Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  We stared at each other. I watched the pact work its way through his expression. Then he strode down the hall. Patricia took my arm and guided me after, her touch and step light.

  Archive Nine

  seventeen years earlier

  The toolkit on the counter was half the size of Aunt Edith's and the leather case was maroon rather than deep blue. But the tools within were fashioned from dull metal that would reflect no light, capable of opening any lock barring my way, in my fanciful imagination. Besides, the small size was an advantage; it would fit in my hip pocket and could go with me anywhere.

  I finally looked up. The pawnbroker watched me skeptically. But Uncle Hubert smiled until his jowls rolled all the way back to his ears.

  "Is that what you want?"

  I nodded. "Yes, sir, please."

  As he handed over the money, I zipped the little case, just to hold it and feel the leather. The texture was intoxicating in a way I'd never felt before, in a sense as alive as the roses in Aunt Edith's garden. As I'd expected, it slid into my pocket as if measured to fit.

  "Mr. Goldberg, I do believe you've given me too much change," Uncle Hubert said.

  I was so enchanted I almost didn't understand what he said. Even when I understood his words, it took me another moment to understand his meaning. Did anybody really ever return unexpected money?

  "Oh, I don't think so, Professor."

  "Let's count, shall we?"

  I watched as the two men sorted through the handful of strange green American bills. It suddenly struck me that I'd never seen my father handle money at all; he'd always left that to Mum.

  "Well, bless me," the pawnbroker said.

  "There you are." Uncle Hubert slid a handful of bills into his wallet. His smile was even bigger.

  The pawnbroker took the two bills remaining on the counter and put them back into his till. "Thank you, Professor. Your honesty does you credit."

  Huh.

  From the pawnshop we went to a gym, where we pored together over the bulletin of offerings. Although one category I sought wasn't there, the other was.

  "What interests you?"

  "Tennis."

  "Tennis. Excellent. You know, I never learned to play tennis."

  That explained his oddities. His education was incomplete. "Perhaps we can play together."

  "Only if you're gentle with me."

  I sniggered. It sounded odd, and in a moment it hit me: I'd never made a sound quite like that before.

  "Pick another."

  I bit my lip. "They don't have horseback riding. Or rugby."

  "There's soccer. Or swimming."

  "Hmm."

  His finger traced down the aquatic activities and stopped at the jet ski. I tingled.

  "Oh." His voice was disappointed. "You must be fourteen."

  "Rock climbing's the same." I sounded ditto. Climbing would be handy for getting into second-storey windows.

  "But not skiing."

  The thought of sliding down a slippery slope at high speed had its shivery attractions. "Are there mountains around here?"

  "Not too far away." He folded the paper and returned it to the stack. "They have an indoor slope for lessons. But Edith and I like to go to the mountains for winter vacations."

  "Does she ski?"

  "She does."

  For quick winter getaways, skis would be better than a vehicle on snow. Hey, anybody could drive. How boring was that? "Then skiing it is."

  After enrolling for the courses and use of the facilities, we stopped by the shop where a real tennis pro helped me select a racquet, even slapping balls about the court with me to try several out. We decided I'd use the gym's lesson skis until we knew for certain I enjoyed it enough to warrant the investment.

  And after that, we stopped at a shabby little corner cafe and had gloriously sloppy hamburgers with curly potato fries. The best part was forgetting our table manners together and giggling about it.

  At home, when we walked in laughing together, Aunt Edith's smile was genuine. I told her about the gym and showed her my racquet.

  And the toolkit.

  "What a handsome find." She angled the case toward the light spilling through the parlor windows.

  "Will you teach me to use them?"

  "Certainly." She returned the toolkit to me. "By the way, your father rang while you were out."

  I froze. Numbing cold started at my fingertips and toes, climbed my arms and legs, and centered in my belly. The sun-drenched room, the sofas and sideboard and coffee table, even the intoxicating scent of roses — everything faded into the background.

  Everything except that lonely blue chair—

  "He wants to know when you'd like to return."

  —and the sensuality of the maroon leather toolkit in my hands.

  I didn't need to think. "Never."

  That spark of something wild and uncanny surfaced behind her level gaze. She didn't pause, either. "Never is a long time."

  "I never want to see them again."

  Chapter Thirteen

  current time

  A police officer stood in the hallway outside the closed hospital room door. Beyond his watchful stance waited a metal folding chair, the unpadded sort. Lindsay sprawled on it, one knee drawn up to her chin, arms wrapped about that leg. Her jeans were designer but without artistic holes in them, and the color of her tank top matched that of her rippling honey-toned hair.

  "Dad, can we leave now?" Her voice was very quiet. She didn't glance up.

  "Not yet, love." William tugged at a lock of her hair then dangled his hand on her shoulder as he stuck his head past the doorjamb. "Linda?"

  Lindsay closed her eyes but didn't sigh, resignation personified.

  William stepped back into the hall. Linda followed but paused in the doorway. She froze, chin down, brown eyes narrowing in a face carved from granite. Perhaps she'd forbidden William to fight; that didn't mean she wanted me anywhere near her injured son.

  "Hello, Charles." Her voice wavered.

  I shoved my hands deeper into my fatigue pockets. "Linda."

  She did the same, balling her fists into the pockets of her practical brown shirt dress, and stepped into the hallway. The door on its silent spring eased closed behind her. "William says you want to see Trés."

  "Well, yes. For a minute."

  But she was more direct than William. "Why?"

  Patricia squeezed my arm, as if the embarrassment of being interrogated in a public hallway might be too much for me to bear. Sherlock had withdrawn to the nurses' station, out of auditory range for anyone else, but after his long-distance eavesdropping in the kitchen I put nothing past him. And I'd just as soon he not eavesdrop on this conversation; I'd rather not hear about it for the remainder of my natural, or otherwise, existence.

  I helped myself to a deep breath. The antiseptic hospital smell nearly overwhelmed me. "Because he's my nephew and I've never met him. And his artwork is smashing."

  William murmured into her ear. Her stare never left me. Her expression wasn't granite any more, but it wasn't soft and kind, either, a tawny lioness guarding her cub's lair.

  "No excitement. And no questions." Her voice, when she added that caveat, wasn't gentle, either. The glance she threw at the silent police officer was absolutely spiteful.

  "Yes, ma'am," I said.

  She blinked at that, as if it wasn't what she'd expected from me, then glanced again at my olive drab fatigues. Finally Linda moved aside, into Patricia's hug, and I ducked through the door, relieved. I'd survived the first part of this exercise. William and Sherlock, I was certain, were overstating the case: how challenging could a teenager be?

  During the war, more than half of our gang had suffered injuries: Sherlock's scarring, Lieutenant Mason shot in the abdomen, Bonnie in the leg, Patrick in the chest, and my back ripped lengthwise. Three of those had been serious injuries; Bonnie and I were more ornamental than anything else, and I know she got a lot of mileage out of the old want-to-
see-my-scar line in clubs. (I mean, one didn't expect to hear that from a woman, or at least I didn't.) But I'd caught her sitting up in the hospital bed, rocking to and fro like a child and hugging her leg close, eyes squeezed shut. The level of danger from the injury didn't necessarily equate to the amount of damage it caused.

  And personally I'll never forget the searing hot pain that scalded my mind and back, the shuddering weakness as I dropped the Mauser rifle, the shame that it took only a minor wound to shut me down completely. After all, Bonnie had been behind enemy lines with Theresa when she caught hers, and she held herself tough enough to call for a helicopter pickup. Kenny had to call the medics for me and I fainted when they manhandled me off the front lines.

  So the kid on the hospital bed didn't shock me. Actually, I thought he looked rather good for the day after; his brown eyes, although clouding with pain, were otherwise clear. His face was grey beneath his black hair, but his chin was stuck out and his hand gripped the bed's railing firmly. Even then it struck me how delicate his hand was and how clear his eyes. An artist, yes, and a young Turk. I wondered how often he argued with William and how often he won.

  There were tubes everywhere, of course, an IV, catheter bag, and monitoring machines, and the chart at the foot of the bed was thick already.

  His eyes widened slightly. "You're Charles."

  I got the impression the words had been surprised out of him. "Yes."

  "Sorry, I suppose that should be Uncle Charles." His tenor was thin but not quaky, another sign of strength.

  I shrugged. "Call me what you like. If I don't, I'll let you know." There was another metal folding chair beside the bed. I rested a foot on it and leaned, but stayed standing. It would be easier on his neck if he didn't have to crane to see me, as I recalled from my own time in such a bed.

  He liked that comment, or at least something flickered behind his brown eyes. "Aunt Patty said you'd been shot once."

  Seventeen years of unknown history floating somewhere between us, but he cut straight to the point that interested him. Something of William here, and something not. I could tell already I liked him; although I'd never admit it to Sherlock, I was glad he'd bullied me into meeting Trés. "Not exactly shot. Just sort of sliced open."

  "Well, tell me, mate: how long is it going to hurt like this?"

  Something must have shown in my face.

  "Not that I'm a coward."

  "No," I said, "you're not a coward at all. How long it hurts depends on how fast you heal, and they tell me that depends on how much rest you get."

  His expression didn't change. "Rush Limbaugh became addicted to painkillers."

  Simply as that, one mystery was solved. I laughed. "Is that what concerns you? Trés, worry about living first, then give thought to the quality of that life. And perhaps trust your doctors a bit, right? That's their job, not yours."

  "But addictions—"

  I shook my head and overrode him. "Addictions mean the doctors didn't do their job properly and that means your father gets a chance to do his. What, you don't think he's any good?"

  He started to laugh but gasped instead.

  Oops. I winced in sympathy — oh, how I remembered that sudden agony — and waited while the pain engulfed his eyes then receded. "Sorry. No jokes. Unwritten hospital rule."

  "Not even a giggle. Look, is it true people sometimes don't remember those last few moments?"

  I wouldn't have to break my promise to Linda; the question made it clear he recalled nothing of being shot. It was a relief. "The shrinks tell me that's a defense mechanism, a way to protect the soul."

  "The soul?" He was tiring, the crisp edge slipping from his very English tenor.

  He'd end our conversation when he was ready. I wouldn't walk out on his questions. "You wonder about something you can't recall, but you have fits if you remember the gun pointing at you and going off."

  His eyes searched my face. He looked so young and sick, a forlorn sketch in grey and black and brown, stark against the white of the hospital linens. I found myself staring at the gauze bandage strapping the IV needle into the crook of his elbow, so reminiscent of my own painful hospital stay, and who could forget the all-pervading antiseptic-cleanser smell. I forgave Linda's fierce protectiveness.

  "Is that personal experience?" Trés asked—

  —I ignored the background crump of artillery fire and panned the rifle's scope along the enemy emplacement, atop the ridge overlooking our sandbagged trench. Beneath the camouflage netting and wilting tree branches I made out one big field gun with its muzzle recoiling, another, a third—

  —the enemy spotter stood contemptuously in full view, binoculars to his eyes, gazing off to my left but sweeping this way. The rangefinder showed the distance at eight hundred meters. I set the elevation turret and aligned the sight's upper chevron on his center of mass, drifting aside by one hash mark to compensate for the gentle flow of air across my right cheek. Binocular lenses flashed sunsparks. His lips moved as I took up the initial pressure on the trigger—

  —a line of machine-gun fire stitched across the sandbags below my perch. Whines ended in hard thuds, felt more than heard. Dark dust puffed out and billowed in the breeze, into my face, carrying the acrid tang of gunpowder. I recoiled, jerking the Mauser to my chest like a shield. Behind me Sherlock swore and someone screamed, a shrill sound that went on and on and on—

  —the dust and gunpowder caught at the back of my throat. My innards contracted at the piercing smell of blood. Had I been hit? I felt nothing, but they say it sometimes happens that way. On the ridge, the machine gun chattered again. The spotter, my intended target, had spotted us and his gunners were getting our range—

  —it was my job to protect the troops. I threw myself atop the sandbag and raised the Mauser, locating the spotter through the scope within seconds, and he lowered the binoculars and stared right back at me, lips moving. Again the guns rattled—

  —fire lanced across my back—

  —and the spotter, the ridge, the sandbags and screams and chattering machine gun all abruptly vanished, abandoning me, leaving me wild and desperate for them or any fight I could find. The mingled memory-scents of dust, blood, gunpowder, and hot metal lost to the unmistakable aroma of hospital boudoir. Ghostly pain and nausea rushed into the sudden vacuum. My memory had blanked out in that defensive measure, as I'd described it for Trés, who stared at me from his pillow with a confused and rather worried glaze across his face.

  Oh, bloody hell. I hadn't caught the flashback and bottled it up in time. Instead it had run its full course unimpeded. How long had I been submerged into my waking nightmare? What had I done or said? With the exception of the first few times it happened, my flashbacks were generally short, quiet, private things even if they did occur in full public view. But now the first quivering shakes began in my clenched fists. I refused to surrender, refused to show this kid or anyone else my craziness.

  "You all right, mate?" Trés asked.

  Damn it, I'd frightened him, when I'd promised Linda I wouldn't be a problem. He was too injured to tolerate such behavior — no, that was my normal guilt, trailing along behind. Just another aftereffect, like the shakes.

  I fought the self-reproach, doused the anger, and nodded. It didn't feel too horribly stiff. "Just tired, I suppose." That was a good, standard camouflaging line, unless I'd aimed the Mauser rifle in my mental absence, as I'd done once in front of Sherlock. But if anything so dramatic took place, surely this uninitiated witness wouldn't just scrutinize me and ask if I was okay. More likely he'd push that call button for the nurse or shout for help. "I should let you rest," I said.

  "Fair enough." He'd paled further, too tired and pain-wracked to wonder about me. "Look, send the nurse in, would you? The pretty one, if she's there. You'll know." He grinned slightly.

  I'd gotten away with it. The last adrenaline dissipated. "Sure."

  "Come back tomorrow, won't you?"

  He sounded suddenly wistful. In an ast
onished flash, I understood: although I considered myself boring and ordinary, to him I was new, different, fascinating. I could distract him from the most painful experience of his life, the same way Aunt Edith and Uncle Hubert distracted me from the pain of my family's rejection all those years ago. Especially if I trailed the cloak of mystery Aunt Edith bequeathed me, as the last Ellandun family black sheep.

  And I wanted to help him. My brother's son, and I wanted to help. The realization floored me like a roundhouse punch.

  "If I can, but no promises. There's a lot happening right now with the police investigation and such. The pretty nurse, then."

  Both nurses at the station glanced up hopefully when I stepped into the corridor. It was obvious which one interested a seventeen-year-old male, so I crooked a finger at her and was rewarded with a chipper smile. She said something to William, and he raised his head from his arms, crossed atop the counter. Behind him, Sherlock looked satisfied and Patricia glowed. It was a good feeling.

  The nurse grabbed two syringes from the countertop beside William's forearm and elbowed me in passing, as if we had conspired at this business of getting Trés to take his medicine and now we had won.

  William followed her. His glance briefly touched mine in passing. His expression was neither grateful nor friendly, but so jealous and resentful that I wondered if Linda's cease-fire would hold. Another flash of memory-fear shivered across my already shivering soul, followed by a welcome flush of anger. I was ready whenever he was.

  Then he dropped his gaze and shouldered past me, as if I wasn't even there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  current time

  We were at the Camaro before I realized Lindsay was with us. "Here, what's this?"

  Sherlock popped the locks with the remote. Lindsay ignored me and reached for the handle. "Decent car," she said.

  "This is just a rental," Sherlock said. "You should see what I've got at home."