Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  But he surprised me by motioning me out of the car. He leaned atop the hood, his perfect face strobed by the popping emergency lights so that he seemed dipped in blood then wiped clean, over and over again. I knew that image would stay in my nightmares for a long time to come. Something else to appreciate about the man.

  "Don't leave town," he said, and walked away.

  Archive One

  seventeen years earlier

  "William." Mum paused in the library doorway, keys in hand. She wore her best silk traveling suit and a twist of pearls, overdressed for a quick delivery of her younger son to the next town, although I liked the color. Poised as she was on the balls of her strappy sandals, chin in the air and eyes alive, she seemed to hover on the verge of something long desired and all-too-long out of reach. "Charles is leaving for school."

  I peered around her, careful to keep air between us and not bothering to hide my disgust. I wanted to give no sign of anything that hinted at solidarity and if I hurt anybody's feelings, well, mine were marked a bit, too.

  My father sat in the velvet wing chair by the tall narrow windows, sunlight spilling across the planes of his angular face and highlighting the hook of his Roman nose. Even at home, his shave was close, his black hair parted and combed, and the leather-bound case book resting on his crossed knees didn't dare crease his dark slacks.

  He glanced back and forth between Mum and me as if wives and eleven-year-old sons, disgusted or otherwise, weren't normal inhabitants of his legal world. Then his expression sharpened and his lips thinned. He shot out his left arm, yanking the cuff back from his curved Hermes watch, and glanced at its face, angling his head back as if looking down his nose at such a trifling domestic event. "Well. Have a good first term, then." He returned to his reading. "If you must marry immediately, consider not getting her pregnant until you've both graduated."

  My elder brother William Junior, at nineteen the family prodigy and already reading law at Cambridge, had just baptized William the Third. I gave Father points for the attempt at humor although I refrained from smiling.

  "For God's sake, get over it." Mum sounded tired rather than angry. "Get over all of it. What time do you leave for London?"

  I had thought her green silk suit, so suitable for her peaches-and-cream English looks, had been donned in my honor. Perhaps I should have known better, but the slight hit home. At least she wasn't mailing me and my trunk from the post office.

  Father didn't look up again. "One hour."

  "I should return by then. Come along, Charles."

  My trunk was already in the boot of the car and my uniform, a rather natty combination of navy blue jacket and tan trousers, was upon my scrawny self. There seemed nothing else to say, or, in my own case, nothing at all. I followed Mum through the vestibule, past the glass case crammed with William's shining trophies, and out to the car for the ten-minute drive to my new school.

  Ten minutes. Even after months of getting over it, as Mum said, it still rankled that I wasn't going anywhere interesting nor any further from home. Mum, I knew, had wanted to send me to Eton, which might have been brilliant. Father had opted for the local school at Corwald, the same school William had attended, and of course he won. Their compromise, that I board rather than commute, pleased no one, least of all me. If I was going to bother adjusting to a new environment the least they could offer was Outer Mongolia, rather than here where the family was so well known and I would have to compete against the memory of William's perfection. As much as I loved him, in a small-brother sort of way, having him around was an awful bore.

  "For God's sake," Mum said again.

  I glanced up from my scuffing feet, which were leaving new-shoe black streaks on the steps. She was already at the car with the driver's door open.

  "Why can't you be more like William?"

  Three months ago I would have apologized. Even a week ago I might have wheedled. Now there didn't seem any point. I clambered into the rear seat of the Lancia, fastened the belt, and passed the silent trip watching the Wiltshire downs roll past. The furious lump in my throat refused to go away.

  The Corwald School had started as some rich fool's impression of a medieval monastery, although its multiple wings looked more like snakes sprouting from a masoned Medusa's head than anything truly reverential. I loathed its grey stone and elegant lawns on sight, although the swimming pool, tennis courts, and well-trodden soccer field to the rear didn't seem all that bad even to my jaundiced gaze. That day, the front was crowded with families seeing off their outcasts, and Mum double-parked rather than back and fill into a spot.

  A compact man with a cheerful babble helped Mum lift my trunk from the boot. His sandy hair was tousled beneath his Tudor bonnet and he wore a black master's academical gown and white hood although he didn't seem much older than William.

  Mum drove off leaving us standing on the steps. I didn't bother to wave.

  "Cheer up, Mr. Ellandun." Even his voice smiled with him. "We're going to have a lot of fun this term. My name's Hardenbrook, by the way. Drama, literature, and soccer."

  I hadn't spoken all day and took the precaution of clearing my throat first. "How do you do." That seemed a stark response to his attempted kindness, so I added, "I like Shakespeare."

  "Do you?" The way Hardenbrook said it, I was the first student he'd ever met who did. "You know, I taught your brother William when he was here."

  If that had been intended to reassure me, it fell flat. After all, once he got to know me and compared me to William, I was through. On the spur of that moment, I decided not to like him nor anyone else there.

  Not far away stood a family of five, parents and two small girls seeing off a boy whose high rounded forehead, small chin, and anxious expression made him look rather like an egghead, although I supposed he couldn't help that. His father, a leathery-looking sort wearing a light summer suit, draped a long arm about the boy's shoulders as if afraid to let him go.

  "We're starting term with A Midsummer Night's Dream," Hardenbrook said. "You've read that one, of course?"

  To test drive my new unfriendliness, I glared at one of the little girls. She stared back, her blue eyes in a similar face giving her a resemblance nearer the delicacy of a Fabergé egg rather than anything from a farmyard. As we matched stares, hers became more and more indignant. I wondered if she'd cry, but instead she yanked at the hem of her mother's floppy cloth coat.

  I turned away. "Yes. Of course, it's one of my favorites." Although I felt more in common with King Lear, the lucky sod.

  Hardenbrook glanced down as I glanced up. His chin tilted and his smile faded. Then suddenly it was back, bigger than ever. "You know, every year the school performs A Midsummer Night's Dream for Parents' Night in the spring and first-years can try out." His grin turned conspiratorial. "I could picture you as Puck."

  I turned back in time to watch the mother, her brooch flashing sunlight, tuck the little girl against her shoulder. But the toddler twisted on her secure perch. Blue eyes glared at me from beneath a mop of blond curls, and suddenly her tongue shot out.

  Nope, that one wasn't about to cry. This time I turned my back. Beyond Hardenbrook's black gown the carved front doors stood open, and beyond them stretched a dim interior that seemed to vanish into some intellectual distance. William, I knew, had walked through those doors and strode out again even more perfect than when he'd entered.

  I looked back up at Hardenbrook. "Bottom," I said.

  His eyebrows spiked up. "Beg pardon?"

  I gathered my backpack and slung one strap over my shoulder. "The character Bottom. I can picture myself in that role."

  His smile collapsed. I strode past him into Corwald without looking back.

  It was time to get the next seven years over with.

  Chapter Two

  current time

  I couldn't get rid of the memory of Aunt Edith, grey and staring, vanishing beneath the zipper of that body bag.

  "Patty, this can't be real."
>
  "Don't cry, whatever you do. I can't bear it." She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. "You know, I left the gallery early last night. If I'd stayed, perhaps I might have been able to—" Her voice died away and she only mouthed the final words: do something.

  I fought a shudder. Against this physical reaction, I lost. "No. Take it from a professional. It's not likely."

  We were on our way to Patricia's place, which was actually Aunt Edith's house and now, once past probate, would be mine. Patty had driven me to my waterfront condo — with her driving, an experience to be neither missed nor repeated — but she insisted I pack a bag and stay with her a few nights. She didn't say, until she could be certain I was sane, but her meaning was clear enough.

  At my condo, only a slight widening of her eyes had commented on the old 9mm Walther P-38 I'd slid into a hidden waistband holster. She didn't like guns and refused to touch one, but I felt too paranoid now to forego carrying even for her. I'd steeled myself then for her sniping, one of the less fortunate aspects of our relationship, and her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and lowering chin were bad signs. Perhaps I should give in and learn to drive myself. Granted, I'd perform no better after such a shock and with my brain, likely worse.

  I'd mentioned the PTSD diagnosis to Patty when I'd received it but avoided discussing the topic in any depth. Ever since we'd been teenagers and summer buddies, I'd tried to put up a good front for her, hoping she wouldn't believe my lousy family reputation. For the past year that cover-up had extended to camouflaging my newly-acquired craziness, as well. But it was starting to appear I'd blown that cover and, judging from her occasional sideways glare, that avoidance was about to cost me.

  "All right," she said finally. "All right, I should have expected something like that. You're male, you're young, you're loaded with testosterone, you—"

  "Patty," I said, "what in the hell are you talking about?"

  Another sideways glare and it was scathing, stirring the embers of my forcibly banked combativeness. The family's signature green eyes coupled with her sleek grace made Patricia look like a feral cat, particularly in this mood. I supposed I should be flattered; despite her genetics and feline appearance, she was mousy as her hair and wouldn't fight with anyone except me. "I thought you were going to hit that detective," she said.

  No, she still didn't understand, which was something of a relief. I unholstered my cell phone and scrolled through contacts. "When he asked me my whereabouts for the previous evening, I nearly did." My vital signs had stabilized, my pulse no longer pounded in my ears, but the odds I was sufficiently stable for this conversation were slim to none. "Hang on a bit and let me make a call."

  Within moments, Sherlock's gentle baritone drawl answered. "Hey, Robbie. What's up?"

  "Morning, boss. I can't make the training camp." The NATO Rapid Response team, of which I remained a member by the skin of my teeth, was scheduled for a week-long session of controlled mayhem beginning Saturday, two days away.

  "Why? What's happened?"

  At the question, an unexpected lump swelled in my throat. Startled, I forced it away. I hadn't cried since the age of eleven and had no intention of starting, not even now. "My Aunt Edith was murdered last night."

  Sherlock paused. "Damn, Robbie, I'm sorry."

  For a moment I stared into a yawning chasm: the empty hole she'd left behind. I could not go there and ducked aside into a factual report. "She was shot on the front steps of the art gallery. She'd organized a showing for my nephew and they were there late last night, finalizing things prior to the opening. When they left, it seems someone was waiting. Aunt Edith was hit three times in the lungs and died on the spot. The security guard closing up behind them was shot in the back, but nowhere important, so they say he'll be fine. My nephew took one in the stomach."

  Sherlock grunted, as if in sympathy. "How's he doing?"

  "Last I heard, not good." I rubbed my eyes. "The police told me not to leave town."

  The Taurus jerked forward then whipsawed back, as if Patty had stiffened and her foot slipped from the accelerator to the brake. The shoulder belt cut across my neck and slammed me back against the seat. My sideways what-the-hell glare met her apologetic one, she drove on, and I turned toward the passenger's window. If she was going to drive like that, she didn't need to hear the rest of this conversation.

  "Have they charged you with anything?" Sherlock asked. Hopefully he hadn't noticed that little interlude, but fooling him was amongst the most difficult jobs on the planet and I wasn't sanguine.

  I lowered my voice. "No, but I am her principal heir, I did help write her will, and I just happened to be home alone last night, cleaning weapons — although I didn't tell the police that little fact — so of course I have no alibi. That will probably make me their prime suspect."

  "Humph," he said. "It's circumstantial stuff, but it's pretty powerful. I'll call the Kraut and let him know." He paused. "Call me if you need help. I mean that."

  We rang off. "You remember Sherlock," I said, for something to say.

  "He's not exactly forgettable." But I could see Patty's mind wasn't there. Some of her tension seemed to have drained with the little driving mishap, or at least she no longer tried to squeeze the steering wheel to jelly. "Why in the world would anyone murder Aunt Edith? Anyone bigger than a ten-year-old could push her over and rob her. And that security guard, and Trés — he's only seventeen, and so talented. I don't think I can bear it if he dies, too." Her voice became tighter and tighter as she rambled, and at the end she sniffed.

  She turned off Brattle into the old neighborhood where I'd grown up, swinging the Taurus wide into the middle of the road. I scrunched my eyes closed and kept breathing; it would be just my luck to survive the war and die on a backstreet. "Has he inherited the family obstinacy?"

  "A fair dosage."

  "Then it will take more than one bullet to kill him. And that wasn't a robbery. Aunt Edith's wedding ring was still on her finger and her purse was found intact in her car."

  "A robbery gone wrong, then. But Charles, Aunt Edith had her purse with her in the gallery last night before I left. She took some aspirin and I saw her digging around in her purse looking for the bottle. The detective said she was killed on the sidewalk by the stairs, so how did her purse get in the car?" She pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the house, then dug in her shoulder bag, produced her cell phone, and punched buttons. "I'm calling Dad. I want to know how Trés is doing."

  Last we'd heard, less than an hour ago, William the Third was still fighting for his life in surgery. Because he was my brother's son, I'd never met him, and couldn't help wondering if he was as much a bullying sod as his father. But rather than start another round with Patty, I stepped from the car.

  Even within this ritzy neighborhood, Aunt Edith's house was a standout, a sweep of Tudor set back on a large lot within a grove of elderly oaks. Dark beams contrasted with white stucco, just as Aunt Edith's brilliant vivacity had offset Uncle Hubert's stolid good nature. Hawthorns, roses, and begonias bloomed in brilliant explosions in beds defined by rough-quarried granite. Out near the road in a special bed, the statue of a sword-maiden guarded a fountain and a park bench, my favorite spot for reading Shakespeare.

  I wouldn't mind staying with Patty if she lived anywhere else. But she'd given up her apartment and moved in with Aunt Edith two years ago, when she was laid off at the type shop; Aunt Edith had insisted, and I was just as happy that neither of my two favorite femmes lived alone in the big bad city. Now staying with Patty meant being surrounded by memories of Aunt Edith and that stupid lump in my throat swelled again at the thought.

  Of course, it's also possible Patty simply didn't wish to be alone in the house, either. That suspicion was the only reason I'd given in and agreed to stay over.

  Crossing the lawn and approaching the granite steps was like walking backward through time. The sorry years since Uncle Hubert's death fell away and only the few magical ones he a
nd Aunt Edith and I had enjoyed together remained. The garden, even the towering oak grove, looked fresh and new, startlingly vivid as if a fourth, Puckish dimension had squeezed in amongst the usual three. Rose petals littered the surface of the sword-maiden's pond, glittering like blood-red drops as the fountain splashed them—

  —the picture window of the Carr Gallery, just overhead, was splattered with something dark. More of it sprayed the polished maple door, the brass railing and handle and mail slot. A small hole in the door, at waist level, had been marked with chalk—

  —more dark stains, lit obliquely by the dawn light, trickled down the red brick, dripped from one concrete step to the next, painted the sidewalk. I suddenly realized I could smell it—

  —the smell of blood vanished within seconds and the remembered, long-dead magic wasn't far behind. Adrenaline surged again and suddenly I couldn't catch my breath, my heart hammering.

  The Army shrink who examined me after the war called flashbacks an "out-of-current-body" experience. Caren Gallardo, my erstwhile girlfriend and a psychiatrist herself, referred to them as waking nightmares: one moment everything's normal, the next, without warning, I'm reliving some private little hell. Usually they passed quickly, as this one had, and for the most part I'd taught myself to keep it together and let the nightmare unroll on the movie screen of my mind without demonstrating my oddities for everyone. Even when I smelled blood.

  But now the hemline of my self-control was fraying and images of Aunt Edith vanishing beneath that zipper haunted me. I needed to find somewhere safe, curl up within myself for a bit, and recuperate. Sitting out by the pond beneath the sword-maiden's shadow was tempting, but Patty wouldn't understand. Inside the house it would have to be. She still sat in the Taurus, cell phone to her ear, staring earnestly at an invisible something a few inches before her nose. Distracted and not watching me.

  I tugged my little maroon case from one hip pocket and unzipped it, selecting a springy steel tension tool and my favorite half-round pick. I'd lost my keys to the house when I was fifteen and never bothered to replace them because I never used them. Aunt Edith, of course, said nothing. Nor had she replaced them herself.