Heart Failure (27 page)

He heard the whine of a car engine revving, the screech of tires on pavement. He got a fleeting glimpse of a bulky vehicle, probably a light-colored SUV, exiting the parking lot. Adam took that as his cue. Already lights were popping on in the apartment building. Witnesses would emerge in a moment,
and the police wouldn’t be far behind. He sprinted for his apartment, opened the back door, and tumbled inside in one motion. Adam moved toward the center of the apartment, but not before he engaged both the door’s lock and deadbolt. Then he duck-walked to an interior wall and eased down against it, trying to catch his breath.

Returning fire had been a reflex, and now Adam wondered at the wisdom of his action. He realized he could have injured, even killed an innocent bystander. Moreover, now the assailant knew Adam was armed. Would that make him even more dangerous?

Should he clear out again, move to another motel? If he stayed, was he endangering his neighbors? He decided that the shooter was unlikely to return that night, so it was probably safe to stay here for the time being. Tomorrow . . . well, he’d decide that after the sun came up.

Adam leaned against the wall, his gun almost forgotten in his hand, and wondered how many more close calls there would be . . . and how many he could survive.

Carrie wished she could call the clinic and tell whoever answered that she wouldn’t be in today. Her head was still sore, but more than that, her brain felt like a house after a tornado struck, her thoughts scattered like pieces of furniture, some fragmented, all out of order. And long periods of staring wide-eyed at the ceiling interspersed with occasional troubling dreams had done nothing to refresh her during the night.

But Thursday was Thad Avery’s afternoon off, and she didn’t want to ask him to cover for her. No, she’d bite the bullet and
go to work. She’d done it before, in medical school, in residency training, in practice. If she could care for patients right after the death of her husband, she could certainly power through headache and fatigue.

In the shower, Carrie tried to avoid getting her scalp wound wet but eventually decided she couldn’t stand dirty hair one more day. She carefully washed her blond hair, then dried it gently and used a few light brush strokes to style it to hide the scab left by the bullet. She dressed in a white blouse and black slacks and put on a minimum of makeup. It wouldn’t hurt if people thought she was pale—maybe they’d take it easy on her.

Her breakfast was a cup of coffee and two extra-strength Tylenol. Carrie wasn’t particularly hungry now. If that changed, she’d grab a donut from the break room mid-morning, by which time a pharmaceutical rep would no doubt have left a couple of boxes of them, along with information on the latest drug from his company.

In her car, she pulled her cell phone from her purse, paused with her thumb over a speed-dial button, then changed her mind. She and Adam had agreed to keep communication to a minimum, not so much to avoid electronic eavesdropping as to allow each of them to carry out the tasks they’d set for themselves. Before he left last night—this morning, actually—they agreed to meet again tonight about ten p.m. at her house. She hated the maneuvers he had to go through to get there, but he insisted that was the best way to keep from leading the shooter directly to Carrie.

Either by design or coincidence, the list of patients Lila placed on Carrie’s desk was short. She scanned the names and the diagnosis or reason for each visit and felt herself relax a bit.
She should be able to handle these, as well any emergencies that cropped up. She also found a note from the receptionist on her desk: “See Dr. Rushton.” No explanation. Not a request. A command. She wondered if those had been the exact words Phil had used.

In any case she’d see Phil, but first she wanted to check on her hospitalized patients, review the reports and lab work on her desk.

Hospital rounds were easier than Carrie anticipated. In her absence, Thad Avery, the other internist in the group, had seen both her hospitalized patients, found them to be much improved, and sent them home. Maybe she’d misjudged Thad. Perhaps he really was a nice guy. She’d always figured he had a hand in patients switching from her care to his, but she could be wrong. Maybe it was all Phil’s work.

Bolstered by her second and third cups of coffee of the morning, Carrie walked down the hall to Phil Rushton’s office. There was never any problem finding Phil. From before sunup to after sundown, Phil was either in his office, in surgery, or making hospital rounds. She hadn’t seen him at the hospital and his name wasn’t listed on the surgery schedule in the doctor’s lounge. Therefore, Carrie figured he’d be in his office.

She looked through the open door. Phil was seated at his desk, paging through a journal, occasionally using a yellow highlighter to mark a passage. She tapped on the door frame. He didn’t raise his head, didn’t acknowledge her in any way. She tapped again, and in a voice that conveyed neither irritation nor pleasure, Phil muttered, “Come.”

Carrie entered and took one of the two chairs on the
opposite side of the desk from Phil. He held up one finger in a “give me a minute” gesture. Carrie marveled at the man’s ability to focus so completely on the task at hand. She recalled what a colleague had once said about Phil. “His focus is so complete he could burn a hole in a telephone directory with it.”

While Phil’s head was down, Carrie looked once more at the diplomas and certificates on his office wall. His training had been impressive: Northwestern, Pritzker, Rush. Then, when the puzzle pieces fell together in her mind, her throat tightened and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

Doctors as a group might not have a firm grasp of geography, but most of them knew the locations of first-rate medical schools and hospitals. And she knew where all these were: Chicago—the same city that had been home to Charlie DeLuca . . . and his family and friends.

Phil closed the journal and looked up. “Carrie, thank you for coming by. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Some headaches, some scalp tenderness—nothing that Tylenol doesn’t handle.”

Phil twirled the highlighter between his fingers. “You know, you seem to be something of a magnet for trouble nowadays. You were in the lawyer’s office when the firebomb was thrown. Somebody took a shot at you in the hospital parking lot and barely missed doing grave damage . . . maybe killing you.” He looked at Carrie as though he could read the deepest secrets in her eyes. “Is there something going on in your life I should know about?”

Here we go
, Carrie thought.
He’s building a case to get rid of me on the basis of “improper conduct
.”
Well, I’m not going to let that happen
. “Phil, I’m offended that you’d ask that. My
private life isn’t the issue here. When I joined this clinic, I signed a contract with all the standard clauses, including the one that lets you terminate me because of improper conduct. But I don’t think that gives you permission to delve repeatedly into what I do on my own time.” She took a deep breath. “If you’re unhappy with my work as a doctor, say so and we can talk about the group buying me out. If not, I’d rather not go into what I do outside the office and hospital.”

Phil’s response came quickly. “Carrie, I have to ask these questions. If there’s something going on that might affect the clinic, I need to know. That’s all.” He leaned across the desk, radiating sincerity from every pore. “You know I like you—like you a lot. I’m just offering to help.”

Carrie marveled at how quickly Phil’s manner changed. It was as if he’d flipped a switch, and a caring colleague replaced the all-business administrator. Then again, she didn’t totally buy this nice-guy act. “Sorry. I guess my fuse is sort of short these days. Getting shot will do that to you.” She shook her head. “Let me assure you that recent events have nothing to do with the clinic or my work here. And on a personal level, I’m fine, and I don’t need any help. But thanks for asking.”

Phil apparently wasn’t through though. “Your ex-fiance—Adam Davidson. You’ve been seeing a lot of him lately again, haven’t you?”

“Yes, but I can’t see where that could possibly affect the group.”

“I was just wondering. He only turned up here in Jameson a few months ago, right? Do you know much about his past? Is there something there that might be at the root of these attacks?”

Carrie’s antenna was tingling. She needed to head this off, and quickly. “I know what I need to about Adam, but I don’t see that it’s necessary to discuss it with you. Again, that’s my private life, and it has no bearing on my professional activities.” She looked at her watch, rose, and said, “If that’s all, I really need to get started with my morning clinic.”

As she walked down the hall, Carrie tried to replay her recent encounters with Phil, now viewing each of them in a whole new light. She felt as though she were trapped in a maze where a new surprise, each one unpleasant, waited around every corner.
They’d need to add Phil’s name to the list. How many more suspects? How much longer?

NINETEEN

ADAM HAD NEVER FELT LESS LIKE ROLLING OUT OF BED TO START A new day. He squinted at the face of his watch and made out “Th.” Thursday. The few days he’d been back in town had provided at least a month’s worth of excitement. If he could make it through today and tomorrow, maybe he could use the weekend to rest and organize his thoughts. Right now he felt as though he was trying to unravel a tangled ball of yarn, one with multiple loose ends.

The attack last night had left him shaken. He knew he should call Carrie sometime today and give her that news, and he dreaded the conversation. Adam could almost hear her saying, “How much longer?” He’d spent most of the night searching desperately for a way to track down the shooter, but so far he’d come up empty.

After some coffee and a shower, the world looked marginally better. In his bedroom he repacked his briefcase for the day.
He tossed in his cell, then remembered to add the throwaway phone as well, since that was the number he’d given Corky. After that call maybe he could discard this one entirely.

Adam’s eye lit on the balled-up handkerchief on the top of his dresser—the cartridge shell he’d picked up in the hospital parking lot. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he wondered if there was any way it would yield usable information. He sealed the brass casing in a plastic sandwich bag from the kitchen and dropped it into his briefcase. Maybe he could check into it later today.

The shell made him think of Dave. He’d planned to ask his brother if he could have it checked for fingerprints, maybe even run the prints through some kind of database. Surely a marshal would have contacts for something like that. But now Dave was out of circulation for a while, in a hospital bed hundreds of miles away.

Adam lifted the semiautomatic from his bedside table, where it had given him a measure of confidence as he tumbled about in fitful sleep. The odor of gunpowder assaulted his nostrils, and he remembered what Colonel Johnson told him during their quick introductory session on the pistol: if you fire it, do two things immediately: clean and oil it, so the barrel isn’t pitted by the products of the explosion, and reload it, because you never know how many shots you’ll need next time.

Adam ejected the magazine, then racked the slide to clear the bullet that was in the chamber. When he was certain the gun was safe to handle, he set about cleaning it, using the kit sold to him by the clerk at the same store where he bought his holster. He shoved two fresh bullets into the magazine, reassembled the pistol, and set the safety. When he was certain
the weapon was ready for action, he strapped it securely into his ankle holster.

Somehow, feeling the weight of the pistol resting against his calf wasn’t as comforting to Adam as he thought it would be. In his braver daydreams, the stalker pulled out a gun but Adam’s lightning-fast draw allowed him to put a bullet into the assailant’s shoulder before the man could fire the first shot. In other, less pleasant fantasies, the gun in Adam’s hand was useless while the shooter fired from point-blank range. That vision ended with a black haze descending like a curtain to signal Adam’s death.