The Line Between Here and Gone

CHAPTER SEVEN

It took Patrick all afternoon questioning people to get a bite, and even that bite was only a nibble.

It was during his third trip to the coffee shop, purposely planned to coincide with the arrival of the pre-din-ner shift. That’s when the strategic move paid off. One of the waitresses—a buxom, middle-aged woman named Evelyn—thought she recognized Paul from the photo of him and Amanda. She wasn’t sure. But if it was him, he came in mornings at around 7:30 a.m. for a roll and coffee—possibly every day, but definitely on the mornings she worked the early shift.

If Patrick wanted to follow up on that lead, he’d have to spend the night in D.C.

Then again, there wasn’t any choice—not unless he was desperately needed at home base.

He was just about to call Casey when his cell rang. It was Ryan.

“Hi, Ryan,” he greeted him. “I was just speed dialing Casey. I might have a lead at a local coffee shop, but it would mean waiting till morning to check it out. Do you need me back in the office?”

“Actually, we need you right where you are.” Ryan explained the situation, which was too long and complicated to text. “Fenton’s lunch with the congressman is set for twelve-thirty at the Monocle Restaurant on Capitol Hill,” he concluded. “I made you a reservation under the name of Jake Collins. Some poor lobbyist just had his lunch reservation canceled. No loss. I didn’t like the douche bag’s politics anyway.”

“Looks like I’m booked for both breakfast and lunch,” Patrick replied drily.

“So get hungry.”

The FI team made record time from Montauk to Westhampton Beach. It was imperative that they got as much quality time with Amanda as possible before she insisted on getting back to the city and to Justin. They quickly parked, mobilized and took the flight of stairs from the street level up to Amanda’s apartment.

The apartment was an airy one-and-a-half bedroom place with lots of light. It was located directly over one of the stores that lined Main Street in Westhampton Beach. That meant tons of street noise, especially over the summer. On the other hand, that’s what made the rent affordable. And Amanda was one of those lucky people who could block out the world when she was working. So her photojournalism career didn’t suffer. Her sleep, on the other hand, did, particularly if she wanted to press the snooze button and catch some extra shut-eye. But Amanda was a night owl and new motherhood didn’t exactly lend itself to sleeping in.

All in all, it was an ideal arrangement for her, keeping her close to her work projects and to the water, where she did her best thinking. And the small den, which counted as the half bedroom, had been converted to an adorable little nursery—a nursery that, sadly, had been occupied for just a few short weeks. Now it seemed oddly hollow, despite the animal-babies wallpaper and linen, the matching mobile over the crib and the flowing primary-colored accents that decorated the room.

Amanda turned away from the nursery as quickly as possible, barely even crossing the threshold. Her pain was a palpable entity that all four of them—including Hero—picked up on. He made a small whining noise, ceasing only on Marc’s quiet command.

“This is home,” Amanda concluded with a wave of her arm. She paused, following the others as Claire wandered back into the master bedroom.

“Paul’s presence is strong here,” Claire commented. “Even though he spent less time here than in his cottage. My guess is that this is where he felt most comfortable, most able to be himself.”

“Which self?” Amanda asked in a bitter tone.

“The self that loved you.” Claire placed a gentle hand on Amanda’s arm. “May I see those personal items we talked about?”

“Of course. I’ll get them.” Amanda hurried down the hall to the coat closet in the foyer. She stood on tiptoe, rummaging around in the back of the top shelf.

Casey wasn’t surprised by the location of Paul’s things. Amanda had obviously distanced herself and her intimate, personal space with the impersonal, across-the-apartment placement of the coat closet. It was another way to push away Paul’s memory and to sever her emotional ties to him as best she could.

Meanwhile, Casey used these few minutes wisely, since they were the first ones she’d had alone with her team since Ryan’s call. “Marc, I need you to stay out here another day. I’ll brief you while Amanda’s with Claire. Hero will come home with us.”

Marc nodded, accepting Casey’s request without questions. He’d reserve those for later, when time permitted.

Casey then turned to Claire. “What was gnawing at you when we were at Lake Montauk?” she asked bluntly. “You stopped in your tracks and looked around, not once, but a couple of times. What were you sensing?”

Claire frowned. “Danger. And not past danger, imminent danger. It was very disturbing. But it was distinct. It was out there somewhere—somewhere close by.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “I think we were being watched.”

“Watched,” Casey repeated. “By whom?”

“I don’t know. But whoever it was—As I said, there’s danger.”

“Then I’m glad I brought my gun,” Marc said calmly. “No one’s getting near Amanda. Or us,” he added. He looked at Casey. “You sure you want me to stay behind? It might be better if I went with you.”

Casey gave a hint of a smile. “Thanks, Mr. Bodyguard, but we’ll be fine. We’re not going to say a word about this to Amanda. No need to alarm her. And I have my Glock with me, too.”

Marc arched a brow. “You’re a ball-breaker, Casey, but you’re also five foot four and petite, not to mention untrained in hand-to-hand combat. If someone is following us, I’m a lot more qualified to do significant bodily harm and to scare the shit out of them.”

“I’ll have to take that chance. I need your skills out here.”

At that moment, Amanda returned from the hall, the handles of a small, somewhat crumpled shopping bag in her hand.

“Here they are.” She extended the bag to Claire.

Claire took it and sank down on the edge of the bed as she removed the items one by one. First, the sunglasses case, then the unwrapped peppermint candies, and finally the suction-cup heart. She lingered over each item, starting with the eyeglasses case.

“Blood,” she murmured. “The image of a car seat saturated with blood is strong. This eyeglasses case must have been near the driver’s seat.”

“It was,” Amanda confirmed.

Claire’s expression intensified. “I keep getting the same conflicting vibes. Darkness and light. Resolve and hesitation. And pain. Not just physical pain, emotional pain. Regret—and yet, purpose. It’s like Paul was perpetually torn in two about who he was and who he wanted to be. His energy… It turns on, it turns off. In surges.” Claire pressed her fingers to her temples. “The impact is powerful enough to make my head ache.”

“Do you know how he was killed or hurt?” Amanda asked, visibly unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

Claire shook her head. “There was a struggle. Many struggles. I’m not getting any clear images. Just flashes and sensations. I can’t get a grasp on any of them. They just keep slipping through my fingers.” She picked up two of the peppermint candies and rubbed the cellophane between her fingers. “Nothing. Paul didn’t touch these that day.”

“Not exactly a shocker,” Marc commented drily. “People fighting for their lives—or faking their own deaths—don’t generally stop to freshen their breath.”

Claire didn’t laugh. She was too busy holding the suction-cup heart, moving her hands over it. “You’re right about the sentimental value in this, Amanda. I’m feeling deep emotional attachment.” A pause. “This was the last thing Paul looked at. Then he was gone.”

“Gone, dead? Or gone, gone? Did he die? Was he dragged to another car? Did he just walk away and never look back?”

Claire shut her eyes tightly, concentrating as hard as she could as she clutched the plastic heart.

“A black car,” she murmured. “Not Paul’s. But he was in it. I don’t know if he was dragged. He’s crumpled on the floor in the backseat. I’m not picking up life—or death. Just urgency from whoever’s driving the car.” Claire gave a sigh of frustration. “It’s like there’s a filter separating me from the events, from the feelings. A plan is in motion. I don’t know what, why or how. And I can’t zero in on any vibes from Paul. They just keep disappearing. The harder I try, the more nonexistent they become.”

“Does that mean he’s dead?”

“No.” Claire was determined to protect Amanda from the worst-case scenario, since she herself was swimming in unchartered waters. “It means that, for whatever reason, I’m not connecting. That doesn’t always imply death. It could imply secrecy, or just an unlucky coincidence. I can’t control what I sense. And that doesn’t always work in our favor.”

“I see.” Amanda’s shoulders sagged. “What else can I do to help you get that connection?”

“Right now, nothing.” Claire released the heart. A troubled look flickered in her eyes. “You should get back to the hospital,” she said.

Amanda’s expression was one of sheer panic. “Why? Is Justin…?”

“He’s the same. Nothing drastic has happened,” Claire reassured her quickly. “I just feel as if it’s time for you to be with him. He’s fussier since the fever spiked. He’ll be soothed when you’re holding him. Most of all, so will you. We’ve reached a place where your anxiety is escalating. It’s to the point where it’s the strongest aura I feel. Soon it will block out all the other energies.”

Claire rose, placing all the objects back in the shopping bag. “Let me take these three mementos back to the city with us. Let me handle them when I’m alone.”

“I thought this process works better if you’re in an environment where Paul spent his time.”

“That’s usually true. But sometimes it’s the other way around. Sometimes when I’m in the quiet of my own space without interfering energies, I can focus only on the object I’m holding.” And I can try to make sense of this binary energy, she added silently.

“Okay.” Amanda dragged both hands through her hair. She was visibly coming apart at the seams. Claire’s assessment of her was accurate. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “We have so many places I didn’t have the chance to take you. Places where Paul and I used to go.”

“We can come back,” Claire replied. “But this is enough for one day.”

“Amanda, I’ll be staying out here for another day.” Marc spoke up in that deep, calming voice of his. “I’ve got some old-fashioned detective work to do. Give me a list of the places where you and Paul hung out. I’ll show his picture around. I know the cops already did that, but I might have more luck.”

That panicky expression was back on Amanda’s face. “What kind of detective work? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Nope. I just want to talk to some of Paul’s poker buddies, maybe his neighbors.” Marc purposely omitted whatever bigger purpose Casey was about to share with him. “The passage of time is a funny thing. Sometimes people forget. Other times, they remember. You’d be surprised at how often clarity occurs later rather than sooner.”

A slow nod. “All right.”

“Would it be a problem if I crashed at your place?” Marc asked. “The team and I will need a home base for tonight and for any return trips we might have to make to the Hamptons.”

“Of course. Stay here whenever you need to. I’ll give you my extra key. I won’t be living here until Justin’s with me—healthy and well.” She glanced at her watch for the hundredth time. “It is getting late. And Claire’s right. I’m getting too antsy to concentrate. I want to call Dr. Braeburn and check in. And I want to get back to Justin.” She paused. “If you do need to come back, maybe you can do it without me. It’s just too long a day. I can’t be away from my baby.” Tears glistened on her lashes. “Unless… until we find a donor, I don’t know how much time I have with him. I can’t waste a moment of it.”

“Agreed.” Casey met Claire’s gaze. “Could you go out to the van with Amanda?” she asked. “She can get settled and you can give Hero a quick walk before we head back to the city.”

A hint of a smile touched Amanda’s lips. “In other words, she can babysit me. I’m really okay.”

“I know you are. But someone has to unlock the van for you. As for Hero, I’m sure nature calls. He’s been on duty all day. He needs a walk, some food and some water. Claire can do that while you call the doctor. Marc and I will lock up. I just want to get his and my schedules in sync before we leave.”

The drive back to the city was quiet but tense. Amanda insisted on sitting alone in the backseat where she stared out the window, lost in her own thoughts. Casey just drove, alternately glancing in the rearview mirror to see how Amanda was doing and slanting a sideways look at Claire, who was still showing distinct signs of uneasiness.

The silence in the van was deafening.

Trying to appear casual, Claire shifted in her seat, turning to peer past Amanda and—ostensibly—into the hatch area of the van. “Hero’s exhausted,” she noted. “He’s out for the count.”

She turned back, feeling Casey’s stare, knowing she was well aware that Claire hadn’t just been checking on Hero. She was checking to see if they were being followed.

Casey herself had kept a watchful eye the whole time they’d been driving on the Long Island Expressway. She’d seen nothing and no one suspicious. Obviously, neither had Claire, or she’d be conveying that to Casey right now.

But that didn’t mean Claire was happy. True, she hadn’t spotted any car that stood out as being on their tail. But that didn’t ease the knot in her gut. The LIE was jammed with traffic, as always. And someone was out there. Whether they were near or far, she couldn’t say. Nor could she determine if they were following the FI team or Amanda, and what their intentions were. But, whatever they were, they weren’t good.

The van reached Manhattan, and Casey dropped Amanda off right in front of Sloane Kettering.

“I hope all is well,” she said as Amanda got out of the car. “Keep us posted.”

“I will. We’ll talk later.” Amanda shut the door as she spoke. Her mind was already in the Pediatric Bone Marrow Transplant Unit with Justin.

Casey eased the van away from the curb and back into traffic. “They’re still following us?” she asked Claire as she headed up East Sixty-seventh Street toward Park Avenue, en route to Tribeca and the FI brownstone.

“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 Money-boque 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.