Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Damn it.

  I grabbed desperately for a better handhold. But my left hand, too, was slick with sweat and rain and those dratted almost-numb fingers refused to close.

  The monster leapt backward on schedule. My chest slammed into the door precisely as I predicted, the breath shot out of my lungs, my foot slipped off its perch, and my fingers gave it up in disgust. I lost my grip and fell off backward. Two shots rang out, an unmistakable sound. I hit the grass and dissolved into nothingness.

  Chapter Eight

  current time

  Caren, it turned out, fired two shots toward the Suburban's radiator grille from the darkened front porch. Recalling how close I'd been to that position, I couldn't quite bring myself to thank her.

  She seemed to understand this, for her smile was rueful. "At least I scared him off without scaring you off."

  "And for that, I do thank you."

  "You're the one who taught me to shoot, Charles, and lent me the gun. Hm?"

  It was surprisingly easy to calm the neighbors, the Stevensons, the Biwas, and the Casanovas. A new gang initiation rite, I told them, a really close-range drive-by shooting. I went inside, ostensibly to call the police, saying something about contacting the neighbors later for statements. They tired of staring at tire tracks in the manicured lawn and left.

  If any of them noticed my shaking, they kept it to themselves.

  I did not call the police. Admittedly, I'd never intended to. That had just been a line to fool the neighbors.

  "Why not?" Caren's eyes widened.

  "Because I have much better ways of handling this."

  Wet as I was, I couldn't bring myself to enter the parlor and instead used the phone in the kitchen. I still didn't have much use of my left arm, so I cradled the receiver between ear and shoulder while dialing Houston from memory. Sherlock's plane didn't take off for another two hours and, knowing him as I knew him, he hadn't left the house yet.

  I made the connection and chatted with Kathy, Sherlock's adorable sister (married, of course) — so sorry about my aunt, no, he hadn't left yet, how he ever caught a plane was beyond her. Meanwhile, Doctor Caren, eyes and lips thinned, forgot her usual modesty and unbuttoned my sadly abused white jacket. I could tell already, this was an evening to remember, or at least it could have been if I hadn't felt quite so rotten. The combat adrenaline was fading, the shakes were going full bore, and I was coming back into close contact with my body and wishing I wasn't. To put it simply, everything hurt.

  I broke off those thoughts when Sherlock's baritone drawl came on the line. "What now, Robbie? I thought I was through with you for a while."

  "Oh, what a joyful thought," I added for him. "Not likely, boss. Someone just tried to run me over with a Suburban."

  He paused. When he spoke again, the drawl had shifted and sharpened. "I know you too well to ask if you're sure about this, so what do you need for support?"

  No one, not even exes, had ever targeted one of his gang before. From any perspective, this event was not good news.

  "I need backup," I said. "Who can I have?"

  "Me, of course." He sounded delighted and I wondered what the training camp covered that he wanted to miss. "Theresa said she'd drive into El Paso, so she might not have left yet. I can catch her and maybe Bonnie, too. Is that enough?"

  Caren slipped the jacket off my left side then held the receiver to my ear while she extricated my right arm. I cursed my ill luck. Why was it Caren only took a physical interest in me when I was injured? Was it some doctor thing?

  "Since I haven't a clue what's going on, Sherlock, I can't say. Sorry to cost you, though." We were only paid for the training camps we attended; by ducking out in this manner, he was giving up two weeks' pay.

  "You'll get my bill."

  "Wait, though. One thing I can say: this was entirely an amateur production, put on by someone who wasn't particularly bothered by smarts or guts."

  "Okay, four of us should be enough. I'll send word for Wings Cadal to take over — boy, he's gonna be pissed — I'm gonna hear about it, too — I don't care — where are you?"

  Caren started work on my tie, her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, using the back of one hand to nudge my chin up out of her way. I had to admit, it didn't appear she had snuggling on her mind. Beneath the kitchen's fluorescent lighting her warm skin seemed pale, but her eyes had darkened almost to black and only when she handled my left arm was she gentle. I sighed as I rattled off the address for Sherlock. At least she wasn't cutting the shirt off me.

  When we rang off, she took the receiver and set it back in its cradle. "You're bleeding."

  It figured. The no-longer-white shirt we removed together was stained in multiple splotches across the back and it had soaked through into the jacket she'd dropped at my feet. With the shirt off, I could feel wet warmth trickling down my chest beneath my undershirt.

  "So much for thinking you were finally taking an interest in me." I pulled one of the stools from beneath the butcher block table and collapsed onto it.

  She was not amused. "You won't call the police?"

  I met her anger squarely; here, I comprehended the ground I trod. "No."

  "You won't get X-rays?"

  "No."

  She crossed her arms. "What's going on?"

  I chose my words with care. Caren was game, but this situation was an imposition on anyone. "I think it's something to do with Aunt Edith's past. And that means it's something I won't want made public."

  After all, how it could be something from her present? She'd been closing in on her sixtieth year. She sponsored art shows, hosted teas, rang up her broker, gave monumentally to charities. What in there could possibly have gotten her killed and then set her killer on me?

  But her past was murky, perhaps as murky as mine. Or so Father and Uncle Preston had told me for the first eleven years of my life, although they'd never bothered to supply any details.

  Caren didn't blink. "First aid kit?"

  I did. "The pantry, behind me."

  She closed the pantry door and set the kit — a military one I'd given Aunt Edith — on the butcher block at my elbow. "What can I do to help?"

  "Are you serious?"

  "Cold shower, Charles."

  Archive Six

  seventeen years earlier

  Two days after my tumultuous return home, Father came to my bedroom. I'd spent most of my time there, reading and re-reading A Midsummer Night's Dream, especially the comic scenes with Bottom, which I knew almost by heart. He entered without knocking and stood in the doorway, one hand on the wooden casing, his head tilting as he looked in at me. The light from the window behind me sprawled across the floor between us, like a barrier we couldn't cross, and he squinted as he stared into the morning sun.

  "You are allowed to leave this room, you know."

  As if I wanted to. I nearly said so, then decided I'd made the house uncomfortable enough as it was. "Yes, sir."

  He sighed. "Edith has agreed to take you. We'll fly across together next week." He paused; when I said nothing, he added, "I believe you'll enjoy Boston although I also expect you to learn this lesson." Again he paused.

  I had no more intention of enjoying Boston than Corwald Prep. But the same rule still held. "Yes, sir."

  This time he let the pause drag. I wasn't certain what he expected or wanted, so instead I asked what was most important to me. "Would it be all right if I go riding before we leave?"

  He stared at me for a moment longer. Then he dropped his hand from the doorjamb. "If you like. Of course." He started to turn away; I started to return to my book; but then he jerked back around. It was the first move I'd ever seen him make that wasn't studied, practiced, deliberate, and it jolted me. "Charles, what on earth has convinced you to be a thief?"

  I was so surprised I gave him the honest truth. "It's something that William isn't."

  He froze. Although it was difficult to be certain due to his squint, I believe his eyes widened. "There are
many things William isn't."

  But by then I was angry with myself for allowing this line of conversation to begin — I had no intention of explaining myself to him or anyone else — and I made a point of turning the page and glancing down. "But that's the best thing William isn't."

  I felt his eyes on me for a long time and wondered if he'd slam the door. But he closed it so softly behind him I didn't even hear it.

  I went riding that afternoon.

  Sharps, my chestnut Welsh cob pony, was rank after not being ridden for three weeks and fussed for the first mile, jibbing at the bit and dancing sideways. But I'd ridden him in much worse moods than this and soon had him trotting across the sheep fields at a good pace, his small neat hooves clipping across the chalk downs and digging into the turf as we climbed the hills between home and Corwald Prep. His trot hadn't improved during his vacation; I wondered if I'd really miss him that much, being exiled to Boston, and if they had ponies and riding trails there. But I'd cheerfully take a bullet before I asked Father for anything.

  The sun was dipping toward the far line of hills before we crested the final rise. The Medusa-head building, the soccer pitch, and the little woodland spread before us in the shallow valley, late afternoon sunlight splattering it with an orange glow and throwing the area beneath the trees into a black darker than death in contrast. I tugged Sharps into an amble — rank or not, he'd earned a breather — and let him pick his own path down the hill while I took a final, hard look at my would-be school.

  Was it really so very bad, I asked myself, was it such a dismal place as all that? True, I hadn't had much fun there, and math and science were almost as boring as law and money. But there was the swimming pool, the soccer field, the tennis courts; I hadn't had a chance to play at Corwald Prep, not in any of the organized sports at least, and whatever professor taught tennis could probably return a straight volley, which my coach at home couldn't manage. Would it be Hardenbrook? He hadn't mentioned it.

  And if I did attend school close to home, I could return on weekends and ride Sharps. Perhaps I could convince Father to find me a better instructor than our head groom, who watched me go around him in circles and shook his head, but never bothered to correct me or even say anything worth hearing.

  Sharps lifted his head and paused. I peered between his pricked ears. A half-dozen figures poured from the back of the school and scattered across the soccer field. The largest one, his hair windblown and his shirttail loose, tossed a black-and-white ball into the midst of the five smaller ones, who descended upon it like pack animals upon prey.

  I nudged Sharps with my heels. He snorted, shook his head, and resumed his amble down the hill, until the looming trees cut off our view of the field and the impromptu game in progress.

  "What do you think, Sharps?" I asked him. "Should I stick around? Probably an apology would work it."

  But he had nothing more to say. I guided him between the first trees, into the cool dim shade that didn't seem so dark once we were within it, and there was my compatriot oak, its roots curling up out of the earth into an alien environment and its wide branches spreading a roof over the underbrush. There I pulled Sharps to a halt, dismounted, and looped his reins over a handy branch.

  With my four trophies in hand, I looked again at the soccer field. The sun had fallen lower and the light was fading, throwing shadows across the lower portions of the building, but a strong orange gleam washed across the milling players in their blue shirts and tan shorts. The tallest figure, near the far goal, cupped his hands about his mouth; a moment later, a gleeful voice reached me: "This way, you lot."

  I'd have to give up my trophies to return to school. Particularly Langstrom's family photo. I glanced down at it, saw there was an insect crawling across his father's domed forehead, and flicked it off. His mother's smile seemed kind, and I wondered what her voice sounded like. Was that the same brooch she had worn when seeing her son off to school? It looked similar.

  Without thinking, I shoved the penlight, knife, and spyglass into my breeches pocket. Only when they were safely stowed did I realize what that action meant.

  I wasn't willing to give up my trophies. Not for Corwald Prep, Hardenbrook, or a whole slew of tennis coaches and riding instructors.

  Certainly not for my family.

  I tucked the photo beneath the waistband of my breeches and covered it with my shirt, then mounted the restless pony and turned for what used to be home.

  Not even for Sharps.

  Chapter Nine

  current time

  Sherlock insisted I come clean with the police.

  "You are ten kinds of idiot," he said in that soft Texas drawl. "The police are your friends, Robbie, and anyone without an alibi who claims to have been home alone cleaning weapons on the night of a gunshot murder that benefits him financially had better plan on keeping them that way. I hadn't realized that little obvious detail needed to be emphasized, but even the Kraut can only do so much to keep your happy anatomy out of jail."

  I had to acknowledge that. "I suppose I wasn't thinking all that clearly last night."

  We sat over morning coffee around the kitchen's butcher block table. Sherlock had just arrived, Patty a few minutes after. Caren had slipped out to swing by her apartment and fetch a few essentials, promising to be very careful and saying something about canceling her appointments for the remainder of the week. The impromptu investigation of Aunt Edith's murder was costing everyone money, it seemed. Sherlock could take care of himself, financially and any other way necessary, but I felt guilty about Caren spending all this time with me and not tending her patients. Hopefully no one would have a breakdown or something because of it.

  I hadn't slept well and felt drained; fighting through one vicious nightmare after another, bloody ghosts firing machine guns at me in Aunt Edith's garret, had poured off all my emotions and left me empty. But as usual I pretended to be fine. Meanwhile, although Patricia and I both pretended nothing happened between us last night, I still sensed tension while she pretended she wasn't keeping a close eye on me. And Sherlock, with his gentle confidence and ugly scars, seemed to both comfort and horrify her as I described the Suburban's attack, although she pretended his presence was no more than welcome company. All in all, we were doing a lot of pretending that morning.

  Sherlock snorted. "And you not thinking is supposed to surprise me? Any word from Bonnie or Theresa? I gave them this number and told them to get a move on."

  I was certain both of those females would, and gleefully, at the first hint of mayhem-in-waiting. Bonnie coming to call didn't bother me; she and I had drawn rather close during our joint hospital convalescence. But in the cold light of dawn, the thought of Theresa invading my personal life made me shudder. "Nary a peep."

  Sherlock drained his first cup — he had worked then flown all night — and pushed his empty mug into the center of the table with a hopeful glance at Patricia, who sat closest to the coffee pot. My poor cuz tore her stare away from the red weals that sliced about Sherlock's wrists, managed a small smile, and took the hint, fetching the carafe and refilling the mug. The war, after all, hadn't been all that long ago, and the scars not hidden by his olive drab fatigues glared in horrible red contrast.

  Sherlock's war damage was on the outside. Mine was inside. I watched Patricia's reaction to his appearance, mangled from a sort of sandblasted ruggedness, distinctive if not distinguished, and wondered which of us had gotten the short end of that stick. At least I could pretend to be normal, until I fell apart in public and proved otherwise.

  If Sherlock noticed, he gave no sign, and his lopsided grin hadn't lost any of its boyish charm. "Thank you, ma'am."

  Every internal alarm I had screamed red alert. Sherlock was widowed and available, and I wanted Patricia off his radar screen. For me, sanity was an important consideration in a prospective cousin-in-law, particularly considering the cousin in question. This invasion of my professional life into my personal one carried hidden dangers, it see
med. I shot him a dirty look.

  He met my stare and popped his eyebrows up and down. "So let me see if I've got this straight. You're trying to figure out what's going on here and who killed your aunt, because you'd rather the police not suspect her past might be an issue here. But the police are doing the forensics and ballistics stuff. They have all the info, right? And you're trying to avoid them?"

  "I got that message, boss."

  "Just checking. Then someone broke in and tried to search this place, but you ran him off. Then someone bagged you, but you ran him off, then he did his best to run you over." He paused and sipped. "And even then you still didn't—"

  "Oh, stuff it."

  Sherlock's big goofy presence even then brought out the playful and freewheeling side of me. Normally I wouldn't mind that; as Caren had demonstrated, a laugh was good for the soul and mine needed all the help it could get. But in front of Patricia, the bantering felt off. It seemed there were chunks of my personality, as well as my training and inclinations, that I hadn't permitted her to see. She hadn't known I was a thief and she hadn't before seen me as Puck, and the frown she repeatedly aimed my way made her opinion thereof perfectly clear.

  Sherlock sipped again, then waved the sloshing mug in my direction. "So what's with the arm?"

  Doctor Caren had bullied me into wearing a sling on the left, injured side, which was stitched up like a quilt where the assailant's cosh had split flesh across the top of the shoulder joint. I'd meant to remove the sling prior to Sherlock's arrival for this very reason, but misjudged the timing. Now I'd have to put up with his comments thereon and silently I vowed vengeance.

  "Lacerations and bruising." I knew that wouldn't fly even as I said it.

  His eyes narrowed.

  "Surface stuff," I added, not that it would help.

  Sherlock tipped his chair back, stretching until the holster's bulge below his left arm was obvious beneath his fatigue shirt, which closed at the top with Velcro to permit quick draws, although the button-front look remained as a sort of urban camouflage. He paused in that position, leaning over the back of the chair and staring at the ceiling as if he'd find patience there. I knew what was coming and hoped one of the pots fell on him.