Heart Failure (28 page)

By ten o’clock Carrie was not only caught up, but a few minutes ahead. “I’m going to get some coffee and a donut,” she told Lila.

“Out of luck,” Lila said. “The Merck rep was supposed to be here today, but he had to cancel.” She grinned. “But if you’re hungry, I hid a couple of pastries from yesterday in the fridge. They may be a little stale, but I’ll share.”

“Sounds good,” Carrie said.

Lila microwaved the two cherry Danish, and she and Carrie eased into chairs in the corner of the break room, fresh coffee in hand. “Thanks so much,” Carrie said.

“Consider it payback for giving up your Sunday afternoon to come to the ER and take care of my mother.”

“How’s she doing?”

Lila looked at the clock on the wall. “You can see for yourself. She has an appointment with you just before lunch.” She took another bite of Danish, chewed, and swallowed. “But I think she’s doing fine.”

Carrie reflected on the way she’d solved the diagnostic puzzle presented by Mrs. James, Lila’s mother, and her hypertension. Diagnostic puzzles and grateful patients would always be an important part of the practice of medicine for her. They were what kept her going, even when it was hard. And the more she thought about it, the more grateful Carrie was that God allowed her to do something that brought her so much pleasure.
Thank You, Lord
.

Adam worked hard to follow his usual routine at work: he came in early, made the coffee, buried his nose in the tasks left for him, and spoke only when spoken to. He hoped if he did that, no one would notice his bloodshot eyes, the frequent yawns, the two tiny pieces of tissue stuck over the cuts he’d inflicted on himself while shaving.

If he were a drinker, the picture could be passed off as the aftereffects of a hard night on the town. But Adam, in sharp contrast with Bruce Hartley, was a teetotaler, and the staff knew it. So if anyone noticed his state this morning, questions were sure to follow.

Other than a brief conversation with Brittany, who was more interested in relating her own experiences of the prior evening than asking Adam about his, he managed to pass the morning with a minimum of interaction with others in the office. That changed at about eleven, when Mary Delkus tapped on the frame of his open office door.

“May I come in?” The question was apparently rhetorical, because before Adam could respond she was settling herself in one of the chairs across from him.

He composed his features into what he hoped passed for a pleasant grin. “What’s up, Mary?”

“I’m still wondering if I could take you to lunch. If we’re going to be working together, I think it would be nice if we got to know each other better.”

Wheels were spinning in Adam’s head before Mary finished speaking. Did she want to know about him so she could undermine his chances of getting his permanent job back? Was she setting him up as a fallback if her relationship with Bruce Hartley fizzled? Or—and Adam sort of regretted the cynicism that put this so far down the line of possibilities—was she truly a nice lady who just wanted to get to know a coworker better? Whatever the cause of the invitation, he needed to wriggle out of it. It had always been important for him to maintain the anonymity that prevented anyone from digging too deeply into his cover story. Right now that was more imperative than ever.

Mary raised her eyebrows in a silent follow-up to her invitation.

Adam tried to deepen his grin. “Believe me, Mary, I’d like nothing better. But I have a luncheon appointment that I can’t change, so I’ll have to take a rain check.”

The raised eyebrows turned into a frown. “Adam, that’s twice you’ve turned down my invitation to lunch. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to avoid going out with me. It’s just a lunch. Nothing more.”

Adam spread his hands. “I know, and I wish I could take you up on it. But I’ve been gone, and I’m trying to catch up.” He pulled out his cell phone and opened the calendar function. “How about next week? Maybe Tuesday?”

Mary reached into the coat pocket of her stylish navy suit and pulled out the latest iPhone. She touched the screen a couple of times, then smiled. “I’m putting you down for lunch on Tuesday.” The smile stayed on her lips, but her blue eyes conveyed a different message altogether. They said,
No more excuses, mister
.

As Mary left, Adam made a note on his own calendar. This gave him four days before he had to face Mary’s questions. And he was sure that there would be questions. The woman might be only a paralegal, but he’d already figured that she’d be great on cross-examination of a witness.

His next step was a phone call. He’d need to be out of the office to make it, which was yet another reason not to accept Mary’s invitation. Adam reached into his in-box and pulled out the top sheet. To a casual passerby he’d seem deep in thought. Actually, he was, but not about Jason Whitley’s will. He was putting together a cover story to explain his lunch appointment, in case anyone asked. And the way his luck was running, someone would.

Carrie was pleased to find that, as Lila had said, her mother was indeed doing well. Having been sufficiently frightened by the effects of the weight-loss product from the health food store, she’d decided to substitute willpower for herbs and had lost a pound since her last visit. Her blood pressure was behaving. Carrie assured Mrs. James that if she could drop another eight or nine pounds, she should be able to come off her blood pressure medicine entirely.

“You’re welcome to join Mom and me for lunch,” Lila said as she escorted her mother down the hall.

“Thanks, but I’ll just grab a sandwich at the hospital,” Carrie said. She left mother and daughter at the checkout desk.

Fifteen minutes later she was flipping a mental coin between the tuna salad and smoked turkey sandwiches. Finally, her choice made, she took her tray to the most remote corner of the food court and slid into a chair at the last open table for two.

When her husband was alive, he and Carrie unashamedly said grace in public, holding hands, taking turns praying. But after his death, she dropped the practice. Although she was back on speaking terms with God, bowing her head to pray in a crowded environment was still beyond her. She decided to compromise. Without bowing her head, she breathed a silent prayer. She knew God wasn’t picky about whether the prayer was voiced or simply formed in her mind.

She had a potato chip halfway to her mouth when a familiar voice caused her to stop. “May I share your table?”

Carrie looked up and put aside any idea of a quiet lunch to refresh her mind and calm her soul. The voice belonged to Rob Cole.

“Going to lunch,” Adam said to Brittany as he hurried by her desk and out the door.

Although his assailant had never targeted him in broad daylight, Adam continued the practice of parking in a space other than his assigned one in front of his office building. He hurried to his car, half expecting to hear a shot at any moment, maybe even feel a bullet sink deep into his flesh. Once in the Forester, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He pulled away, one eye on the rearview mirror, and began a series of turns that by now were second nature to him. Eventually he backtracked toward his office and pulled to a stop near one of the small cafés that was a gathering place at noon for lawyers with business in the courthouse nearby. He made casual conversation with a few of the men as he waited to be seated. If anyone at his office asked about his lunch appointment, he was ready to say he met with someone from another law office, exploring the idea of a position there if his return to Hartley and Evans didn’t work out. Beyond that he’d be tight-lipped.

Adam settled in at a booth in the back of the café. He ordered a sandwich and waited until it was served. Then he unfolded the newspaper he’d brought with him. Behind it Adam pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number. He hoped his brother was feeling up to answering—wasn’t there some rule against cell phones in hospitals? Maybe they’d make an exception for a lawman. Did Dave even have his cell phone with him?

The call rang for the fifth time, and Adam figured it was about to roll over to voice mail. Then there was a click, a pause, followed by a voice, weak but familiar. “Branson.”

Adam felt himself grinning. “Dave, it’s me. Adam. Can you talk?”

“Let me see. I have the president and the attorney general here in my hospital room, but I guess I can tell them they’ll have to wait.” This was followed by what started as a chuckle but ended in a barking cough. “Sorry. Still coughing some. They say it’s due to the anesthetic.”

“Are you okay to talk?”

“Sure. Other than getting tortured by the sadist in physical therapy twice a day, I just lie here and channel surf. I’ve watched so much daytime TV my brain is starting to rot.”

“What do the doctors tell you?”

“They say I got shot in the shoulder.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dave’s voice took on a more somber note. “The initial surgery was done to stop the bleeding and clean up the wound. I’d lost too much blood for them to do more than that right then. I’m getting built back up, but we have to decide soon what to do next if I want my arm to be fully functional again.”

Adam couldn’t imagine a marshall with an impaired right arm. Did this mean his brother was going to lose his badge? Did they have to pass some sort of proficiency test? Never mind. Those were questions for another time. “Listen, I need to ask you a question.”

“Ask away.”

“We . . . uh. That is, someone shot at Carrie and me the other night. Grazed her scalp, but we’re fine.”

Dave wanted all the details, and Adam spent five minutes pouring them out. He finished with, “Now I have a question for you.”

“Okay.”

“I went back to the parking lot and found an empty shell casing the police must have overlooked. I’m pretty sure it’s one the rifle ejected. Do you think it will tell us anything?”

“Sure. Someone who knows a thing or two about guns could tell you the caliber of the weapon.”

“Can it be matched with the gun?”

“I’ve heard they’re working on something like that, but at
present you can’t identify a rifle by the ejected shell casing. You have to compare an actual bullet with one that was test-fired from the gun. Do you have the slug?”

Adam thought about police combing the field with metal detectors. “No, and we’re not likely to find one.” He decided to ask the other question, although the more he thought about it, the more he realized he already knew the answer. “Do you think the shell might have fingerprints on it?”

“Possibly, but if so, they’d most likely be partials. If that’s the case, they might not be enough to provide an identity. Sorry.”

Adam felt the wind leave his sails. “So it’s not worth running them?”

“Let me talk with a friend. Hang on to the casing, and I’ll let you know.”

They talked for a few more minutes before ending the conversation with Dave warning his brother to be careful and Adam promising to call again the next day. He folded the newspaper and dropped it on the table for the next customer. Then he rose and walked slowly out of the café, leaving his partially eaten sandwich behind.