A flash of deja vu struck him. Once again he was on the edge, looking out into a deep, dark void. But darkness was his friend.
Turning, he signaled Robert that he was leaving.
The operation at Touro Infirmary had taken almost three hours from beginning to end. Luke was asleep by the time Jude reached home. The night had turned cold, and one of the nurses had lent him a fresh blanket, which he'd wrapped around Luke.
Flicking on the living room light, Jude carried Luke upstairs to the guest room next to his own. He pulled down the quilt and gently laid him on the bed. He picked up a pillow, fluffed it, and wedged it against the casted leg. He wished he'd thought to get a teddy bear or something at the hospital gift shop, something Luke could hold onto when he woke up.
Jude went into his bedroom, picked up a straight-backed wooden chair, and brought it into the guest room. There he placed it beside the bed at an angle and sat. He stretched his legs out and rested his feet on the board beneath the mattress, clasped his hands behind his head, and leaned back.
He could hear Luke's breathing, soft and even as he slept. Jude gazed out the window. From where he sat he could see down into his neighbor's yard, a small, neat square of grass divided from his own by a mutual fence. The yard was a well-kept place, not an unruly jungle of banana leaves and ginger like his own. He yawned. Clearing that out would be his next task. Soon.
His eyes roamed past the other neighbors' yards, all quiet now and dark, to the strip of indigo sky sprinkled with silver stars above the rooflines.
Luke moved, restless in sleep, and Jude's closing eyes snapped open. His feet dropped to the floor and he bent forward. Leaning over the child, he placed his hand on the bony shoulder, studying the face of this boy whom Amalise loved. His lips were moving, as if whispering to himself in dreams. A tiny furrow had dug in between his brows. Jude patted his shoulder, wanting to take away the pain this child had endured.
Sitting back again, Jude slid down in the chair until his weight settled on the small of his back. He rested, elbows on armrests, chin braced on his hands as hours passed. Once, Luke cried out, rolling his head to the side, eyes wide and frightened.
Jude sat there watching over Luke, until at last his own eyes closed.
Two hours later Luke woke up in the big bed and stared at the ceiling. His leg felt strange. He moved and felt the weight, testing. Lifting himself from the pillow, he braced on his elbows and looked down at the leg that had hurt so badly last night. He took in the solid white bandage wrapped around it, starting just below his knee and ending just before his foot. He wiggled the toes. They worked.
So he lay back down, head on the pillow, telling himself that she would come. Mak would come. Tears slipped down his cheeks. He lay very, very still.
Sometimes when he waited for Mak, he got confused, remembering another face from long ago in another world. But he couldn't hold on to that face. Sometimes he could feel his hand in hers, and then her hand slipping away. Then would come a rush of fear, and he would think that maybe, this time—like then—Mak would not come back, after all. And then the drumbeat would start in his chest.
Sometimes when he struggled to remember, he could hear the voices screaming again—those high, chattering, faceless sounds—and he would feel again the forest of legs closing in, and the hot itching crust of sweat on his skin. And then he'd fight to breathe, wanting to call out, but knowing she wouldn't hear. Because she hadn't, had she?
He blinked and turned his head to the door. For a moment he was startled, seeing the man sitting there, head lolling to one side. But he was sleeping, and Luke remembered his kindness earlier that night. But where was Mak?
He thought of her eyes that smiled at him. The soft voice, the way she held him close. Yes, she would come. Slowly he began to relax, watching the open door in this strange room. If he was very still and very good, maybe she would come.
At last his eyelids grew heavy, fluttering. He fought to stay awake for Mak.
And then he slept.
Chapter Forty-Four
Bingham woke smiling. He'd left the curtains open in the bedroom, and he lay there watching sunshine streaming through the windows. Today was the day.
Tossing the covers aside, he stood and stretched, looking out over the expanse of the city. The city looked fresh in this first light, gilded with a rosy, golden glow. He could almost feel the cold breeze sweeping across the water on Lake Pontchartrain, chopping the small swells into frothy white lines that appear and disappear before you're sure you've seen them.
Except for the lunchtime excursions he'd directed to various exquisite restaurants throughout the city, he'd been trapped in that stuffy conference room for the past six weeks, cut off from the world. Cut off from fresh air and sunshine, from people who thought of life as a stream of boundless beauty and joy, instead of something to be described word by exacting word on endless reams of paper.
Feeling fine, he showered and dressed. Picked up the phone and ordered coffee, orange juice with lots of pulp, and toast. Nothing too heavy today—he wanted to hold onto this feeling of lightness and freedom. Wishing for a pair of khaki pants and a loose-sleeved shirt, he instead pulled a navy-blue suit from the closet, along with a stiff-collared and cuffed white shirt and a burgundy striped tie. Everyone was expected to dress for a closing. Not much longer, he told himself, whistling.
Robert had planned a celebration after the funds arrived, a late lunch for the whole team at Arnaud's that was sure to stretch into the evening. Spicy Shrimp Arnaud to start, and then pecan-crusted speckled trout, potatoes au gratin, bread pudding, and champagne. Plenty of the bubbly. Bingham smiled, turned before the mirror for a last inspection. Then he went to the desk in the living room, opened the drawer, and pulled out a sheet of paper.
Briefly he thought of Amalise Catoir. He'd left her beavering away with everyone else last night. He considered having a talk with Robert about the futility of revenge, then thought better of it. She'd be all right. The outcome was inevitable, either way.
Breakfast arrived. He gave the waiter a large tip and received a big smile in return. Gulped down the juice. Sipped the coffee and ate a few bites of toast. Then he folded the clean white napkin just as it had come and placed it carefully down on the table beside the plate.
Whistling again, he headed for the door.
Amalise had changed into the clothes she'd brought to the office Tuesday morning. A gray-skirted suit with a short jacket and pleats around the hem, a white silk blouse with pearls, and black pumps. She'd freshened her makeup and brushed her hair. Now, back in the conference room, she made one last round of the table, checking everything against the closing list.
Every piece of paper was in place. Signature lines were marked with tabs for the clients, who were now drifting in. Laid out on the credenza were sugared beignets from Café du Monde, bagels with cream cheese, a cut-glass crystal bowl of fresh fruit, a shining stainless steel pot of steaming coffee, and a silver tray with cans of Coca-Cola and Tab beside a full ice bucket. Doug had just arrived, and he and Preston now stood in the corner conferring.
Rebecca walked in and caught her eye. Amalise lifted her hand, and Rebecca came her way. Amalise admonished herself for the rivalry and jealousy she'd felt toward Rebecca in the last few weeks. Filled with remorse, she prayed to Abba to forgive her.
"Heard anything about Luke?" Rebecca whispered, standing with her back to Doug and Preston.
"Jude left a message around midnight. It's a broken leg. He's taken Luke home with him, and I'll pick him up there this evening when we're through." Amalise leaned toward her, lowering her voice. "Thank you for saving me last night, Rebecca. For calling Jude. For what you did with the purchase agreements."
Rebecca gave her a quick look.
Amalise smiled. "I'll explain everything later. But . . . I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."<
br />
Rebecca shrugged. "We're the Silver Girls, remember?"
Before Amalise could say anything, Rebecca swept back her hair, lifting it with both hands as she looked around. Tom walked in and she turned, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. With a grin, he headed in their direction, eyes on Rebecca, and Amalise moved away.
Tom was a fresh reminder of Robert's threats. Amalise walked over to the windows and gazed out over the business district, wondering if this was her last day with the firm. The odds were against her, she knew. She'd involved herself in a situation that wouldn't survive a complaint from a major client. She'd fight with everything she had, but in her heart she knew Robert would have his revenge.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned around. She'd accepted the risk when she'd bought the house on Kerlerec Street, and she knew that if given the choice again, she'd make the same one.
Walking to the corner of the conference table that was nearest the telephone, she picked up a copy of the wire transfer memorandum she'd prepared. Receipt of the investors' funds from Cayman as described in the memo would conclude the transaction, and that's when Robert would make his move. Amalise's stomach clutched at the thought.
Just then, Bingham Murdoch strolled in with Raymond, and they were laughing at something. Raymond had exchanged the D. B. Cooper shirt for a rumpled suit. Bingham swerved to the credenza, and Raymond joined Preston and Doug. Rebecca, holding a cup of coffee, drifted over to her. The two of them stood together while the last players arrived. Adam Grayson entered and headed for the coffee pot. Frank Earl came in, and Doug went to meet him. Counsel for Cayman Trust came in, hesitating at the doorway, briefcase in hand. The letter of credit was inside, she knew, ready for delivery the moment the documents were signed.
Then Robert entered, one arm slung over Richard Murray's shoulders, with Steve and Lars following, all four chuckling. Richard had come in on the red-eye. Amalise looked at Robert and lifted her chin, but Robert's gaze swept past her as he greeted Doug.
Raymond and Preston walked up. "Looks like we're ready," Preston said, standing beside her with his feet spread apart, hands clasped behind his back. She saw Robert glance at his watch and put his hand down on Bingham's shoulder, steering him toward the far end of the table. "Let's get this thing moving."
Power was subtly shifting from Bingham Murdoch to Robert Black, who would become the new chief operating officer of Lone Ranger, once the documents were signed. "The confirmation call with Cayman is set for nine o'clock," he announced. "After that, the wires will take a while, but we'll get to Arnaud's by midafternoon for the serious business."
Everyone laughed.
Frank Earl took his seat at the table, and Preston handed him a pen.
It was 7:30 in the morning on Wednesday. The closing had begun.
Chapter Forty-Five
At 8:50 Amalise tapped Doug on the arm and looked toward the telephone. The conference call with Murdoch's Cayman bank officer and the U.S. lending syndicate was scheduled to begin at 9:00. This was the call to resolve the chicken-and-egg problem. Cayman would confirm the investors' funds had arrived, the signal for the U.S. banks to fund.
Around the table clients were hunched over documents, applying their signatures, surrounded by lawyers handing them new ones each time they finished the ones before them.
Doug looked at Robert. "How's it going? The call's scheduled in ten minutes."
"We're ready." Robert looked at Bingham, and Bingham nodded. Robert leaned back in his chair. "The principal documents are executed. Only a few certificates left. Let's get them on the line."
Doug turned his head and looked at Amalise. She picked up the wire transfer memorandum and dialed Ashley Elizabeth's number. Amalise asked if everything was ready for the conference call to Cayman.
"Yes."
"Are the banks on the line?" The room went silent as eyes lifted to her.
"Yes, all accounted for. They're holding."
"Good." She was gratified to hear that her voice was steady. "Get Mr. Benjamin Salter, Banc Franck, on the line, please. His number's on the list. Call me back when he's connected."
"Will do."
Amalise clicked off the call and lounged back, gazing about, wanting to absorb each moment of this closing in case it was her last. "Looks like things are all set," she said to Raymond.
He heaved a sigh and stretched his neck, closing his eyes. "It seems like we've been working on this deal forever."
"Well, enjoy it because we'll all be bored until the next one comes along."
Raymond straightened in his chair and gave her a wry smile. With a glance at the credenza, he stood. "Want some coffee? Or a Tab?"
She shook her head. Her stomach fluttered as she waited for Ashley Elizabeth to call back. The process of transferring funds from the various banks in the syndicate, and then from Cayman at the last, was tied to the wire transfer memo she'd prepared. She looked down again at the memo, scanning it, praying that nothing had been forgotten. Praying that the investor funds were on deposit in the Cayman account as required.
The phone rang at 9:00 on the dot. She took the call on the receiver, listened, and then nodded. Banc Franck was on the line.
Doug stood and raised his hand. "Listen up, everyone. We're beginning the conference call. Banc Franck's on the line to confirm the investors' deposit." He looked at Bingham.
Bingham's expression was nonchalant.
Robert, beside him, caught Amalise's eyes as she pressed the button to place the call on the speaker, and she fought to veil the rush of fury he aroused in her.
Bingham said, "Will you do a roll call, Miss Catoir?"
Conscious of Robert's eyes, Amalise lifted the memo in hand and leaned slightly toward the speaker. Her heart fluttered. "Good morning, everyone. My name is Amalise Catoir, Mangen & Morris. We'll do a roll call first. When I call your bank's name, please let us know you're on the line."
As she read out the name of each lender on the list, each bank officer answered present. And at last: "Banc Franck."
Benjamin Salter's voice. "Present."
She let out a long breath, and Bingham stood. Long and lean, he seemed to pull himself up as he ran the flat of his hand down his starched white shirt.
"Bingham Murdoch here, Ben."
"Good morning, Mr. Murdoch."
Bingham swung his arm behind his back and rocked forward on his toes, smiling as he turned to the room. "It is a good morning here, Ben. As we arranged, I'm calling on behalf of Lone Ranger, Incorporated." He looked down at the first page of the wire memorandum. "I'm in the Mangen & Morris conference room in New Orleans, and we're presently closing the company financing." Folding his arms over his chest, he gazed down the table. "As you just heard, our bank lenders are on the phone with us. I believe you have the list?"
"Yes."
"With me is our new chief executive officer, Robert Black, as well as Tom Hannigan from Morgan Klemp, Frank Earl Blanton from First Merchant Bank, and others."
"That's fine."
"So." He clapped his hands together. "In accordance with prior instructions, please confirm for us the current balance, in currency, of available funds on deposit in the company's account. That is account number 13672."
Amalise heard paper rustling on a desk from the other end of the telephone.
Ben's voice again: "As per your instructions, account number 13672. The current available balance on account is U.S. $20,200,000.00."
"Confirmed." Bingham turned to Tom and raised his brows. Tom nodded.
Counsel for Cayman Trust who sat on the other side of Doug, snapped open his briefcase. Everyone watched as he pulled out the letter of credit and placed it on the table.
Bingham nodded. "The letter of credit is delivered," he announced into the phone. He looked at Tom, at Robert, at Doug
, and at last, at Frank Earl, who would be speaking for the bank group. "So then, are conditions for each bank's funding satisfied at this point?"
Frank Earl glanced at Doug and then, placing both hands on the table, he half-rose from the chair and hunched toward the telephone. "This is Frank Earl Blanton, First Merchant Bank." He raised his voice. "Are there any questions from the banks?"
A voice on the line: "The documents are executed?"
"Yes."
Another: "Looks good to you, Frank Earl?"
"Yes. I believe the conditions for funding have been met." He paused. "Any objections?"
A chorus of no's responded.
Frank Earl backed into his seat. He spread his hands toward Bingham. "The bank group is ready to fund."
Doug leaned in the direction of the phone. "Doug Bastion here. Let's get those funds on the wires as soon as possible, everyone." He leaned back. Tapped his pencil on the edge of the table.
Bingham folded his arms and looked down at the speakerphone. "Thank you, Ben. That's all we need."
"You are welcome."
Bingham disconnected the call and looked around. "Congratulations, everyone. We're almost there."
Amalise looked at her watch. The call had taken ten minutes.
Chairs were shoved back, and people rose as Bingham threaded his way through them back toward Robert. Robert looked over at Amalise, and this time there was an almost imperceptible smile on his face.
She tossed her head and turned away. She wouldn't make things easy for him.
Frank Earl walked up. "Good job, Amalise." He held out his hand, and she shook it. He reached for the telephone, pulled it toward him, and dialed, turning his back to the room. Amalise waited while he spoke to someone in Merchant Bank's wire room, instructing them to call him in the conference room upon receipt of each bank's funding transfer.
"We're tight," he said. "Need to know the minute the last funds arrive, so we can get that Banc Franck wire in before the end of the day." He listened for a moment, said yes and then no, and hung up.
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