Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  The look Sherlock gave me was not complimentary.

  "All right, as I said, that's obvious. Prissy doesn't have anything so valuable she needs a segmented system for each part of the building, and the attorney's offices upstairs have their own security. I don't think it will be more complicated than motion sensors, cameras, and lighting."

  "Why aren't you certain?" His stare verged on the cobra point again.

  I tried to keep my voice patient; I doubt I succeeded. "Because, while I used to break into the gallery for sport, I haven't done it since before the war. If she's upgraded anything since then I wouldn't know about it."

  "You're slipping, Robber mine." He stared into space, forehead crinkled. "You stay here with William. I'm gonna run a quick recce. Keep an eye out for the reinforcements and don't let them get close enough to the gallery to be seen." He stepped from the Camaro and eased the door closed behind him until the interior light went out.

  In the back seat, William shifted. "Charles, listen to me."

  I swiveled about and froze, too shocked to breathe. The confidence I admired so much had vanished. In that second, I almost didn't recognize my brother's face for the terror.

  "Listen to me. I know you and Father haven't always gotten on well, and neither have we. But you can't let that influence you now. You must do something, Charles, you must save him."

  When I said nothing — I was too astounded to speak — William babbled on. "I'm sorry I treated you so horribly. If I could change it, if I could make it up to you, I would. Right now, I'd do anything—"

  "No," I interrupted him, as gently as I could. "Right now, you'd say anything."

  He flinched, as if a rappelling rope had smacked him against the side of a building. His determination vanished and all that remained was mortal helplessness. Perhaps I should have enjoyed the unexpected revenge. But all I wanted was to restore the poise I'd come to expect from him.

  I leaned forward, reached out, gripped his forearm as Sherlock had gripped mine. "I promised you nothing would happen to Lindsay. And nothing did. Right now, I'm promising you nothing will happen to Father. And you'll see: nothing will."

  But even as I spoke, Father's warning echoed in my memory. I had chosen to ignore it and put the family honor first. The thought of him paying the price for my mistake, as Ezra Higdon had paid the price for his, took a cold bite from my stomach and started chewing.

  Someone would pick up the tab tonight. And it was my fault.

  A car, headlights off, coasted into the parking spot behind us. I squeezed William's forearm and said what was most important to me at that moment. "If you thought you were a bad kid, and I thought I was, is it possible we were both wrong? Now come on, the show's on."

  Theresa was out of the green Volvo before we got there. Her one-piece fitted flight suit had lumps in several out-of-the-female-ordinary locations, her salesman's case was in her hands, and the glow of the pyromaniac shone in her eyes, visible even in the uncertain light of the streetlamp and the mounting storm. It wasn't a good sign at all. I shuddered; even in combat mode, I really couldn't help it.

  "I hope your dad's okay," she said before any of us could get a word out. With explosions impending — and Sherlock would not have ordered her to bring her kit if he hadn't intended her to use it — she always moved faster than anyone else around.

  "Us, also." William's voice was quiet, all emotion drained from him.

  Theresa and I herded the civilians into the shadows away from the streetlamp. For some reason I couldn't comprehend, Bonnie was wearing civvies. Her eyes were narrowed and the tips of her nostrils flared. The PPK's bulge in the waistband of her Dockers was visible only because I knew to look for it.

  Caren stood by my side but without touching, as if she remembered my comments on distractions, lovely or otherwise. Lindsay, finally afraid although not for herself, snuggled beneath her father's arm. William pulled her tight and held her, but kept his eye on all these odd strangers. The glance he turned in my direction held something of puzzled trust as well as wariness, and with that I had to be satisfied.

  Sherlock appeared out of the night as if spawned. "Theresa, you got that silencer on you?"

  She opened the case, produced a small semi-automatic with a streamlined suppressor extending the muzzle, and handed it over. Sherlock checked the magazine then replaced it within the pistol's grip, ratcheted a round into the chamber, and took aim at the streetlight above us, his eyes hooding as he peered along the sights. It took two almost silent shots before the light died and the protecting dark moved in. He returned the pistol.

  "What kind of car is Glendower driving now?"

  "Thunderbird, dark blue, last year's model."

  "Good. I need a small charge, just enough to destroy that car."

  Theresa grimaced. "You couldn't have said that before you shot the light out?" She vanished behind the Volvo, case in hand.

  Sherlock popped his eyebrows and pointed at Lindsay. "You stick with Bonnie. William, you stick with your brother, and Caren, you're with me. Spread out and find that car. It'll be close; Glendower couldn't herd a hostage along a public sidewalk with a gun in his hand, not for any distance. When someone finds it, do not call out. We'll just meet back here in a few minutes."

  William and I backtracked past the Camaro, keeping to the deepest shadows we could find as we approached the gallery.

  "I don't understand you," he said.

  Without the streetlight, of course, I couldn't see his face. But in the preternatural clarity that heralded combat, I didn't need to see him to discern him.

  "I'm an Ellandun," I said. "We're all fighters of one sort or another. It's just our arena that changes."

  He remained silent as we passed another non-Thunderbird. "When this is over, we have a lot to discuss."

  "I look forward to it."

  Before we came within sight of the gallery's unlit front window, I stopped William with a hand on his elbow. A pool of black centered on the gallery, its outside lights off and the streetlight again hors de combat. No sense alerting Glendower, possibly watching from the interior with night-vision binoculars, that people were active on the street; shooting out our own streetlight was enough warning as things stood. Without speaking again, I guided my brother back to the Volvo, where everyone else was already waiting.

  "Opposite side, three cars down that way." Sherlock pointed. "Caren, did you happen to bring—"

  She handed me my little tool kit before he got the words out.

  "I knew I could count on you," he said. "Robbie, pop a door."

  I thrust the kit into my hip pocket — for a car door, particularly an American model, it was serious overkill — opened the Volvo, and took a coat hanger from the floor; I knew Caren kept one handy in case she wore a suit and needed to hang the jacket. A few simple twists turned the wire into an excellent jimmy and the Thunderbird's door never stood a chance.

  William and Lindsay followed me around without leaving the shadows and watched me work. The integration of my worlds was so complete, I didn't even notice.

  Theresa was ready when I was and tossed a small gelignite charge into the back floorboard. I closed the door. She would use the electronic transmitter embedded within her homemade cell phone and detonate the charge when Sherlock ordered.

  We gathered back into the shadows behind the Camaro.

  "Our two hours are just about up." Sherlock glanced at his backlit watch. "Now, I see it like this: when Glendower calls you, Robbie, he's going to tell you to bring the jewelry inside to him. When you go in, I'm going with you."

  "There are counters on both doors," I said. "If he's watching the security control pad, he'll know that two people entered and he did say for me to come alone."

  He paused. "What height's the sensor?"

  "Thigh high on the front door, waist high on the back."

  "Then I'll crawl in under his radar screen. Theresa, give us five minutes on the clock after we go in, give us time to scope out the situati
on, then set off your charge."

  "Gotcha. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh—"

  "Oh, shut up."

  In the anonymous dark, a feminine someone giggled. Caren or Lindsay, Bonnie or Theresa herself? It seemed everyone was loosening up in preparation for the fight, even those who wouldn't be directly in the line of fire.

  "And make certain no innocent bystanders are within range when you set that thing off."

  Theresa's voice was bland. "Must I?"

  "Don't start that routine. Robbie, once you're inside, do whatever Glendower tells you. Whatever else happens," here Sherlock paused, and I knew it was to ensure my complete attention to his orders, "your assignment is to protect your father. I'll track down Glendower and finish the job. Clear?"

  The night stilled and tightened about me. I swallowed. Protect my father, the man said. Not myself.

  My job was to stand in plain view, just like the spotter. Only trouble was, I got the spotter. Or so Sherlock said.

  It seemed I was paying for dinner.

  "As mud." I tried to keep my voice light. Perhaps I even succeeded.

  We waited, sitting beneath the shattered streetlamp on the sidewalk between Caren's Volvo and the rented Camaro. The surging mutter of thunder crept closer. Lightning flickered across the clouds. I kept my cell phone in one hand. Lindsay again crawled beneath her father's arm. William seemed reassured, or at least his terror faded to a taut worry. I knew he didn't understand. Hopefully he wouldn't feel guilty if we never had that discussion. But I couldn't afford to think about that. My stomach was already tight, as if I'd swallowed a cannonball, and my heart beat in a steady tympani that reminded me uncomfortably of all the other times in my life I'd been afraid.

  Instead, I slipped my arm around Caren and drew her near. Her head tucked against my shoulder. I nuzzled her forehead, let the clean scent of lavender soak through me, and felt my brother's stare assess this situation. But that was a dangerous line of thought, too.

  "So, how did you spend your evening?" I asked her, just to be saying something.

  She turned her face up and smiled. "I wanted to tell you about that, but wasn't certain you wanted any distractions right now."

  "Please, distract away."

  Caren paused; she'd heard the underlying tension in my voice. Surely her medical training and sensitivity also noticed my rising pulse and breathing. Her hand slid across my chest, down to my belt buckle, and pressed the leather holster. But even that, it seemed, wasn't going to distract me too far.

  "Patricia found Edith's log books, where she'd recorded all her investments. They were in the bottom desk drawer in the garret."

  That was unexpectedly riveting. I pulled back slightly and focused my night-sight through the flickering lightning. "Really? Anything interesting in them?"

  "Very." Her eyes glowed, even in that light. "You're not inheriting blackmail money."

  I paused. "Tell me."

  "There's a pattern and it's very clear. Yes, Edith blackmailed people, but then she invested the money and supported various charities with the proceeds. The money she got from Rainwater founded a shelter for battered women and Jacob supported art courses for inner-city students."

  It felt like an unexpected and delightful gift. "You're certain none of that blood money is part of the estate proper?"

  "Not one penny; she was very careful to keep them separate. Oh, don't you see it?" Caren smiled in the dark and the glow within her seeped through me like another, deeper perfume. "When Ezra Higdon died, something died inside Edith, as well. At first she tried to run away with Glendower so she wouldn't have to face it. But when she couldn't do that, when she escaped his influence and instead came within Hubert Hunter's, she spent the rest of her life working to make up for her mistakes. She just hadn't yet been able to part with the jewelry and she left that for you to finish for her. I'm right, Charles; I just know it."

  Everything always seemed so clear before the beginning of the fight. In the glow of Caren's happiness, I believed it, too, and kissed her to seal our pact.

  "Jacob?" William muttered. "Jewelry? Lindsay—"

  "Long story, Dad. Not now."

  And my cell phone rang.

  Chapter Thirty

  current time

  I punched the little green button without relinquishing my hold on Caren. "Ellandun here."

  "Are you ready?" It was Glendower's raspy voice.

  "All ready."

  Beneath my arm, Caren tensed. The conversations within the group stilled.

  "Was it really necessary to shoot out the streetlight?"

  I actually laughed. "Felt good."

  "You're sitting beneath it, correct? Behind the sports car?"

  There seemed little point in denying it. Besides, that worked two ways: if he knew where I was, then I knew he had to be at the front window, peering out. It was possible a random shot through the glass might kill him and end this. But with my luck, Father stood behind him. Even at that distance, even through the glass, the bullet would travel through one body and into the next one.

  "Can we just get on with it?"

  For a long moment he was so silent I could hear, not only Caren's and my breathing, but also his. It was an ugly sort of intimacy, a sharing I didn't want. Overhead, the thunder no longer muttered; it growled.

  "Enter through the back door. It's locked, but we know that's no barrier to you, don't we?"

  "That's my trade," I said proudly, "and I learned it at my dear aunt's knee."

  "Bring the jewelry. Come alone. If I even imagine something's wrong, he dies." He disconnected.

  I put the phone away and turned to Caren. She cradled my face in her hands and kissed me, her mouth opening just far enough. My blood stirred, boiled, cooled, and simply as that my mind was clear although my heart still pounded that tympani rhythm. Then she let me go, her eyes shining in the night. I pecked her forehead and rose.

  "It's show time, folks. Back door, Sherlock, and he's watching, I'm certain with night-vision binoculars."

  Sherlock rose beside me but only to a crouch. "Like that matters."

  "Where's the jewelry?" I asked Caren.

  "In the back floorboard."

  I opened the rear door of the Volvo and grabbed the hat box. With it tucked beneath my left arm I walked openly down the sidewalk, past the darkened gallery's front, across the deserted street, through the gravel alley beside it, and around to the rear of the building, to the dimly-lit mews and the service entrance. I felt exposed — no surprise, that — and wondered if Glendower would try the shot through the glass that I didn't dare attempt; if he'd kill me in cold blood, thinking I was alone, so he could take the jewelry and his revenge with impunity. No, he wouldn't dare, either. Even the best of marksmen would have trouble hitting a moving target on a dark street and through a window, and surely he knew one shot was all I'd allow him.

  I didn't look for Sherlock. By the time I was ready, he'd be there.

  The lock on the service door was a Yale, neither the best nor the worst, and I made a mental note to ream Prissy out for that, too. I stood aside and let the sodium light from across the mews fall on the knob while I worked, then blocked it with my body as I shoved the door open. It was pitch dark inside. The light broke about me into the warehouse, stretched on the left to the corridors of shelving, on the right to a bunch of canvases on the floor leaning against the wall, near the door to the short corridor. Sherlock would see that door and understand what it meant.

  He arrived beside me. With a gesture as natural as I could make it — no sense taking chances if Glendower had left the front of the building and was watching — I brushed my finger beside the sensor on the door jamb, halfway up. He dropped to his knees and crawled inside ahead of me. I entered on his heels, again openly blocking the light, and shut the door behind us. The blackness was complete.

  I waited, the tympani rhythm sharpening and quickening, for Glendower's response. If he'd seen Sherlock, the game was over and Father was dead. In Prissy's
rabbit warren, we couldn't possibly find him before the Browning did its job.

  Static crackled. An electronic voice came from high on the opposite wall. "Very good. Can you find your way in the dark?"

  The paging system. He spoke through the telephone line so I couldn't trace his location from his voice. It seemed we'd gotten away with the gamble. But I didn't relax. Father still faced the Browning, and I would all too soon.

  "Clever," I said. "No, I can't."

  "Then let me give you a bit of light."

  For one cold moment I panicked — light, great, that was all Sherlock needed — then the overhead fluorescents flickered and blinded me. I froze, blinking, heart pounding harder.

  The shelving on the left side of the room held piles of unassembled display materials, folding tables, chairs, toilet paper, ceramic coffee mugs, kitchen supplies. The aligned canvases near the short kitchen corridor were paintings Prissy wasn't yet ready to hang. Of course, Sherlock was nowhere in sight of the security camera on the far wall, which panned to face me.

  "Come to the front," the hoarse, disembodied voice said. "I'm assuming you know the way."

  "I believe I can find it."

  I left the kitchen corridor for Sherlock and used the doorway on the far wall, the one that led into the office area. As I entered the hallway, the lights came on before me and went out behind. The security camera at the far end blinked its red light like a cold eye. The message was clear: he was in complete control of the situation and he didn't intend for me to forget it.

  "What's that you're carrying?"

  I stopped beside the door to the secretary's office. "It's the jewelry."

  "Open it."

  I took the lid from the hat box and angled its contents toward the camera. The red light blinked three, four times.

  "Show me the bottom of the lid."

  Just in case an explosive or tracking device was attached to it. I turned the lid toward the camera.

  "Come along, then." Even through the electronics, his voice vibrated with eagerness. Good; any distraction to him could only help us.