Heart Failure (13 page)

At the door, he peeked through one of the pair of glass side panels and saw a tall, middle-aged man standing patiently on the tiny porch. His visitor wore a tan, western-cut suit, and his leathered face was topped by a straw Stetson. Adam couldn’t see his feet, but he’d be willing to bet they were shod in boots. Whoever this man was, he was certainly a son of the Southwest.

Adam opened the door on the chain and said, “Yes? Can I help you?”

The man reached inside his coat, and Adam tensed. Maybe if he threw himself to the floor, the first shot would miss. He could slam the door shut, lock it, and sprint for the back door.

The stranger pulled out a leather badge wallet, flipped it open, and said, “Keith . . . or should I say, Adam? I’m Sam Westerman, U.S. Marshalls Service out of Fort Worth. Your brother, Dave, said you needed some help. He asked me to drop by and lend a hand.”

Still wary, Adam said, “Sam, I hope you won’t mind if I seem extra suspicious, but did my brother give you anything to tell me?”

“You mean, like your first car was a Ford, your first dog was a mongrel, and your first girlfriend was named Ann?”

Adam relaxed for the first time in days. He undid the security chain and opened the door. “Come in. The coffee’s ready. Let’s sit down and talk.”

Adam had most of it worked out by the time he walked in the door of Hartley and Evans, LLP, the next morning. He tried to use bits and pieces of the truth as a foundation for his fiction. For instance, it was true that his parents were dead. It was true that he had one sibling, a brother. Even his destination wasn’t total fiction. But beyond that, the story was a construction of half-truths and downright lies. Adam thought he could pull it off. And if things didn’t play out as he’d planned, he’d simply have to wing it.

Brittany was at her desk, sipping from a steaming cup in her right hand, blowing on the nails of her left. A capped bottle of nail polish was centered on her desk.

“Change your mind about the color of your polish?” Adam asked, his smile leaving no doubt that he was joking.

“Just some repair work,” Brittany said, frowning as she inspected her hands. “I was going to get an early start on these papers, but I chipped a nail. And since one of my prime duties is to dress up the place, I figured I should take care of that before things got too busy.”

“Are you saying I don’t bring class to the office?” Adam asked.

“You’re okay, but you really should dress more like Mr. Hartley. One look at him, those custom-tailored suits and designer ties, and our clients know they’ve got a winner.”

Adam took silent exception. All the external trappings in the world couldn’t disguise Hartley’s true self—he was a poorer-than-average lawyer reacting to a midlife crisis with a
series of women. But there was no need to argue the point. “Speaking of the bosses, is either one of them in?”

Brittany put down her coffee and tested the nail. Satisfied that it was dry, she stowed the polish in a desk drawer and pointed down the hall. “Mr. Hartley’s in court this morning. Mrs. Evans is in her office. She said she was going to work on a brief, and no one was to disturb her.”

“I’ll chance it,” Adam said, and strode away.

In keeping with the office’s policy, Janice Evans’s door was open. She was bent over a law book, looking up from time to time to make notes on a yellow legal pad. Adam tapped on the jamb.

Evans didn’t look up. “Unless the president or the chief justice wants me, I’m busy.”

“Sorry, I’m neither. But I need to speak with you.”

Evans frowned, then said, “Come on in. I know you well enough to be certain you wouldn’t interrupt me if this weren’t important.” She leaned back and rested her hands on the open law book in front of her. “What’s up?”

Adam adopted a properly somber expression. “I got a call last night from my brother.”

“You told us you were an orphan and an only child.”

“Yes, my parents are dead. And I told you I didn’t have any siblings, because for all practical purposes, I don’t. We’ve been estranged for the better part of ten years. But I got a call last night that my brother’s in advanced-stage renal failure. The doctors say only a kidney transplant can save him. And since I’m his only living kin, they want to test me to see if I can be the donor.”

“Can the testing be done here? Or in one of the large cities in the area? Dallas maybe?”

“Probably,” Adam said, “but if the match is good, they want to do the surgery immediately. It’s easier if I go there.”

“Where is ‘there’?”

Adam took a deep breath. “The surgery would be done at Duke University Medical Center, but right now my brother’s at the Federal Medical Center in Butner, North Carolina.”

Evans frowned. “Butner. That name’s familiar. Why does it ring a bell?”

“Because there’s also a Federal Prison in Butner. That’s where my brother’s serving thirty to life for murder.” He waited what he considered a proper interval before adding, “That’s why we’re estranged.”

Carrie exited her car on Wednesday morning, squared her shoulders, and marched across the parking lot toward the clinic entrance. Her task was simple, yet harder than anything she’d ever been asked to do. She knew that every time she told the story of Adam’s departure, not only would it cause her real pain, but she’d also have to project an air of shame, as though his leaving represented a failure on her part.

As the glass doors into the clinic slid to the side with a soft
whoosh
, she prepared to face the day. She made it as far as her office without more interaction with clinic staff than perfunctory exchanges of “good morning.” Carrie dropped her purse into her desk drawer, shrugged into a fresh white coat, and looked at the top of her desk. As always, her schedule was centered on the blotter—a busy day, but that was good. It might keep her mind off Adam.

Carrie shuffled through the reports, noted the phone
messages, and decided there was nothing there that couldn’t wait. Technically, she had no patients in the hospital, but even though others had taken over their care, she wanted to drop by and see Mrs. Lambert and Mr. Burnett. Lila met her in the hall, but after a quick, and she hoped normal, greeting, Carrie hurried on.

Phil’s note on Mrs. Lambert’s chart was, as always, brief and to the point. “POD #1. Doing well.” Post-op day one. Had it been less than twenty-four hours since Carrie stood in the ER and watched while Phil took over the care of her patient? She’d thought she was unhappy then. But since that time things had gone increasingly downhill in Carrie’s life.

Mrs. Lambert’s family wasn’t in the waiting room—apparently they’d been sent home to get some rest.

Mr. Burnett was also in the surgical ICU, his condition satisfactory after his craniotomy last night. He hadn’t regained consciousness. Carrie knew that when he did, the news of what lay ahead of him would be devastating to the old man. She made a courtesy note on his chart, asking the social worker to page her if she needed assistance from Carrie in getting him into a rehab facility.

It was pretty much a certainty that Mr. Burnett would be unable to go back to independent living. When he fell, the severe head injury changed his life forever. Carrie could identify with that. Her life had changed as well. And she had no idea what would happen as a result.

Some of it had been difficult for Adam, some easier than he’d imagined. Bruce Hartley came in shortly after lunch. Janice
Evans quickly buttonholed the senior partner and they disappeared into her office, where they remained, the door firmly closed, for an hour. When they emerged, Bruce stuck his head through Adam’s door and said, “Can I see you in my office?” The tone was pleasant enough, but Adam knew that following Bruce was mandatory, not optional.

Once Adam was seated in Hartley’s office, the lawyer leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Janice explained your situation to me, and we’re sympathetic. You’ve been an invaluable asset in the few months since you joined us. We recognize your need to go, but the office has to keep running.”

Adam felt his gut tighten. He had to go, whether on good terms or bad, but his employers accepting his story would give credibility to his leaving town. “I—”

Hartley put up his hand to stop Adam. “As it happens, last week I interviewed a woman who recently moved to the area. She’s an experienced paralegal, and she’s looking for work. I called her, and she’s agreed to take over your position on a temporary basis.” He pursed his lips. “If you’re back and able to resume work in two weeks, we’ll give her a good recommendation and help her get a job elsewhere in Jameson. If you’re not, then . . .” He let the words trail off and made a palms-up gesture, as though no one could blame him for the action that followed.

Adam shrugged. “I understand,” he said. In two weeks, maybe less, he’d have done what he needed to do. Depending on what followed, he’d be back or it wouldn’t matter.

After that it was simple. His apartment rent was paid for another three weeks. No need to forward his mail. He never
got any. Adam exchanged his rental car for his newly repaired vehicle, tolerating the good-natured kidding about staying away from gunfire in the future. He cashed a check at his bank and told the teller, a notorious gossip, his story about a sick brother who needed one of his kidneys.

The next day his alarm went off at six a.m. A breakfast of buttered toast and coffee was almost more than his stomach could stand. By seven he was ready to go. He loaded two suitcases into the back of his little SUV, took one last look around the apartment, and walked out the back door, locking it after him. It was time for the most important trip of his life.

He plugged the GPS system he’d bought into the cigarette lighter and called up the destination he’d programmed into it the night before. In the cup holder of his Forester were a bottle of cold water and a travel mug of hot coffee. On the seat beside him, his prepaid cell phone lay next to a folded map of the United States. Adam slipped on a pair of sunglasses and pulled away from the curb in front of his apartment. A robotic voice warned him of a “left turn in two hundred feet.” He eased the car into the left lane, clicked on his blinker, and tightened his grip on the wheel.

By now, Adam executed avoidance maneuvers like a pro, ignoring repeated demands from the GPS to “when possible, make a legal U-turn.” When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he got back on track to his destination. He had no idea what was ahead. He wasn’t even certain this was his best course of action. But it was the best he could do. Directions for the drive were coming from the GPS system, but Adam prayed that God would direct his actions.