Trophies Read online

  Langstrom, of course, raised a fuss and didn't hesitate to snitch, and I found it entirely satisfactory to make him eat his words. But he went to Hardenbrook as his instructor of choice, and that's when my juvenile world began falling apart around me.

  Hardenbrook didn't knock. He strode into the dorm, hair as usual not quite combed, shirttail working free, one shoe untied. He wore the first scowl I'd seen on his face, equal parts anger and disappointment, and he stared at me with his lips thinned to a straight line as he crossed the room.

  I rose from beside my footlocker. The lingering euphoria of the night shrank within me to a small, cold, indigestible lump within my stomach, as if I'd swallowed a hefty chunk of ice. Even for me, classes with Hardenbrook had been a lark, and he'd allowed me to take the part of Bottom as the first-years had read Shakespeare aloud during the first two weeks of term. The experience had convinced both of us that my instinct had been accurate, that the part had been written centuries ago specifically for me, and I'd started looking forward to trying out for the role in the spring performance. I'd rather relished the opportunity to play myself as a bit of an ass, even if it was only the head thereof. But with Hardenbrook seemingly fed up with both asses and larks, I realized I hadn't listened when I'd reminded myself not to like anyone at Corwald Prep.

  "All right, Ellandun. Where's the photograph?"

  The other first-years in the section glanced at each other and shrugged. But Langstrom pushed forward and stood beside his chosen adult. "You're nothing but a thief." His voice raised on the final word, and it rippled through the dorm like an echo.

  I gave him my coolest look. "Well, I did warn you."

  "That's enough," Hardenbrook said. "The photograph, Ellandun."

  I turned my look on him. If he truly wanted to be my friend he should have understood. But there was no sign of softening in his expression, if anything his lips thinned further, and a sense of unreality drove me deeper into my body. My hands were cold, and I wouldn't have been surprised if our breaths had puffed before us in little clouds.

  "Bugger it. All of you." I looked straight at Langstrom. "And you especially."

  Amidst that gang of young toughs, such a comment was enough to get me lynched. But Hardenbrook retained control over the outraged first-years and hustled me out the door, up the stairs, and through the carved wooden door on the top floor where Tufton held court. When he heard the crime of which I was accused, he looked as if he'd swallowed his cannonball, which was even more authentic upon closer inspection.

  "I thought you were joking," he said.

  "Why, was it funny?" After all, the time for good manners was past.

  The vein in his temple pulsed. He folded his hands atop his papers and riveted me with his flattest stare. "We don't allow thieves at this school. Return the photograph, and you'll be punished, but you can stay. Otherwise," he paused, as if about to pronounce the worst of all possible judgments, "otherwise you'll be expelled and sent home."

  But the time for facial impressionism was past, too. The school, and everyone within it, was at cross purposes with my own newly-discovered goal in life. Never mind that home hadn't changed. I had. I'd made my own place and now I could see it. No longer would I have to compete with William or even worry about him. He won the junior championships at the local gymkhanas, at rowing meets, at boxing matches, at cricket, at ruggers; I rode my stubborn pony over the fields, poled the clumsy punt downstream, avoided people I didn't like or respect. He garnered the good marks, the position in the church choir, the compliments from neighbors; I read Shakespeare beneath the trees and turned up my radio when I felt lonely.

  William's trophy case was full. Mine contained four items: a penlight, a spyglass, a Swiss Army knife, and a photograph. And through the gathering of that whimsical collection, currently hidden within my compatriot oak tree, I felt I'd found something special within myself. I didn't have to live beneath William's shadow and I didn't have to follow in my father's footsteps. I could do something exciting and unique, and now they'd all notice me.

  "Bugger it," I said again. "I'm going to be a burglar when I grow up."

  Mum, of course, was not happy when she arrived.

  "I don't quite see how you could turn him into a thief inside three weeks."

  Tufton was equally stiff. "He has much to learn before he can be accepted at school again."

  She sniffed. "If he's so obviously unsuited, why did you accept him in the first place?"

  "Could we just leave?" I interrupted.

  Mum looked down, surprise etched into her well-bred face. Her eyes seemed puffy and red-rimmed; for a fleeting moment, I wondered if I had made her cry rather than Langstrom's sister. I'd always been obedient although cynical and into everything that wasn't hermetically sealed against me, and I'm certain those were my first words of real defiance in her presence.

  She stared at me. I returned her gaze without a blink. After a moment, it was she who turned away.

  "You'll discuss this with your father." She pulled on her gloves with angry jerks. "Come along, Charles."

  I followed her and didn't look back — until Hardenbrook, who huddled on one of the soft tan chairs in silence, called my name. Beside the carved door, I glanced over my shoulder.

  "Good luck." His usually smiling voice was sad. "Remember Bottom."

  I thought Hardenbrook meant to tell me not to be afraid of being an ass, that sometimes it's good for the soul. I gave him my night-time grin — he really was my friend, after all — before following Mum out of Corwald Prep forever.

  For years, I followed that dictum. For years, I misunderstood his real meaning and, as usual, didn't stop to think it through.

  See, Bottom had been completely and horribly wrong. Even though he had known he was right.

  Chapter Five

  current time

  I knew, if I went to the gallery party that night, there would be a battle in the House of Ellandun.

  I looked up from the ring I was polishing and stared at myself in the mirror of my old dressing table. From the familiar framework of the Army white shirt and black four-in-hand tie, my all-too-ordinary face stared back at me. In preparation for wearing uniform amongst civilians, I'd done all the little personal-grooming tasks, and I was as presentable as I was going to be. And there was no getting around it: it didn't make all that much difference. I'd been born ordinary and ordinary I remained.

  The ring I'd polished was the one from Aunt Edith's hat box and I couldn't decide why I'd bothered. At best it was garish. A bit of polish, some swiping with a soft cloth, and it glittered shamelessly, oak branches twining about the big blue glass rectangle and the wearer's finger. I angled it toward the overhead light; the flash reflected from the mirror and sliced around the room like some sort of Star Trek weapon. I'd never seen Uncle Hubert wear anything like it. Granted, I wasn't the world's keenest spotter, but this was of a size not to be overlooked even on his big hands.

  I sighed, set it on the dressing table atop the chamois, and rubbed my eyes.

  The ring reminded me of nothing so much as my declaration to the world, at the age of eleven, that my life's ambition was to be a burglar. Of course I became nothing of the sort: after a dozen wrong turns, I fell in with Sherlock and the gang, and now I'm a safecracker and lockbreaker for NATO special forces. But the family's last memory of me was a would-be juvenile thief and, later, a college drop-out, kicked off the Cambridge campus for reasons unnamed and sent back to Boston in disgrace.

  The family. To me, that term was not a compliment and I reserved it for William and my father; my mother died years ago. Never mind that Patty, her parents, her brothers and sister, and Aunt Edith all shared blood with me, too. When I meant any of them, I referred to them by name. The impersonal term implied an impersonal relationship and that was the way I preferred to keep the family.

  By attending the gallery party, I was making myself available to them for the first time in seventeen years. No one who shared genetics with me
could possibly bypass such an opportunity to attack.

  On top of that, Father and William united would outnumber me, always an important consideration for a military man. And I couldn't forget that I was a military man, a lowly Regular Army captain — in the U.S. Army, the colonial army — whereas both my father and William were nationally-known barristers on the proper side of the Atlantic.

  Damn them. I pressed my palms against my closed eyelids. Damn them both.

  I'd received notes and presents, birthday and Christmas, from Father without fail throughout all the years I lived with Aunt Edith. But he never returned for me and never visited me, not even during the eight months I'd spent at Cambridge University in England. No words had passed directly between us since I was eleven, only greeting-card platitudes. I could only take his long silence to mean he did not approve of the choices I'd made in my life.

  If I went to the gallery party in civilian clothes, it would downplay those choices or at least keep them discreet. But that seemed wrong, as if I was ashamed of what I'd become. And that wasn't true at all.

  If I wore uniform, it would throw my choices in their collective faces — tantamount to inviting attack.

  I found myself staring into my own reflected eyes. "What would you do?" I asked my twin in the mirror.

  Same thing you're doing, mate.

  My white mess-dress uniform hung on the back of the door. I fussed over the insignia, measuring the angles to perfection and polishing each little bit of metal to a sparkle. I gave particular attention to the crossed golden arrows on the lapels, wishing I could plant one in the middle of my brother's forehead. At least my combat decorations and proficiency badges looked impressive, even if I couldn't bring myself to wear the Bronze Star. The Kraut and Sherlock insisted upon awarding it after my run-in with the sniper. But I hadn't gotten the sniper and it seemed dishonest to wear the medal or ribbon.

  With the jacket on and buttoned, I took a last look in the mirror. I still looked just as ordinary. But at least it was a dressed-up ordinary.

  I tried tilting my head back and looking down my nose at the mirror. But without the Roman hook, the effect was bally ridiculous. I sighed. I'd have to face the family without that particular genetic weapon.

  As I turned to leave, my glance touched on Uncle Hubert's old ring. I paused. Truly, it was garish. Worse, it was horrid. People hadn't worn such large, ornate jewelry since the previous century. Or two.

  I slipped it on. Regulations allowed it. Besides, it really did have a lovely shine when I angled it toward the light.

  Downstairs, Caren awaited me, her eyes wide as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and rippled her shoulders. When we'd first met, at the housewarming party of a mutual friend, I'd worn this same uniform, and she watched me from the corner of her eye for what felt like delicious hours. Toward the end of the evening she trapped me in the quiet corner of a busy room, wanting to know the meaning of every ribbon, badge, and patch, and her eyes deepened as she listened without blinking to every word I said. But now, she wasn't looking at the uniform, but at me.

  I paused at the foot of the stairs, suddenly awkward. "Is this suitable, do you think?"

  To my relief, she didn't hesitate. "Perfectly."

  "It's not quite as formal as a tuxedo. Well, it would be, if I'd worn the bow tie rather than the four-in-hand." Hell, I was rambling. I nearly bit my tongue hauling that horse to a stop. A deep breath, and I tried again. "Will you be all right?"

  Caren had volunteered to stay behind and guard the house against a return visit by our friendly neighborhood murderer. I didn't like it but could see no alternative short of hiring a security guard and, with my luck, that was his cover profession.

  She smiled. "You've only asked me that nineteen times." She hefted the Walther P-38 from the table near the front door. "Are you certain you don't want to take this with you?"

  "And you've asked me that at least as often. If I wanted to carry tonight, I have other pistols, including a nifty little PPK that fits beneath this jacket without advertising its presence quite so openly. But I really don't believe my family hates me all that much."

  Her expression deepened. "You know what I mean."

  I could only hold that sensual gaze for a few seconds, unless I abandoned going out and instead stayed in with her. But I'd promised Patricia and I couldn't go back on it. Besides, Caren wasn't about to let me take her to bed, not until I made some sort of commitment. So as soon as I felt myself sliding toward that particular cliff, I turned away. Mercifully, a car honked outside: the cab.

  "I'll be all right, Caren. You worry about yourself and don't hesitate to use that pistol if you need to."

  "I promise." She stepped out for a moment beside me, Walther in plain view for all the world to see — and if the house was being watched, I wanted the watcher to see it — then she stepped back inside.

  I waited until the deadbolt struck home before clattering down the granite steps to the cab. At least he hadn't driven off without me at sight of the gun.

  This was a pre-opening party; the actual opening was tomorrow night. Earlier today, I rang up the estate attorney's secretary — I still hadn't caught his name — and arranged the reading of Aunt Edith's will while the family were all in town; that was as courteous as I intended to be. Then I phoned Priscilla Carr, the gallery owner, and discussed the possibility of postponing the party and show until a more appropriate time.

  "If it was only Trés," Prissy had said, "I'd agree, and wholeheartedly. This must be a rotten time for you and all your family. But I have the other two artists to consider, you know, and one of them has family in from out of town, too. Please, Charles, please, don't do this to me."

  So instead of being shut with a wreath on the door, the Carr Gallery was lit up like a Christmas tree, warm inviting lights within, cold blue ones flooding the outside, orange-yellow streetlamps fading into insignificance down the sidewalk in the humidity off the river. Almost overhead, the pattern was broken by a dark spot where one of the sodium bulbs was out of action. A private electric truck, riser elevated, took up two parking spaces as a worker fixed it. Prissy wanted everything perfect for the show, inside and out.

  The Carr Gallery was an old, converted red-brick warehouse. Prissy leased the upper stories to independent lawyers and accountants, but the lower floor was a rabbit's warren of showrooms, storerooms, and offices. Before the war, I'd considered it a lark to break in and test her security, but I hadn't done such silly things for a while now.

  The old door with the bullet hole and bloodstains was gone, replaced by shimmery oak with a spotless satin finish. The dark splotches on the red brick and the cement stairs had also vanished, and no chalk outlines decorated the sidewalk where Aunt Edith had sprawled. But I still remembered exactly where she'd lain, how her legs curled and her eyes stared blankly up, and there was the precise spot where her shoe had fallen.

  At that moment, I'd have given anything to turn around, leave that spot behind for the rest of my life, and return to the house, if only Aunt Edith and Patty would be there awaiting me. We could read Shakespeare aloud to each other, the tea tray between us on the table beneath the intoxicating red roses, and everything would be all right again.

  But instead a banner draped across the upper windows of the gallery, announcing the opening of the Friends and Fantasies show, tomorrow night's date bracketing the title. It seemed a very poor substitute and I can't say it thrilled me. I took a deep breath, forcing myself away from the sidewalk and that bloody empty hole now in my life, and showed the security guard at the door my invitation. I managed to thank him without sarcasm when he let me in, even though I felt like a Christian entering the Coliseum in the year 70 A.D.

  And there were Father and William. Father stood with his back to me, leaning on a black cane that matched his dark suit. William, in elegant deep navy and maroon, stood at his shoulder, facing the door, and our gazes locked as soon as I crossed the threshold. I knew it was William because he loo
ked exactly as Father had when I first left England for Boston; even the sneer down the family Roman nose, with his head tilted back to maximize the effect, was the same. And I'm certain he recognized me. He held my glare for five long seconds while my heart pounded in my chest — it was so like the last time we faced each other, years ago, that I caught myself counting my heartbeats and telling myself I no longer feared him — then he turned away as if I didn't exist, murmured in Father's ear, and took both their champagne glasses to the buffet table on the far wall.

  I turned the other way, slipping between one canvas be-decked wall and a free-standing display, hunting for Patricia. I intended to take a quick look about, pay my respects, chat with Prissy and the two artists, whoever they were, then get out of there. I could tell already, the family were as happy to have me there as I was to join them. My past was invading my present when I thought I'd locked the damned thing safely away.

  Unfortunately, it didn't happen quite like that.

  "Charles." Patricia appeared from behind another free-standing exhibit, took one step toward me, then paused. Her chin tilted to one side, her eyebrows lowered. "I'm glad you came."

  She sounded uncertain of more than her welcome. What she read in my face, I could only conjecture. But the possibilities weren't pretty.

  In uniform, I generally managed to keep my hands out of my pockets. "Well, I did promise."

  She wore her tea-length pink silk, which — as she very well knew — I considered glorious on her swirly curves. Her mousy hair was swept up in some complicated manner that framed and softened her angular face, delicate tendrils curling near her ears; chestnut and golden highlights glittered in the room's spotlighted brilliance. At first glance I wished she wasn't my cousin. The hell with the uniform. I gathered her close.