The Case for Jamie (Charlotte Holmes #3)(74)

What was wrong with me? It was, as they say, the question. The lovely, buzzing feeling I’d had wasn’t gone, but it was shifting into something else.

In Sherringford Town, all was seeming quiet. I counted three police cars lingering on side streets, their engines on and their lights off. No doubt Lucien Moriarty had mentioned that Watson would perhaps try to return to school. Still, our black car cut quietly through the night, and the cruisers stayed where they were. Getting through the school gates would be another matter.

“Would you please find an alley to pull over into?” I asked the driver as we drove through downtown. “We’ll need to climb into the trunk.”

It was an ignominious return to Sherringford, to be sure, but I found I didn’t mind it. We folded ourselves in quickly, and Watson put a hand on that spot on my hip (the fourth time in a car boot in Connecticut, I thought), and when the car was stopped at the Sherringford entrance by the police, the driver said something muffled about being a teacher returning to use the copier, provided his fake ID, and we trundled slowly up to the sciences building parking lot.

The car stopped. Watson tensed but didn’t move as the driver rounded to pop the trunk. He leaned over us, unseeing—the zipper on his jacket was close enough to swing into my hair—and took his briefcase from behind Watson’s head. I had a moment to see where he’d parked: the corner of the lot that I’d directed him to, one I remembered having a cluster of thick bushes.

He put the bag over his shoulder. Then he shut the trunk, gently. It didn’t latch.

Footsteps. “Evening, officer,” I heard him say. “Just here to use the copier.”

“I’ll let you into the building,” the cop said, her voice stern. “Do you know how long you’ll be?”

“I’m doing class prep. Won’t be more than an hour.” As he kept talking—about the quiz he was writing—I heard them make their way to the entrance. His voice, then hers, began to fade.

This was our chance, while their backs were turned to the lot. Our driver hadn’t said “midnight,” our code word for policemen lingering in the area. We were in the clear.

By the time the officer returned, Watson and I were in the bushes; by the time she returned to her car, we’d made it to the Carter Hall tunnel entrance.

“Elizabeth texted me the key code earlier,” he whispered, pressed up against the door. “57482.”

“You’re much quieter than you used to be.” I punched in the code.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been practicing,” and when the door clicked open, we crept down the stairs.

We were a half hour early for Watson’s rendezvous with Elizabeth. The way time had passed tonight reminded me of an accordion, of all things: as we went on, it expanded here, contracted there. Our time in the safe house had felt like mere minutes; our mad rush to Connecticut, hours. And now we would wait for Watson’s ex-girlfriend to tell us information about Anna Morgan-Vilk I most likely knew, while Lucien Moriarty mobilized the police force to haul us in for assaulting him.

I hadn’t been in the access tunnels in more than a year, but I remembered their layout. The Carter Hall entrance put us by the academic buildings and the chapel, far from Watson’s dorm. Hopefully, any searchers would be stationed there and not down by us. Any detective worth their salt would know to search these tunnels for a missing Sherringford student, but then, only Shepard really seemed particularly salty, and I supposed we had him on our side. Besides, the tunnel access code hadn’t been changed since Elizabeth had texted him. That could mean everything; that could mean nothing.

That left the obvious fact that the access tunnels, which were customarily lit day in, day out, were tonight in total darkness.

Watson’s hand in mine. A murmur: “Should I turn on my phone’s flashlight?”

I waited for my eyes to adjust, but the darkness was too complete. “No,” I told him, running a hand against the wall. “Follow me, and stay silent.” I heard him slip off his boots and tuck them under his arm.

We moved slowly. Three doors on the left, before the hallway turned—a generator, a water heater, an empty room that had once been used by snowbound nuns for prayer. The latter would work for our purposes (all I wanted was a room to hide in while we finalized our plan), but the door was locked. My kit had been strapped to my leg below my dress, but when I’d changed, I’d thrown a few picks into my useless little purse and left the rest. I only had my snake and my variable tension wrench—quick and dirty tools. One-size-fits-all tools. I could break the lock if I made a mistake.

I hadn’t picked a lock in the dark in some time. I hadn’t attempted a lock I didn’t have the specific picks for in years.

The night was looking up.

As I positioned my picks, Watson shifted behind me. He was always so impatient. Moving his weight around, cracking his knuckles, visibly counting ceiling tiles. The world was immensely interesting to him, but only the parts of it he wasn’t supposed to be studying. He didn’t have the sort of laser focus that a delicate art like this demanded, and yes, there it was, the lock giving under my fingers—

“Holmes,” he was whispering. “Holmes.” When I didn’t reply, he reached out and physically removed my hands from the door. “Do you hear that?”

I had been too focused on my work, on listening to my fingers, to hear the girls around the corner. They had to be girls, or slim boys wearing very smart shoes: the hard tap-tap-shuffle-tap gave it away. Two of them, moving slowly through the dark without speaking.