Heart Failure (18 page)

THIRTEEN

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN CARRIE HEARD THE TAP AT HER kitchen door. She’d been sitting at the table, a cold cup of coffee in front of her, for almost half an hour. She peeked through the curtains and saw Adam standing on the porch. Carrie opened the door and held out her arms. In a single gesture Adam embraced her and kicked the door shut behind him. Then he kissed her in a way that affirmed his love much more than words could.

“I’m so glad you’re back, Carrie said.

“Me too. I’ve missed you,” Adam said. He pointed to the coffee cup. “Is there more of that? I’ve been subsisting on some of the worst swill imaginable, using it to wash down stale service-station pastries.”

In a moment they were settled at the kitchen table with fresh cups before them. Adam reached across to take Carrie’s hand. “I have a lot to tell you.”

“Such as why you left without telling me more than a bare minimum?” Carrie said. “We’re in this together. I never felt so left out and helpless.”

“I recognize that,” Adam said. “But—”

“Speaking of not knowing, why didn’t you tell me about Sam Westerman?”

Adam looked genuinely puzzled. “I didn’t? It was on my list to cover in that first phone call.” Then the light appeared to dawn. “Oh, that was when our cell phone connection fizzled. After that it must have slipped my mind.”

Carrie sighed but squeezed his hand. “Never mind. Tell me about your trip. Where did you go? What did you do?”

“I decided to go to the prison where Charlie DeLuca was held, get in to see him some way or other, and see if I could reason with him. I’d beg him to call off his shooter. And if he wouldn’t budge, I’d offer to recant my testimony if he’d promise to leave you alone.”

“No!” The word seemed to jump out of Carrie’s mouth. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes. “If you did that, you’d go to jail for perjury. I know you were willing to do it for me, but I can’t let you.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not going to happen. Charlie DeLuca’s dead.”

“And you had nothing to do with it?”

Adam shook his head. “No, he had a fatal heart attack about six months ago.”

“Wait. If he’s been dead for six months, and the last attack came less than two weeks ago, who’s trying to kill you?” Carrie said.

“I asked myself the same question,” Adam said. “I see two possibilities. Either the order to kill me didn’t die with Charlie, or . . .”

“Or what,” Carrie said.

“Or the attacks weren’t aimed at me. Maybe you were the target.”

“I don’t—” Carrie stopped. She thought about the patients and families who, for one reason or another, bore a grudge against her. Perhaps Adam was right. “I need to think about that.” She looked into his eyes. “Are you willing to go to the police now?”

“And tell them what? No, I’m going to do this myself. I have to make the shooter show himself. What I’d like to do is capture him, but I’ve got to be ready to defend myself.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned closer to her and lowered his voice. “I have a gun.”

Carrie clutched his arm. “I’ve heard you say before that guns can get turned on their owners. Won’t this get you shot?”

“We’re already being shot at. I promise I’ll only use it to protect myself, or to hold the shooter captive while we call the police.”

The discussion went back and forth until eventually she said, “I give up. You’re going to do what you want. But please be careful.”

“Let’s talk about it at dinner,” Adam said.

Carrie agreed to meet him at a local steak house the next night. “In the meantime, please be careful.”

Adam patted his pocket. “I’ve been careful for two years. Now I’m prepared.”

In his car after breakfast, Adam thought about his next move. He’d called Bruce Hartley last night and related his prepared story, ending with his readiness to return to work.

Hartley seemed a bit taken aback by Adam’s call. “Uh, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon. I mean, Janice and I need to talk. That is . . . Why don’t you come in about ten tomorrow and we’ll discuss it?”

Adam had plenty of time to run a couple of errands before meeting with Hartley. First he planned to stop at a store that sold police equipment. He was a civilian, but he figured they’d take his money as quickly as that of a member of the law enforcement community. He needed a holster for his pistol. He could wear one on his belt, concealed by a suit coat or a sports shirt with the tails out. Or he could get an ankle holster to keep the gun out of sight but readily accessible no matter what he wore. That might be an even better choice.

As he drove, Adam considered another problem—getting a concealed carry permit for the gun. It was legal in Texas to carry a handgun but only with a permit. Before the application could be submitted, the gun owner had to complete a mandated course of instruction. That was no problem. Adam was anxious to learn.

But signing up for a course and a carry permit would subject his identity to the scrutiny of a full background check by the Texas Department of Public Safety. With what Sam Johnson had told him, maybe he could just go to a gun range—better still, drive into the country with a box of shells
and some empty cans. After all, Adam wasn’t planning a lot of long-distance shooting. Simple as one, two, three: get close to the target, point the gun at the main body mass, pull the trigger. He was hoping he wouldn’t be doing any shooting, that the threat of the gun would be enough if he came face-to-face with his attacker. But if it came down to it, he was prepared to use the pistol.

As Adam pulled to a stop outside the store, he felt the weight of the gun in his inside coat pocket. The holster would be a step in the right direction. Learning how to use the gun, practicing with it, would be another. After that, it was a matter of unmasking the would-be killer and bringing him to justice . . . whatever it took to do it.

Adam expected to be greeted by a barrage of questions when he walked in the door of Hartley and Evans. Instead, Brittany waved and smiled but continued her conversation with whomever was on the other end of the phone line. Bruce Hartley emerged from the break room with a mug of coffee, beckoned Adam to get his own cup, then disappeared into his office, leaving the door open.

When Adam was settled, Hartley sipped his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and propped one foot on the bottom drawer of his desk. “So you’re back quicker than I expected. Did the surgery go okay?”

Adam adopted what he hoped was a properly somber countenance. “I was too late. When I got there, they told me my brother had gone downhill so far that he was no longer a candidate for a kidney transplant. After he saw me he told
them to take him off dialysis—said he’d gotten right with God and was ready to go.”

“That’s tough, man.”

“We had a good visit, and he told me good-bye.”

“I guess you’ll be going back for the funeral.”

“No, he didn’t want a memorial. He wanted his body cremated and the ashes scattered in some woods not far from the prison. The chaplain said he’d see to it.”

Adam could almost see Hartley decide how quickly he could shift gears from sympathy to business. Apparently it didn’t take long. “So let’s talk about your position.”

“You said you were going to hire a temp. How’s that working out so far?”

Hartley half turned to stare out the window of his office. “She’s worked out very well. Matter of fact, on Friday we offered her a permanent position.”

“After a week?”

“She was doing a good job, and we couldn’t afford to be short staffed.”

Adam clamped his jaws shut to hold back the comments that jumped to mind. He took a deep breath. “So where does that leave me?”

“Janice and I talked before we hired Mary—that’s her name, the new paralegal. We decided that if you came back, we’d offer you the same deal we offered Mary.”

If I
came back? I told them two weeks
. “And that is . . .”

“Go to work as a temp, same salary as before. If things go well, and we see there’s enough work to keep two people busy, we’ll make it permanent. Otherwise we’ll give you a good recommendation.”

A punch in the gut couldn’t have taken Adam’s breath away more effectively. True, he’d only worked there less than a year, but in that time he’d come to look on himself as an important part of the practice. Part of his new plan included returning not just to Jameson but to his job, resuming his usual schedule, making himself visible to his assailant. And, of course, he needed the income.

Adam didn’t see any choice. “I’ll take it. Are my things still in my old office?”

Hartley had the grace to look embarrassed. “Mary moved in there, so we boxed up your stuff and moved it into the storage room next door to her. I’ll get a desk and computer in there by tomorrow. You can start then.”

Both men rose. Hartley’s right hand moved, but he didn’t extend it. Just as well. Adam threw him a curt nod. “I’ll be in tomorrow.”

In the reception area an attractive brunette turned away from Brittany’s desk as Adam walked by. She smiled and held out her hand. “You must be Adam. I’m Mary.”

Adam forced a smile and took the proffered hand. “Adam Davidson. Pleasure to meet you.”

She held his hand a second or two longer, and he had a vague sense that she was flirting with him. “Likewise,” she said.

Adam watched Mary walk away, presumably to her office—his old office, but he’d have to get used to thinking of it in new terms. After Mary was gone Adam looked at Brittany and raised his eyebrows.

Brittany whispered, “There’s more to that story than you know.”

The woman’s voice carried a mixture of amazement and anger. “Dr. Markham, I can’t believe you’d charge me for that visit.” The middle-aged woman sat primly on the edge of the chair opposite Carrie Markham’s desk.

Carrie looked at the door of her office, hoping the office manager or someone who could help her with this argument might appear. She knew she had no chance to change the woman’s mind, but was determined to be calm as she tried to explain yet again. “Mrs. Freemont, you came to the clinic, told the receptionist it was an emergency because you were having a heart attack.”

“Yes, but it wasn’t a heart attack. And it didn’t take you long to find that out.”

“On the contrary. I left the patient I was seeing to examine you. I took a history. We ran an EKG and some lab tests and found—”

“I know. I’m overweight. I drink too much coffee. I ate some spicy food. It made acid come back up into my esoph . . . whatever that thing is between my throat and stomach. But the pain was really bad. I was afraid I was going to die. I thought it was a heart attack.”

Carrie forced a smile. “And I’m glad it wasn’t your heart. But, like the grocer and the dry cleaner, we have to charge for services rendered. Of course, if you’re indigent . . .”

Mrs. Freemont puffed out her chest like a pouter pigeon. “I’m by no means indigent.” She clutched her purse tightly, a purse Carrie recognized as a Dooney & Bourke, well beyond her own price range.

“I’m sure we can work out an arrangement for you to handle the balance of the bill left after your insurance paid.”

Mrs. Freemont was shaking her head before Carrie could finish the sentence. “It’s not the money. It’s the principle.”