Trophies (20 page)

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Bonnie said
into the pause. "Among all this incriminating evidence, which part
did the killer mean when he said, 'They're mine?'"

It couldn't possibly get any worse. I felt
unable to think and turned to the one person who would keep his
cool. "Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

"We sort out this evidence." He refolded the
sweater and reached for the tuxedo. "I'll get in touch with von
Bisnon, have him find a private laboratory that can run tests on
these blood stains, see if there are any matches among all this.
I'll ask him to cover the costs, too. Yes, Robbie, I know you can
afford it, but I don't want the family name connected to this
little legal breach. Remember, the man's seriously rich. Not only
can he afford to pay for a little immoral forensics work from his
pocket change, he can also afford ninety attorneys to your one, and
once the Boston P.D. get an idea of his resources, they won't
bother with anything as stupid as charging him with a crime."

"Who on earth are you talking about?" Patty
asked.

"Our — well, one of our commanding officers."
Sherlock stacked the clothing into a pile and hefted it. "The cool
one. Caren and Patricia, would you two bring the scrapbook and
those financial records? Robbie, your fingerprints are already on
the Browning, you bring that downstairs. And make sure it's not
loaded, will you?"

seventeen years earlier

"Edith, love," Uncle Hubert said, "I've done
it again." He winked at me, one blue eye closing for a second in
his jowly face. I'd only lived with them a few weeks and was still
feeling my way through many daily situations. Uncle Hubert, the
kindest man I ever met, did his best to help me feel at home and
never gave me any cause to doubt my welcome. From our first meeting
I adored him, even if I had to concentrate on his accent to
understand some of his words.

Father had returned to Wiltshire alone.

"Done what again?" Aunt Edith appeared in the
doorway of the parlor. She seemed distracted; looking past her, I
saw the stocks section of the
Wall Street Journal
spread
open on the sofa.

"I've locked myself out of my own study."
Uncle Hubert, very security conscious, tended to flip the catches
on doorknobs in passing without even realizing he'd done so. "And
Charles' books are in there. We were just doing his homework and
took a break—"

"Oh, Hubert, not again." But Aunt Edith was
already halfway up the staircase even as she spoke. When she
returned a minute later, she held a blue leather case in one hand.
It was about the size of a large trade paperback book and encircled
by a zipper, and looked like nothing more than the sort of cover
some people use to enclose their Bibles. But when she unzipped it,
I could see that it was full of odd tools, all dull metal so that
none of them caught the light. I had never seen anything of the
sort before.

"What's that?" I edged closer for a better
look.

"My kit." She selected two of the tools and
handed the kit to Uncle Hubert, then knelt down in front of the
doorknob, inserted the ends of the tools into the lock, and wiggled
them about. Seconds later, the lock clicked sadly in defeat, the
knob turned, and she thrust the door open.

"Thanks, love." He kissed the top of her head
and gave her back the kit.

I was awed. Potentialities of power opened
before me; with such skills and tools, nothing in this world would
be safe from me again. A thousand questions flew about my mind. But
I already knew Aunt Edith well enough to know she'd only answer one
or two. I'd have to choose carefully.

"Where'd you get that?"

It seemed I'd chosen the worst one. Rather
than answering, Aunt Edith went still. Her hands froze in the act
of replacing the wooden-handled tools in their little elastic
slips. Her eyes sad, she glanced at Uncle Hubert, who was equally
still for a moment. Then he kissed her again, this time properly on
the lips. She flushed but didn't turn away from his gaze.

"From a friend," she said, more to him than
to me, "a very long time ago."

He didn't seem surprised. Even at that age,
even at such a momentous turning point in my life, I realized he
had to know the entire story. I also knew better than to ask them
to share that one, based upon the tenderness in their mutual
stare.

But I also realized that the acquisition of
such a toolkit would be a necessary step along my intended journey
in Aunt Edith's footsteps. "I want one."

Her gaze never left Uncle Hubert's and her
expression didn't change. He shrugged, a twinkle in his eyes, a
tiny smile rearranging his jowls.

"Pawnshops, the sort you see in the North
End." Then she whisked back up the stairs and I knew the subject
was closed.

Uncle Hubert had the last word. He draped an
arm about my shoulders and guided me into his study, where the
books were. "She means the sort of pawnshop you don't visit on your
own. I rather enjoy a bit of sport occasionally. Why don't you and
I go take a look about on Saturday morning?"

Chapter Twelve

current time

Ever since I was a child, the whispers about
Aunt Edith were an ugly soundtrack theme rippling through the
background of my life. She was held before me as a poor sort of
example, angrily by Father, sadly by Uncle Preston, and the fear so
inspired prepared me for the worst before my arrival in Boston. But
once there, with Aunt Edith before me in all her vibrant and
uncanny wildness, the living personification of the magical Puck,
the reality overwhelmed their sterile cardboard image and drew me
to her, just as Uncle Hubert's kindly nature and absolute
trustworthiness cemented me to him. If this was being bad, then who
wanted to be good?

The thought that she might actually be
bad
bad never occurred to me. Now, it rocked me to the
foundations of my beliefs. The role model I'd trusted, the one
who'd proved herself trustworthy, who'd inspired me beyond the
mundane and made the world a place of magic and delight, was
perhaps a blackmailer. Or worse. And the more I tried to get my
mind around that possibility, the more I couldn't believe it. There
had to be another explanation. We just had to find it.

Rather than fuss with the dining room, we
gathered about the butcher block table in the yellow kitchen's
warmth for lunch. Early afternoon sunlight spilled past the chintz
curtains, pooled on the stovetop and counters, and etched a river
across the flagstone floor. I followed the physical rhythms of
ordinary chores while my mind went round and round, arguing with
myself on that mental carousel, until Patty broadsided me.

She pushed her plate aside before anyone
else. "Charles, I'm going to the hospital to visit Trés."

Even my jaw froze. A chill invaded the room,
brushing my arms and face, at the thought of her out alone. But
before I could swallow and respond, she took a deep breath and kept
the ball rolling.

"And I want you to come with me."

Of course I choked. While I recovered with
the help of a Moosehead, the situation worsened dramatically.

"That's a good idea," Sherlock said.

I glared at him over the brew. He had no
business in family arguments.

Patricia brightened. "Do you think so?"

Without even looking at my glare, he nodded.
"Actually, that's a
damned
good idea."

Finally I got my throat clear. "Why
ever?"

He tossed aside his napkin and sat back.
"What's he like, Robbie? The injured kid, I mean."

I put the brew away and wished I could do the
same with my commanding officer. "I don't know. I've never met
him."

Sherlock looked aside and seemed to be
reaching for patience rather than his glass of water, necessitated
by his role as our impromptu unit's daytime designated driver.
Caren rattled her silverware. Patty folded her napkin and laid it
on the table without once glancing in my lonely direction.

Fine. I could take a subtle hint. "Is that
what you want me to do? Meet him?"

"Don't be an idiot, at least no more than you
can manage." Sherlock pushed back his chair and rose, gathering
dirty dishes into a pile and lugging them to the sink. "Can you
three clear the table? I'll phone von Bisnon." In front of
civilians, we didn't use the rather insulting nickname. Nor in
front of him, for that matter.

Patty took a breath. I thought fast and spoke
first. "Where's Bonnie?"

"She went out for lunch." Sherlock examined
the kitchen phone as if it was some sort of strange bug invading
his space. "She doesn't trust my cooking, remember?"

She'd never lived down the time she'd bitten
into a jalapeno without warning.

"All you did was warm it up." Caren rose and
grabbed another armful of dishes.

We'd finished off yesterday's leftovers.
Granted, he'd been known to spice those, too.

"Details aren't Bonnie's specialty." He
lifted the receiver and stared at it in turn.

Bonnie out and about on her own didn't arouse
a whit of protectiveness in me. Whoever jabbed a gun in her side
would live to regret it; she'd make certain of that. Sherlock
handling the small appliances was another matter and besides, Patty
was starting to speak again. The argument would not escalate if I
could help it.

"Boss, what are you doing to that
telephone?"

"That depends on what I have to do to figure
out . . . this is a speaker phone? . . . a-ha. Never mind."
Sherlock set the receiver back in the cradle, flourished his index
finger above the buttons like a magic wand, and pressed one. Dial
tone filled the kitchen. He punched in ten digits from memory then
turned to help Caren with the dishes.

As the outgoing call rang, Patty leaned
forward. "What's between you and William isn't Trés' fault, you
know."

Sherlock and Caren, at the sink with the
water running, were hopefully out of earshot, even if he did have
the unnatural sensitivity of a big predatory cat. I leaned forward,
too, and kept my voice low.

"What happened last night was not pleasant
and I'd rather not repeat it. If Father or William are there, I'll
not go, thank you." Rethinking my perspective had not changed the
simple fact that I didn't want to cultivate a relationship with my
family. I didn't wish for my past to break its bounds and flood
into my present.

Her chin was stubborn. "That's childish.
Ignoring the situation will not make it go away."

"I don't want it to go away. Just them." I
glanced at the phone as it rang a third time. The old gentleman was
likely standing on the El Paso flightline or artillery range, or
sitting at a desk in borrowed quarters, looking at his cell phone
readout with one eyebrow slanted, trying to figure out who was
ringing him. "Do you mind?" I said as rudely as I could manage,
considering it was Patty.

The phone line clicked. "Von Bisnon." One had
to know the Kraut well to divine the touch of reserve in his rich,
elegant baritone.

"Yo, boss," Sherlock said to the speaker.

The reserve vanished. "I wondered when I'd
hear from my truants."

Sherlock paused, staring at the phone. For a
moment he seemed worried; although irritating von Bisnon was
difficult, it could be done and not even Lloyd's covered that risk.
"You're on speaker phone. Robbie's here, with his cousin Patricia
and girlfriend Caren. People, this is General Hugo,
der Graf
von Bisnon, head of NATO Intelligence and our boss." Sherlock
rolled the German in smoothly.

There was a small chorus of greetings.

"Captain Ellandun, I am so sorry. How are you
faring?"

"Thank you, sir. I'm managing."

"If I may be of service, don't hesitate to
let me know."

Before I could answer, Sherlock butted in.
"Now that you mention it."

"
Ach.
" It was astonishing that even
von Bisnon could crowd so much amusement into one throaty
syllable.

Sherlock gave the phone another look, then
started talking. As soon as he began his report, Patty leaned
forward and renewed her attack.

"I'll agree what happened wasn't pleasant.
But who started it?"

Dishes clattered. I laid a hand on Patty's
and waited. Without a word, Caren gathered the last of the
silverware and returned to the sink.

"Could we please have this discussion later?
And in private?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You'll just avoid it. And
me, too."

I paused and listened to the telephone
conversation.

"That would require DNA analysis," von Bisnon
said.

"Right, and we also need ballistics on that
Browning." Sherlock crossed to the pantry, speaking over his
shoulder.

"Of course."

They seemed to be managing fine without me. I
turned back to Patty. "Why are you so determined?"

Her lips rolled together. "Because I know
you'll like him. You like his art, don't you?"

"You're lying." And suddenly the entire
Ellandun fiasco made a bizarre sort of sense. "There really is a
family conspiracy against me, isn't there?"

Patricia looked away and yanked her hand from
beneath mine. But she didn't contradict me, which told me all I
needed to know. A cold angry fire ignited in my chest. My family
had set me up and she hadn't given me a word of warning.

Nor had Aunt Edith. If I could ask her one
question across the veil of life and death, I'd ignore everything
in the garret and demand a reason for this betrayal. The worst of
it was, I couldn't imagine what her answer might be.

I turned my shoulder to Patty. I'd deal with
her later.

Sherlock emerged from the pantry with a paper
bag. He shook it out on the counter and stuffed the death clothing
inside, folding the sweater around the pistol. "Where do you want
me to ship these?"