Heart Failure (11 page)

It was fully dark when she finally walked out of the Emergency Room entrance and headed for her car. Her watch showed almost nine o’clock. As she climbed into the driver’s seat, Carrie rummaged in her purse and retrieved her cell phone. She scanned the display, dreading what she’d see. Sure enough, there were five missed calls, all from what was shown as “Private Number.” No matter what the display showed, she knew what the number represented and who the caller was. It was Adam, on his throwaway phone.

Adam left a message the first two times his call to Carrie’s cell rolled over to voice mail. When each subsequent call did
the same thing, he ended them without speaking. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he parted the blinds in his motel room and gazed out. The parking lot was as it had been just moments before when he’d last looked—dark, almost deserted.

He hoped Carrie hadn’t gotten cold feet. Adam needed to talk with her. He wanted . . . no, he needed to see her.

Of course, Carrie might have changed her mind. She might be coming to tell him she never wanted to see him again. If that were the case, he’d leave Jameson and find another town, try to start life all over . . . again. But how many times could he do that? Coming to Jameson had turned out to be the best thing he’d done since he began his journey. He didn’t want to leave. Adam was determined that the shooter couldn’t make him do so—but Carrie might.

He checked the time—eight thirty. There was probably a logical explanation for why Carrie was so late. After all, she was a doctor, he told himself. Doctors got caught on emergencies, and she probably didn’t have time to call. No reason to worry . . . yet.

But despite his rationalization, worry was exactly what Adam did. He loved Carrie, and the thought that she might have fallen prey to the gunman who’d been stalking him, once it popped into his head, was almost more than he could stand.

As darkness fell outside, Adam had kept the light off in the room. No real reason, he supposed, but somehow he felt better in the dark—safer, perhaps. He pressed the button on his digital watch to illuminate the numbers. Eight forty-eight.

Should he call again? No, he’d left two messages, and if she looked at her cell phone Carrie would see she’d had multiple missed calls from him.
Just trust her, Adam
.

He tried to still the panic rising in his chest.

It was two hours past the time she’d told Adam she’d come to his motel room. Carrie wondered if he’d still be there. Might he have taken her failure to appear as an indication that she wanted him out of her life? Maybe he was at his apartment right now, packing, loading his car, about to drop out of sight again.

Carrie punched in the number of Adam’s new cell phone. On the first ring an electronic voice repeated the phone number and invited her to leave a message. “Adam, it’s Carrie. I’m on my way. I’ll explain when I get there.”

She wanted this to be a face-to-face conversation. Carrie needed to apologize, explain. She’d tell him what she’d told him before, but now it would carry an additional message—she loved him with all her heart, and she was ready to stand with him in his fight to uncover the identity of his attacker and bring him to justice.

Carrie started her car and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. She’d printed the directions to the Rancho Motel before her first visit, but that paper was at home. Check the address on her iPhone? No, that would waste time when she could be driving. She thought she could find it, and after a couple of false turns, she did.

She parked in the back of the units as before, sneaked through the circle of light spilling onto the Coke machine and
ice dispenser, and walked along the front row of doors, looking for Adam’s room. She thought it was number six, but she wasn’t totally certain.

She turned and scanned the parking lot. A few cars were scattered about, but none that she recognized as the black Toyota rental she’d seen Adam driving. Carrie walked back and forth in front of the units, watching for a light in a room, maybe even someone peeking out from between drawn curtains. But the darkness was unbroken.

Carrie pulled her cell phone from her pocket and pressed Redial. Even if Adam didn’t answer, she might hear the ring inside one of the rooms. But no sound reached her ears. Again, the call rolled to voice mail on the first ring. Either he was on the phone or had his phone turned off.

She scanned the area one more time. All the windows were dark. The parking slots in front of all the units in the row were empty. She drew the only conclusion she could—Adam was gone.

Where now? How about his apartment? Maybe he’d gone back there for more clothes, something he forgot.

She climbed into her car and started out for The Villas. Adam’s apartment was in a complex of four-plexes occupied primarily by young urban professionals. She found it easily enough, but now, with her brain racing a mile a minute, all the numbers seemed to be hiding from her in the dark.

Carrie exited her car and looked around, her confidence boosted only slightly by the container of Mace in her shoulder bag. She unzipped the purse and let her right hand rest gently on the metal cylinder. The lights were on in the apartment, and from behind the door she could hear classical music
playing softly. Carrie found the bell and pushed it. Faintly, the first notes of the Westminster chimes sounded inside.

There appeared to be no response at first—no sound of footsteps, no change in the music, no voices. She poised her finger over the bell, ready to push it again, when the peephole darkened. Carrie moved so that her face was directly in the field of view of the person inside. “Adam?” she almost whispered. Then the door opened.

A young man who looked barely out of high school stood in the doorway. He wore faded jeans and a blue T-shirt with DHS written on it. His feet were bare. “Yes?”

Who was this? Adam didn’t have a roommate. “I . . . I must have the wrong apartment,” Carrie said. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Who did you want?” Neither his voice nor his manner displayed any annoyance at having a stranger ring his bell. “I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I know a lot of the people in the units around me.”

“Adam Davidson,” Carrie said.

“Oh, you’re one unit off.” He smiled. “They all look alike in the dark, don’t they?” The young man stepped onto the porch and pointed to the next four-plex. “This is 402. He’s in 302.”

Carrie thanked him and hurried away. She ignored the sidewalk and crossed the lawn directly to the next unit. The front window was dark. She heard no sounds inside. Had Adam already left? Or could he be at her house, waiting for her to finally appear? Carrie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed the bell.

When there was no response, Carrie rang again . . . and again. Finally convinced that the unit was empty, she trudged
back to her car. Where could he have gone? The next place to look was her house. Maybe he’d gone there, looking for her after she failed to keep their rendezvous.

By now she had the car moving, heading toward her house, driving almost by instinct. If he wasn’t at her place, either he’d left town or his stalker had caught up with him. She could picture Adam, lying in some dark place, bleeding from a gunshot wound, his attacker standing over him smirking.

As she neared her house, she slowed and looked around the neighborhood. His car was nowhere to be seen. She parked in the driveway, checked all around the house, including the backyard. No Adam.

Should she stay here and wait for him to call? Logic told her that was wise, but her instincts cried out for her to do something . . . anything. She’d try the motel once more. Carrie shuddered as she drove, praying for safety for Adam . . . and for her.
God, keep him safe until I can find him. And when I do, I won’t let him go again
.

NINE

ADAM LOOKED AT HIS CELL PHONE, WONDERING IF HE SHOULD TRY to call Carrie again. Then he noticed that the display was dark. He’d let his battery run down. He hurried to the parking lot and found the sack with the box his phone had come in. The first charger he dug out was the one for his car. Fair enough. He needed to be doing something anyway. He plugged in his phone and set it on the seat next to him. Then he started his pickup and began to drive toward Carrie’s house.

In a few moments a tone from his cell phone got his attention. Someone was sending a text.

He pulled to the side of the road and looked at the phone. “Blocked Number” showed on the caller ID. He scanned the message and his mouth went dry. The words were typical texting, abbreviated but easily understood. He read them quickly at first, then again, more carefully. “DR MRKHM N ACCIDENT. N SRGRY NOW CENT HOSP. COME QUICK.”

He didn’t bother wondering who sent the message, what the circumstances were. Carrie had been in an accident and was in surgery at Centennial Hospital. He needed to get there quickly. Adam put the pickup in gear and sped through the night, leaning forward as though he could make the vehicle go faster by doing so.

Adam’s phone lay on the seat beside him. A beep made him look at the display. Missed calls. Voice mail. He ignored them. They were probably from the ER, someone with more details about Carrie’s condition. He didn’t want to take the time to answer. Besides, it might be bad news. And he couldn’t stand that right now.

The Rancho Motel was normally fifteen minutes away from Centennial Medical Center. Adam made it in nine. He skidded into the ER parking area and took the first open slot he found, one marked for “Patient Unloading.”

He threw the selector into park, turned the key, and paused to whisper, “Please, God. Please let her be all right. I’ll do anything—” He slammed the door of his vehicle and sprinted toward the ER’s sliding glass doors. Suddenly, to his left, bright lights flared and the engine of a powerful vehicle roared. He glanced in that direction just before a white sedan barreled toward him. Reflexes carried Adam, rolling, to his right and back. He stopped when he was tucked under the front bumper of a car. The vehicle sheltering him rocked and a loud noise assaulted his ears as the pursuing car grazed the front fender just inches away.

Either this was a trap, or someone was taking advantage of Carrie’s accident to catch him unaware. Adam rolled out and ran toward his pickup. At the end of the row, the white
sedan skidded into a turn, ready to come back for another try at him.

In his pickup, he started the engine and rammed the gearshift into reverse, burning rubber as he backed out of the parking space. Adam turned the wheel, slammed the selector into drive, and stomped hard on the accelerator. He didn’t take the time to fasten his seat belt. The sedan was right behind him now.

At the last minute, Adam slammed on the brakes and cut the steering wheel of the pickup sharply to the right. He skidded into one of the parking aisles, barely missing cars right and left. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a flash of white going down the main aisle he’d just vacated.

He had to get out of here. Where was the exit? Adam slowed and began turning randomly right, left, left again, right, until he spotted an arrow and the welcome word “Exit.” He screamed out of the parking lot, turned onto the main street that fronted the hospital, and floored the accelerator.

After a number of twists and turns, during which Adam finally took the time to fasten his seat belt, he was in a residential neighborhood. He remembered this one. It was full of streets that dead-ended, interspersed with speed bumps to keep motorists from racing through. Unfortunately, that was what Adam had to do right now. He navigated by dead reckoning, enduring bump after bump, grateful for his vehicle’s heavy-duty suspension.

There’d been no headlights behind him for several minutes now. He spotted a house that was dark, with a vacant driveway leading to a closed garage door. He stopped, backed into the drive, killed his lights and engine, and hunched low
in his seat. The few streetlights in the subdivision were low-powered, yellowish ones, casting eerie shadows but making Adam almost invisible as he sat there.

He waited—one minute, two, five—and finally decided his attacker had given up the chase. When his pulse had slowed almost to normal, Adam started the engine and drove away, keeping his lights off until he was back on a main street. Two blocks away, he stopped the pickup in the parking lot of a strip mall. He was pretty sure this had been a trap, but what if Carrie had really been in an accident? Adam dialed her cell phone. After three rings, she answered, and relief washed over him.