Trophies (14 page)

My adrenaline skipped second gear and shot
into third. Thankfully, this time my training kicked in, too. I sat
still and waited, counting the raindrops as they splashed into the
pool at my feet. For a moment I almost expected the surface of the
pond to ripple, like in
Jurassic Park
when the T-rex
thundered near.

Then as casually as I could, I dropped my
hands to my knees and rose from the bench, pretending everything
was normal, I'd had my brown study and was ready to go indoors.
Whatever lizard came at me, I could deal with it better on my feet
than my backside.

But I didn't make it all the way up.
Something silky and strong and very very black suddenly wrapped
over my head and shoulders, squeezing my arms against my sides. The
soft stuff crowded my nose, stole my sight, even stopped my
breathing for a panicky explosive moment. It was as if the
blackness enveloping me was a living extension of the night,
trapping my arms and attacking while I was helpless.

Then behind me, a voice cursed. It broke the
spell. Helpless I may be against something primeval; humans I could
handle.

A pillowcase, I finally realized; someone had
jammed a black pillowcase over my head and there was only one
reason for said someone to do so. I dropped fast to a crouch,
twisting left and keeping my feet beneath me, just in time.
Something solid whooshed past my head and connected with my left
shoulder. The shoulder detonated as if dynamite had gone off inside
it and the attached arm numbed. I yelled.

But I kept turning. My right hand, moving
without any conscious contribution from me, shot out and closed on
cloth. The voice I'd heard cried out without words. Whatever I
grabbed jerked backward. The handful of cloth slipped from my grip.
I let it go, grabbed the top of the pillowcase — black satin, hell
— and yanked. The hemline caught on my chin and jammed there.

He gasped. He was alone or he wouldn't be so
worried, and that meant he was vulnerable, his position threatened.
He'd strike again. My adrenaline treated me to another dose. I
still crouched, which put my head at a most convenient height for a
roundhouse blow. It was encircled by my only currently-functioning
arm, and the top of my scalp let me know in no uncertain terms I
was yanking more hair than satin. The vulnerability was mutual.

I didn't panic again. I still felt confident,
even eager for mayhem. Bare seconds had passed since he'd
extricated himself from my momentary grasp. That blow hadn't been
from a fist but from something harder, perhaps a small sandbag or
rubber cosh. Ribs weren't as hard as a skull but they were more
resilient, and if a second blow from that weapon was coming it was
better taken on the torso. I uncoiled from my crouch, shifting my
grip on the pillowcase. My feet slipped in the wet mulch and I
scrambled for balance. Of course: white service dress, slick-soled
office shoes. "Damn!"

He gasped again. Before I regained my feet,
before the pillowcase was fully off, footsteps raced away.

Finally I got the damned thing off. My night
vision was still good, although my eyes watered at the pain
pounding down my left shoulder. I didn't have to glance about; the
trail crossing the wet grass was obvious.

At this point, I would be proud to say I
returned to the house and retrieved the Walther. I must admit, it
never crossed my mind. This was the crowning moment of a lousy day
and I wanted blood. For the second time that day, I chased a
fugitive.

I caught a glimpse of a racing figure through
the trees as he cut across the corner lot to the next street.
Something big and square and dark hulked against the curb. I cursed
again and accelerated, although it was obvious even to me I hadn't
a prayer of catching him. And I was right. He'd parked his getaway
vehicle — an SUV? it looked huge — with the driver's door closest
and unlocked, and its tires screeched long before I got there. I
saw his tail lights vanish around the corner as I stopped atop his
parking spot.

All I could do was swear and it wasn't
particularly satisfying, although my reaction to the attack was.
The amount of stress I'd suffered that day and the number of people
who'd assaulted me in one manner or another were like nothing I'd
experienced since the war and the diagnosis. I'd moved from the
calm order of everyday life to
terra incognita
indeed, and
how it would affect me was anybody's guess. The Army shrink said I
wouldn't know until I was there. Now here I was, in the middle of
it, and responding well. It just went to show that cold-blooded old
bugger hadn't known as much as he'd thought.

I crossed the lawn toward the house and was
already starting to shake when an engine roared behind me.

One glance showed that huge vehicle racing
back up the street. Headlights shone full power. Instinctively I
knew the curb, that boundary of the permissible, would not stop it.
It wasn't an SUV, it was too big even for that, and the headlights
were too far apart for a Jeep. A hunting vehicle made for rough
terrain, and now it was four-wheel-drive homicidal.

If I ran across the lawn before, now I flew,
even though its eight cylinders versus my two legs wasn't even
funny. Another adrenaline surge brought the welcome cold clarity of
combat. It scoured my mind of all turmoil, even of fear, leaving me
fired and ready for the fight.

At first I made for the front door — surely
the house would stop it — then I wondered if Caren had heard
anything and was coming to investigate. The house might stop it,
but that steel T-rex could cause a lot of damage on its way in and
I didn't want it anywhere near her. Besides, I really liked that
expensive blue Persian carpet in the entryway.

That left the oaks as my only cover, and I
shifted right. They were easy trees to climb, full of hand- and
footholds, massive lower boughs hanging low enough for a good
running jump to suffice. I'd have to do it one-handed; my left arm
dangled uselessly as I ran, the shoulder screaming for me to slow
down.

The beast revved over the curb. Bright blue
lights flooded the night, casting my shadow before me like a trail
to follow. I didn't glance back, just ran faster. I only had
seconds before I'd feel the heat of that engine. I deliberately ran
between low-hanging limbs; scratches on the paint job would make
the vehicle easier to trace.

At the last moment I swerved for the first
tree trunk. The headlights swung to follow. The deep ripples in the
bark were etched as a sepia photograph in stark shades of grey. I
didn't bother with graceful leaps but threw myself at the old oak.
My right hand and left foot found holds while my right foot
scrambled for purchase. The engine was deafeningly near. Not high
enough — my lower legs still faced decimation-by-radiator-grille —
so I let go my precarious handhold and clawed for a higher one.

Behind me, the engine roared. Heat flashed
across the backs of my legs. The sharp mechanical stench of motor
oil and hot metal washed over me. I was out of time. And my legs
remained in the line of fire. Panic punched through my brain. I
gripped the bark with my right fingers and jerked both legs up,
wrapping my knees around the tree trunk.

The monster, brakes locking, slid sideways
across the wet grass into the tree trunk. The passenger's side
window exploded, spraying me with sharp little cubes of safety
glass. My fingers slipped from the rippled bark. The whole tree
shuddered and shook me off like a dog shakes off water. I fell onto
the monster's hood, giving my left shoulder another opportunity to
scream at me. The vehicle — a Suburban, I could see from this angle
— still moved forward and sideways. Our combined momentum slid me
helplessly through the broken glass and along the slick hot metal
until my head met the windshield on a most intimate basis.

My skull exploded on contact and one more
ache added its soprano to the rousing chorus. I scrabbled for some
sort of purchase, but the Suburban was moving in reverse now, so I
ricocheted off the windshield like a bloody pinball and started
sliding back across the scorching hood. On my back — I was going to
land flat on my back in the lawn, in the middle of that broken
glass, in front of a homicidal driver in a four-wheel-drive
T-rex.

I twisted onto my side as the Suburban
reversed from beneath me and got my legs pulled up ready to take my
weight as the edge of the hood disappeared past my hips. I'd felt
the jerk as the driver accelerated into reverse, so it would take
him a moment to brake, shift gears, and come at me again. I threw
my weight to the right as I fell and staggered on impact, feet
sliding beneath me as I saw my chance.

The monster braked. High beams glittered off
the cubes of safety glass stuck in the bark. I knew he'd attack
again. But this time, he was too close to the oak to turn sharply;
like Patty pulling out at the gallery, he'd have to back and fill
to get room for his next assault, which gave me additional seconds.
And yes — something unpainted and metallic atop the roof glinted in
rhythm with the glass, in harmony with the backwash of the
headlights, and most Suburbans of my acquaintance had a running
board.

These calculations swept through my
combat-clear brain while I completed that one long stagger-step to
the right. I was off-balance and felt it, but the monster was
already moving, its wheels cutting in my direction. But his turning
radius couldn't equal mine. While the driver maneuvered, I
scrabbled about the fender and jumped, right hand reaching for that
unpainted rooftop metal, right foot aiming for a running board,
heart praying feverishly for it to be there.

It was. My foot wedged into the angle and my
fingers curled about the luggage rack. Now we were on equal footing
and the time was ripe to attack.

The driver reacted fast to my stowaway status
and, I believe, from panic. The Suburban lurched forward without
turning and slammed again into the oak. At the impact, my left
shoulder spasmed. A mixture of fireworks and brass instruments
swung into action in my brain, mist edging in from the sidelines,
and my fingers started slipping on the rain-spattered metal.
Rotating on the twin hinges of my right foot and hand, I swung out
precariously into space. At the same time, clicks and subtle bumps
said the driver shifted gears. Reverse — he was going into reverse.
I'd crunch face-first into his door, and there was no way I could
hang on.

Damn it.

I grabbed desperately for a better handhold.
But my left hand, too, was slick with sweat and rain and those
dratted almost-numb fingers refused to close.

The monster leapt backward on schedule. My
chest slammed into the door precisely as I predicted, the breath
shot out of my lungs, my foot slipped off its perch, and my fingers
gave it up in disgust. I lost my grip and fell off backward. Two
shots rang out, an unmistakable sound. I hit the grass and
dissolved into nothingness.

current time

Caren, it turned out, fired two shots toward
the Suburban's radiator grille from the darkened front porch.
Recalling how close I'd been to that position, I couldn't quite
bring myself to thank her.

She seemed to understand this, for her smile
was rueful. "At least I scared him off without scaring you
off."

"And for that, I do thank you."

"You're the one who taught me to shoot,
Charles, and lent me the gun. Hm?"

It was surprisingly easy to calm the
neighbors, the Stevensons, the Biwas, and the Casanovas. A new gang
initiation rite, I told them, a really close-range drive-by
shooting. I went inside, ostensibly to call the police, saying
something about contacting the neighbors later for statements. They
tired of staring at tire tracks in the manicured lawn and left.

If any of them noticed my shaking, they kept
it to themselves.

I did not call the police. Admittedly, I'd
never intended to. That had just been a line to fool the
neighbors.

"Why not?" Caren's eyes widened.

"Because I have much better ways of handling
this."

Wet as I was, I couldn't bring myself to
enter the parlor and instead used the phone in the kitchen. I still
didn't have much use of my left arm, so I cradled the receiver
between ear and shoulder while dialing Houston from memory.
Sherlock's plane didn't take off for another two hours and, knowing
him as I knew him, he hadn't left the house yet.

I made the connection and chatted with Kathy,
Sherlock's adorable sister (married, of course) — so sorry about my
aunt, no, he hadn't left yet, how he ever caught a plane was beyond
her. Meanwhile, Doctor Caren, eyes and lips thinned, forgot her
usual modesty and unbuttoned my sadly abused white jacket. I could
tell already, this was an evening to remember, or at least it could
have been if I hadn't felt quite so rotten. The combat adrenaline
was fading, the shakes were going full bore, and I was coming back
into close contact with my body and wishing I wasn't. To put it
simply, everything hurt.

I broke off those thoughts when Sherlock's
baritone drawl came on the line. "What now, Robbie? I thought I was
through with you for a while."

"Oh, what a joyful thought," I added for him.
"Not likely, boss. Someone just tried to run me over with a
Suburban."

He paused. When he spoke again, the drawl had
shifted and sharpened. "I know you too well to ask if you're sure
about this, so what do you need for support?"

No one, not even exes, had ever targeted one
of his gang before. From any perspective, this event was not good
news.

"I need backup," I said. "Who can I
have?"

"Me, of course." He sounded delighted and I
wondered what the training camp covered that he wanted to miss.
"Theresa said she'd drive into El Paso, so she might not have left
yet. I can catch her and maybe Bonnie, too. Is that enough?"