Trophies (22 page)

She crossed her arms. She'd changed back into
the cream slacks and green shirt she'd worn to the police station,
but this time she'd brushed out her hair and it fell in waves past
her shoulders, softer than her usual severe bun and giving her
narrow face a fuller look. If the change was for Sherlock, she was
ratcheting up the pressure.

"Let's hear it, Charles."

"How many people are involved in this family
conspiracy?"

Give her credit, she didn't duck the issue.
"Everyone."

"Everyone?" My skepticism was palpable.
"Father?"

She nodded.

"William?"

"He's here, isn't he?" She was suddenly
angry. "He didn't have to come and he certainly didn't have to
bring his family. And look where that got him and them."

I hadn't considered that. But I'd need more
time than was currently available to mull it over. For now I threw
out what I thought the ultimate impossibility. "Aunt Edith?"

"It was her idea."

I froze. Aunt Edith would never — would she?
The memory of Father in the gallery, not understanding what I meant
when I asked why he'd abandoned me, hovered just on the edge of my
consciousness. "I can't believe that."

She took a step toward me and the door. I
braced my foot against it and crossed my arms.

"Are you going to get out of my way?"

"Not yet." But when she flared, I added,
"Soon. I promise. Let's talk."

I thought she'd argue further, but then she
sighed and slumped in the secretarial chair behind her desk. Some
author's manuscript hid the worst of the scarred maple, the top
sheet dotted with proofreader's symbols in red ink. She riffled
through the pages then pushed them aside, pushed the red pen after
them. "It started when you returned from the war. Do you remember
that day, Charles?"

I didn't want to think about it. The trip
from Germany to Boston had been the flight from the nether place.
"Yes."

"I picked you up at the airport and brought
you here. Your back was injured and you were in so much pain you
couldn't even get out of the car without help. Once inside, you
collapsed on the sofa, took a pill, and fell asleep."

"I said I remember."

She ignored me. "Aunt Edith sat opposite you
for an hour, not moving or speaking, just watching you breathe.
When I asked if she wanted tea, she looked at me as if she hadn't
even been aware I was in the room. She told me to stay beside you
and vanished upstairs." Her voice tightened. "When she came back
down I could see she'd been crying. She told me she'd just spoken
with your father and set this in motion."

An ivory recliner sat beneath a reading lamp
near the door. I collapsed into its comfortable old folds, stunned.
"Are you saying this has been in the planning stages for over a
year?"

She nodded. "About that."

Numbness spread down my arms to my fingers.
"A friend might have said something."

Her glance was sardonic. "The same way you
talk with me? No, Charles, she said she wanted to tell you herself,
that it was important you hear this from her."

It was unbelievable and Aunt Edith's betrayal
punched through the numbness like an exploding grenade. But Patty's
flat voice and sad eyes convinced me where nothing else could have.
"But she didn't tell me."

"I know." Patty played with the red pen,
rolling it back and forth. "She was supposed to but didn't. And oh,
your father was so furious. He came all this way at her invitation,
expecting and hoping to make peace with you, only to find—"
Tactfully, she broke that off. "Anyway, while I lived here as her
poor relation—"

She didn't finish that either. But her
meaning was clear enough. Her in-box held only one other, small
manuscript, and it was months since she and I had gone shopping.
She'd accepted the room from Aunt Edith, but refused to take money.
And I hadn't noticed. Patty was right; I wasn't much of a
friend.

She poked the half-marked manuscript.
"Suppose I'll go back to Mum and Dad now." Her voice didn't sound
enthusiastic.

This was a strained relationship I could work
at mending. "Don't be a twit, Patty. I don't want you to
leave."

She wouldn't look at me. So I threw out what
really bothered me. "But I have to know you're still my friend,
even after I lied to you."

Her quick glance was disbelieving. "Now who's
being a twit? Charles, your family doesn't abandon you just because
you do something stupid."

"Mine did."

She started to shake her head. I pushed the
argument past her.

"Father did. He brought me over here to Aunt
Edith and he left me. Patty, he never came back for me and I don't
know why."

"Have you asked him?"

"At the gallery. You were listening. He
didn't answer me."

She smoothed her hair behind her ear.
Something glittered. She'd put in earrings, too.

"Well," she finally said, "he's back for you
now. Don't shove him away, Charles. Remember, your family loves you
no matter what you do. That's what family is all about."

I wanted to believe her. I couldn't. "Mine
doesn't."

She rose and pushed her chair beneath the
desk. "Are you certain of that?"

I rose, too, and pulled her into a hug.
Without hesitation, she squeezed back.

"The only thing I'm certain of is that I need
my mouse, even if she does sometimes get on her little wheel and
run me to death with it."

She smacked me, of course. I pretended to
duck and flinch.

"So don't leave me, all right?"

She stopped. And pouted. "I don't much like
being the poor relation."

I scoffed and led the way to the door. If she
thought so little of Aunt Edith, I wasn't going to be the one to
disabuse her.

"What? What, Charles?"

I kept the teasing going all the way to
Boston. It felt great. Behind the wheel, Sherlock didn't interrupt
once, which was even better.

At Mass. Gen., Patricia led Sherlock and me
to the recovery ward. At the head of the hall stood William and I
froze at the sight: the member of my family I most wished to avoid
was of course the first one I encountered. But the man I considered
my most implacable enemy leaned one hand against the wall, not
quite at head-height, his profile stark over his shoulder. He wore
the same elegant dark navy suit as last night, his maroon shirt and
cravat rumpled now, and the hand not supporting his weight threw
back the coat and buried itself in his trouser pocket. His head
drooped as if the gravity of the hospital corridor was too much for
him to bear and the weight dragging at his face and shoulders
exhausted him. Despite my contrary inclination I felt a pang of
sympathy, but was cynical enough to wonder how long it would
last.

Patricia slid beneath his arm and laid a hand
on his lapel. William wrapped both arms around her in a hug. They
held each other in silence.

There was no reason that should surprise me —
he was her cousin, too, with as much right to hug her — but I'd
never thought of them as being close enough for such an
affectionate public display. In my version of reality, William was
arrogant and distant as our father, not a family man worried for
his son nor another brother-figure for Patty. This was a side of
him I hadn't seen before, at least not since he'd taught me to tie
my shoes and post my pony's trot all those years ago. The
connection across time was vaguely comforting; perhaps this
enforced meeting wouldn't be so awful.

And perhaps William was right when he accused
me of being the only dysfunctional member of the Ellandun family.
The thought did nothing to ease the qualms of my squirming
conscience. If he was right last night, had he also been right nine
years ago, the last time we'd spoken and fought?

Then Patricia murmured something. William
stiffened, glanced around, stopped when our gazes crossed. He
seemed wary but not combative, at least not yet. I nodded once. His
expression didn't change. He glanced at Sherlock, silent behind me.
Then he kissed Patty on the cheek, let her go, and turned to face
me, his head tilting back.

Within my damaged brain, his image morphed
into someone or something else. The illusion exploded into my
conscious mind's eye and vanished, far too fast to distinguish.
Smoky hot it was, like a demon haunting Puck's Fairyland on All
Hallow's Eve, and it petrified me to my scarred core. Adrenaline
exploded, pounding against my civilized edges in a nonverbal battle
shout. I flinched. Grief and terror hovered on the verge of my
consciousness.

Before me, the real William stepped back, his
wary expression sharpening. Patty's eyes widened.

Great; not behavior I wanted to display
publicly, especially not before this particular public. Like it or
not, I was here and there was nothing for it but to put up a good
show for Patty's sake. Thankfully, I'd learned a few tricks. I
yanked a tissue from the handy box on the nurse's station,
pretended to blow my nose, yanked another and fussed with one eye.
When I threw it away a moment later, Patty looked embarrassed and
William relaxed. Fooling Sherlock never crossed my mind; I wasn't
certain such a feat was even possible.

"Well?" Echoes of last night's argument
underlay William's tense voice, but exhaustion weighed heavier. In
a rare flash of empathy, I realized he'd come to the hospital from
the gallery party and if he'd caught any sleep at all, it had been
in a corner chair somewhere.

I took a deep breath and forced myself to
relax, at least physically. Stuffing my hands in my pockets hid the
initial shaking aftereffects even if it was against military regs,
but I could only hope he'd write my lack of composure off to the
usual family tensions. The words I was expected to say came more
easily than I'd anticipated. "How is he, William?"

His eyebrows lifted. The resemblance to
Father, about twenty years ago, was startling and it set my pulse
pounding even harder. "Trés? He's better. He had a rough night and
his painkillers are starting to wear off. But for some reason, he
refuses to take his next round of medication. Has that eagle-eye on
the IV stand and won't let anyone near it."

Bloody hell. The thought of enduring a bullet
wound without painkillers was not one I cared to contemplate. But
then, my experience during the war had taught me I was rather a
wuss. "He must be one brave kid."

William rocked on his heels, as if the idea
of his son being brave hadn't occurred to him. "No. Thank you,
Charles, but no. He's a confused kid who doesn't really understand
what's going on."

He could have been describing my current
state of mind. Patty squeezed his arm, and he wrapped it around her
shoulders, drawing her close until she leaned against him. Her eyes
glowed as she glanced between the two of us; now that she had me
here, I seemed to be performing to her satisfaction.

He glanced again at Sherlock and I introduced
them, adding that Sherlock had four sons of his own.

William's eyebrows lifted higher. "Best of
luck." He clasped Sherlock's hand. I gave him points for not
reacting visibly to the scars. "Two teenagers have me wondering why
I haven't been locked away. How do you manage?"

"It's kind of like feeding time at
Jurassic Park,
" Sherlock said seriously.

Without warning, William smiled. It wasn't
like Father's smile — stiff, or chilling, or calculated, as the
situation demanded — but a lightening of his face more like
Patricia's, a true change in the weather. It was so unexpected I
blinked.

"I've always referred to our house as the
zoo, so perhaps it's only a difference of degree." He turned back
to me.

Initial courtesies over, I hauled in a deep
breath. What was it about my family that seemed to suck all the air
from a room? "May I see him?"

Those eyebrows shot straight up. I had to
admit, they were fascinating.

"For a moment, I mean."

From the sudden ferocity behind his civilized
mask, I was certain he'd refuse. I was almost relieved: neither
Sherlock nor Patty could say I hadn't tried, and nicely, too.
William's stare, much longer than polite, did after all have
something of Father in it, something cold and unyielding, and I was
certain he'd tell me to go hang.

"Could you convince him to take that
medication?"

It was my turn to stare. When I realized, I
broke eye contact then looked back. "What's he refusing?
Antibiotics?"

"Narcotics. Painkillers and sleeping pills."
The confusion in his expression battled with an earthy and
protective rage.

He wasn't angry with me. But I measured the
depth of fury in his glare and a blur of fear sliced through my
soul. He was worried about his son, his only son. And he'd make a
pact with the devil himself if it helped that son recover.

I recalled my own time in hospital, the
searing pain and the drugs' welcome relief. Mine had only been a
slicing wound across the back, not a slug directly into the
stomach. The kid had to have a good reason for such unbelievable
behavior.

The pause while this ran through my head must
have been longer than I thought. William broke eye contact, shoved
his hands into his pockets, and looked at the floor. For one crazy
moment, I thought he was going to shuffle his feet the way I do
when confronted.

"I mean—" He bit off whatever else he'd
intended to say.

"You mean I'm experienced in being shot at,
I've been on the receiving end of a bullet myself, and I've visited
friends in hospital who also didn't dodge quickly enough. Well,
you're right. I am and I have. Does my opinion carry any weight
with your son, that I don't know."

We stared at each other. I watched the pact
work its way through his expression. Then he strode down the hall.
Patricia took my arm and guided me after, her touch and step
light.