Heart Failure (36 page)

She had to be sure. Carrie phoned both Adam’s cell phone and landline, but there was no answer. She tried again, and once more her call rolled over to voice mail. She thought about going by his apartment, but that might make her miss the deadline the anonymous voice gave her.

She made what preparations she could, then jumped into her car and headed out. The roads were blessedly empty, and she edged her speed up to about ten miles an hour over the speed limit. What would she do if a policeman stopped her?
Would she ask him to hurry and give her a ticket? Would she tell him everything and beg for help? Her instructions had been “no police,” and she didn’t want to risk violating that admonition.

Forty-two minutes after she hung up from the threatening call, Carrie wheeled her Prius to a stop outside a house on the outskirts of Jameson. Adam’s car was parked beside a white SUV. Light was visible from behind curtains in the front window. Aside from her and whoever was in the house, there didn’t appear to be another soul anywhere around.

She breathed a silent prayer.
Help
me
deal
with
whatever’s in there
. Carrie unzipped her shoulder bag and let her fingers roam among the contents until she found the canister of Mace. It wasn’t much, but it was the only weapon she had. She wished she’d followed Adam’s lead and armed herself with a pistol. Now it was too late.

She exited the car and hurried up the steps onto the porch. Should she knock or just go in? The front door was locked, which answered her question. It had two inserts of leaded glass, allowing her to see movement on the other side but no details. She rapped sharply on the door and saw a figure in black walking toward her. Carrie took an involuntary step backward as the door swung inward and she found herself facing Mary Delkus.

“Right on time,” Mary said. Her shoulder-length black hair framed a beautiful face, one that Carrie had only seen once before, but which was hard to forget. Mary wore a loose-fitting black sweater, tight black jeans, and dark running shoes. The color of the clothes matched the boxy-looking pistol she held. “Come on in.”

Once Carrie was inside, Mary reached back with her foot
and kicked the door closed. An incandescent bulb with a frosted shade hung from the room’s ceiling. With one exception, there was no furniture. That exception immediately caught Carrie’s eye. In the corner, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a frightened expression was secured to a straight chair by multiple layers of duct tape that encircled his body like a silvery cocoon. Another strip of tape covered his mouth.

“That’s Bruce Hartley, senior partner in the law firm where Adam—or should I say, Keith—works,” Mary explained. “He made the phone call to you, and it only took the slightest bit of prodding.”

Carrie noticed for the first time that Hartley’s feet were bare, and there was blood on them as well as the hardwood floor beneath. She couldn’t be certain, but it appeared that the nails were gone from some of his toes.

Mary gestured with her gun. “I believe the person you came to see is in here.” She herded Carrie through a door into the kitchen.

Adam sat in a straight chair in the middle of the room. He was bound with duct tape, his hands secured behind him, his legs taped to the chair legs. Adam’s mouth was sealed with another strip of tape. When he saw Carrie, his eyes widened, then a look of apology swept over his features.

Mary glared at Adam. “I know. You want to talk with her. Maybe I’ll untape your mouth just before you die, so you can say your last good-byes.”

Carrie’s mind was swimming, but she thought she’d put things together. She turned full-face to the woman, trying to ignore the gun in her hand, and said, “You’re the shooter.”

The woman looked directly at Adam, and Carrie detected a gleam of madness in her eyes. “Bright girl you have here, Adam. I think I’m going to continue to call you Adam. That’s the name under which I located you. And that’s the name that will be on your tombstone.”

“Why?” Carrie said. “Why are you doing this?”

Mary shrugged. “Simple. After a little persuading, Adam told me how he dug into the family tree of Charlie DeLuca. Unfortunately he didn’t look hard enough to find out more about Charlie’s brother, who was a silent partner in almost everything. When it became obvious that the DA was after Uncle Charlie, my dad rolled up everything he could—gambling, prostitution, protection—and moved it to Kansas City. He changed his name to Delkus, greased a few palms to have Gino DeLuca and his family disappear from public records, and started over again.”

“So you’re Charlie DeLuca’s niece,” Carrie said. “Did Charlie ask you to avenge him? Is that why you’re doing this?”

Mary grinned. “Did he ask? No. He didn’t have to. We’re Italian. The code of
vendetta
originated centuries ago in Sicily, and we still believe in revenge. My Uncle Charlie didn’t die in prison—he died the day his freedom was taken from him.” She glared at Adam. “Now the man responsible for that is going to die. And you’re going to do it.”

“But—”

“Enough!” She turned her gaze and the gun back on Carrie. “I intended to kill him, but then I decided it would be even better if you did it.” She pointed to a black backpack on the kitchen table next to Adam. “I was in the stands when you used one of these to restart that boy’s heart. It seems to me
that an electrical shock should be able to stop a heart as well as start it. So that’s what you’re going to do.”

Carrie’s response was a loud “No!”

Mary’s eyes hardened even more. “If you don’t, then I’ll simply shoot you and take care of him myself. But my way will be slower . . . and a lot more painful.”

The germ of an idea tickled at the back of Carrie’s mind. It was risky, but it might work. Besides, it could buy some time, and every second was precious. She delayed her answer as long as possible. Just as she saw Mary’s lips start to move, Carrie said, “You win.”

She moved to the table and pulled the defibrillator from its pack. This one was different from the unit she’d used at the ball field. “I need to figure this out,” she said. “Why don’t I just make him hurt a little first?”

The gun in Mary’s hand was still pointed at Carrie. “So long as you finish him off.”

“First, I have to put on the electrodes. One goes on the chest.” She unbuttoned Adam’s shirt and pulled it open to expose his chest. “And one goes on the leg.” She reached down to push up his right pants leg. Her hand touched an empty holster.

“Looking for this?” Mary reached beneath her sweater and pulled Adam’s pistol from the waistband of her jeans. “Good try. By the way, I was watching you at the ballpark. I know how this works. Both electrodes go on the chest. Do it right.” She emphasized her words with a gesture from her gun.

Carrie searched desperately for words to calm this woman. “I don’t . . . I mean—”

“If you don’t stop stalling,” Mary said, “I’ll work on Adam the way I worked on poor Bruce. I understand that having
toenails pulled out isn’t pleasant.” She tucked the Ruger back in her waistband, but kept her own pistol trained on Carrie.

“No, please.” Carrie blinked to clear her eyes of tears. She needed to delay, but she was almost out of options. She fumbled as much as she dared, but in a moment the electrodes were in place on Adam’s chest, held there by the adhesive on the pads.

“Now set the machine and push the button,” Mary said.

“I have to figure this one out.” Carrie had to keep Mary talking. “How did you find Adam?”

“His trail wasn’t hard to follow. And once I found him, it was a delicious coincidence that he was working in a law office. My training is as a paralegal, so I decided to get a job in the same office.”

“Just like that? How could you be so confident you’d get the job?”

Mary laughed, but it was full of evil, not mirth. “Once I met Bruce Hartley, I knew I could have the job, Bruce’s car, or anything else I wanted. I wasn’t sure where Adam had gone, but I figured he’d be back, and I was right.”

“So all your efforts to get to know him—”

“That’s enough! Stop delaying. Find out which button to push to stop his heart. If I have to do it with a bullet, I will, but first I’ll make him suffer.”

Carrie’s fingers roamed across the keyboard, then hovered over a button. She looked at Adam. “I’m so sorry.” She pushed. The display showed “normal rhythm.”

Mary peered at the unit. “You pushed the diagnostic button. You’re not going to do this, are you? Well, I’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Maybe I should shoot you first though.” She raised her gun until it was pointed directly at Carrie.

“That’s enough. Drop the gun, turn around, and freeze!”

The voice was one that Carrie had heard only once before. She’d heard it on the phone when she called before leaving for this meeting. Dave Branson was taller than his brother, slightly stockier, and the facial resemblance was striking. He was dressed in jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. There was a badge of some kind affixed to his belt on the left side. His right arm, from elbow to fingertips, was contained in a navy blue sling.

Mary didn’t turn. Instead, she kept the gun trained on Carrie. “I don’t think so. And who might you be?”

Dave’s voice betrayed no trace of tension. “U.S. Marshall David Branson. And you’re under arrest for kidnapping, attempted murder, and probably several other charges that I’ll leave to the authorities. Now I’m warning you. Drop the gun and turn around with your hands up.”

An evil smirk lightened Mary’s face. “Another family member. Good. The history of
vendetta
includes a number of instances of wiping out the entire family of the murderer. I was going to be satisfied with her.” She nodded toward Carrie. “But you’re just a bonus.”

“Last warning. Drop the gun.”

“Not on your life,” Mary said. Suddenly she whirled to level her pistol at Dave.

Carrie was watching Mary’s gun hand, and almost missed the tiny puff of smoke that issued from the end of Dave’s sling. The report wasn’t as loud as she expected a gunshot to be. But there apparently was enough firepower behind it to do the job. Mary took a step backward and collapsed onto the floor. Her gun skidded into a corner. Blood gushed from her chest, and frothy pink bubbles formed at the corner of her mouth.

Dave rushed over to Carrie. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Cut Adam loose, will you? I’ll see about Mary.”

Carrie knelt beside the woman and put one finger on her neck to feel for a carotid pulse. It was feeble and irregular. Blood continued to gush from a wound high in Mary’s chest. With every labored breath Carrie could hear the sucking sound of air rushing into the chest cavity, robbing Mary’s lungs of the ability to take in precious oxygen.

Sucking
chest
wound. Got to seal it
. Carrie grabbed the roll of duct tape from the kitchen table. In one quick motion she pulled Mary’s sweater up to expose the gunshot wound. The bleeding was slowing already. Not good. She tore off several pieces of the waterproof tape and applied them over the bullet hole. The sucking sound diminished in intensity, but Mary’s breathing was shallower, slower, more labored.

“Mary, open your eyes. Look at me.”

The woman looked up, blinked rapidly, then moved her gaze from Carrie’s face to the ceiling, as though she could see something written there. She took one deep, ragged breath and let it out slowly through pursed lips.

“Dave, call 911!” Carrie shouted.

“Already did it. How can I help here?”

The blood pulsating from the wound was darker now and had slowed to a trickle. As Carrie watched, the flow stopped. The bullet must have caught a major blood vessel, maybe the aortic arch. Carrie placed two fingers on Mary’s neck. The feeble carotid pulse beat she’d felt earlier was now gone. Full cardiac arrest.

Carrie’s first reflex was to pump Mary’s chest, but if there was no blood to circulate, cardiac compressions wouldn’t help.
She looked helplessly at the defibrillator on the kitchen table, the leads hanging loose where Dave had ripped them from Adam’s chest.

“Can I do something?” Dave asked again.

“There’s nothing you can do—nothing anyone can do now.”

Carrie had the knowledge. She had some of the equipment. But she couldn’t save the patient. The woman who’d tried multiple times to murder her and Adam lay dead before her. And strangely enough, she felt no triumph—only frustration. Maybe that was what being a physician was about. Carrie tried to save them all, even her enemies. Some she could. Some she couldn’t.

The verse ran through Carrie’s head again: “I will give you a new heart.” The words weren’t meant to describe a beating, pumping organ, although certainly Mary could use one of those now. Instead they referred to a spiritual awakening. Surely this scenario would have played out differently if Mary had claimed that promise. But now it was too late.

TWENTY-SIX

MARY’S BODY LAY WHERE SHE FELL WHILE INVESTIGATORS TOOK their pictures and memorialized the scene. Adam didn’t need any of that though. He’d remember every detail for the rest of his life.

Bruce Hartley sat in the chair from which he’d been cut free, trying to drink from the glass Adam handed him. His hands shook, and most of the water dribbled down his chin, but he didn’t seem to notice. He took a few sips before looking up with eyes as sad as a spaniel’s. “Adam, I swear, I had no idea what she was trying to do.”

“I know, Bruce. She took advantage of you.” No need to berate the man. Anything Adam wanted to tell Bruce, the lawyer was probably already telling himself. And if he hadn’t yet, he would. “I know she forced you to make that phone call to Carrie. And it’s apparent that you held out as long as you could.”

A tear rolled down Hartley’s cheek. “She . . . she took pliers and pulled out my toenails. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

An EMT put his hand on Hartley’s shoulder. “Sir, we’re ready to take you to the Emergency Room. Do you want to walk to the ambulance?” Then he saw the lawyer’s bloody feet. “Never mind. I’ll get the gurney.”

A sheriff’s deputy approached Adam, with Dave and Carrie right behind him. “Mr. Davidson, let’s hear your story one more time.”