The Line Between Here and Gone

by Andrea Kane

  The silence in the room was punctuated by their shallow, ragged breaths as Hutch blanketed Casey’s body with his. A semblance of sanity returned—slowly, in increments—not that either of them cared.

  “I hope I’m not crushing you, because I don’t think I can move,” Hutch murmured into her hair.

  “You’re not.” Casey wrapped her arms around his back, her legs too shaky to follow suit. She turned her face into his neck and kissed him. “By the way, I missed you.”

  “Yeah, I could tell. As for me, I’ve been taking cold showers for the past two weeks. A month and a half is just too damned long.”

  “I agree.” Casey gave a sated sigh. “Fair warning. I doubt I’m going to let you rest for any length of time.”

  “I doubt I’ll need to.” Hutch propped himself on his elbows, scrutinizing her face. “You look gorgeous all flushed and naked.”

  Casey smiled. “You’re pretty hot yourself.” She reached up, brushing his damp hair off his forehead. “I think I undid the positive effects of your shower.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll take another one, this time with company.” Hutch kissed her, and what began as a slow, tender kiss soon turned into something more. He rolled onto his back, taking Casey with him, still buried inside her.

  Casey pushed herself into a kneeling position, leaning back and deepening their joining, already feeling the familiar tingling of pleasure.

  “Did you really want to go out for dinner?” she managed.

  “No.” Hutch had clutched her hips and was moving her up and down in a motion that took their breath away. “Dinner is highly overrated.”

  * * *

  Casey was dead asleep when her cell phone rang.

  She reached across Hutch and groped at her nightstand, until her hand made contact with her BlackBerry.

  “Casey Woods,” she mumbled into the phone.

  “Casey?” It was Amanda’s voice. And it sounded high and shaky.

  Casey was instantly awake. Her first and only thought was Justin. “Amanda? What’s wrong?”

  “I got a phone call,” Amanda said, on the verge of hysteria. “It was a man. His voice was…weird.”

  “Weird like he was using a voice scrambler? Like he wanted to disguise his identity?”

  “I guess. It was as if he were in an echo chamber. But he knew me, Casey. He said my name. He told me what time I’d come outside the hospital for some air. He told me what I was wearing. And he told me to stop looking for Paul—to tell you to stop looking for Paul.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “Not in so many words. But he made it clear that he would be watching us to make sure. He didn’t say ‘or else.’ But his tone of voice did. And, Casey…” Amanda’s voice broke. “Right before he hung up, he said that he certainly hopes my son, Justin, gets well. Then he broke the connection. What does that mean? Does he plan on doing something to my baby?”

  “It means he was going for your emotional Achilles’ heel.” Casey’s mind was racing. “The more personal he makes this, the more terrified you’ll be, and the more apt to listen to his demands. He’s trying to scare you, Amanda, but he’s the one who’s scared. We’re getting close. If anything, that’s good news, not bad.” She paused. “How long ago did he call?”

  “Two minutes ago. I called you the instant he hung up. And there was no caller ID. It said Unavailable.”

  “Check your phone again—but not for a caller ID. Do you have any missed calls? Messages?”

  “I checked as soon as I got to the general waiting area where I was allowed to turn on my cell phone.” Amanda was holding herself together by a hair. “There were no missed calls. A few messages from friends and a couple of pushy ones from the press. No hang-ups. Why?”

  “Did this man call you right then—as soon as you turned on your phone?”

  “As I was checking my last message.”

  “Then I’m guessing that either he or someone who’s working with him is inside the hospital. It’s the only way he’d know exactly when you were reachable.”

  “Oh, my God.” Amanda lost it again. “That means he’s close to Justin.”

  “Sloane Kettering is a big hospital.” Casey battled Amanda’s understandable panic. “He could be in any one of dozens of places and still keep you in his sight.” Casey dragged a hand through her tangled mane of hair. “But we won’t take any chances. I’ll call Patrick and have him stand guard outside the PICU.”

  “Why Patrick? Why not Marc?”

  “Because Patrick is the right person for this job. Before he joined Forensic Instincts, he was a security consultant for law enforcement and private companies—big ones. He’s consulted for the NYPD, the FBI and a long list of other entities. And, before that, he was an FBI agent for over thirty years. No one will get by him.”

  “I’m sorry…” Amanda inhaled sharply. “It’s just that…”

  “I know you trust Marc. But trust all of us. Trust me. When I say Patrick’s the one you want, he is.”

  “You’re right. And I do trust you. I’m just a wreck.” Another attempt at a calming breath. “When can Patrick get here?”

  “I’ll call him right now.” Casey remembered Claire saying that Patrick had gone home to spend time with his wife. And home for Patrick was in Hoboken, New Jersey, a short ride through the Holland Tunnel and into Manhattan. “He’ll be there within the hour. And I’m going to see what Ryan can get off your cell records. My guess is nothing, if this guy is a pro. But it can’t hurt to try. And, Amanda, remember, no one’s interested in hurting you or Justin. They just want to protect whatever secret it is they have—and that secret involves Paul. So keep a low profile. No more videos. No public statements. Let us take the lead and the risk.”

  “I will.”

  Casey disconnected the call and pressed Patrick’s speed dial number. By the time they hung up, he was halfway out the door, on his way to Sloane Kettering.

  Casey flopped back against the pillows with a heavy sigh.

  “You okay?” Hutch asked, rolling onto his side and propping himself on one elbow.

  “Frustrated.”

  “Then I didn’t do as good a job as I thought.”

  Casey smiled. “Yes, you did. That’s the only way I’m not frustrated. But this damned case…”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Hutch asked, playing with a strand of Casey’s red hair. He was as respectful as she about not overstepping his bounds with her cases—at least until he sensed she was in danger. Then all bets were off. Casey often muttered that he was a caveman, although they both knew that wasn’t true. Hutch was the furthest thing from sexist. His longtime BAU partner, Grace, was female, and they worked together seamlessly and respectfully. But Grace was a trained law enforcement agent. Casey wasn’t. And Hutch had just seen way too much, first as a D.C. cop, then as a BU agent, to be okay with Casey throwing herself smack in the middle of big-time danger.

  Unfortunately, that’s what she always seemed to do.

  “You know a lot of it already, thanks to YouTube,” Casey said now, still staring at the ceiling with a troubled expression on her face. “Amanda Gleason’s baby has a life-threatening autoimmune disease. He needs a stem cell transplant. No donor match has been found. His best chance of survival is his father. FI’s job is to find that father—Paul Everett.”

  Hutch arched a brow. “Now why don’t I think it’s that simple?”

  “Because you just heard me on the phone. And because your instincts are almost as good as mine.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” Hutch said drily. “How much can you tell me without violating client confidentiality?”

  “I can tell you that Paul Everett is supposedly dead, the victim of a no-body homicide. That’s the official police report. I can tell you the cops found his
abandoned car, complete with a fair amount of his blood on the driver’s seat, just east of the Hamptons on Long Island. And I can tell you that no one on my team believes that he’s dead.”

  Hutch didn’t need time to digest that speech. “That last part is the only thing we need to discuss—or not discuss. The rest is all fact, not investigative work.”

  Casey nodded, chewing her lip thoughtfully. Then, she angled her head toward Hutch. “I need to speak to my client. But, hypothetically, if I asked you to check someone out and see if they were on the FBI’s radar for some criminal act, or because of some criminal act, could you?”

  “You’re not sure if this someone is an offender or a victim—hypothetically.”

  “Right.”

  “I could check our system, sure. If there’s a federal crime involved, the BU would be as eager to solve it as you are.”

  “Then let me get Amanda’s permission. I’m sure she’ll jump at the offer. This isn’t the kind of case she wants to keep under wraps. The sooner we find Paul, the better chance that Justin, her baby, will make it—assuming Paul’s a healthy donor match. But from what I understand, the odds are good.”

  “I take it Amanda’s not a match?”

  “She’s not eligible to be tested for health reasons,” Casey replied carefully.

  “Got it.” Hutch studied Casey’s face, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Go ahead and call your client. You won’t get any sleep until you do. And, for what I have in mind, you need your sleep to recoup your strength.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ryan turned off the headlights as he slowed the van to a crawl, then pulled onto a deserted stretch of the Shinnecock Bay shoreline, just around the bend from the marina.

  Marc was peering through his night-vision binoculars. “No one’s around,” he announced.

  “What a surprise.” Ryan grinned. “It’s after 1:00 a.m. on a December night. Who wouldn’t be basking on the beach?”

  “I wasn’t looking for sunbathers, smart-ass. I was looking for pot-smoking kids and anyone else who might want a dark, deserted spot to do their thing.”

  “The idea of kids smoking up or drug dealers doing business here—that I get. But you’d have to be really desperate to choose this spot to hop in the backseat and get laid. On the other hand, hormones do trump atmosphere when you’re a teenager.”

  “Yup.” Marc put down the binoculars. “You take Gecko. We’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Although, like I said in the van, I doubt I’ll need you. This is a one-story shack, not an office complex. You won’t have to get access to the roof and feed Gecko down. I’ll just jimmy my way in, unscrew a return and put the little critter in.”

  “Uh…”

  “I know. No one touches Gecko but you.”

  “True. But it’s not just that. I need to find a good location to plant my black box. It will pick up Gecko’s video and audio feeds, encrypt them and route them over the internet using a secure tunnel between the black box and the Forensic Instincts firewall.”

  “Fine, whatever. Let’s just get moving.”

  They climbed out of the van, both dressed in black, Marc with a fanny pack of tools, Ryan with Gecko. Staying low, they made their way toward Morano’s cabin.

  Abruptly, Marc came to a dead halt.

  “Wait,” he whispered, stretching his arm across Ryan to block him from proceeding.

  Ryan obeyed, his head snapping around in surprise. “What is it?”

  “Someone’s coming.” A pause. “A truck.”

  Ryan didn’t question Marc’s keen sense of hearing. No one on the team did. These were the moments when Marc was pure Navy SEAL.

  “Is it headed in this direction?” Ryan asked in a low tone.

  “Yeah. Listen. You’ll hear the diesel engine in a minute.”

  A few moments later, Ryan heard precisely what Marc had described—the low roar of a diesel engine. The two of them crouched low to the ground as the headlights of a pickup truck drew closer to where they hid.

  It stopped diagonally across the street from Morano’s office, and the driver cut the motor.

  “What the hell…?” Ryan muttered. “Why is someone here? We know Morano’s not in the office. He’s home. We checked, and saw him walking around his apartment. Those high-tech binoculars of yours don’t lie. So who’s here and why?”

  “It’s two ‘who’s,’” Marc identified. “I can see by the movement in the truck. As for why, we’re about to find out.”

  Two shadowy figures emerged from the pickup truck and walked rapidly but stiltedly toward Morano’s shack. “They’re both carrying something,” Marc added in a low voice. “Something heavy enough to be weighing them down. Maybe this is a drop-off of some kind?”

  “I wish Gecko and the black box were already in place,” Ryan said in frustration. “Then we’d know what they’re up to.”

  “We’ll figure it out. If they leave Morano’s office without whatever their cargo is, we’ll find it when we get inside and see what it is.”

  They fell silent and waited.

  One of the men put down whatever he was carrying and hunched over the front door, concentrating. The other made his way around the back of the cabin.

  “We can assume that Morano wasn’t expecting them,” Marc noted. “Since the guy out front is picking the lock. This wasn’t prearranged.” Marc gave a knowing grunt as the door opened and the man went inside. “Like I said, a piece of cake. A friggin’ baby could get into that dump.” A puzzled pause. “What’s the other guy doing? There’s no back door.”

  “Maybe he’s climbing in a window?” Ryan suggested. “There must be at least one of those, or Morano would suffocate.”

  “Yeah, there are. Two windows. But it doesn’t make sense. Even if he planned on jimmying one of them open, why bother now, especially lugging a heavy load? His partner could just whistle, letting him know he was in. Then the other guy could come around front, get inside ASAP and drop off whatever it is they came here to leave.”

  As Marc spoke, the second man reappeared, walking slowly around the perimeter of the shack. He was leaning forward, taking a few steps at a time, and sprinkling something from whatever it was he’d carried over.

  “Gasoline,” Marc diagnosed instantly. “He’s pouring it all around the shack.”

  “I smell it.” Ryan stifled a cough. “Shit, they’re going to torch the place. What are we supposed to do?”

  As he spoke, the first guy came running out of the cabin. Simultaneously, a light began flickering inside.

  “He already lit something inside—probably a stack of paper or a pile of rags. That dump is a walking fire hazard.” Marc grabbed Ryan’s arm. “It’s too late to do anything. That shack is gonna go up like a forest fire. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He tightened his grip, as he felt Ryan make an instinctive move to stand up and run. “No. Stay down. They’re taking off at the same time as we are. They’ll see us. Time to show me what you’ve got. Run like a duck.”

  As he spoke, the shack ignited. Just the way Marc said, it erupted like a volcano, flames shooting skyward, wood burning like paper.

  Ryan saw the two offenders race for their pickup truck.

  He pivoted and followed Marc’s lead, pausing only long enough to get a glimpse of what was involved. Marc remained squatting, and used his thigh muscles to take long strides away from the impending explosion.

  Ryan followed suit, staying low to the ground and directly behind Marc.

  They reached the van just as the pickup truck sped by. The diesel blocked out any other sound, and the two men didn’t even glance out the window, much less see Marc or Ryan.

  Ryan crept around to the driver’s side, and Marc half rose, staring at the back of the truck, trying to make out the grime-covered license plate. He could ba
rely catch one number and one letter, it was so dark. Ironically, the thing that helped him see was the eerie light burning from behind them as the cabin burned to the ground.

  “They’re gone. Get in,” Marc commanded. He and Ryan jumped into the van. Ryan backed it up and swerved out of their hiding spot and onto the road, speeding away from the fire as far and as fast as he could.

  Marc was on his secure cell phone, calling 9-1-1. “I’m on the Hampton Bays side of Shinnecock Bay, off Lynn Avenue. There’s a fire at the marina. It looks bad. Send someone over ASAP.” He disconnected the call. “That takes care of that.”

  “Shit.” Ryan dragged a sleeve across his forehead, sounding off balance and exhilarated at the same time. “That was like something out of a movie.”

  A corner of Marc’s mouth lifted. “If you say so.”

  Ryan gave him a sideways glance. “I guess that sounded pretty lame to you. I can BASE jump with the best of them. I’m just used to doing extreme sports for fun. I’m not used to doing military exercises to escape midnight arsonists.”

  “You performed well under pressure.” Marc’s official-sounding praise was genuine. “You’re in great physical shape. And don’t kid yourself. You might get good at things like this, but you never get used to them. Violence is still violence.”

  “Shit,” Ryan reiterated. “Either that hotel project is jinxed, or there’s something attached to it that makes the developer a target for killers.”

  Marc nodded. “Which seems to support the theory that Paul Everett was a victim, not a participant. Someone wanted him out of the way.”

  “Out of the way, but not dead. And now they’re following suit with Morano.” Ryan exhaled sharply. “This gets weirder and sketchier by the minute.”

  “Yeah.” Marc looked thoughtful. “I think we’d better head over to Morano’s now and plant that tracker on his car. Once the firefighters rush over here to douse the pile of rubble that Morano’s office will soon be, and the cops show up to investigate, they’ll call the owner. And Morano will be down here like Greased Lightning.”