The Panic Zone Part 24

"Jack, I've been trying to call you. I just got back from Miami. George told me what happened, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Just a little bruised."

"Where are you?"

"On the plane back to New York, we just left Rio."

"How the h.e.l.l did you get taken hostage by a drug gang?"

"It was a misunderstanding. I'm fine as long as we run the story I just filed. It's critical that the desk doesn't cut the Blue Brigade stuff."

"I'll tell them."

"Turns out the hostage thing was the price I paid for a strong lead into the bombing. Did you read the material I sent you, the ten attachments of the secret files?"

"I did."

"This is shaping up to be a major story."

"Bring me up to speed."

Gannon related everything he'd learned on Maria Santo, the law firm, Sarah Kirby and the human rights network, and how Marcelo's incredible photos of Maria and the bombing helped advance the story.

Lyon listened, asked an occasional question, then concluded the call.

"Jack, the first thing you're going to do when you get to New York is your laundry. Then pack again. I'll authorize and clear the way. I want you to follow this story to London and wherever else it leads us."

31.

Laramie, Wyoming.

Emma sat at the big polished oak table in the conference room at the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation.

Shadows on the wall drawn by the midday light bled through the blinds. As Emma studied them she blinked back tears, trying not to scream.

Nearly two agonizing days had pa.s.sed since she'd received the mysterious nighttime call, and police were still no closer to telling her who had made it.

For two days Emma had repeated the circ.u.mstances of the call to every official she was referred to. She recounted every detail and answered every question while they took notes. But she soon realized that their concern was just pretense.

Because they don't believe me.

She'd do better to search for answers in the shadows on the wall.

"Emma?"

She s.h.i.+fted her focus to the people around the table, who, at her insistence, had convened this meeting here in Laramie to report back to her on their "investigation" into the call.

She looked into the faces of Aunt Marsha, Uncle Ned, Darnell Horn with the county sheriff's office, his supervisor, Reed Cobb, Henry Sanders, the coroner, Dan Farraday with the highway patrol; and Dr. Kendrix, the psychiatrist from the hospital.

Jay Hubbard, special agent with the Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation who was running the meeting, repeated his question.

"Would you like a tissue or some water?"

"No, thank you."

"As I was saying," Hubbard continued, "we've responded to the request to a.s.sist in this inquiry from the Big Cloud County Sheriff's Office."

She knew this. Was Hubbard being officious for her benefit?

"And, we've used all the records and information you volunteered. Working with authorities in California we have confirmed that you did receive a call at the time you reported."

Emma inhaled.

"The call originated from a public phone in Santa Ana, California, in Orange County," Hubbard read from his notebook.

"It must have something to do with the clinic," she said.

"No, we don't think that's the case."

"Then something to do with Dr. Durbin's letter. Did you talk to him?"

"We're coming to that," Hubbard said. "The phone is located near a Burger King outlet some thirty-five miles south of West Olympic Boulevard, in Los Angeles, the location of the Golden Dawn Fertility Corporation. So we've ruled out that it was a call from the clinic."

Emma said nothing.

"With your permission and using your volunteered material we spoke with Dr. Durbin and with officials at the clinic in Los Angeles."

"What did they tell you?"

"They acknowledged receiving delivery of Dr. Durbin's letter confirming Tyler Lane's death. But they've closed their file. They also stressed that no one at the clinic called you or would have reason to call you."

"That's it?"

"The clinic expressed its sympathies," Hubbard said.

Looking into the faces studying her, Emma felt like she was falling.

"But how do you explain a woman calling me, telling me Tyler is alive?"

"We can only surmise what happened."

"And what is that?"

"That you got a wrong number call from California and in your semiconsciousness, in your grief, and with Dr. Durbin's letter fresh in your mind, you got confused about what you heard."

"Confused? No!"

"Emma." Her aunt tried to calm her.

"It was crystalline. The woman on the phone knew exactly who she was calling and exactly what she was saying. You're wrong!"

"Emma." Dr. Kendrix had been tapping the tip of his pen to his chin. "It is not uncommon for bereaved people under stress, traumatized by an unbearable event like yours, to experience what you've experienced."

"A phone call like that?"

Kendrix removed his gla.s.ses. "I'm talking about a post-tragic phenomenon whereby you see or hear deceased loved ones. It happens in dreams. You may hear them or see them in a room. And, yes, people have reported receiving phone calls or messages from those who have pa.s.sed away suddenly. Usually they say, 'I'm all right, don't worry,' or 'I forgive you,' or something to alleviate guilty feelings or fears. It's not a supernatural event--it's simply a coping mechanism."

Emma shook her head.

"My case is different."

"Of course," Kendrix said. "Each case is. For you, you're hearing what you need to hear, that your baby did not suffer in the fire while you lay a few feet away unable to help him."

Emma stifled a great sob.

"This call, this phenomenon," Kendrix said, "is your mind working at helping you cope, so you can live, so you can move forward."

"It's not true," Emma said.

"Sweetheart," Aunt Marsha said, "maybe this is because you haven't been taking the pills the doctor prescribed for you when you were released from the hospital?"

Kendrix arched an eyebrow.

"You're all wrong," Emma said. "I know what I heard. I know what I feel. Tyler's not dead."

"You need to rest, Emma," Uncle Ned said.

Kendrix was scribbling on a pad.

"We need to call the FBI," Emma said. "Why didn't you call the FBI?"

"Emma," Kendrix said. "You should take your medication. I'm writing you a new prescription, a stronger one. Now, I've spoken with Dr. Durbin and with Dr. Sanders. We all agree you need to talk to someone, get counseling. Dr. Allan Pierce at Big Sky Memorial Hospital in Cheyenne is excellent. I've called ahead--"

"No, thank you." Emma stood.

"Excuse me." Kendrix looked at Emma, then the others.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I need to think. I'm sorry."

Emma left the room with her worried aunt following after her until Emma turned.

"Aunt Marsha, please, I need to be alone. I just need some air."

Emma left the building for the small patch of lawn at the side and the shade tree that framed the mountains. She stood there, searching the snow-capped peaks, knowing the whole world thought she was crazy.

Insane with grief.

But she didn't care, for in her heart she knew, she felt, that Tyler was alive.

Emma replayed the night call in her mind a million times. Never wavering because she knew with certainty that what she'd heard was no dream, no hallucination, no "coping mechanism."

"Emma Lane in Big Cloud, Wyoming? Listen to me. Your baby is not dead! Your baby is alive. That's all I can tell you."

She cupped her hands to her face thinking of Joe, touching him as he died, remembering what he'd said to her that day.

"You're one of the most fearless people I know. Woe to anyone or anything that comes between you and Tyler."

She felt Joe with her now and she knew.

Emma reached into her bag, saw two tiny eyes looking up at her and caressed Tyler's stuffed bear.

She'd reached a decision on what she had to do.

She would find her son.

32.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

This one was disturbing.

Dr. Wayne Marcott, chief medical examiner for Broward County, stroked his chin in his office on Thirty-first Avenue.

Again he read over his notes for Autopsy No. 10-92787. The decedent's name: Roger Timothy Tippert, a white male, age forty-one from Indianapolis, Indiana.

Was this an outbreak? This case was unlike anything he'd ever seen.

Marcott checked on the status of his request to accelerate additional tests from the autopsy. He'd grown concerned over his findings.

Tippert was a cruise s.h.i.+p pa.s.senger on the Spanish liner, Salida del Sol. According to the report from Dr. Estevan Perez, the s.h.i.+p's chief medical officer, the s.h.i.+p was returning to Florida from a seven-day cruise of eastern Caribbean islands when Tippert, a teacher, experienced a sudden seizure, collapsed and died while drinking a beer at an upper deck lounge.

The remarkable aspects are owing to his internal organs expanding and bursting. Was it an allergic reaction? Was it viral? It is uncertain at this stage. The subject was in good health. He was not taking medication and he had no known allergies or pre-existing medical conditions. He had not reported any illness. Seems the beer was fine. He was a healthy forty-one-year-old male.

Perez said all procedures were followed for a death in international water. Tippert's body was held in the s.h.i.+p's morgue for return to the U.S., and his widow was offered the counseling services of the clergy.

Perez alerted Florida officials and the s.h.i.+p's medical staff immediately and took precautions should Tippert's death be the result of an outbreak. Tippert's toiletries were tested, his beverage was tested, all of the s.h.i.+p's water and food were tested, as well as the pools and showers.