The Line Between Here and Gone (7 page)

“I don’t know.” Claire spread her hands wide, palms up, in a gesture of sheer uncertainty. “Maybe. Their presence isn’t as strong as it was on the expressway. But they’re out there. I just don’t know where. Or why. Or
who.
I’m not getting any flashes. Only vibes. Which makes this all the creepier.”

* * *

One block behind Casey and Claire, a black sedan cruised slowly by Sloane Kettering. The driver paused, watching intently as Amanda disappeared into the hospital. From the passenger seat, his colleague peered through his binoculars, focusing on the FI van until it disappeared from view.

“They’re gone,” he announced.

The driver nodded. Then he punched a number into his cell phone to make his report.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Despite the brisk weather, Marc took a five-mile, predawn run through Westhampton Beach—down Main Street to Dune Road and around the beautiful beaches of Moneyboque Bay. He couldn’t help but wonder if he was overlapping any part of the loop Paul Everett had taken during his own morning runs—the ones that had followed those nights he’d stayed over at Amanda’s place. Had anyone seen him? Talked to him? Or had he made sure to limit himself to private areas where he could ensure himself the solitude he needed for his private phone calls?

There was no way to know. Not unless Marc had the time to locate and interview every Westhampton Beach resident. Which, clearly, he didn’t.

He’d spent the night at Amanda’s vacant Main Street apartment, rather than a motel, out of sheer convenience. At least that was the part of his decision he’d conveyed to Amanda. The truth was, he also wanted to take a private look around their client’s residence. He didn’t plan on violating Amanda’s privacy. He just planned on focusing on the areas of her apartment that he hadn’t had the opportunity to scrutinize in her presence. He wouldn’t open drawers, closets or cabinets—not unless something he saw compelled him to do so.

He didn’t get very far in his endeavors. He’d barely had time to shower, pull on the standard pair of jeans and a T-shirt he brought along as his emergency change of clothes, and guzzle down two bottles of water while sifting through Amanda’s unopened mail in the kitchen, when the doorbell rang. He stayed very still, not moving as he heard the thump at the front door, the retreating footsteps and the roar of a truck as it pulled away from the curb.

A delivery. He didn’t need to look to know that. Nor did he need to guess who the package was from.

With a hint of a grin, Marc crossed over and opened the front door. Bending down, he retrieved the large box from the stoop. He couldn’t wait to see what Ryan had come up with this time.

Taking another belt of water, he carried the box inside and opened it.

A suit, tie and shirt were folded neatly inside. In an envelope was a driver’s license issued to Robert Curtis but bearing Marc’s photo, along with falsified press credentials from Crain’s business magazine in the name of Robert Curtis. Last, there was a note telling Marc to check his email ASAP.

Quickly, Marc laid his business clothes out on the sofa. Then he sat down beside them and opened his laptop, checking his email box as instructed, and seeing the email from Ryan that had arrived seconds ago. The damned genius even knew the exact time when the FedEx truck would show up.

The email was strictly an audio attachment. Marc clicked on it, and Ryan’s voice filled the room.

“Good morning, Mr. Curtis,” he said soberly, in true
Mission Impossible
style. “Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to interview John Morano and learn all you can about him, his real-estate development project and anything he knows about Paul Everett. If there are any leads to be gotten, you’re the guy to get ’em. You have an appointment scheduled with Morano at eleven o’clock this morning—right after his 9:00 a.m. breakfast with Lyle Fenton. Oh, as an aside, sorry I let myself into your apartment, but I had to get you proper business attire for a stick-up-the-ass journalist. And while I’m still on the aside, your wardrobe’s boring. Remind me to give you some pointers. Back to business. I’ve included all you need to be a real live news correspondent. This email will erase in ten seconds. Good luck, Robert.”

Marc couldn’t resist watching and counting backward from ten—although he had no doubt that the inevitable would happen. Sure enough, the instant he muttered “zero,” the email vanished from his screen and his in-box.

Another Ryan-ism. The guy might be full of himself, but he had good reason to be.

Putting down his bottle of water, Marc rose. He had his work cut out for him. He glanced at his watch—7:45 a.m. Enough time to do some comprehensive indoor sleuthing, drive over to Paul’s neck of the woods and chat up a few neighbors and maybe a poker buddy or two, and then head out for Morano’s dock.

It was going to be a productive morning. Marc could feel it in his bones.

* * *

John Morano walked into the Living Room, the Maidstone Inn’s rustic but upscale restaurant in East Hampton. He peered around, shifting from one foot to the other as he searched the room.

Lyle Fenton was relaxing at a quiet corner table, sipping a cup of coffee and glancing over the menu with the casual ease of someone who’d memorized the whole damned thing.

Morano waved to catch the hostess’s attention, pointing at Fenton to indicate he’d be joining him. When the hostess nodded her understanding, he went straight over to join Fenton.

“Good morning, Lyle.” Morano pulled out his chair and sat down on the bright, primary-colored upholstery.

“Morano.” Lyle acknowledged him with a gesture at the silver urn in the center of the table. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” John poured himself a cup, then accepted the menu the hostess handed him. “I’m glad you could meet me.”

“Your message sounded as if it were important. So I made some time. But not a lot of it. I’m flying to D.C. for lunch.” Lyle turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the smoked salmon and onion omelet,” he instructed, passing back the menu. “And a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Yes, sir.” She jotted down his order.

John glanced down quickly, scanning the options. “Two eggs over easy, please, with bacon, crisp.” He nodded his thanks at the waitress as he, too, returned the menu to her.

“What’s on your mind?” Lyle asked.

John folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “I need those permits. I need you to get them for me. I can’t start construction without them. And I need you on board once I get them.”

Anger flashed in Lyle’s eyes. “You called me here for that? We’ve had this conversation, Morano. You know my terms.”

“Yeah. I also know my pressure. I’ve been paying these guys off for months now. I’ve only got so much cash to go around. You know who I’m dealing with. They don’t play games. And they sure as hell don’t take MasterCard. I don’t want to wind up like Paul Everett.”

“I’m afraid that’s in your hands. Being on Southampton’s Board of Trustees, I have my own pressures. It’ll take a lot of calling in favors on my part to get those permits approved, and a lot of feather-smoothing to get the necessary people to accept my company’s involvement in this venture. Turning Southampton into a mini-Manhattan is not a popular idea with the locals. I’ve got to resort to all kinds of incentives. And I never do something for nothing. You know that. You also know what I need from you. This project of yours has the potential to bring in big money. I want a major chunk of that.”

“I promised to give you ten percent of the profits over and above the generous amount I’ll be shelling out to your company. I’ll have documents drawn up to that effect.”

“That’s not enough.”

John blinked. “How much do you want?”

“I want an ownership stake. I believe I mentioned that.”

“No, you definitely did
not
mention that.”

“Then I’m mentioning it now. I’m also mentioning that I want the ability to bring in my own people as investors.”

John’s coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re joking.”

Lyle’s gaze was steely. “I never joke about business.”

“What investors? Who are these people?”

“That’s not your problem.”

“Not my problem? How do I know these investors of yours aren’t more dangerous than the thugs I’m dealing with now?”

“You don’t. Life’s a gamble. The way I see it, you could start demolition, ground-breaking and dredging before winter, or you could go broke and probably wind up dead.” A shrug. “Your decision.”

“Great choice.”

“One other reminder while you make your decision. My company only uses union labor. You’ll have to get the business agents on board with this project.”

John frowned. “It’s one thing to be union on your end. I’m not sure I can afford an entire project using union labor.”

“Again, that’s your issue, not mine.”

“I’ll have to straighten that out with the business agents.”

“Indeed you will.” Lyle paused, nodding at the waitress as she placed their breakfasts in front of them.

“Now I’m going to sit back and enjoy my breakfast,” he informed John as soon as they were alone. “I suggest you do the same. No more on this subject. You know where I stand. My demands are not up for negotiation.”

John’s jaw was working. “Fine. You win. Get me my permits.”

“I’ll have my lawyer draw up the papers.” Lyle calmly chewed and swallowed a bite of his omelet. “Once they’re signed and locked away in my safe, I’ll get you what you need.”

“How long will that take?”

“Not long.” A tight smile. “My lawyer gets paid by the hour.”

* * *

Claire had tossed and turned all night.

Her dreams were plagued by shadowy figures looming close by, threatening…someone. Or
someones
. Was it the team? Amanda? All of the above? She didn’t know. All she knew was that the vision incited a new dark energy inside her—one that was in addition to the eerie vibe she was already trying to make sense of.

Around dawn she sat up in bed, arranging herself in lotus position—her automatic pose for keeping her mind and her body open to whatever energy surrounded her. She loved the serenity of her East Village studio—her little oasis away from the Manhattan madness outside her window. Everything in her home was the antithesis of the congestion, wild pace and loud noise of the streets below. Her apartment was perfect—one spacious living room/bedroom, a galley kitchen and a bathroom. The large room was done in muted pastels, and consisted mostly of uncluttered space. Claire was a minimalist. It gave her room to breathe and to be. Even her furniture itself was open and airy, all natural wicker with pale aqua and sand-colored cushions. Ditto for her bedding. The walls were that same soft sand color, and they were adorned only by a few of her favorite landscape paintings.

She shut her eyes, letting the morning energy flow through her, hoping it would ease the tight knot in her stomach.

It didn’t. Too much wasn’t right. Something had definitely happened to Paul Everett. But it wasn’t death. It was something that conveyed mixed energies—positive and negative—to no energy at all. Maybe he’d barely escaped death? Maybe he’d briefly experienced it? No. Neither of those things felt right. Nor did they explain the perpetual binary energy surges she was experiencing. If Ryan hadn’t all but stated beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man standing on that street corner was Paul Everett, she’d wonder if perhaps he was in a coma, drifting in and out of consciousness.

But she wasn’t visualizing a hospital setting. Then again, she wasn’t visualizing anything at all. Damn, it was frustrating.

The shadowy figures unnerved her equally as much as the eerie flashes of Paul. Danger factored into this equation. She had to zero in on the how, the why, and, most importantly, the who.

Abruptly, another, more painful energy shot through her—and this energy was as clear as glass.

The baby. Oh, no, the baby.

* * *

Amanda was dozing beside Justin’s crib when his whining and restless shifting awakened her. She was on her feet in an instant, and she knew something was wrong the minute she touched him. He was hot. Very hot. And his breathing was raspier than it had been. His tiny chest made a rattling sound each time it rose and fell with a breath.

She raced for the door, nearly running down a nurse who was on her way in.

“Get Dr. Braeburn,” Amanda said frantically. “Justin’s worse. He’s burning up with fever. And his breathing is bad. Please. Get the doctor.”

Not two minutes later, Dr. Braeburn strode into the reverse isolation unit and straight over to Justin’s crib.

He examined him quickly, took his vitals and listened carefully to his chest. “It looks like we’re dealing with a new infection in addition to the others,” he told Amanda, gesturing for the nurse to come in.

“What kind of infection?” Amanda asked in a high, thin voice.

“That’s what we’re going to find out. It could be anything from bacterial sepsis or pneumonia to a fungal infection.” He turned to the nurse, issuing instructions. “I’ll need blood cultures drawn, as well as chest X-rays…” A pause. “Make that a chest CT. We’ll start broad spectrum antibiotics. If I don’t like what I see on the CT, I’ll want a bronchoscopy.” Seeing the terrified look in Amanda’s eyes, he explained. “A bronchoscopy sounds far worse than it is. It’s only a test to check Justin’s lungs. We’ll insert a flexible tube through his nose into his lungs and take some tissue and fluid samples. He won’t feel a thing. He’ll be asleep. We’ll do the procedure in the ICU. Once we know what we’re dealing with, we’ll know how to treat it.”

“You’re already adding more antibiotics. How else would you treat it? What is it you’re looking for?”

“I suspect that Justin has bacterial pneumonia on top of the parainfluenza pneumonia,” Dr. Braeburn replied as gently as he could. “In which case I’m going to put him on a pediatric ventilator to ease his breathing.”

“A ventilator?” All the color drained from Amanda’s face.

“Yes. But it’s likely to be temporary,” Dr. Braeburn hastened to add. “Once we get the infection under control, we might be able to remove the ventilator support.”

“Might.”

“Let’s take this one step at a time, Amanda. First, let’s run the tests, find out what we’re dealing with. Then we can proceed.”

“Another hurdle.” Amanda was trembling. “He’s so tiny, Doctor. How many more complications and procedures can he take before…” She broke off, clenching her teeth to fight back the tears.

Dr. Braeburn cleared his throat. “No other donors have turned up yet. Have you had any luck locating Justin’s father?”

“No.” Amanda met his gaze. “But, as you know, I’ve hired an excellent investigative team. They’re working round the clock.”

“Good. Round the clock is what we need.”

He didn’t have to elaborate. Amanda saw it in his eyes. And she knew exactly what he was telling her.