“I don’t think that would make me any safer.” Was that a faint smile, or a grimace? “Look, Adam. I want to hear more of your story, and we’ll figure out a way to do it. But right now I’m going to head home, where I’ll lock all the doors, take a long shower, and try to sleep.”
“When can I see you again? Will you call me?”
“Eventually, but give me awhile to think about all this.” Carrie rolled up her window and put the car in reverse.
Adam watched her taillights fade into the distance, and his heart went with her.
Okay, God. Please don’t take her from me. Help me out here. What do I do next?
“After you finish with this next patient, Dr. Rushton wants to see you in his office.”
“Thanks, Lila. Tell him it won’t be too long.”
Carrie paused outside the exam room. Why did Phil Rushton want to see her? It couldn’t be that he wanted her to do a pre-op evaluation on his patient. He routinely asked the other internist in the clinic, Thad Avery, to do that. Was there some problem? Phil was a confirmed nitpicker. And although things had been quiet between them since John’s death, there had been a few differences of opinion between her and Phil in the past—situations where tempers almost reached the boiling point.
Phil Rushton was an excellent surgeon. But Carrie didn’t particularly admire him as a person. He had divested himself of his wife and two children as quickly as possible after completing his residency training. Now, other than surgery, he had little else to occupy his time. True, he didn’t always lord his status over his colleagues, but he wasn’t above using his position as chief operating officer of the clinic to snoop and pry. She wondered what he had in mind this time. Whatever it was, she had an uneasy feeling that it wouldn’t be good.
Carrie finished with her patient and made her way down the hall toward Phil’s office. The door of an exam room opened, and Carrie stopped to let one of the nurses, holding a handful of papers, exit with a middle-aged man.
The nurse and patient came toward Carrie. When they were abreast of her, the man stopped and looked Carrie full in the face, his eyes narrowed in a frown that made her take a step back. She swallowed twice. “Hello, Mr. McDonald.” He didn’t reply, just stood silent, fixing her with that look before he turned to follow the nurse. If looks could kill . . .
It had been over a year since Calvin McDonald’s wife died. Was he still angry about her death? Or angry with Carrie about the part she played? Carrie hurried on, trying to put the encounter out of her mind, as she had others that preceded it.
Phil occupied a corner office in the clinic, bigger in size and more expensively furnished than anyone else’s. It even had its own door leading directly outside, so he could come and go without anyone—patients or colleagues—being the wiser.
Carrie tapped on the closed door and received a curt, “Come.” She’d always hated that response, since it came out sounding like, “I’m terribly busy, but if you must, I grant you permission to enter.”
She opened the door, took a step into the room, and raised her eyebrows in silent question. Phil looked up from his desk. “Come in. Close the door. Have a seat.” He turned his attention back to the papers in his hand.
Phil Rushton was anything but a commanding picture. He was short, chunky, almost bald, and spoke in a high voice that reminded her of the lab experiment in high school where the students all inhaled helium. But he made up for what he lacked in appearance by a manner that said to all concerned, “I’m not just anybody—I’m somebody—and don’t you forget it.”
Carrie hitched one of the patient chairs closer to the desk, smoothed her skirt across the back of her thighs, and sat. Phil’s attention was back on the paper in front of him, scribbling notes in the margin.
As she waited, Carrie looked around her. The walls of Phil’s office were covered with diplomas and certificates that testified to the status he’d achieved: BS with honors from Northwestern University, MD degree and selection to Alpha Omega Alpha at the University of Chicago’s Pritzker School of Medicine, chief resident in cardiothoracic surgery at Rush University Medical Center. He’d gone on to receive award after award while in practice. She’d heard the term before, even used it—this was his “I love me” wall.
After a moment she said, “You wanted to see me?”
Phil sighed gently, capped his gold-plated fountain pen, then dropped it on the desk. “Yes, Carrie. I sent for you.” Phil leaned back and steepled his hands, displaying the long, manicured fingers that could do magic on the human heart in surgery. “I heard that you were one of the victims of a firebomb attack last night. What was that about?”
“Where did you hear that?” she blurted.
“At the hospital when I was on rounds,” Phil replied in a cool voice. “I repeat—what was that about?”
Carrie bit back a retort. The question was valid, she guessed, although the manner in which it was asked was a bit demeaning. So typical of Phil. She took a deep breath. “My friend Adam and I went to his office so we could have some privacy while we talked. That’s why I was there.” Her words came faster than she intended. “One of the lawyers said she thought it was most likely a disgruntled client of the law firm, trying to exact some sort of revenge. The police seemed to agree.” Just talking about it sent a chill down her spine, but she hurried on. “And, although you didn’t ask, I wasn’t harmed. Only shaken.”
Phil leaned forward and fixed her with an earnest expression. “That was going to be my next question, Carrie. I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” He picked up his pen and began twirling it. “And you weren’t involved in this? It had nothing to do with you or, for example, an unhappy patient?”
Carrie hadn’t given serious consideration to the possibility. Surely the attack was meant for Adam, not her. But she wondered for a moment if Phil’s eyes, eyes the color of winter rain, were seeing something that she missed. Then she thought of another pair of eyes, eyes that fixed her with a malevolent glare. Could a patient, Mr. McDonald or some other, go to this length to harm her? She’d have to think about that a bit. She hoped this was just Phil being Phil, making the moment melodramatic.
Carrie struggled to keep her tone even. “So far as I can see, the episode didn’t have anything to do with me, except to scare me half to death. Now, are you through? I have patients to see.”
Phil’s voice softened slightly, but his eyes still seemed to probe her. “Carrie, I have to ask uncomfortable questions. It’s part of my job as the clinic’s managing partner.”
No, it wasn’t. Not this way, anyway. Could Phil be fishing for what her employment contract called “questionable behavior,” trying to get rid of her? She wouldn’t put it past him. Stop it. You’re being paranoid.
Carrie stood up. “Sorry, but it still makes me uncomfortable to talk about the incident. Is that all?”
Phil rose and offered his hand across the desk. His smile was faint. She couldn’t tell if it was sincere. “Carrie, we all know the stress you’ve been under since John’s death. If there’s anything I can do to help you . . .”
Phil let the sentence die.
“Nothing, but thank you.” She drew in a deep breath. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to see.”
Phil nodded, eased into his chair, and picked up his pen once more, effectively dismissing her.
As Carrie closed the door she decided that even if Phil weren’t the senior member of the group, he’d still be in charge. The other doctors in the group would see to that. Sure, the clinic was in business to heal the sick, but to keep it going took money. And Phil Rushton generated a lot of money for the group. She hoped she’d never reach the point where she practiced medicine solely for the monetary rewards.
Going into medicine was a response to a call Carrie felt just as strongly as a call to ministry. Actually, it was her ministry, a ministry of healing. But Adam was trying to heal, in a manner of speaking, and so far she had done nothing to help him.
Sure, she was hurt b
ecause he’d lied to her, but she could see why he did it. She’d been about to let him back into her life, about to forgive him, when that firebomb came through the window. And what did she do? She ran away again. What did that make her?
Her next patient was an elderly gentleman. His appearance brought several descriptions to her mind: thin as a rail, pale as a ghost. The smile he gave her was the very definition of “putting on a brave front.” His wife sat beside him, their hands touching.
Carrie smiled back at them. “Mr. Atkinson,” she said, “I have your test results, and there’s good news. The treatment seems to be working. Your blood count is much better. I think the leukemia is headed for remission.”
Atkinson’s face relaxed. Tears streaked his wife’s cheeks. They both spoke at once. “Thank God.” “Oh, Doctor, that’s wonderful.”
First Atkinson, then his wife moved forward to wrap Carrie in warm hugs. She luxuriated in the moment. Phil could have his certificates and awards, the satisfaction of pulling in the largest share of clinic income. But this was her reward. This was what she’d been called to do. This was why she practiced medicine.
Adam suffered through a restless night. He’d told Janice Evans he’d be there in the morning. After all, she had no idea the firebomb was meant for him. But weren’t two attempts on his life enough to send him on his way, leaving Jameson and his would-be murderer behind? Not if the woman he loved was here, and that was exactly the case. He couldn’t leave Carrie—not if there was any way to salvage their relationship.
He kept one eye on the rearview mirror as he drove to work. One of the schemes he’d turned over in his mind during the restless night was getting a gun. Dave had urged him to acquire one when he went into the Witness Security Program—even offered to help—but Adam refused. He couldn’t bring himself to do it then, and he couldn’t do it now. Maybe there was another way.
Twice he started to call Carrie, twice he pulled his hand away from his cell phone as though it were a fiery coal. No, she said she’d call. All he could do was wait.
The law office smelled of smoke. A large piece of plywood covered the front window. The burned chairs were gone, an empty spot where their replacements would sit. Workmen were on their knees, removing the damaged section of carpet. Despite all that, Hartley and Evans, attorneys at law, were open for business. No matter what else might happen, the legal machine continued to grind.
Adam slogged through the day, one ear tuned to his cell phone, waiting for a ring announcing a call from Carrie. But there was nothing.
“Would you take these papers over to the District Clerk’s office? They need to be there by the end of business today.” Bruce Hartley tossed a manila envelope onto Adam’s desk. “Better hurry. They’re about to close.”
Adam looked at his watch. “I’m on my way. Then I’ll head home. See you tomorrow.” He shoved the envelope into his battered briefcase.
He was almost to the door when Bruce said, “By the way, was your girlfriend with you last night when someone lobbed that Molotov cocktail through the window?”
Adam paused with his hand on the knob. “Yes.” He’d learned long ago never to give more information than was required.
“No danger of her suing us, is there?”
“Nope. But thanks for your concern.”
Adam went out the door, leaving Bruce to decipher whether the last remark represented sarcasm or a sincere thanks. If I were back practicing law, I’d run rings around him in court.
During his short walk to the courthouse, Adam kept his head on a swivel. Every stranger was a potential threat. Each open window in the downtown area hid a sniper. Soon he was back at the building that housed the law offices of Hartley and Evans. Adam paused in the parking lot and scanned the rows of cars still there. Where was his car? Had it been stolen? Then it dawned on him. It was in the shop, getting a new windshield and having the damaged front seats repaired. He located his black Toyota Corolla rental and used the remote to unlock the doors.
He hadn’t heard from Carrie yet. Should he call her? No, he was determined to give her some time to process everything. In the meantime, he’d run some errands. If he hadn’t heard from her later this evening, maybe he’d call.
Adam was almost to the cleaners when he noticed that the blue SUV behind him looked familiar. Had it been sitting near his car in the parking lot when he left?
When Adam first entered the Witness Security Program, Dave had given him some rudimentary lessons on how to handle a tail. He put them into practice now, changing lanes, turning without signaling, jumping green lights and running through the last second of yellow lights. Finally, just before he was ready to take a short segment the wrong way on a one-way street, Adam looked in the rearview mirror and saw that he was clear.
He spotted a parking garage and wheeled sharply into it. The time dragged, but Adam forced himself to sit for ten minutes before he started the car and nosed back into traffic. It took him another five minutes of deke and dodge before he was certain he’d lost his tail . . . if there had been one in the first place.
Adam’s brain hadn’t been idle while he sat in hiding. He headed for the facility from which his rental car had come. Once there, his car safely lost in a sea of other returns, he entered an office staffed by a single clerk with a phone to his ear and two lines blinking. The clerk hung up and looked at Adam expectantly.
Adam put his rental paperwork on the counter. “I know you’re really slammed, but this car’s running pretty rough. I’m afraid the last renter put some cheap gas into it before turning it in.”
The clerk frowned at the telephone with its blinking buttons. “I’m sorry. Why don’t we put you in another vehicle?”
Adam had given this some thought. Jameson was a typical midsized north Texas town. The vast majority of vehicles on the street were either pickups or SUVs. “Sure.” Adam paused as though considering a fresh idea. “How about a pickup?”
Adam had barely finished speaking when the clerk pulled a set of keys from a drawer and pushed them toward him. “No problem. Got a Ford F-150, and I’ll let you have it for the same price as the car you’re driving. Slot 18A. Enjoy.”
By now, new calls had added more blinking buttons to the phone. When the young man picked up the handset and took the next call, Adam eased the rental papers he’d been ready to give the clerk back into his pocket. Apparently the person on the other end of the phone had a significant bone to pick with the car rental company and had the clerk’s full attention. During the heated exchange that followed, Adam hurried out the door.
Great. Now the rental company’s paperwork showed his previous car, while he was driving the most common vehicle in the city.
A shiny black pickup waited for Adam in 18A. Perfect. He tossed his briefcase inside, adjusted the mirror and seat, and headed out of the lot. He still had to run those errands. After that, if Carrie agreed to see him, he needed a safe place for them to meet.
He didn’t want to bring Carrie to his apartment for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was that the shooter probably knew where he lived. After the incident with the firebomb, it was obvious that the law office wasn’t safe. And under no circumstances did Adam want to lead his stalker to Carrie’s house. He needed a safe base of operation, not only a place to meet Carrie, but somewhere he could relax without fearing he’d be murdered in his sleep.
He’d check into a motel, and he had the perfect location in mind. He’d need to pick up clothes and toiletries from his apartment. Maybe if he parked a block away, went through alleys and used the back entrance, he could avoid detection. Not now, though. He’d postpone that until after dark.
Adam needed cash, so his first stop was an ATM, where he withdrew the daily maximum from his account. No problem there. Adam had one more stop to make. Then he’d be ready to go to ground.
After his next errand he climbed into his new pickup and took a roundabout route to one of the motels that ringed the outer part of the city. The one he chose
wasn’t part of a chain, but a small, family-owned motel that featured a row of cabins set back from the highway. He checked in and paid cash for three days.
When he filled out his registration, Adam put down a fictitious address and transposed two digits of his license plate. He entered Ford for his last name. Adam thought a moment before adding the first name Edward, figuring the clerk was too young to remember the Yankee pitcher Whitey Ford.
Once in his room, Adam used the prepaid cell phone he’d just purchased to call Carrie. She answered on the first ring. “Carrie, it’s me, Adam.” He took a deep breath. “I know I said I’d wait for you to call, but I can’t wait any longer. Can you meet me at the Rancho Motel after dark?”
“Adam, I don’t—”
“I’m in a motel for a reason,” he hurried on. “I’m staying away from my apartment for now. There are parking areas in both front and back of a row of cabins. Park in the back, close to the breezeway where the ice machine is. Then walk straight through and turn left. I’m in cabin six.”
The silence stretched on. Adam was about to say something more when Carrie said, “Okay.”
“One more thing,” Adam said. “Be careful as you drive here. Try to make sure you aren’t followed.”
Adam’s call had caught Carrie in her car, sitting in the doctor’s parking lot after hospital rounds. She’d ended the call, and within seconds her phone rang again.
“Carrie, it’s Julie. Can you talk now?”
“Sure. I’m glad you called. Are we still going to meet for lunch?”
“That’s why I’m calling. Barry and I are going to be in Dallas tomorrow. Will that work?”
“Of course. I need some face time with you.” Talking with her best friend had always helped Carrie put things in perspective. “Tell you what. I can arrange to get away a little after eleven, and my first afternoon patient isn’t until two.”
They settled on a restaurant halfway between Dallas and Jameson. Carrie wondered if she should warn Julie to be certain she wasn’t followed, then dismissed the idea as paranoid.
Heart Failure Page 5
