Heart Failure (31 page)

At first all he heard were a few muffled thuds. Then voices, all raised, some shouting frantically, added themselves to the mix. Finally sirens provided a wailing counterpoint to the cacophony. He heard the squeal of tortured metal, and someone said, “Let’s get him out of there before the gas tank blows.” A different voice chimed in, “No, we shouldn’t move him. The ambulance is pulling up right now.”

Adam closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene as
the next few moments unfolded. EMTs gently easing his friend from the car. A policeman, or maybe a sheriff’s deputy, picking up the phone—maybe removing it from Corky’s hand—and consulting the display.

Adam opened his eyes as a deep baritone sounded in his ear. “Is someone still on the line?”

Should he answer? This was his throwaway cell phone. There was no way to identify him through it. And maybe he could add vital information. Was Corky on any medications? Did he have any drug allergies? Then it hit Adam—he didn’t know any of those things. He hadn’t seen his friend in almost two years. And he’d only called Corky when he needed a favor. Adam cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“Is anyone there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“Is anyone there?” the voice repeated.

Adam finally realized that he’d muted the phone. He thumbed the button again, and said, “I’m here.”

“Who is this?”

“I’m a friend of Corky’s—of Mr. Cortland’s. I’m in—” Adam hesitated. Caution returned. “I’m not there in Houston. We were talking on the cell phone, and he was complaining about some of the drivers on the freeway. Then I heard a crash. What happened?”

The reply made Adam’s blood run cold. “A wrong-way driver hit your friend head-on. A helicopter’s on its way to fly him to the nearest trauma center.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps it was real, but Adam thought he heard the
whup-whup
of helicopter blades getting closer. “How is he?”

“That’s for the medics to decide, but he looks pretty bad to me.”

“Which hospital?”

“Hermann—that’s Texas Medical Center. Now who is this? I need to get some information from you.”

Adam pushed the button to end the call. There was nothing more he could say to help Corky. He doubted that the police would go so far as to trace the call, but if they did, it would dead end at this cell phone. He’d get rid of it later tonight. He wondered what new information his friend had come up with about DeLuca. Whatever it was, Adam might never know.

Adam’s heart cramped as he realized he was thinking of the information Corky had for him as much as about his friend’s life. He sank to his knees and spoke in a voice almost too faint to hear, “God, I pray for Corky. I know You can save him. Please do it. Not for me—for him, his family, his loved ones. Please.”

Carrie was about to step into the shower, eager for the hot water to ease soreness in muscles tight for too long, when the ring of the phone stopped her. Her first impulse was to ignore it, but that passed quickly. She was a doctor, and she could never ignore the ringing of a phone or the beeping of a pager. She wrapped herself in a robe and answered, “Dr. Markham.”

“Carrie, it’s me . . . Julie.”

Guilt washed over Carrie. She’d let her promise to keep Julie updated slip her mind. The carousel on which she found herself spun faster and faster, and Carrie had been hanging on for dear life. She owed Julie the courtesy of a call, and instead, her friend had to call her.

Carrie moved to her bed and stretched out. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call. It’s been—”

“No need to explain,” Julie said. “But I’ve been worried about you since we last talked. What’s going on? Are you any closer to knowing who the shooter is?”

“The list keeps getting longer,” Carrie said.
And
Adam
wanted
to
put
you
on
that
list, but I wouldn’t let him
. “Someone must’ve let information slip, but we have no idea who.” She told her best friend about what she and Adam had found, ending with Rob Cole’s revelation to her just a few hours ago. “So what do I do now?”

“You could direct something at this list of suspects that would make the real shooter declare himself. That is, if you’re prepared for a face off.”

“That’s what Adam wants,” Carrie said. “But how do we do that?”

They kicked around ideas. Then Carrie glanced at the clock on her bedside table. “I need to cut this short. Adam’s coming by soon, and I really need to clean up.”

“No problem,” Julie said. “Give me one more minute before you hang up.”

“I know,” Carrie said. “We need to pray.”

“Want me to start?”

“No, I’ve got this one.” Carrie bowed her head, picturing her friend, hundreds of miles away, doing the same.

As she put down the phone and swung her feet off the bed, Carrie flipped on the TV in her bedroom just to have some noise in the house. She looked up as an ad flashed across the screen: “Your kids will love it,” the announcer said. Most of the time Carrie ignored such commercials, but this particular one
started her thinking. A germ of an idea sprang up, one that might work. Of course, the plan was dangerous. Then again, doing nothing was proving dangerous as well.

Adam stuck to the pre-midnight shadows as he worked his way from his parked car along the alleys to the fence behind Carrie’s house. He scanned every driveway, kept his eyes moving, trying to stay concealed while giving the appearance of a man innocently walking to a neighbor’s house. The last thing he needed was for someone to call the police.

Since the shooter had already linked Adam with Carrie, maybe these precautions were worthless. Nevertheless, Adam didn’t want to lead his would-be assassin directly to her house—not tonight, not any night.

He paused at the fence and looked around to make sure no one was watching, then grabbed the top and pulled himself up. Adam managed to roll over the fence and land in Carrie’s backyard without sustaining more injuries than just wounded pride.

He rapped out the code, Carrie opened her kitchen door, and Adam slid through and double locked it.

“This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Not as ridiculous as being killed by a sniper’s bullet,” Adam said. “And you may recall that almost happened to both of us.”

She pointed. “Sit down. I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.”

Once they were at the table sipping from their respective cups, Adam said, “Today I got another call from this law school classmate of mine, Corky.”

“The man who was going to hack into sites and get information for you?”

“I told you, he assured me it was just a matter of taking some shortcuts,” Adam said. “Anyway, he called me back this afternoon to give me a report.” In his mind, he heard again the crash, the sirens, the dire words of the man who’d picked up Corky’s cell phone. Adam shook his head as though to dislodge the thoughts. “Unfortunately my friend was in a head-on crash before he could tell me what he’d found.”

Carrie frowned and shook her head. “That’s terrible,” she said. “How is he?”

“I’ve got to call the hospital later tonight to see. But the man I talked with thought Corky was critical when they airlifted him to a trauma center.”

There was a long silence as each sipped coffee, lost in their own thoughts. Then Carrie said, “So what else happened today?”

“Well . . . Mary, the new paralegal, keeps pushing me to have lunch or dinner with her. I’ve put her off for another few days, but eventually that’s going to happen. I don’t know what she’s up to, but I don’t think her aim is to get better acquainted with a coworker.”

“You don’t think it’s possible she’s genuinely interested in you?”

“That’s flattering, but no. Besides, she’s already got her hooks into Bruce Hartley,” Adam said. “I suppose I’m being paranoid, but I get a sense that she’s trying to uncover my identity.”

“Hmm. I don’t know which is worse—her trying to make a play for you or her trying to find out who you really are.” Carried studied him for a moment. “I guess we can worry about that when it happens.”

“What about your day?” Adam asked.

“Pretty interesting. I had lunch with Rob Cole.” She went on to tell Adam Rob’s story. “I don’t know whether he was about to reveal his real name or if he was just toying with me. But I certainly think he’s a prime suspect.”

“We seem to keep adding names to that list,” Adam said. “Anyone else?”

“Actually, yes, but . . . I don’t know . . . ,” Carrie said.

“What?”

“Well, I was in Phil Rushton’s office today and noticed the diplomas on his wall.”

Adam’s eyebrows went up. “And?”

“All his training was in Chicago.”

“That doesn’t necessarily tie him to Charlie DeLuca, but it’s certainly a potential link,” Adam said.

“Not only that, but Phil’s been acting sort of funny toward me lately.” She paused. “He even asked about you, wanted to know if I knew your background.” She shook her head. “I think we have to consider him a suspect.”

“I suppose,” Adam said. “And I have another name for our list. Janet Evans stopped by my office today—during the course of our conversation she mentioned some gambling debts of Bruce Hartley’s that one of our clients paid off. Apparently it saved the firm.”

“Really?” Carrie seemed shocked. “What’s the significance of that?”

“One of the things Charlie DeLuca was involved in was loan sharking,” Adam said. “Anyway, I looked up Bruce in Martindale-Hubbell.”

“In what?”

“It’s the list of all the attorneys in the United States. When I saw that he went to law school in Wisconsin, I was about to log off. Then I decided to see where he grew up.”

“Chicago?”

“Close. Elmwood Park, which is a suburb of Chicago, with one of the largest Italian populations in the area.”

“So he could have had contact with the DeLuca family . . . ?”

“Right,” Adam said. “So we have Rob Cole, Phil Rushton, and Bruce Hartley, plus no telling how many others as suspects. Now how do I find out which one is shooting at us? And why.”

“Are you really determined to confront the shooter?” Carrie asked.

Adam thought about it for a moment. He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, relaxing it only long enough to say, “If that’s what it takes.”

Carrie took his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t like it, but if there’s no better option, I have a plan that might help us identify the person stalking you.”

Carrie was at her desk the next morning, sipping on a cup of lukewarm coffee and flipping through her phone messages, when Lila popped her head in the door.

“Can you return Tim Gallagher’s call as soon as possible? He phoned early this morning and said it was important that he reach you.”

That puzzled Carrie. She had encountered Gallagher a time or two at parties but was pretty sure he wasn’t a patient. If he had a medical emergency, he probably would have gone to an ER or urgent care center, not call her office. Maybe this was
a personal call. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy—middle-aged, good-looking, if you liked the jock type. But wasn’t he married? Besides that, if he was calling to ask her on a date, he wouldn’t do it this early in the morning, would he? On the other hand . . .
Oh, stop it. Just phone the man
.