The tension tool fitted into the bottom of the deadbolt's keyhole and the pick above it. The lock gave off distinctive clicks as I raised each pin to its opening point, and the tension tool kept them there while I worked on the next one.
This wasn't the simplest lock to pick, but nor was it the hardest. Normally it didn't need more than a few minutes, but today it took longer because something was in the way inside the lock. An unfortunate insect, I supposed, or a bit of pine needle. That was about all that would fit inside the keyway, although both seemed unlikely. Patty's quiet footsteps padded up the steps as I concentrated, then her shadow spilled over my fumbling hands. It didn't matter. Aunt Edith had taught me to pick locks when I was eleven and it didn't require a visual image, only the sensation of the tumblers through the tools.
The deadbolt surrendered finally and the usual moment of satisfaction gave me a smile even then. I pushed open the dark oak door and stood aside for Patricia. She didn't notice. She was too busy staring at me, staring at the tools before I zipped the case and returned it to my pocket, and all the old family rumors regarding my less-than-savory reputation were accusations in her eyes.
"You never told me you could do that."
Oh, ruddy hell. The house and yard seemed to invisibly explode around me, even though nothing visually changed. But in the carefully balanced reality I cultivated, everything changed, and irretrievably. My lockpicking skills were something I'd intended for Patricia to never, ever see. I'd wanted her to discount my family reputation as a thief and consider me as good as them.
It was a worse gut-wrench than any flashback. Every move I'd made that day was a flaming disaster and my raw nerves craved a safe spot and some recovery time. Calling a cab was tempting, too. But that would abandon Patty to staying in the house alone. It would also give her far too much time to think about those unmistakable lockpicking tools. Besides, this revelation was my fault, not hers. I couldn't abandon her. I tugged her inside, then closed the door and snapped the bolt.
The interior was cool, dim, and silent. Our steps were muted by the vestibule's sweep of bright blue Persian carpet. When I'd been younger, I'd pretended it was a magic flying carpet that could sweep me far away from the problems I didn't want to face. Once again, I wished that was true.
Outside, a car honked.
"Who could that be?" I didn't really care, whoever it was I could avoid them, but hopefully the new arrival would distract Patty. Often she rode an issue like a mouse on a little wheel and right now I could survive without further harassment.
But she wouldn't look at me and her lower lip vanished between her teeth.
My internal organs roiled again. "Cuz, besides your father, whom did you call?"
She rolled her eyes. "Caren."
That sensation of ice invading my veins seemed likely to become habitual. "Why?"
Patricia glared, rocking me back on my heels. Thankfully her genes had skipped another of the family's hereditary traits, the Roman nose, so she never seemed to be looking down on me the way the others did. But she gave it a really good go. "Because you're acting oddly, and you keep tensing and closing your eyes, and then you start shaking, and I don't know what to make of it, Charles, and you're frightening me." She pushed past me to the door I'd just closed.
I glared back. I'd missed the Roman nose, too, but right then it would have been helpful. "Tell me, is Caren supposed to understand me because she's a shrink, or because she used to be my girlfriend?"
But Patty slung open the door and stalked out, and the moment exited with her. I was losing all around. Suddenly the silence of the house felt menacing. Alienating Patty was not something I cared to contemplate, especially if Aunt Edith really was gone. I couldn't bear to lose both my girls in one day.
Even the once-magical house felt odd, like the home of a stranger and not where I'd grown up. On the surface it was the same, mahogany and white Edwardian, with Aunt Edith's beloved green and blue Persian carpets brightening the hardwood floors. Out-of-place modern art by the local talent decked the walls and drove me mad, as they'd done since I'd first seen them. Finally I could get rid of that lot and bring in the oils of horses and ships and landscapes the décor really deserved. But that thought, rather than helping, instead tightened in my chest as I stalked into the parlor.
And instantly I knew something was wrong.
Archive Two
seventeen years earlier
"Hallo, I'm Thomasson. Can I help you find your class?"
I glanced up, already tired of being in a school where nearly everyone was so bloody tall, even if it was only the first morning of term. The fourth-year currently looming overhead wore a prefect's badge gleaming silver against his navy jacket's lapel. His matching tie was the only one I'd seen so far that was properly tied and his dark hair was cut in a manner Mum would call "normal." It was even combed. Unlike Hardenbrook, I didn't have to tell myself I wasn't going to like this one.
"I don't know," I said. "Can you?"
The skin around his eyes tightened but one side of his mouth curled upward, as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. "Are you in Allworth's section?"
I thought for a moment before answering. "If that's where the troublemakers hang out, it's probably where I should be."
His lips pursed. "No, I saw you with Hardenbrook, and that means you should be in the head's suite right now. All the way up the stairs and to the right." He pointed. "You'd best hurry; you don't want to be late for that one."
If I truly was stuck in this beastly place for the next seven years, trouble with the headmaster on the first day probably wasn't the brightest way to introduce myself. I consoled myself by giving Thomasson a long, sour look, then shrugged my backpack higher onto my shoulder and trudged upstairs.
By the time I reached the third flight I had slowed to a crawl, which was just as well because otherwise I might have tripped over the canvas carryall blocking the top. I started to sidestep this and drew up sharpish when a foot appeared out of nowhere and slapped the bag to the other side of the landing.
I peered up and to the left. One budding athlete of about fourteen years held a first-year, helpless with his natty coat tugged down over his arms, against the wall at the start of the next flight up, while another practiced soccer with the victim's carryall about the landing. As I watched, this latter fourth-year, backpack banging across his shoulders, sent the increasingly dirty canvas spinning across the floor to crash against the wall a foot before me. He started to go for it again but stopped when his gaze met mine.
"What the hell are you looking at?" he said.
In order to answer his question properly I paused to examine him with a touch more depth. His auburn hair, long in front and back but short on the sides, flopped across his sloping forehead above bold blue eyes. His tie dangled inches beneath his prominent Adam's apple and a collection of rugby pins decorated both jacket pockets. From the amount of cloth allocated to his sleeves and pants legs, it appeared his parents, or whoever carried the responsibility for his uniforms, expected him to grow a bit over term.
"My first guess would be a bully." I cocked my head. "Are you in Allworth's section?"
All three gaped at me. Then the victim snickered despite his undignified position.
The fourth-year holding him, a bit shorter and with tow hair cut by someone who liked the Beatles, gaped the longest. Finally he snapped his jaw closed. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
The redhead, it seemed, had no desire to negotiate. Leaving the carryall in peace, he headed my way.
"You realize, of course," I said, "that we're both supposed to be in the head's office right now."
He stopped in the middle of the landing. His glare held for a moment more, then his lips thinned to a hairline.
"Cartier—" The tow-head released the first-year, who jumped aside and shrugged his jacket into its proper position.
"Shut it, Darrow." Cartier kicked the carryall one last time, sending it fly
ing, then turned his back on me and shoved the first-year sprawling when he tried to grab it. Darrow laughed and stepped up beside him.
As Cartier leaned forward to deliver the shove, the motion placed his backpack directly before me. I had a clear glimpse of stiff new olive-drab canvas, black edging, bright brass zippers with black chain dangles, and one of them wasn't closed. A small soft-bound journal, its cover creased and worn, had been jogged loose and stuck out by several inches.
Darrow and Cartier were otherwise engaged. I slipped the journal from the backpack and secreted it within my pocket. A moment later, the two fourth-years shoved past me, one each side, and thundered down the stairs, raucous comments bluing the atmosphere behind them.
"Vandals." The first-year hefted his carryall. "Brand new, and look at it now. It'll never come clean. Thanks, by the way."
I was already climbing the last flight. "Next time stand up for yourself and don't wait for someone else to do it for you."
The headmaster stood outside an open door, watching the two of us as we picked up our pace down the hall. He had the sort of manner that encouraged such obliging behavior, chin held level, a flat expression which presumed an explanation would be immediately forthcoming. Although his scarlet and blue festal academical gown should have given him a motley appearance, rather like a royal jester, I personally felt no desire to laugh.
"Sorry, sir," the other first-year said. "But—"
I cut him off. "—we got lost."
I felt the other's flabbergasted stare but concentrated on Headmaster Tufton. Although he wasn't a tall man, nor a stout one, he seemed immovable in the hallway outside his suite. His long narrow face ended in a trimmed grey beard and mustache that gave him an Elizabethan appearance. A vein throbbed in his temple but his expression never wavered.
"Well," he finally said. "Here's hoping you'll learn the building." He paused. "Quickly."
He swept out his left arm. The other first-year scurried past into the suite. I paused, just to let him know I wasn't impressed — even if I was — then followed more slowly. The door closing behind us boomed.
The suite was open and airy, windows wide to the breeze and sheer curtains fluttering. In the far corner was a massive desk, the sort of thing Shakespeare might have loved, with a brass-studded leather chair askew behind it and a stack of papers beneath what looked like an honest-to-God cannonball. Books with worn spines lined an entire wall.
A leather sofa and assorted soft chairs, in shades of brown and tan, clustered in the room's center. The other boys in Hardenbrook's section, as well as a half-dozen other first-years, presumably from another one, perched in a solemn circle, staring as the victim squeezed into a spot. Then all eyes swiveled toward me as if awaiting the next act in the play.
It was an unexpected opportunity to display my unfriendliness. I stared back, sweeping my gaze across the row of blank faces and thinking hard about how little I wanted to be there. It seemed to work, or at least no one scooted over to make room for me. I felt rather proud of myself.
"Have a seat, Mr. Ellandun." Tufton swept his parti-colored self into view and paused at one corner of the grouping. "Mr. Spence, budge up there."
One first-year at the end of the sofa shifted an inch. I intensified my glare and aimed it at him. He shifted further. I slid into the vacated spot. To keep the arena fair, my elbows were restrained.
"We were just discussing the future, gentlemen," Tufton said. Obediently, all heads swiveled in his direction; I couldn't prevent mine from following suit. He turned to the egg-headed first-year, sitting on one of the soft chairs nearby. "Mr. Langstrom, you said you hope to work in finance?"
Great; one of those discussions. The great, unknowable future that loomed before us like an approaching goods train and which meant absolutely nothing to me.
But Langstrom, it seemed, had given it some thought. He nodded his oval head in quick movements, his eyes anxious. "Me dad's a banker, and he helps people manage their money. But he thinks I should read for the bar, too?"
Another adult with a hang-up on money, just like my own pater. Perhaps I wouldn't need to remind myself not to like Langstrom, either.
But Tufton nodded, one hand stroking his beard, and some of the assembled audience mimicked him like a Greek chorus. Tufton's dark eyes were thoughtful, brows lowered to a slender bar, but the curl of his lips implied his liking of the idea. Which, of course, lowered him in my opinion dramatically.
"Legal training is always useful." He glanced at me. "Would you agree, Mr. Ellandun?"
I blinked my surprise. "I don't know." Honestly, any combination of law and money sounded utterly boring, especially considering one would be stuck there for life. This couldn't possibly be Allworth's section. What was the name of the third master? Ewing? That would explain their herd-like behavior.
For some reason, my response got Tufton's attention. He stroked his beard again, eyes narrowing further and lips uncurling. "Is it your intention to become an attorney, Mr. Ellandun?"
I paused. The question made me uneasy although I wasn't certain why. "My father wants me to."
Tufton nodded once, unsurprised. "But what do you want?"
At first I thought, What an odd question. Then abruptly, as the boy beside me shifted to stare, I understood: even though I was only ten minutes from home, I was no longer under my father's thumb. I was under Tufton's instead, and if this question was any indication, he wouldn't squash me into a boring future.
I stared at Tufton while the shock of that new understanding reverberated through me. He stared back, his expression softening. Then his eyebrows curved into twin question marks.
But before I could answer, the memory of William loomed over me, bigger and more imposing than that bloody cannonball. Every possibility raised by my new understanding depended upon the answer to that one all-important question.
"Did you know my brother?"
His eyebrows lifted higher. "Yes, Mr. Ellandun, I taught your brother."
Simply as that, the winds died and my sails collapsed. His answer ruined everything.
I couldn't compete with William. I refused to try.
I must have stirred on the sofa although I wasn't aware of moving. But my hand brushed my side. There was something in my pocket and for a moment I couldn't recall what it was. It was Cartier's journal, slipped from his backpack while he shoved his victim about. The concept solidified within me.
I wasn't going to be anybody's victim. No matter what it cost. And they'd remember me, all right, but on my terms. Not theirs.
"A thief," I said. "I want to be a thief."
Chapter Three
current time
Aunt Edith's house felt odd. Quiet. Menacing. Even the shadows of the oak branches, hanging across the lace-shrouded windows, were still, like the half-seen form of a sniper with his target in his sights.
Across the room, the what-not cabinet's glass door gaped open by a hair. The white doily draped over the edge of the sideboard was folded up, as if someone had rummaged through the top drawer and forgotten to smooth it back into place.
Aunt Edith ran a tight ship. This wasn't right.
My pulse quickened; my breathing sounded too loud in the silent house. At least one searcher had been inside, perhaps still was. Perhaps more than one. It was too much of a coincidence for this to be unrelated to Aunt Edith's murder.
And Patty was here. The thought of losing her, too, just as I'd lost Aunt Edith, ripped something inside me. I had to protect her.
I slipped the Walther P-38 from the hidden holster and eased backward into the entry hall, turning on my heel and surveying as a soldier, not an art critic. Nothing stirred in the kitchen, ahead and to my right. The shadows beneath the staircase, against the wall opposite the kitchen, and in the dining room beyond, lay undisturbed. Beside me on the left, Uncle Hubert's old study was swathed in a cloak of gloom, the heavy curtain on the single window doing its job. If lying in ambush, that was where I'd hide.
Behin
d me, the front door closed. Two feminine voices murmured. In the still, still house, the intrusion was jarring. My pulse and breathing slowed as I accepted the trespasser's unspoken challenge. This fight I would not lose.
Someone gasped. I glanced over my shoulder. The two women stood in a huddle by the closed door. Patricia stared not at me but at the gun in my hands. Caren, a blend of warm eyes and cool control, tilted her chin.
"I think someone's been in the house," I said, as quietly as I could. "You two stay here while I make sure he's gone."
Patty started to speak, but Caren laid a hand on her arm. Those warm eyes, the inviting brown of bittersweet chocolate, were trusting. "Be careful, Charles," was all she said.
The gloom in Uncle Hubert's study lumped all the shadows into one impenetrable mass. The big mound opposite the door would be the desk. But beyond that, in the room's center and depths, lay unbroken blackness. Walking into it wasn't inviting and I'd be silhouetted by the entryway's light. But I had civilians to protect. My fingers and nerves tingled. I eased around the study doorway and got my back to the wall, keeping the women at the edge of my vision.
Footsteps pattered in the rear of the house. Behind me.
"The kitchen!" Patty said.
The back door slammed.
I ran. The back door, beyond the pantry, wasn't locked, although it should have been. Without stopping to think or reconnoiter, I flung it open and peered out.
The deck was empty. The flowerbed beyond held spindly tea rose bushes, impossible as cover. I stepped into the drenching sunlight, beyond the house's safety. The backyard was deserted, the wooden privacy fence in clear view for its full length. The neighbor's air conditioning system clicked on and hummed, and a dog down the street barked, a string of deep-throated woofs that would drown any sneaking footsteps.
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