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“Nah. Gecko and I were definitely the heroes of the day.” Ryan grinned. “Although you didn’t do too badly. I don’t begrudge you a few self-congratulations.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Acknowledgment, Ryan. Not self-congratulations. I didn’t win the lottery. I helped locate a man who’s desperate to save his child. I did my job.”
“Yes, you did,” Casey said quietly, bringing the conversation around to the grave situation at hand. “We all did. But it’s not enough.” She lowered her gaze for a moment, then looked up to regard her team soberly. “Technically, our jobs are over. But they’re really not, are they?”
The rest of the team grew equally sober.
“No, they’re not.” Patrick answered for all of them. “And they won’t be until this crisis comes to a successful conclusion. We’re professionals—damned good ones. But we’re also human. We care. We’re emotionally invested in this case. That’s one of the things I most admire about working with this team.”
“Ditto,” Ryan said.
“We’re not even close to being out of the woods.” Claire made the statement with a faraway look in her eyes. “I don’t understand all the medical jargon. But it’s complicated. And it will be a long road till it’s over.”
“And when it is?” Casey asked. “What will the outcome be?”
A frustrated shrug. “I wish I knew. The energy I’m picking up on is overwhelmingly emotional—on so many levels—and it’s coming at me from all sides.”
Marc rejoined the group at that moment. Briefly, he met Casey’s gaze and gave her a quick nod. The call had been made, the wheels set in motion. As they spoke, FBI agents would be descending on Fenton’s home, his New York offices and his maritime operations in Bayonne. And that was just the start. The dominos would begin to fall, one by one. And, by the time they’d all crashed down, the Bureau’s interviewing rooms would be as full as the AUSA’s docket.
Casey nodded back.
“I ran into Hutch in the lobby,” Marc informed the team. “Evidently, he and Mike put the necessary items in Paul’s bag to help disguise his identity. Since he’ll be at the hospital for at least three days—more, if he’s a donor match, he needs to be unrecognizable. That was part of the deal. This way, he can move freely to the lab for blood and diagnostic tests, and stay in the PICU with Amanda and Justin without worrying about anyone spotting him.”
“He won’t be leaving Sloane Kettering,” Claire responded. “Not for a long time. Whether or not he’s a match, he won’t leave Amanda’s and Justin’s sides. Not after all they’ve been through to become a family. He’ll be here to see Justin through this crisis. Damn the Bureau.”
* * *
Standing with Amanda outside Justin’s window, Paul was thinking exactly that. Right now, everything he cared about was right in front of him. He saw all the apparatus, all the tubes helping Justin with his struggle to survive. But he also saw his son. His son. Amanda was right. He could see himself in the tiny person whose eyes would occasionally open as if he was somehow aware that someone new had been added to his life.
Paul could actually feel his chest constrict. The emotion, the fierce sense of protectiveness, the entire feeling that seized him was indescribable. And, in that moment, he knew he’d move heaven and earth to make sure his son lived a healthy, normal life.
While they waited for Dr. Braeburn, Paul filled Amanda in on his real name, his job with the FBI and the fact that he was involved in a deep undercover operation throughout their time together. He couldn’t share the details. Nor did they matter. All that mattered now was Justin.
Dr. Braeburn came out of his office and approached Paul and Amanda. He’d already explained all the specifics to Paul, starting with the preparation Paul would undergo for the four days prior to the transplant. Then came the day itself. The apheresis—the actual technology during which Paul’s blood would pass through an apparatus, collecting and separating out the cells necessary for the transplant and returning the remaining blood to his circulatory system—was a four-hour procedure, followed by a ten-hour purification process to enrich the stem cells as much as possible before the blood was ready to transfer to Justin. The transplant itself would be done right in the PICU and was an IV infusion of Paul’s purified stem cells into Justin’s body.
At Paul’s insistence, Dr. Braeburn had reviewed what to hope for afterward, although he warned Paul not to accept the timetable as ironclad.
“Each case is different,” he’d explained. “Engraftment can take place anytime between ten and twenty-eight days. So I don’t want you losing faith if it takes longer than the two-week period I’ve suggested. Also, I know Amanda’s mentioned graft-versus-host disease to you. We’re hoping that won’t happen, but we’ll have our experts in several pediatric subspecialties—hematology, gastroenterology and dermatology—monitoring Justin for fever, rashes, diarrhea and anything else that could indicate GVHD. We’ll also have our infectious diseases specialists monitoring him for infections of any kind.”
Paul couldn’t help himself. He had to ask the question that Amanda had sidestepped with him earlier, only because she so desperately wanted to put it out of her mind. She knew the answer. But to hear it said aloud—again—she just couldn’t bear it.
Still, she understood. Paul had to know.
“If I’m a healthy donor match,” he asked Dr. Braeburn, “and if the transplant takes place, what are Justin’s immediate chances for survival?”
Dr. Braeburn regarded him soberly. “If Justin weren’t as sick as he is right now, I’d say close to ninety percent. But I won’t lie to you. Given his physical condition, his chances are a little better than fifty-fifty.”
Amanda’s insides twisted, and she turned away, tears clogging her throat.
“But we’re not going to focus on odds,” the doctor continued. “We’re going to focus on a positive outcome. If the engraftment takes place and clears the pneumonia—which I’m hoping it will—Justin’s long-term survival rate will increase to ninety percent, after which there’s every reason to believe that he will live a full and healthy life.”
For the umpteenth time, Amanda found herself silently praying. But she also knew that, between now and then, there were so many hurdles to conquer, so many “what-ifs” to face.
“It will be all right,” Paul murmured, as if reading her mind. His fingers closed around hers. “We’re going to beat this, Amanda. Justin’s going to beat this.”
She nodded, determined to stay as strong as she’d been before Paul’s return. She’d coped with this all alone. Now she’d cope with it together with Justin’s father.
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