Heart Failure (16 page)

Carrie rolled over and squinted at her bedside clock. If she was going to attend church today, she should get up. Of course, that was a big “if.” A gentle rain was falling outside, making this a perfect day to pull the covers over her head and sleep in.

She wasn’t on call this weekend. The only people who’d look for her at church today were those wanting to ask questions about Adam’s absence. Those questions hadn’t slowed this week, but she’d finally reached the point where she could answer them almost without conscious thought.
I don’t know where he’s gone. I don’t know why he left. I don’t know when he’ll be back
. All true and all resulting in a tug at her heart that was almost physically painful.

Adam hadn’t called again since their phone conversation was terminated by a tenuous cell phone connection. Carrie had been tempted to try calling him but wasn’t sure if he’d have cell reception or if he’d be able to talk. No, she had to trust him. He said he’d stay in touch.

Carrie lay in bed and let the events of the past few weeks unreel in her mind. She felt as though she were on an emotional
and spiritual roller coaster. She’d prayed for strength and courage but still felt weak and afraid. Now her lips moved silently.
God, I know You’re in control of all things. But I can’t help it . . . I’m scared
.

Carrie’s prayer was interrupted by the insistent ring of her bedside phone. She’d just been wishing Adam would call back. Could this be him? Even though she knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, she answered the call with more than a little anticipation. “Dr. Markham.”

“Carrie, this is Adam.”

She flung the covers off, swung her feet over the side of the bed and slid them into slippers. “Adam, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? Is everything all right? When—”

“Easy. I love you. I’ve missed you, more than I can say.”

“I love you too. What—”

“Look, we have lots to talk about when I get back, but I wanted to call and let you know that I’m on my way to Jameson. I should be there late tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Are you okay?” Carrie asked.

“I’m fine. But the situation has changed. That’s one of the things we need to discuss.”

Carrie took in what seemed like half the air in the room, then let it out slowly. “Is . . . is this call safe? I didn’t check the caller ID. Are you using—”

“No need for any of that. I realized I’ve been going about this the wrong way all along. I thought I could protect us both by hiding. I was wrong. And I’m tired of running away.”

“What’s changed?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I get back. I had a plan to stop the threats on my life at the source, but now I see they’re going to continue
no matter what I might do. So I intend to face the would-be killer head on.”

“So I don’t have to say I don’t know where you are?”

“If anyone asks, you can say I called, I’ve been out of town because of a family emergency, but I’m coming back now.”

She ran fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand.”

Carrie heard the sound of a horn in the background. “Look, I’ve got to drive, and traffic’s heavy on the Interstate,” Adam said. “I have to make one stop, then I’m headed home. It will be really late when I get into town.”

“I don’t care how late it is. I want to see you tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll phone when I get near your house. I can park a couple of blocks away and go through the alleys, then knock on your back door.”

“I thought you were through hiding.”

“I am,” Adam said. “But I’m not going to lead the person who’s after me to your doorstep either. When I face him, I’ll choose the place—and it won’t be anywhere near you.”

After the call ended, Carrie slipped into a robe and headed for the kitchen to have her first cup of coffee and throw together some breakfast.

A few minutes ago she’d been ready to blow off church. No more. Church was exactly where she wanted to be this morning.

As he drove, Adam considered how Charlie DeLuca’s death had changed things. He’d hoped he could get Charlie to call off the killer. But Charlie was dead, yet the attacks continued. It seemed to Adam his only remaining option was to identify the potential killer, whoever he was, and neutralize him.

Maybe Carrie had been right. Maybe it was time to go to the police. But what, exactly, could he tell them?
Someone shot at me. Oh, that report I filed about finding the bullet holes in my windshield? I lied about that. Sorry. And somebody threw a Molotov cocktail through a window of the building I was in. How do I know it was meant for me? I just do. But you have to believe me. Somebody even tried to run me over in the hospital parking lot. Did anyone see it? Well, no. But surely you know I’m telling the truth
.

No, this was his best option. It wasn’t great, and he didn’t really know if he could carry it off, but he didn’t see an alternative. So now he needed to buy a gun.

As he rolled through East Texas, he kept an eye on the roadside signs, watching for the right exit. Finally he saw a billboard telling him where to turn for the First Monday Trade Days. Soon he was guiding his car through the streets of Canton, Texas, looking for a place to park. He found a lot where he traded five dollars for a slot into which he jammed his little Forester.

Since moving to Jameson, Adam had heard about First Monday Trade Days in Canton. The activity didn’t actually take place on the first Monday of each month, but rather on the weekend before that day. Since today was the Sunday before the first Monday, Adam was in luck. Although he could undoubtedly find a flea market elsewhere this weekend, one that offered what he needed, he figured Canton would have the best selection.

Adam picked up a map and studied it. Among the stalls where people sold everything from antiques to woodcraft were a number selling guns. But where should he begin? The choices
ranged from gun dealers displaying a big inventory in open-air stalls to individuals with a few guns and knives laid out on plain folding tables. While Adam was considering his choices he discovered another option, one the map didn’t show.

Adam jumped when a man approached him and said in a low voice, “Looking to buy a handgun?” He shook his head and walked away. After a couple of these encounters, he realized this was the way some individuals operated, choosing to sell a few pistols on a roving basis rather than pay the rental for a fixed space and deal with the paperwork required of a licensed dealer.

Now that he was confronted with so many choices, Adam regretted his lack of preparation. He wanted a dependable handgun, small enough to be carried easily, effective at short range. But did he want a revolver, a semiautomatic, what? He had no idea.

His work in the law office had familiarized him with Texas’s “concealed carry” laws. A carry permit would require that he pass a firearms training course. It would also require a more extensive computer background search than he was prepared to undergo. Adam Davidson wasn’t a convicted felon, but then again the identity he’d set up for himself when he struck out on his own might not hold up to intense scrutiny. After a few conversations Adam decided his best course of action was to buy a gun from a private dealer, one who didn’t fill out the sale form regular dealers used. He could worry about the matter of a carry permit later.

After a number of fruitless stops, he wandered up to a small table tended by an older man wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and lighting one cigarette off the butt of the previous one.

Adam looked through the man’s small stock of pistols, but in the end threw up his hands in both disgust and perplexity. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you want, son?”

Why not? Adam gave him the story he’d developed as he went from stall to stall: his wife was being stalked by a former boyfriend, and he wanted a weapon to give her—small enough to carry in a pocket or purse but with adequate stopping power. He didn’t mind a used pistol, so long as it was in good condition and reliable.

The man took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to point a nicotine-stained finger toward a small food stand about a hundred feet away. “See that tall, weather-beaten looking man at the table drinking coffee? That’s the Colonel. See if he’ll sell you that pistol his wife had.”

Adam thanked the man and headed toward the food stand. It sounded a bit unusual, but the whole day had been unusual. Might as well give it a try.

The man at the table was leathery and lean. His white hair was the only indication of his age. He wore starched khakis, a white dress shirt open at the neck, and shined engineer’s boots. He looked up when Adam approached. “Yes?”

“Sir, my name is Adam Davidson.” Adam extended his hand, and the man took it in a grip that was firm without making it a contest of wills.

“Sam Johnson,” the man replied. “Most people call me Colonel.” He gestured to the other chair at the table. “What can I do for you?”

Adam eased into the chair, then told the same story he’d
given the last gun dealer. “He said to ask you if you’d sell me your wife’s gun. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I figured it was worth walking a hundred feet to talk with you.”

Johnson took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and ran his gaze over Adam’s face. Then he tapped the shoebox at his elbow. “I come here every month and bring this. So far I haven’t been able to do anything about it. I can’t bring myself to be one of those guys who walks the grounds and asks perfect strangers, ‘You want to buy a gun?’ Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person. Maybe that’s you.”

Adam wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was curious to know more about the man’s story. “I take it there’s something special about the gun.”

“It was my wife’s.” Johnson lifted the lid of the box. “Ruger semiautomatic SR9C, mint condition.” The man looked into the middle distance and smiled. “Right after we were married, I told her a woman alone—and she was alone a lot of the time when I was deployed—a woman alone needed to protect herself. I bought this. Taught her how to use it.”

“You said it
was
your wife’s.”

“She died six months ago.” The man looked away and blinked hard.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Adam said.

“I’m still getting rid of some things,” Johnson said. “This is one of them.” He shoved the box toward Adam.

The gun showed evidence of care. No scratches marred a black finish that shone with gun oil. The pistol was probably six inches long. Adam lifted it and found that it fit neatly in his hand.

“Weighs about a pound and a half,” Johnson said. “It looks like a toy, but one pull of that trigger can leave a man just as dead as if he’d been shot with a .357 Magnum.”

The enormity of the step he was taking wasn’t lost on Adam. Then he thought of Carrie, and his resolve strengthened. “I guess it’s what I need.”

“That model can accept either of two magazines. This one’s got the smaller one, ten rounds. That enough for you?”

“That will be fine,” Adam said. “If ten rounds isn’t enough, I might as well throw it at them.”

“You’re right about that.” Johnson leaned back and crossed his legs. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you know how to use one of these?”

Actually, Adam didn’t, but he thought he could figure it out. “If you mean where’s the safety, how do I eject the magazine, stuff like that—no. But I can learn. After that it’s a matter of point and pull the trigger, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.” Sam took the gun from Adam and spent a few minutes showing him the mechanics of the Ruger. Then he carefully replaced it in the box. “One word of warning. It’s something everyone who carries a gun should know. Don’t pull it out unless you’re prepared to use it. And if you shoot, aim for the torso—the center of the mass. Trying to hit an arm or a leg? That’s not going to happen.” He paused, apparently considering his words. “I guess what I’m asking you is whether you’re prepared to kill someone.”

Adam had thought about this for the last hundred miles of his journey. He had his answer ready. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“Son, I retired from the army as a bird colonel. Never got the star because I wouldn’t play their games. In thirty years I
learned to read people pretty well and pretty fast.” Johnson uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way.