"Thanks, love." He kissed the top of her head and gave her back the kit.
I was awed. Potentialities of power opened before me; with such skills and tools, nothing in this world would be safe from me again. A thousand questions flew about my mind. But I already knew Aunt Edith well enough to know she'd only answer one or two. I'd have to choose carefully.
"Where'd you get that?"
It seemed I'd chosen the worst one. Rather than answering, Aunt Edith went still. Her hands froze in the act of replacing the wooden-handled tools in their little elastic slips. Her eyes sad, she glanced at Uncle Hubert, who was equally still for a moment. Then he kissed her again, this time properly on the lips. She flushed but didn't turn away from his gaze.
"From a friend," she said, more to him than to me, "a very long time ago."
He didn't seem surprised. Even at that age, even at such a momentous turning point in my life, I realized he had to know the entire story. I also knew better than to ask them to share that one, based upon the tenderness in their mutual stare.
But I also realized that the acquisition of such a toolkit would be a necessary step along my intended journey in Aunt Edith's footsteps. "I want one."
Her gaze never left Uncle Hubert's and her expression didn't change. He shrugged, a twinkle in his eyes, a tiny smile rearranging his jowls.
"Pawnshops, the sort you see in the North End." Then she whisked back up the stairs and I knew the subject was closed.
Uncle Hubert had the last word. He draped an arm about my shoulders and guided me into his study, where the books were. "She means the sort of pawnshop you don't visit on your own. I rather enjoy a bit of sport occasionally. Why don't you and I go take a look about on Saturday morning?"
Chapter Twelve
current time
Ever since I was a child, the whispers about Aunt Edith were an ugly soundtrack theme rippling through the background of my life. She was held before me as a poor sort of example, angrily by Father, sadly by Uncle Preston, and the fear so inspired prepared me for the worst before my arrival in Boston. But once there, with Aunt Edith before me in all her vibrant and uncanny wildness, the living personification of the magical Puck, the reality overwhelmed their sterile cardboard image and drew me to her, just as Uncle Hubert's kindly nature and absolute trustworthiness cemented me to him. If this was being bad, then who wanted to be good?
The thought that she might actually be bad bad never occurred to me. Now, it rocked me to the foundations of my beliefs. The role model I'd trusted, the one who'd proved herself trustworthy, who'd inspired me beyond the mundane and made the world a place of magic and delight, was perhaps a blackmailer. Or worse. And the more I tried to get my mind around that possibility, the more I couldn't believe it. There had to be another explanation. We just had to find it.
Rather than fuss with the dining room, we gathered about the butcher block table in the yellow kitchen's warmth for lunch. Early afternoon sunlight spilled past the chintz curtains, pooled on the stovetop and counters, and etched a river across the flagstone floor. I followed the physical rhythms of ordinary chores while my mind went round and round, arguing with myself on that mental carousel, until Patty broadsided me.
She pushed her plate aside before anyone else. "Charles, I'm going to the hospital to visit Trés."
Even my jaw froze. A chill invaded the room, brushing my arms and face, at the thought of her out alone. But before I could swallow and respond, she took a deep breath and kept the ball rolling.
"And I want you to come with me."
Of course I choked. While I recovered with the help of a Moosehead, the situation worsened dramatically.
"That's a good idea," Sherlock said.
I glared at him over the brew. He had no business in family arguments.
Patricia brightened. "Do you think so?"
Without even looking at my glare, he nodded. "Actually, that's a damned good idea."
Finally I got my throat clear. "Why ever?"
He tossed aside his napkin and sat back. "What's he like, Robbie? The injured kid, I mean."
I put the brew away and wished I could do the same with my commanding officer. "I don't know. I've never met him."
Sherlock looked aside and seemed to be reaching for patience rather than his glass of water, necessitated by his role as our impromptu unit's daytime designated driver. Caren rattled her silverware. Patty folded her napkin and laid it on the table without once glancing in my lonely direction.
Fine. I could take a subtle hint. "Is that what you want me to do? Meet him?"
"Don't be an idiot, at least no more than you can manage." Sherlock pushed back his chair and rose, gathering dirty dishes into a pile and lugging them to the sink. "Can you three clear the table? I'll phone von Bisnon." In front of civilians, we didn't use the rather insulting nickname. Nor in front of him, for that matter.
Patty took a breath. I thought fast and spoke first. "Where's Bonnie?"
"She went out for lunch." Sherlock examined the kitchen phone as if it was some sort of strange bug invading his space. "She doesn't trust my cooking, remember?"
She'd never lived down the time she'd bitten into a jalapeno without warning.
"All you did was warm it up." Caren rose and grabbed another armful of dishes.
We'd finished off yesterday's leftovers. Granted, he'd been known to spice those, too.
"Details aren't Bonnie's specialty." He lifted the receiver and stared at it in turn.
Bonnie out and about on her own didn't arouse a whit of protectiveness in me. Whoever jabbed a gun in her side would live to regret it; she'd make certain of that. Sherlock handling the small appliances was another matter and besides, Patty was starting to speak again. The argument would not escalate if I could help it.
"Boss, what are you doing to that telephone?"
"That depends on what I have to do to figure out . . . this is a speaker phone? . . . a-ha. Never mind." Sherlock set the receiver back in the cradle, flourished his index finger above the buttons like a magic wand, and pressed one. Dial tone filled the kitchen. He punched in ten digits from memory then turned to help Caren with the dishes.
As the outgoing call rang, Patty leaned forward. "What's between you and William isn't Trés' fault, you know."
Sherlock and Caren, at the sink with the water running, were hopefully out of earshot, even if he did have the unnatural sensitivity of a big predatory cat. I leaned forward, too, and kept my voice low.
"What happened last night was not pleasant and I'd rather not repeat it. If Father or William are there, I'll not go, thank you." Rethinking my perspective had not changed the simple fact that I didn't want to cultivate a relationship with my family. I didn't wish for my past to break its bounds and flood into my present.
Her chin was stubborn. "That's childish. Ignoring the situation will not make it go away."
"I don't want it to go away. Just them." I glanced at the phone as it rang a third time. The old gentleman was likely standing on the El Paso flightline or artillery range, or sitting at a desk in borrowed quarters, looking at his cell phone readout with one eyebrow slanted, trying to figure out who was ringing him. "Do you mind?" I said as rudely as I could manage, considering it was Patty.
The phone line clicked. "Von Bisnon." One had to know the Kraut well to divine the touch of reserve in his rich, elegant baritone.
"Yo, boss," Sherlock said to the speaker.
The reserve vanished. "I wondered when I'd hear from my truants."
Sherlock paused, staring at the phone. For a moment he seemed worried; although irritating von Bisnon was difficult, it could be done and not even Lloyd's covered that risk. "You're on speaker phone. Robbie's here, with his cousin Patricia and girlfriend Caren. People, this is General Hugo, der Graf von Bisnon, head of NATO Intelligence and our boss." Sherlock rolled the German in smoothly.
There was a small chorus of greetings.
"Captain Ellandun, I am so sorry. How are you faring?"
"Thank you, sir. I'm managing."
"If I may be of service, don't hesitate to let me know."
Before I could answer, Sherlock butted in. "Now that you mention it."
"Ach." It was astonishing that even von Bisnon could crowd so much amusement into one throaty syllable.
Sherlock gave the phone another look, then started talking. As soon as he began his report, Patty leaned forward and renewed her attack.
"I'll agree what happened wasn't pleasant. But who started it?"
Dishes clattered. I laid a hand on Patty's and waited. Without a word, Caren gathered the last of the silverware and returned to the sink.
"Could we please have this discussion later? And in private?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You'll just avoid it. And me, too."
I paused and listened to the telephone conversation.
"That would require DNA analysis," von Bisnon said.
"Right, and we also need ballistics on that Browning." Sherlock crossed to the pantry, speaking over his shoulder.
"Of course."
They seemed to be managing fine without me. I turned back to Patty. "Why are you so determined?"
Her lips rolled together. "Because I know you'll like him. You like his art, don't you?"
"You're lying." And suddenly the entire Ellandun fiasco made a bizarre sort of sense. "There really is a family conspiracy against me, isn't there?"
Patricia looked away and yanked her hand from beneath mine. But she didn't contradict me, which told me all I needed to know. A cold angry fire ignited in my chest. My family had set me up and she hadn't given me a word of warning.
Nor had Aunt Edith. If I could ask her one question across the veil of life and death, I'd ignore everything in the garret and demand a reason for this betrayal. The worst of it was, I couldn't imagine what her answer might be.
I turned my shoulder to Patty. I'd deal with her later.
Sherlock emerged from the pantry with a paper bag. He shook it out on the counter and stuffed the death clothing inside, folding the sweater around the pistol. "Where do you want me to ship these?"
"Do you have sufficient manpower to deliver? That seems safest."
Sherlock paused. "To El Paso?"
"The estate."
If von Bisnon was at his New Hampshire estate, then he'd never left for El Paso either and we weren't the only ones cutting class. Even at that moment, I appreciated the humor.
"Suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Sherlock said. "In that case, I guess I can spare some womanpower."
The old man's chuckle deepened. "Even better."
Patty crossed her arms. Her chin hadn't relaxed and her lips pouted. I didn't look higher even though my first furious flush was fading. She'd probably felt this same sense of betrayal when she realized I'd hidden parts of myself from her and besides, staying mad at Patty was a difficult chore. But even I realized that, if our relationship was going to survive, we had to talk.
"Robbie accidentally touched the Browning, by the way, so the lab will have to ignore his prints on the barrel. He also made certain it wasn't loaded." He glanced at me. "Didn't you?"
I nodded. But brilliant and resourceful as von Bisnon was, he still couldn't see through telephone lines, at least not that I knew of. "That's right."
"I'll make certain they have yours, then," von Bisnon said.
Sherlock rolled down the top of the sack and set it and the scrapbook on the table beside me. "I'll send Bonnie out later this afternoon."
I flipped the scrapbook open to a random page in the center, where three columns of newsprint had been crammed beneath a photo of a manor house amidst a luxurious park. But I couldn't concentrate enough to understand the words I read. I closed it and pushed it into the table's center. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate this no end."
Von Bisnon actually paused. "If there's anything else, you will let me know?"
A contract on my brother, o blissful dream. If this man couldn't do it, it couldn't be done. And the thought of William was enough to feed my dwindling anger back to a steady burn. "Yes, sir, I will."
After Sherlock hung up, Caren turned on the dishwasher and brought a fresh pot of coffee and mugs to the table. Bonnie returned with two cartons of ice cream and was forgiven her lunchtime desertion on the spot.
"Men are so shallow," she said to Caren and Patricia while I dug out scoops.
Sherlock ignored her. "We need to find you a computer. I knew I should have brought my laptop, but I didn't want to have to answer Wings Cadal's nasty emails."
I pushed a loaded bowl toward Bonnie and raised my eyebrows at Caren. She pointed to the chocolate. While I scooped, she turned to Sherlock. "You don't have a normal command because no one around you is normal. And you," she turned to me, "you don't have a normal commanding officer because no one around him is normal and therefore he has no reason to buck the trend."
It was such a perfect response, Sherlock and I didn't even bother trying to answer. So much for that line.
"If you promise to take care of it," I said, "I'll fetch my Pro from the condo."
"A Mac?" Bonnie looked at me in much the same manner as Sherlock had looked at the telephone earlier.
"It has Linux on it as well as OSX." I pushed Caren's bowl toward her and grabbed the last empty. I presumed it would be mine and started dishing it out. "Or are you so locked into Gatesland that you can't use a real computer?"
Bonnie started to answer — and I could tell by her expression it wouldn't be pretty — but Sherlock chose that moment to slurp the ice cream from his spoon, not quietly. She squenched her eyes shut as if pretending she hadn't heard that while Caren giggled over her bowl. Caren seemed to enjoy this supposed-to-be-professional side of me, which was comforting, considering I couldn't turn back the clock and un-introduce her to all this.
When Bonnie opened her eyes, it was clear she'd let the nascent argument go. "Linux will be fine."
Caren licked her spoon. I stood, scoop still poised over the half-gallon of chocolate, and watched. She glanced up, right at me, those tiny crinkle lines gathered at the edges of her eyes. We held the stare for a long moment, as long as I could bear, then I dropped another scoop in my bowl and settled down beside her, every nerve in my body alive.
"But first," Sherlock said, reaching for the scoop and the sad remains of the Neapolitan, "you get to run that clothing and the Browning up to the general at his estate. Until we know what that stuff means, we can't get a handle on the lady herself and that's the obvious starting place here."
She grabbed the sack and left her dirty dishes on the table. "Nice little day trip. My cell's on."
As the front door closed, Sherlock shifted targets to Caren. "You're a counselor? A psychologist?"
I stiffened. Sherlock wondering why I felt the need to hang around with a shrink was not a thought calculated to ease my tension. I preferred he worry about my diagnosis as little as possible; the possibility of being kicked off the team remained a strong one.
"A psychiatrist, actually," she said. "Why? Is it serious?"
"And going south fast." He handed her the scrapbook.
She set aside her bowl, took the scrapbook, and opened it to the first page, the photo of the intense young man with shining dark hair and his chin held low. Seeing it sideways, he looked like a 1930s movie star. Caren stared at the picture for a long moment then closed the scrapbook and rested her hands on it, looking at Sherlock gravely.
"Would you read that and prepare a report for tonight?" Rarely had I heard his voice so humble. But then, he didn't often need to recruit civilians into duty stations.
She nodded. "Sure."
"Thank you." He turned to Patricia.
She hadn't wanted any ice cream and sat leaning on the table, her hands wrapped around her cooling and barely tasted coffee. "I'm listening."
"Are you still worried about the legality of what I'm doing?" His voice remained humble.
She shrugged. "The situation's changed a bi
t, hasn't it?"
He pursed his lips. "I think so. But it's what you think that counts."
"Well." She pushed the mug in a circle. The coffee sloshed. "Yes. I'm still worried. But you were right to protect the family name. So what can I do to help?"
"Can I ask what you do for a living?"
"I'm a line editor." She paused, blushing slightly. "Well, freelance right now."
"So you're good with details, and sorting out a lot of different elements, and such like?"
"I suppose." Patty cocked her head, as if she'd never thought of herself in such terms before.
"Good." Sherlock looked as if a boulder had rolled off his back. "Because I'm not, and I know Robbie, and Theresa when she finally gets here, they don't have enough patience for this, and I thought about asking Bonnie, but I was really hoping not to have to—" He quit rambling and rubbed his chin for a moment. "See, someone has to sort out those investment records and copies of deposit slips and all that financial stuff we found upstairs. As I said, we need to get a handle on Edith, and this seems to have been a big part of her secret life — can I get away with calling it a secret life?" He glanced at me.
"It was a secret to me," I admitted, "and she was my role model."
"It was a secret to me, too," Patty said, "and I lived here with her."
"Then secret life it is." He rose and started gathering sticky bowls and spoons. "It's those copies of checks and deposit records that really interest me, so start there, would you? Make tables of who the money is from, how much each slip is for, dates, things like that, okay?"
"Yes, I can do that." She rose, too, opened the dishwasher, and started removing the now-clean lunch dishes and putting them away. "But I want to go see Trés at the hospital first."
The mouse was on her wheel. I slumped.
"We'll do that," he said.
I froze. Beside me, Caren silently gathered the last of the dirties and took them to the sink, avoiding my gaze in passing.
For another moment Patty kept working. Suddenly she froze, too, as if she'd finally understood his words. When she straightened, her chin had softened although her smile was small. "We will?"
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