Heart Failure (33 page)

Adam sat in the office for a few minutes after sending his messages, alternately worrying and praying. Finally he stowed the voice changer in his brief case and eased out the door, locking it behind him. By now it was almost dark and every shadow he passed on the way to his car seemed to be the hiding place for someone waiting to kill him.

When he was finally in his car, he didn’t bother doing his usual maneuvering to lose a tail.
If
you
want
me, come and get
me
. At home he paced the floor, thinking and rethinking his plan. Could he have improved on it? Maybe. Did it really matter if he’d tweaked it? Probably not.

He dressed in the same clothes he’d worn for his last stealthy trip to Carrie’s: green sweatshirt, black jeans, dark athletic shoes. He considered smearing his face with camouflage paint but discarded the idea. He’d feel ridiculous.

Adam thought about calling his brother, but what good
would it do? Dave would tell him he was crazy, then offer to drive to Jameson and serve as backup for Adam. And his brother was in no shape to face a gunman. Matter of fact, Adam was probably in no shape, but things had been set in motion, and there was no way to stop them now.

Thoughts of Dave made Adam remember something he needed to do before keeping his rendezvous. He should give Carrie his brother’s cell phone number. If tonight’s showdown ended badly, Dave would know what to do. Of course, there was no way Adam was going to mention the worst-case scenario to Carrie. He’d just give her the number.

He pulled out his Ruger, ejected the magazine, checked the load. Would he need an extra magazine, more bullets? No, if ten rounds didn’t do it, he’d be dead. Adam pushed the thought aside. He slid the pistol into his ankle holster, pulled it out, then repeated the process until he was sure he could draw the gun easily when he needed it.

Adam opened his closet and found the Kevlar vest he’d purchased at the same time he bought the holster. It had resided in his closet to this point, but now was the time to wear it. He’d leave it on the bed until he left though.

Finally he pulled out his cell phone—the regular one—and made one last call. “Carrie, I’m about to leave for the cemetery.”

Her voice betrayed her anxiety. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I don’t
want
to do it. I just don’t see any other options.”

“Will you call me when it’s over? Even if it’s late?”

“Sure.”

Adam gave her Dave’s number. “If anything bad happens . . .”

“Don’t say things like that,” Carrie said.

They talked for a few more minutes before Carrie said, “Adam, I love you.”

“And I love you, Carrie. When this is all over, I hope you’re ready to talk about our life together.”

“We can talk now,” she said.

“No, I need to get going. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“Adam?”

“Yes?”

“Please be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he said.

They exchanged more “I love you’s” before ending the conversation.

Then Adam donned the vest, checked his gun again, and did a final run-through of his mental checklist. Time to go. It was only ten thirty, but he wanted to be in place early.

Adam chose Ridgewood Cemetery as a meeting site for a number of reasons. It was older and full of tall monuments and a few mausoleums, so he could hide easily. Like most cemeteries there was a fence around it, but the gates were never locked. And it was isolated enough that a gunshot wouldn’t attract curious neighbors. Of course that gunshot could be from his gun or that of his stalker, but he was willing to take the chance. Anything to bring this nightmare to a close.

Adam had done some scouting, so he knew where he was going. He’d found an open barn for the storage of equipment and material, and that was where he concealed his Subaru, between a tractor with a bucket for digging on the front end and another that pulled a small mower. It took him ten minutes
to work his way through the cemetery to the spot he’d picked for his observation post. He was just settling in when he heard a single, faint noise off to his left. It was more than an hour before the appointed time, but Adam expected the shooter to come early. He eased his pistol from its holster and began a slow belly crawl toward the noise.

A form materialized from the shadow of a mausoleum. Adam stayed in his prone position, raised himself on his elbows, and braced his gun in a firing position with both hands. He flicked off the safety and took up the slack on the trigger. Working to keep his voice steady and authoritative, he said, “That’s far enough. Put your hands up. If I see a gun, I’ll shoot.”

“Adam?”

Adam exhaled deeply, and he felt his heart start beating again. He eased his pressure on the trigger. “Carrie? What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t let you do this by yourself. So I came to help.”

Adam dropped his voice to a whisper. “Get over here, and get down. We don’t want to alert the shooter.”

In a moment they were crouched behind the mausoleum Adam had chosen as his hiding place, peering around the low granite building toward the marble angel marking the McElroy plot. Adam thought about scolding Carrie for coming, but in truth, he was glad to see her. He put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, “Did you bring a weapon?”

She reached into the side pocket of her black cargo pants, pulled out a small canister, and held it up. “Mace,” she whispered.

The whine of a transmission alerted them to the approach of a vehicle. Bouncing headlights made the shadows dance as a light-colored SUV pulled up and stopped on the road near
the McElroy plot. The driver killed the lights and lowered the window. He sat there for what Adam figured was five minutes, then the window buzzed up, the engine started, headlights flared, and the vehicle drove off.

“Could you see inside the SUV?” Adam asked.

“No,” Carrie said. “But I recognized the license plate as it drove away.”

“What was it?”

“It was a personalized Texas plate: HRT SRGN. It belongs to Phil Rushton.”

TWENTY-THREE

CARRIE FIGURED HER ADRENALINE LEVEL WAS SO HIGH SHE’D BE awake the rest of the night. Instead, she was dozing soundly when she felt Adam shaking her shoulder.

“Carrie, it’s one a.m.,” he whispered. “I don’t think anyone else is coming. Let’s go home.”

She smothered a yawn. “Okay. Can I get a ride with you?”

“Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t want to leave it here, so I took a taxi.”

“A taxi to the cemetery this late at night? Didn’t the driver think you were crazy?”

She shrugged, although she knew Adam couldn’t see it in the darkness. “I told him this was the anniversary of my husband’s death, and I planned to spend the night sitting by his grave.”

“Where did you come up with such a story?”

She climbed to her feet, using the edge of the mausoleum
for leverage. “Actually, on the first anniversary of John’s death, I did just that—spent the night at the foot of his grave.” She pointed. “It’s right over there.” Her voice broke on the last words.

Adam took her arm. “Do you want a moment alone?”

There was a long moment of silence, then Carrie said in a small voice, “I’d like that.”

They walked several yards before she stopped and looked around. She took a few steps to the right and let her hand caress the edge of a simple granite marker. “John,” she whispered. Then she bowed her head and was silent for a moment. Adam placed a hand on her shoulder, but said nothing.

Carrie’s emotions were in turmoil. She was standing at the grave of her first husband, with the man who might become her second at her side.
John, I did the best I could, but we couldn’t save you. Now it’s time for me to move on. I hope you understand
.

Finally Carrie lifted her head, wiped her eyes, and said, “I’m ready to go now.”

When they reached his car, Adam unlocked it and held the door for Carrie before climbing in himself. He eased the vehicle out of its hiding place, flipped on his headlights, and turned onto the main road that ran through the cemetery.

Carrie turned toward him. “What do you think—”

Another set of headlights appeared on the horizon. Carrie saw them and dropped to the floor of the car at the same time Adam whispered, “Get down.”

“You can sit up,” he said in a moment. “I thought a car was coming right at us, but it was on the road leading here.”

“You know, it seems to me that I’ve spent more time on the
floor of your car than a floor mat.” Carrie laughed. “I’m sort of tired of that.”

Adam turned out of the cemetery and set a course for Carrie’s house. “That makes two of us. Do you think we’re any closer to finding out who’s been shooting at us?”

“Maybe. Why would Phil Rushton take a drive into the cemetery tonight?” she said. “So far as I’m concerned, that makes him our number one suspect.”

“You’ve got a point. Do you think you can find out if he has some kind of excuse for coming?”

For a moment, Carrie said nothing.
Another
spy
job
. Finally she said, “I’ll try.”

They rode in silence, until Adam said, “I didn’t have a chance to ask about your day.”

Despite the late hour, Carrie’s voice brightened. “Really interesting. Have you ever heard of something called
commotio
cordis
?”

Carrie was no stranger to doing without sleep, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. The next morning was Saturday, a day when she tried to sleep a bit later if possible. But not today. Today she had to check on the young ballplayer she’d resuscitated the day before.

If his EKG was still normal and his cardiac enzymes showed no evidence of heart muscle damage, she planned to discharge him. He was understandably anxious to go home, so Carrie promised him she’d be by early this morning. Thus the reason she got up at what one of her medical school classmates referred to as “chicken thirty.”

When the alarm went off, she forced herself out of bed and padded to the kitchen, only to find she hadn’t prepared the coffee maker the night before. She fumbled her way through the process until the coffee started brewing. Then she stood over it until there was at least a cup’s worth in the carafe. By the time she’d showered, dressed, and chased a piece of buttered toast with two more cups of coffee, Carrie thought she might make it through the day.

At the hospital, she was moving down the hall toward the ballplayer’s room when a familiar voice stopped her. “Carrie, hold up a second.” Phil, a cardboard cup of coffee in one hand, a stack of papers in the other, was coming toward her full tilt.

Carrie turned and waited. Phil stopped so close to her that she smelled the fumes issuing from the Starbucks cup. She would have killed for some of that coffee but didn’t think Phil would share. Come to think of it, he wasn’t the kind to share anything. She put what she hoped was a neutral expression on her face and waited for him to speak.

“Your patient, Mr. . . . The man you referred, the one with the heart attack . . .”

“Mr. Hoover. A. J. Hoover,” she said. “What about him?”

“He came through the surgery very well. He’s in the SICU if you want to drop by. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to discharge him, but feel free to write any orders you think he might need.”

“Thanks,” Carrie said. “I’ll go by the surgical ICU and see him before I leave.” What was going on? It wasn’t like Phil to be this considerate. She expected that by now he’d have Thad Avery standing by to take over Hoover’s post-op care. She
frowned, wondering when the other shoe would drop. Surely Phil wanted something.

“We never had a chance to talk about dinner. How about tonight?”

There it was—the shift from rigid taskmaster and senior partner to caring colleague who wanted to get closer to her. She still wasn’t comfortable going out with Phil, but she really wanted to follow up on his appearance in the cemetery last night.

“Phil, I think I’d better get some rest tonight. I was up really late.” She covered a yawn, a real one, although it did add plausibility to her story.

“Probably just as well to put off our dinner.” He yawned as well. “After I finished Mr. Hoover’s surgery, I had to take care of a patient with a gunshot wound to the chest. It was almost midnight by the time I left the hospital.”