Heart Failure (30 page)

Adam needed to call Dave and check on his recovery. It was about time to leave anyway, so he’d do it from his car. He slipped into his suit coat and headed out the door, telling Brittany he’d see her in the morning.

Behind dark glasses Adam’s eyes were never still as he walked briskly to his vehicle. He’d purchased a Kevlar vest but decided it was impractical for daily wear. Still, he made sure he varied his routine—the times he came to work and left, the place he parked his car, even the restaurants and cafés where he ate. And, above all, he increased his watchfulness.

After the usual aimless driving, he pulled into a strip shopping center, keeping the engine running to allow the car’s air conditioner to function. In a moment he was talking with his brother. “How’s the recuperation?”

“Kind of at a fork in the road,” Dave said. “The surgeon says I’m stable from my blood loss, but it’s time to decide what to do about my shoulder. It works well enough, but if I want full function, the best chance is another operation. I didn’t understand it all, but apparently the bullet tore things up, sort of like what a baseball pitcher does to his rotator cuff.”

“Is that what has to be done?”

“No, I have choices. If I have the surgery, then go through physical therapy, I stand a really good chance of coming out
with a normally functioning shoulder in a few months.” Dave paused and Adam heard the sound of swallowing. “Sorry. Don’t talk much now, and my throat gets dry when I do. Anyway, my other option is to skip the surgery and just do the rehab. Eventually I’d have adequate function in that arm—but I’d probably never be fit for police work again.”

“Sounds like you only have one viable choice,” Adam said.

Dave sighed. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Shall I come down there?”

“No, he’s going to discharge me later today,” Dave said. “When I asked the doc for a recommendation, he suggested a Dr. Burkhead in Dallas. Supposed to be a cracker-jack surgeon for this kind of stuff. And I’ll be a half-hour’s drive from you.”

“Great. So I can be there for the operation and help you afterward.”

“No, I still think it’s best for you to keep your distance.”

Adam couldn’t understand. Dave, as he’d been able to do all their lives, seemed able to read Adam’s mind.

“Your stalker may know who you really are, but he doesn’t know about me. Let’s keep it that way. I can be your ace in the hole.”

Adam figured that a marshall with his right arm in a sling wasn’t much of a secret weapon, but he decided not to argue. “After you leave the hospital, would you like to stay here in Jameson with me?”

“Not a good idea. I have a friend in Dallas. I plan to stay with him while I wait to see the surgeon.”

Adam wondered what else he’d missed in his brother’s life by being on the run these past couple of years. But there was no time for guilty reflection. He was about to ask if Dave
had checked on getting fingerprints off the rifle shell when his brother said, “The nurse is here to check my vital signs. Guess I’d better sign off. Be careful . . . Adam.”

As he pulled away, Adam wished he could go home to a normal family instead of constantly looking over his shoulder, expecting a bullet to strike him at any moment. Maybe someday. Maybe someday soon.

Carrie’s afternoon was busier than her morning, but she was grateful in a way. Dealing with the patients kept her from thinking about her lunch with Rob Cole. The fragment of his story that he’d shared certainly fit with what Adam told her about Charlie DeLuca’s second family and the son who changed his name and disappeared. But if that were the case, would Rob have been willing to open up to her so easily?

Had all his flirting simply been an attempt to get closer to her in order to learn more about Adam? Was Rob toying with her now? Could he have triggered his own pager to end their time together, tired of teasing her, with no intention of revealing his real identity? While they were talking, she’d thought she was close to unlocking the identity of Adam’s shooter. But now she wasn’t sure about that—or much of anything else about the case.

Carrie was deep in thought as she moved to the next exam room, when she heard, “Whoa. Better look up every once in a while.”

She did just that and saw Phil Rushton dead ahead. He waved the papers in his hand and said, “Glad we didn’t collide. That hard head of yours might give me a concussion.”

Carrie wasn’t sure whether Phil was joking or referring to her last meeting with him. “I need to talk with you when you’ve finished with patients. Call my cell phone.” And he was off again.

Carrie tapped on the door of the exam room and stepped inside. She tucked Phil’s request into a corner of her mind and concentrated on the patient sitting on the edge of the examination table. From the frown on his face it was fairly obvious that the man didn’t want to be there. But the presence of his wife gave Carrie her best clue of the dynamics of the situation.

“Mr. Hoover, what sort of problems are you having?”

“I’m not having a problem,” Hoover said, almost before Carrie could finish. “But she . . .” A nod toward his wife, who stood beside him with arms folded. “She’s afraid I have heart trouble. Just because of this little pain I get sometimes.” As if to demonstrate, Hoover held his clenched fist over his mid-chest.

The check-in sheet Lila had handed her showed Hoover’s age as fifty-eight, his height as five feet six inches, his weight two hundred ten pounds. Even without the charted blood pressure of one hundred eighty over one hundred, the man’s florid complexion alerted her to the likelihood of hypertension.

Carrie asked a series of questions, which were sometimes answered by Hoover, sometimes by his wife. His favorite exercise seemed to be moving between the dinner table and the TV set. Walking a block or less brought on crushing chest pain that sometimes radiated down his left arm and was relieved slowly by rest.

The rest of the exam, and the EKG that followed, confirmed Carrie’s suspicion. Hoover had significant coronary artery disease. His tracing suggested that he’d already had one mild myocardial
infarction, a “heart attack” that damaged a small amount of the muscle in that organ. It took the combined efforts of Hoover’s wife and Carrie to convince him that the best course was immediate hospitalization. “We’ll need to do an angiogram—that’s a test where they inject dye into the blood vessels in your heart. That lets us see how much blockage there is. Sometimes a stent can be inserted via the plastic tube that puts the dye into your heart, but sometimes surgery is necessary. We have excellent doctors who do this all the time.”

“But my business—”

His wife jumped in at this point. “Arliss, someone else is going to run your business, whether you’re in the hospital for a few days or you die and leave it behind. Let’s go for the few days’ option.”

Carrie wrote a note and orders, set up the emergency angiogram, and alerted Phil Rushton’s nurse that he might have to do a coronary bypass procedure. She accompanied Hoover to the radiology suite and stood by as he underwent coronary angiography. When she and the interventional radiologist agreed that stent insertion wouldn’t be adequate, Carrie pulled out her cell phone to contact Phil Rushton.

Before she could complete the call, Phil walked in. “I was about to call you,” Carrie said. “This one is going to require your talents.” She summarized the case in a few words. Phil studied the angiogram and nodded.

“I’ll talk with them,” he said. “Carrie, I presume you have no objection to my taking over at this point?”

Well, at least he’s asking
. “Just so long as you let me direct his care after you discharge him. He needs weight reduction, control of his blood pressure, a—”

“Sure,” Phil said. “I wanted to talk with you, but I guess we can do it tomorrow. Maybe after work, over dinner.” And he strode away.

As she watched the surgeon disappear around the corner, Carrie wondered if, despite Phil’s assurances, Thad Avery would end up caring for this patient after surgery. She brushed the thought aside. She’d done her best. Mr. Hoover would get good medical care. That was what mattered.

As for the rest of it, she had mixed emotions. She was glad not to have to endure a meeting with Phil, especially if he was going to quiz her about Adam. On the other hand, she was curious to know what he might want. Then she flashed on the information she’d garnered from his certificates—Phil had a connection with Chicago. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he had some connection to Charlie DeLuca. Though what kind of connection could it be?

Adam drove carefully, anxious to get home after a trying day but wary that he might be followed. He wasn’t sure why he was taking precautions. After all, his stalker knew where he lived—he’d shot at him just the night before—but sometimes logic took a backseat to plain old-fashioned fear. So Adam went through his usual routine: double back, turn without signaling, drive with one eye on the rearview mirror.

He’d spent some time today wondering about whether he should go back to his apartment. Adam had even scanned the yellow pages in search of a motel, but midway through his search he decided that wherever he was made no difference. The stalker would eventually find him. Meanwhile, he could
at least enjoy the few comforts left him, including sleeping in his own bed. But his deliberations served to redouble Adam’s resolve to unmask the shooter and end this nightmare. He just didn’t have the right scheme to do so . . . not yet.

He pulled into the parking lot behind his apartment complex, remembered that he’d parked at the far right end yesterday, so he took a space toward the front and center. He had his hand on his seat belt release when he heard the ring of a cell phone. He pulled his phone from his coat pocket and consulted the display—blank. Then Adam realized what he was hearing wasn’t the unique ring he’d purchased for his cell phone, but rather the generic tone of his throwaway phone.

He reached over to the seat beside him, opened his brief case, and pulled out the instrument. The display showed “blocked number.” Who was calling? Perhaps it represented a telephone solicitor, robo-dialing numbers. Then again, it might be the stalker, going for a phone call instead of a text this time.
Forget
it. Answer it and find out. He can’t shoot you through the phone
.

“Hello?”

“Keith? This is Corky.”

It took Adam a moment to react to his “old” name. He looked around the deserted parking lot and saw nothing suspicious. Dusk had not fully settled. Maybe he could safely sit here a moment and talk. “Have you found out any more about Charlie DeLuca’s family?”

A squeal of tires overrode Corky’s voice. “. . . that idiot over there.”

“What’s happening? Are you driving?”

“Yeah. I’m on the freeway, on my way home, where my wife
is waiting impatiently. Usually I-45 in Houston is the world’s longest parking lot. Today, for some reason, most of us are going the posted speed, and some are exceeding that. Those are the ones who’ve turned into Mario Andretti wannabes.” A horn honked, and Adam suspected it was Corky’s.

“Do you want to call me back?”

“Nah. This is what I do while I’m in the car. It’s my version of multitasking.” Another horn. Some muttered curses from Corky. “Idiots! All the drivers today are idiots.” He heard Corky take a deep breath. “Anyway, there’s someone else who might be trying to avenge Charlie DeLuca. And it’s someone you wouldn’t suspect. It’s—”

Adam suspected the sounds he heard next would keep him awake that night and several more: a long blast from two different car horns, a squeal of brakes, followed by a loud crash, then a deadly silence.

“Corky! Corky!” Adam almost screamed into the phone. But there was no answer.

TWENTY-ONE

AS ADAM EXITED HIS CAR, HE HIT MUTE ON HIS CELL PHONE BUT kept the connection open. Now he sat in his apartment with the door double locked, the security chain in place. The blinds were closed. The drapes were drawn. He hadn’t turned on the lights—he still wasn’t sure why, but somehow he felt more secure in the gloom. He listened to the sounds issuing from his phone, imagining the carnage at the scene.