Heart Failure (25 page)

Rob shrugged, his expression devoid of guile. “I hang
around the hospital a lot in my off hours. I don’t have a wife or family, and it’s not a lot of fun sitting around an empty apartment. I’d just parked and was on my way to get a burger in the cafeteria when I heard the shots and saw Mr. Davidson running across the parking lot carrying you.”

Carrie didn’t particularly want to make this a long conversation, but her curiosity got the best of her. Besides, there were still a couple of bites of pastry and a little coffee left. “I’m sure it can be lonely, living alone.”
I know. I do it too
.

“It is. And I don’t plan to be alone forever. I know the type of woman I want in my life. And I intend to go after her.”

Carrie looked at Rob and wondered if this was another clumsy attempt on his part to flirt with her. Did Rob actually think she might be interested? Or was there something more behind it?

By the end of the workday, Adam was wrung out from constant tension. He kept trying to work through the pile of material on his desk, but the stack of files seemed to refresh itself every time he whittled it down a bit. Meanwhile, he parried the questions and comments from his coworkers: from Brittany, who thought the behavior of the partners was indefensible; from Bruce Hartley, whose only concern was that briefs were filed on time and paperwork brought up-to-date; from Janice Evans, who sympathized with Adam about the problems that seemed to be hitting him one after another; from Mary Delkus, who repeated her offer to take him to dinner. And in the back of his mind was always the cryptic question of his friend Corky. “Which family of DeLuca’s?” Corky had to end
the call before he could amplify on that. But by tonight Adam hoped to have some answers.

At about three o’clock, the phone on his desk buzzed. He punched the intercom button. “Yes?”

Brittany’s voice was unusually subdued. “There’s a man from the U.S. Marshalls Service on line 1. He didn’t want to give me his name, but he said it was urgent.”

Adam’s gut clenched. It could only be Dave, and Dave would only call him at work if he couldn’t get through on his cell. Adam eased the instrument out of his pocket and checked the display for missed calls. None.

“It’s okay, Brittany,” Adam said. “Probably something routine. Thanks.”

Adam punched the blinking button. “Adam Davidson.”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but it certainly wasn’t Dave’s. “Adam, this is Sam Westerman. Are you able to talk?”

Adam knew that Sam meant, “Can you talk without being overheard?” His emotions did battle. He wanted to hear what Sam had to say, hear it now, but he had precious little privacy in the office. “Call me back on my cell in five minutes.”

“I’ll need that number. Dave gave it to me, but I can’t find it.”

Adam rattled off the number and hung up. He grabbed his coat and briefcase and headed for the door, where he stopped. “Brittany, I have to get some papers to a marshall so he can serve them. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He closed the door firmly behind him before the receptionist could respond.

Ten steps away from the building, Adam stopped and looked around. Where could he go? And how did he know this wasn’t some sort of a trap? Was it really Sam calling? Could
Sam be involved in the shootings? Was Dave—No, that was ridiculous. He had to trust Dave and, by extension, trust Sam.

He’d avoided his assigned spot in the building’s parking lot. Instead, his car was in a lot behind the building, which he’d entered via the back door. He headed there now. When he reached the little Subaru, he looked in all directions but saw no one nearby. He beeped the vehicle unlocked, jammed himself behind the wheel, and relocked the doors.

Adam had no time to get settled before his cell phone rang. “This is Adam.”

“Sam here. I have some bad news about your brother.”

The chill Adam felt would have made his mother say someone was walking over his grave. “What?”

“He was with a group of law officers down around the Texas-Mexico border. There was a shoot-out, and Dave was wounded. He’s okay, but he made me promise to call and let you know.”

“Where is he? I need to go there.”

“That’s the other thing he made me promise. He knew that was what you’d say, so I can’t tell you where he is. The wound isn’t severe—he’ll probably be out of the hospital in two or three days—and he said there was no need to come down.”

Adam leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Did he
need
to be with Dave right now? No, he
wanted
to be there, but there was nothing he could do if he went. As always, Dave was right. “Okay, I guess. Can you keep me posted on his condition? Please promise me that.”

“I’ll call you again tomorrow,” Sam said.

“And if he gets worse . . .”

“I’ll let you know.”

When Adam ended the conversation, he felt more alone
than he’d ever felt in his life. His brother had always been there for him. Now Dave was out of the picture, at least for a while. Sam would help—he seemed like a good man—but there was something about the blood bond that made trust automatic.

Now, other than Carrie, was there anyone Adam could really trust?

Carrie knew she must have eaten something for her evening meal, but for the life of her she couldn’t recall what it was, how it tasted, or anything else about it. She fiddled with the TV set, channel surfing without ever locking in on anything. She paced, peered through the blinds every few minutes, looked at her watch, and in general acted like a child waiting for Christmas morning. And all because Adam was coming over.

Even though she’d had one earlier in the day when she returned from her visit with Calvin McDonald, Carrie decided she needed another shower to help her relax. She stood under the hot water for a long time, then dressed in a plain skirt, a simple blouse, and low heels. When she found herself deciding on costume jewelry to complete the look, Carrie decided that was enough.
For goodness’ sake, stop acting as though you’re waiting for your prom date
.

By nine Carrie decided she needed something to help calm her. How about a drink? She didn’t have liquor in the house, and wouldn’t use it if she did. Tranquilizer? Same answer. She flopped into an easy chair in her living room and shuffled through the magazines on the coffee table. There was nothing there worth reading. She picked up the Bible that lay beside the magazines.
Maybe this is what I need
.

She was still reading more than an hour later when a sharp
rat tat tat tat
at her back door roused her. She looked at her watch. Quarter past ten. Adam was here.

Carrie hurried to the kitchen. The top half of the back door was glass, divided into six rectangles by a latticework of wood and covered by a half curtain. She pulled the curtain aside far enough to see Adam standing on her back porch, scanning all around, his shoulders hunched as though by doing so he could make himself invisible. He wore dark jeans and a green sweatshirt.

She turned the latch and opened the door. “Come on in.”

He hurried inside. “Lock the—”

Carrie was already working on it. She double locked the door and slid a security chain into place.

“How did you get here without someone seeing you?”

“Same way I did Sunday night.” Adam wiped sweat from his forehead and finger-combed his hair. “I parked two blocks away, then came down alleys. I kept in shadows most of the way. Your fence was easy enough to climb. I’m sure no one followed me.”

“Is this what you’re reduced to now? Sneaking around through alleys in the dark? I thought you were through hiding.”

“I am,” Adam said. “I’m ready to face the shooter, but I want to choose where we meet. And it’s not going to be anywhere near you.”

For the first time, Carrie saw the pistol in Adam’s hand. “Is that . . . ?”

“Yes. It’s my gun.” He knelt and slid the pistol into a holster buckled above his right ankle. “And I’d feel better if you had one too.”

Carrie chose to ignore the remark. She didn’t want a weapon, and she wasn’t too happy that Adam had one. “Let’s go into the living room,” she said. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee?”

“I’d jump out of my skin if I had coffee,” Adam said. “Maybe a glass of ice water.”

In a moment they were settled side by side on the sofa in Carrie’s living room. “I think we both have news,” she said. “Who goes first?”

She wasn’t sure of the reason, maybe it was the cumulative stress of the past few days, but Adam seemed more preoccupied than usual. He snapped out of it long enough to say, “Why don’t you?”

Carrie described her visit to Calvin McDonald. “I don’t think he could be our shooter. And the more I think about it, the less certain I am that the attacks have been aimed at me.” She was ashamed that she felt a degree of relief at reaching this conclusion. “I believe we can strike Mr. McDonald and Mrs. Fremont and all the other patients and families who might have a grudge against me.”

“Good,” Adam said. “You haven’t discussed my real identity with anyone. Right?”

Carrie tried to keep her expression neutral.
Just my best friend. But Julie has no reason to tell anyone
. “No . . . Well, yes. I’ve talked to Julie Yates.” She saw Adam’s expression change, and her voice rose a bit. “Adam, she’s my best friend. I’d trust her with my life. And I had to talk with someone about this. Can you understand?”

Adam chewed on his lower lip. “I asked you not to tell
anyone. Don’t you think it’s possible that Julie could tell her husband, who might mention it to a colleague, who could be an acquaintance—”

“Stop! Julie promised me she wouldn’t even tell her husband. I’m willing to bet my life that she’s kept the secret.”

“Actually, it’s my life we’re betting too . . . but, okay. I’ll accept that.”

“Thank you.”

“Let’s put that aside. I have a couple of things to share,” Adam said. He told her about his brother’s shooting. “He’s doing okay after surgery, but he’ll be out of circulation for several days. He was shot in the shoulder—the right shoulder—so if it comes down to a shoot-out, I won’t be able to depend on Dave for a while.”

“Was that what you’d planned?” Carrie asked. “Get your brother here, maybe a couple of his buddies, then face down your stalker like the gunfight at the OK Corral?” She knew there was sarcasm in her voice, but maybe it belonged there. Surely Adam wasn’t planning something like that.

“No, I don’t expect my brother to fight my battles for me. That’s not the way we grew up. Besides . . .” He touched his ankle where the pistol rested. “Although I hope it doesn’t come down to what you call the gunfight at the OK Corral, if it does I’m ready.”

“How else do you think we can resolve this?” Carrie asked.

“I plan to use the pistol to capture the shooter, not shoot him. I never thought I’d even own a gun. But I feel as though I’m backed into a corner, and I’ll do anything to defend you . . . to defend us.”

She patted his arm. Carrie decided it was time to move on to a topic that wouldn’t trigger an argument. “You said you had two things. What’s the second?”

Adam paused to think for a moment. “Oh, I called one of my law school classmates. Corky has a brilliant legal mind, but he also can coax all kinds of information out of a computer.”

“In other words, he’s a hacker.”

“He assures me that he could get all this information in a conventional manner. It would just take a lot longer. He describes it as taking a shortcut.” He took a deep swallow from his water glass, then set it on the coffee table in front of him. “I asked him to check out Charlie DeLuca for me.”

“Why?” Carrie said. “You worked with DeLuca. You were married to his daughter. Don’t you know enough about him?”

“I wanted a list of family and close friends, people who might be behind these attacks on me even though Charlie is dead.”

“Didn’t you meet all those folks at your wedding? Maybe at the rehearsal dinner? The reception?”

Adam grimaced. “Charlie said there was no need for a big fancy wedding. A judge in Chicago, one of Charlie’s cronies, married us in his chambers. My brother and the judge’s clerk were witnesses.”