Chasing the Wind

by Pamela Binnings Ewen

  Raymond passed by, giving a whoop under his breath.

  The hum of conversation in the room increased. She saw Bingham walking toward the door, hands in his pockets, and she longed to catch up with him, to make her case for the house on Kerlerec Street.

  Bingham stopped when he reached Doug and slapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going back to the hotel," he said. "Call me when we're ready."

  "Not staying for lunch?"

  He shook his head. "Not today. Anyway, I just had breakfast. I'll take a nap and eat later on at the hotel, unless you call first."

  Raymond arrived just then with Rebecca in tow. He looked at the two of them. "Check the documents on the table while we've got some down time. Make sure no signatures are missing." And so Bingham escaped, and Amalise began working her way down one side of the table, Rebecca the other, flipping pages to assure that all signatures were complete.

  Doug sat back, winged his arms behind his head, and said, "Looks like we have a deal."

  As Bingham strolled down the hallway, headed for the elevator, he inspected the pictures along the walls, looked into the familiar offices with open doors, the secretaries' desks. The sound of typewriters, telephones, copy machines grinding behind him, spitting out those endless piles of documents. He wouldn't miss this place.

  He rode down the elevator, walked through the lobby, and crossed the street. At the Roosevelt Hotel, he saluted the bellman and went up to his suite. There he walked directly to the desk in the living room and dialed the hotel operator.

  It was 9:20 in the morning. "Overseas operator, please."

  "Yes, Mr. Murdoch."

  He waited a few minutes, and when the international operator came on, he gave the number he was calling and the name. A minute passed, then two. He leaned back in the chair, feeling relaxed. At last she came back on the line.

  "All circuits are busy, sir. I'll have to ring you back."

  "Fine. That's fine." He had plenty to do while he waited.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A shaft of light slid through the bedroom window, extending its reach inch by inch until it reached Jude, and he woke. The light was warm. And the small body curled against him was warm. He lifted his head and saw Luke. At once, everything came back—Amalise in the waiting room at Charity, Touro Infirmary, bringing Luke home.

  He lay there, letting his mind adjust to a waking state, one arm still flung over Luke, the other over his head. He'd moved from the chair to the bed sometime during the night. Turning his head on the mattress—he'd left the pillow for Luke—he saw the boy was awake and watching him.

  Jude moved his hand gently across Luke's back and smiled.

  Luke gave him a cautious look.

  "You don't know where you are, and you don't know who I am. But you remember last night, don't you?" He patted Luke's back, feeling the slight, sharp shoulder blades. "And you remember that Amalise left you in my care, so you'll trust me, just a little bit for that reason."

  Luke said nothing.

  Jude pushed up, propping himself on his elbow, looking down at Luke. "Remember Mak?" He saw the quick muscle movement around the corners of Luke's eyes. He pointed to himself. "Well, I am Jude."

  Luke stared.

  Touching his chest with two fingers, he repeated the words. "I am Jude. Jude." Then he touched his finger to Luke's chest, speaking softly. "And you are Luke."

  Luke looked down at the finger, then up at Jude.

  "Luke," he repeated.

  Jude blinked and nodded.

  Grinning, Jude swung his legs to the side of the bed and twisted around. He ran his hand lightly down the cast, then patted it. Not too bad, he thought. The doctor had said he'd be moving around on crutches soon. Jude could show him how—he'd had a broken bone or two in his time.

  Luke reached down and touched the cast where Jude had touched it, then gave Jude a questioning look.

  Jude nodded. "We'll work it out, Luke. Get you used to it. Come on." He stood, bent, and gently lifted the child into his arms. "Come with Jude."

  Luke hooked one arm around Jude's neck and studied his face from the new angle.

  Jude chuckled, then brushed Luke's forehead with a kiss. "I guess you must be hungry. Let's go find some breakfast." He turned toward the door, and as he did he saw the beginning of what he thought might be a smile on the little face.

  Bingham Murdoch went into the bedroom and pulled a small, dark-green duffel bag from where he'd stashed it in the closet, behind the shoes and under the hanging clothes. He could get comfortable now. Whistling, he wandered to the window while he untied his tie, scanning the sky in the direction of the lake. City haze muted the blaze of sunshine, softening the vista in a yellow sheen.

  Bingham yanked off his tie with glee. He changed into a pair of khaki pants and a light-blue linen shirt that he'd always liked because it let the air in, kept him cool. He sat on the edge of a chair and yanked off his socks, then slipped his bare feet into a pair of well-worn loafers. No more socks either.

  When he'd inspected himself in the long mirror and found everything to his satisfaction, Bingham retrieved a package from the chest of drawers, one he'd prepared yesterday. He'd wrapped it himself in slick white paper that he'd bought at Woolworth's. He'd even tied it with a gold ribbon that curled at the ends. For a moment he considered writing a note and then rejected the idea. The gift spoke for itself. He tossed it on the bed.

  The telephone rang, and he picked it up.

  "Mr. Benjamin Salter of Banc Franck is on the line, Mr. Murdoch."

  "Thank you." He waited through a few seconds of hisses and clicks as they were connected. Gazing through the window, he envisioned himself flying through the clouds, unbound.

  "Benjamin Salter here."

  He snapped to and slid the sheet of paper on the desk closer to him. "Hello, Ben," he said in a cheerful tone. "Bingham Murdoch."

  "Yes, Bingham."

  "I'm calling to confirm my second set of standing instructions dated November 16, 1977."

  "I've got it here."

  "Please confirm the funds transfer order from account number 13672 in accordance with those instructions."

  "May I have your security code?"

  Bingham gave it to him.

  Ben Salter then read the instructions back to him, word for word. Bingham looked at his watch. It was now 9:40.

  "And the status?"

  "One moment." There was a pause. "Right. The two transfers are confirmed, completed in accordance with the instructions."

  "Thank you, Ben."

  "My pleasure."

  Bingham hung up.

  From the closet he picked out a leather jacket, one with long sleeves with ribbed stretch cuffs and waistband. He plucked a blue baseball cap from the top shelf of the closet and jammed it into the jacket pocket. Chuckling, he tucked the package with the gold ribbon under his arm and headed for the door.

  A general feeling of celebration pervaded the conference room during the lull while waiting for bank money to roll in from the syndicate. Frank Earl had parked himself in a chair near the telephone. The line to the wire room was held open now. After a half hour, he made the first announcement of bank funds received.

  Amalise and Rebecca sat side by side at the conference table, lounging and drinking coffee, struggling to stay awake. Neither had slept in more than twenty-four hours. But most of their work was finished now—all they could do was wait. Rebecca said she was looking forward to the celebration at Arnaud's. Tom was driving her there, she said, with a sideways look at Amalise.

  But Rebecca's words were lost in Amalise's haze of worry. The end of the day loomed like the Berlin Wall for Amalise, with the confrontation with Robert she knew was coming.

  She consoled herself with the thought of seeing Luke tonight at Jude's h
ouse. She wanted to hold him for a while, take him home to her own house on Broadway. And she longed to talk with Jude about everything that had happened, to be near him.

  Rebecca nudged her. "Go call him. See how the boy's doing."

  Amalise hesitated.

  "Oh, go on. There's plenty of time." She glanced at Frank Earl sitting by the phone. "We've got at least a couple hours before the last bank money hits."

  Amalise nodded and pushed herself up from the chair. Rebecca was right—she should call. She fixed a smile on her face as she walked to the door. Robert would never see her tears. Nor her fear.

  When Amalise returned to the conference room, Rebecca flagged her. Working her way through the tired and jubilant crowd, she dropped into the chair beside Rebecca again.

  "Did you get in touch with Jude?"

  Amalise smiled. "Everything's fine. They're getting along, he says. He's feeding Luke breakfast."

  "Just like that man."

  Amalise looked about. Tom and Robert were hunched over a calculator at the end of the table, Robert's fingers racing over the keys while Tom murmured. She suppressed a sigh of relief. Right now she wasn't his main diversion.

  "How many banks are in?"

  "Four. The two on the West Coast are the only ones left. The holiday traffic's slowing down the wires, but we're still on schedule." Rebecca leaned back, spread her arms over the chair, and smiled. "And then the Cayman funds will arrive, and then we'll all go off to Arnaud's."

  "Or home to sleep."

  Rebecca gave her one of those looks. "Amalise, we've had this talk before. You've got to socialize, get to know people like Robert and Tom and Bingham. You need face time; they're players." She grinned. "We're the Silver Girls, remember?"

  Right, but this one has been tarnished. Aloud she said, "You're right. I know you're right."

  If Robert won, Rebecca would find out soon enough anyway.

  An hour passed and then Frank Earl announced receipt of the funds from Sacramento. One bank to go. It was getting close to lunchtime. Preston said he'd order sandwiches or something, but Robert objected. It was early yet, he said. The celebration at Arnaud's was to be a late lunch.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  At twelve noon Amalise picked up the phone in her office. Sitting in the conference room all morning across from Robert had set her nerves on end. She'd call Jude one more time, just to make certain Luke was safe.

  A thought struck like lightning: This was mother love. In Luke's heart—and somehow her own—he was hers.

  Slowly she set down the receiver and swiveled back to her desk, turning over this thought in her mind. She had never let herself think this way before. This child wasn't a toy she could borrow from Caroline to play with and then return when he became inconvenient.

  Across the room the transaction books held her gaze. Deals. Excitement. Travel.

  And then there was Luke.

  She dropped her head into her hands. This wasn't the time to spin that web, the compartmentalizing of one part of her life from the other, as she'd done when she was married to Phillip, struggling to give one hundred percent of herself to her marriage and her career. Because even if Robert was successful in having her fired from Mangen & Morris, she would fight to retain her license, to continue practicing law. She would find a way, somehow.

  And where would that leave Luke?

  Her thoughts cleared. She saw the struggle, a single mother competing against men and women like Rebecca, whose careers were their highest priority. The competition in the legal profession was fierce.

  No. Loving Luke was like loving Jude. An impractical, unobtainable, but profound emotion that was better left alone.

  That settled, she picked up the phone and called Jude.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi. How's Luke?"

  "As I told you an hour ago, he's just fine." Jude's voice held a smile, and she felt herself relax. "I've been singing to him all morning, but he's asleep right now."

  "Singing?"

  "Yeah." He laughed. "Well, what can you do? Listen. I just talked to Caroline. Luke's going to stay here a few nights. He's comfortable, and frankly, she sounded relieved. She's worried about those stairs and how he'll get around."

  "But—"

  "I told her not to worry. We'll get him some crutches tomorrow, those little ones they make for kids. I'll teach him how to use them before he goes back."

  Amalise didn't say anything.

  "Are you coming here once you're finished there?"

  "Of course!"

  "Good. Caroline wants you to stop to pick up some of his clothes. She'll have them ready for you. Can you do that?"

  "Oh. Ah, sure." Her thoughts spun. Everything had been flipped upside down. She picked up a pencil and drew circles on a notepad, thinking of Robert and what lay ahead here in the office. "It might be a while."

  "No problem." Jude's voice was hearty. "He's asleep right now. Like I said, I've been singing. I think going to sleep was his way of shutting me up."

  Amalise had to laugh.

  "Amalise?"

  "Yes?"

  "How are things at the office? Did anyone notice your absence last night?"

  "No. You and Rebecca took care of everything." Her throat grew tight. She blinked back tears. Self-pity, she knew. Jude loved Rebecca. And Robert was lurking in the conference room, waiting like the Count of Monte Cristo to exact his revenge.

  After providing Jude with a few more details of how she'd slipped unnoticed into the conference room the night before, they said their good-byes and she hung up the telephone.

  She pulled her purse out of the drawer and applied some lipstick and powder. She brushed her hair, tucking back some stray stands, and stood. She would go back to the conference room and wait along with everyone else on the team, and when the last twenty million arrived from Cayman, she'd find out her fate.

  At 12:30 Frank Earl walked into the conference room waving a piece of paper in the air. "The last bank's in. Funds just arrived. I've sent Banc Franck a fax stating that the lending group's funds have all been received."

  Tom raised his fist and shook it.

  Robert stood and raked his hands through his hair. "Let's get Ben Salter on the phone. Get that twenty million moving."

  Amalise looked about, then leaned toward Raymond. "Where's Murdoch?"

  Raymond glanced around and shrugged. "He's been gone awhile. At the hotel, probably."

  Frank Earl walked over to the phone, still on the conference table and leaned over it. "What's our time look like? We're calling Banc Franck right now. How long will the transfer take, do you think?"

  From the speakerphone, a weary voice: "No way to tell. It could be some time, being an international transfer and the day before a U.S. holiday."

  Robert, brusk, harsh: "Then we need to get started. I'm putting you on hold. Stand by." He pressed the button and looked around at Tom.

  Tom nodded. "You're the CEO now. Go ahead and make the call."

  Robert pressed the second line and dialed the operator. "I need to make an international call."

  "One moment, please."

  Robert shook his head, glanced in Amalise's direction, and snapped his fingers, pointing to copies of the wire transfer memorandum on the desk, just out of reach. Preston, sitting nearby, picked up a copy and handed it to Robert. The international operator came on, and Robert gave her Benjamin Salter's number in Grand Cayman.

  Another wait. Robert leaned against the credenza, looking out over the room.

  Amalise tensed, clasping her hands in her lap and twirling her thumbs under the table where they couldn't be seen.

  Tom walked over to the windows and linked his hands behind his head, looking out in the direction of the Marigny District.

 
"Benjamin Salter." The voice cracked through the room.

  "Ah, Mr. Salter. Robert Black, new chief executive officer of Lone Ranger."

  Tom turned from the window.

  "Congratulations, Mr. Black."

  "Frank Earl of First Merchant Bank is here with me. I believe he's sent you notice that the lending group has funded, triggering the transfer of investor funds from your bank to the parent company account here at First Merchant Bank."

  "Account number, please."

  "Account number 13672. Is the transfer in process?"

  "May I have the security code?"

  Robert frowned. His face flushed. He turned, looking at Tom. "Excuse me, Mr. Salter. What did you say?"

  "I'll need the security code."

  "I don't have a security code. Don't know what you're talking about. Just advise us as to whether the transfer of funds from the account has been initiated."

  "Mr. Black." There was a sigh, but Benjamin Salter's tone was patient. "I'm not in a position to release that information without the security code."

  Robert threw up his arms, then bent again toward the phone, lower this time, as if he could see the man on the other end. "What do you mean you can't release the information? I'm speaking for the company."

  "In any event, I'll need the security code. We have procedures, as you know."

  Robert raised his brows.

  Tom shrugged.

  "We'll fax copies of the corporate certificates confirming my position in the company, if that's what you need."

  "I've already received a copy. But without the security code—"

  Robert broke in, leaning on the conference table and glaring at the phone. "We have a schedule to keep. Have the funds been put on the wire or not?"

  The voice was measured—polite, but firm. "Mr. Black, my hands are tied. Bingham Murdoch has the code if you do not. Get him on the phone or obtain the security code from his records. In either event, once you have the code, I'll be happy to oblige."