“And John Morano?” Casey asked.
“No. John is one of ours.”
A long pause.
Abruptly, awareness exploded in Casey’s brain. “As is Paul Everett,” she realized aloud.
“Precisely,” came Patricia’s confirmation. “Paul is most definitely one of ours. Oh, and by the way, so is attorney Frederick Wilkenson. We added him to the equation to divert you. So you can tell Mr. McKay he isn’t losing his touch.”
Casey nodded, even though Patricia Carey couldn’t see her. “Tell me what you need of us. And then I’ll tell you everything you don’t already know. It’s more than enough for a conviction—and not just for Lyle Fenton. For key members of the Vizzini family.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Ms. Woods.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The plane landed smoothly at JFK’s International Terminal.
Paul leaned under the seat and grabbed his carry-on bag, which was his only form of luggage. He was frustrated enough that he had to endure the time necessary to pass through customs. He’d be damned if he’d stand in a baggage claim area, watching a stupid carousel go round forever before it spit out his bags.
The plane was still taxiing to the gate when Paul’s cell phone rang.
He stared at the “unknown” caller ID, weighing his options. It had to be the Bureau. There was no doubt they intended to stop him. And they’d had hours to fine-tune their plans.
Answering the phone was his best bet. Any clue he could get about how they were going to go about this might help him circumvent the obstacles. But, the truth was, he didn’t care if he had to report a bomb scare and evacuate the whole airport. He was getting to Sloane Kettering.
He punched on his phone. “Yes?”
“This is Casey Woods, Mr. Evans.” Casey rushed on, getting in the crucial words before Paul could decide to hang up on her. “Amanda Gleason hired me to find you.”
A pause. “How do I know that?”
“Because you saw the YouTube video. That toll-free number was set up by my company, Forensic Instincts. You can dial it yourself and ask if you don’t believe me.”
“Actually, I can’t. My phone seems to have been deactivated.”
“It was. But it’s been reactivated. Again, if you don’t believe me, you can check for yourself after we hang up. But we’re in a time crunch. So right now, I need to give you instructions so we can get you to Amanda and your son as soon as possible.”
Paul did a double take. “Let me get this straight.” He spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard. “Obviously, if you know about my travel plans and my cell phone, you’ve been in touch with the Bureau. You’re telling me that they’re just allowing you to usher me out of the airport and straight to Sloane Kettering?”
“They’re working with me to make it happen and to protect your anonymity. But we have a certain protocol we need to follow. So please listen to me now and ask questions later. You’re almost at your gate. I need to talk fast so you’ll be ready to proceed as soon as that door opens.”
* * *
The ambulance pulled directly up to the plane the instant it came to a complete halt and was safe to do so. The captain had already advised the passengers to stay in their seats until further advised. The information given was that a fellow passenger was suffering what appeared to be a heart attack, and would be escorted directly to a waiting ambulance before everyone else could deplane.
Everyone, including Paul, stayed in their seats, although all eyes were on him and the doctor who was examining him.
“We should start oxygen therapy,” the doctor said, forehead creased in concern as Paul clutched his chest and left arm, his breathing short and uneven.
“We’ll do that, Doctor.” Two paramedics burst onto the plane, rushing directly over to Paul. He was quickly examined.
A minute later, he was on a stretcher, an oxygen mask over his face, and he was being carried out to the waiting ambulance.
Once the patient and his EMTs were inside, the ambulance driver took off, sirens blaring.
“I hope you brought my bag,” Paul said drily, as he sat up and removed the mask. “I carry my own aspirin.”
“We got it.” Hutch patted the travel bag, then leaned back on his haunches. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable. That mask has to be on your face when we go screeching up to the emergency room entrance. You’re being carried in there the same way you were carried out of the plane.” He extended his hand. “SSA Kyle Hutchinson,” he said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“SA Paul Evans, although I doubt I have to introduce myself.” Paul shook Hutch’s hand. “Are you from the New York Field Office?”
“Nope. Quantico. I’m BAU-2.”
Paul’s brows rose. “They sent the BAU to get me?”
Hutch grinned. “Not in the way you mean, no. It’s a long story. You’ll hear all the details later. For now, let’s just get you to the hospital and your son.”
“Where is that woman who called me—Casey Woods?”
“She’s with Amanda, telling her what’s happening. You’re a lucky man, Evans. You’ve got a great woman, a fighter of a son and the best private investigative team there is all in your corner. Without Casey, this could never have happened.”
Paul’s eyes narrowed as he tried to absorb what was happening. “How did she get the FBI to cooperate?”
Another grin. “She’s not only one hell of an investigator, she’s one hell of a horse trader.”
“She dug up information on Fenton,” Paul realized aloud. “She knows what’s going on. She’s helping the Bureau complete their operation.”
“You got it.”
“Damn.” Paul shook his head in amazement. “So this is for real. Casey Woods was being straight with me.”
“As an arrow,” Hutch assured him. He indicated the man next to him. “This is SA Mike Shore of New York’s violent crimes squad.”
“I’m at the Long Island RA,” Mike said, shaking Paul’s hand. “I was part of the initial investigation into Lyle Fenton, before the whole UC operation began.”
“Good to meet you.” Paul still looked a bit dazed. “Can either of you fill me in on my son’s condition?” His voice quivered on the word son.
Hutch was frank. “All I know is that he’s holding on. I don’t know the details of his illness, but I’m sure the doctor will fill you in. He’s been advised you’re on your way. You’ll be donor tested immediately—right after you have a chance to see Amanda and to meet Justin.”
“Justin.” Paul tasted the name on his lips. “I still can’t believe this.” He dragged his hand through his hair, then lay back down on the stretcher. “Give me that oxygen mask,” he instructed. “And tell the driver to ignore rush hour traffic. Turn on that siren and drive up the shoulder of the Van Wyck and over the goddamned Queensboro Bridge. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no one else on the road.”
* * *
Casey sat Amanda down in a quiet corner of the waiting area, so that she could finally tell her client the news she’d been aching to hear. Amanda looked like a fine thread that had been frayed and was about to snap, as if she’d hung on just about as long as any human being could. This poor woman, this poor mother, had endured—and was still enduring—a living hell. She’d visibly aged this past week, internalizing each emotional blow that threatened to take Justin away. God, it would feel so good to share this wonderful, positive news with her.
“What is it?” Amanda searched Casey’s face. “The way you dragged me out of the PICU, I know it’s urgent. What’s happened?”
Casey took Amanda’s hands in hers, not even trying to conceal the tears of joy that were glittering on her lashes. “We found Paul,” she said simply. “He’s on his way to Sloane Kettering right now.”
Amanda lurched with shock, all the color draining from her face. For an instant, she looked as if she might faint. “You… He’s…” She couldn’t seem to form a coherent sentence. “How? When?”
“I’ve known since earlier today. I just didn’t want to tell you until we’d successfully pulled it off. Now we have. His plane landed just after 4:00 p.m.—about forty-five minutes ago. We helped him stage a heart attack. He’s arriving by ambulance. He’ll be here before six.”
“A heart attack?” Clearly, Amanda was only absorbing pieces of what Casey was saying.
“He’s fine,” Casey assured her. “It was all an act. We needed to get him here as fast as possible.” Casey waved away the rest of Amanda’s questions. “Let Paul fill you in on the rest. Just know this—the instant he found out about Justin, he moved heaven and earth to get here. So don’t doubt his commitment.”
As Casey spoke, Patrick walked over, followed by the rest of the team, who’d just arrived. Everyone wanted to be here to see the culmination of their relentless search.
“They’ll be here soon,” Claire told Amanda with a smile. “Paul’s energy is overwhelming. I almost can’t breathe past it. The only thing rivaling it is your energy.”
Amanda laughed, something she hadn’t done in an aeon. “I don’t believe this. You’re miracle workers.”
“We can discuss how awesome we are after Paul’s been tested and confirmed as a strong donor match,” Marc said in true Marc style.
“Any psychic hints?” Amanda asked Claire.
Claire gave an apologetic shrug. “Right now, all I’m picking up on are relief and joy. Both are emanating from you and Paul. I can’t tell if that positive energy relates to anything more than your current feelings. We’ll have to wait and see. But my prayers—all our prayers—are right here with you.”
“Thank you,” Amanda whispered. “I…” She wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the words. “Thank you.”
“You’ll thank us afterward,” Casey said.
“And tell us how awesome we are,” Ryan reminded her with a wink.
“With pleasure,” Amanda assured him. She turned back to Casey. “Does Dr. Braeburn know? How is this going to work?”
“Dr. Braeburn has been advised, as has the hospital lab. Paul will come up here first to see you and Justin and to meet with Dr. Braeburn. Then he’ll go directly down to get tested. The lab results will be prioritized and rushed. We’ll have our answer in three days.”
“Oh, God.” Amanda pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I don’t believe this is happening.”
“Believe it,” Patrick said, patting her shoulder. “Because it is.”
* * *
Hutch and Mike, still dressed as EMTs, carried the stretcher out of the ambulance and rushed it inside. Paul lay still, his face partially concealed by the oxygen mask, a blanket pulled up to his chin to help do the job.
It was only in the closed elevator that Hutch said, “Okay, time to get up and get into this.”
Paul rose, yanked off the mask and shrugged into the hooded parka Hutch handed him.
“You obviously can’t put up the hood. You’d stick out like a sore thumb,” Hutch said, shrugging out of his uniform. “But keep the jacket zipped. The hood will bunch up around your neck and hide a chunk of your face. Mike and I will walk ahead of you, so we’ll block you from view. And remember what I said. We’ve arranged to have the waiting room cleared, supposedly for cleaning. We’ll guide you straight to the PICU and to Amanda. The rest is up to you.”
* * *
Amanda was in the waiting room with the Forensic Instincts team when the approaching bustle of movement made her snap around. Two men in suits were striding down the hall toward her. They stopped inside the waiting room, and the taller man gave her a wink. Then, they veered off, going over to join the FI team on the sidelines.
Left standing alone, Paul stared at Amanda, unzipping his parka and pulling the sides apart so that she could make out his whole face.
The action wasn’t necessary. She already knew who he was.
He just stood there for a moment. Then he made his way toward Amanda at the same time as Amanda ran forward to meet him.
They hugged each other fiercely, holding on to each other for strength and comfort as much as for a reunion.
“I’m so sorry,” Paul murmured, when he finally stepped back, gripping Amanda’s shoulders in his hands and searching her face. “If I’d had any idea… If I’d even guessed.” He gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. “And you had to go through this all by yourself. There’s no way I can ever make that up to you.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Amanda told him fervently. “Be a healthy donor match for our son. Please. Help me save his life.”
Paul sucked in his breath, squaring his shoulders to take on the responsibility that should have been his from the start. “If I am a viable match, will that be enough?”
Amanda shook her head. She’d gone through every detail with Dr. Braeburn, every possible best- and worst-case scenario. As much as any layperson could understand, she did. Her son—their son—had a huge uphill battle, even if all Paul’s infectious disease testing checked out, and he was the donor. Paul’s peripheral blood stem cells would have to be purified. The purity would have to be high enough and the quantity of stem cells sufficient enough for transplantation. Then, once the peripheral stem cell transplant took place, there was always the chance of graft versus host disease, if Justin’s body rejected Paul’s cells. She couldn’t allow herself to consider that, not after all they’d gone through to find Paul. He was here. God wouldn’t have brought them all this way just to fail now. Paul had to be the answer.
Still, he was entitled to know everything—including exactly what he was getting into.
“This won’t be just a simple blood test,” Amanda explained, “not after you’ve been officially ruled a donor. You’ll have to get four days of injections to stimulate your blood marrow so it will release more stem cells into your blood. The fifth day will be the transplant itself. They put you on a special machine that collects and separates your blood. Then, there’s a stem cell purification process that takes place in a sterile lab. Dr. Braeburn can explain the whole process to you.”
Paul waved away the entire matter. “I’m not the issue. I’ll do whatever has to be done. But, once that’s over, once my cells are in Justin’s body, what are his chances? How long will it take till we see results?”
“A few weeks.” Amanda clenched her fists at her sides as she spoke. “We need engraftment to occur. That means your donor cells have to successfully take, so to speak, at which point Justin will begin to develop an immune system. Then he can start to fight off all his infections.” A watery smile. “We have to pray. But now that you’re here, I believe in miracles again.”
Paul’s expression softened. “As do I.” He glanced past Amanda, and down the hall. A hint of awe flashed in his eyes. “Is he… Is Justin…in there?”
Amanda felt her heart swell, and she nodded. “He looks so much like you,” she said. “He has your eyes, not just the color, but your shape and your eyelids. Oh, and your eyelashes. Remember how I used to tell you how every woman would kill for those thick lashes of yours? Well, now they’re Justin’s, too. And his nose, Paul. It’s a tiny version of yours. He even has your dimple.” She touched Paul’s cheek with her fingertip. “He’s got so much of you in him. He’s curious about everything. He’s easygoing—until he really wants something. And he’s always moving. He kicked me nonstop my entire last trimester. I’m sure he’s going to be a marathon runner like his father. I’m sure…” Amanda fell apart, her body racked with sobs as her stoic veneer shattered.
Only this time, she had someone to hold her.
Paul wrapped his arms around her and gave her a fierce hug. “We’re going to make thi
s right, Amanda. I’m going to make this right. You’ll see. Our son is going to be just fine.” Emotion clogging his voice, Paul asked, “May I see him? Even through the window?”
“Of course.” Amanda stepped back, dashing away her tears. “I’m sorry. I just still can’t believe that you’re here. That you’re alive. That you’re real. That you didn’t intentionally stay away.”
“I didn’t,” Paul stated fervently. “If you believe nothing else, believe that. I have so much to fill you in on. But later. After I’ve done everything I can for Justin.”
Amanda took Paul by the hand. “Come on. Come meet your son.”
* * *
As they disappeared down the hall, Casey turned to Marc. “Everything’s in place,” she murmured. “The FBI delivered, as promised. Now it’s our turn. Go ahead and take care of what we discussed.”
Marc nodded. “With pleasure.” He sauntered off, leaving the PICU and taking the elevator to the hospital lobby.
He’d already selected the deserted spot in the alleyway where he was going to make his phone call. And, in his pocket, he already had what he needed: the spare burner phone he used for just these types of occasions, along with a voice scrambler.
Calling the FBI tip line was going to be Marc’s pleasure. The information he provided would take care of Lyle Fenton and his mob buddies.
With a grin, Marc set the scrambler in place.
Damn, he loved his job.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Hutch and Mike took off to report in. But the FI team stayed on, hanging out in the waiting room to hear the results of Paul and Amanda’s conversation with Dr. Braeburn.
“I really am good,” Claire announced.
Ryan did a double take and stared at her. “Did I just hear my voice come out of your mouth?”
“Nope. That voice you heard, along with the words, were mine. Everything I sensed was accurate. The binary energy? Paul’s double life. The running? Not just Paul’s disappearance, but the marathon that made it necessary. The covert phone calls I kept picking up on the other side of Paul’s bedroom? His undercover work. And the sense of being followed? Mostly, the FBI. The times when I sensed danger? Fenton, keeping tabs on our search for Paul.” Claire eyed Ryan victoriously, like the cat who swallowed the canary. “You can’t argue with success.”