The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Fereaud callously dumped Skye into the back seat. Then he and Cunningham climbed into the front, and they drove off.

  * * *

  A horrified Holmes and Chadwick watched helplessly as they held onto the consoles for dear life. The tremor was a particularly bad, sustained one, and they could do nothing save watch as Chadwick’s alternate self was kidnapped.

  One of the control monitors vibrated toward the edge of the console, and Chadwick shouted, “NO!” She snatched at it, managing to knock it back enough to prevent its crashing to the floor. She braced her feet and leaned forward, attempting to stabilize it.

  “Holmes! Help me! If we lose any of the equipment, we’ll have to replace it, and we’ll lose track of Sis! And if we lose her—”

  “We lose everything,” Holmes finished for her, lunging forward and spinning around, placing himself at the edge of the console and leaning backward into the bouncing equipment, long arms outstretched to hold it all on the desktop. Chadwick redoubled her efforts to help stabilize the monitors and keyboards, spreading her arms below Holmes’ as they attempted to create a human fence to corral the precious electronics until the temblor ceased.

  Which it eventually did, a seeming eternity later. Within seconds the pair had checked connections and ports, ensuring everything was still properly hooked together, then they picked up their overturned chairs and sat down.

  “Expanding field of view,” Holmes noted, keying in parameters, “adjusting locus to ground level plus twenty metres.”

  “Good,” Chadwick agreed. “They turned left out of the study, so they either took the front door…”

  “Unlikely, as the risk of being seen from the lane is too great,” Holmes remarked.

  “…Or the kitchen door,” Chadwick finished. “So let’s look along the back of the property.”

  “On it,” Holmes nodded. He began executing a grid sweep search, beginning at the rear property line and extending outward, as the pair watched the bottom of the core intently. “There!” he exclaimed, pointing. “Did you see the blonde head in the rear window of that dark blue automobile? The one with the long scratch upon the side?”

  “Bingo,” Chadwick said grimly. “As they say in the old movies, ‘Follow that car!’”

  “You have but to ask, my dear Chadwick,” Holmes said, equally grimly.

  * * *

  Sherlock arrived at the McFarlane farm, parked the car out of sight, then made straight for the cave entrance, first ensuring there were no observers about. There he found Ryker and several of his—and the other unit’s—personnel, just inside the entrance, where they would not be readily visible.

  “How is the closure progressing?” Sherlock asked without preamble.

  “Oh! Holmes,” Ryker said, glancing up from the preliminary sarcophagus plans. “We’ve about got the wall in place. What are you doing here?”

  “I should rather ask why I was so readily allowed in, and why you are surprised by my presence, before answering,” Sherlock remarked in a biting tone.

  “Because we have dossiers on you and Dr. Chadwick-Holmes,” one of the unknown operatives noted, “and I got a call you were coming, when you were still over at the McFarlane croft. I’m Unit Leader Gregory, by the way.” He held out a hand.

  “Capital,” Sherlock said in satisfaction, shaking the proffered hand. “Yes, Ryker here says you and your men are excellent. Keep on your toes, however. Cunningham and Fereaud know the bird has flown the coop, as the saying is, and will likely be on their way here, if, as I suspect, they have accelerated their plans because of it.”

  “All over it,” Ryker said, immediately picking up his radio. “All teams, attention. We are now under Alert Level One. Repeat, we are now under Alert Level One. Report.”

  “Team Red copies,” came back the first response. “All clear.”

  “Team Orange copies; clear here.”

  “Team Yellow copies; compound clear.”

  “Team Green copies; nothing here.”

  “Team Blue copies; restraint nearly complete.”

  “Team Purple copies; we’re clean.”

  Ryker looked expectantly at Sherlock, who nodded.

  “Excellent,” the detective noted.

  “Want to take a look at the lockdown?” Ryker asked the detective.

  “I should like that. Do we need MOPP gear?”

  “Not at this point, no. The barricade and door are being installed far enough out from the…material…that we don’t have to worry about contamination. Besides, it’s lead, covered with polyvinyl chloride, to protect it from the elements—it was heavy and awkward as hell to get in there, especially without damaging the PVC, but we did it—and it’s already up. They’re just anchouring it into the rock and sealing off the edges.”

  “Then let us go.”

  The two men walked into the depths of the cave. Just outside the bend leading to the floor collapse, they found the wall. Half of Team Blue was busily setting and activating the last of the pyrotechnic bolts anchoring it into the rock walls of the cavern; the other half was following behind, applying special concrete to seal the edges. In the center of the plastic-coated wall was a big door, nearly the size of the garage door at Gibson House. Beside the door was a card-swipe lock powered by a battery system bolted onto the wall near the base.

  “I assume this is the lead-doped concrete?” Sherlock queried, pointing.

  “It is. We have to mix it using filter masks and stuff, but it works.”

  “What about the door? Why is it so large? To allow entry of the sarcophagus construction materials?”

  “Bingo,” Ryker grinned.

  “Do you intend to change out the battery on a regular basis?”

  “No,” Ryker shook his head. “That battery pack will last until we can get the sarcophagus rebuilt. Once the battery dies, the door becomes permanently locked. Before that happens, the front of the cave is going to be sealed with a stick of dynamite and covered over with regular concrete. We decided to play off the Nazi smuggling idea and put out the story that a Nazi spy, who was prepping for an invasion of Great Britain, stockpiled chemical weapons in here, specifically phenyl dick…”

  “What in heaven’s name is that?” Sherlock interrupted.

  “Oh. It’s phenyldichloroarsine,” Ryker explained. “It’s a vomiting and blister agent, which would explain McFarlane’s symptoms, but it’s not under the Chemical Weapons Convention ban, so we don’t have to report it or have it investigated, and thus raise Bedlam we don’t want raised.”

  “Ah, excellent.”

  “So by the time the phenyl dick was recently discovered, it was unstable and needed to be sealed off, rather than carted off and destroyed.”

  “Wiggins has given this considerable thought.” Sherlock nodded, impressed.

  “He has,” Ryker grinned. “He has a good teacher. Did he do well?”

  “He did excellently, insofar that I can see,” Sherlock said, meeting Ryker’s eyes.

  * * *

  Ryker saw the barest hint of pride in the grey gaze, and his cheeks colored. “Good,” he murmured, slightly embarrassed. “He tried hard.”

  “In that case, I shall leave the matter in Wiggins’ most capable hands, and betake myself back to my wife,” Sherlock said affably. “I trust you will keep me posted, as I shall, you.”

  “Of course,” Ryker beamed, as he escorted Sherlock out of the cave.

  Soon Sherlock was en route back to Gibson House.

  * * *

  All appeared normal as Sherlock pulled into the drive. He hit the remote control for the garage, mentally shaking his head as he often did at how very much such things had changed since his original day, let alone how rapidly he had adapted to said changes, then parked the car in the garage. He closed the garage door, unlocked the door into the house proper, and stepped into the mudroom to remove his coat and hat.

  “Skye!” he called into the house. “I have returned.”

  No answer.

 
The sleuth paused briefly, extending his senses as much as humanly possible. No sound, he realized. No conversation, no scrape of chair on floor, no ruffle of pages turning, not so much as the scratch of pencil on paper. Something is not right here.

  Immediately he headed for the study. There a shocking sight met the detective’s eyes: the study was a disaster. Papers were scattered everywhere. The precious notebook of calculations lay splayed open on the floor, its pages crumpled. A marble paperweight had found its way across the room with enough force to produce a dent in the sheet rock, and lay on the floor near the far wall. The desk chair was completely overturned in one corner; the flat-screen computer monitor lay on its face.

  Sherlock stood in the middle of the disarranged study, horrified. Skye is gone, he realized, with every sign of having been taken in the midst of a struggle. So it was not the dissolution of the other continuum while the tesseract was active, but another, very human agency. But where has she been taken? I must search the clues, and then I must use my deductive skills to their utmost, or I shall lose the one being I could not bear to lose.

  “Holmes? Holmes, where are you?” he suddenly heard her voice call, and his heart leaped before he recognized that the mode of address was incorrect. Pain shot through him, and he bit his lip momentarily, eyes closed, steeling himself into cool impassivity before answering.

  “In the study, Dr. Chadwick,” he replied calmly. “Skye—my wife, Skye—has been kidnapped.”

  “We know,” his own voice responded. “We saw it happen, and could do nothing save observe, because we had defocused to allow an instability wave to come through without affecting your continuum. But afterward, we could follow without their awareness—so we did. We have only just returned here from watching.”

  “Then for God’s sake, man, tell me!” Sherlock exclaimed, spinning toward the voices. “Who was it, and where was she taken?”

  “It was the two men Dr. Victor was afraid of,” Chadwick noted grimly. “The ones who faked the will. They took her to an old abandoned house outside Shottisham. We can show you.”

  “I’ll bring the car around; you follow me, and give directions,” Sherlock ordered.

  “Of course, old man,” Holmes replied. “And we will notify Ryker while you get the auto.”

  “Capital,” Sherlock agreed. “He is at the McFarlane farm, at the cave.”

  “On it,” Chadwick noted.

  Sherlock heard the pop of the tesseract as he ran for the garage.

  * * *

  The drive from the cottage into Shottisham, with an active tesseract accompanying, was hairy for all concerned. Sherlock floored the accelerator, driving with every bit of FBI-trained skill he possessed, his alternate reality companions having informed him Ryker had cleared the way with local law enforcement. While Sherlock drove, Chadwick and Holmes kept their hands on the tight tesseract focusing and their eyes on the road, so they could track Sherlock and instruct him en route while avoiding the inadvertent uptake of other vehicles or objects into the wormhole. All three were immensely relieved to arrive at their destination.

  “Wait here,” Holmes enjoined Sherlock, “while we go in and see what is happening; we will come back and tell you how to proceed.”

  “Very well,” Sherlock replied impatiently. “But—”

  “We’ll be quick,” Chadwick reassured him. “I know how to use this baby to be essentially in two places at once.” The grin on her face was audible in her voice, and Sherlock could not help but respond, mentally seeing the same comforting, if mischievous, grin on his wife’s face.

  “I know,” he said. “Now go.”

  “Gone,” Chadwick murmured. “Back,” she added almost immediately.

  “And?” Sherlock pressed acerbically.

  “Is the cane you used after your fall still in the vehicle?” Holmes asked his alter ego.

  “It is,” Sherlock replied grimly. “Excellent thought. It is metallic, quite light, and will make a capital weapon.”

  “I’d prefer a gun,” Chadwick said bluntly.

  “I have that in my pocket, as well,” Sherlock noted.

  “Very good. Take both. Here is what you must do…” Holmes began.

  Chapter 6—Murphy’s Law

  YOU’RE AN IDIOT IF YOU THINK that,” Skye declared angrily, struggling against the rope binding her hands behind her back. “Going in that cave is certain death.”

  “So you say,” Fereaud growled in a thick Gallic accent.

  “Right,” Cunningham sneered. “Like we’re going to believe you. You’re just a little housewife anyway. The detective’s pretty young trophy wife.”

  “My name is Dr. Skye Chadwick-Holmes,” she announced, incensed. “I’m a physicist. And I’m telling you, what’s in that cave is lethally radioactive. I’m trying to save your life!”

  “Yeah, sure,” Cunningham said, turning away and going to study a map on the table nearby. “Last I checked, gold bullion wasn’t lethal.”

  “Unless it falls on you,” Fereaud chuckled, and Cunningham laughed.

  “I’m serious!” Skye exclaimed. “You’ve gotta listen to me. Think about the sores on the cows, and the burns on Mr. McFarlane. Those were radiation burns. I don’t care who you are, or what you’ve done, that’s a horrible way to die!”

  “Look, I’ve already told you, your pathetic little horror story isn’t gonna work. Now be a good little girl and keep your mouth shut,” Cunningham told her bluntly. “We only have you so we can force your husband’s government masters to give us what we really want. Play nice, and do as you’re told, and you won’t get hurt.”

  “What’re you gonna do? Kill me?” Skye scoffed.

  “I’d rather not, but if necessary,” Cunningham shrugged casually. “So I’d behave if I were you.”

  “Like that’s gonna scare me.” Skye sneered. “Dying’s easy. You just let go.”

  * * *

  “You sound as if you know.” Cunningham raised an eyebrow, impressed for the first time.

  “I do.”

  “So you don’t care if you’re killed.”

  “Nope.” Skye’s expression was calm and firm.

  “But,” Cunningham murmured, considering carefully as he observed Skye, “I bet that husband of yours would care.”

  Blue eyes faltered.

  “Uh-huh,” Cunningham grunted knowingly, watching her intently. “I thought so.”

  “Look, guys. What can I do, what can I say, to make you believe me?” Skye began, trying to reason. “Do you know what Cherenkov radiation is? Have you—”

  Disgusted and out of patience, Cunningham spun on his heel, turning his back on the scientist. “Fereaud, shut her up.”

  Fereaud calmly backhanded Skye across the face with his fist. He was not gentle. The blow flung the scientist sideways, slamming her into the wall. She lost her footing and fell to the floor, stunned and barely conscious. Cunningham walked across the room, hauled her roughly to her feet and held her upright by the shoulders.

  “Listen, I’ll gag you if I have to. Now I’m going to tell you one more time. Shut up. Do as you’re told, and you might walk away from this.” Cunningham dug his fingers into her upper arms to emphasize his point.

  “There is no ‘might,’” a grim voice snapped behind them. “She will walk away, and you shall answer to me for daring to touch her.”

  And before either kidnapper could move, a furious avenging angel in detective form materialized in their midst, wielding his cane so swiftly it seemed almost to teleport from place to place.

  * * *

  Targeting the pressure points, the cane crashed down across Cunningham’s wrists with such force even a dazed Skye heard the loud crack and wondered if the bones had broken. The grip on her arms instantly released. She crumpled to the floor, using her feet to shove herself into the nearby corner and out of the way, as she watched in dumbstruck awe while her husband effected her rescue.

  Fereaud reached for his gun as Cunningham howled in pain and st
aggered back. But Sherlock was already there. The handle of the cane hooked Fereaud’s wrist, jerking it away from the jacket pocket in which his pistol was secreted, as Sherlock’s fist connected in a solid left cross to Fereaud’s chin. The cane detached itself from Fereaud’s arm and flipped around deftly, smacking down smartly on the crown of his head. Fereaud went down as if pole-axed.

  Without pausing, Sherlock spun to find a fumbling Cunningham trying frantically to draw his own weapon and take aim at Skye. A snarl of raw fury emerged from the detective’s throat, and he lunged forward, swinging the cane with all the force he possessed. The metal instrument became a silvery-grey blur, aimed directly at Cunningham’s gun hand. There was a loud, nauseating snap as the abused wrist finally broke; the man screamed and dropped the gun from his now-useless hand. It clattered to the floor as Sherlock flung himself at the other man, cane now held in both hands. He slammed Cunningham against the wall, metal cane pressed against Cunningham’s throat just as Ryker and four of his men burst into the room.

  * * *

  “You dared harm my wife,” Sherlock growled. “The Evil One himself could not be lower in my eyes, or more deserving of retribution.” He shoved the cane harder against Cunningham’s throat. Cunningham began to gasp and squirm desperately, struggling to retain a clear airway against the pressure on his trachea. Fear filled his eyes as he realized that the detective likely intended to crush his windpipe.

  * * *

  Behind Holmes, Ryker’s breath caught, as the Secret Service unit burst in, spread out and drew down on the scene.

  “Holmes,” Ryker murmured calmingly, “you’ve got backup. The Boss is in the corner, and looks reasonably well. Everything’s under control. Let us have him.”

  But Sherlock didn’t move. He merely continued to stare into Cunningham’s terrified blue eyes with a furious, merciless glare. His own grey gaze was dark, hard, and cold as ice.

  * * *

  Just then, a firm, calm voice from the corner spoke. “Let him go, Sherlock. I’m okay. Don’t do it. Please.”

  The detective blinked, then eased the pressure on Cunningham’s windpipe without looking away from the man.