Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  "Probably. In the meantime you can answer the question."

  "You can tell by looking at it that it's custom. And that's the last question I'm answering. I don't like your attitude, Detective."

  "And I don't care much for yours, Captain. Now that we understand each other, I'm going to ask you to come down to the station with me."

  The ice was back in my stomach. Mist edged in from the fringes of my consciousness; I was on the verge of tunnel vision. "Am I under arrest?"

  "No, this is just a formality."

  I glanced at the front door. Caren stood there, cell phone to her ear. She was frozen in place, a living question mark. I nodded. She spoke into the phone.

  "Then, Detective," I said, "I'm at your disposal."

  Archive Eleven

  nine years earlier

  After Uncle Hubert's death Aunt Edith buried herself in the stock market and her Cambridge world of elegance and art. The house became much quieter and she became more reserved. That wild uncanniness I'd sometimes seen in her expression became even more rare, replaced by a grim set to her jaw and a smoldering flicker deep in her eyes. I continued tennis lessons but let the skiing go, replacing it with rock climbing and jet skiing when I turned fourteen.

  A few years after that, I graduated high school seemingly a good student — reasonable grades and conduct assessments, never an obvious problem and never caught — but with hesitant letters of recommendation from my instructors. No one came right out and said there was something odd about me: a lack of respect for others or a chip on my shoulder the size of Boston Harbor or a way of looking at people that encouraged them to keep their distance. The letters spoke of potential and possibilities, and left it at that.

  Attending Harvard and studying pre-law was Aunt Edith's idea. I went along with it because everyone I knew was off to one university or another, and I had no better suggestion as to what to do with myself and that still unfathomable future. But the idea of becoming a practicing attorney, like William and my father, never seriously lodged in my mind, and it's possible my heart's intention was to transfer my already well-developed and questionably legal skills to a new arena.

  Next year I was asked to leave the school. Again, no one came right out and called me trouble-in-training; my polished veneer, and the resounding lack of proof concerning my involvement in any of the fiascos that just seemed to happen in my locale, prevented anyone from making any outright claims or filing any petitions against me. Some of the more free-spirited students had taken to me despite my initial stand-offishness; these friendships remained strong even after my withdrawal.

  Again at Aunt Edith's suggestion, I transferred my half-hearted studies to the English Cambridge. William had long since matriculated and was now an increasingly famous London barrister, side by side with our father, and the name-brand recognition possibly sparked interest in my application despite my generally lukewarm academics. Some of the professors and a number of serious students, at least, welcomed me warmly.

  But next year, again, I was asked to leave. Again I had retreated from civilized company and migrated toward the percentage of the student body my father would have termed "dodgy." Again there was no proof against me. And again, the impression of me as a brooding undesirable overwhelmed all other considerations when the time came for the university officials to determine my academic fate.

  They didn't know the truth and admitted they didn't want to. They just wanted me gone. I'd been in England for eight months and hadn't heard word one from my parents or William. My trophy case garnered a few more articles, items that symbolized something for me, nothing of real value, which was as good a description of my time there as any.

  Without a qualm I wired Aunt Edith for funds to return to Boston, booked a berth aboard a tramp steamer departing the next day — flying seemed so boring in comparison — sent my luggage aboard, and returned to campus to drop off the key.

  But a silver Rolls lounged in front of the quad, all sleek retro lines and mirror polish, and among the students crowding the sidewalks not only my head swiveled. I had never bothered to learn driving, it just never interested me the way it did my peers, but even I could admire a machine like that. I wondered who rated such luxury — a banker's son, I decided, or a doctor's — then I recognized the man leaning against the rear fender. It was William and he met my gaze with his chin jutted out. Just like Father.

  The resemblance was uncanny. The only way I could be certain it was William and not Father was the smooth skin about the eyes and lack of grey hair frosting the black. Otherwise it was as if my earliest memory of Father had stepped out of my brain, dusted itself off, and struck a pose against the side of the car. Even the pin-striped dark suit looked the same, except Father usually wore white shirts and William that day wore grey with a maroon cravat.

  Suddenly awkward for no reason I could identify, I stopped on the sidewalk in the bright autumn sun and listened to my slow heartbeat. There was no reason for William to be there, that day of all days, and I wondered if he knew I was leaving school. Again. Leaving hadn't bothered me prior to that moment; I knew I'd keep the friends who interested me, and they were all that mattered; but for some reason, having William there and knowing, too, changed my exodus from a lark to something almost shameful.

  "Hello, William."

  For a long moment his gaze held me motionless, something like what headlamps do to young deer. Then he stepped to the English passenger-side front, opened the door, and turned to me.

  "Get in," he said.

  It never occurred to me to refuse, even though his eyes were narrowed and his jaw was tight. After all, he was my brother, estrangement or no. I slid into the seat. He swung the door to, strode around the front of the car, and settled behind the wheel. His black leather driving gloves contrasted elegantly with the dove-grey interior. The engine caught at the gentlest touch on the starter, and William shifted gear and steered the big car off campus.

  I knew the answer but asked nevertheless. "Is this yours?"

  "Yes." He turned onto the southbound road outside town, the long way to the A40, and shifted up. "Did you send your luggage ahead?"

  "Of course." So he did know. My embarrassment deepened. My heart beat even louder and I listened to its slow drumming in my chest as if I had never heard it before. Certainly it had never sounded quite like this.

  He shifted again. "Are you returning to Boston?"

  "Where else?"

  "The estate."

  Where my family lived. "I didn't realize I would be welcome."

  "I never said you would be." He glanced askance at me, green eyes slitted.

  Too late, I realized he was driving into the wooded parkland and not to the A40 and civilization at all. I couldn't believe I had been stupid enough to accept a ride from him. He was the one with the boxing trophies, not me.

  I drew a deep breath. "Did Father send you?" The bitterness in my voice was an accusation.

  "I didn't tell him I was coming." He guided the car to the verge, parked it, and killed the engine.

  We sat silently, not facing, while the dashboard clock ticked loudly: four seconds, five, six, seven.

  "What do you want, William?"

  Finally he turned to face me. His chin still jutted, but his eyes were more focused, as if he really saw me for the first time. He studied me — eleven seconds, twelve, thirteen — while my pulse picked up speed. With a sudden desperation, I wondered if I could outrun him.

  "We're going to talk." He popped his door open. "Get out."

  We squared off in the shade of the ancient oaks edging the road and glared at each other. I made sure to keep out of reach.

  "Charles, what in hell do you think you're doing?"

  He even sounded like Father, the same studied measured tones that could hypnotize juries into whatever affect was necessary to assure his legal victory. At that all-too-familiar modulation, something inside me rebelled, as if I again faced Father in his library.

  "You k
now, I used to listen to Father practice that tone of voice," I said. "He'd have the butler prop a full-length mirror in his study, and he'd watch and listen to himself as he practiced his arguments. He used it on me, too, when he wanted to frighten me. I'm accustomed to it, William, and I'm not eleven any longer. That tactic won't work."

  He stepped toward me. I stepped back, just as far.

  "Answer the question."

  "You'll have to explain it first. Are you referring to any particular action, or was that just a rhetorical—"

  "This is the second university that's kicked you out."

  So he did know, and in detail. Again I was embarrassed. "They asked me to leave."

  "Don't quibble." William eased closer again, but not so close I felt the need to retreat. "They're being polite because of Father. Believe me, this has not been kept quiet. People are talking. To us."

  "Well, I wish they'd talk to me instead. This is the first I've heard of any trouble."

  "Oh, so Harvard asked you to leave because they didn't like you?" He scoffed. "Lady Fiona's been comforting Mum. 'I wouldn't worry about it, Charlene. It's not always the parents, you know, sometimes it's just bad seed.' " He'd always done an accurate if cruel imitation of Lady Fiona's voice, which was as scrawny as her neck. In an odd sort of way, I found the link through time almost comforting.

  Not that I'd tell him that. "Mum won't be seen in public, right?"

  "All right, you don't give a damn for Mum. You've already proven that. Just answer the question. What is wrong with you?"

  And suddenly I had to admit the significance. My shoulders sagged. I answered him honestly, the same way I'd answered Father when he succeeded in cutting through my defenses. "All I know is, I'm not meant for university."

  William paused, examining me as if I was a hostile witness. My face turned hot beneath his gaze. He was eight years older than I and could afford a Rolls; the flat in London was a given. I'd had to wire Aunt Edith for the funds to return to Boston and had no idea what to do with myself, something that seemed increasingly clear to everyone, even me. At that moment, amidst the shame and jealousy, I felt the first stirring of real hatred for my brother.

  "I can accept that," he said finally. "Not everyone's born to be a barrister."

  I took a deep breath. "Thank you."

  And in that moment, as I lowered my guard in relief and started to reconsider those fraternal conceptions, he snaked out an arm, grabbed me by the shirt front, and hauled me close enough to smell his mouthwash. Again; he'd fooled me again, and I let him. I tried to push far enough away to take a swing. Effortlessly he hauled me back and slammed me against the car.

  "Let me go!"

  He shook me. "Oh, stop it. Listen, Charles. I'm giving you a choice."

  A healthy fear grew amidst the resurgent hatred. I had no intention of listening to anything else he said. I tried to twist away, digging my fingers into his wrist to break his grip. He shook me again, like a puppy. Too late, I saw his flying fist, tried to turn my face, but he clipped me sharply on the cheekbone and my head hit the top of the car. Hopefully I dented it.

  The blow stunned me. I sagged in his grip.

  "You know, Charles, Aunt Edith's turned you into a real gentleman." There was no mockery in his voice; actually, he sounded rather proud of me. "You've got the polish Father and I have always lacked. She's taught you to be elegant and you've always been graceful." He moved suddenly and my stomach exploded beneath his blow. "But it's all a veneer. She hasn't taught you anything about real life and she hasn't made a man of you."

  He moved casually, signaling his intentions up front; we both knew I was defenseless. He released me, raised his fists, started at the top and worked his way down. First my cheek, then my chin, quick right-left blows that bounced me off the car again, then another vicious smash into my solar plexus that crushed a moan from my lungs and doubled me over. His hands closed on my upper arms — by this point I could only see fireworks — and whirled me face-first into the car. I flailed against the smooth hot metal but found no grip before he twisted my left arm between my shoulder blades. I knew I was finished. William laid three roundhouses on my kidneys then let go. I slid down the silver metal to my knees and couldn't move.

  "Are you listening now?" He wasn't even breathing hard.

  Oh, I hated him. "What choice?"

  "You're returning home with me."

  "What? Why ever?"

  "You're rejoining the family, little brother. You'll make calls with Mum and escort her shopping. You'll assist at the firm, running errands and clerking, and you'll earn your keep. When you've decided upon a course of study you'll enroll at the Swindon college. You will, of course, continue to live at home until you've proven we can trust you not to shame the family again. Only then will you return to university and you'll still come home over holidays and continue in the firm during long vacations. Is that clear?"

  It sounded like hell on earth. When I felt homesick, it wasn't for the oaks of England but the roses of Boston. "You want me for a trophy." Speaking was agony and my voice was reedy.

  "What do you mean?"

  I finally convinced my dry eyes to focus and glared at him sideways. He hadn't even rumpled his cravat.

  "You want me under your thumb long enough to convince the neighbors that whatever they heard was an ugly rumor. You want to clear the family name. You don't want me at all."

  He was quiet for only the briefest of pauses. "That's right."

  "And my other choice?"

  "I'll finish what I started." Again he paused. "I think you need a thrashing."

  Oh, yes, he was just like Father. "Bastard."

  "I don't have all day." There was an edge to his voice now. "Make your choice."

  "You've no right."

  He grabbed my shirt again. My body followed along and slumped against the car. My knees refused to lock. Only his grip kept me upright. I twisted my face away to hide my frustration. But he laughed. I hated him so much I wondered if I would explode.

  "How much convincing do you need?" The contempt in his voice wasn't subtle and it made up my mind for me.

  "I'm not going back."

  He laughed, louder this time. "What? Not even now?"

  I caught and held his gaze. "Never."

  To this day I'm uncertain exactly what he saw in my expression. But the laugh died in his throat. William leaned his head back, looked down his Roman nose at me for a long considering moment, and I knew I had won the only fight that mattered. I had robbed him of his trophy.

  "You little sod."

  He began with my right eye.

  Chapter Nineteen

  current time

  William met me at the station.

  Of course, the first attorney Sherlock could reach on such short notice. William or Father: which was preferable? I should have been grateful to all of them, I suppose, but at that moment having to ask William for help was just one more humiliation in a losing streak I was determined to snap.

  "Understand," William said after Detective Wingate flipped on the recorder, "I'm not licensed to practice law in any of the United States of America. All I can do is observe and make certain Charles' rights are not violated until he can obtain more appropriate counsel."

  William admitting to an imperfection? The man who set the standard I couldn't reach, and now when I needed him he adopted limitations? I shot him a glare. But his expression as he stared back was wondering, as if he understood my responses no better than Father, and when I turned away I found Wingate watching, too, his eyebrows up. The amount of perfection in the interrogation room already had my teeth on edge and we'd barely begun.

  "You can't legally do even that," Wingate said. "But to keep the case clean, we'll allow it." One vertical line creased his forehead, as if he worried that a good American shyster wouldn't consider it all that clean and would find a means of dismissing his case because of this little trans-Atlantic arrangement. "Are you sure you don't want to call someone better qu
alified?"

  I was too furious even to find it funny. I shook my head.

  "Let the record show the witness is moving his head in a negative manner."

  The pale green interrogation room smelled of stale socks and antiseptic cleanser. Bars covered the narrow windows. The table was wooden and sturdy, but the chairs were the unpadded sort of folding metal, grey and cold and uncomfortable. Hash marks on one wall marked off feet and inches. Margot, Wingate's assistant, registered five feet six in her natty uniform, with or without her arms crossed; beside her, the street cop wavered between six feet and six feet two, depending upon how far down he slouched.

  Both William and I refused coffee. Wingate sipped his from a porcelain mug embossed with the logo of the Boston Opera. I didn't have to ask to know we'd have gotten Styrofoam. At best.

  "So, Captain Ellandun." Wingate set his mug atop the overlapping layers of graffiti hacked into the table's once-presentable pine top. His eyes, brown and level beneath those perfect brows, considered me as if I was a puzzle that needed solving. "Why don't you tell us your version of what happened?"

  "My version?" The implications of that question raised my hackles, just as the implications of Wingate's questions usually did.

  Beside me, William stirred. "Just tell him."

  He'd changed yesterday's rumpled navy suit for casual slate blue slacks and a matching two-tone sport shirt, and I had to admit the colors suited him. But the exhaustion hadn't changed, as if he'd slept no more than I the previous night, and again it weighed on him and added a heaviness to the confidence I was growing to expect.

  Between the press of memories and the confining bars of that room, having William there felt like having an extra accuser. But this time his return stare contained more steel than the bars and his poise reminded me of Sherlock. In a lopsided sort of way, I found that comforting: if I didn't have one bastard by my side, at least I had another. I took a deep breath and faced Wingate again.