Trophies (51 page)

It felt like an unexpected and delightful
gift. "You're certain none of that blood money is part of the
estate proper?"

"Not one penny; she was very careful to keep
them separate. Oh, don't you see it?" Caren smiled in the dark and
the glow within her seeped through me like another, deeper perfume.
"When Ezra Higdon died, something died inside Edith, as well. At
first she tried to run away with Glendower so she wouldn't have to
face it. But when she couldn't do that, when she escaped his
influence and instead came within Hubert Hunter's, she spent the
rest of her life working to make up for her mistakes. She just
hadn't yet been able to part with the jewelry and she left that for
you to finish for her. I'm right, Charles; I just know it."

Everything always seemed so clear before the
beginning of the fight. In the glow of Caren's happiness, I
believed it, too, and kissed her to seal our pact.

"Jacob?" William muttered. "Jewelry?
Lindsay—"

"Long story, Dad. Not now."

And my cell phone rang.

current time

I punched the little green button without
relinquishing my hold on Caren. "Ellandun here."

"Are you ready?" It was Glendower's raspy
voice.

"All ready."

Beneath my arm, Caren tensed. The
conversations within the group stilled.

"Was it really necessary to shoot out the
streetlight?"

I actually laughed. "Felt good."

"You're sitting beneath it, correct? Behind
the sports car?"

There seemed little point in denying it.
Besides, that worked two ways: if he knew where I was, then I knew
he had to be at the front window, peering out. It was possible a
random shot through the glass might kill him and end this. But with
my luck, Father stood behind him. Even at that distance, even
through the glass, the bullet would travel through one body and
into the next one.

"Can we just get on with it?"

For a long moment he was so silent I could
hear, not only Caren's and my breathing, but also his. It was an
ugly sort of intimacy, a sharing I didn't want. Overhead, the
thunder no longer muttered; it growled.

"Enter through the back door. It's locked,
but we know that's no barrier to you, don't we?"

"That's my trade," I said proudly, "and I
learned it at my dear aunt's knee."

"Bring the jewelry. Come alone. If I even
imagine something's wrong, he dies." He disconnected.

I put the phone away and turned to Caren. She
cradled my face in her hands and kissed me, her mouth opening just
far enough. My blood stirred, boiled, cooled, and simply as that my
mind was clear although my heart still pounded that tympani rhythm.
Then she let me go, her eyes shining in the night. I pecked her
forehead and rose.

"It's show time, folks. Back door, Sherlock,
and he's watching, I'm certain with night-vision binoculars."

Sherlock rose beside me but only to a crouch.
"Like that matters."

"Where's the jewelry?" I asked Caren.

"In the back floorboard."

I opened the rear door of the Volvo and
grabbed the hat box. With it tucked beneath my left arm I walked
openly down the sidewalk, past the darkened gallery's front, across
the deserted street, through the gravel alley beside it, and around
to the rear of the building, to the dimly-lit mews and the service
entrance. I felt exposed — no surprise, that — and wondered if
Glendower would try the shot through the glass that I didn't dare
attempt; if he'd kill me in cold blood, thinking I was alone, so he
could take the jewelry and his revenge with impunity. No, he
wouldn't dare, either. Even the best of marksmen would have trouble
hitting a moving target on a dark street and through a window, and
surely he knew one shot was all I'd allow him.

I didn't look for Sherlock. By the time I was
ready, he'd be there.

The lock on the service door was a Yale,
neither the best nor the worst, and I made a mental note to ream
Prissy out for that, too. I stood aside and let the sodium light
from across the mews fall on the knob while I worked, then blocked
it with my body as I shoved the door open. It was pitch dark
inside. The light broke about me into the warehouse, stretched on
the left to the corridors of shelving, on the right to a bunch of
canvases on the floor leaning against the wall, near the door to
the short corridor. Sherlock would see that door and understand
what it meant.

He arrived beside me. With a gesture as
natural as I could make it — no sense taking chances if Glendower
had left the front of the building and was watching — I brushed my
finger beside the sensor on the door jamb, halfway up. He dropped
to his knees and crawled inside ahead of me. I entered on his
heels, again openly blocking the light, and shut the door behind
us. The blackness was complete.

I waited, the tympani rhythm sharpening and
quickening, for Glendower's response. If he'd seen Sherlock, the
game was over and Father was dead. In Prissy's rabbit warren, we
couldn't possibly find him before the Browning did its job.

Static crackled. An electronic voice came
from high on the opposite wall. "Very good. Can you find your way
in the dark?"

The paging system. He spoke through the
telephone line so I couldn't trace his location from his voice. It
seemed we'd gotten away with the gamble. But I didn't relax. Father
still faced the Browning, and I would all too soon.

"Clever," I said. "No, I can't."

"Then let me give you a bit of light."

For one cold moment I panicked — light,
great, that was all Sherlock needed — then the overhead
fluorescents flickered and blinded me. I froze, blinking, heart
pounding harder.

The shelving on the left side of the room
held piles of unassembled display materials, folding tables,
chairs, toilet paper, ceramic coffee mugs, kitchen supplies. The
aligned canvases near the short kitchen corridor were paintings
Prissy wasn't yet ready to hang. Of course, Sherlock was nowhere in
sight of the security camera on the far wall, which panned to face
me.

"Come to the front," the hoarse, disembodied
voice said. "I'm assuming you know the way."

"I believe I can find it."

I left the kitchen corridor for Sherlock and
used the doorway on the far wall, the one that led into the office
area. As I entered the hallway, the lights came on before me and
went out behind. The security camera at the far end blinked its red
light like a cold eye. The message was clear: he was in complete
control of the situation and he didn't intend for me to forget
it.

"What's that you're carrying?"

I stopped beside the door to the secretary's
office. "It's the jewelry."

"Open it."

I took the lid from the hat box and angled
its contents toward the camera. The red light blinked three, four
times.

"Show me the bottom of the lid."

Just in case an explosive or tracking device
was attached to it. I turned the lid toward the camera.

"Come along, then." Even through the
electronics, his voice vibrated with eagerness. Good; any
distraction to him could only help us.

The door at the end of the hall, leading from
the office area to the showroom, was also locked, but it was one of
those nearly useless doorknob locks that could be opened with a
screwdriver or bobby pin. The camera blinked only twice at me
before the cylinder rotated, then I pushed the door open.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Yes."

I entered the showroom, leaving the door open
and rattling the hat box to claim his attention. The lights snapped
off behind me and the showroom was swallowed by the onrushing dark.
The only light entered from the front window, slicing to dim
ribbons the gloom around Trés' human zoo, and it brightened and
died as the lightning flashed. Even though I could see nothing,
someone was breathing. Someone was near. The electronic control,
unearthly voice, detached instructions, were cold and impersonal;
but this was an animalistic sound that spoke to both the logical
and the unreasoning fears lurking within me.

With neither sound nor warning, spotlights
flashed on. I jumped. The lights drenched the nearest display, the
one showcasing Sidnë's large panel,
We Could Have Danced All
Night.

But the sexy, swirling blues and purples I
remembered were sheathed by a black drop cloth. In front of that,
in the full glare of the focused spotlights, sat Father in Prissy's
rolling office chair. So much rope covered him, I only knew his
shirt was striped blue and white because I remembered it. His hands
were bound to the arms, his legs were strapped to the center
swivel, and a black gag covered the lower half of his face. Above
it, his eyes were dark, glazed, and almost closed. His breathing
was ragged. My blood froze, the ice forced from my chest through my
arms to increasingly numb fingers.

"If he's had a heart attack then all deals
are off. I'll kill you, Glendower."

But Father's eyes opened and focused; he'd
been adjusting to the sudden glare. A message, if not of love then
at least of blood loyalty, flashed between us. He was in shock, but
otherwise okay. I forced myself to relax, as much as I could when I
knew a gun barrel was lined on my center of mass with a killer
behind the trigger.

Another spotlight flared on, this one aimed
directly into my eyes. Again I froze, squeezing my eyes shut, my
pulse accelerating. It was Glendower's move. And I hated it. The
battle could be lost before I had a chance.

"Set the jewelry down. No, further away,
toward the front door."

I did as directed, then paused. My sense of
time has never been good; I couldn't be certain how many of those
five minutes had passed. I had to give Sherlock time to make his
move. I'd heard nothing from him since entering the gallery, but
then, I hadn't expected to. I didn't expect to hear anything until
Glendower's getaway car exploded in the street.

"Do you want to see it?" I said. "You should
make certain you're getting everything you're bargaining for."

Glendower paused. The electronic voice had
gotten quieter since I'd entered the showroom. He had to be on the
floor somewhere, watching me from behind one of the displays and
speaking more softly to conceal his position. He could have
jumpered the security panel, the same way I'd jumpered Wingate's
burglar alarm, and be controlling the system from anywhere in the
showroom.

"Why not? Open it again."

Piece by piece I laid the jewelry out at my
feet. There was the Waterford Blue diamond, set in the ring I'd
worn for the last few days, like some rich new image of myself, and
I angled its glittering facets to the light before setting it down.
I'd never wear it again. I'd never want to. The rich new image of
myself was as much a fraud as the magical veneer Aunt Edith had
given me, and neither was worth the blood they'd claimed.

One by one I pulled out the necklaces:
Buckingham's diamonds and delicately crafted swans; the Montgomery
family's Stone Waterfall, with its intermixed emeralds, sapphires,
and amethysts; and the Earl of Bedford's graduated sapphire
teardrops, the one Ezra Higdon and Aunt Edith had died to
defend.

I handled each piece reverently, posed them
carefully, gave them all my attention and Sherlock all the time I
could manage. There wasn't a sound in the room beyond Father's
ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart as I waited for
Glendower to tire of the show and shoot me. Imagining how Father
felt, seeing the collection assembled by his little sister and her
lover, burned away the ice in my bloodstream. Shame would be part
of it, knowing he could have prevented all this and protected my
life by ringing the police years ago, well before I was born.
Instead, he and I both had chosen to protect the family honor, and
here we were.

I listened with all my heart, waiting for the
explosion from the street. Gelignite, after all, was not
subtle.

"That's enough. Put them back in the
box."

I paused as long as I could. Surely Sherlock
needed more time. But if I made a mistake now, the lunch tab I
didn't want to pay would arrive early. "What about this?" I lifted
out the carved meerschaum pipe.

"What the hell is that?" Even through the
electronics, confusion warped the disembodied voice.

That wasn't the reaction I'd hoped for. I
glanced up, around, trying to pierce the blackness beyond the
circle of my spotlight. It was impenetrable. But Father's eyes were
fastened on the pipe, and they were huge.

And suddenly I knew. I knew Aunt Edith's
deepest, darkest secret. After all, there was no sense stealing a
trophy from someone you respected.

I lifted out the scent flask. The spotlight
glittered off the rusted filigree silver plating and flashed sparks
about the encircling blackness. "Or this?"

"That's mine." It sounded as if the words
were yanked from the bottom of his soul.

My heart's tympani pounded an exultant
rhythm. "Perhaps she didn't love you as much as you thought."

The raw silence stretched like a wound. Then
from somewhere beyond the blackness, I heard one drawn shuddering
breath. My pulse accelerated again. My time was over and he was
about to end this. Poignantly, I was glad I was no longer
disappointed with Aunt Edith.

"Stop wasting time. Put them back."

I could no longer delay. I reached for the
Stone Waterfall, praying for noise.

But the sound that reached my ears wasn't an
explosion from the street. Across the room, in the deepest dark
where Trés' oils were displayed, something snapped. A muffled voice
swore. The darkness itself seemed to sway, then it crashed and
rattled like the swords of a thousand demons on the hardwood floor.
Something bounced and rolled: the little carved emerald
hippopotamus, and it only stopped when it bumped into the Waterford
Blue diamond ring.