Moving Target (26 page)

“Not too bad,” she said.

“Your package just showed up,” he said. “Thanks. It’s exactly what I needed.”

In other words, B. had the photos. By now he probably already had assigned people to start a data-mining process on the two Fullerton brothers. If there were any obvious connections between them and UTI, Ali was sure High Noon would uncover them.

They chatted for a few more minutes—inane stuff about the wedding, about when B. planned to leave Zurich, about any number of other things. It sounded so stilted and phony, Ali was sure that anyone listening in was bound to see right through it. When a second call came in, she was relieved to switch over in time to discover that her replacement rental car had been delivered to the hotel. She turned to Leland. “What say we go for a ride before someone has a chance to tamper with it.”

Leland nodded. “Now that you mention it, there is somewhere I’d like to go.”

“Where’s that?”

“To see Thomas Blackfield,” he said. “We’ll be going back to London tomorrow. From what you told me, I believe I owe him an apology. I’d like to put things right before I go.”

“You know where he lives?”

Leland nodded. “Yes, in Bourne Close, above the Pig and Whistle.”

“Do you want me to drop you off and pick you up?”

“No,” Leland said. “You said you’d have my back. Since you’ve been privy to this whole sordid situation, I’d rather have you with me than to go see him alone. I’ll call ahead and make sure it’s all right if we stop by.”

It was only a little past eleven when they arrived at the pub and lucked into a parking place right out front. A collection of wooden benches and tables were stacked and chained together along the outside of the building. In warmer weather, perhaps it was possible to dine outside, but not today.

The interior of the Pig and Whistle was a low-ceilinged affair that, even in the nonsmoking present, reeked of previous generations of smokers. A gas log fireplace burned at the far end of the room. Thomas Blackfield sat in the booth closest to the fire with a pint of ale on the table in front of him.

As they approached the booth, Leland was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said, sliding into the opposing booth. “Sorry for what my brother put you through; sorry for thinking ill about you all these years. Clearly, I didn’t know the full story.”

The barmaid arrived almost before Ali slid into the booth behind Leland. He ordered a pint of ale. Ali stuck with coffee.

“I can recommend the Cornish pasties,” Thomas said. “I live upstairs, and I’ve been smelling them baking all morning.”

When the barmaid brought their drinks, they ordered pasties all around. As Leland took his first sip of ale, Thomas reached into the vest
pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I brought this with me last night,” he said. “I meant to give it to you, to back up my story, but then I never got a chance to tell you.”

“I believe Ali here told me most of it,” Leland said. “That Langston had everyone in town buying some tale about my being a traitor; that even our parents believed him and wrote me out of the will as a consequence; that Langston beat the crap out of you and put you in the hospital; that you talked to my father and told him Langston was a liar. Thank you for that, by the way, for going to bat for me all those years ago.”

Thomas tapped the paper with his finger but made no effort to move it. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “The wonderful thing about being relics like us is that as far as most of the people on the planet are concerned—and even folks here in town—that era is ancient history.”

Leland nodded.

“Your father’s solicitor was the firm of James, James, and Miller, correct?”

Leland shook his head in wonder. “I had forgotten that completely, but yes. He was always proud to be affiliated with one of the oldest firms in town.”

“It was disbanded in the early seventies,” Thomas said. “The James brothers were twins and died within days of each other in the early sixties. By the early seventies, Miller was seriously ill. There were no children interested in taking over the firm, so it died on the vine and was disbanded.”

“Too bad,” Leland said. “From what I knew of them, they were all good men.”

“They were that,” Thomas agreed.

“I can’t imagine what they thought when my father disowned me, but he would have gone through them,” Leland said. “He trusted them and wouldn’t have used anyone else.”

Thomas nodded. “That’s what I thought, too. Ali told you about my going to the print shop to talk to your father?”

“Yes, she said you thought you had brought him around to thinking more favorably of me.”

“I still do,” Thomas said. “As I said, Kevin Miller died in the early seventies, but for years his widow kept his office just as he’d left it, complete with an antique partners’ desk, leather-bound appointment books, a collection of ancient and very valuable fountain pens, blotting pads, law books, even a functioning radio console from the thirties. After Mrs. Miller died in the late nineties, she left the whole of her estate, including her long-dead husband’s office, to the Bournemouth Historical Society. The first time someone from there ventured inside, she said she felt as though she had stepped into a time capsule, and she had. They dismantled the room, down to the paneling and wainscoting, and moved the whole kit and kaboodle to the museum, where it boasts a display room all its own.”

“What does any of this have to do with my father?” Leland asked.

“I’m coming to that,” Thomas said. “You see, I belong to the historical society. Linda spent years serving on the board of directors. So when the display opened, I was granted special permission to spend some time in the room on my own. I wasn’t sure if this would be there, but I believe it offers firm proof that your father had changed his mind. As soon as I found it, I took the book to the office and copied the applicable page. This is it.”

He paused for a moment and then pushed the piece of paper in Leland’s direction.

As Leland unfolded it, Ali craned her neck to see what it was. It appeared to be a page taken from an old-fashioned oversize appointment book. The eight-by-eleven copy covered only part of the page, starting at eleven
A.M.
Each entry showed a name and a notation of purpose. Property sale; property dispute. The third entry showed the name Jonah Brooks. Next to the name was a simple two-word notation: Revise will.

“That was from Stewart James’s appointment book for 1954,” Thomas explained. “That page is from October 13, three days after your father died. A month earlier, on September 16, weeks after you left
town, there’s another listing for Jonah Brooks with the same notation. I believe the first appointment was when he wrote you out of his will. I believe the second appointment, the one he died without keeping, was one in which he intended to disavow the first one.”

The paper trembled in Leland’s fingers. Tears glistened on his cheeks. He turned to Ali. “It’s proof, isn’t it.”

“Circumstantial, perhaps,” she said, “but telling nonetheless.”

The barmaid came by to deliver their platters of steaming pasties. She looked at Leland’s tearful face and saw the same expression mirrored in the face of the man across the table.

“Will that be all now, Thomas?” she asked solicitously, as though demonstrating a willingness to eject Ali and Leland if they were causing her regular customer any difficulty.

“That will be all, Patty,” Thomas said quietly. “Thank you for asking.”

E
ven before LeAnne went to bed, she had planned on sleeping in the next morning. She awakened at six-thirty to the sounds of her mother getting the boys fed and ready for school. Rather than rushing out of the room to help out, she simply lay there listening, both shocked and grateful that they didn’t need her. Still, it hurt her feelings to think that, in her absence, Thad and Connor had learned to function quite well without her.

After Phyllis left to take the boys to school, LeAnne treated herself to a shower. Venturing into the kitchen in her robe, she poured a cup of coffee and then turned to the pile of unopened and unpaid bills that had accumulated on the kitchen counter, many of them stamped with
FINAL NOTICE
. There was no point in opening any of them. LeAnne had no money, wasn’t working, and might not have a job to go back to. As she went to put the stack back down on the counter, a business card hidden among the larger envelopes slipped out and fluttered to the floor. On it was the name Detective Richard Hernandez, along with a series of phone numbers. Scribbled on the back in Phyllis Rogers’s handwriting were the words: “Contact him for help building a wheelchair ramp.”

Suddenly furious, LeAnne flung the card in the trash. How dare he?
she wondered. The guy who arrested Lance and sent him to that horrible place is interested in building a wheelchair ramp now that his leg is gone? No way in hell is he getting anywhere near my house. Besides, if I lose the house, who needs a damned wheelchair ramp? It was all too much. LeAnne was verging on tears when her phone rang. “Mom?” Lance said after she said hello.

Just hearing his voice was enough to jar LeAnne out of her momentary funk. Losing the house was nothing. Lance was hurt, and he may have lost a leg, but at least he was alive. He was awake and able to speak. The endless days of sitting at his bedside and wondering if he would awaken were over. “How are you?” she asked.

“The doctor was just here,” Lance said. “They’re planning to move me out of the burn unit and into a regular room later on today, maybe this afternoon.”

You are better, LeAnne thought. You’re not just saying it. “That’s great,” she said aloud. “Your brothers will be thrilled. They’ve been begging to come see you. Once you’re in a regular room, they’ll be able to do that. They’ve missed you terribly.”

“It’ll be good to see them,” Lance said quietly. “I’ve missed them, too.”

That had been an issue the whole time Lance was locked up. Thad and Connor had begged to see him, but Lance had absolutely forbidden it. He hadn’t wanted them to see their big brother in his jail jumpsuit; hadn’t wanted them to remember him like that. So how could it be okay for the boys to see him lying in a hospital bed, terribly injured and with an amputated leg? What kind of memories would that leave behind? LeAnne wondered. Lost in thought, she came back into the conversation with Lance asking, “Where did you get her?”

“Get who?”

“Sister Anselm. Where did you dig her up? I asked if she’s a doctor or a nurse. She says she’s a patient something. Advocate, I think is the word she used. That makes it sound like she should be on my side, but it’s just the opposite. She just keeps hanging around and pestering me.”

“Sister Anselm is there to look out for you, Lance,” LeAnne said, “and we’re lucky to have her. Knowing she would be there with you was the only reason I could come home last night. I never would have left if she hadn’t been there in my place.”

“She bothers me,” Lance said. “A lot. When are you coming back?”

“As soon as Grandma gets back from driving the boys to school. I’ll be there sometime between nine and ten. Is there anything you need?”

He seemed to consider for a long time before answering. “Do you remember my box of Transformers?” he asked.

LeAnne laughed. “Of course I remember your box of Transformers. How could I forget? You were totally addicted to them by the time you were four. I thought when you started with computers, you’d get over that fad, but you never did. The last time you caught Connor trying to play with them, you almost bit his head off. I saved them for you, and I put them up on the top shelf in my closet so he wouldn’t be tempted again.”

“Would you mind bringing them to the hospital?”

LeAnne blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding, right? You’re almost eighteen years old, you’ve spent the better part of the last year in jail, and for the last two weeks you’ve been in a hospital bed hovering on the verge of death, but now you want to play with your Transformers?”

“Just bring them,” Lance insisted. “Please.”

“All right,” she agreed. “I will.”

The back door opened. Phyllis came in from the garage, reeking of cigarette smoke and accompanied by her dogs. Phyllis’s smoking was the single bone of contention between LeAnne and her mother. Phyllis wouldn’t quit, and LeAnne wouldn’t allow cigarettes inside her house. They had hammered out an agreement that Phyllis would smoke out-of-doors or in her car and not around the children. That meant every time she came back into the house, a cloud of smoke came with her.

The two dogs, both pugs, took one look at LeAnne and began barking their heads off. “Sorry to have them barking at you in your own house,” Phyllis apologized.

“Why shouldn’t they?” LeAnne asked, leaning down to pet them. They sounded fierce but they weren’t. “They’ve hardly seen me the whole time they’ve been here. If they didn’t bark, they wouldn’t be doing their jobs.”

“How did you sleep?”

“Like a log,” LeAnne answered, stuffing the stack of unpaid bills into the pocket of her robe.

“Did you have breakfast?”

“Not yet.”

“While you get dressed, I’ll make scrambled eggs and toast.”