Trophies (50 page)

"William," I said.

"What's going on?" His face was white, his
jaw set and eyes narrow.

"The man who murdered Aunt Edith and injured
Trés has kidnapped Father."

He sagged. "Oh, dear God in Heaven. Why?"

"Because I have something he wants."

"Does he want it badly enough to kill for
it?"

"He already has." Sherlock turned to me.
"Call the house. Have Bonnie and Theresa meet us here, and tell the
nutcase to bring her kit."

I punched in the number rather than scroll
for it. "You are not going to blow up the gallery, are you?"

"Prissy should have answered the phone."

I looked at him.

"Okay, not all of it, at least. Tell Caren
she's invited. Make sure they bring the jewelry and that they do
not leave Lindsay alone for a moment. Then ask Patricia to drive to
the police station and bring them to the showdown. But ask her to
drive slowly."

I understood his meaning but didn't say it
aloud, either. Sherlock wanted this finished before the police
arrived; he wanted their only job to be the tidying up afterward.
That was comforting. It meant he really did have a plan, at least
of sorts, and the tunnel-vision mists dissipated. The cold clear
reality of combat pumped through my soul. Whatever happened, with
this half-demented man beside me, I could deal with it.

I hoped.

I made the call, and at the end of it Bonnie
apologized for giving Glendower my cell phone number and springing
that little surprise on me. "But I didn't see what else I could do.
I mean, I didn't think he'd give me his number and let you call him
back."

"It's all right. I'm over it, I think."

"Right. We'll be there in a bit."

I disconnected and returned the cell phone to
my belt. "What's next, boss?"

With William in the rear seat Sherlock didn't
push his all the way back, but he did swivel to face me. "What
about the security system, Robber? What can you tell me?"

I thought briefly. "If Glendower's inside,
then obviously he's turned off the burglar alarm because it would
ring at the police station. Equally obviously, Prissy ignored my
warning to put guards with dogs inside."

The look Sherlock gave me was not
complimentary.

"All right, as I said, that's obvious. Prissy
doesn't have anything so valuable she needs a segmented system for
each part of the building, and the attorney's offices upstairs have
their own security. I don't think it will be more complicated than
motion sensors, cameras, and lighting."

"Why aren't you certain?" His stare verged on
the cobra point again.

I tried to keep my voice patient; I doubt I
succeeded. "Because, while I used to break into the gallery for
sport, I haven't done it since before the war. If she's upgraded
anything since then I wouldn't know about it."

"You're slipping, Robber mine." He stared
into space, forehead crinkled. "You stay here with William. I'm
gonna run a quick recce. Keep an eye out for the reinforcements and
don't let them get close enough to the gallery to be seen." He
stepped from the Camaro and eased the door closed behind him until
the interior light went out.

In the back seat, William shifted. "Charles,
listen to me."

I swiveled about and froze, too shocked to
breathe. The confidence I admired so much had vanished. In that
second, I almost didn't recognize my brother's face for the
terror.

"Listen to me. I know you and Father haven't
always gotten on well, and neither have we. But you can't let that
influence you now. You must do something, Charles, you must save
him."

When I said nothing — I was too astounded to
speak — William babbled on. "I'm sorry I treated you so horribly.
If I could change it, if I could make it up to you, I would. Right
now, I'd do anything—"

"No," I interrupted him, as gently as I
could. "Right now, you'd
say
anything."

He flinched, as if a rappelling rope had
smacked him against the side of a building. His determination
vanished and all that remained was mortal helplessness. Perhaps I
should have enjoyed the unexpected revenge. But all I wanted was to
restore the poise I'd come to expect from him.

I leaned forward, reached out, gripped his
forearm as Sherlock had gripped mine. "I promised you nothing would
happen to Lindsay. And nothing did. Right now, I'm promising you
nothing will happen to Father. And you'll see: nothing will."

But even as I spoke, Father's warning echoed
in my memory. I had chosen to ignore it and put the family honor
first. The thought of him paying the price for my mistake, as Ezra
Higdon had paid the price for his, took a cold bite from my stomach
and started chewing.

Someone would pick up the tab tonight. And it
was my fault.

A car, headlights off, coasted into the
parking spot behind us. I squeezed William's forearm and said what
was most important to me at that moment. "If you thought you were a
bad kid, and I thought I was, is it possible we were both wrong?
Now come on, the show's on."

Theresa was out of the green Volvo before we
got there. Her one-piece fitted flight suit had lumps in several
out-of-the-female-ordinary locations, her salesman's case was in
her hands, and the glow of the pyromaniac shone in her eyes,
visible even in the uncertain light of the streetlamp and the
mounting storm. It wasn't a good sign at all. I shuddered; even in
combat mode, I really couldn't help it.

"I hope your dad's okay," she said before any
of us could get a word out. With explosions impending — and
Sherlock would not have ordered her to bring her kit if he hadn't
intended her to use it — she always moved faster than anyone else
around.

"Us, also." William's voice was quiet, all
emotion drained from him.

Theresa and I herded the civilians into the
shadows away from the streetlamp. For some reason I couldn't
comprehend, Bonnie was wearing civvies. Her eyes were narrowed and
the tips of her nostrils flared. The PPK's bulge in the waistband
of her Dockers was visible only because I knew to look for it.

Caren stood by my side but without touching,
as if she remembered my comments on distractions, lovely or
otherwise. Lindsay, finally afraid although not for herself,
snuggled beneath her father's arm. William pulled her tight and
held her, but kept his eye on all these odd strangers. The glance
he turned in my direction held something of puzzled trust as well
as wariness, and with that I had to be satisfied.

Sherlock appeared out of the night as if
spawned. "Theresa, you got that silencer on you?"

She opened the case, produced a small
semi-automatic with a streamlined suppressor extending the muzzle,
and handed it over. Sherlock checked the magazine then replaced it
within the pistol's grip, ratcheted a round into the chamber, and
took aim at the streetlight above us, his eyes hooding as he peered
along the sights. It took two almost silent shots before the light
died and the protecting dark moved in. He returned the pistol.

"What kind of car is Glendower driving
now?"

"Thunderbird, dark blue, last year's
model."

"Good. I need a small charge, just enough to
destroy that car."

Theresa grimaced. "You couldn't have said
that before you shot the light out?" She vanished behind the Volvo,
case in hand.

Sherlock popped his eyebrows and pointed at
Lindsay. "You stick with Bonnie. William, you stick with your
brother, and Caren, you're with me. Spread out and find that car.
It'll be close; Glendower couldn't herd a hostage along a public
sidewalk with a gun in his hand, not for any distance. When someone
finds it, do not call out. We'll just meet back here in a few
minutes."

William and I backtracked past the Camaro,
keeping to the deepest shadows we could find as we approached the
gallery.

"I don't understand you," he said.

Without the streetlight, of course, I
couldn't see his face. But in the preternatural clarity that
heralded combat, I didn't need to see him to discern him.

"I'm an Ellandun," I said. "We're all
fighters of one sort or another. It's just our arena that
changes."

He remained silent as we passed another
non-Thunderbird. "When this is over, we have a lot to discuss."

"I look forward to it."

Before we came within sight of the gallery's
unlit front window, I stopped William with a hand on his elbow. A
pool of black centered on the gallery, its outside lights off and
the streetlight again
hors de combat.
No sense alerting
Glendower, possibly watching from the interior with night-vision
binoculars, that people were active on the street; shooting out our
own streetlight was enough warning as things stood. Without
speaking again, I guided my brother back to the Volvo, where
everyone else was already waiting.

"Opposite side, three cars down that way."
Sherlock pointed. "Caren, did you happen to bring—"

She handed me my little tool kit before he
got the words out.

"I knew I could count on you," he said.
"Robbie, pop a door."

I thrust the kit into my hip pocket — for a
car door, particularly an American model, it was serious overkill —
opened the Volvo, and took a coat hanger from the floor; I knew
Caren kept one handy in case she wore a suit and needed to hang the
jacket. A few simple twists turned the wire into an excellent jimmy
and the Thunderbird's door never stood a chance.

William and Lindsay followed me around
without leaving the shadows and watched me work. The integration of
my worlds was so complete, I didn't even notice.

Theresa was ready when I was and tossed a
small gelignite charge into the back floorboard. I closed the door.
She would use the electronic transmitter embedded within her
homemade cell phone and detonate the charge when Sherlock
ordered.

We gathered back into the shadows behind the
Camaro.

"Our two hours are just about up." Sherlock
glanced at his backlit watch. "Now, I see it like this: when
Glendower calls you, Robbie, he's going to tell you to bring the
jewelry inside to him. When you go in, I'm going with you."

"There are counters on both doors," I said.
"If he's watching the security control pad, he'll know that two
people entered and he did say for me to come alone."

He paused. "What height's the sensor?"

"Thigh high on the front door, waist high on
the back."

"Then I'll crawl in under his radar screen.
Theresa, give us five minutes on the clock after we go in, give us
time to scope out the situation, then set off your charge."

"Gotcha. Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh—"

"Oh, shut up."

In the anonymous dark, a feminine someone
giggled. Caren or Lindsay, Bonnie or Theresa herself? It seemed
everyone was loosening up in preparation for the fight, even those
who wouldn't be directly in the line of fire.

"And make certain no innocent bystanders are
within range when you set that thing off."

Theresa's voice was bland. "Must I?"

"Don't start that routine. Robbie, once
you're inside, do whatever Glendower tells you. Whatever else
happens," here Sherlock paused, and I knew it was to ensure my
complete attention to his orders, "your assignment is to protect
your father. I'll track down Glendower and finish the job.
Clear?"

The night stilled and tightened about me. I
swallowed. Protect my father, the man said. Not myself.

My job was to stand in plain view, just like
the spotter. Only trouble was, I got the spotter. Or so Sherlock
said.

It seemed I was paying for dinner.

"As mud." I tried to keep my voice light.
Perhaps I even succeeded.

We waited, sitting beneath the shattered
streetlamp on the sidewalk between Caren's Volvo and the rented
Camaro. The surging mutter of thunder crept closer. Lightning
flickered across the clouds. I kept my cell phone in one hand.
Lindsay again crawled beneath her father's arm. William seemed
reassured, or at least his terror faded to a taut worry. I knew he
didn't understand. Hopefully he wouldn't feel guilty if we never
had that discussion. But I couldn't afford to think about that. My
stomach was already tight, as if I'd swallowed a cannonball, and my
heart beat in a steady tympani that reminded me uncomfortably of
all the other times in my life I'd been afraid.

Instead, I slipped my arm around Caren and
drew her near. Her head tucked against my shoulder. I nuzzled her
forehead, let the clean scent of lavender soak through me, and felt
my brother's stare assess this situation. But that was a dangerous
line of thought, too.

"So, how did you spend your evening?" I asked
her, just to be saying something.

She turned her face up and smiled. "I wanted
to tell you about that, but wasn't certain you wanted any
distractions right now."

"Please, distract away."

Caren paused; she'd heard the underlying
tension in my voice. Surely her medical training and sensitivity
also noticed my rising pulse and breathing. Her hand slid across my
chest, down to my belt buckle, and pressed the leather holster. But
even that, it seemed, wasn't going to distract me too far.

"Patricia found Edith's log books, where
she'd recorded all her investments. They were in the bottom desk
drawer in the garret."

That was unexpectedly riveting. I pulled back
slightly and focused my night-sight through the flickering
lightning. "Really? Anything interesting in them?"

"Very." Her eyes glowed, even in that light.
"You're not inheriting blackmail money."

I paused. "Tell me."

"There's a pattern and it's very clear. Yes,
Edith blackmailed people, but then she invested the money and
supported various charities with the proceeds. The money she got
from Rainwater founded a shelter for battered women and Jacob
supported art courses for inner-city students."