Trophies (24 page)

—it was my job to protect the troops. I threw
myself atop the sandbag and raised the Mauser, locating the spotter
through the scope within seconds, and he lowered the binoculars and
stared right back at me, lips moving. Again the guns rattled—

—fire lanced across my back—

—and the spotter, the ridge, the sandbags and
screams and chattering machine gun all abruptly vanished,
abandoning me, leaving me wild and desperate for them or any fight
I could find. The mingled memory-scents of dust, blood, gunpowder,
and hot metal lost to the unmistakable aroma of hospital boudoir.
Ghostly pain and nausea rushed into the sudden vacuum. My memory
had blanked out in that defensive measure, as I'd described it for
Trés, who stared at me from his pillow with a confused and rather
worried glaze across his face.

Oh, bloody hell. I hadn't caught the
flashback and bottled it up in time. Instead it had run its full
course unimpeded. How long had I been submerged into my waking
nightmare? What had I done or said? With the exception of the first
few times it happened, my flashbacks were generally short, quiet,
private things even if they did occur in full public view. But now
the first quivering shakes began in my clenched fists. I refused to
surrender, refused to show this kid or anyone else my
craziness.

"You all right, mate?" Trés asked.

Damn it, I'd frightened him, when I'd
promised Linda I wouldn't be a problem. He was too injured to
tolerate such behavior — no, that was my normal guilt, trailing
along behind. Just another aftereffect, like the shakes.

I fought the self-reproach, doused the anger,
and nodded. It didn't feel too horribly stiff. "Just tired, I
suppose." That was a good, standard camouflaging line, unless I'd
aimed the Mauser rifle in my mental absence, as I'd done once in
front of Sherlock. But if anything so dramatic took place, surely
this uninitiated witness wouldn't just scrutinize me and ask if I
was okay. More likely he'd push that call button for the nurse or
shout for help. "I should let you rest," I said.

"Fair enough." He'd paled further, too tired
and pain-wracked to wonder about me. "Look, send the nurse in,
would you? The pretty one, if she's there. You'll know." He grinned
slightly.

I'd gotten away with it. The last adrenaline
dissipated. "Sure."

"Come back tomorrow, won't you?"

He sounded suddenly wistful. In an astonished
flash, I understood: although I considered myself boring and
ordinary, to him I was new, different, fascinating. I could
distract him from the most painful experience of his life, the same
way Aunt Edith and Uncle Hubert distracted me from the pain of my
family's rejection all those years ago. Especially if I trailed the
cloak of mystery Aunt Edith bequeathed me, as the last Ellandun
family black sheep.

And I wanted to help him. My brother's son,
and I wanted to help. The realization floored me like a roundhouse
punch.

"If I can, but no promises. There's a lot
happening right now with the police investigation and such. The
pretty nurse, then."

Both nurses at the station glanced up
hopefully when I stepped into the corridor. It was obvious which
one interested a seventeen-year-old male, so I crooked a finger at
her and was rewarded with a chipper smile. She said something to
William, and he raised his head from his arms, crossed atop the
counter. Behind him, Sherlock looked satisfied and Patricia glowed.
It was a good feeling.

The nurse grabbed two syringes from the
countertop beside William's forearm and elbowed me in passing, as
if we had conspired at this business of getting Trés to take his
medicine and now we had won.

William followed her. His glance briefly
touched mine in passing. His expression was neither grateful nor
friendly, but so jealous and resentful that I wondered if Linda's
cease-fire would hold. Another flash of memory-fear shivered across
my already shivering soul, followed by a welcome flush of anger. I
was ready whenever he was.

Then he dropped his gaze and shouldered past
me, as if I wasn't even there.

current time

We were at the Camaro before I realized
Lindsay was with us. "Here, what's this?"

Sherlock popped the locks with the remote.
Lindsay ignored me and reached for the handle. "Decent car," she
said.

"This is just a rental," Sherlock said. "You
should see what I've got at home."

Patricia slowed me with a hand and lowered
her voice. "I couldn't leave her there, sitting in that hallway
wondering if her brother's going to live or die, and wishing there
was something she could do about it."

I sensed a certain amount of projection here
— those sounded more like Patricia's emotions than Lindsay's
hospital-corridor ennui — but I let that part pass. After the
bluntness of William's rejection, my own eyes were narrowed with
resentment and anger. I didn't wish to meet any more of his family
and was in no mood for babysitting. "You need to have a brood of
your own."

I suppose my voice wasn't as low as I'd
intended, because in addition to Patricia's glare I also received
looks from Sherlock and Lindsay. And there was nothing of
resignation in Lindsay's pose now. She paused, one foot inside the
car and just starting to duck. "Sit back here with me. You and I
are going to talk."

Sherlock coughed but kept a remarkably
straight face. There had to be something I could say to convince
him family squabbles were out of his bounds, and almost felt ready
for that particular discussion, no matter what it entailed.

"Oh," Patty said. "That's right. You haven't
met Lindsay before, either, have you?"

Lindsay never blinked. Her cool, green-eyed
stare was long enough to be both insolent and a warning. Beneath my
anger, I felt a stirring of interest and respect. Before I gathered
my wits, she ducked into the back and scooted over. I considered
several responses, glanced at Patty's dimple, and got in. Under
certain combat situations — and this was starting to feel
remarkably like a shooting war — the only action one could
intelligently take was to wait until conditions improved.

But even in a defensive posture, covering
fire was necessary. I glared at Lindsay. "What do you mean,
talk?"

Car doors slammed all around.

"I want to know why we've never met before,"
she said.

Seatbelts clicked.

"Why is this an issue?"

"You're supposed to know your family." She
raised her voice over the initial roar of the engine.

"I never—"

"You're not supposed to ignore us."

"You may as well own up, Charles," Patricia
said over her shoulder.

"Pause." I gave Lindsay the time-out signal.
It felt like waving a white flag. "Boss, let's stop by the gallery.
I never had the chance to speak with the owner last night and as
Aunt Edith's heir, I'm responsible for the show now." Like it or
not.

"The gallery it is." Sherlock turned to
Patricia. "Will you give me directions? I want those two left alone
so they can sort this out." He glared over his shoulder at Lindsay
and me. "And that means you'd better be on speaking terms by the
time we get there, kids." He shook his head and shifted gears.

As Sherlock drove from the hospital garage,
Lindsay leaned toward me and lowered her voice. "So what's between
you and Dad?"

Out of nowhere, a fist flew at me. I knew it
was a memory transformed into a hallucination even as I flinched
and started raising my forearms to block. Thankfully, Sherlock wove
around a slower driver at that moment and my reaction was
camouflaged by the swerve even if my sudden inhalation wasn't.

A full flashback at the hospital;
hallucinations both there and here. My strangenesses were coming
out for public perusal from several directions. Damn it, the
shaking aftereffect of a one-second-long fight-or-flight impulse
already rippled through me. I needed a time-out and didn't want to
discuss William or our history, particularly not with his daughter
who obviously had an attitude to match mine. For one explosive
moment I wondered how rude I'd have to get to force her to back
off.

I turned on her, something ugly on the tip of
my tongue, and stopped. Her face was inches from mine. There was
neither malice nor fear in her expression. She asked a question;
she wanted an answer. It was as simple as that. Besides, this felt
like arguing with myself. What was there about second-borns in this
family?

I was beaten and I knew it. That didn't feel
very good, either. I iced down the anger and adrenaline, and
hunkered down beside her. "We fight."

"Everyone fights."

No, I suppose that wasn't much of an answer.
"And last time we fought I lost really badly."

"And that's the reason I never got to meet
you before?" There wasn't a trace of sarcasm in her lowered
voice.

"Impala," Sherlock said.

I looked askance at Lindsay. She looked back
ditto.

"I love it when you talk nonsense," Patricia
said.

"Last year's model, dark blue, nice clean
ordinary sedan. Probably a rental. Just the driver. He's keeping
three cars back, but he's concentrating on us, not his driving, so
he stands out a mile."

The world stilled around me, even though the
traffic didn't.

"We're being followed?" Lindsay asked me.

"Seems so." And how we were going to deal
with it, with the kid in the car, was a question. But at least the
Impala, supposedly a replacement for the battered Suburban, was
following us rather than stalking Caren at the house.

"Why?"

I shrugged and started to brush her off. But
again I looked in her eyes and still found no fear there. "Because
the man who murdered Aunt Edith and shot your brother still hasn't
found what he's looking for."

She nodded, wheels turning behind those
oh-so-familiar green eyes. "What are we going to do about it?"

During the remainder of the drive, I told her
the entire abominable story. She never took her eyes off me. She
asked intelligent questions — "Do they still make ammunition for
that Browning?" — but otherwise didn't interrupt. By the time we
arrived at the Carr Gallery, she and I were needling each other and
I knew I was going to like this one, too. After all, what was
between William and me wasn't her fault, either.

While Sherlock pulled into a spot on the
street, she eyed me again. "So why haven't I ever met you
before?"

Oh, yes, she was an Ellandun to the bone.
"You know, people who never learn when to let up tend to die very
young."

On the gallery steps I couldn't stop myself
from pausing and looking again at the little hidden spot beneath
the plate glass window. No sign remained of the blood. But the
image of Aunt Edith, grey and staring, her hair falling loose, one
shoe kicked off, was as clear to me as if I hallucinated it, and I
wasn't certain I didn't.

"Something wrong?" Lindsay asked.

Patty froze.

I pointed with my chin. "She died right
there."

"Charles, you have to let that go." Patty
started to turn away.

But Sherlock stepped up beside me and peered
over the railing at the spot. Although the image wasn't in his
memory, it seemed he could see or sense her, too, or at least he
didn't give me any such foolish instructions. His shoulder brushed
mine as if to anchor me. Together we stared at the pristine
sidewalk while my breathing slowed. Then he glanced at me, I
nodded, and he pressed the doorbell.

"Trés sold two last night," Lindsay said as
the quiet cool of the gallery closed over us.

Before the doors even opened, when the only
people who had seen his work were his friends and relatives, the
other two artists, and their friends and relatives. I paused in the
entry and stared around. A line of his charcoals, the fascinating
faces of people one might meet on the street, hung to the immediate
left, and the brilliance of the lighting focused the eye upon them.
Inviting alleyways opened off on either end of the line, promising
more delights for those willing to step that way. It required a
conscious thought to turn to the right, where a few freestanding
displays covered less than a third of the floor space and only two
large panels were immediately visible.

The security guard closed and bolted the door
behind us.

"I knew the big oil sold," Patricia said,
"but which other?"

"
Tequila Sunrise,
the watercolor with
the coral-reef colors."

The one I wanted. Of course.

Without commenting, I watched the others,
wondering if they'd even notice the poor-relation side of the show.
But not even Sherlock glanced right.

"Damn." His eyebrows creased as he examined
the charcoal portrait of a young woman with spiky hair and
speculating eyes. "You almost think you know these people, don't
you?" He shot me a disbelieving look, as if there was no way I
could be related to such an artist, and only then did his gaze
stray to the other half of the room.

For Sherlock not to notice his surroundings,
the psychological draw had to be both subtle and deep. A warning
bell sounded in the inner recesses of my mind; although it seemed
unlikely, perhaps Prissy Carr and Aunt Edith had done their
arranging too well. Was being slighted in an exhibition enough
motivation for an artist to kill the show's sponsor?

Sherlock paused, staring at me, his
expression fading from curious to suspicious. Without asking
questions, he eased to the far side of the ladies, bracketing them
between us. He trusted my instincts enough to follow my lead, even
though he couldn't possibly know what I was thinking. Perhaps my
craziness hadn't made me useless, after all.

Prissy met us by the rose pastels, her
close-cropped blond hair higher than the tops of the picture frames
although she wore flats with her cerise pantsuit. The jacket was
unbuttoned and only a few swaths of cream-colored silk, draped here
and there across her front, protected her from charges of indecent
exposure. A huge emerald-cut heliotrope, set in gold filigree,
graced her cleavage, and its twin flashed on her left hand. Aunt
Edith had held her shows in Prissy's gallery for ten years now and
I'd been in and out during all that time, but I'd never gotten used
to her taste in clothing. Although I must admit, I liked to
look.