Chapter 96

CHAPTER 96

TWELVE HOURS LATER .

For Brendan Holmes, like for most people in the city, the morning had been incredibly poignant and sad. It was amazing how far his emotions had turned in the course of a single day. Because, at this particular moment, sadness was the last thing on his mind.

In fact, he had never been happier.

Right now Holmes was in a place he had only dreamed of being—in a bed, under flower-patterned sheets, with his arms around Margaret Marple. Margaret looked happy too—a smile on her lips, a flush across her cheeks. Exhausted but in a very good way.

“Was that all right?” Holmes asked. After all the years of anticipation and longing, he was concerned that he’d been too anxious, too selfish, too quick.

Marple pulled his head down and kissed him softly. “It was excellent, Mr. Holmes,” she said, still catching her breath. “You’re exactly what this apartment has been missing.”

She rolled over to face him. He curled himself around her, absorbing the warmth of her body, the scent of her perfume, her hair, her skin.

It had been overwhelming at first—the sheer sensory impact of being so close to her. Making love with her. But his senses adapted, then quieted. Now he felt like he was floating on a wave of gentle energy. It was a new feeling for him. Better than drugs. And he wanted desperately to make it last. He closed his eyes and…

BOOM!

A deafening explosion rocked the walls.

Holmes hit the floor in his pajama bottoms. He was covered in plaster dust and his ears were ringing. Smoke filled the room. Flower vases lay shattered by the bed. The fire alarm was screeching.

He shouted over the din of the alarm. “Margaret!”

She was on her knees a few yards away, covering herself with a robe. “What happened?” she shouted back.

“Bomb!” No doubt in his mind. He smelled calcium hypochlorite, nitrobenzene, sulfur… “Goddamnit!” The smoke was getting thicker.

Holmes stood up and pulled Marple to her feet, then out of the bedroom and through the living room. He placed his palm against the apartment door, feeling for heat. The frame was cracked and tilted. He braced one foot against the molding and pulled hard on the knob. The door flew open. More smoke poured in.

Outside the apartment, the balcony was tipped at an angle. Emergency strobes blasted through the haze. Two doors down, Poe burst out into the hallway in briefs and a T-shirt, a rifle at his hip. Helene was right behind him, wrapped in a blanket.

“Can you see anybody?” Poe shouted, pointing his gun over the railing.

“Cut the alarm!” Holmes shouted back.

Poe ran to the far end of the balcony and opened a metal panel. A second later, the screeching stopped. Marple ran to wrap her arms around Helene.

Holmes looked down. The explosion had leveled the entire first floor with surgical precision. Windows were shattered, woodwork splintered. The bottom of the staircase had been blasted off its supports. Flames licked at laptops and file cabinets. The office was destroyed.

The work of a master technician.

Behind him, he heard a bright ding, then another. He thought his eardrums were still ringing.

No. The sound was coming from Marple’s living room.

His cell phone.

Holmes lurched back through the doorway and saw the screen glowing on the floor. He reached down through the smoke and picked up the phone. Coughing, he stumbled back out onto the balcony. Poe was leading Margaret and Helene down the broken staircase with his rifle in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other.

Holmes blinked the sting out of his eyes and looked down at his phone. Texts were scrolling onto his screen—one sentence at a time, like a bizarre digital poem.

THE PAST IS GONE, YOURS AND MINE.

NOW THERE’S NOTHING BUT THE FUTURE.

AND EVENTUALLY, I’LL BE THE CAUSE OF YOUR DEATH.

I’M COUNTING THE DAYS, SHERLOCK.

THINK OF ME AS YOUR VERY OWN PROFESSOR MORIARTY.