Trophies by J. Gunnar Grey Page B

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