Trophies (15 page)

Caren slipped the jacket off my left side
then held the receiver to my ear while she extricated my right arm.
I cursed my ill luck. Why was it Caren only took a physical
interest in me when I was injured? Was it some doctor thing?

"Since I haven't a clue what's going on,
Sherlock, I can't say. Sorry to cost you, though." We were only
paid for the training camps we attended; by ducking out in this
manner, he was giving up two weeks' pay.

"You'll get my bill."

"Wait, though. One thing I can say: this was
entirely an amateur production, put on by someone who wasn't
particularly bothered by smarts or guts."

"Okay, four of us should be enough. I'll send
word for Wings Cadal to take over — boy, he's gonna be pissed — I'm
gonna hear about it, too — I don't care — where are you?"

Caren started work on my tie, her eyes
narrowed and jaw clenched, using the back of one hand to nudge my
chin up out of her way. I had to admit, it didn't appear she had
snuggling on her mind. Beneath the kitchen's fluorescent lighting
her warm skin seemed pale, but her eyes had darkened almost to
black and only when she handled my left arm was she gentle. I
sighed as I rattled off the address for Sherlock. At least she
wasn't cutting the shirt off me.

When we rang off, she took the receiver and
set it back in its cradle. "You're bleeding."

It figured. The no-longer-white shirt we
removed together was stained in multiple splotches across the back
and it had soaked through into the jacket she'd dropped at my feet.
With the shirt off, I could feel wet warmth trickling down my chest
beneath my undershirt.

"So much for thinking you were finally taking
an interest in me." I pulled one of the stools from beneath the
butcher block table and collapsed onto it.

She was not amused. "You won't call the
police?"

I met her anger squarely; here, I
comprehended the ground I trod. "No."

"You won't get X-rays?"

"No."

She crossed her arms. "What's going on?"

I chose my words with care. Caren was game,
but this situation was an imposition on anyone. "I think it's
something to do with Aunt Edith's past. And that means it's
something I won't want made public."

After all, how it could be something from her
present? She'd been closing in on her sixtieth year. She sponsored
art shows, hosted teas, rang up her broker, gave monumentally to
charities. What in there could possibly have gotten her killed and
then set her killer on me?

But her past was murky, perhaps as murky as
mine. Or so Father and Uncle Preston had told me for the first
eleven years of my life, although they'd never bothered to supply
any details.

Caren didn't blink. "First aid kit?"

I did. "The pantry, behind me."

She closed the pantry door and set the kit —
a military one I'd given Aunt Edith — on the butcher block at my
elbow. "What can I do to help?"

"Are you serious?"

"Cold shower, Charles."

seventeen years earlier

Two days after my tumultuous return home,
Father came to my bedroom. I'd spent most of my time there, reading
and re-reading
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
especially the
comic scenes with Bottom, which I knew almost by heart. He entered
without knocking and stood in the doorway, one hand on the wooden
casing, his head tilting as he looked in at me. The light from the
window behind me sprawled across the floor between us, like a
barrier we couldn't cross, and he squinted as he stared into the
morning sun.

"You are allowed to leave this room, you
know."

As if I wanted to. I nearly said so, then
decided I'd made the house uncomfortable enough as it was. "Yes,
sir."

He sighed. "Edith has agreed to take you.
We'll fly across together next week." He paused; when I said
nothing, he added, "I believe you'll enjoy Boston although I also
expect you to learn this lesson." Again he paused.

I had no more intention of enjoying Boston
than Corwald Prep. But the same rule still held. "Yes, sir."

This time he let the pause drag. I wasn't
certain what he expected or wanted, so instead I asked what was
most important to me. "Would it be all right if I go riding before
we leave?"

He stared at me for a moment longer. Then he
dropped his hand from the doorjamb. "If you like. Of course." He
started to turn away; I started to return to my book; but then he
jerked back around. It was the first move I'd ever seen him make
that wasn't studied, practiced, deliberate, and it jolted me.
"Charles, what on earth has convinced you to be a thief?"

I was so surprised I gave him the honest
truth. "It's something that William isn't."

He froze. Although it was difficult to be
certain due to his squint, I believe his eyes widened. "There are
many things William isn't."

But by then I was angry with myself for
allowing this line of conversation to begin — I had no intention of
explaining myself to him or anyone else — and I made a point of
turning the page and glancing down. "But that's the best thing
William isn't."

I felt his eyes on me for a long time and
wondered if he'd slam the door. But he closed it so softly behind
him I didn't even hear it.

I went riding that afternoon.

Sharps, my chestnut Welsh cob pony, was rank
after not being ridden for three weeks and fussed for the first
mile, jibbing at the bit and dancing sideways. But I'd ridden him
in much worse moods than this and soon had him trotting across the
sheep fields at a good pace, his small neat hooves clipping across
the chalk downs and digging into the turf as we climbed the hills
between home and Corwald Prep. His trot hadn't improved during his
vacation; I wondered if I'd really miss him that much, being exiled
to Boston, and if they had ponies and riding trails there. But I'd
cheerfully take a bullet before I asked Father for anything.

The sun was dipping toward the far line of
hills before we crested the final rise. The Medusa-head building,
the soccer pitch, and the little woodland spread before us in the
shallow valley, late afternoon sunlight splattering it with an
orange glow and throwing the area beneath the trees into a black
darker than death in contrast. I tugged Sharps into an amble — rank
or not, he'd earned a breather — and let him pick his own path down
the hill while I took a final, hard look at my would-be school.

Was it really so very bad, I asked myself,
was it such a dismal place as all that? True, I hadn't had much fun
there, and math and science were almost as boring as law and money.
But there was the swimming pool, the soccer field, the tennis
courts; I hadn't had a chance to play at Corwald Prep, not in any
of the organized sports at least, and whatever professor taught
tennis could probably return a straight volley, which my coach at
home couldn't manage. Would it be Hardenbrook? He hadn't mentioned
it.

And if I did attend school close to home, I
could return on weekends and ride Sharps. Perhaps I could convince
Father to find me a better instructor than our head groom, who
watched me go around him in circles and shook his head, but never
bothered to correct me or even say anything worth hearing.

Sharps lifted his head and paused. I peered
between his pricked ears. A half-dozen figures poured from the back
of the school and scattered across the soccer field. The largest
one, his hair windblown and his shirttail loose, tossed a
black-and-white ball into the midst of the five smaller ones, who
descended upon it like pack animals upon prey.

I nudged Sharps with my heels. He snorted,
shook his head, and resumed his amble down the hill, until the
looming trees cut off our view of the field and the impromptu game
in progress.

"What do you think, Sharps?" I asked him.
"Should I stick around? Probably an apology would work it."

But he had nothing more to say. I guided him
between the first trees, into the cool dim shade that didn't seem
so dark once we were within it, and there was my compatriot oak,
its roots curling up out of the earth into an alien environment and
its wide branches spreading a roof over the underbrush. There I
pulled Sharps to a halt, dismounted, and looped his reins over a
handy branch.

With my four trophies in hand, I looked again
at the soccer field. The sun had fallen lower and the light was
fading, throwing shadows across the lower portions of the building,
but a strong orange gleam washed across the milling players in
their blue shirts and tan shorts. The tallest figure, near the far
goal, cupped his hands about his mouth; a moment later, a gleeful
voice reached me: "This way, you lot."

I'd have to give up my trophies to return to
school. Particularly Langstrom's family photo. I glanced down at
it, saw there was an insect crawling across his father's domed
forehead, and flicked it off. His mother's smile seemed kind, and I
wondered what her voice sounded like. Was that the same brooch she
had worn when seeing her son off to school? It looked similar.

Without thinking, I shoved the penlight,
knife, and spyglass into my breeches pocket. Only when they were
safely stowed did I realize what that action meant.

I wasn't willing to give up my trophies. Not
for Corwald Prep, Hardenbrook, or a whole slew of tennis coaches
and riding instructors.

Certainly not for my family.

I tucked the photo beneath the waistband of
my breeches and covered it with my shirt, then mounted the restless
pony and turned for what used to be home.

Not even for Sharps.

current time

Sherlock insisted I come clean with the
police.

"You are ten kinds of idiot," he said in that
soft Texas drawl. "The police are your friends, Robbie, and anyone
without an alibi who claims to have been home alone cleaning
weapons on the night of a gunshot murder that benefits him
financially had better plan on keeping them that way. I hadn't
realized that little obvious detail needed to be emphasized, but
even the Kraut can only do so much to keep your happy anatomy out
of jail."

I had to acknowledge that. "I suppose I
wasn't thinking all that clearly last night."

We sat over morning coffee around the
kitchen's butcher block table. Sherlock had just arrived, Patty a
few minutes after. Caren had slipped out to swing by her apartment
and fetch a few essentials, promising to be very careful and saying
something about canceling her appointments for the remainder of the
week. The impromptu investigation of Aunt Edith's murder was
costing everyone money, it seemed. Sherlock could take care of
himself, financially and any other way necessary, but I felt guilty
about Caren spending all this time with me and not tending her
patients. Hopefully no one would have a breakdown or something
because of it.

I hadn't slept well and felt drained;
fighting through one vicious nightmare after another, bloody ghosts
firing machine guns at me in Aunt Edith's garret, had poured off
all my emotions and left me empty. But as usual I pretended to be
fine. Meanwhile, although Patricia and I both pretended nothing
happened between us last night, I still sensed tension while she
pretended she wasn't keeping a close eye on me. And Sherlock, with
his gentle confidence and ugly scars, seemed to both comfort and
horrify her as I described the Suburban's attack, although she
pretended his presence was no more than welcome company. All in
all, we were doing a lot of pretending that morning.

Sherlock snorted. "And you not thinking is
supposed to surprise me? Any word from Bonnie or Theresa? I gave
them this number and told them to get a move on."

I was certain both of those females would,
and gleefully, at the first hint of mayhem-in-waiting. Bonnie
coming to call didn't bother me; she and I had drawn rather close
during our joint hospital convalescence. But in the cold light of
dawn, the thought of Theresa invading my personal life made me
shudder. "Nary a peep."

Sherlock drained his first cup — he had
worked then flown all night — and pushed his empty mug into the
center of the table with a hopeful glance at Patricia, who sat
closest to the coffee pot. My poor cuz tore her stare away from the
red weals that sliced about Sherlock's wrists, managed a small
smile, and took the hint, fetching the carafe and refilling the
mug. The war, after all, hadn't been all that long ago, and the
scars not hidden by his olive drab fatigues glared in horrible red
contrast.

Sherlock's war damage was on the outside.
Mine was inside. I watched Patricia's reaction to his appearance,
mangled from a sort of sandblasted ruggedness, distinctive if not
distinguished, and wondered which of us had gotten the short end of
that stick. At least I could pretend to be normal, until I fell
apart in public and proved otherwise.

If Sherlock noticed, he gave no sign, and his
lopsided grin hadn't lost any of its boyish charm. "Thank you,
ma'am."

Every internal alarm I had screamed red
alert. Sherlock was widowed and available, and I wanted Patricia
off his radar screen. For me, sanity was an important consideration
in a prospective cousin-in-law, particularly considering the cousin
in question. This invasion of my professional life into my personal
one carried hidden dangers, it seemed. I shot him a dirty look.

He met my stare and popped his eyebrows up
and down. "So let me see if I've got this straight. You're trying
to figure out what's going on here and who killed your aunt,
because you'd rather the police not suspect her past might be an
issue here. But the police are doing the forensics and ballistics
stuff. They have all the info, right? And you're trying to avoid
them?"

"I got that message, boss."