by Andrea Kane
Patrick gave an exaggerated groan. “God, I think he’s rubbing off on her.”
An interesting choice of words, Casey thought.
Quickly, she glanced at Claire, then Ryan. She watched Claire avert her gaze, her cheeks tinged with pink. And she saw Ryan, who would customarily be delivering one barb after the next, remaining uncharacteristically silent, an odd expression crossing his face.
These two had so slept together, it wasn’t funny.
“You know, Patrick, I think you’re right,” Casey said. “They’re definitely rubbing off on each other. So tell us, guys, when did this start?”
Claire blanched. “What?”
“This sudden self-confidence that smacks of Ryan—only a tad less arrogant.” Casey was the picture of innocence. “When did it start?”
“I’m just acknowledging how right-on my awareness was this time,” Claire said, recovering herself. “I’m pleased that I was connecting. That doesn’t mean I’m professing to be a world-class genius, as do others we know.”
“Like you, I only speak the truth.” Ryan had clearly regained his composure, as well. It was business as usual.
“I speak it. You flaunt it—and exaggerate it,” Claire corrected him.
“Nah. Gecko and I were definitely the heroes of the day.” Ryan grinned. “Although you didn’t do too badly. I don’t begrudge you a few self-congratulations.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Acknowledgment, Ryan. Not self-congratulations. I didn’t win the lottery. I helped locate a man who’s desperate to save his child. I did my job.”
“Yes, you did,” Casey said quietly, bringing the conversation around to the grave situation at hand. “We all did. But it’s not enough.” She lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked up to regard her team soberly. “Technically, our jobs are over. But they’re really not, are they?”
The rest of the team grew equally sober.
“No, they’re not.” Patrick answered for all of them. “And they won’t be until this crisis comes to a successful conclusion. We’re professionals—damned good ones. But we’re also human. We care. We’re emotionally invested in this case. That’s one of the things I most admire about working with this team.”
“Ditto,” Ryan said.
“We’re not even close to being out of the woods.” Claire made the statement with a faraway look in her eyes. “I don’t understand all the medical jargon. But it’s complicated. And it will be a long road till it’s over.”
“And when it is?” Casey asked. “What will the outcome be?”
A frustrated shrug. “I wish I knew. The energy I’m picking up on is overwhelmingly emotional—on so many levels—and it’s coming at me from all sides.”
Marc rejoined the group at that moment. Briefly, he met Casey’s gaze and gave her a quick nod. The call had been made, the wheels set in motion. As they spoke, FBI agents would be descending on Fenton’s home, his New York offices and his maritime operations in Bayonne. And that was just the start. The dominos would begin to fall, one by one. And, by the time they’d all crashed down, the Bureau’s interviewing rooms would be as full as the AUSA’s docket.
Casey nodded back.
“I ran into Hutch in the lobby,” Marc informed the team. “Evidently, he and Mike put the necessary items in Paul’s bag to help disguise his identity. Since he’ll be at the hospital for at least three days—more, if he’s a donor match, he needs to be unrecognizable. That was part of the deal. This way, he can move freely to the lab for blood and diagnostic tests, and stay in the PICU with Amanda and Justin without worrying about anyone spotting him.”
“He won’t be leaving Sloane Kettering,” Claire responded. “Not for a long time. Whether or not he’s a match, he won’t leave Amanda’s and Justin’s sides. Not after all they’ve been through to become a family. He’ll be here to see Justin through this crisis. Damn the Bureau.”
* * *
Standing with Amanda outside Justin’s window, Paul was thinking exactly that. Right now, everything he cared about was right in front of him. He saw all the apparatus, all the tubes helping Justin with his struggle to survive. But he also saw his son. His son. Amanda was right. He could see himself in the tiny person whose eyes would occasionally open as if he was somehow aware that someone new had been added to his life.
Paul could actually feel his chest constrict. The emotion, the fierce sense of protectiveness, the entire feeling that seized him was indescribable. And, in that moment, he knew he’d move heaven and earth to make sure his son lived a healthy, normal life.
While they waited for Dr. Braeburn, Paul filled Amanda in on his real name, his job with the FBI and the fact that he was involved in a deep undercover operation throughout their time together. He couldn’t share the details. Nor did they matter. All that mattered now was Justin.
Dr. Braeburn came out of his office and approached Paul and Amanda. He’d already explained all the specifics to Paul, starting with the preparation Paul would undergo for the four days prior to the transplant. Then came the day itself. The apheresis—the actual technology during which Paul’s blood would pass through an apparatus, collecting and separating out the cells necessary for the transplant and returning the remaining blood to his circulatory system—was a four-hour procedure, followed by a ten-hour purification process to enrich the stem cells as much as possible before the blood was ready to transfer to Justin. The transplant itself would be done right in the PICU and was an IV infusion of Paul’s purified stem cells into Justin’s body.
At Paul’s insistence, Dr. Braeburn had reviewed what to hope for afterward, although he warned Paul not to accept the timetable as ironclad.
“Each case is different,” he’d explained. “Engraftment can take place anytime between ten and twenty-eight days. So I don’t want you losing faith if it takes longer than the two-week period I’ve suggested. Also, I know Amanda’s mentioned graft-versus-host disease to you. We’re hoping that won’t happen, but we’ll have our experts in several pediatric subspecialties—hematology, gastroenterology and dermatology—monitoring Justin for fever, rashes, diarrhea and anything else that could indicate GVHD. We’ll also have our infectious diseases specialists monitoring him for infections of any kind.”
Paul couldn’t help himself. He had to ask the question that Amanda had sidestepped with him earlier, only because she so desperately wanted to put it out of her mind. She knew the answer. But to hear it said aloud—again—she just couldn’t bear it.
Still, she understood. Paul had to know.
“If I’m a healthy donor match,” he asked Dr. Braeburn, “and if the transplant takes place, what are Justin’s immediate chances for survival?”
Dr. Braeburn regarded him soberly. “If Justin weren’t as sick as he is right now, I’d say close to ninety percent. But I won’t lie to you. Given his physical condition, his chances are a little better than fifty-fifty.”
Amanda’s insides twisted, and she turned away, tears clogging her throat.
“But we’re not going to focus on odds,” the doctor continued. “We’re going to focus on a positive outcome. If the engraftment takes place and clears the pneumonia—which I’m hoping it will—Justin’s long-term survival rate will increase to ninety percent, after which there’s every reason to believe that he will live a full and healthy life.”
For the umpteenth time, Amanda found herself silently praying. But she also knew that, between now and then, there were so many hurdles to conquer, so many “what-ifs” to face.
“It will be all right,” Paul murmured, as if reading her mind. His fingers closed around hers. “We’re going to beat this, Amanda. Justin’s going to beat this.”
She nodded, determined to stay as strong as she’d been before Paul’s return. She’d coped with this all alone. Now she’d cope with it together with Justin’s father.
One step at a time.
Paul was anxious to take step one.
“Everything’s been arranged,” Dr. Braeburn informed Paul. “Once your blood’s been drawn, you’ll go through a battery of tests, just to make sure you’re healthy and there’s nothing to rule you out as a donor. Then, you’ll come back up here. Amanda will show you the visitation protocol, and the sterile attire you’ll have to wear before going inside. After that, you’re welcome to spend time with your son. I know you want to hold him, but that will have to wait. The fewer people who handle him right now, the better.”
“I understand.” Paul nodded. He looked ashen.
“Let’s get you tested,” Dr. Braeburn said gently. “We’ll take it from there.”
* * *
The FI team was waiting when Amanda and Paul—now with blond hair, glasses and two-inch lifts in his shoes—emerged from the PICU and into the waiting area. Paul paused, gave Amanda a quick kiss and squeezed her hands hard. Then, he waved at the FI team and headed purposefully off toward the elevator.
Amanda walked over to join the team.
“I was instructed by Agent Hutchinson to stay here with you,” she told them quietly. “My being by Paul’s side would make him more recognizable. This way is safer.” She gazed anxiously after Paul. “I wish I could be there. I wish they could tell him the results on the spot. I wish…” She broke off and gave a hard shake of her head. “I’m not letting myself think that way. I’m just going to be grateful that you found Paul, and believe in my heart that it’s a good sign. I have to think positively, for Justin’s sake.”
“That strategy has worked up until now,” Marc
reminded her.
“You’re right.” Amanda’s expression changed. “Your team and I haven’t had a chance to talk. We do now. How guilty was my uncle? Where do things stand on that front?”
“Listen to me, Amanda.” It was Casey who spoke. “You’re a very intelligent woman. You realize this situation goes a lot deeper than any of us realized. Let’s just be grateful that Paul was one of the good guys.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Amanda’s gaze was steady. “And I need to know. Obviously, Paul is an undercover FBI agent assigned to a high-level case. So who was following us? Was it other agents sent to prevent you from finding Paul?”
“Most of the time, yes. They were keeping a close eye on our progress. They were also the ones who made that unnerving phone call to you in an attempt to scare you off.”
“Most of the time,” Amanda repeated. “Well, since the FBI wouldn’t go so far as to kill us, that means the danger you were sensing about us being watched came from a different source, like from organized crime.”
No response.
“Whatever you’re not saying, it involved my uncle,” Amanda pressed. “What has he done?”
“A lot,” Marc answered her bluntly. “None of which we can discuss with you. And none of which you can take to your uncle. We located Paul and got him home. We didn’t do it without some assistance. So it’s time to respect the FBI’s wishes not to have their investigation compromised. Once things are out in the open and arrests have been made, then we can talk and you’ll have plenty of time to hurl accusations at Fenton. Until that time, all you can know is that he’s committed more than one crime. But he didn’t know that Paul was alive, and he didn’t keep him away from you and Justin. Leave it at that.”
Blowing out a breath, Amanda studied Marc’s face, which, as always, was carefully blank. “All right. I won’t ask you any more questions. But it makes me ill to think that my own uncle did something that made it necessary to erase Paul’s existence. Paul Everett’s existence,” she amended. “That man is gone forever. But Paul Evans is here. And he won’t be disappearing or going undercover again. No matter what, Justin will have his father. And when the FBI gives you the okay, I plan to find out every single thing my uncle is guilty of. Then, I’ll tell him exactly what I think of him.”
“Just don’t do it now.” Marc’s words were more than a request. They were a command.
Amanda’s chin came up in surprise. Marc had never before used that sharp tone with her.
Now she saw what had triggered it.
Marc’s penetrating stare was fixed on a point over her shoulder. She turned to see her uncle Lyle striding into the PICU waiting room, clearly on his way to see Justin.
“Don’t, Amanda,” Marc instructed her. “Be cold. Be aloof. But don’t tip your hand—not if you want to keep Paul safe and to see justice done.”
Amanda nodded. She took a few deep breaths, then walked away from the FI team and toward her uncle.
Patrick took an instinctive step in their direction.
Marc seized his arm. “Leave it alone. We can’t tip our hand any more than Amanda can tip hers. We’re all here en masse. He won’t try anything stupid.”
“What the hell is he doing here to begin with?” Ryan muttered.
“Probably stopping by on his way to sewers unknown.” Marc’s tone hardened. “He can save himself the trouble of fueling up his jet. After my phone call, Fenton’s not going anywhere but to jail.”
“But he doesn’t know that yet,” Casey reminded him.
“True. But I’ll find Hutch. He can’t have gone far. That means that the longer Fenton’s here, the better the chance that he won’t walk out a free man. So let’s let things play out.”
“In the meantime, I hope Amanda can pull this off.”
“She’ll pull it off,” Claire said quietly. “She’ll do it for Justin, and for Paul.”
“Uncle Lyle.” As if proving Claire’s point, Amanda greeted him in nothing more than a guarded tone. “I didn’t realize you were coming by today.”
“Amanda, hello.” Fenton halted. At the same time, he glanced to his left and saw the entire FI team standing in the waiting room corner.
Clearly, he was not happy with that scenario. He couldn’t be in control of the conversation, not when he was uncertain about what the team had told his niece. Plus, Marc intimidated the hell out of him.
As if in disgust, Marc turned and stalked out of the room.
That gave Fenton some hope.
It also gave Marc the time he needed.
He went into the men’s room and turned on his phone. He didn’t give a damn if it was allowed or not.
He pressed Hutch’s number on speed dial.
“Hey,” he said the instant Hutch answered. “Where are you?”
“I just joined Mike outside the lab. Why?”
“Fenton’s here. He’s with Amanda. We’ve got our eyes on him. But call whoever you need to. Put a rush on those warrants. My gut tells me this is a stopover to the airport. You stay with Evans. Keep him away from the PICU until you hear from me.”
“Done.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Back in the waiting room, Fenton was testing the waters.
“I wanted to check in on Justin—and to talk to you,” he said, gauging his niece’s reaction.
“About what?” With or without realizing it, Amanda was blocking her uncle’s path with her body, erecting an invisible but protective wall between her uncle and her son.
Fenton played his cards with great care. “About the future—Justin’s future.”
“The only aspect of Justin’s future I’m interested in discussing is the one where Dr. Braeburn tells me that my son is out of the woods and is going to live a full and healthy life.”
“I understand that.” Fenton went for a softer approach. “And I have no doubt that’s going to happen. Since Cliff Mercer’s plea, half of his political district has come forward to be tested. So have the student bodies of both his kids’ colleges. Between that and your online video, word of Justin’s condition is on the front burner, coast-to-coa
st. You will find a match.”
“I pray you’re right. But, in my heart, I know the best match would be Paul. That’s the person I really want to find.”
Fenton wet his lips. “Any progress?”
Amanda’s nails dug into her palms, but she remained composed. “I get the sense that Forensic Instincts is getting somewhere. But they’re reticent about discussing it with me because they don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“So they haven’t told you anything?”
“Only that they’re interviewing a number of people, including some slimy ones. And that some of those slimy individuals might be colleagues of yours.” She gazed pointedly at her uncle, awaiting his response.
He looked relieved. It didn’t take a psychic to figure out why. If that was all Forensic Instincts had revealed to his niece, then Fenton was in a good place.
“You know the kind of business I’m in, Amanda.” He went for a factual approach—but one that was devoid of self-implication. “It’s a tough one to run, and I run it. I can only speak for my own actions. No one else’s.”
Amanda had a hard time hiding her disgust. “I understand that,” she forced herself to say. “And, I know that if you had any information at all that might help find Paul, you would have shared it.”
“Of course I would.” Fenton’s stance was relaxed now. He was back on sure footing. “Are you holding up all right?”
“Touch-and-go.” Amanda didn’t have to fake the pain in her voice. “Justin is in a very precarious state. He’s sick. He’s gotten sicker. And all the antibiotics in the world can’t cure him—not without an immune system to fight things off.”
“I know.” Fenton looked genuinely concerned, which he was, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. He cleared his throat. “But, as I said, I know you’ll find a donor. Which is why I want to discuss Justin’s future—especially now when I’ll be away for a while.”