The Line Between Here and Gone (18 page)

“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 barely 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.”

“Agreed. Not a good idea to plant a GPS tracking device with a swarm of cops and the owner of the car in your face. Let’s head straight over to Morano’s place before we drive to Westhampton Beach and crash at Amanda’s. We can be at Morano’s apartment in ten minutes and done and out of there in twenty.”

* * *

Ryan and Marc had just finished their task and hiked up the flight of stairs to Amanda’s apartment when Ryan’s cell phone rang.

He glanced down at the caller ID.

“It’s Claire,” he told Marc. Punching on the phone, he answered Claire in a short, clipped tone. “Hang on a sec.”

He waited until both he and Marc were inside the apartment, before resuming the conversation.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was tight and anxious.

“Yeah, why?”

“I just got a quick flash that freaked me out. It was a fire, a big one, engulfing a shack on the water. I was afraid it might have something to do with you and Marc and your visit to Morano’s. I’m glad I was wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong.” Ryan dropped his gym bag and sank down on the sofa. “Morano’s office just went up in flames. And it wasn’t caused by a cigarette butt. Marc and I saw two men douse the place with gasoline and light the match.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Who were they trying to kill? Morano or you two?”

“None of the above. Morano was at home—we knew that and I’m sure they did, too. And they never saw Marc or me. We hid out until they were gone. Then we got the hell out of there.”

“So you weren’t near the cabin when it happened?”

“We were near enough. We got front row seats. But we didn’t get roasted.”

“That’s not funny.”

Ryan leaned back on the couch, finding himself smiling. “You were worried about me, Claire-voyant. I’m touched. I never knew you cared so much.”

“I don’t,” Claire retorted, back to herself now that she knew things were okay. “It was Gecko I was concerned about. He’s irreplaceable. I knew Marc could take care of you.”

Ryan threw back his head and laughed. “I’m so flattered. But don’t worry. We never made it inside the building. And Gecko was safely stashed inside my jacket. He’s in A-plus shape—just like me.”

“He’s not nearly as arrogant.”

“True. But he’s not as hot, either.”

“Debatable,” Claire quipped. Then she grew sober. “They were giving Morano a message.”

“Yup. A pretty direct one.”

“The same one they gave Paul Everett, no doubt. The question is, who are ‘they’ and do they plan on making a similar disappearing act happen to Morano?”

“Any signs from the universe?” Ryan teased.

“None,” Claire answered seriously. “I wish I had one. Maybe it would lead us to Paul Everett faster.”

“You’re still convinced he’s alive?”

“Definitely.”

“So am I.” Ryan shrugged out of his parka as he spoke. “This kind of thing smacks of the mob. But where does Lyle Fenton fit in?”

“I don’t know. But he plays a major part in this convoluted puzzle. The negative energy surrounding him is so strong, I could barely pick up on anything else with him in the room.” A pause. “Are you sure that you and Marc are okay?”

“Never better. Marc’s a pro when it comes to this stuff. He got us out of there like a black ops mission.”

Another pause. “I know Marc’s used to seeing arson and every other kind of violence there is. But you’re not. You’re shaken. That’s to be expected, Ryan—even for someone as cocky and egotistical as you.”

Ryan started to laugh. “Is that your way of saying you care, Claire-voyant?”

“Yes, you obnoxious pain in the ass, it is.”

A split second of silence. Ryan wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Thanks,” he finally said, with no trace of banter. “I appreciate your worrying about me. But I’m fine. Honest. A little weirded out, but fine. Nothing a hot shower and a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

“Then I’ll let you get both. Tell Marc to do the same. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Claire?” Ryan interrupted.

“Yes?”

This pause was a long one. “See you tomorrow.”

He disconnected the call, staring at his BlackBerry for a moment, eyebrows knit.

“Oh, for God’s sake, when are you going to stop being an asshole and do something about it?” Marc’s question sliced the silence.

“What?” Ryan’s head snapped up. He’d almost forgotten Marc was in the room, he’d been so preoccupied.

“You heard me. But if you need it spelled out, fine. You want Claire. You’ve wanted her since the day you met her. So stop doing this moronic dance and go for it. If it works out, great. If it doesn’t, you can go back to killing each other.”

Ryan shot Marc a look. “I don’t need lessons in hooking up with women from you.”

“Clearly, you do.” Marc stripped off his jacket and sweater and grabbed the gym bag that had his change of clothes. “I’m going in the shower. I’ll use up the hot water. That way, you can get the cold shower you so desperately need.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

As he stepped out of the shower, Ryan could hear Marc talking. From the tone of his voice, it was obvious that it was Casey at the other end of the phone. Marc was, no doubt, filling her in.

Ryan pulled on some sweats and headed out to the living room.

Marc glanced up. “Ryan’s here. I’ll put him on.” He handed Ryan the phone. “It’s Casey,” he informed him.

“I figured.” Ryan put the phone to his ear. “Hey, boss. I assume Marc woke you up to report in about our boring night.”

“He did—in detail,” she replied. “Sounds like you became an instant action figure.”

“Hey, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

Casey laughed. “It’s good to hear you’re still yourself. Arrogant and cocky. Thanks for making me laugh. I needed it.”

“Really?” Ryan perched on the edge of an armchair. “If I’m your best source of entertainment tonight, I’d say Hutch isn’t doing his job.”

“His job isn’t to make me laugh,” Casey returned drily. “So much for that subject. The reason I asked Marc to put you on the phone is to tell you that Amanda got a threatening call tonight. No caller ID. Voice scrambler. Warning her to stop looking for Paul Everett, and for us to stop looking, too. He knew too much about what she was doing at that minute not to have been right there in the hospital.”

“You want me to see if I can hack into her phone records?” Ryan jumped right on that. “Maybe I can get something.”

“Yes. Try.”

“Done.” Ryan was already walking over to his laptop, which was sitting on the coffee table. “Is Amanda really freaked out?” he asked as he logged into his secure network.

“Big-time,” Casey replied. “She wanted me to send Marc over for protection. I sent Patrick over instead.”

“Better qualifications. Better availability,” Ryan agreed.

“Not as pacifying, at least to Amanda. But, in this case, I got her to come around. Patrick’s the right choice. He took off for Sloane Kettering the minute I called him. He’s staying outside the PICU all night. He’s also made arrangements with two of his security buddies. They’re each taking an eight-hour shift a day. Between the three of them, Amanda will be covered 24/7 until this crisis is over.”

“Smart move.”

“I’m going over there myself first thing in the morning to check on her.”

“You mean in three hours?” Ryan asked, noting that his watch said 3:30 a.m.

Casey sighed. “Yes, in three hours. And, while I’m there, I’m going to ask her if I can bring Hutch on board. He can check the FBI’s internal systems and see if there are any warning flags on Paul Everett.”

“Good move. I doubt she’ll refuse. Hutch’s credentials are pretty impressive. Not to mention he’s at Quantico. That word alone infuses everyone with awe.” Ryan was clicking away on the keyboard as he spoke. “Get a few hours’ rest, boss. I’ll call you if I find anything. I’m not holding my breath. It was probably a throwaway phone. But, if I’m wrong, you’ll hear from me.”

* * *

Lisa Mercer knew that her father was back in D.C. She also knew that he jogged every morning at 5:30 a.m. So when she got back to her dorm at Northwestern at 4:00 a.m. CST—after cramming all night for finals—and listened to her voice mail, she called him right away.

“Hi, Lisa.” The congressman didn’t sound a bit surprised to hear from his daughter. It was still 2:30 a.m. in Pasadena, or Tom would be on the phone from Cal Tech, as well.

“What’s going on, Dad?” she asked without preamble. “I got your cryptic message. I also read about you and Mom getting tested as donors for that poor little baby, and I think that’s superamazing. But why were you calling me about it?”

Cliff Mercer pressed his lips together and sank down onto the bottom step leading into his front hall. He wished he could keep his lips just that way, so he didn’t have to open his mouth and dive into this can of worms. But it wasn’t an option. His career was on the line. All he could do was to try to keep this as simple and innocent as possible, in the hopes that his secret didn’t leak out—not even to his children. They weren’t all that close to his father—or rather, the man who’d raised him. But he was the only grandfather they knew. The only person he’d trusted with his secret was Mary Jane. And his wife was as determined as he was to protect it.

As for the rest of the world, if the truth came out, given how deep into Lyle Fenton’s pocket he was, his political aspirations would be over before they began.

“Dad?” Lisa repeated.

“Sorry, honey. I was just tying my sneakers. I didn’t mean to sound cryptic. It’s just that Amanda Gleason, the baby’s mother, is a photojournalist who’s done media coverage on both my campaign and ongoing events during my current term. She’s a real sweetheart. And the idea of her possibly losing her child… It’s unthinkable. That’s why Mom and I got tested. As a gesture of good faith, I’d like you and Tom to get tested, too. I’m not optimistic that any of us will be a match, but if it inspires others in the district to get tested, it’s worth it.”

“Knowing you, I’m going to assume this is a gesture of good faith, not a political ploy.”

“That’s exactly right. I’m not going to use a critically ill infant for political gain.”

Lisa sighed. “I’m sorry. This just came at me out of left field. What happens if I’m a match? Do I have to donate an organ or something?”

“Of course not. I’d never ask that of you. It’s simply a type of blood transfusion. Nothing more. But we’ll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. I can’t force you to do this. But I know how bighearted you are. So I wanted to ask.”

“It’s no problem. I can run over to Evanston Hospital after my last class today. But, Dad, please, no media. No announcements. Just let me do this quietly. If you want to put out a press release about your kids getting tested, just wait until finals are over. Tom’s bound to feel the same way. We’ve got enough on our plates without local reporters banging on our dorm room doors, wanting to interview us about what altruistic kids we are.”

“That goes without saying.” Cliff rubbed his temples. He felt like the world’s shittiest father. “We don’t even have to announce this, if you’d prefer. The same goes for Tom. I’m sure I’ll be hearing from him in a couple of hours. And I’ll tell him exactly what I’m telling you. What you’re doing is a wonderful, selfless thing. I’m sure Amanda will be incredibly grateful. How you want it handled—publicly, privately—that’s your call.”

“Okay.” That put Lisa’s mind at rest. “I’ll take care of it later today. And I’ll call you afterward.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. You’re a great kid.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” she quipped. “Talk to you later.”

Cliff disconnected the call. By the time he’d finished his run, taken a shower and gotten ready for his day, Tom would be on the phone. He’d go through the whole charade again. It didn’t make him feel any better that he wasn’t lying about wanting to help Amanda Gleason’s critically ill baby. His reasons were still steeped in self-protection. He’d sworn never to be one of those dirty politicians. Yet here he was, being just that.

The whole situation sucked.

Warren Mercer might be a cold SOB.

But Lyle Fenton was a scumbag.

* * *

Patrick walked over as soon as he saw Casey in the PICU waiting room.

“How is she?” Casey asked.

“Not great. Shaky,” Patrick replied. “I think the phone call was the straw that broke the camel’s back. She was holding on by a thread to begin with. I don’t think there’s been any improvement in Justin’s condition. He’s still on the ventilator. And when she got that phone call… Well, you can imagine.”

“She knows you’re here, though, right?”

“Definitely. She’s come out three times in the past few hours to check. She’s terrified that someone’s going to get by me and hurt her son. We’ve talked. I think I finally established a rapport with her. I’m not Marc, but I’m kind of a father figure to her, which seems to soothe her. That’s why I’m not letting Carl relieve me for the next shift. She’s just gotten used to me. I don’t want to throw any more changes her way.”

Casey patted his arm. “You’re a good guy.”

“That’s true. Maybe you should be paying me more,” Patrick replied good-naturedly. “Do you want to see her now?”

Nodding, Casey explained what she was hoping to have Amanda agree to regarding Hutch.

“Excellent idea.” Patrick glanced over his shoulder as Amanda appeared outside Justin’s room. “Here she comes. You can discuss it with her. I doubt she’ll turn you down. The poor woman is desperate.”

As he spoke, Amanda caught sight of Casey. She stripped off her sterile attire and walked over. “Hi.” It was a tentative greeting, accompanied by a pleading look. “Do you have any news?”

“Not from the phone calls, no. But half the Hamptons population is getting tested, thanks to Congressman Mercer.”

A flicker of hope lit Amanda’s eyes. “What he did was very kind. I know it was a favor to my uncle, but he did it nonetheless. And his gesture inspired so many others to offer their help. I’m so grateful. I called the congressman’s office late yesterday afternoon and asked them to give him my thanks. It would be a miracle if another donor came through. The chances of finding Paul…”

“Are still very strong,” Casey finished for her. “We’re following up on an unexpected occurrence, one that’s too coincidental to ignore. John Morano—the man who took over Paul’s hotel project—also took over Paul’s office. I don’t know if you ever saw it, but it’s a shack at the marina on Shinnecock Bay.”

“I was there once. Did Paul leave something behind that just now turned up?”

“It’s not that. The place burned to the ground last night. And the police don’t think it was an accident.”

“Someone tried to kill this John Morano?” Amanda gasped.

Casey shook her head. “He wasn’t there. It was a warning of some kind. Which leads us to believe that whatever trouble Paul was in somehow related to that project. If we figure out what the connection is, we’ll be one step closer to finding Paul.”

The hope faded from Amanda’s eyes, tears once again dampening her lashes. “An investigation like that could take weeks, maybe more. Justin doesn’t have enough time.”

“Which is why I’m here.” Casey used the opportunity to address what she came here for. “The FI team has a close contact at the FBI. Would you object if I were to share the entirety of your story with him and ask for his help? If Paul is in the federal system—for whatever reason—our contact could try to find that out.”

“You really think Paul was involved in a crime,” Amanda said sadly. “And now you’re thinking even bigger—a federal crime. Who was this man I thought I knew?”

“Don’t go there, Amanda,” Casey replied. “Yes, we’re pretty sure Paul found himself in the middle of some sort of crime. That’s no surprise, given the violence of his disappearance. But, as I told you before, it’s possible he was a victim, not an offender. We just don’t know. And we won’t have answers unless we dig deep. I’m asking for your permission to do just that—with the help of a federal agent.”

Amanda nodded. “Of course. Get whatever help you need. My life is an open book at this point.” She glanced past Casey, her anxious gaze seeking out Patrick, ensuring he was there. “Do you have any leads on the person who called me?”

“Ryan’s checking out phone records, but I doubt we’ll find anything.” Casey didn’t try to sugarcoat the facts. “On the other hand, we know that whoever’s following us, and now calling you, is hell-bent on keeping us away from Paul. If we understand the ‘why,’ we’ll find the path that leads us to Paul.” A compassionate pause. “And stop worrying. Patrick’s not going anywhere. He’s here for you and for Justin. So concentrate on your son and on staying strong so you can be there for him.”

Before Amanda could answer, a monitor from inside the PICU began sounding loudly. The staff all mobilized at once, rushing inside to attend to the emergency.

Dr. Braeburn appeared from another section of the hospital, hurrying into the PICU.

“Justin,” Amanda whispered. Sheer terror filled her eyes, and she began running back down the corridor.

The curtains outside Justin’s section of the unit had been drawn shut. A nurse was exiting the glass doors to get some medical equipment. She saw Amanda and stopped her in her tracks. “You can’t go in there right now.”

“Is it Justin?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”

“Dr. Braeburn will be out to talk to you as soon as he can. I’ve got to go back in now to assist him.”

“Just tell me what that alarm means.”

The nurse was already in motion, heading back toward the room. “It’s the ventilator alarm,” she supplied. “I’m not sure why it went off. Please, Ms. Gleason, let us do our job.”

She disappeared back inside.

“Oh, God.” Amanda was trembling from head to toe. “He can’t breathe. Justin can’t breathe.”

Casey and Patrick both hurried to her side.

“Don’t anticipate the worst,” Casey cautioned, taking Amanda’s hands in hers. “These things go off for all kinds of reasons. Not all of those are serious. Let’s just wait to hear what the doctor says.”

“Casey’s right,” Patrick concurred. “I’ve even seen monitors malfunction. So don’t let your mind go crazy.” He gently patted her shoulder. “I’m sure the doctor will come out as soon as he can.”

“It’s not a malfunction,” Amanda said. “They’ve been in there too long. Why? What’s happening to my baby?”

The door swung open and Dr. Braeburn strode out.

“I can only stay a minute,” he told Amanda. “Justin’s being prepped for a procedure.”

“A procedure.” Amanda was as white as a sheet. “What kind of procedure?”

“Justin developed a pneumothorax—a collapsed lung,” he explained in simpler terms. “The ventilator can’t compensate for that. We have to insert a chest tube to suck the air leakage out of the chest cavity. Once the lung heals, we can remove the tube.”

“What if it doesn’t…” Amanda began.

“Don’t speculate. A pneumothorax isn’t uncommon in newborns on ventilators. We caught it right away. And we’re doing the procedure immediately.” Dr. Braeburn turned to go back inside. “Wait here with your friends. I’ll give you an update as soon as the procedure is over. It should take about fifteen minutes.”