“I understand everything you’re saying, Sherlock,” Chadwick replied, shaking her head, “and it makes perfect, logical sense, and in that respect, you’re completely right. But this isn’t my brain talking, Honey. It’s my heart. I NEED you right now. I need the emotional connection, and I need the strength that comes with it. And most of all, if I mess this up, if we die today, I want us to have made love one last time.”
* * *
Holmes capitulated then, pulling his mate close and kissing her deeply, allowing his hands to explore and caress, and secretly reveling in the sighs and mews that resulted.
Chadwick’s own hands were busy as well, tracing the contours of her much-beloved detective’s strong, wiry body. In short order, they could wait no longer, and the pair joined for the first time in over four years.
But although their foreplay was eager and swift, they took their time enjoying their lovemaking.
“For,” Holmes pointed out, with a combination of determination and whimsy, “should this indeed be the last time, by Jove, it shall be done properly.”
* * *
When they were finally sated, they lay contentedly in each other’s arms for a long time, both reluctant to break the bond.
“Besides,” Chadwick murmured, “once we get up, we start the downhill slide toward…whatever’s gonna happen.”
But in the end there was no help for it; the membrane’s reboost to rest energy could not be put off any longer, or they risked undoing everything they’d worked so hard to achieve.
So at last they rose, showered and dressed, nibbled a little breakfast though neither was hungry, and headed out the side door. Outside, their entire ranch staff awaited them. It caught the preoccupied pair off guard, and Holmes still had his arm around Chadwick in intimate encouragement when they first became aware they had an audience. Chadwick immediately tried to pull away, in deference to Holmes’ reticence; but he fisted his fingers in the back of her jacket, holding her in position. She glanced up at him anxiously, but grey eyes crinkled back.
“Relax,” he breathed, his lips scarcely moving. “They shall have to be made aware of the new sleeping arrangements sometime.”
With that, he subtly pulled her into position beside him, allowing his hand to rest discreetly against the small of her back, and they looked up into a phalanx of smiling faces. Williams stepped forward.
* * *
“Good morning, Billy,” Holmes greeted his liaison calmly. “To what do we owe this little gathering?”
“Good morning, Holmes, Boss,” Williams smiled at the pair, nodding to each in turn. “I trust the two of you had a good night?”
“We did,” Holmes replied blandly. Chadwick’s blush told the tale, however, and their staff members’ grins grew broader. “But surely such matters do not warrant a meeting at this hour of the morning?”
“No,” Williams sobered. “We just wanted to…well, to show you our support. No matter what happens, we realise the two of you busted your bums to fix what Haines screwed up. We wanted you to know that; and to know…well…”
Billy’s voice tapered off, too emotional to continue. So Tina Williams stepped forward, holding her daughter.
“We all want you to know that we trust you, we love you, and we’re thinking of you and praying for you,” she said staunchly, finishing for her husband. “And we’re happy for you. No matter what comes.”
Grey eyes and blue widened, then dropped to stare at the ground.
* * *
Chadwick felt the hand at her back clench, and Holmes swallowed several times, clearing his throat once. He can’t get the words out, she thought affectionately. So she spoke for them both.
“Thank you all, very much,” she said in a low, husky tone. “We’re doing our best. I won’t lie and say I’m not scared, ‘cause I am. If I could be one hundred percent sure this will work, I’d be as cool as Sherlock—as Holmes is,” she corrected herself, and the delighted grins returned to her listeners. Chadwick straightened her shoulders, raising her head with newfound confidence. “But I’m pretty sure it’s going to work, and with y’all’s thoughts and prayers, and this guy here beside me,” she nudged Holmes, “I think it’s gonna be okay.”
“Indeed,” Holmes managed to get out. “I could not have said it better. And now,” he said, stepping forward and allowing his hand to slide away from Chadwick, “we had best make our way down the mountain and get to work. Come, my dear.” He held out his hand, palm up. Chadwick placed her hand in his and permitted him to help her down the steps.
Within minutes the little sports car was headed down Ute Pass.
* * *
While the other continuum was resting and preparing to boost the rest energy of the brane, Sherlock and Skye debated on what to do.
“You really should also use the time to rest, my dear,” Sherlock pointed out. “Your endeavours have been quite strenuous in the last few weeks, not to mention you have sustained considerable physical abuse. You have at least a week, possibly more. That is a holiday in itself.”
“I know, Sherlock. But frankly, I’m not going to be able to rest until one—the brane is completely re-stabilized, and two—we find Cunningham and Fereaud. I’m just NOT,” she reiterated for emphasis.
Sherlock sighed, fully comprehending her point of view. She is not going to feel safe until the two matters are completely resolved and finished once and for all, he realized, especially her kidnappers. As long as they are at large, she will not feel safe. And indeed, to some extent, no matter what I may do, she is not. Ryker and his people are already stretched thin, and I cannot stay awake continually.
“Very well, Wife. I understand. In that case, it is time for a change of strategy in the game.”
“So what do you recommend?”
“As has been noted in the past, the best defence is often a strong offence. And it is about time the miscreants in these parts discovered that there are two first-rate detectives dwelling here, not merely one.”
“We go out looking?”
“We do.” Sherlock’s jaw was firm. “Had you prefer to remain a team, or do you feel comfortable separating for short periods?”
“Um, I’d rather stay a team, but we can, say, send one into a situation while the other waits for a signal or something,” Skye decided.
“Then let us begin.” Sherlock nodded. “Before we take you out, however, let me see about disguising your bruises. Especially that stubborn black eye.”
“Good,” Skye said, satisfied.
* * *
Soon Skye’s appearance was near normal. In addition, Sherlock sat down with his art book and pencil, and produced two sketches of Fereaud and Cunningham, to aid in witness identification; and they ventured forth.
“The fact that we do not bother to disguise ourselves will be that much more disconcerting and disturbing to our quarry,” Sherlock observed. “It is a strong offensive tactic, indicating neither of us is afraid of them.”
Skye’s chin rose, and her jaw grew firm.
“There’s my girl. You are better than they, in every respect, and I believe you also have your concealed carry now, do you not?”
“I sure do,” Skye said determinedly. “Not again. Not EVER again.”
“Then let us see what the local ports may show. I think we may count on Ryker to tell us if anything happens at the cave.”
They got into the car and headed out.
* * *
Three-quarters of the way into Woodbridge, Ryker called, but only to inform them that reconstruction of the sarcophagus was underway, as accelerated as they could manage.
It was concluded that the only real concern was the roof of the chamber; the cavern below was coated in concrete, then lead-lined, and appeared to be in reasonable shape, even despite the partial meltdown of the reactor core.
Therefore, remote-controlled, heavy-duty equipment was being used to carefully position thick lead sheets, wrapped in a heavy layer of PVC to protect against lead migration, a
cross the opening in the cave floor. It was a tricky task, likely to be the slowest step of the containment, because of the need to anchor it on firm, solid rock; the last thing they needed was to increase the amount of cave collapse.
After that was completed, framed rebar panels, coated with PVC over a thick layer of lead, would be lifted into place atop the lead sheeting, and a special lead-doped concrete poured into that. Essentially the entire floor of the cave would be covered with the concrete, all the way up to the cave walls. The last step would involve sealing the concrete with a classified polymer to protect it from water. Said polymer would literally seep into the pores of the concrete, all the way through, preventing any possibility of deterioration due to water, or leaching of the lead doping.
“Sounds well thought out,” Skye decided, listening to Sherlock’s cell phone in speaker mode as they drove. “That ought to take care of matters for a few centuries, at the very least.”
“Right,” Ryker agreed. “Nowhere near the half-lives of all that radioactive shite, but long enough, with proper record keeping, that they’ll have developed something better to contain it by the time something else is needed.”
“Yup,” Skye confirmed.
“So,” Ryker wondered, “what are you two up to?”
“We,” Sherlock noted, “are in search of our two fugitives.”
“Good on ya,” Ryker replied. “Woodbridge first, I’d guess?”
“How many times must I tell you, Ryker?”
“Uh, that was an educated guess, Holmes. It’s the closest thing approximating a port to this area. It’s also the last place they were seen.”
“That is much better,” Sherlock said, satisfied. “And you are correct. And should we be unsuccessful there?”
“Um, Ipswich, then possibly—or maybe eventually is a better word—London,” Ryker suggested.
“Very good, Ryker. Our Wiggins is getting better and better,” Sherlock verified, a twinkle in the grey eyes as he glanced at Skye.
“Thanks,” Ryker said, and they could hear the sheepish grin in his voice. “Let me know if you need backup.”
“Wilco,” Skye said. “Meantime, hurry up with that closure. I have a bad feeling about it.”
“We’re on it,” Ryker said confidently. “Catch you later. Good hunting.”
“Goodbye, Wiggins,” Sherlock said mischievously, and Skye closed the phone.
* * *
Once in Woodbridge, Sherlock took Skye by the cottage where Mary Victor had been held prisoner, and together they went over the house once more. This time, however, they found a clue inadvertently left by the fugitives upon their last visit, after Sherlock’s original thorough search: a matchbook from the Bishops Inn in Ipswich. They finished their search, but found nothing else.
They climbed into their vehicle and headed for Ipswich.
* * *
But they had no luck there. While the hotel staff was able to definitively identify Cunningham and Fereaud from Sherlock’s sketches, as guests Harrison and Albe, respectively, the pair was no longer at the hotel.
“No, they checked out two days ago,” the manager noted. “No forwarding contact information. I’m sorry, sir, madam.”
A quick, spontaneous detour southeast to Harwich took them to the ferries across the Channel.
“They do not go to France directly,” Sherlock observed, “but even in my day, it would not have been difficult to get from Germany, Belgium or the Netherlands into France.”
“True,” Skye said, “and now with Eurail, it’s even easier. And faster.”
So they checked all the ferries, showing the sketches. But they had no luck there, either.
“Should we really head for London, Sherlock? That’s two needles in a really huge haystack. London’s even bigger than it was in your day. But you’ve already seen that...”
“Call Ryker,” was all he said.
* * *
Ryker confirmed that the Director had all regional airports, especially those in London, which were closest, crawling with MI5 and -6, complete with mug shots of the fugitives. All ship ports were being scrutinized, as well. There was no point in the Holmeses going to London at this stage.
With a sigh, the married couple turned back. It was now late in the day, and they discussed the matter as they returned to Gibson House.
“Did anybody find anything at the place where they held me?” Skye wondered.
“Ah, an excellent idea, Wife. I did not myself go over it, as I was more concerned with removing you to a place of safety and rest, and have not had opportunity to search it since. I know Ryker kept it pristine, and it is likely still being treated as a crime scene, until this investigation concludes. Perhaps tomorrow we may go over it in detail.”
“I dunno, Sherlock. We can, and probably should, I guess. But I think maybe,” Skye decided, considering the various scenarios as her husband drove, “we should concentrate on the area around the cave. As determined and fixated as they were, I just don’t see them fleeing the country without giving it one last shot.”
“A ‘gut feeling,’ my dear?” Sherlock shot a sharp glance at his wife.
“Yeah.”
“Then that is what we shall do.”
* * *
Skye slept fitfully, despite the knowledge that Her Majesty’s Secret Service were standing clandestine guard around the house. She woke bleary eyed, but alert, especially after alarm clocks were rung. Then the pair rose and prepared for another day of searching.
It was difficult for Skye to enter the house where she had been held prisoner and mistreated, but she took several deep breaths and plunged ahead. Sherlock followed close behind, deliberately staying well within her personal space, a very tangible and comforting morale booster for his wife. Together the pair examined the abandoned, ramshackle old house. They found an old topographic map of the area, with the site of the cave marked, as well as over half a dozen different possible routes to the entrance.
“But Ryker has all these covered already,” Sherlock decided, after studying it for a bit.
“They had several more maps,” Skye observed, “and most of those were newer than this one.”
“Which means this one may be a discard. Nevertheless, if you would extract a forensics bag, my dear, we can at least look for fingerprints upon the thing, to tie them definitively to the ‘treasure hunt.’”
Latex covered fingers delicately folded the map and placed it into the plastic bag being held for it. Then the search was resumed.
“Here’s where Cunningham smoked,” Skye noted, bending over an ashtray on a table in one corner. “Easily six or eight cigarette butts right here.”
“More evidence. Possibly DNA?”
“Yup,” Skye said, getting an evidence bag out of their kit and upending the entire ashtray into it.
“And look there,” Sherlock pointed to the area of the table revealed when Skye had lifted the ashtray. “Another matchbook from the Bishop Inn.”
“And I got the evidence bag for it,” Skye grinned, as Sherlock used forceps to pick up the item and transfer it to the poly bag.
* * *
Further search of the building turned up nothing. Sherlock decided to swing by the Carver residence in order to show them the sketches of their fugitives, so that the couple might at least know for whom to watch. Skye and the Carvers appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be complete strangers, though Sherlock wondered at the slightly odd expression on Jonathan Carver’s face as he gazed at Skye.
“Is all well, Mr. Carver?” the detective wondered.
“Uh…uh, yeah, Mr. Holmes,” Carver replied, shaking himself mentally. “D’ ya see it, Hazel? It’s th’ eyes, Oy think.”
“Yeah, Oy shore do see it, Jonny, luv. Oy cain’t hardly miss it. Sorry, Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes. It’s jus’…Mrs. Holmes…she’s got our daughter Jenny’s eyes. It’s…” The woman turned away for a moment. “She weren’t but a wee babe, but it feels a’most like meetin’ our daughter, all gr
owed up.”
“But we know Mrs. Holmes ain’t th’ right age, nohow,” Carver said stoically, “it’s jus’…odd.”
“I’m so sorry,” Skye murmured sympathetically, glancing at her husband. “Would you rather I waited in the car?”
“Not a-tall,” Mrs. Carver said staunchly, regaining control of herself. “Th’ both o’ ye are comin’ in here, sittin’ down, an’ havin’ a cuppa wif us.” She put away her old grief and bustled into the kitchen, gesturing the others along. “Now, what did ya be a-comin’ over here for?”
“We wanted to show you some sketches Sherlock did of the men who killed Mr. McFarlane and kidnapped Dr. Victor’s sister and me,” Skye explained. “That way, you’ll know who to watch out for.”
“Now there’s a fine idee,” Carver said, as his wife poured tea for all of them and prepared it, accurately reading the wordless gestures of each to make it to their liking. “Lessee ‘em.”
“Have you seen these men?” Sherlock produced the sketches and held them up.
The Carvers studied the images.
“Oy think mebbe Oy did see this bloke,” Jonathan Carver tapped Fereaud’s image, “about a week afore James died. ‘E was sightseein’, ‘e said. Wanted t’ see th’ forest.”
“Was he on foot, or in an automobile?” Sherlock queried.
“Auto,” Carver said. “Y’ want a description?”
“It would be greatly appreciated.”
“Yeah. The bastards—oh, excuse me,” Skye blushed.
“No, no, luv! You jus’ hush that apology, right this instant,” Mrs. Carver declared, a fierce light in her eyes. “Don’t ya be layin’ on no excuses f’r callin’ a spade a spade, Mrs. Holmes. That’s th’ royght word as ever there was. Oy bin hearin’ as how they beat ye, an’ woulda killed ye, mos’ loyke, if ‘tweren’t f’r yer brave husband, there. Only,” her eyes twinkled, “don’t be callin’ ‘em no sons o’ bitches, now. Our bitches are right nice li’l dogs, thankee.”
They all laughed.
“Now, as you wuz sayin’, Mrs. Holmes?” Carver politely inquired.
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 121