Ali had no doubt it was the possible loss of all that potential that had goaded B.’s involvement in Lance’s case, but it wasn’t until she saw the article about the most recent fair, one in which San Leandro again took first place, that Ali tumbled to what B. had seen.

  When the San Leandro Computing Club went looking for their fourth win in the annual Longhorn Science Competition, the idea of coming away with the grand prize, as they had in years past, was seriously in jeopardy. For one thing, the club’s faculty adviser, longtime math teacher Everett Jackson, passed away last year. In addition, the talented student who led the charge in the recent past and who had served as team captain in the two previous winning years no longer attends San Leandro High.

  Concerns about not winning proved groundless when the San Leandro Saints brought home the grand prize in the competition once again, this time under the leadership of their new team co-captains, Andrew Garfield and Jillian Sosa.

  As she had previously, Ali took copious notes. There was something about the name of the first co-captain that hit home. She highlighted it and pressed Find. Immediately, her cursor landed on an earlier note and the name of the San Leandro superintendent of schools—Richard Garfield. Were Andrew Garfield and Richard Garfield related? Garfield wasn’t all that common a name.

  Ali remembered reading articles about girls’ cheerleading competitions getting out of hand when parents saw to it that their daughters made it onto the cheering squad no matter what. Maybe this was a variation on that theme. Maybe this was all about a second-class geeky guy wanting to be captain of the team.

  She wrote a brief note to Stuart Ramey back home in Sedona: “Are Andrew Garfield and Richard Garfield related?”

  Once the note was written and encrypted, she loaded a photo onto her thumb drive from her camera, one she had snapped of Leland boarding the plane in Phoenix, dropped the question into the mix, and sent it off to elarson@highnoon.com. Under the photo, she added the unencrypted caption “Leland Brooks is headed home.”

  With that, having done as much as she could in one day, Ali turned off the lights in the sitting room and returned to her own part of the suite.

  She went to bed, but she didn’t sleep. As she lay there, restless and wakeful, Ali had a feeling there was something she was missing—some part of the puzzle that B. hadn’t told her or that she had yet to glimpse on her own. She also worried about Sister Anselm. If B. thought Lance Tucker was in danger, then what about Ali’s friend? Wasn’t she in danger, too?

  At last Ali slept. When she awakened, it was late enough that wintery sunshine filled the room. Knowing that a run would do her a world of good, she dredged up the running shoes and tracksuit that she had crammed into the bottom of her suitcase and headed out.

  The Highcliff Hotel was just that—on a high cliff overlooking the beaches and promenades for which Bournemouth was famous. She raced down the aging flight of stone steps that led away from the hotel’s grounds. First she went west on the footpath along West Cliff Promenade, past the lift, and down the zigzag path that led through the garden, where she turned back east, still on the footpath, this time running next to the sandy beach.

  As Ali pounded past the pier, the amusement park and rides and beachside cafés were shuttered for the season, although people were taking full advantage of a small break in the cold weather. The footpath was crowded with people out walking dogs or pushing strollers; the beaches were alive with preschool-aged children chasing after seagulls. Along the way Ali nodded and smiled at her fellow runners, who, like her, were pleased to be doing their wintertime morning workout outside rather than in some overheated gym. When she finished her long circuit, the stairs leading back up to East Overcliff seemed far longer and steeper than they had on her way down.

  Ali arrived in their suite to find Leland not only fully dressed but happily enjoying a solitary room-service full English breakfast. There was only one breakfast tray, but Ali noticed that there was a large pot of coffee along with an extra cup and saucer. Unasked, Leland filled the empty cup and passed it to her.

  “For decades I somehow resisted the American custom of drinking coffee in the mornings,” he said with a smile, “but I believe you and Mr. Simpson have worn me down. I still can’t drink the stuff straight the way you two do, however. I much prefer mine with a bit of cream and sugar.”

  Ali took a sip of coffee. It was weaker than she would have liked, but at least it was coffee. She sat down on the sofa and waited. Leland Brooks had been part of her life long enough that she understood there was more going on than the mere offer of morning coffee. In the old days, when she worked as a journalist, Ali might have pressed for answers at once. Her classes in interrogation at the Arizona Police Academy had taught her that sometimes it was best to simply wait and let the looming silence create its own kind of pressure.

  “I thought about it overnight, and I’d like you to come with me,” Leland said at length. “To the cemetery, I mean. Yesterday’s storm seems to have blown itself out, and today is expected to be unseasonably warm.”

  “I’ll come along on one condition,” Ali said.

  “What’s that?”

  “After the cemetery, you come with me to look at wedding dresses.”

  “Fair enough,” Leland agreed.

  “Let me shower and change clothes, then,” Ali said. She disappeared into her own room. When she emerged half an hour later, Leland’s empty breakfast tray had been replaced by a fresh one.

  “I took the liberty of ordering for you,” he said, pulling out a chair. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Ali shook her head. “Even on vacation, you can’t get out of the habit of looking after me, can you?”

  “I suppose not,” he said. “It’s hard to teach old dogs new tricks.”

  An hour after Ali returned, she and Leland left the hotel, properly attired and comfortably fed. It would have been easy to catch a cab, but they decided to take advantage of what felt like balmy late morning weather, meandering through the central shopping district and the winter-dead gardens with Leland confidently directing their path as though no time had passed between now and when he had last wandered these same streets. On the way, he pointed out the building on Albert Road where his father’s print shop had once been located. The space was now occupied by an Indian restaurant.

  A little over half an hour after leaving the hotel, Ali and Leland made their way into the small churchyard cemetery tucked behind St. Stephens Church. Many of the grave markers were so moss-covered that the names engraved on them were unreadable. Some of the stones leaned at odd angles, as though the slightest wind might send them tumbling. Leland led Ali through the collection of assorted grave markers with the same confidence he had used to guide them through the streets of Bournemouth.

  “Our family plot was always in the far corner,” he said.

  Though Leland had said that he wanted Ali to come with him, on the way there, he had maintained an uncharacteristic silence. He walked past the graves of both his brothers and their wives without a word and without giving either a second glance. It wasn’t until they stopped in front of two matching headstones that he spoke again. “These were my parents,” he said in a flat voice, as if offering an introduction to someone among the living rather than to someone long dead.

  Ali studied the words and numbers printed there. Jonah Brooks. Adele Mathison Brooks. According to the dates chiseled into the granite, Jonah Brooks was a relatively young man when he died. When Adele died eighteen years later, she was the same age as Ali’s father now. Their outcast son had outlived his father by over three decades, but in that moment, as Leland pulled a white hankie from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes, Ali realized that, for him, the pain of losing his parents was as fresh right then as if their deaths had happened yesterday. They had died while he was gone, and he had never, in all the intervening years, had a chance to pay his respects.

  “I’m sorry,” Ali said. At first that was all she could think of to say. After a pause, she added, “Your father was only fifty-five when he died.”

  Leland nodded. “When I was growing up, he always seemed larger than life. I always thought he was a good father. One of the things I respected most about him was that he was always scrupulously fair. Some parents clearly favor one child over another. He was never like that, or at least I never thought he was like that.” Leland paused. “But you’re right, of course. He was very young. He died in September 1954, less than a month after I left Bournemouth for the U.S. My father wasn’t ill, at least not as far as I knew. It seemed to me he was in the prime of life. When Langston told me he was dead, I had a hard time believing it was even possible. Not only was our father dead, Langston was only too happy to let me know that I had been disowned prior to his death. That was a second blow, one that hit me hard. I wouldn’t have expected that of my father. Even now I find it difficult to accept. My decision then was to simply turn my back on all of them—to move forward with my life and not give them another moment’s thought. In large part, I succeeded in doing that, but now that I’m here, I find myself wanting to know more, especially after what Jeffrey said the other night.”

  “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.

  Somewhere 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.”