Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  With the burglar alarm jumpered, I opened the window, not forgetting to move that pane of glass off the casement first. Once inside I unhooked myself from the rappelling line and closed the window behind me.

  The racket in the big outer office was almost distinguishable as individual voices now, but I didn't wait to see if anyone had noticed me. If someone had, I'd learn it soon enough. Keeping to a crouch, I pulled out my kit and attacked the lock on Wingate's desk. It seemed the obvious place to start: active files were generally kept handiest and not in filing cabinets across the room.

  Desk and filing cabinet locks are among the easiest to pick, along with those on doorknobs and cars, and the desk surrendered within moments. The lower right-hand drawer was stuffed with files. I moved the rolling chair out of my way and settled down for a good read, the elation of victory singing through me.

  The office door opened.

  One good thing about PTSD: it sharpens the reflexes to hypervigilance. My body and brain reacted before I was fully aware that the sound I'd heard was the scrape of the lock being picked. There was only one hiding spot in that office and I was inside the kneehole of the desk before the door was fully open, twisting myself inside out like a pretzel to peer beneath the desk's bottom edge.

  As soon as the door was opened the alarm gave a warning whine, alerting the intruder of his few seconds' grace. From my vantage point beneath the desk, I watched a pair of worn neon-blue trainers, faded denim rising above, as they doubled about the door and paused beneath where I recalled seeing the keypad. The whine paused. I heard a series of four beeps — about the correct number of digits for this simple a system — then even the whine ceased.

  From the outer office came a storm of applause, whistles, catcalls, the sounds of humanity in the throes of impressed amusement. In disbelief I watched the trainers wheel back around and pause in the doorway, spread like the feet of a pirate on a captured schooner's deck. The owner's shadow distorted as he took a bow. It could only be some clown breaking into Wingate's office on a bloody bet, the same way I used to break into Sherlock's office back before the war just to prove I could, and hopefully that meant this clown's act was over and he'd leave, closing the door behind himself and letting me resume my work.

  He didn't. Instead, he flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulbs flickered to life as the clown crossed to Wingate's filing cabinet, on the far side of the desk. Again I heard the rasp of a lock being picked, followed by the whisper of a well-oiled drawer sliding open. All the wearer of those dirty shoes had to do was turn ninety degrees in either direction, and he'd see the empty spot where I'd removed the pane of glass. It was a wonder the increased noise of the traffic below didn't alert him, not to mention the pounding of my own pulse.

  But the wearer of those neon trainers, it seemed, had other things on his mind. I listened while he rustled through the files, then he slid the drawer home and the lock snapped. Silence pulsed in the office, broken only by the rowdy voices from the other room and the occasional murmur of traffic on the street below, and I died a thousand deaths waiting for the sod to see that window. In my awkward position, blood pooled inside my head and breathing became difficult, and surely he'd hear that, too.

  But no, the trainers crossed back to the keypad. I heard the four beeps again, followed by the warning whine. The overhead light went off. Then the trainers left and the door closed. The whine ceased as the door's contact was re-established, and the click of the lock was almost drowned in a repeat eruption of whistles and laughter.

  I crawled from the kneehole and collapsed onto the floor. If he'd been looking for a file in the desk; if Sherlock and Lindsay had spoken in the street below; if he'd spotted the rappelling ropes dangling just outside the window; if, if, if. The litany in my head matched the pounding in my chest and temples, the gasping breaths I couldn't slow or quiet, and for a while that was all I could manage. I'd gotten away with it; I wasn't going to spend the remainder of the night in jail or worse; and somehow I knew the rest of this break-in would be anti-climactic. Nothing that happened would ever be quite so bad again and it only took a minute to quit giggling hysterically.

  The file on Aunt Edith's murder was the big fat one in the very front of the drawer. Sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the desk, I pulled it out, propped it open on my lap, and skimmed the entire thing. Besides Wingate's notes from my visits both voluntary and enforced, there were notes on conversations with Prissy Carr, Sharon Righetti alias Sidnë, Danny Vasquez, the injured security guard, William, Patricia, Linda, Trés, and just about every other family member I possessed.

  There was an autopsy report, plus surgeons' reports covering the two survivors' injuries. All three victims had been shot at close range, probably less than ten feet according to the blood spatter evidence, and I read no more of those ugly documents.

  There was a report on the carpet samples taken from Aunt Edith's car and those taken from her house and my flat, signed by Vanessa Illegible, the red-haired technician. The samples from the car were DuPont acrylic, a longish shag about forty years old, golden-brown in color, and matching nothing found in any of the suspects' residences or autos as of the date of the report.

  There was a fingerprint report from Aunt Edith's BMW. The only ones found were her own, some latent ones of mine, and some smudged spots that looked as if someone wearing gloves had fooled about with the passenger-side front door.

  And then there was the ballistics report. Aunt Edith, Trés, and the security guard had been shot by an old 7.65mm European pistol, probably a 1929 Browning FN Model 1910 judging by the lands and grooves sliced into the recovered bullets. The ammunition was considerably more modern and almost certainly manufactured in one of the former Soviet bloc but now independent factories in Central Europe.

  I opened the folder's brads, pulled out all the papers above the ballistics report, then folded it and slipped it inside my black fatigue shirt pocket. It was evidence, after all; we needed to keep it handy just in case, and besides, if Wingate realized it was missing he could get another copy.

  I determinedly kept the word "trophy" out of my thoughts.

  I replaced the papers in the file, refolded the brads, and returned the file to the desk, then locked the desk, opened the window, hooked back onto the rappelling lines, and climbed out into space. At the last moment I remembered to grab that pane of glass. From the outside I closed and locked the window, replaced the pane, and caulked it into place. Then I unhooked the jumper wire, wrapped electric tape around the bare area of the burglar alarm wiring, and stuffed a good dollop of caulking into the hole I'd made in the outer wall.

  As I scrambled back up the nylon line, Sherlock, on the sidewalk below, muttered something horribly rude, in front of Lindsay, no less. Good. For once I'd managed to shake him while my stupid little grin just got bigger with the elation of a job well done.

  Caren waited for me on the roof above. Her greeting was much nicer. Together we unhooked the nylon line, stowed it and the karabiner back onto my web belt, and slipped down the fire escape. Sherlock hustled us all into the Camaro and started the drive back.

  "Well?" he finally asked when we were on the Longfellow Bridge.

  There was no way I would admit I'd nearly been caught, nor that I'd nearly wet my pants. Instead I reported on the contents of the file and finished by reading the ballistics report aloud.

  "Let me see that," Lindsay said when I finished.

  I handed her the report, then wished I hadn't. At least I still wore those black kid-leather gloves, so thin and flexible they were almost like wearing nothing; she'd get her fingerprints all over the bloody papers and again I knew it was only a matter of time before William buried me. Right now I might be in better physical shape, but if his precious daughter got into trouble with the Boston P.D. — say, if her fingerprints were found on a stolen ballistics report — then he'd be motivated for revenge, to say the least.

  Sherlock, of course, didn't care. "You know what this means?"<
br />
  "Yes," I said. "I know what it means."

  Neither of us spoke further in front of Caren and Lindsay and for once neither of them asked for details. It was just as well. Sherlock and I now knew who'd killed Aunt Edith and by unspoken agreement we didn't want to discuss it further — at least not until we tested our hypothesis.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  current time

  It was three in the morning when we arrived back at the house. I was too keyed up to sleep, so I volunteered for last-shift guard duty. No one argued. Bonnie and Patricia had been keeping each other awake and scooted off to bed. Lindsay fell asleep in the car halfway home, so Caren and Sherlock shooed her off, too, and I saw Sherlock pop some ibuprofen before retiring to my old bedroom. I wondered how much he really hurt, and whether it was a headache from driving or sore muscles from saving my life two days before.

  I wasn't, of course, about to ask. Instead I poured myself the last of the coffee and took a moment to open the hat box, pulling out bits of Aunt Edith's ugly old stuff, turning the scent flask beneath the fluorescent lighting and finding sparkly spots. Then I settled down in Uncle Hubert's old study in the leather wing chair to think, setting the old P-38 and the PPK on the desktop.

  In the low light of the desktop lamp, the spines of Uncle Hubert's books gleamed. I didn't even have to close my eyes to see him standing at the shelf, some heavy tome open in his hands, so engrossed he didn't realize he hadn't bothered to sit down. When I arrived in Boston, he did everything in his power to help me feel at home and adopted me as the son he'd never had. What a kind man he'd been, and at that thought I did close my eyes, until the lump in my throat and the burning behind my eyelids eased. Too little sleep, of course. I slugged more coffee. I hadn't even cried for him.

  I'd only known Uncle Hubert for two years before someone — Rainwater, perhaps — stole him from me. He'd been a steadying influence in my life when I desperately needed one, before I truly turned to a life of crime. If he'd lived longer, what might I have become? A university professor, following in his footsteps?

  How utterly boring.

  I'd learned under Aunt Edith's influence for much longer, of course. She led me gleefully just-so-far astray while Uncle Hubert held me kindly on course, and between them they created a thief who couldn't steal for money. Without her restraining and encouraging influence, what else might I have become? A progressively more delinquent juvenile, until I graduated into the adult prison system?

  I sighed and finished the coffee, setting the mug on the hearth. That wasn't much of a solution, either. Aunt Edith, it seemed, had realized that, for when she found she could no longer restrain me she convinced me to join the Army, where I'd learned self-discipline and finally found a home amongst Sherlock's gang.

  Too many people had been stolen from me: Uncle Hubert, my mum, Aunt Edith. That wrenching pain, that loss, was something I'd feel for too long. I didn't want anyone else to be taken from me, not Caren, not Patricia — not even my father.

  My father really hadn't been stolen from me, of course; until I turned eleven, he held himself aloof, busy with his cases and believing that, because I hadn't made trouble in the past, I wouldn't do so in the future. Perhaps he hadn't realized that the spare child requires attention just as much as the heir. I had to believe he loved me; if he didn't, then why did this reconciliation seem to matter so much to him?

  What I could no longer hide from myself was the depth of my own need for him. Until I'd experienced my father's attention, I hadn't realized how much I craved it, as if my heart hadn't learned a thing from my exile. As Sherlock said, emotions existed one simply didn't outgrow.

  Yes, I was angry; yes, I was bitter; but if I didn't care, then I wouldn't care. I could no longer pretend that I didn't.

  And before I'd let my father be stolen from me, like all those other people I'd lost, instead I'd let him go. Perhaps if I could limit the amount of love in my life, I thought in that insane pre-dawn hour, perhaps I could limit the amount of pain therein, as well.

  "Here you are," Caren said from the doorway, "in my favorite room."

  She'd changed from jeans and tee-shirt into denim shorts and a cute, flimsy, button-up blouse. Judging from the motion beneath the cloth she'd dispensed with restraints, which could be symbolic. Whatever; the morning was definitely looking up.

  She settled one hip on the armrest, on my right side. Since she had to pass by my left, sore side to get there, I figured that was deliberate and therefore felt no compunction against slipping my arm around her and drawing her closer. She didn't resist.

  "Can't sleep?" I swiveled in the chair.

  Her breasts were at eye level. She snuggled even closer. I got a good look at the movement, the small points beneath the thin cloth. I was right. Her bra, and therefore my kid gloves, were off.

  "Mmm." She sighed and leaned on my shoulder. "There's just something about this room."

  I glanced higher, along the curve of her neck. Her pulse raced, fluttering in her neck, almost matching mine, and my breathing quickened in response. She smelled of lavender and faintly of sweat, and I never smelled anything quite so attractive in my life.

  "The room, is it?"

  She leaned down and kissed me, and this time was different from all the times before. This was deeper, stronger, more intense. Her fingers stroked through my hair, lightly, then cupped my face as her mouth opened. She tasted vaguely of schnapps, and I couldn't help but wonder how much she'd drunk and why. Whatever her reasons, it tasted good against the remnant of coffee.

  Finally she sat back, pushing against my hold around her waist, and looked at me with a huntress' eyes.

  "I guess I like watching you climb down the side of police headquarters." Her voice was deeper, her words faster. She eased backward off the chair arm, drawing me with her to the floor.

  Even as we kissed again, I felt like a fool. It never occurred to me this deeply moral woman might be turned on by a bad boy, not even after she fiddled with my holster the last time I held her. There were some concepts, it seemed, that simply couldn't force their way through my thick skull.

  Like limiting the amount of love in my life.

  "I will never rearrange the furniture in this room."

  "Can you reach the light?"

  I popped the chain on the desk lamp and tugged the drapes back, letting a touch of moonlight show on the study floor. She straddled the light, her knees spreading as she drew me down beside her. We kissed again and for a long time that was enough, just our breathing and the growing warmth in my blood. I wasn't going to push, not even now. The next move still had to be hers.

  Finally she took my hand and guided it to that long row of little buttons. I shuddered, dropped my mouth to her neck, and tasted the tinge of salt on her skin. She wrapped her arms around my head. It took both hands to open her shirt and all the willpower I possessed not to rip the flimsy little thing off. Beneath was bare skin, soft as a baby's and a perfect handful each side. Her arms tightened. My teeth closed.

  The back door opened.

  For one insane moment I thought I'd flashed back to my break-in at Wingate's office. Then I realized Caren was frozen, too, staring at me with huge eyes. That meant we'd both heard it, which meant it wasn't a flashback, which meant someone was breaking into the house.

  Now. Right now.

  "So much for the magic of the moment," I whispered into her ear. "My cell phone's on my belt. Call Sherlock, would you?"

  She grabbed my phone with one hand, that row of buttons with the other, and crawled off to the far corner of the room. On my hands and knees, I ghosted my hand across the top of the desk and closed on the old P-38. I slid into the hallway, slipping like a snake from the hardwood floor to the entry's blue Persian rug. While still in the shadows I stopped, before entering the light coming in through the front door's panes or the window at the hall's far end.

  I didn't hear the cell phone ring upstairs. Sherlock often set his to vibrate and kept it against
his skin as he slept.

  Except for Caren's murmurs into the phone, the house was silent. But I knew we hadn't imagined that snick of opening door. It felt as if the entire house was frozen, holding its breath, awaiting the next move. And it felt like the next move took forever, while the heat in my blood cooled then heated in an entirely different manner, transforming me from the sexual animal to a combat-ready soldier. The difference wasn't that vast.

  Finally: another gentle snick. Someone closed the back door.

  Caren appeared soundlessly beside me. I leaned over and breathed in her ear. "Close the drapes."

  She vanished again. Then the wash of light in the study faded and was gone. The shadows around me deepened. I snaked to my belly, to a prone firing position, and squared the kitchen doorway in my sights, chest high.

  As quiet as the intruder at the back door had been, as silent as Caren had been, Sherlock was more so. I never heard the bedroom door open nor a floorboard creak. But suddenly from the top of the stairs I saw the glint of stray moonlight on gun metal and knew my backup was in place.

  It was time.

  "Glendower!" My voice fell into the silence like a mortar round set to explode.

  Then, from upstairs, Sherlock swore. Combat instincts and training took over. Without needing to think, I rolled, smashed back-first into the doorjamb, twisted into the study. A gun fired from the rear of the house as I moved, one flat crack like a whiplash. Suddenly a bullet hole appeared in the Persian carpet — the expensive Persian carpet — in front of me. Cordite wafted through the house.

  "Charles!" Caren screamed.

  From upstairs Sherlock fired toward the kitchen. I fired, too, a split second later, the roar of his Colt .45 drowning out the crack of the P-38. The pistol kicked in my right hand, snapping my wrist up, but I knew that weapon from long practice and experience. I recoiled with it and was ready to fire again within the second.