Heart Failure (21 page)

Where was the rifle? Surely the police would have found it, but they’d said nothing to that effect. Maybe the shooter stowed the rifle in the trunk of his vehicle, then escaped into the hospital. Or perhaps the person ducked into his car and simply waited until Adam was inside the building before driving away.

Adam’s focus had been on Carrie, not suspicious persons in the area. The shooter could have been anyone he’d encountered last night, or someone he hadn’t even seen.

Carrie stirred, and Adam eased to her bedside. She opened her eyes and blinked a few times. “I’m here,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. I’m here.”

As Adam stepped off the elevator, the smell of food from the cafeteria reminded him that his last meal had been almost eighteen hours ago. The coffee this morning helped, but why not have a quick lunch? No, he didn’t want to take the time. The charge nurse promised to keep an eye on Carrie’s room while he was gone, but Adam still hated to be away for very long. He had things to do, and he needed to hurry.

Adam checked his watch and decided he’d better call the office first. He stepped outside to use his cell phone. Brittany answered and put him right through to Janice Evans. He explained what had happened and told her that although he planned to stay at the hospital with Carrie today, he’d be at work the next morning. She told him to call if things changed.

While he was outside the hospital, Adam decided to look at the scene of last night’s shooting. Carrie’s Prius was where he’d left it, surrounded now by other cars. The policeman told Adam last night that he could remove the yellow crime scene tape and move the car this morning. He would have done so except that when he retrieved Carrie’s purse, he’d locked the car and dropped the key into it. The purse—and key—were in a closet in her room. So the Prius would stay there for a bit longer.

The driver’s side window was partially shattered, and glass fragments dotted the front seat. The passenger side window showed damage as well. The grassy area beyond the car was quiet now. He pictured figures there last night or early this morning, combing the area with metal detectors to look for the expended slugs, occasionally stooping to pick up something, then discarding bottle caps, coins, and other objects that made the instruments whine. Good luck finding that particular needle in this haystack.

He was certain the police had already searched for ejected shell casings as well, but Adam wouldn’t be satisfied until he carried out a search of his own. He turned and made his way back toward the ER doors. The Hummer was still there—at least, he thought it was the same one. It was in what seemed to be the right place, and the windshield and back window were covered with dew from overnight. He stood behind the left
rear fender of the vehicle, the position from which he figured the shots were fired.

Adam looked around but saw nothing but a few bits of trash. He dropped into a push-up position and peered beneath the Hummer. No, nothing under there except a small puddle of grease near the right front wheel—maybe a bad seal on an axle boot. But that wasn’t what Adam was hunting.

He wasn’t a hunter. Adam had never fired a rifle in his life. But somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind was a picture, probably from a movie or something, showing a hunter firing a rifle, working the bolt, and shells ejecting to the right side. So he was looking in the wrong place.

He returned to his position behind the left rear fender of the Hummer, faced Carrie’s car, and scanned the area to his right. Nothing there. He moved across the aisle, got on his hands and knees, and searched the area under the Hyundai sedan parked there. Still nothing. Finally he reached under the car and felt beneath the rear tires. There his patience was rewarded. His fingertips brushed a small object wedged beneath the edge of the right rear tire of the car. He started to pick it up, then thought better of it. If there were fingerprints, he should preserve them. He used a pen to tease out the shell, then pulled his handkerchief from his hip pocket and picked up the tiny brass casing, then twisted the cloth to make a small bundle that he stowed in his pants pocket.

He might have smeared any fingerprints on the casing when he picked it up. Even if he hadn’t, how could he get it checked? Adam still couldn’t wrap his head around asking the police for help. There’d be too much explaining to do. Maybe he’d call Dave.

Adam turned and trudged back toward the hospital. At least he was doing something. And, if the opportunity presented itself, he’d do more. He felt the assuring weight of the pistol in its ankle holster strapped to his right leg. He might have been passive for the past two years, but now he was ready to actively defend himself—and Carrie.

FIFTEEN

CARRIE SENSED, MORE THAN HEARD, MOVEMENT IN THE ROOM. She’d been shuttling in and out of sleep, her dreams and semi-waking thoughts a mishmash of men with guns, shadowy figures whose faces melted into new ones before her eyes, and patients tugging at the hem of her white coat to beg for healing.

Now she heard a noise—soft footfalls on the tile floor. She opened her eyes and saw Phil Rushton standing at her bedside.

“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “You need your rest.”

“No, no. I was through with those dreams—nightmares, actually. I needed to wake up.” She lifted her wrist to look at her watch but found it was gone. “What time is it anyway?”

“About noon,” Phil said. “Let’s have a look at you.”

He took a few moments to examine her, then settled into the chair at her bedside. “You’re an extremely lucky woman. An inch lower and that bullet would have cracked your skull, maybe required surgery. Two inches and it would have penetrated into
the brain, and you’d be dead or permanently disabled. As it is, you had a concussion. That’s all.”

Carrie pushed the button to raise the head of her bed. “So am I okay for discharge?”

“You know better than that. I told you yesterday, we need to watch you for a while.”

“Phil, I feel fine, except for a headache that would put a mule on its back. I’m a doctor. I know the signs of a problem.”

“Knowing the signs is different than being able to recognize them in yourself.” Phil shook his head, and his expression told her she wasn’t going to win this argument. “I’d like to keep you a few more hours—make sure no late neurologic changes show up. Can we settle on five or six tonight?”

“Not what I’d like, but . . . I never thought I’d say these words. You’re the doctor.” She shrugged and offered a hint of a smile.

Phil was almost to the door when Carrie called after him. “Phil, how did you happen to be there to take care of me last night?”

He shrugged. “Had to come back to the ER anyway. Heard the commotion, saw you on the gurney. After that it was all reflex.”

As Phil went out the door, Adam came in. The two men did a clumsy do-si-do through the doorway before turning to face each other.

“Doctor.” Adam reached out his hand. “Thanks for what you’ve done.”

“Glad I could help.” He shook the proffered hand, then turned back to Carrie. “I’d wanted to meet this fabled Adam of yours, but not under these circumstances.”

“I’ll bet you’re beat,” Adam said. “Are you going to get some rest today?”

“No, but fortunately I only have office hours. No surgery, unless an emergency comes in.” He turned to face Carrie. “Let the nurse know if you have any increase in headache, any double vision, any nausea—”

“I know all the signs, Phil. Thanks.”

The surgeon grinned and left.

Adam moved to Carrie’s bedside. “What did the doctor tell you?”

“I can go home late this afternoon if there’s no change.” Carrie lowered the head of her bed slightly. “What have you been up to?”

“I stopped in the cafeteria for a quick cup. I’ll have to say, the coffee down there is absolutely terrible.”

“One of the first things I learned in med school,” Carrie said. “Bad hospital coffee is better than no coffee at all. But I’m glad you ate. Maybe by tonight I’ll feel like eating.”

Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. He unfolded it, careful not to touch what it held. “I found this in the parking lot.”

Carrie reached out, but Adam pulled it away. “Don’t touch it. I’m going to see if my brother, Dave, can check the fingerprints on it.”

“Why not the police?” Carrie asked.

“Because I trust Dave. And I don’t have to explain things to him.”

Carrie decided not to start that argument again. She stared at the shell casing for a moment. “Twenty-two long rimfire,” she murmured.

“What did you say?”

“My dad had a rifle—called it a ‘varmint gun.’ We lived in Austin, and he used to take me out in the country and let me shoot it. It fired twenty-two caliber long bullets. And I always had to pick up the ejected cartridges, or ‘clean up my brass,’ as he called it.”

“Think this will help me find out who shot at you?” Adam asked.

“Probably the most common rifle in this part of the country. So don’t get your hopes up about using this to trace the shooter.”

“Well, we can still check the casing for fingerprints,” Adam said.

“You can try . . .”

Adam dropped into the chair. “That’s all I can do. I have to keep trying.” After a moment he made a “just a second” gesture, rose, and walked out. He returned with a pen and a thin pad of paper. “Got these from the nurse’s station. I think it’s time to start our list.”

Fifteen minutes later Adam dropped the pen and said, “This is ridiculous. The shooter could be anyone who’s moved to Jameson within the past six months or so.”

“Or someone who was already here, but with a Chicago connection that would let DeLuca’s family reach out to them, even after he died.”

“Oh, that helps a lot!” Adam said. “Why don’t I get the Jameson phone book and stick a pin in a random page?”

“Look at it another way. Let’s focus on last night. You didn’t see or hear any cars burning rubber out of the parking lot. So either the shooter got away without you seeing them—”

“Which was possible,” Adam said. “Remember, I was concentrating on you.”

“Or they stayed around. You mentioned that Rob Cole helped carry me in?”

Adam nodded.

“And what was he wearing?”

“A black T-shirt and jeans.”

Warning bells were going off in Carrie’s mind. “Why would he be there?”

“He told me he was an EMT. I assumed he’d just gotten in off a call.”

“No,” Carrie said. “If he’d been on duty, he would have had on a medium blue shirt with a logo on the pocket and navy cargo pants.”

Adam picked up his pen. “I guess he could have been the shooter. Shot at you from behind the Hummer, dumped the rifle into his vehicle, and emerged to be a Good Samaritan, thinking it would put him above suspicion.”

“Or if the target was supposed to be you, when he saw he’d hit me, guilt could have motivated him to help,” Carrie said.

“Good point.”

“Who else was there when you brought me in?”

“The doctor—Dr. Rushton. He burst through the double glass doors right after I did,” Adam said. “He took charge immediately. Seemed like a natural thing.”

Carrie frowned. “He told me he had to see a patient, and I assumed he was already in the ER. But if he came from outside, why couldn’t he have fired the shot, dumped the gun, and burst in?”

“Do these guys have something against you?”

“I haven’t figured out Rob Cole. He’s acted . . . strange. And Phil Rushton? About the time I decide he’s trying to ease me out of the clinic, he says or does something nice.”

“Like save your life,” Adam said.

“I doubt whether his care made that much difference, but, yes.”

“And these are just the people we know about. The shooter could have been anyone.”

“This is bringing back my headache.” Carrie turned her head away and closed her eyes. She was certain of only two things. One, her life was in danger. And two, aside from Adam, she couldn’t trust anyone.

“Are you sure you want to leave the hospital already?” Phil Rushton asked.

Adam stood in Carrie’s hospital room behind the wheelchair in which she sat. He noticed that she hesitated before answering. He couldn’t blame her. In here it was safe, or at least, relatively so. Because there were no metal detectors at the door, Adam had been able to ignore the signs and keep his pistol with him inside the hospital. To get a security guard required a simple phone call. But once she went out the hospital doors, out into the world, Carrie would once more be a potential target for the shooter. And whether he was aiming at Adam or at her, if a bullet struck her the end result would be the same.