Kane, Andrea

Monday, September 5th, Labor Day, 5:45 P.M.

New
York City

He'd been shot.

He never saw his assailant. Never heard him. Only the pop from
behind. An instant later came the burning heat in his back. He pitched forward
at the panorama of windows he'd been facing when the attack occurred. He broke
his fall by planting a palm on the wall, bracing his weight long enough to
twist around and scan his office doorway.

Empty. Whoever had done this was gone.

Pain lanced through him and weakness invaded, spreading through
him in widening bands. His legs gave out. He crumpled to the carpet, trying to
grab onto his desk for support. His fist clutched nothing but air.

He landed on his belly, his arms doing little to cushion the fall.
Automatically, he turned his head to one side to protect his face and make
breathing possible. It didn't do much good. He couldn't seem to bring in enough
air. And when he did—Christ, the smell of the oriental rug made his stomach
lurch. Sickeningly sweet, like a suffocating air freshener. It was that
cleaning stuff the maintenance staff used. One more whiff and he'd puke.

He shifted a bit, resorted to breathing entirely through his
mouth. The rug was wet, he noted, and getting wetter, saturating through with
something sticky.
My blood,
he thought vaguely, feeling oddly detached
as the fluid continued to seep from his body.

Cobwebs of dizziness blanketed his brain. He was losing
consciousness, and he knew it. But there was no way to help himself. He
couldn't move. Couldn't crawl to the door. His phone... the cord was dangling
from his desk... no, he couldn't reach it. He'd try to yell... what good would
that do? It was Labor Day. No one was in except him and Dylan. And Dylan's
office was at the opposite end of the building. Making a racket would be
futile. All he could do was hope that Dylan hauled his butt back here before it
was too late.

Footsteps sounded, slowing as they reached the office.

"Okay, Carson, I've got those files you wanted. We can go
over them later. Right now, it's time we got into that personal matter I...
Jesus
Christ!"
Dylan's words ended on a strangled shout. He flung aside his
papers and was next to Carson Brooks in a flash, squatting down beside him.
"Can you hear me?" he demanded, groping for a pulse.

"Yeah." Carson's voice sounded hoarse, faint.
"Shot," he pronounced, licking his lips so he could speak. "But
not... dead. Not... yet... anyway..."

"And you're not going to be." Dylan bolted to his feet.
"Don't try to talk. I'll get an ambulance." He snatched the
telephone, punching in 911. "This is Dylan Newport," he reported
tersely. "I'm calling from Ruisseau Fragrance Corporation, 11 West 57th
Street. A man's been shot." A pause. "No names, no press. Just send
an ambulance, and fast. Yes, he's breathing. But it's labored. He's conscious,
yeah, but barely. And he's lost a lot of blood. Looks like his lower
back." Another pause. "Right. Fine. Just get that ambulance here
now.
Twelfth floor, back southeast corner office." He slammed down the
receiver. "Lie still," he ordered Carson, squatting down again.
"Don't try to move or talk. The paramedics are on their way."

"Pushy bastard..." Carson taunted lightly, his speech
slurred. "I'm not... even dead... and you're... already giving...
orders...."

Dylan said something in reply, but Carson couldn't make out his
words. He felt as if he were floating outside himself. Was this how it felt to
die? If so, it wasn't so bad. What sucked was all he was leaving undone, not to
mention the big question mark in his life that would now die a mystery.

Twenty-eight years. Funny, it hadn't mattered until recently. And
ironic that when he was finally about to act, the chance to do so was being
snatched away.

"Dammit, Carson, stay with me!"

He would have answered Dylan. But his mind was drifting back to
another time, twenty-eight years and a lifetime ago. That pivotal twist of fate
had changed everything. A seed that had grown into an empire.

A seed. What an ironic metaphor.

One sperm specimen... twenty grand. No risk, no strings, nothing
to lose. What a deal.

Stan had been right. It
had
been a deal, one that had
changed his life.

And maybe created another.

Carson, you've got it all. The IQ. The looks. The youth. The
charm. Go for it. If she bites, you'll make a bundle.

She had. And he had.

He'd plowed forward from that day on. Never looked back. Not till
a few weeks ago. Funny, how a fiftieth birthday made a man take stock...

"Where's the victim?"

Strange voices. Pounding footsteps. The Clorox smell of
institutional clothes.

Paramedics.

"In here." Dylan's urgent reply as he led them in.
"It's Carson Brooks."

His eyelids fluttered. Through a blurred haze, he made out two
pair of uniformed legs hovering over him.

The paramedics squatted and began working on him.

"Heart rate a hundred fifty."

"Blood pressure a hundred over sixty."

"That's very low for Carson." Dylan's lawyer-voice.
Hard-hitting. Authoritative. Daunting even to his most formidable opponents.
"His pressure's usually somewhere around one-fifty over a hundred. He
suffers from hypertension. He takes Dyaxide to control it."

"Any other preexisting medical conditions you know of?"

"No."

"Okay." Pressure on his back. His lids were lifted and
pinpoints of light pierced his eyes. "Pupils dilated. Can you hear me, Mr.
Brooks?"

"Y-yes."

"Good. Hang in there. We're just trying to slow down the
bleeding."

"Respiration shallow. No obstructions."

"Start the oxygen. Set it at fifteen 1pm. Let's get him on
the backboard."

"Right." Two more paramedics had materialized in the
room and were now rustling around with some equipment.

Idly, Carson noted the intricate pattern of the oriental carpet.
The floral configurations had more red in them than before. And the color was
spreading.

An oxygen mask was fitted over his nose and mouth, its elastic
strap secured behind his head. "Breathe normally, Mr. Brooks. This will
help."

It did—a little. He rasped in the oxygen. The air freshener smell
grew faint.

"His pulse rate's dropping. And his heart rate's up.

We've got to move him—now." Another flurry of activity, and a
long board was propped against his side. "Okay, on the count of three.
One, two... three."

He heard his own groan as they maneuvered him onto the board and
secured his head and body. The sound reminded him he was still alive. He had to
stay that way. He had to find out who'd shot him. He had to protect his legacy.

And he had to know if Ruisseau was his only legacy, or if he had
another one out there—one that was a living, breathing human being.

Determination was suffocated by the fog enveloping his brain.

"Stay with us, Mr. Brooks." The paramedics were talking
again. They'd lifted him onto a stretcher and were moving. They were racing him
through the lobby toward the front door. Strange, he didn't remember the
elevator ride down.

"Is he conscious?" Dylan grilled.

"In and out." The glass doors blew open. Thick summer
air enveloped them. Manhattan pollution. A hint of it seeped around the oxygen
mask and invaded his nostrils. There were flashing lights—police cars flanking
the ambulance. One cop rushed up to the paramedics. More ran into the building.

He was transported to the ambulance. "Mount Sinai?"
Dylan was asking the paramedic who'd climbed in beside him.

"Yup. We'll get over to Madison and fly straight uptown. With
the siren on, we'll be there in minutes."

"I'm riding with you." Dylan was getting in even as he
spoke.

"Uh, Mr. Newport..." The ambulance driver turned and
cleared his throat uneasily. "The police want to talk to you about—"

"Fine." Dylan cut him off at the knees. "Then they
can meet us at Mount Sinai. I'm riding there with Mr. Brooks. That's not up for
debate. And like I said, you're bringing in a 'John Doe.' No names, no press.
Let's go."

There were no further arguments. Doors slammed. A siren screamed.
The ambulance zoomed off.

"Heart rate's up to a hundred seventy. BP's down to ninety
over fifty." The paramedic leaned closer. "Mr. Brooks, can you tell
me how old you are?"

"To-o old. F-f-ifty."

His voice mingled with the scream of the siren. The traffic on
Madison Avenue seemed to part like the waters of the Red Sea.

"Carson." Dylan's voice was low, very close to his ear.

"Still... alive..." he managed.

"I never doubted it. You're indestructible."

"Yeah... tell that to whoever... did this."

"Talking isn't what I have in mind for that bastard." A
pause. "Did you see who it was?"

"Saw nothing... too fast... and from behind." Carson
drew a slow, raspy breath. "Dylan..."

"We'll get him, Carson. Don't worry."

"Not that." A weak shake of his head. He was fading. For
now or for good, he wasn't sure. But, just in case he'd be around to hear the
answer, he had to try. "That situation... I was wrestling with... the
confidential one..."

"I remember."

He swallowed, fighting the waves of darkness. "If I've got a
kid... I want to know. Find out."

Tuesday, September 6th, 9:30 AM.

Center for Creative Thinking and Leadership

Auburn, New Hampshire

"Good morning, everyone. Welcome to CCTL."

Sabrina stepped into the conference room, strolling over to the
head of the elegant teak table and simultaneously assessing the new management
team of Office Perks, a Boston-based accessories-for-the-workplace company.

The composite of the group was pretty standard. Eight executives,
five men, three women. Most in their mid-thirties, a few in the forty to
forty-five range. That included Robert Stowbe, the company's newly appointed
chief executive officer, who was forty-four and at the helm following a large,
heavily publicized merger. He'd handpicked his new department heads. And, as
Sabrina's research had confirmed, he'd done a pretty good job. Edward Rowen,
the chief financial officer, had done a decent job of increasing profits at his
previous position; Harold Case, the VP of sales, was a shrewd cookie who knew
his clientele; Lauren Hollis, the VP of information technology, was a
workhorse, if a bit lacking in creativity; Paul Jacobs, the VP of strategic
planning, had vision and initiative; Lois Ames, the VP of marketing, was well
connected and open to new ideas; Jerry Baines, the VP of research and
development, had a good track record but was a bit of an autocrat when it came
to running his department; and Meg Lakes, who promised to be a perky, energetic
VP of human resources.