Moving Target (11 page)

“What was that?” Ali asked.

“Don’t you remember? It was a line from one of my mother’s letters. In it, she said that she had already lost one son and she had no intention of losing another. I’m assuming that the lost son was a reference to me, but what I’m wondering is why she thought she might be in jeopardy of losing another. And which one of my two brothers did she mean? Was she referring to Langston or Lawrence?”

Now that Leland reminded Ali, she recalled Jeffrey mentioning something to that effect, though she hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Clearly, Leland had been mulling over the matter ever since.

“What are you saying?” Ali asked.

“I’m saying that I’d like you to look into it for me,” Leland said. “I’d like to know more about the circumstances surrounding my father’s death, and my mother’s, too, for that matter. By the time I first communicated with Langston after arriving in the States, my father’s death was already months in the past. Given Langston’s role in all that went on before I left Bournemouth, I would rather have eaten ground glass than
to ask him for any of the details. I refused to give him the satisfaction. At that point in my life, living in what one can only politely call reduced circumstances, I was in no position to mount any kind of independent investigation. The very idea was entirely outside the realm of possibility. Now that I’m here, however, things have changed.”

“What do you mean?” Ali asked. “What’s changed?”

“For one thing, Langston is dead. For another: you,” Leland said, smiling in her direction.

“What about me?” Ali asked.

“I’m fortunate enough to have you in my corner. One thing I’ve learned over the past several years is that there’s very little that you, Mr. Simpson, and that company of his can’t suss out once you put your several minds to it or else when you enlist the aid of High Noon’s very capable collection of computers and computer operators. No doubt the details I’m missing are out there, hidden in plain sight in some official document or other. The problem is, I lack the ability to know where to go looking. In addition, I have neither the skills nor the mind-set that would enable me to ask the right questions once I get there. You can do all that, and quite handily, too. And it happens that I’m now able to pay whatever costs embarking on such an investigation might entail.”

“What difference will it make?” Ali objected. “Your father died sixty years ago, your mother almost twenty years later. After such a long time, what’s the point in looking into the death of either of your parents?”

Leland shrugged. “You’re right. There’s probably very little point. My parents are dead. My brothers are dead, but I can tell you that finally knowing all of what happened will make a difference to me. Let’s just say it would put a doddering old man’s mind at rest.”

That was the one answer—the only one—for which Ali had no comeback. That was, after all, the purpose of the whole trip: allowing Leland Brooks to come to terms with his past.

“You’re not doddering,” Ali objected, “but if that’s what you want, I’ll go to work on it as soon as we get back to the hotel. There is, however, one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“We investigate; you owe nothing.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Ali insisted. “I mean it. Nothing. Nada. Understand? B. would never agree to your paying us, and neither will I.”

After a long pause Leland finally nodded in agreement. “Very well, madam. Thank you. I’m most grateful, but in the meantime, I believe we have one more errand to run. You came to the cemetery, now it’s time to look for that dress. Shall we?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ali said. “Let’s.”

As they left the cemetery, Ali noticed that Leland did so without once glancing back over his shoulder toward the family plot. Following his lead, neither did she.

S
omewhere in the middle of LeAnne’s long talk with Sister Anselm, Lance’s doctors came into the room, both the surgeon, Dr. Kim, and the burn unit’s lead physician, Dr. Walker. LeAnne more than half expected to be chastised by the two doctors for having overstayed her visiting time, but she was not. The doctors nodded politely to the nun and then conferred in low tones before turning to LeAnne.

“Fortunately,” Dr. Walker explained, “we’re seeing no signs of infection in the other leg. That doesn’t mean we’re home free, but it’s encouraging. Even though Lance lost the one leg, there’s a good possibility that we’ll be able to save the other one. The problem is, as much as it helps with the pain, we can’t allow him to remain sedated for much longer. Overnight, we’ll begin reducing the coma-inducing meds. By this time tomorrow, he’ll be awake. You need to be prepared for the fact that he’ll be enduring severe pain. Agony, actually. When he starts doing rehab—as he must—the accompanying pain of that will be excruciating as well.”

LeAnne bit her lip. “I understand,” she said.

Dr. Walker gave her an appraising look. “I’m not sure you do,” he said gently. “I know you’ve been here night and day, that you’ve barely left your son’s bedside, but I’m suggesting you might want to give yourself
a break starting today, and for the next day or two after that. You have no concept of how bad it will be, and the first few days are by far the worst. Watching a child deal with that kind of suffering is something most mothers can’t bear, and they shouldn’t have to. I know you have other children at home, Mrs. Tucker. Go look after them for a day or two, and leave us to look after Lance. It’ll be better for him and better for you.”

“No,” LeAnne said stubbornly. “I’m staying. I need to be here when he wakes up. I need to be the one to tell him that his leg is gone.”

Dr. Walker studied LeAnne. Then he shook his head and turned to Sister Anselm. “Perhaps you’ll be able to convince her otherwise, Sister.”

“Perhaps,” Sister Anselm agreed.

The doctor left the room, and LeAnne turned on the nun. “I suppose now you’re siding with them and ganging up on me?”

“I said ‘perhaps,’ ” Sister Anselm noted. “That isn’t the same as saying yes. I think Dr. Walker is absolutely correct to warn you that Lance is going to be in agony. I also think it might be a good idea for you to distance yourself from that, if only for a little while. Besides, coming out of the coma, Lance is likely to be so disoriented that he’ll have no remembrance of your being here or not.”

“I’m an LPN,” LeAnne said. “I’m not someone who’s never been inside a hospital, and I know what they can and can’t do to manage his pain.”

“Being a nurse is one thing,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s quite another when the suffering patient is your own child. What I will promise you is this: If you take the doctor’s advice and give yourself a day or so to let Lance adjust, I’ll be here with him.”

“He’s my son,” LeAnne argued. “I’m going to be here no matter what.” Angry because it seemed even Sister Anselm had turned on her, LeAnne spun around and fled the room, biting back tears as she went. Out in the lobby, she swept past her mother, grabbing up the grocery
bag of clothing Phyllis had brought to the hospital. “I’m going to go take that shower now,” she announced. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

A woman at the reception desk on the ground floor directed her to a room in the basement area that housed a rack for twenty-five or so chain-locked bicycles. At the far end of the room were doors that led to a pair of compact Jack-and-Jill locker rooms. A stack of laundered towels sat on a wooden bench outside the ladies’ shower stall, and the shower was stocked with dispensers for body soap, shampoo, and conditioner. There were even hair dryers on the counter.

Standing under the steaming water and with the luxury of not having to pay for either the water or the water-heating bill, LeAnne let the tears flow. She hadn’t needed the doctor to tell her that Lance would be in dreadful pain. She had known that from the moment she saw how badly he was burned. The idea that the doctor thought she would turn and run without telling Lance about his leg was provoking. LeAnne Tucker wasn’t a turn-and-run kind of mother. She never had been, and she wouldn’t be now.

Forty-five minutes later, showered, dressed, blow-dried, and with a little makeup dabbed on her face, LeAnne felt almost civilized as she made her way back up to the waiting room. There she saw her mother huddled in quiet conversation with a large black man, a hulking bear of a guy with broad shoulders and grizzled gray hair.

“Here she is,” Phyllis said when she caught sight of LeAnne. “This is my daughter, Lance’s mother, LeAnne.”

The man stood up, clutching a Texas Rangers baseball cap in one meaty paw while offering Ali the other one. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said. “My name’s Dunn, Lowell Dunn. I’m so sorry about your son.”

LeAnne realized that her mother had been right. The shower had put her in a better place. An hour earlier, having someone express that much sympathy toward her and toward Lance’s situation probably would have driven her to tears. Now she straightened her back, smiled
back at the broad face peering down at her, and shook the proffered hand. “Thank you,” she said.

“Mr. Dunn works at that place,” Phyllis said quietly. “At the place where Lance was . . .”

“At the detention center?” LeAnne asked.

Lowell Dunn’s leathery countenance wrinkled into a deep frown. “Yes. I’m one of the facilities supervisors,” he said sadly. “I’m the one who asked Lance to put up that doggone Christmas tree, and I am deeply, deeply saddened to think that, as a result, that fine young man has lost a leg. That’s tragic—that’s the only thing to be said about the situation—it’s tragic. Your mother tells me he’s been out the whole time, that he ain’t been able to say one way or another what happened or who might’ve done this.”

“That’s right,” LeAnne said. “The doctors say they’re going to try to bring him around tomorrow, but it remains to be seen if he saw who his attacker was. The official position is that he was alone when it happened.”

“Your son’s a good boy, ma’am,” Lowell told her after a pause. “At least compared to some of the disrespectful scumbags that generally turn up in places like that. I can’t for the life of me figure out how someone like him got sent to juvenile detention in the first place.”

“He did something to the school district’s computers,” LeAnne said. “They decided to make an example of him.”

“They done that, all right,” Lowell said. “But Lance was payin’ for his crime, and he was excited about gettin’ out. Wanted to be home on his birthday, just a little over a month from now. Said you’d probably make him his favorite cake.”

LeAnne nodded. “Devil’s food,” she said.

“Gettin’ back to this Christmas-tree situation. Him and I worked on it together that whole first day. I saw him up on that ladder and working with them lights. Lance is a careful worker. This wasn’t no accident, and I can’t see why anybody in their right mind would think Lance would be doin’ some fool stunt like this on purpose to his own damned
self, pardon the expression. After all, the only thing he had to do was wait it out another month, and he’d be home free.”

LeAnne stood looking into the wells of compassion in the old man’s bleary eyes. Finally, stunned by the idea of having an unlikely ally in this fight, she sank down into a chair. Lowell Dunn sat down beside her.

“You’re saying you believe someone else did this?” she asked. “Someone who isn’t Lance?”

Lowell Dunn nodded. “That’s my take on it.”

“Have you mentioned that to anyone?” she asked. “To the investigators, I mean? Have you told any of them what you just told me?”

“Oh, I’ve mentioned it, all right, not that anybody’s of a mind to listen,” Lowell Dunn replied. “Matter of fact, I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face, if you get my drift, but most of those people’s minds are already made up. I know that’s the official version of things—that Lance did this to himself, either accidentally or else on purpose. The powers that be are going to cling to that version of the story for dear life. That’s what powers that be seem to do best, by the way. My big beef with all this is the thing about the security cameras going on the blink that day.”

“Wait,” LeAnne said. “You’re saying the security camera system wasn’t working?”

“Not the whole system, just the cameras in that part of the building,” Lowell answered grimly. “I didn’t think anyone would bother mentioning that to you. But the whole deal with the cameras is a load of bull. I’ve got a monitor right there in my office. The cameras were all working fine as frog’s hair the day before. If part of the system went down, it’s because someone made it go down, and believe me, whoever did that was up to no good.”

“So you think someone deliberately targeted Lance?” LeAnne asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lowell replied. “I most certainly do.”

“And do you know who?”

“I’ve got a good idea, but there’s no sense bringing it up to anybody
until I have some proof. If Lance can wake up and point a finger at whoever did this, then it’s a whole new ball game.”

“But why would anybody do this?” LeAnne asked. “Why would someone set my son on fire?”

“Some kids are just plain mean,” Lowell answered with a shrug. “If they see somebody else who’s smarter than they are or has more privileges or something like that, they go after them for no other reason than to grind the smart kids down to their level. By the way, Ms. Stone, the GED teacher, told me that Lance was far and away the smartest kid she’d ever had in any of her classes.”