Moving Target (24 page)

Ali was copying Stuart’s file into her thumb drive when the room’s phone rang. She snatched it off the table before the end of the second ring.

“Did I wake you?” B. asked.

“No, but if it’s midnight here, it’s two hours later in Zurich. Why are you awake, and why are you calling on the hotel phone? Leland’s probably awake, too, but if he’d been sleeping, the phone might have disturbed him.”

“I’m awake because I’m worrying.”

“About me? I told you, I’m fine. I had some Aleve in my purse, and I took some.”

“That’s not what I’m worrying about. I’ve been thinking about your traffic incident. Tell me again what happened, in detail, from the moment you saw the oncoming headlights until the cops showed up.”

Ali went over it again. B. made no comments until she finished.

“After the guy pulled you out of the Land Rover and went back to get your purse and phone, how long was he gone?”

“I’m not sure. He helped me into his car. I lay down in the backseat, and he covered me with a blanket of some kind. Once he left, it seemed like he was gone a long time, but that may be because I was scared and not thinking straight. The time lines are probably a little disjointed.”

“No,” B. said. “I think it took a long time because he was doing something else while he was gone.”

“What?”

“I’m thinking this was a planned event, and you were deliberately targeted,” B. said. “If I’m not mistaken, someone put a tracking device on your vehicle so they would know where you were at all times.”

“A tracking device?” Ali echoed. “How would someone have done that?”

“Sometime between when you rented the car and when you were
run off the road. I believe whoever staged the accident chose to strike at a time and place when you’d be alone and going slowly enough that they could force you off the road without necessarily killing you.”

“You’re saying this was a two-man operation?”

“Yes, one in the approaching vehicle and one in the vehicle behind you. The guy in the Volvo who was there as your supposed ‘rescuer’ was there to lay hands on your phone. You couldn’t see anything he was doing when he went back to your car, could you?”

“No, like I told you, I was lying down in the backseat.”

“I’m assuming he used that time to remove the tracking device and clone your phone,” B. said. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet money on it. So for now, your phone is bricked as far as any sensitive material goes. That includes voice conversations, as well as e-mails and texts. The problem is, whatever’s in your document folder is also at risk, since anything that goes on your computer is also available on your phone and iPad.”

“Crap,” Ali said.

“That’s putting it mildly. Who have you talked to on the phone since you got it back?”

Ali had to think before she answered. “Hertz, the tow truck guy, you, and Sister Anselm.”

“What did the two of you talk about?”

“She wanted me to have Stu get some information on a guy, a guard at the detention center named Marvin Cotton. Lowell Dunn seemed to think he might be connected to all of this.”

“If Marvin Cotton happens to be part of what happened here, that also means you and Sister Anselm have just given him a huge heads-up.”

“Great.”

“What about your thumb drive?”

“I still have that.”

“Good,” B. said. She heard the relief in his voice. “When I put Stuart to work on Marvin Cotton, I’ll let him know that we need a whole new encryption protocol ASAP. Fortunately, none of High Noon’s official
encryption program ever showed up in your phone. Otherwise we’d really be in the soup.”

“What do we do about my phone, cancel it?”

“No,” B. said. “For the time being, continue using it but only for noncritical communications. For whoever is listening in, it will look as though nothing is wrong. Let’s see if we can set a trap with misinformation and find out who’s responsible. My money’s on UTI.”

“The guys who tried to buy off LeAnne Tucker?”

“The very ones.”

“I can’t believe they cloned my phone,” Ali said. “I feel violated.”

“You have been violated,” B. replied. “That’s what cyber security is all about. You feel violated, and I feel pissed. Now let’s both get some sleep. We’re going to need it.”

Without the heart to use any of them, Ali left her collection of compromised electronics in the sitting room. If they were being used to spy on her, she didn’t want them anywhere near her. Rather than going straight to bed, she ran a hot bath and then sat in it, still feeling violated.

As the steam rose up around her, she remembered the time in seventh grade when she’d proudly taken her new diary, a Christmas present from Aunt Evelyn, to school with her when classes resumed in January. She’d been in the library, writing in the diary about a sleepover with her best friend, when a boy from their class, a mean kid named Todd Mortimer, had come by and grabbed the diary out of her hands. He’d spent the rest of the day entertaining the boys in her class by reading pieces of it aloud.

This is the same thing, only much worse, Ali realized, and whoever did it isn’t going to get away with it.

A
fter a grueling day of rehab and bandage changing, Lance Tucker was once again sleeping in the arms of pain meds. Grateful to have her patient resting comfortably, Sister Anselm Becker let the lonely hours tick away by remembering the other time she’d been in Texas. The first time she’d been here.

At the outbreak of World War II, Sister Anselm had been a child when her father, Hans, a recent German immigrant, had been arrested and incarcerated as a suspected spy. While being jailed in Milwaukee for a year, he had come down with TB. By the time he was transferred to the new internment facility in Crystal City, he was desperately ill. Because medical care at the camp was almost nonexistent, Sister Anselm’s mother, Sophia, a native-born American, asked to be allowed to join him in order to care for him. She was told by the authorities that permission could be granted but on only one condition: that she relinquish her American citizenship along with that of her two daughters, Rebecca and Judith.

After selling most of the family’s worldly possessions, Sophia and her daughters arrived in Crystal City with only what could be carried in three small suitcases. For most of the family, the move to Texas was an unmitigated tragedy. Rebecca hated every minute of it, but for ten-year-old
Judith, the camp was an adventure. After living in a basement apartment in Milwaukee and enduring the perpetually gray winter skies, Judith thrived under the bright blue skies. She loved the wide-open spaces. The school system was rudimentary at best, but Judith, already bilingual and with a natural affinity for languages, soon learned to speak the languages of her newfound friends and their parents.

Eventually, the family was shipped to New York and then put on a ship to be “repatriated” to Germany in a prisoner-of-war exchange. During the voyage, Hans Becker died. By then Sophia, too, had developed TB. Dreadfully ill, she and her daughters were set adrift as displaced persons in war-torn Europe. The family was taken under the wing of a convent in France. It was there that Judith’s uncanny skill with language came to the attention of a wise mother superior who harnessed those abilities and educated her in nursing. It was a combination of those two things—her nursing skills and fluency in multiple languages—that had brought Sister Anselm to the attention of Bishop Gillespie and eventually, all these years later, had brought her back to Texas.

At four o’clock in the morning, Sister Anselm was drowsing at Lance’s bedside when there was a tap on the door. She hurried to answer it before a second knock awakened the patient. Outside, she found a fresh-faced teenage candy striper holding a small bouquet of flowers. “For Mr. Tucker,” the girl said.

“He’s asleep right now,” Sister Anselm explained, moving the girl farther into the waiting room and away from the door. “I’ll give them to him when he wakes up.”

Sister Anselm stood waiting, flowers in hand, long enough for the young woman to step into the elevator and disappear. The middle of the night was an odd time for flowers to arrive, coming in through the hospital’s front entrance, since, after ten o’clock each night, that was the only way in or out. The bouquet first would have been dropped off with a receptionist at the front desk, who would have summoned the candy striper to deliver them. Sister Anselm studied them. There was no price tag on the bottom of the small square vase, nothing to indicate
which florist might have provided the collection of bright red rosebuds and tiny white mums. An envelope on a clear plastic prong stood in the middle of the flowers, but there were no identifying marks on that, either. The only thing visible was the handprinted name Lance Tucker.

Taking the flowers back into Lance’s room, Sister Anselm set the bouquet down on the bedside table. In the process, she made some small noise that was enough to awaken the patient.

“Could I have some water, please?”

Sister Anselm poured fresh water into a glass and handed it to him.

“Mom said you’re not a regular nurse. Who are you again? And where’s my mother?”

“I’m your patient advocate,” Sister Anselm explained. “Your mother went home to spend the night with your brothers.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Almost two weeks,” Sister Anselm said. “Your mother’s been here the whole time you’ve been in the burn unit. I encouraged her to go home for one night, at least.”

When Lance finished drinking, he handed the glass back. As Sister Anselm returned it to the table, he caught sight of the bouquet. “Somebody sent me flowers? Who?”

“There’s a card,” Sister Anselm said. “I left it for you to open.”

She plucked the envelope out of the arrangement and handed it to Lance. It took a moment for him to tear it open. When he removed the card, a tiny piece of paper fluttered out and drifted down onto the spread of his bed. As Lance read the card, Sister Anselm retrieved the stray bit of paper and handed it back, noticing that it was a photo, printed on ordinary computer paper, and crookedly cut to fit inside the envelope. The subject appeared to be the photo of a small blond-haired boy wearing a backpack. An older woman was helping him into the backseat of a car.

As soon as Lance read the message, Sister Anselm saw from the monitor that his heartbeat sped up. “Oh, God,” he said despairingly. “It’s bad enough that they came after me. Now they’re after my family,
too?” Crushing the envelope, the card, and the photo into a single wad of paper in his fist, he flung them across the room, where they bounced off the bathroom door.

“What’s wrong?” Sister Anselm asked. “Who’s after you?”

“I can’t talk about it right now,” Lance said. “I’ve got to think. Go away and leave me alone. Please.”

Sister Anselm complied, but on her way out of the room, she paused long enough to pick up the three discarded pieces of paper. Out in the waiting room, she pulled them apart. The tiny gift card featured a top border gaily emblazoned with the words
HAPPY HOLIDAYS.
The words below the greeting, printed in the same handwriting as on the outside of the envelope, were of another order entirely: “We know where they live. We’ll be in touch.”

Sister Anselm read through the message three times, internalizing the implied threat, then studied the photo before pocketing the papers and reentering the room. Lance’s eyes were closed, but she could tell from the monitor that he wasn’t asleep.

“I read the card,” she said quietly, “and I looked at the picture that was in the envelope. I’m assuming the boy is your little brother. Who’s the woman?”

“My grandmother,” Lance answered. “I already told you, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You have to,” Sister Anselm urged. “If someone is threatening your family, you must call the police.”

“I can’t,” he croaked. “No police.”

“Then let me talk to them,” she said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the police are behind it,” he said. “They have to be the ones who are doing this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because whoever tried to burn me up was able to get to me inside the detention center. They didn’t have to bother waiting until I got out.”

“Clearly, you have something these people want,” Sister Anselm said quietly. “It’s either something they want for themselves or something they’re desperate to suppress. I believe some of the same people killed Mr. Dunn.”

Undisguised shock washed across Lance’s pale face. “Mr. Dunn is dead, too? That nice old guy? No. What did he ever do to hurt anyone?”

“What he did,” Sister Anselm explained, “is come by the hospital and offer to help you. He told your mother as much, and that very night, his house burned down. They’re saying the fire was an accident caused by a smoldering cigarette, but I’m not sure I believe that. His daughter doesn’t. What about you? What do you think?”

Lance stared at her and didn’t answer.

“Doesn’t that make what happened to Mr. Dunn sound a lot like what happened to Mr. Jackson?” Sister Anselm continued. “I’ve been given to understand he committed suicide shortly after you went to jail, but maybe he committed suicide the same way you set yourself on fire.”