"Of course." She humored me — before I got out of hand, I suppose — far enough to pull her cell phone from her purse and set it in her lap.
I closed the car door gently and tapped the glass until she flipped the locks down. Then I stepped back and watched her drive away, wondering if our wash-and-wear relationship would ever come clean.
A city is never really silent, of course. A radio played down the block, traffic muttered a street over, rain pattered, a distant dog barked and a closer one responded. But the dense cloud cover dampened these noises and the night, leaving me feeling alone again. Honestly, with even Patty not on speaking terms with me, it wasn't just a feeling. I was alone and I hated it.
Common sense told me to get in out of the rain. My instincts and training both informed me I had to be abnormally stupid to stay outside where I could be taken by surprise and forced to lead the murderer to whatever it was he sought. But I thought about chatting with Caren, that super-sensitive, inhumanly empathic soul doctor, and trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Then I thought about describing my evening to her, my reactions to Father's words, my guilt and loneliness now that I'd alienated even Patty. I stayed outside. Lights were on; everything seemed quiet and under control; there was no need to go inside until I'd thought through what needed thinking through.
No stealthy forms huddled in the night as I waded through the wet lawn to the bench by the fountain. The pump turned off at night and the water slept. The rambling roses were in full violent bloom, dark petals dripping onto the damp mulch and the water's surface, and the scents of the living greenery, flowers, and decaying pine bark, all swirled together and intensified by the rain, made my head swim. I sat beneath the protection of the sword-maiden, much as I used to hide behind Aunt Edith, and scratched my chin.
It didn't bother me that I'd done something stupid at the age of eleven. Didn't everyone? What bothered me was, in all the intervening years, I never stopped wanting revenge long enough to walk in anyone else's shoes. And the worst was, in that time, I twisted the scenario in my mind until I was the only victim.
In more-or-less adult retrospect, the family had reacted to my stealing appropriately. Father, of course, not only had a defiant son to discipline, he had his professional reputation to protect. He was a barrister; he couldn't afford the least impropriety be attached to his name, not even at one remove. If I couldn't be controlled, I had to be contained until I learned better, and if I wasn't going to listen to my parents then someone had to be found whose opinion I would respect.
Of course Mum had been horrified at my behavior. What mother wouldn't be?
Of course William had been furious. He'd been reading for the bar at the time, as a dependable first son should — particularly since the second refused — and I could only imagine what his professors might have said had they learned of my shenanigans. What his new wife and in-laws had said was probably more than enough.
And of course the family hushed it up. It hadn't been a lark; it had been budding juvenile delinquency.
If I'd thought this through, or discussed it with Aunt Edith or Uncle Hubert, or sensible Patty, even as a child I might have been more generous. Judging from the way I now hid my stolen trophies even from myself, I already knew deep in my soul that my behavior was wrong. But no one had confronted me on this point during a vulnerable moment, so until I took the time to wrap my adult brain around the situation, it had remained unconfronted.
Instead, I'd nursed my anger and fed it as if it was something to be proud of. I'd imagined arguments with Father and Mum and William, where my oratorical brilliance convinced them that, yes, they should be proud I was a thief. When those started sounding silly even to me, I'd simply dropped the subject in my own mind, rather than attempt to sort it out.
Perhaps the Army shrink was right. Perhaps I didn't absorb the past. Supposedly that was how I developed PTSD, from a memory I couldn't integrate.
And of course — of course — Father wanted to make peace, no matter what arguments it caused wandering the gallery with William. No matter what, I was his son.
I can't say I forgave him or any of them while I squirmed on the damp bench in the drizzling rain. There was too much anger for forgiveness to come so easily or quickly. But a crack opened in the walls of my defensive fortress. And I had to admit the evening's arguments had given me another perspective to consider.
And that was when I heard breathing behind me.
Archive Five
seventeen years earlier
"A thief," Father finally said. "You want to be a thief." He shut his law book and set it, almost reverently, on the low oak table beside his chair, and swiveled to face me more fully. "My own son wants to be a thief."
For the first time in my life I had my father's complete and undivided attention. With the insecurity I felt as soon as I stepped into his presence, I found I didn't want it.
Mum sniffed, her nostrils curling as if she smelled something common in the library. "Why can't you be more like William?"
It had taken me the first eleven years of my life but I finally had an answer for her. "Because I'm not William."
She made a sudden angry motion with her head. "A good thrashing is what you need. Charles, I'm so ashamed of you."
I didn't even glance aside. I had nothing to say to her. I just stared into Father's unblinking eyes. Hard seconds passed. He raised his eyebrows. His head tilted back until it came to rest against the velvet of his wing chair and he stared down his hawk-like nose at me.
"Yes," he said, "you do need a thrashing, and I shall. But what's more, you can't stay here. You no longer respect your mother and I won't always be home to keep you in hand."
Mum froze. I glanced at her again. Her puffy eyes were wide, staring at me in something akin to horror. I didn't care. Father was right. I didn't respect her — she hadn't earned it — and I wouldn't obey her. I turned back to Father and awaited his judgment. I wondered just how far he could read me and what a thrashing felt like. I'd never been hit before.
"On the other hand," he continued, "I cannot send you to another school. You'll simply continue stealing, as I see no regret in your mien or behavior, and I won't have it spread all over the land that the second son of William Ellandun is a common thief."
"I like to think I'm an uncommon thief," I said. "I'm quite good at it, you know."
Mum gasped. Father straightened in his chair and I braced for the blow. But suddenly and amazingly, he laughed.
"Not as uncommon as you might think. Do you truly wish to be an exile? Perhaps I should demonstrate how that feels. I shall send you to Edith."
His words struck me dumb. Even then I knew the family whispers concerning my Aunt Edith.
"Boston?" The sad remains of my carefully constructed juvenile world fell into shattered ruins.
"Why, William, what a wonderful idea. Of course, that's it. Edith is the perfect solution."
"I won't go."
"You shall have no say in the matter, my uncommon thief. And just remember: you two deserve each other." He arose and stripped off his elegant dark jacket. My earlier rummagings through his desk had taught me he kept an old riding crop there for a reason that suddenly seemed obvious. "Leave us, Charlene."
I kept Langstrom's family photograph for the next seventeen years. One of my trophies, as I called them: items worthless in themselves but symbolic of my only achievements. During the first of those years, I spent hours poring over all the photo's details, the family's clothing and jewelry and smiles, and I couldn't help comparing them with my own. Mum prattled on and never said anything, and never accepted me as I was. William was nice enough when he was around, but he was so perfect he was a bore and therefore the bane of my existence. It had taken me eleven years to get Father's attention, and then I didn't want it. And now my family rejected me and sent me away.
I cried for hours, alone in my bedroom. Then I turned cold, and stopped, and swore nobody would ever make me cry again. One takes such vows ver
y seriously, at eleven years of age.
Chapter Seven
current time
If I was stupid enough to sit out in the rain, then I shouldn't complain if my friendly neighborhood murderer came to call.
My adrenaline skipped second gear and shot into third. Thankfully, this time my training kicked in, too. I sat still and waited, counting the raindrops as they splashed into the pool at my feet. For a moment I almost expected the surface of the pond to ripple, like in Jurassic Park when the T-rex thundered near.
Then as casually as I could, I dropped my hands to my knees and rose from the bench, pretending everything was normal, I'd had my brown study and was ready to go indoors. Whatever lizard came at me, I could deal with it better on my feet than my backside.
But I didn't make it all the way up. Something silky and strong and very very black suddenly wrapped over my head and shoulders, squeezing my arms against my sides. The soft stuff crowded my nose, stole my sight, even stopped my breathing for a panicky explosive moment. It was as if the blackness enveloping me was a living extension of the night, trapping my arms and attacking while I was helpless.
Then behind me, a voice cursed. It broke the spell. Helpless I may be against something primeval; humans I could handle.
A pillowcase, I finally realized; someone had jammed a black pillowcase over my head and there was only one reason for said someone to do so. I dropped fast to a crouch, twisting left and keeping my feet beneath me, just in time. Something solid whooshed past my head and connected with my left shoulder. The shoulder detonated as if dynamite had gone off inside it and the attached arm numbed. I yelled.
But I kept turning. My right hand, moving without any conscious contribution from me, shot out and closed on cloth. The voice I'd heard cried out without words. Whatever I grabbed jerked backward. The handful of cloth slipped from my grip. I let it go, grabbed the top of the pillowcase — black satin, hell — and yanked. The hemline caught on my chin and jammed there.
He gasped. He was alone or he wouldn't be so worried, and that meant he was vulnerable, his position threatened. He'd strike again. My adrenaline treated me to another dose. I still crouched, which put my head at a most convenient height for a roundhouse blow. It was encircled by my only currently-functioning arm, and the top of my scalp let me know in no uncertain terms I was yanking more hair than satin. The vulnerability was mutual.
I didn't panic again. I still felt confident, even eager for mayhem. Bare seconds had passed since he'd extricated himself from my momentary grasp. That blow hadn't been from a fist but from something harder, perhaps a small sandbag or rubber cosh. Ribs weren't as hard as a skull but they were more resilient, and if a second blow from that weapon was coming it was better taken on the torso. I uncoiled from my crouch, shifting my grip on the pillowcase. My feet slipped in the wet mulch and I scrambled for balance. Of course: white service dress, slick-soled office shoes. "Damn!"
He gasped again. Before I regained my feet, before the pillowcase was fully off, footsteps raced away.
Finally I got the damned thing off. My night vision was still good, although my eyes watered at the pain pounding down my left shoulder. I didn't have to glance about; the trail crossing the wet grass was obvious.
At this point, I would be proud to say I returned to the house and retrieved the Walther. I must admit, it never crossed my mind. This was the crowning moment of a lousy day and I wanted blood. For the second time that day, I chased a fugitive.
I caught a glimpse of a racing figure through the trees as he cut across the corner lot to the next street. Something big and square and dark hulked against the curb. I cursed again and accelerated, although it was obvious even to me I hadn't a prayer of catching him. And I was right. He'd parked his getaway vehicle — an SUV? it looked huge — with the driver's door closest and unlocked, and its tires screeched long before I got there. I saw his tail lights vanish around the corner as I stopped atop his parking spot.
All I could do was swear and it wasn't particularly satisfying, although my reaction to the attack was. The amount of stress I'd suffered that day and the number of people who'd assaulted me in one manner or another were like nothing I'd experienced since the war and the diagnosis. I'd moved from the calm order of everyday life to terra incognita indeed, and how it would affect me was anybody's guess. The Army shrink said I wouldn't know until I was there. Now here I was, in the middle of it, and responding well. It just went to show that cold-blooded old bugger hadn't known as much as he'd thought.
I crossed the lawn toward the house and was already starting to shake when an engine roared behind me.
One glance showed that huge vehicle racing back up the street. Headlights shone full power. Instinctively I knew the curb, that boundary of the permissible, would not stop it. It wasn't an SUV, it was too big even for that, and the headlights were too far apart for a Jeep. A hunting vehicle made for rough terrain, and now it was four-wheel-drive homicidal.
If I ran across the lawn before, now I flew, even though its eight cylinders versus my two legs wasn't even funny. Another adrenaline surge brought the welcome cold clarity of combat. It scoured my mind of all turmoil, even of fear, leaving me fired and ready for the fight.
At first I made for the front door — surely the house would stop it — then I wondered if Caren had heard anything and was coming to investigate. The house might stop it, but that steel T-rex could cause a lot of damage on its way in and I didn't want it anywhere near her. Besides, I really liked that expensive blue Persian carpet in the entryway.
That left the oaks as my only cover, and I shifted right. They were easy trees to climb, full of hand- and footholds, massive lower boughs hanging low enough for a good running jump to suffice. I'd have to do it one-handed; my left arm dangled uselessly as I ran, the shoulder screaming for me to slow down.
The beast revved over the curb. Bright blue lights flooded the night, casting my shadow before me like a trail to follow. I didn't glance back, just ran faster. I only had seconds before I'd feel the heat of that engine. I deliberately ran between low-hanging limbs; scratches on the paint job would make the vehicle easier to trace.
At the last moment I swerved for the first tree trunk. The headlights swung to follow. The deep ripples in the bark were etched as a sepia photograph in stark shades of grey. I didn't bother with graceful leaps but threw myself at the old oak. My right hand and left foot found holds while my right foot scrambled for purchase. The engine was deafeningly near. Not high enough — my lower legs still faced decimation-by-radiator-grille — so I let go my precarious handhold and clawed for a higher one.
Behind me, the engine roared. Heat flashed across the backs of my legs. The sharp mechanical stench of motor oil and hot metal washed over me. I was out of time. And my legs remained in the line of fire. Panic punched through my brain. I gripped the bark with my right fingers and jerked both legs up, wrapping my knees around the tree trunk.
The monster, brakes locking, slid sideways across the wet grass into the tree trunk. The passenger's side window exploded, spraying me with sharp little cubes of safety glass. My fingers slipped from the rippled bark. The whole tree shuddered and shook me off like a dog shakes off water. I fell onto the monster's hood, giving my left shoulder another opportunity to scream at me. The vehicle — a Suburban, I could see from this angle — still moved forward and sideways. Our combined momentum slid me helplessly through the broken glass and along the slick hot metal until my head met the windshield on a most intimate basis.
My skull exploded on contact and one more ache added its soprano to the rousing chorus. I scrabbled for some sort of purchase, but the Suburban was moving in reverse now, so I ricocheted off the windshield like a bloody pinball and started sliding back across the scorching hood. On my back — I was going to land flat on my back in the lawn, in the middle of that broken glass, in front of a homicidal driver in a four-wheel-drive T-rex.
I twisted onto my side as the Suburban reversed from bene
ath me and got my legs pulled up ready to take my weight as the edge of the hood disappeared past my hips. I'd felt the jerk as the driver accelerated into reverse, so it would take him a moment to brake, shift gears, and come at me again. I threw my weight to the right as I fell and staggered on impact, feet sliding beneath me as I saw my chance.
The monster braked. High beams glittered off the cubes of safety glass stuck in the bark. I knew he'd attack again. But this time, he was too close to the oak to turn sharply; like Patty pulling out at the gallery, he'd have to back and fill to get room for his next assault, which gave me additional seconds. And yes — something unpainted and metallic atop the roof glinted in rhythm with the glass, in harmony with the backwash of the headlights, and most Suburbans of my acquaintance had a running board.
These calculations swept through my combat-clear brain while I completed that one long stagger-step to the right. I was off-balance and felt it, but the monster was already moving, its wheels cutting in my direction. But his turning radius couldn't equal mine. While the driver maneuvered, I scrabbled about the fender and jumped, right hand reaching for that unpainted rooftop metal, right foot aiming for a running board, heart praying feverishly for it to be there.
It was. My foot wedged into the angle and my fingers curled about the luggage rack. Now we were on equal footing and the time was ripe to attack.
The driver reacted fast to my stowaway status and, I believe, from panic. The Suburban lurched forward without turning and slammed again into the oak. At the impact, my left shoulder spasmed. A mixture of fireworks and brass instruments swung into action in my brain, mist edging in from the sidelines, and my fingers started slipping on the rain-spattered metal. Rotating on the twin hinges of my right foot and hand, I swung out precariously into space. At the same time, clicks and subtle bumps said the driver shifted gears. Reverse — he was going into reverse. I'd crunch face-first into his door, and there was no way I could hang on.
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