Moving Target (27 page)

“Thanks, Mom,” LeAnne said. She took her coffee cup into the bedroom and set it on the dresser. Then she went into the closet and retrieved the brightly colored cloth bag that held the Transformers. Originally, the briefcase-shaped bag had contained a collection of wooden tracks and a dozen or so little multicolored train cars that hitched together with magnets. Along with cars and tracks, the set had boasted a supply of bridges, buildings, tiny houses, and trees that could be set up beside the tracks. Now all those wooden pieces were nothing but a distant memory. At first, Lance had been enchanted with the train set, but once Transformers appeared on the scene, he lost interest completely. The wooden pieces had disappeared long ago; all that remained was the cloth bag.

Setting it on the bed, LeAnne unzipped it and looked at the collection of brightly colored plastic toys that looked like one thing but could be unfolded and turned into something else entirely. They had come to Lance over the years as gifts from friends and family. He had treasured them then and, surprisingly enough, evidently still did. LeAnne remembered that when she was a girl, she had adored her Barbie dolls, but by the time she was eighteen, she was quite sure, she had outgrown them. How could Lance still find these strange pieces of plastic so fascinating? Shaking her head, LeAnne zipped the bag shut and put it next to her purse.

Out in the kitchen, Phyllis had made a sumptuous breakfast: bacon and eggs, toast and jam and orange juice. Seeing the food on the table
made LeAnne feel guilty because she knew that the money for all the groceries in the house had come out of her mother’s pocket. When LeAnne sat down at her place and picked up her napkin, she discovered a pair of twenty-dollar bills tucked under the napkin. Seeing the money was too much, and she burst into tears.

“What are you crying about?” Phyllis demanded.

“I’m sorry you’re having to be here. I’m sorry you’re having to use your own money to buy food for my kids. I’m sorry things are so bad.”

“Oh, honey,” Phyllis said, “don’t worry about it. You told me last night that Lance is getting better. That’s what matters, so quit your crying and eat your breakfast.”

“You shouldn’t have to give me money.”

“Would you have any money in your purse if I didn’t?”

“Well, no, but . . .”

“Of course I should, then,” Phyllis replied. “Helping out is what mothers do. Besides, if you don’t give that old rust bucket of yours a drink of gasoline occasionally, it’s going to stop cold and leave you stranded.”

LeAnne left right after breakfast. When she stopped for gas, it took all of her mother’s forty dollars to not quite fill the tank. She made the fifty-plus-mile drive from San Leandro to Austin in just over an hour. It was a bit before ten when LeAnne pulled into the hospital garage. She felt silly dragging the bag of Transformers out of the trunk and carrying them toward the building entrance. People brought toys to hospitals all the time, but not usually for kids whose voices had changed and whose chins were starting to sprout whiskers.

LeAnne found Sister Anselm in the burn unit waiting room. “The physical therapist is in there with him,” the nun explained. “He was quite firm about not wanting an audience.”

LeAnne dropped into a nearby chair. “I’ll wait, too,” she said.

Sister Anselm was quiet for such a long time that LeAnne stole a glance at her to see if the woman had fallen asleep. She appeared to be staring off into space.

“I have something to show you,” Sister Anselm said at last. “I had planned on dropping the items back on the floor the way Lance left them, but it’s quiet here right now, and I need you to know what’s happening.”

“Is it something about Lance?” LeAnne asked anxiously. “Is the other leg infected?”

“No,” Sister Anselm said. “It’s this.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the three wrinkled scraps of paper: the envelope, the note, and the photo.

LeAnne looked at them one by one. “What is this?” she asked at last. “I mean, I know it’s a picture of Connor and my mom, but who took it, and what does the note mean?”

“Your whole family is being threatened,” Sister Anselm said grimly. “Most likely by the same people who attacked Lance and who killed Mr. Dunn. They might even be responsible for the death of Lance’s teacher months ago.”

LeAnne blanched. “Mr. Jackson? Are you serious?”

“Completely.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No,” Sister Anselm said. “I couldn’t do that. Lance expressly forbade it.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask him. The only reason I could show these to you was because he threw them on the floor. Police officers don’t need warrants to search through garbage, and I think my confidentiality requirements can stretch that far, too.”

“What should I do?”

“Talk to him about it. Get him to agree to let you go to the police.”

“This is serious. Why would he not want to tell the cops?”

“You have to ask him,” Sister Anselm insisted. “If he won’t talk to the police, you can. You’re his mother; your hands aren’t tied. I’m his patient advocate; mine are.”

“I should tell him I found these on the floor?”

“That would probably be best,” Sister Anselm conceded. “I was
afraid a nurse or orderly might come in and pick them up before you had a chance to find them.”

“How did the note and the photo get here in the first place?”

“They came with a bouquet of flowers that arrived in the middle of the night. Other than the card in your hand, there was nothing to tell us where they came from. Fortunately, Lance tossed those out, too. There was a bug in them.”

“What kind?” LeAnne asked. “A ladybug? A bee?”

“An electronic listening device,” Sister Anselm said. “Something that would have allowed someone access to everything that was said in Lance’s hospital room.”

“Somebody bugged his room? They’re spying on him? This is nuts.”

“It may be nuts,” Sister Anselm agreed, “but I urge you to regard it as a serious threat to your family.”

“I do,” LeAnne said, plucking her phone out of her purse. “I’m going to call the cops right now.”

“No, please,” Sister Anselm said. “Talk to Lance first. See what he has to say.”

At that moment Aurelia Rojas, the physical therapist, exited Lance’s room. “It’s only day two, but your son did very well, Mrs. Tucker,” she said on the way past. “Very well indeed.” LeAnne was on her feet and headed into the room before the therapist made it as far as the nurses’ station. Sister Anselm followed on her heels.

Halfway to the bed, LeAnne put down what she was carrying—her purse and the Transformers bag—and pretended to pick up something she’d found on the floor. She came toward Lance, uncrumpling the papers. “What are these?” she asked. “Did someone send you something?”

Seeing the scraps of paper in her hand, Lance grimaced. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Just a joke one of the guys sent me.”

“It doesn’t sound like a joke,” LeAnne continued. “It sounds serious, and what is Connor’s picture doing here? Tell me, what’s going on?”

“I think you should tell your mother the truth,” Sister Anselm said quietly. “Of all people, she has a right to know.”

“Tell me!” LeAnne ordered. “What’s this about?” She saw him struggle. Maybe if he hadn’t just been through a physical therapy ordeal, he might have had the strength to resist.

At last he told her. “It’s about GHOST,” he said.

“Your software program?”

“Mr. Jackson and I were working on it together. He was going to help me get a patent.”

“If your program is what they want, give it to them,” LeAnne said. “Surely your brother’s safety is worth more than some stupid computer program.”

“I can’t just give it away for nothing, because it’s not only mine,” Lance said. “Mr. Jackson and I developed it together. It’s going to be worth a lot of money, and half of it belongs to him. Well, to his family.”

“If you can’t give whoever it is what they want, then we have to call the police,” LeAnne insisted. “They threatened Connor. They took a picture of him. Like it says in the note, these people know where we live.”

“I’m telling you, the cops are involved in this thing,” Lance argued.

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I do. They’re the ones who went after me like gangbusters for the server disruption. They’re the ones who claim Mr. Jackson committed suicide. And now they’re saying that Mr. Dunn died accidentally, but I don’t believe any of it. He offered to help me, and the next thing he’s dead, right?”

LeAnne nodded.

“We are not going to the cops,” Lance insisted stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest. “And I’m not giving up GHOST. We were almost there before I got arrested. Mr. Jackson finished it and used it, too. He sent me a note through my lawyer during the trial. He said he got the last bugs out of it and that it worked perfectly. You’ve got to believe me, Mom. It’s important.”

“If you won’t let me call the police,” LeAnne said, “how do we protect Connor?”

“I think I know someone who would most likely be interested in giving you a hand,” Sister Anselm suggested quietly.

Both Lance and LeAnne looked at her in surprise. “Who?” LeAnne asked.

“His name is Simpson,” Sister Anselm said. “B. Simpson. He’s a good friend of my bishop. He’s also the man who suggested that I should come here to help out.”

“You mean B. Simpson of High Noon Enterprises?” Lance asked. “That B. Simpson?”

Sister Anselm nodded.

“Wait,” LeAnne said. “I remember that name. He was the computer guy who testified against you during the trial, remember?”

Lance didn’t acknowledge his mother’s question. He was staring at Sister Anselm with the same kind of astonishment and wonder LeAnne had seen when he was four years old and opening the very first Transformers box that he’d found under the tree on Christmas morning. “Are you saying B. Simpson knows about me and my program?”

Sister Anselm nodded. “He heard what had happened, and he was concerned that if one attempt had been made on your life, there might be another. That’s why he asked me to come look after you and bring this along.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the Taser. LeAnne had seen it before, but Lance’s eyes widened even more.

“It sounds to me as though you’ve been here under false pretenses all this time,” LeAnne said, whirling to face the nun. “You’ve been acting like you’re all concerned about Lance when you’ve really been trolling for this Simpson guy. I’m going straight downstairs to file an official complaint with the hospital. I’ll demand that they bar you from coming back or having anything more to do with my son or with me.”

“Mom, don’t,” Lance said.

“Don’t?” LeAnne demanded. “Didn’t you hear what she just said? She’s working for someone else. She doesn’t give a damn about you.”

“B. Simpson is one of the best cyber security guys on the planet,” Lance said. “He’s also one of the world’s best hackers. He can help us.”

“You don’t want me to call the police, but you think some guy who sent this pretend nun to spy on you and on me is more trustworthy than the cops?” Beside herself, LeAnne was practically screeching. “I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous!”

Totally focused on each other, Sister Anselm and Lance seemed to have tuned LeAnne out.

“If I can reach Mr. Simpson,” Sister Anselm said, “do I have your permission to speak freely?”

“Yes,” said Lance. “Please.”

“No,” LeAnne said. “Absolutely not.”

“Very well,” Sister Anselm said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“You won’t,” LeAnne said. “You’ll do no such thing!”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tucker,” Sister Anselm said. “Lance is my patient and my primary responsibility. What he says goes.”

She left the room with LeAnne still sputtering, “I can’t believe it. Why are you doing this!”

“Of all the people involved in cyber security, B. Simpson is the one guy who will know what GHOST is worth. Maybe he’ll even want to buy it,” Lance said.

“He’s probably underhanded enough that he’s going to try to trick you out of it,” LeAnne grumbled. “For all we know, he’s the one who’s targeting Connor. What are you thinking?”

“Look at me, Mom. I’m lying on my back. I’ve got one leg, a criminal record, no high school diploma, no college degree, and no prospects. If B. Simpson is interested in GHOST, this might be my one opportunity to make a life for all of us: for you and the boys, for me, and even for Grandma.”

“Right,” LeAnne said sarcastically, dropping the bag of Transformers on the bed beside him. “Now you’re all hot to talk about your future? I thought all you wanted to do was play with your damned Transformers!”

Furious, she stalked from the room. She caught up with Sister Anselm halfway across the waiting room, grabbing the nun’s arm and pulling her to a stop. “How dare you interfere in our lives this way? Is that
why you had me return the check that man tried to give me? Were you just looking out for this B. guy friend of yours?”

“I believe that your son and his teacher succeeded in creating something that has the potential to be very valuable. Your accepting that check might have put Lance in a difficult position and left him unable to negotiate the best possible deal for himself and for Mr. Jackson’s family, too. In other words, everything I said before is true: What I’ve been doing here has been and is looking out for Lance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call.”

LeAnne watched Sister Anselm walk away. Still furious, she returned to Lance’s room, hoping to talk some sense into his head.