Moving Target (2 page)

Mercifully, for a long time after that, he remembered nothing.

A
s the British Airways 747 lumbered toward Heathrow, Ali Reynolds looked out into the early-afternoon light. The ground gradually appeared through the gray, the details obscured by flurries of snowflakes eddying around in the turbulent air. The previous day, a Sunday in early December, when she and Leland Brooks had driven down from Sedona, Arizona, to Phoenix to board their evening flight to London, the temperature at Sky Harbor had been in the low seventies. Obviously, it was a good deal colder than that in the UK. The full-length leather coat she had brought along—the one her flight attendant had delivered to her seat just as the plane began its descent—would be most welcome in London’s wintertime weather.

Ali glanced across to the opposite side of the aircraft to see how Leland Brooks, her eighty-something traveling companion, was faring after sleeping in his own private pod, a clone of hers, in the front-most section of the first-class cabin. He sat bolt upright in his seat, staring out the window. She suspected that he was searching for some familiar detail in the hazy landscape. Though he was always exceptionally neat, Leland’s usually impeccable white hair was slightly mussed. He’d had fun on the way over and looked a little worse for the wear after sampling a few too many of the comforts of flying first class.

When Leland, her longtime aide-de-camp and majordomo, had learned that B. Simpson, Ali’s fiancé, had booked Leland’s accommodations in a first-class seat right along with hers, he had strenuously objected. “You shouldn’t,” he had said. “Surely a coach ticket would be more than sufficient for me.”

“For the guy who saved my girl’s life by doing battle with a murderous thug in the middle of the desert?” B. had responded. “For you, my dear sir,” he added with a grin, “first class is just barely good enough.”

It was only a matter of weeks since Leland had put his Korean War–era Royal Marine Commando training to good use by taking down an armed gunman intent on adding Ali’s name to his growing list of homicide victims. The drama had taken place on the banks of Lake Mohave, in the northwest corner of the Arizona desert. Although Leland was the one who had landed the vicious blow to the skull that had taken the bad guy down, it had required the combined efforts of several of the men in Ali’s life to make that blow possible.

B. Simpson hired the helicopter that had flown her rescuers to a timely rendezvous in that almost fatal corner of the vast Arizona desert. Stuart Ramey, second in command at High Noon Enterprises, B.’s high-tech security company, had found an effective but not exactly legal way to locate Ali’s murderous captors. Her friend Dave Holman, a Yavapai County homicide detective, had arranged for the coordinated multi-agency law enforcement response that had taken down the remaining bad guys once Leland disabled the one intent on harming Ali. This all-expense-paid trip, Leland’s first visit back to the land of his birth in almost sixty years, was B.’s generous way of saying thank you to the man for saving Ali’s life. It was also a way to use up some of B.’s ever accumulating stash of frequent-flier miles.

Leland seemed to feel Ali’s eyes on him. Glancing in her direction, he reached up and self-consciously smoothed his ruffled hair. He had come on board wearing a suit and tie, looking the part of a dapper, well-traveled gentleman. The first-class flight attendants had been drawn immediately to his still discernible English accent. From the moment
the first one helped him stow his hand luggage, he was her favorite. She had fussed and fawned over him the whole trip, plying him first with champagne and single-malt Scotch and later with brandy. Ali suspected that when he fell asleep, he was probably more than slightly tipsy.

Now, though, from the way he kept watching out the window, Ali suspected he was anxious. Why wouldn’t he be? After being estranged from his family for decades, Leland Brooks was about to meet up with his long-lost relatives. Anticipating how the reunion would go, Ali and B. had agreed that there most likely would be very little middle ground. It would either be good or it would be bad, without much in between.

Ali knew that a simmering quarrel between Leland and his two older brothers had forced him to leave his homeland all those years earlier. The brothers were deceased now, and one of their grandsons had issued the invitation for Leland to come home for a visit. Those long-dead brothers were also the main reason Ali had decided to accompany Leland on this journey. If the reunion turned out to be a good thing and all was forgiven? Fine. No harm; no foul, and she would leave Leland and his collection of relatives to their own devices. On the other hand, if everything went south, Ali would be on hand to watch Leland’s back and lend whatever help was needed, including an immediate escape if that was deemed necessary.

The plane landed on the tarmac with a gentle bump and then went into what seemed to be an endless taxi. Ali took the time to repair her lipstick and check her makeup. She had slept some, too, although not enough. She was glad they had decided to stay in London tonight rather than setting out right away for Leland’s old family stomping grounds in the city of Bournemouth in southwestern England. This afternoon they would be meeting up with the first of the relatives. Jeffrey Alan Brooks, the great-nephew who had sent Leland a handwritten olive-branch letter some two months earlier, had agreed to meet their flight and accompany them as far as the London hotel.

When the plane finally swayed to a stop at the gate, Ali stood up and retrieved her carry-on luggage. Leland joined her in the aisle.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“Far better than I expected,” he said. “The accommodations on board remind me of home.”

By “home” he meant his compact fifth-wheel camper, which was parked on the far side of Ali’s garage at her home on Sedona’s Manzanita Hills Drive. Before Ali purchased and refurbished the place, Leland had spent most of his adult life working and living in the house, where he served as aide-de-camp for both the previous owners, first Anna Lee Ashcroft and later Anna Lee’s troubled daughter, Arabella. When Ali assumed ownership, Leland had offered to stay on long enough to help with the remodeling. That rehab project was now years in the past, and Leland was still very much part of the package.

In the intervening time, he had managed to insinuate himself into the very fabric of Ali’s life. He was far beyond what most people regarded as retirement age, but since he lived to work, Ali let him keep on working—up to a point. Out of deference to his age, she hired a crew of gardeners and housecleaners to do the heavy lifting that she considered beyond Leland’s physical capability. In her kitchen—a room designed to Leland’s own exacting specifications—he continued to reign supreme, cooking delectable meals with a practiced ease that always left her in awe.

“I hope we’ll see you again,” the flight attendant said, beaming at Leland as he stepped into the Jetway.

“Next week,” he said.

“Your father is so sweet,” the attendant whispered to Ali as she went past.

Their relationship was far too complicated for Ali to attempt an explanation in passing, so she didn’t. “Thank you,” she replied, and let it go at that.

Leland paused in the concourse and waited for Ali to catch up. Behind them, a flood of business and coach passengers, rushing to appointments or to make plane connections, came surging past them. Not in a hurry themselves, Ali and Leland stood for a moment like an island in a stream while the flood of hurrying people eddied around them.

“Heathrow seems a lot bigger than Sky Harbor,” Leland observed. “And far bigger than I remember.”

“It is bigger,” Ali agreed with a smile, “and this is only one terminal. Let’s get going.” They stepped into the moving current of people, among the last of the passengers to come down the concourse. “I know you said Jeffrey will be meeting us here, at Heathrow,” she said. “Do you have any idea what he looks like?”

Ali had no doubt that Leland was filled with misgivings about meeting up with a relative who also happened to be a stranger among the crowds who would be clustered in the arrivals lounge. Ali sympathized. The idea of finding the right stranger anywhere was something that gave her fits of anxiety as well.

Leland shook his head. “Jeffrey wasn’t born until twenty years after I left home,” he said. “So I’ve no idea what he looks like.”

With some effort, Ali bit back a possibly caustic comment. In the age of the Internet, it would have been easy and thoughtful of Jeffrey to forward a photo of himself. Since he hadn’t done so, there was no point in agonizing about it. “We’ll make it work,” she said determinedly.

The immigration line seemed to take forever. Soon another planeload of hurrying and impatient passengers was lined up behind them. When Leland first went to work for Anna Lee Ashcroft, she had sent him back to the UK to attend a butler training school, where he evidently made no effort to be in touch with his friends and relations. Since then, he had done no traveling outside the U.S. When B. had suggested that Leland might want to visit his family sooner than the planned family reunion scheduled for the following summer, his lack of a current passport had seemed like an insurmountable problem; with the aid of some of B.’s connections inside the federal bureaucracy, Leland’s brand-new passport had arrived in under a week. This was the document he now handed to the immigration official, who smiled at him when she paged through it and saw there were no previous stamps. “First time here?” she asked.

“First time in a long time,” he said.

“Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure.”

“Enjoy, then,” she said cheerfully, and handed it back. The woman turned to Ali. “Business or pleasure?”

“Pleasure,” Ali told her. “And to buy a wedding dress.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“A little over three weeks now,” Ali answered. “Christmas Eve.”

When B. suggested that she squeeze in taking Leland to England in December, under a month before their scheduled Las Vegas wedding, it had seemed like a bad idea. Later, when she saw how much of an emotional tailspin the wedding had created for her parents, she was more than happy to be out of town for part of the intervening time. Her mother, Edie Larson, was in full meltdown mode, frantically sewing matching ring-bearer and flower-girl outfits for Ali’s grandchildren, twins Colin and Colleen, who would be part of the wedding party.

Edie was making her own mother-of-the-bride dress while Ali’s father, Bob, was in a funk over the prospect of having to show up in a rented tuxedo. The more momentum the planning gained, the happier Ali was to escape some of the pressure, to say nothing of her parents’ next “will not wear a tuxedo” battle; as far as Ali was concerned, her father could show up in a pair of OshKosh overalls. The trip had given Ali an excuse to step away from the circus atmosphere, as well as the opportunity to shop for her dress in privacy rather than with a band of too eager assistants, her mother included.

The immigration officer stamped Ali’s passport and handed it back. “Enjoy your stay,” she said. “And congratulations.”

Moments later, Ali and Leland stepped through the glass door and into the terminal at large. Just as she’d anticipated, there was a large crowd assembled in the arrivals area outside immigration. Ali paused, looking around and trying to imagine how they would recognize Jeffrey Brooks in that crush of people. Leland, however, didn’t hesitate. He strode forward with his hand outstretched and a broad smile on his face, aiming for a tall, spare young man—a thirtysomething with thinning
hair—who stood front and center. Moments later, the two men were clasped in a tight embrace.

Ali arrived on the scene as Leland escaped the hug. He stood staring in wonder at his great-nephew and shaking his head. “I would have recognized you anywhere!” he exclaimed. “You look just like my father as I remember him.”

“DNA will out,” Jeffrey replied with a grin, “and you’re not the first person to mention that. My great-aunties are forever saying the same thing.” Noticing Ali’s arrival, Jeffrey turned to her. “You must be Ms. Reynolds.”

“Call me Ali,” she said, holding out her hand and replying before Leland was able to say otherwise. In the departure lounge at Sky Harbor, Ali had elicited Leland’s grudging agreement that for the duration of the trip, he would address her by her first name rather than by something more formal.

Jeffrey grinned back at her. “Ali it is, then,” he said. “Now, what about your luggage? Shall we go pick it up?”

“We’re only here for a week,” she said. “We’re making do with carry-ons.”

“Very good, then,” Jeffrey said. “I’ve hired a car and driver. Shall we go?”

He led the way through the terminal. When they reached the proper transportation door, he went out to locate the vehicle while Ali and Leland took the opportunity to don their coats.

“So Jeffrey looks like your father?” Ali asked.

“Very much so,” Leland answered.

“If you’ll pardon my saying so, he bears quite a resemblance to you as well.”

Leland nodded. “Jeffrey looks the way I remember my father. He wasn’t much older than Jeffrey is now when I left home, and I never saw him again after that.”