Chasing the Wind (27 page)

They stood and walked on. They'd almost reached the bicycle, having come full circle around the park, when she saw it lying on the path. Instinct halted her at once, and Luke stopped at her side. He followed her eyes.

A small brown bird, a sparrow, lay dead on the path, perhaps fifteen feet from them. Her instinct was to distract Luke so that he wouldn't see the bird, but it was already too late. His fingers curled in hers as they stood there, both seeing the broken wing angled like a flag of death.

A soft keening rose from Luke, and his grip tightened. She looked down, uncertain. But before she could turn him away, movement in the branches overhead caught their attention. They watched silently as another sparrow fluttered down onto the pathway, hopping around the still one, head cocked first one way, then the other, its small black round eyes shining, as if demanding,
Are you coming? Come along, come along! It's getting late and we've work to do.

Then a breeze ruffled the feathers of the one bound to earth.

The keening beside her grew, piercing Amalise as Luke pulled back, away from the birds, inching around behind her. She twisted to look down at him and saw him peeking, face crumpling. Death was something he'd seen before, she realized. Everything comes to an end on earth. Somewhere nearby was an empty nest, a circle of dry, thin twigs not yet complete. Precarious, as is life. Promise blurred, then smudged and gone.

She turned and knelt. With a cry, Luke flung his arms around her neck and collapsed against her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his back heaving as he wept, sobbing, clutching her.
"Mak!"
he cried as she held on. Stroking his hair, she pressed her other hand against his back, realizing that this might be the first word he'd spoken since leaving his homeland.

"Mak. Mak." Clinging to her, he sobbed the word again and again, Luke's misery escaping at last as his shoulders heaved and shook.

Amalise, used to weighing, analyzing, and prioritizing, went numb as she absorbed the child's pain. In that instant she longed to soothe, to comfort and protect him from the hardships of this world. She held him, rocking back and forth as he cried, pressing his head to her shoulder, hugging him, and whispering that she was here, that she was here, and that everything would be all right. That she would make everything all right.

Somehow.

But was it true? Was she willing to risk everything to help this child?

Luke's heart beat wildly against her own. Since the moment she'd awoken after the accident months ago, she'd been conscious that Abba had given her a second chance at life for a purpose, one which so far had eluded her. Now as Luke clung to her, she realized that perhaps she'd been looking at things all wrong. An infinite sphere of longing had opened inside her after the accident—a desire to do something while here on earth that would effect lasting change. At the center of that sphere was Abba, and reason alone would never lead her to his answers. The time had come to ditch her old priorities and trust what he spoke to her heart.

She had been raised to believe that despite the presence of evil and injustice in our world, sometimes there comes an instant, a split second, when time halts and a door is opened a crack. In this moment we can make a choice and act to change things. Her mother called it a
kairos
moment, when God shows us the way to reach out to someone else.

That's when she knew what she must do.

Struck with fear at the depth of her feelings for this child, she held him for a long time until he settled down. What did the word mean,
mak
?

She lifted him onto the bicycle seat and strapped him in, then she bent down and kissed his cheek. When you care this much, you have a lot to lose.

But she'd made the decision. She would do it because she knew that we are not only responsible for what we do in life, but also for what we do not do.

November already. He'd been on this
miserable job for over a week. At least the weather had cooled. From behind the wheel, through the windshield, he spotted his client crossing Common Street with Murdoch. He straightened and lifted his hand up over the steering wheel as Robert Black glanced his way. Black said something to Murdoch, and Murdoch looked over at him and nodded before swerving off into the First Merchant Bank Building.

Black walked toward him.

Quickly he gathered up his handwritten notes on the seat beside him, the report of his morning adventures, such as they were. Black knocked on the passenger window, and he leaned across and rolled it down.

"What've you got?" The client's voice was brusque, impatient.

He handed over the notes. "They're mostly about the kid."

Black took the notes and scanned them, then brows raised, he flipped his hand. "That's all?"

"I'll write it up in detail later, but I thought you'd want to see this right away."

He found himself staring at Black's back as the man folded the papers, stuck them inside his jacket, and walked away without another word.

Feeling the chill in the air, he rolled up the window and sat back, feeling his anger surge. He slumped behind the wheel, watching Robert Black's well-heeled self stroll back into the swank, comfortable bank building. Bitter gastric fluid rose again in the back of his throat. He rubbed his midsection. Oh, the burn. The long, slow burn.

He picked up the bottle of the thick pink stuff he kept on the passenger seat within easy reach and shook it. He should get another job. He thought about that for a while. He thought about what it would be like to work for someone who said "Please" and "Thank you" and "Good-bye" once in a while, someone who showed some respect. Someone less volatile than clients like Robert Black. You never knew what nuts like this were thinking, what they'd do when something set them off.

Fingers spread, he slid both hands down his face and sighed. Nothing would change in his life anytime soon, he knew. At least this job paid.

He unscrewed the cap from the bottle of pink stuff and swigged a few gulps.
Just choke it down,
he thought.
Get rid of the burn.

The door was flung open, and the conference room came alive as Murdoch strode in from a long lunch with his entourage, which seemed to have expanded. Following in Murdoch's wake were two strangers, each with a briefcase in one hand and a leather garment bag hanging on his shoulder. The new arrivals wore tailored black overcoats made of expensive wool, too heavy for the mild winter months in New Orleans, Amalise thought.

"Ran into these jokers in the lobby," Tom announced as he took his seat. "Lawyers representing the investors," he said.

A rotund, red-faced man marched around the table introducing himself. "Steve Hendrick," he said in a jovial tone, eyes already moving on as he shook each hand. His jacket stretched wide as he moved. His white shirt was wrinkled, and smoke permeated his clothing.

Steve was followed around the table by Lars Elliot, a man who appeared to have grave things on his mind. He wore a quiet gray suit from Italy, as evidenced by the slim fit, and his expression was impassive as he shook hands, lightly, with just a brush as he breezed by. Still, Amalise decided, Lars had presence. Like Rebecca, he was someone who commanded attention.

Briefcases were slammed onto the table as Lars and Steve finally pulled out chairs and sat, Lars at the end of the table, Steve beside him. Amalise picked up her pencil, sensing a gradual shift of power in the room toward Lars. Lars leaned back and spread out over the chair as if he owned the place.

Sitting directly across the table from Amalise was Richard Murray with his furrowed countenance. Worry lines between his brows were deep, and deep folds bracketing his mouth forced his lips into a permanent snarl. With their standoff still fresh in her mind, she kept her face deliberately blank.

When everyone was settled, a brief discussion ensued over the issues still on the table. "The clock's ticking, everyone," Bingham's voice rang out. "D-day is in three weeks. What have we got left?" He turned to Tom.

Tom hunched over the pile of paper before him and recited the open issues from the investors' point of view, a few contract points, including who would fund first on the closing date—the chicken-and-egg question again—and the funding mechanisms on the closing day. Then he gave a little shrug, his voice casual as he flipped his hand and added something about the interest rates on the investors' notes, things like that.

Doug tapped his pen against his bottom lip and then pointed it at Tom. "You agreed to thirteen-point-five percent convertible subordinated notes. We're not opening up that discussion again."

"Our guys think it's too low."

"Effective fed funds rate is only four and a half." Doug gazed across at Tom.

"Yeah, but it's going up. Fast and soon. We need another hundred and fifty basis points, an add-on of one-and-a-half percent—that's fifteen percent notes to cover the risk."

"Not negotiable."

"We'll see."

Doug went on to the banks' unresolved concerns, Frank Earl beside him nodding at each point. As he talked, Amalise saw Robert lean back and, reaching behind Tom, hand something to Bingham. Bingham looked down, scanned it quickly, and nodded. It could have been just her imagination, but she thought she'd seen Bingham's eyes flick in her direction as he folded the paper and stuck it inside his jacket.

Just then, the door opened and Rebecca walked in, yellow pad in hand. She wore a fitted navy-blue suit that emphasized her slim figure and the color of her hair. Chin high, she looked at Doug and smiled, halting just inside the door. Raymond lifted his hand and motioned her over to an empty chair on the other side of Amalise, near the end of the table. Tom glanced over his shoulder, and then with a look at Robert, half turned in his seat, watching her stroll across the room. Robert stared.

Raymond leaned over and cupped his hand, whispering to Amalise. "She's on the team now. With the timing on this thing, Doug thinks we can use the help. And Bingham's approved the extra fees."

Amalise held a smile, nodding, as Rebecca set her notebook and pencils down on the table beside her.

"Well, New Orleans
lay-dies
," Bingham said, gazing at Rebecca.

Rebecca glanced at him, cocking her head to one side with a slight smile as she sat down. Without getting up, Doug introduced her to everyone, said she was joining the working group. From the other end of the table Lars said someone in his office had mentioned her and asked him to say hello if they ever met.

"We're on page seventy-five of the investors' note agreement," Raymond said. "We wanted to talk about conditions for drawing funds during the construction period."

"Skip that." Lar's voice was low, but the room went silent. Every person around the table looked at him. He leaned back and spread his hands on the table. "The first order of discussion today will be interest rates on the notes. Without agreement on that, there will be no funding. We need another hundred and fifty basis points to do the deal." He paused and looked at Frank Earl. "Our high-yield guys tell us rates are going up."

Doug said, "We have a deal. Earnings—"

"Earnings." Lars scowled. "Earnings are irrelevant. We're looking at cash flow here."

Across the table from Doug, Tom pulled a cigar from his jacket and turned it between his fingers, rolling it. The crackle of the paper resounded through the room. Amalise prayed he wouldn't light it.

Beside him, Bingham smiled. "Yes. The cash flow is significant."

Lars said, "We bear the risk."

"You can always convert," Doug replied. "We'll give you the option, no trigger. Take the equity, and the cash flow's your upside."

With a reflective look, Lars said, "I'd have to run that by New York."

"Are you telling me the decision maker isn't in this room?"

"I'm telling you I have to call."

Doug frowned. Looked at Frank Earl and shook his head. Frank Earl slowly pushed back his chair, stood, and asked Doug to please call him in the office downstairs when someone with authority was in the room. Tom flushed red, and Lars rose, leaning forward like a tiger ready to spring, hands spread flat before him on the table.

Frank Earl walked out and closed the door behind him.

Lars looked from Tom to Bingham and jerked his head toward the door. Amalise watched, stunned, as Bingham, Steve, Tom, Robert, and Richard all rose as one.

"We'll be in the small conference room," Tom said. Doug spread his hands and shrugged.

When the door closed behind them, Amalise turned to Rebecca. "Looks like you joined us just in time."

Rebecca laughed. "That was wild."

Raymond said, "This could take a while. Amalise, we need the status of the title commitments. Give them a call and push them, tell them to get on the ball. If there are problems, liens, or leases, we'll need a few days to deal with those." He jutted his face toward her. "So push them."

"Will do." She kept her voice cheerful as she picked up her notepad and pencils, feeling grim. Title commitments were boring and time consuming.