Trophies (23 page)

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."

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—