Trophies

by J. Gunnar Grey

  To keep Sherlock happy, I threw in enough ammunition and magazines to choke an elephant. I also took the time to don another hidden holster inside the front of my fatigue pants and installed the Colt, now loaded, in its place, even if it would make me nervous sitting down.

  The women still fussed with the computer, so I opened the false bottom to the ammunition drawer, scooped out my trophies without looking, and dropped them in the backpack, too, then zipped it closed and left my brown study. I couldn't help but wonder when I'd return.

  Patricia zipped the red canvas case on the MacBook Pro as I entered the bedroom. "All ready."

  I shrugged the case's handle over my right shoulder atop the backpack; I felt better but not yet good enough to want to carry anything with my left arm. "Remember, this is my condo and I can leave fingerprints with impunity. You two, touch as little as possible, especially you." I pointed at Lindsay.

  "What do you care?" She led the way to the front door. "I mean, do you intend to tell the police about this?"

  Patricia jostled me from behind. "What have you been telling her?"

  "The truth." I paused and glanced back at her. "For once."

  From the look she gave me, I could have left off that last bit.

  I set the bags down to lock the door behind us, despite thoughts of stable doors and absent horses. No sense bothering with the alarm.

  At the top of the stairs going down, I paused and glanced, deliberately casually, around the visitors' parking lot. The Impala was parked out on the street. Most of my neighbor's cars weren't yet in from work — we were going to be caught in rush-hour traffic heading back to Cambridge — and the Camaro was conspicuous among the few cars there.

  So was the Suburban, backed into a space on the far side of the lot, behind the management company's sign. It hadn't been there when we went inside. It was a recent model, gold in color, with a luggage rack and running boards. Even from that distance, the passenger side was clearly crumpled and crudely repaired, transparent plastic sheeting across the window. And Sherlock would have to force that little sports car past it to escape.

  I stepped back from the stairs. Adrenaline roared through me, so high I could taste its bitter edge. My heart sought to explode from my chest and I couldn't contain my breathing. Time slowed to a crawl, as if I forced a path through a jungle of nerves and ganglions.

  I reached for my cell phone to ring Sherlock. But surely he'd already seen it. And we were in plain sight. I let my hand drop.

  The civilians stared at me, Lindsay with open curiosity but neither alarm nor understanding. Patricia's eyes were wide and getting wider, her lips parted and her hair drooping behind her ears. Doubtful they'd seen it yet. I had to keep this peaceful. But no matter how hard I wrestled for focus, this time my thoughts refused to follow a straight path; they insisted on flitting about; but my options were limited. There was only one plan that made sense.

  No matter what, I had to protect my girls.

  "Charles?" Patricia's voice rose again.

  I handed her the backpack and Lindsay the red computer case. If we survived, my favorite mouse could brutalize me later for making her carry the guns. "Take these down to the car, would you?" I kept my voice as casual as I could with my pulse about to spray out of my ears. "Have Sherlock get out and help you put them in the trunk."

  The .45 in my hidden holster no longer made me nervous at all. If the Suburban budged before they escaped across the lot to safety, I'd use it. I'd conquered enough stressful situations over the past day and a half to know my hands wouldn't start shaking until it was over; until then, I'd hold myself together and give them a field of covering fire.

  What might happen after that, I couldn't begin to guess. The pounding in my ears, in my veins and soul and stabbing now into my brain, this time was reaching an entirely new order of magnitude. This time, it was bad.

  Lindsay started to say something but Patricia cut her off. "Come on, Lindsay."

  I stood on the landing, clutching the railing with one quivering hand, the other resting on my belt buckle beside the .45's grip, and watched their progress across the lot. Sherlock knew me; he'd figure out something was wrong.

  He did. Before they reached the Camaro, he climbed out. The scars on his face, bright as the computer case Lindsay carried, were visible across the parking lot in the July sunlight. He stared at me — his cobra stare? I didn't doubt it — then walked about the car to the trunk. For once I blessed his uncanny instincts — well, for once they worked to my advantage — and I started down the stairs.

  Across the lot, the Suburban's engine snarled as soon as my foot hit the first stair. Sherlock glanced up. For a long moment he stood motionless, the remote in his hand. Then he popped the trunk open, took the case from Lindsay, stowed it inside, and shut the lid. As I reached the foot of the stairs, he herded the women into the back seat, handed the backpack to Patricia, and shut the door.

  I dropped off the last stair and stepped onto the lot. The Suburban crawled toward me at a walking pace. There was no cover here, nothing to duck behind and no tree to climb, just a big flat open expanse of ugly concrete as naked as the moon. The only cover I had was Sherlock, armed and dangerous as he was, but his location was too near the women inside the car for my comfort. In my soul, I willed him to draw that cannon he loved so much and most importantly, to step away from the Camaro.

  But Sherlock stood motionless. The shock hit me so hard, it was almost a physical blow: he wasn't even looking at me, nor at the Suburban, but seemed mesmerized by the Impala as it slid from its parking spot on the empty back street and accelerated away. If he ignored my predicament, I had no cover whatsoever. It was just me against the machine. Again. Like Aunt Edith, I had to run the gauntlet to reach safety.

  The Suburban seemed bigger than ever as it crawled across the lot. The radiator grille looked like teeth. It looked hungry. I couldn't force my hand to the holster. At some point I'd quit walking but hadn't noticed. Sunsparks flashed from the windscreen—

  —I ignored the background crump of artillery fire and panned the rifle's scope along the enemy emplacement, atop the ridge overlooking our sandbagged trench. Beneath the camouflage netting and wilting tree branches I made out one big field gun with its muzzle recoiling, another, a third—

  —the enemy spotter stood contemptuously in full view, binoculars to his eyes, gazing off to my left but sweeping this way. The rangefinder showed the distance at eight hundred meters. I set the elevation turret and aligned the sight's upper chevron on his center of mass, drifting aside by one hash mark to compensate for the gentle flow of air across my right cheek. Binocular lenses flashed sunsparks. His lips moved as I took up the initial pressure on the trigger—

  —a line of machine-gun fire stitched across the sandbags below my perch. Whines ended in hard thuds, felt more than heard. Dark dust puffed out and billowed in the breeze, into my face, carrying the acrid tang of gunpowder. I recoiled, jerking the Mauser to my chest like a shield. Behind me Sherlock swore and someone screamed, a shrill sound that went on and on and on—

  —the dust and gunpowder caught at the back of my throat. My innards contracted at the piercing smell of blood. Had I been hit? I felt nothing, but they say it sometimes happens that way. On the ridge, the machine gun chattered again. The spotter, my intended target, had spotted us and his gunners were getting our range—

  —it was my job to protect the troops. I threw myself atop the sandbag and raised the Mauser, locating the spotter through the scope within seconds, and he lowered the binoculars and stared right back at me, lips moving. Again the guns rattled—

  —fire lanced across my back like one of Theresa's explosions mishandled—

  "—Robbie!"

  Oh, bloody hell.

  I surfaced from deep mental waters, frozen in the middle of the sun-baked parking lot. The Suburban accelerated. It was only seconds away. The driver wore a ski mask. In July. He had to be broiling. What kind of an idiot—

  —f
inally, Sherlock fired.

  The Colt .45 is a primitive weapon. It's huge, with a huge shell and an equally huge powder load. It's a heavy weapon. It's powerful. It doesn't throw the slug far, but throws it hard. The sound is explosive. Sherlock loved it for that reason alone; even if he missed the target, he influenced it through the sound, for no one was immune to that sudden roar.

  I surfaced again. The Suburban swerved. It was so close, I could feel the engine's heat and smell the oil. I was too numb to feel fear. But I knew I was dead.

  Sherlock fired again. Acrid smoke wafted past, tearing at my memories, trying to drag me back underwater. Something strong slammed into me, picked me up, threw me across the concrete. I hit hard. Blinding pain smashed my left shoulder. I rolled. Somewhere close, tires screeched.

  My own Colt was in my hand. How it got there, I had no idea. Finally I got it up, sighted on the Suburban. It took both hands to hold the big weapon steady.

  The Suburban's windshield was starred. Another big hole was smashed into its radiator grille, which no longer resembled hungry teeth but a screaming mouth. But no water spewed. It was moving again. In reverse. It recoiled across the parking lot like a wounded animal retracting into its den. Between us lay Sherlock, stretched on the concrete, unmoving. The skid marks stopped just short of his body.

  I got the Suburban's engine area straight in my sights but didn't fire. Sherlock was moving. He pushed up onto his elbow. Together we watched the Suburban reverse out of the parking lot, screech to a stop, and roar away.

  I managed to set the Colt down before the shakes engulfed me.

  First Interim

  no time

  There was no past, no future, only an eternal present that drifted past like lazy water. The concrete beneath my knees made no more impression than that gentle stream.

  "Robbie. Talk to me."

  "I'm here, boss. You?"

  "Never better. Now come on."

  He grabbed my Colt, grabbed me, dragged me to the Camaro. Patricia tried to run toward us, her face frozen into a shocked parody of an ancient Greek theater mask.

  "Get back in the car!" There was no room in his tone for disobedience.

  Patricia obeyed.

  Sherlock threw me into the front passenger's seat, gave me the Colt, slammed the door. A moment later, he fell into the driver's seat beside me, slammed the door. He actually took the time to fasten his seatbelt before starting the engine, shifting, revving out of the parking lot and into the street.

  "Seatbelt, Robber."

  My fingers fumbled. Patricia took it from me, snapped it home. Sherlock shifted up.

  "Charles?" Her voice was a whisper.

  "Yes."

  "Are you all right?"

  I stared out the window. Failure pounded through me, harder than the pain. "No."

  My mind worked in freeze frames, like a jerky old home movie. There was no continuity. I was lost in thoughts.

  Literally.

  "Sherlock?"

  "I'm listening."

  "What hit me?"

  "I did."

  "Oh. Thank you."

  Sherlock braked behind red tail lights that led us nowhere. "Patricia, I need a faster way out of here."

  "Um. Try cutting south and circling around the hospital. We'll see how the Longfellow Bridge looks."

  "What's the rush?" That was Lindsay's voice. I hadn't realized how quiet she could be.

  "Caren is in that house alone."

  I woke up again.

  Because now we didn't know where the Impala was.

  Nor the Suburban.

  But both of them knew we were nowhere near the house.

  Chapter Sixteen

  current time

  "There's two of them," I said.

  "I should have figured that out." Sherlock slammed into overdrive, roared around a semi. Air brakes screamed behind us. He accelerated again. "The styles, Robber. One's a cool customer, waits quietly for what he wants, shoots and kills and leaves. The other's a bumbling amateur, can't even kill someone with a Suburban. Let me tell you, if you can't hit someone with something as big as a Suburban, then you can't hit someone, period."

  Patricia leaned between our seats, her fingernails digging into my now doubly sore shoulder. She stared at Sherlock, her face etched in lines of shock. "What's going to happen to Caren?"

  Her voice sounded shaky. Actually, it sounded like I felt. But one of us falling apart at a time was more than enough. I covered her hand with mine and squeezed. Her answering pressure was reassuring.

  "Probably nothing." Sherlock weaved again, leaving a horn sounding in his wake. "But I'm gonna get back to the house first, just to make certain. Call her, Patricia. Don't stay on the phone too long, in case someone's using the cells to trace us. Just tell her we've had some trouble, to be careful and keep that pistol handy. Then get off the line, okay?"

  "Got it." That sounded better, stronger. She scooted back; in a moment I heard her voice, but not her words, murmuring behind me.

  When Sherlock made a statement like that, I knew I could take it to the bank. He would never let me down, not if he had to die in the process. Coils of tension eased along my shoulders, leaving me shaking in rivulets of sweat. I slumped lower. My armed Colt .45 was still in my right hand, aiming toward my feet. I was in more danger from myself at that moment than from either of our enemies. I uncocked the big pistol, pushed the safety on, then slid it back into the hidden holster and fastened my pants and belt over it. The shakes were bad this time. More than ever, I wanted a quiet hole to crawl into, somewhere no one would ever find me or, if they did, where they couldn't reach me.

  "Can you talk?" Sherlock asked.

  So much for that thought. Dirt and scrapes of blood marred his already disfigured right temple and his fatigues badly needed cleaning. His narrowed brown eyes shifted from the road, to the rearview mirrors, to the cars around us, back to the road, in quick calm movements that showed no sign of panic and, I was certain, missed nothing. My muscles loosened further. I should have known I could depend upon him, no matter what direction he faced when an attack started.

  "I think so."

  He braked behind a slower-moving car, waited for a break in the traffic, shifted lanes and gears at the same time. "What happened?"

  He would want to discuss that, of course. I didn't, especially not within hearing distance of Patricia. "I froze."

  He didn't take the hint. "You are not a stupid man, Captain, and that was not a brush-off question."

  Sherlock never resorted to rank. He'd make use of anything and everything else — his brains, instincts, physical abilities, luck, knowledge of human behavior, dirty tricks — to keep us rollicking souls under control, to get the job done and keep the bosses happy. In the five years I'd known him, he'd only addressed me by my rank during our first meeting; of course, that was also one of the rare times I'd addressed him as sir.

  So he thought he needed my attention. Mist edged in and cornered me, forcing out reality until it seemed the Camaro traveled suspended through a foggy wasteland. Tension returned to my shoulders, forcing out the physical pain. I'd cheerfully face combat, under the worst conditions, rather than admit the truth. For a year I'd fought, training my reflexes, burying my oddities, never letting anyone see the internal damage beneath the stoic façade. But I'd finally been caught and there was nothing else left to say.

  "He was right." Saying it hurt more than all the current crop of aches combined. The pain radiated through me like cracks through glass, shattering each nerve in passing. If Sherlock saw fit to act on the admission, it was the effective end of my military career.

  After the war, we'd each spent time with psychiatrists, being analyzed and poked and prodded like lab specimens. The assessment mine had given was unequivocal: "This man should not be in a front-line, active-duty unit."

  Reading that had been one of the lowest points of my life. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's argument that his gang, being a NATO special forces unit, w
as technically neither front line nor active duty, then the Kraut would have had no choice but to boot me out. As it stood, both men showed remarkable confidence in me, particularly as I didn't deserve it.

  There was no getting around the fact — I screwed up during the war. I'd been given an assignment and I'd been wounded before completing it. That spotter, far too competent for our forces' welfare, had spotted me, his intended sniper, and called his machine-gunners to take us all out before I could take him out. He succeeded and I failed. The battle was mano-a-mano and I lost.

  And after I was wounded, I couldn't even lift the rifle again. Kenny radioed for a medic because I couldn't, and I'd fainted when they manhandled me off the front lines, another low point in my life.

  The Kraut and Sherlock had awarded me the Bronze Star for "heroic or meritorious achievement" in action, but it was so obviously a sop to my pride that it was humiliating. I'd much rather have gotten the spotter than the medal, and hadn't yet convinced myself to wear it. That felt too much like Prissy's posturing and the presentation case remained hidden away with my trophies, currently in the backpack at Patricia's feet.

  I'd never discussed this with anyone, not even the shrink, and especially not with Sherlock. Whenever anyone brought up the subject, I went as far as necessary to demonstrate it was a forbidden topic. I preferred to keep discussion of my worst failure to a minimum, because I never wanted Sherlock or the Kraut to regret keeping me on the team.

  Had he finally reached that point? I closed my eyes and wished I could blank out again. I've never been particularly religious, but now I understood how one's soul can pray without any conscious assistance. I based my identity on inclusion in the gang, the most elite of elite teams and the only community where I felt at home, and I waited without breathing for his next words.