Silhouettes Chapter 14
From what research I have done, Sherlock jumped on June 12th. I'm assuming he moved to the country shortly after. He's there before Viola returns to school. It's September when Viola leaves for school. Sherlock leaves in mid-August. And we're around October here.
I have to admit, I was overwhelmed with the response to these last two chapters, and I feel as though this comes as a result of two things:
More frequent postings
The knowledge that I have written chapters ahead.
I just gotta say, guys, that motivation through reviews is still appreciated, even if I'm mostly done with this.
Anyways, this is just me saying that reviews would still be greatly appreciated. Awesomesauce, even.
On that note, shout outs to SJBHasADayPass, franzi86, DoulosAnastasis, Sneezy Whale, FeatherDeath, Daliah Valley, Why Fireflies Flash. You guys have been great. Sorry if I missed anyone!
-XXX-
I am ushered back to the car. My "host" graciously opens the door for me. I pause before stepping outside.
"I don't think I'll be seeing Mr. Holly ever again. He left without notice, and I doubt he'll be contacting me…well, ever."
"Even so. I'd prefer you were warned."
For a few seconds, I gaze at him. "Thanks, I guess. Maybe next time you could call me up, so I could put it on my calendar. I am sure it must trouble you greatly to have me quivering with fear and in my running sweats. I could also maybe straighten up this place, too. Though I doubt we'll meet again."
He smiles sincerely, one lip tucking upwards.
"Oh, we shall," he assures me. "Soon enough Ms. Carters. Have a nice morning."
Tipping his head, he gestures for me to seat myself in the saloon car. Once again, I am next to the aloof ginger woman. In fifteen awkward minutes, I am standing before the stoop to my flat.
-XXX-
Wrists can grow weary quite quickly from stirring. Despite the warm, tasty product of soup you get from it, in the end the twinge of pain will remind you for a day or two that your joins are rather weak. Stupidly weak, in fact. It's what I get for picking complicated soups.
On Sundays I make soup. It's a part of a routine I've developed. Thursdays I eat out and explore the city. Saturday nights are for laundry. On Sundays I make soup – enough to get me through two or three meals. For those late nights at the bistro, it's nice to come home and be able to simply microwave a simple dinner. And I find that the quiet act of reverently sitting before the stove, stirring the pot rhythmically while the radio plays in the background is a therapeutic ritual. I like my Sundays.
On this particular Sunday I'm in the middle of making a black bean soup when an interesting radio announcement catches my ear. Usually the stream of music and advertisements and news just sort of floats by me, a comforting white noise, but for some reason this particularly news story give me pause.
" – and in our third week of the investigation, the terror that is the Underground Kidnapper has struck for a fifth time," the announcer says gravely. They've got a nice, melodic voice, a little on the husky side. "Scotland Yard reports that the fifth victim, Sharon Yu, a female twenty-eight years of age, was last seen getting off at the Moor Park platform. When last seen Ms. Yu was wearing a mustard yellow jacket and a teal stocking cap. She has long black hair with brown eyes, is of Asian descent, and will respond to 'Shar.' If you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Ms. Yu or any other victims, please contact –"
The Underground Kidnapper. For three weeks people have been disappearing off the tube platforms. The media has been having a field day. The police are going mad. The city is relatively unchanged. For every two that are taken one is returned, alive, but dazed, unable to say where they've been, or even what their kidnapper looked like. Most are unharmed, save for a few scratches on their arms, perhaps a bruise or two. They're very confused though, almost in shock. Shells, for a time. But that's not the scary part.
There seems to be, according to the media, no pattern. No connection between the people. They're all of different ages, sexes, occupations, etc. Nothing ties them together. The times people are taken, too, do not correlate. It's truly terrifying to think that you could be snatched at any moment. Luckily, I can, for the most part, avoid the trains. But I know there are many others who cannot.
"We've just received the report from Scotland Yard last night that consulting private investigator Sherlock Holmes has been assigned to the case. A many of you know Mr. Holmes was suspected dead last spring following mysterious circumstances regarding the break in at the Tower, the Bank of England, and the release of prisoners at Pentonville. His return early this autumn stunned many, but after clearing his name the police admitted to being glad he's returned."
Here it cut to the quote of a gruff man saying shortly, "Yeah, he's been of help to us. Especially on some of the more tough ones. We need an outside perspective, occasionally. But don't think these boys at the yard can't handle cases on our own – we solved a lot before Mr. Holmes showed up."
"Crime analysts say that Mr. Holmes's involvement could actually create a spike in kidnapping, however, we'll just have to see. Until this kidnapper is brought to justice, please remember to be cautious when using the underground. Stay in well-lit areas, around groups of people. Do not interact with strangers excessively. And report any funny business you might see.
"In other news, Meyer Pharmaceuticals is feeling the heat once again from another slew of lawsuits. This time it's over allegedly using brittle steel in their latest line of surgical knifes. Knives, doctors across the continent report, are liable to snap and break inside patients. Meyer, the second largest pharmaceutical company in the UK, has offered no comment at this time. From Pennington Station, this is Tyler Burdrich for your twelve o'clock report. Have a peaceful Sunday…."
How curious. My heart goes out to the victims. As I stare into the muddy sludge that is my soup, I wonder after the motive. Is this just a sadistic fiend looking for a "good time?" I shake my head. "Terrible."
I don't recall much of Mr. Holmes, though the story of the robberies is familiar, his coming-back-to-life act is not. The name rings a bell, but I cannot place a face with it. He mustn't be that famous, then. Probably just known in those crime-drama circles. You know the types. The ones that follow the papers keenly. The ones that love shows like Cold Case and drop the name of famous crimes like they're movies.
Without much more thought on the matter, I return to my soup.
-XXX-
One Tuesday shortly after hearing the news announcement, I am approached at work by a sturdy-looking blonde fellow. We're not quite at closing, but the band has shut down for the night. I've taken my drink from the bar and propped myself up against the stage, watching Sanjay, our tech guy, coil thick black electric cords. For a week night it's been pretty crowded. I figure the autumn chill has sent many people to going out more. We don't mind in the least.
He hovers near me for a few minutes before making an effort to speak to me. If I recall correctly, he came in on the third-to-last song of the night. Sort of crept in.
"Excuse me, miss?"
I sigh heavily, preparing to fend off the pleas for a phone number. But, against my expectations, the fellow says, "Hello," warmly, then sticks out a hand. "John Watson. I've been told you wear a lot of hats around here. May I speak to you for a moment? About your manager?"
For a second I take him in. Shorter, for a man, with closely-cropped sandy blond hair. Bright, intelligent blue eyes. Probably around midthirties, reasonably cute. Oatmeal-coloured jumper – hardly something to go out in, but to each his own – brown loafers, jeans. I can't really discern much –
-Except, of course, I realize with a sickening jolt, that I've been pulling a Ben. Trying to cleverly discern who this person might be. I feel a kind of illness in my throat at the thought.
"Um. Why?"
The guy is prepared. "I'm part of a private investigation. Your boss isn't in trouble, I just need to know something about his work schedule."
My eyes narrow. "Who exactly are you?"
"John –"
"No, I mean, what do you do? You're no PI, no offense."
"None taken." He smiles easily. "Retired military, actually. I'm doing this on the side. Helping a friend."
"Do you have any documentation?" I hate to be bother, but I don't want to start spewing things left and right to just anyone. To my relief, he admits to having none. Nevertheless, I agree to help him.
"And why do you need to know about Harry's schedule?"
"We need to figure out if someone's story collaborates with what he normally does through the course of a week."
I consider this. "Is Harry in any trouble?"
There is hesitation. "Ah, no. Not technically."
Harry is a nice guy. He's good to all of us here, and would defend us to the death in front of the owners. Last month, when I came down with a stomach bug, he gave me so much time off I had to force him to let me work even after I'd been better for two days. He makes a point to have the band fed and sufficiently watered every night – those stage lights can be hot, it's easy to get dehydrated. With this in mind, I cross my arms.
"He's a great fellow," I say. "I don't like to think –"
"It's just to clear him," Mr. Watson says soothingly. "Now, can you tell me…does Harry have a tendency to run late?"
"Oh, no, he's a punctual person. I've never known him to be tardy – except, perhaps, on days when he has to pick up other people's shifts."
"So…there aren't any days he might come in a bit later?"
"Never," I say firmly. "He's always on time, Mr. Watson."
"John," he corrects lightly. "You can call me John. And I'm a…doctor."
At this, I smile slightly. This John Watson isn't too bad of a guy. He's got a certain calm warmness about him.
"John, then. Do you have any more questions?"
"Yes, just one more – do you know if your boss is dating anyone, at the moment?"
I think. "He's got a boyfriend who lives nears Warwick."
John takes note of this. Once he's finished, he regards me. "And…are you dating anyone?"
My lips pull up in a shy half-grin. "Not at the moment."
He's about to speak again when his cell phone rings. With a heavy sigh, he answers. " Yes?"
The tone is a weary one. I smile to myself, sipping my ale and turning back to the stage. Sanjay has disappeared. The stage lights have been lowered and set to a blue cast, giving a cool eeriness to the platform. When I look back at the dining room, I can see that people are starting to leave. Elle, one of our waitresses, is going around the empty tables blowing out candles and rearranging the centerpieces. Behind her, at the door, telling people to have a good night as the shuffle out into the chilled autumn night.
"—Pinstripes, I was just getting those – yes, but you asked me to do that for you, this morning. No, don't come down – I know you're still in your pajamas!" There is a pause. "I know you can dress yourself." Another pause. John gives me a sheepish look of "I'm-really-really-sorry-about-this." I wave my hand.
"No, don't come here!" John says into the device exasperatedly. "Besides, it's too late to eat, they're closing down. I've already asked all the questions you wanted. You're in a cab? But –"
The line goes dead. John Watson pulls the phone from his ear glumly. "Ah, it looks like my associate will be here soon. Sorry."
"We'll get a drink sometime, yeah?
"Yeah," he tells me sincerely. "Could I –"
But I'm already reaching for his notepad, scrawling down my number. I am not in the habit of handing my digits out, but John Watson is sincerely charming, mature (maybe so mature he's a little old for me) and very, very different from Ben. Once I've handing the pad back to him I excuse myself for the back stage. I've got a bit of cleaning to do on our keyboard, then an arrangement of sheet music.
Our stage, in general, is not too large. Just enough for five musicians. The backstage isn't big either. When we're housing the baby grand and several other boxes of instruments, all the electrical chords, spare lights, along with a bathroom and a few couches, it's quite crowded indeed. So I have to sit right next to the curtain as I scrub the plastic keys. This allows me to hear the comings-and-goings of closing. Usually it's things like gossip between bus boys, or perhaps one of our waitstaff sing. The bartender, Franklin will sometime tell stories as a few of the more favored customers who hang around for post-dinner cocktails.
Tonight it's the usual banter. That is, until I hear John – who I'd thought had left – say sharply, "Oh, it's at 11 pm you decide to put proper pants on and venture outdoors."
Whoever he says this to ignores the slight. "Where is the manager?"
The voice gives me pause. I freeze. If I didn't know better, I'd say that it was Ben, out there. That deep and demanding voice is just a ringer for his – but it's probably just John's friend, the one needing help on an investigation of some kind.
"In the kitchen," John sighs. "It's closing though, he's probably busy –"
I hear the sound of quick steps sweeping by the stage, followed by an exasperated sigh.
Soon after this I leave for the night. I push the incident from my mind. John doesn't call.
-XXX-
Whelp! We met John. And where we find John, Sherlock tends to follow…..
I'm at camp now, so updates will be...random, to say the least.
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