Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  "We will?" Granted, it made me sound like a Greek chorus.

  He turned off the water with a tight jerk and leaned on the sink. When he spoke, it was to Patty. "Pardon the question, but do you know if the kid was shot from the front?"

  They stared at each other across the open dishwasher. Although his expression seemed neutral, her smile grew and her chin lowered. The hairs on the back of my neck went vertical.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, I believe so."

  He nodded and dried his hands. "Well, then, maybe he saw the person who pulled the trigger."

  She rolled her eyes. "But he'd have told the police—"

  Was she arguing with Sherlock? Not a good sign at all for my future serenity. I gripped the table hard.

  "Yeah, but they've proven they won't share information with us, at least not willingly."

  This had lasted far too long. I had no choice but to jump in and distract them. "Well, that part makes sense, at least."

  Sherlock turned and leaned his back against the counter. "Well, let me tell you something else that makes sense. Understanding what's going on here seems to require understanding Edith Hunter. Am I right?"

  There was something going on here, but I wasn't seeing it. Perhaps I should have let them flirt. "I suppose."

  "Did she avoid her family?"

  Simple as that, he had me. I felt the jaws of his trap close almost physically and wondered what the odds were of escaping the Kraut if I murdered his favorite colonel commanding. Of course, in itself that murder was easier said than done.

  Patty's smile exploded into full-blown glee. It could be worse, I reminded myself. She could be crowing. Aloud.

  "No," she said.

  "Then, if we want to understand what made her tick, neither can you." He turned back to Patricia. "Let's leave those dishes for now, sweetie. The kid's more important."

  "Absolutely." She closed the dishwasher. "Let me brush my hair and I'm with you." She stopped long enough to raise an eyebrow at him. "'Sweetie?'"

  His laugh seemed embarrassed. "Sorry, my Southern comes calling at odd moments. I'll try to watch it, but you'll have to remind me."

  "Actually, I don't think I mind." She gave him the last of her smile then brushed past me. "Coming?"

  Sherlock followed her out, not ducking my glare in passing. We'd installed him in the guest room and moved Caren into Patricia's room with her; where Bonnie and Theresa were going to stay, I had no idea and at that moment didn't much care. I stared at the empty kitchen doorway, wondering who that was and what she'd done with my mousy little Patricia. Aunt Edith, what in the hell were you thinking? Why didn't you leave that bloody wedding gown to Lindsay or Miriam or the Salvation Army?

  Caren finished wiping down the butcher block and straightened, the damp rag a sodden little heap before her. I understood how it felt.

  "I'll stay here on guard," she said.

  The danger of leaving her in such a position gnawed at me. She had only a few months' experience handling a gun, and the only pistol currently available for her use was an old Second World War relic, manufactured when the Germans were losing the war and substituting inferior metals into their production runs. If the slide snapped or the firing pin jammed, she couldn't fix it and would be helpless. Perhaps she didn't realize how brave she was being. For a moment I thought about convincing Sherlock to stay behind, either instead of or with her, but that would leave Patty or Caren to do the driving. Could I protect either or both of them if that homicidal Suburban returned and forced a crash? Another mental overload, I decided.

  "I suppose that's best."

  She circled the table and laid a damp hand on my uninjured arm. "All right, Charles?"

  Her eyes were warm, dark, and deep, like tropical water, and I fell in headfirst without a rope. My breath caught in my heart. Without giving myself time to think, I eased closer, until I heard our clothing rustle together. She didn't back away — I watched for the first leaning — and her face was calm.

  This looked promising. I kissed her, once, oh so gently, then held her. With the first touch of my arms her body stiffened. Of course she wouldn't be comfortable. But she felt so good against me, her head tucked against my shoulder, her hands on my chest, that now I knew I didn't want to let her go.

  We stood motionless. She didn't fight and I didn't push. My arms held her, one hand on her waist, the other buried in the exquisite sensuality of her hair. Our touch was somewhere between the comfort of friendship and the first tantalizing hint of a sexual advance. The next move would have to be hers. I was willing to earn her trust again.

  The tension faded from her body one breath at a time. With every slow heartbeat, her weight against me increased. Finally her hands trailed down my chest, neither the direct invitation of fingernails nor the feather touch of exploration. She kept her palms against me all the way around my waist and held me in return.

  When Patty left her bedroom, I was waiting on the landing, blocking her path to the stairs. She jumped when she saw me, then gave me her dirtiest look. I ignored it, took her arm, herded her back through the door, and closed it behind us.

  "I'm not ignoring the issue, am I?" I leaned my back against the door. "Nor am I ignoring you. Am I?"

  She crossed her arms. She'd changed back into the cream slacks and green shirt she'd worn to the police station, but this time she'd brushed out her hair and it fell in waves past her shoulders, softer than her usual severe bun and giving her narrow face a fuller look. If the change was for Sherlock, she was ratcheting up the pressure.

  "Let's hear it, Charles."

  "How many people are involved in this family conspiracy?"

  Give her credit, she didn't duck the issue. "Everyone."

  "Everyone?" My skepticism was palpable. "Father?"

  She nodded.

  "William?"

  "He's here, isn't he?" She was suddenly angry. "He didn't have to come and he certainly didn't have to bring his family. And look where that got him and them."

  I hadn't considered that. But I'd need more time than was currently available to mull it over. For now I threw out what I thought the ultimate impossibility. "Aunt Edith?"

  "It was her idea."

  I froze. Aunt Edith would never — would she? The memory of Father in the gallery, not understanding what I meant when I asked why he'd abandoned me, hovered just on the edge of my consciousness. "I can't believe that."

  She took a step toward me and the door. I braced my foot against it and crossed my arms.

  "Are you going to get out of my way?"

  "Not yet." But when she flared, I added, "Soon. I promise. Let's talk."

  I thought she'd argue further, but then she sighed and slumped in the secretarial chair behind her desk. Some author's manuscript hid the worst of the scarred maple, the top sheet dotted with proofreader's symbols in red ink. She riffled through the pages then pushed them aside, pushed the red pen after them. "It started when you returned from the war. Do you remember that day, Charles?"

  I didn't want to think about it. The trip from Germany to Boston had been the flight from the nether place. "Yes."

  "I picked you up at the airport and brought you here. Your back was injured and you were in so much pain you couldn't even get out of the car without help. Once inside, you collapsed on the sofa, took a pill, and fell asleep."

  "I said I remember."

  She ignored me. "Aunt Edith sat opposite you for an hour, not moving or speaking, just watching you breathe. When I asked if she wanted tea, she looked at me as if she hadn't even been aware I was in the room. She told me to stay beside you and vanished upstairs." Her voice tightened. "When she came back down I could see she'd been crying. She told me she'd just spoken with your father and set this in motion."

  An ivory recliner sat beneath a reading lamp near the door. I collapsed into its comfortable old folds, stunned. "Are you saying this has been in the planning stages for over a year?"

  She nodded. "About that."

 
Numbness spread down my arms to my fingers. "A friend might have said something."

  Her glance was sardonic. "The same way you talk with me? No, Charles, she said she wanted to tell you herself, that it was important you hear this from her."

  It was unbelievable and Aunt Edith's betrayal punched through the numbness like an exploding grenade. But Patty's flat voice and sad eyes convinced me where nothing else could have. "But she didn't tell me."

  "I know." Patty played with the red pen, rolling it back and forth. "She was supposed to but didn't. And oh, your father was so furious. He came all this way at her invitation, expecting and hoping to make peace with you, only to find—" Tactfully, she broke that off. "Anyway, while I lived here as her poor relation—"

  She didn't finish that either. But her meaning was clear enough. Her in-box held only one other, small manuscript, and it was months since she and I had gone shopping. She'd accepted the room from Aunt Edith, but refused to take money. And I hadn't noticed. Patty was right; I wasn't much of a friend.

  She poked the half-marked manuscript. "Suppose I'll go back to Mum and Dad now." Her voice didn't sound enthusiastic.

  This was a strained relationship I could work at mending. "Don't be a twit, Patty. I don't want you to leave."

  She wouldn't look at me. So I threw out what really bothered me. "But I have to know you're still my friend, even after I lied to you."

  Her quick glance was disbelieving. "Now who's being a twit? Charles, your family doesn't abandon you just because you do something stupid."

  "Mine did."

  She started to shake her head. I pushed the argument past her.

  "Father did. He brought me over here to Aunt Edith and he left me. Patty, he never came back for me and I don't know why."

  "Have you asked him?"

  "At the gallery. You were listening. He didn't answer me."

  She smoothed her hair behind her ear. Something glittered. She'd put in earrings, too.

  "Well," she finally said, "he's back for you now. Don't shove him away, Charles. Remember, your family loves you no matter what you do. That's what family is all about."

  I wanted to believe her. I couldn't. "Mine doesn't."

  She rose and pushed her chair beneath the desk. "Are you certain of that?"

  I rose, too, and pulled her into a hug. Without hesitation, she squeezed back.

  "The only thing I'm certain of is that I need my mouse, even if she does sometimes get on her little wheel and run me to death with it."

  She smacked me, of course. I pretended to duck and flinch.

  "So don't leave me, all right?"

  She stopped. And pouted. "I don't much like being the poor relation."

  I scoffed and led the way to the door. If she thought so little of Aunt Edith, I wasn't going to be the one to disabuse her.

  "What? What, Charles?"

  I kept the teasing going all the way to Boston. It felt great. Behind the wheel, Sherlock didn't interrupt once, which was even better.

  At Mass. Gen., Patricia led Sherlock and me to the recovery ward. At the head of the hall stood William and I froze at the sight: the member of my family I most wished to avoid was of course the first one I encountered. But the man I considered my most implacable enemy leaned one hand against the wall, not quite at head-height, his profile stark over his shoulder. He wore the same elegant dark navy suit as last night, his maroon shirt and cravat rumpled now, and the hand not supporting his weight threw back the coat and buried itself in his trouser pocket. His head drooped as if the gravity of the hospital corridor was too much for him to bear and the weight dragging at his face and shoulders exhausted him. Despite my contrary inclination I felt a pang of sympathy, but was cynical enough to wonder how long it would last.

  Patricia slid beneath his arm and laid a hand on his lapel. William wrapped both arms around her in a hug. They held each other in silence.

  There was no reason that should surprise me — he was her cousin, too, with as much right to hug her — but I'd never thought of them as being close enough for such an affectionate public display. In my version of reality, William was arrogant and distant as our father, not a family man worried for his son nor another brother-figure for Patty. This was a side of him I hadn't seen before, at least not since he'd taught me to tie my shoes and post my pony's trot all those years ago. The connection across time was vaguely comforting; perhaps this enforced meeting wouldn't be so awful.

  And perhaps William was right when he accused me of being the only dysfunctional member of the Ellandun family. The thought did nothing to ease the qualms of my squirming conscience. If he was right last night, had he also been right nine years ago, the last time we'd spoken and fought?

  Then Patricia murmured something. William stiffened, glanced around, stopped when our gazes crossed. He seemed wary but not combative, at least not yet. I nodded once. His expression didn't change. He glanced at Sherlock, silent behind me. Then he kissed Patty on the cheek, let her go, and turned to face me, his head tilting back.

  Within my damaged brain, his image morphed into someone or something else. The illusion exploded into my conscious mind's eye and vanished, far too fast to distinguish. Smoky hot it was, like a demon haunting Puck's Fairyland on All Hallow's Eve, and it petrified me to my scarred core. Adrenaline exploded, pounding against my civilized edges in a nonverbal battle shout. I flinched. Grief and terror hovered on the verge of my consciousness.

  Before me, the real William stepped back, his wary expression sharpening. Patty's eyes widened.

  Great; not behavior I wanted to display publicly, especially not before this particular public. Like it or not, I was here and there was nothing for it but to put up a good show for Patty's sake. Thankfully, I'd learned a few tricks. I yanked a tissue from the handy box on the nurse's station, pretended to blow my nose, yanked another and fussed with one eye. When I threw it away a moment later, Patty looked embarrassed and William relaxed. Fooling Sherlock never crossed my mind; I wasn't certain such a feat was even possible.

  "Well?" Echoes of last night's argument underlay William's tense voice, but exhaustion weighed heavier. In a rare flash of empathy, I realized he'd come to the hospital from the gallery party and if he'd caught any sleep at all, it had been in a corner chair somewhere.

  I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax, at least physically. Stuffing my hands in my pockets hid the initial shaking aftereffects even if it was against military regs, but I could only hope he'd write my lack of composure off to the usual family tensions. The words I was expected to say came more easily than I'd anticipated. "How is he, William?"

  His eyebrows lifted. The resemblance to Father, about twenty years ago, was startling and it set my pulse pounding even harder. "Trés? He's better. He had a rough night and his painkillers are starting to wear off. But for some reason, he refuses to take his next round of medication. Has that eagle-eye on the IV stand and won't let anyone near it."

  Bloody hell. The thought of enduring a bullet wound without painkillers was not one I cared to contemplate. But then, my experience during the war had taught me I was rather a wuss. "He must be one brave kid."

  William rocked on his heels, as if the idea of his son being brave hadn't occurred to him. "No. Thank you, Charles, but no. He's a confused kid who doesn't really understand what's going on."

  He could have been describing my current state of mind. Patty squeezed his arm, and he wrapped it around her shoulders, drawing her close until she leaned against him. Her eyes glowed as she glanced between the two of us; now that she had me here, I seemed to be performing to her satisfaction.

  He glanced again at Sherlock and I introduced them, adding that Sherlock had four sons of his own.

  William's eyebrows lifted higher. "Best of luck." He clasped Sherlock's hand. I gave him points for not reacting visibly to the scars. "Two teenagers have me wondering why I haven't been locked away. How do you manage?"

  "It's kind of like feeding time at Jurassic
Park," Sherlock said seriously.

  Without warning, William smiled. It wasn't like Father's smile — stiff, or chilling, or calculated, as the situation demanded — but a lightening of his face more like Patricia's, a true change in the weather. It was so unexpected I blinked.

  "I've always referred to our house as the zoo, so perhaps it's only a difference of degree." He turned back to me.

  Initial courtesies over, I hauled in a deep breath. What was it about my family that seemed to suck all the air from a room? "May I see him?"

  Those eyebrows shot straight up. I had to admit, they were fascinating.

  "For a moment, I mean."

  From the sudden ferocity behind his civilized mask, I was certain he'd refuse. I was almost relieved: neither Sherlock nor Patty could say I hadn't tried, and nicely, too. William's stare, much longer than polite, did after all have something of Father in it, something cold and unyielding, and I was certain he'd tell me to go hang.

  "Could you convince him to take that medication?"

  It was my turn to stare. When I realized, I broke eye contact then looked back. "What's he refusing? Antibiotics?"

  "Narcotics. Painkillers and sleeping pills." The confusion in his expression battled with an earthy and protective rage.

  He wasn't angry with me. But I measured the depth of fury in his glare and a blur of fear sliced through my soul. He was worried about his son, his only son. And he'd make a pact with the devil himself if it helped that son recover.

  I recalled my own time in hospital, the searing pain and the drugs' welcome relief. Mine had only been a slicing wound across the back, not a slug directly into the stomach. The kid had to have a good reason for such unbelievable behavior.

  The pause while this ran through my head must have been longer than I thought. William broke eye contact, shoved his hands into his pockets, and looked at the floor. For one crazy moment, I thought he was going to shuffle his feet the way I do when confronted.

  "I mean—" He bit off whatever else he'd intended to say.

  "You mean I'm experienced in being shot at, I've been on the receiving end of a bullet myself, and I've visited friends in hospital who also didn't dodge quickly enough. Well, you're right. I am and I have. Does my opinion carry any weight with your son, that I don't know."