hand it to Holmes. But be careful,” Chadwick urged. “If an instability wave comes through while you’re both so close to the boundary, it could be catastrophic.”

  The two men, so nearly identical, nodded in unison as Sherlock moved to face his counterpart. Both men braced themselves firmly against any tremor, then Sherlock offered the notebook to Holmes, holding it gingerly by one end. In his turn, Holmes accepted it, grasping it in a similar manner.

  “Thank you,” the other detective murmured, stepping back from the core to increase the safety factor.

  “You are quite welcome,” Sherlock responded. He, too, moved away from the continuum interface, returning to Skye’s side and standing behind her right shoulder.

  “May I enquire as to how your Dr. Chadwick came to contract such an obviously virulent case of influenza?” Holmes wondered. “Especially as you are well, and she herself was fine yesterday morning?” He turned and walked to the console, handing the notebook to his companion. Chadwick accepted it, opening it and leafing through it.

  “She was deliberately infected.” Sherlock scowled. “I cannot yet prove it, but Dr. Victor infected her.”

  Chadwick’s head snapped up. Holmes and Chadwick both frowned, glints of anger in grey eyes and blue.

  “And you are pursuing the matter?” Holmes pressed.

  “Of course,” Sherlock replied grimly. “The issue is under investigation—and more—as we speak. I started Ryker upon that little matter last night.”

  “Capital,” Holmes nodded approvingly. “Precisely what I should have done.”

  “I’m glad you’re doing better than last night, Skye,” Chadwick added. “Your hubby said you were in a bad way.”

  “Thags, Sis. I coulde’d dell ya for sure aboud lasd dight, bud whad I do rebeber wase’d pleasad. Dod ad all.”

  “When do you want us to dial back in?” Chadwick asked. “Give yourself plenty of time, girl.”

  “Uh. Gibbe a couble days,” Skye decided. “Aboud fordy-eighd hours, I thigk.”

  Behind her, Sherlock shook his head. He held up his hand, index finger and thumb separated by an inch or so; then he deliberately increased the spacing by a significant amount. Holmes’ eyelids instantly fluttered slightly in acknowledgement; Chadwick’s fluttered a second or two later.

  “Well, let’s give it a little longer, just to be on the safe side,” Chadwick suggested smoothly. “We wouldn’t want to load too much on you too soon, and throw you into a relapse.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes agreed firmly. “I should say another twelve to twenty-four hours at the very least, wouldn’t you, Chadwick?”

  “Oh, hell yes,” Chadwick nodded vehemently. “If she feels anything like I do when I have the flu, every bit of it. Maybe a couple of days more.” Seeing her other self about to protest, she added, “It isn’t like it’s gonna hinder us, either way. It’s only a matter of what numbers we enter into the computer.”

  “I’b so sorry aboud dis, guys. I dow de whole boid of by doig dese calculations was dat I could dake aboud as log as I deeded doo do dem widoud much dime havig bassed id your codinuum. Bud dis is a real bokey wredch id da works.”

  “No worries,” Chadwick shook her head, throwing Skye a smile.

  “Quite,” Holmes agreed. “We had already anticipated at some point that Chadwick would need to do some of the calculations herself, to ensure everything was properly set up to compensate for any differences between your apparatus and ours.”

  “It’s just happening earlier than we figured, which is probably good,” Chadwick finished.

  “Okay,” Skye acknowledged, comforted.

  “Now, may I suggest we depart,” Holmes observed, “so the Other Me can get the Other You back into bed where she belongs, my dear Chadwick?”

  “I think that’s an excellent plan, Holmes,” Chadwick grinned. “Let’s go. Holmes—uh, the other Holmes—you get some rest, too, Hon. You look tired yourself. I’m sure you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “I shall be fine, doctor,” Sherlock replied calmly. “I am anticipating a report from Ryker sometime soon.”

  * * *

  Chadwick raised a contentious eyebrow.

  Holmes saw it.

  “I suggest you agree to rest if you become weary, old chap,” Holmes offered to his other self. “The look in Chadwick’s eye does not bode peace if you do not.”

  “I am no fool,” Sherlock answered tartly. “I will do what is necessary to maintain my own health when it is needed, but not at the expense of a critical situation.”

  * * *

  “That’ll do. Catch y’all in a couple days.” Chadwick looked mollified.

  The Chamber faded, replaced by the study. The air sizzled, a whiff of ozone filled the room, and the other couple was gone.

  Sherlock scooped up his wife and carried her back to bed, just as Dr. Wilder came looking for them to check on them.

  * * *

  February 11

  Skye is considerably
better today—in one respect—and rather the worse in others. Her fever is much lower, hovering around 100º F; but her congestion is substantial, and she is quite weak. Weakness is normal after such a high fever, however, so it troubles me only in the respect of Skye being so very weak and helpless. It feels strange to be feeding my wife as if she were an infant, but there it is. Dr. Wilder is staying close, and at least for the time being, so are the guards whom Ryker has set about us. I am still awaiting Ryker’s report, however. I anticipate his arrival here soon, indeed at any moment, and it should be very interesting to hear what he has to say. I shall be surprised if he arrives alone…

  * * *

  But Ryker did arrive alone. However, he did not arrive without news.

  “Well, I’ve intensified the guard on the cave,” he declared, as Sherlock led him back to the bedroom so Skye could be updated as well, “and put most of ‘em in camo. HQ knows what’s in there now, too; I sent in a full report to the Director first thing this morning. Oh, and no indications of any earthquakes in the entire UK anytime in the last five months, by the way, so we’re safe there, I think. I checked with the Geological Service right after I reported in to the Director. Then I turned around and called her back and told her that, too.”

  “Good,” came a firm, if nasal, editorial from the bed.

  “We’ve initiated the process to buy the farm from McFarlane’s nephew,” Ryker continued. “He hates to do it, but we’re giving him a real strong heads-up that there might be something there that he reeeeally doesn’t want to deal with.”

  “Aid’t dat de druth,” a stuffy, pyjama clad Skye noted from her sick bed.

  “Yeah,” Ryker agreed. “Of course, he’ll be given all the personal effects, contents of the house, and such. But the government has told him it would be best for the land to be in our hands. The cattle will be vetted for health, the healthy ones sold off, and the proceeds given to the nephew. Any cows with serious radiation induced illness will be humanely euthanized. A fair price for those will go to McFarlane, as well.”

  “Sobethig occurs doo be,” Skye murmured. “Does adyone dow if dad cabe was used for adythig by de McFarlades?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Sherlock recalled, “I do remember in a chat during the drive to the McFarlane farm, Mr. Carver saying something to the effect that the couple used regularly to picnic in it during the summer, as a cool spot to have a pleasant outing. The Carvers even joined them once or twice, shortly before…”

  * * *

  Grey eyes abruptly widened as Holmes’ voice tapered away.

  “Sherlock?” Skye queried anxiously.

  “…Shortly before their infant child died,” the detective finished grimly. “Of causes unknown.”

  “Aha,” Skye nodded knowingly, growing sad. She sighed. “Dad’s exacdly whad I was afraid of. Guys, I bed de McFarlades were udable doo habe kids because of de radiation frob dis ding, seebing up through de cabe floor. Id fids, based od whad I read of Wadsod’s medical repords. Add den de Carber baby died, probably frob oberexposure. Beig odly ad idfad, de lethal radiation dose would’ve beed a lod sballer…”

  * * *

  Ryker sent Sherlock a confused glance, and the detective translated Skye’s stuffy English.

  “The radiation likely sterilised the McFarlanes. ‘And then the Carver baby died, probably from overexposure. Being only an infant, the lethal radiation dose for it would have been a lot smaller,’” he summarized solemnly, quirking his fingers around the quotation.

  “Oh,” Ryker said, subdued.

  The three were silent for several moments.

  “What a tragedy,” Ryker murmured. “All because of an underground directional error.” He shook his head bitterly. “And there’s no way we can even apologise.”

  “You can make some amends, however,” Sherlock said sternly, “if you give young McFarlane an excellent purchase price for the land and buildings.”

  “True,” Ryker agreed. “I’ll call the Director and tell her our conclusions. I’m sure she’ll agree.” He thought for a moment. “We might even be able to arrange for the Carvers to be government suppliers of search dogs.”

  “That, my dear Ryker, is a capital notion. As excellent as are the Carvers’ dogs, the benefit will be mutual, I can assure you.”

  “Whad aboud de sarcophagus idself?” Skye wondered, then hastily grabbed a tissue and sneezed hard into it. “’Scuze be.”

  “Headquarters is on it,” Ryker assured them. “Ever since Chernobyl, some of our scientists have been working on containment methods for nuclear accidents, and they’ve developed some pretty good stuff. Sandwiched lead sheets, rebar, and concrete doped with lead powder, things like that.”

  “Leejade?” Skye queried intently, much too stuffy after sneezing to enunciate properly. She grabbed several more tissues.

  “What?” Ryker wondered, no longer able to understand her at all.

  “Leachate,” Holmes repeated clearly. “Our physicist wishes to know about possible lead leaching from the containment materials. Which is a very valid concern.”

  “Thag you,” Skye nodded at her husband, reaching for the tissue box. “Bigo.”

  “Oh,” Ryker nodded. “Not to worry; they’ve developed a sealant that goes into and over all that stuff. No environmental contamination, according to the experts. Meantime, we’re working on embedding a lead shield with a locked door for access. It’ll be hidden inside the entrance, with a guard on it, so it’s not visible from outside. But the cave is under majorly serious, clandestine guard now, and as soon as that’s installed, it’ll be locked down.”

  “Excellent,” Sherlock decreed. “Now, as to the attack on Skye…”

  Skye pushed herself up in bed to listen alertly.

  “Okay, first off, I verified Victor did have access to the influenza virus,” Ryker ticked off his finger. “Not only did he have access, but he had access to the pure, concentrated strain, through some research he was doing at Suffolk New College, in the health care department.”

  “No woder id clobbered be,” Skye sniffled, reaching for another tissue.

  “Indeed,” Sherlock said, scowling, seeming to grow taller. “And where is the miscreant now?”

  “Popped by the house and the office,” Ryker informed them, “but he wasn’t at either place. Receptionist said he was off on an emergency house call. Something about a birth going too quickly to get to hospital. We followed up on that, and it’s legitimate, so we didn’t interfere. He, his house and his office are being watched. We’ll know as soon as he shows up at one place or the other.”

  “Good,” Sherlock said coldly. “When he does, bring him here straight away.”

  * * *

  Dr. Nathan Victor returned to his office around lunchtime, and was promptly, if clandestinely, taken into custody by Ryker’s unit. They, in turn, brought him directly to Gibson House.

  “We got the handkerchief from his laundry hamper, Holmes,” Ryker noted immediately. “Enid already pegged it positive.” He handed him a note, and Holmes scanned it briefly.

  “Excellent. Ah, Dr. Victor,” Holmes said politely from his seat in the armchair next the sitting room fireplace. “Won’t you sit down?” He gestured imperiously at the chair across from him. Ryker and his men moved out to stand guard at each potential room exit.

  “Um…certainly,” a nervous and unsure Victor took the indicated seat. “May I inquire as to what this is all about?”

  “It is no less than attempted murder,” Holmes noted calmly, but letting a dangerous glint flicker in his grey eyes. “The deliberate introduction of the pure strain of Influenza Type A, serotype H7N7, to Dr. Skye Chadwick-Holmes, to be specific.” He waved the note Ryker had handed him.

  “At-attempted murder?” Victor stammered, paling. “She…did she actually contract the flu?”

  “She did,” Holmes noted, “and very nearly died of it, last night. Aside from her importance to me, her death would have assumed catastrophic proportions in a matt
er which cannot be discussed, for reasons of—”

  “National security,” Ryker sternly finished for him. “According to my unit physician, her fever topped 40.6ºC.”

  “Dear God,” Victor whispered, horrified. “Hadn’t she had the vaccine?”

  “It seems to have been an inadvertent oversight in her vaccinations, before we travelled here,” Holmes replied crisply. “Hence her extremely strong response to the pure strain.”

  “Oh, dear God. Oh, dear God,” Victor groaned, putting his face in his hands. “Not that lovely, sweet woman. God, help me!”

  “Tell us everything, and perhaps we can be His hands,” Holmes suggested sternly.

  “Yes! Yes!” Victor exclaimed, looking up in desperate appeal. “Please, I never meant to hurt her! I know how much you love each other! You have to understand! They told me to! I told them it probably wouldn’t work, but they insisted. I never dreamed…I’ve been living in terror for weeks. I thought she’d need the pure strain for it to even affect her, because I assumed she’d been vaccinated before flying overseas. At most I thought she’d have the sniffles and maybe feel unwell. I was only supposed to delay your investigation for them. I SWEAR.”

  “’They’ being the pair who killed McFarlane,” Holmes deduced.

  “Yes! How did you…?” Victor looked astonished.

  “Never mind that. What hold do they have upon you?”

  “They have my twin sister Mary,” Victor moaned pitiably. “They’ve had her for weeks. Our parents are dead; we two are the only ones of the family left. They’re using threats against her to force me to help them. Rape, torture, death; the good Lord only knows what they’ve already done to my poor sister! God help me! God help me! But I swear, I didn’t help them with McFarlane! I swear! They asked me how to kill someone and make it look like a heart attack, and I told them—in order to keep Mary alive, you understand—that it would take potassium chloride, but I did NOT tell them how to DO it! I flatly refused! I swear! And I didn’t give them anything!”

  “How did they know, then?” Ryker wondered, and Victor shook his head miserably.