Heart Failure

by Richard L Mabry

  “Dave, it’s me.”

  “Keith?”

  “You mean Adam.”

  “Sorry. I may never get the name right as long as you keep changing it.” There was a slight pause. “Where are you? And whose phone are you using? The display on my cell shows private number.”

  “I’m at an Econolodge in Creedmore, North Carolina,” Adam said. “Where are you?”

  “I’ve been undercover down here along the Rio Grande. Had my cell phone off for a couple of days.” Adam heard a door close. “That should give me a little privacy. Now, what are you doing in North Carolina? Did you change your mind about running away?”

  “Actually, just the opposite.” Adam swiveled around to lie back on the bed, propped against the headboard. “I know it sounds crazy, but I need to see Charlie DeLuca.”

  “You’re right. It does sound crazy. But why?”

  “I want to talk to Charlie face-to-face and try to convince him to call off his shooter.”

  “That’s not going to work, Adam.” Dave used the same tone he’d used years before when he gave sage older-brother advice. “And even if he says he’ll do it, what makes you think he’ll keep his word?”

  “If that doesn’t work, then I’ve got an offer I’m pretty sure he’ll take.”

  “And that is . . . ?”

  Adam drained the coffee in his cup, but the lump in his throat didn’t move. “I’ll make him a deal.”

  “What can you offer Charlie?”

  “His freedom. If he’ll call off whoever’s been targeting Carrie and me, I’ll contact the DA and recant my testimony. Without me, the case falls apart and he walks.”

  “That’s insane,” Dave said. “Not only would you be returning a criminal to society, you’d be admitting to perjury. In effect, you’re offering to take Charlie’s place in prison.”

  “I know.” Adam thought once more about what was at stake here. “When there was someone trying to kill me, I was willing to take the heat. But Carrie’s in it now. And I’ll do anything to make her safe again . . . and I can’t think of any other way to do it.”

  “So that’s why you’re there in . . . whatever the name is.”

  “Creedmore. Yes. The Butner Correctional Facility, where Charlie DeLuca’s serving his sentence, is a fifteen-minute drive from where I am now. I need you to use your contacts in law enforcement to get me access to him. Can you do that?”

  Dave’s sigh came through loud and clear. “I’m still going to try to talk you out of this, you know. But yeah, give me half an hour to make some phone calls. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.”

  It was actually closer to an hour before Dave called again. Adam spent the time pacing the floor, his mind running in circles, trying to take the rough edges off his scheme. His mind threw up objections, then tried to tear them down. At the end of an hour, there were still some holes he might have to patch on the fly.

  “Yes?”

  Dave sounded almost sad, but then again, that was to be expected, given the circumstances. “I have the information for you.”

  “Let me get a pencil.”

  “You won’t need it. I think you can remember this,” Dave said. “The good news is that you or anyone else can visit Charlie DeLuca any time. But there’s bad news that goes with it.”

  TWELVE

  A COUPLE OF US ARE GOING OUT FOR LUNCH TODAY,” LILA SAID from the door of Carrie’s office. “Want to go?”

  A polite “No, thanks” was on Carrie’s lips, but she held it back. Since Adam left, she’d lived her life like a hermit. Breakfast at home with the newspaper, lunch spent at her desk reading medical journals while munching on a sandwich one of the nurses brought from the hospital, a frozen dinner defrosted and eaten in front of the TV each evening. This was how she behaved after John died, except that sometimes she forgot completely about eating. Why not get out? “Sure. And I’ll drive.”

  There were four of them in the group: Lila, two other clinic nurses, and Carrie. For the first few minutes in the car, Carrie’s presence inhibited conversation somewhat, but before they reached the restaurant they’d chosen—a barbecue place nearby—the group was chatting freely.

  The food was good, the company even better, and by the time they’d cleaned all the barbecue sauce off their fingertips and gone through the “I had that so I owe this” division of the bill, Carrie felt as though she’d had a respite from her worries.

  As she drove back to the clinic, she looked in the rearview mirror and did a double take. There was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria behind her. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been a cause for concern, but Carrie recalled seeing it following her car on the way to the restaurant. She struggled to recall the maneuvers to confirm if she was being tailed. She sped up. The Ford stayed with her. She slowed down and changed lanes. The Ford did the same. She made random right and left turns until Lila asked, “Dr. Markham, are you okay? Do you want me to drive? This isn’t the way to the clinic.”

  Carrie looked back and the Ford was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had just been a coincidence. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.” Lila gave her a worried look but said nothing.

  When the women exited the car in the clinic parking lot, Carrie felt a familiar tingle between her shoulder blades. She huddled in the center of the group as they moved toward the clinic doors and didn’t relax until she was safely inside. Carrie wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand it.

  Adam, hurry home. We have to bring this to an end.

  Adam supposed he could drive to Chicago, but there was no need. Charlie DeLuca was there, but he wasn’t going to listen to Adam . . . or anyone else.

  Charlie DeLuca was buried in the family plot in one of the nicer suburbs of metropolitan Chicago. He’d experienced a heart attack while in the Butner Federal Correctional Institution, and that was where DeLuca died before he could be moved elsewhere for treatment.

  Adam trusted his brother but still felt he had to confirm the information. He dug out his laptop, logged on to the free WiFi the motel offered, and after a few minutes found a tiny obituary from one of the Chicago newspapers. Yes, Charlie DeLuca was dead.

  Why hadn’t Adam done such a computer search long ago? Why had he just learned the news now? After a moment’s thought Adam recognized the reason: from the moment the jury returned a guilty verdict, he’d worked to put Charlie DeLuca out of his mind. The man had been given a sentence that should have guaranteed he’d die in prison, and that was exactly what he’d done.

  Adam should have felt relief, but instead the news raised another problem for him to solve. If DeLuca’s death occurred several months earlier, why was someone still trying to kill Adam? It made no sense. But the persistent attempts told him one thing—he had to stop the killer another way. And that sent him to a totally different plan, one that left him with mixed emotions at best.

  In a few minutes Adam was packed and ready to leave. The desk clerk surprised him by deleting the charge for a second day. “You just missed check-out time by a couple of hours. The maids are still working, and we’ll have that room rented by sundown.”

  He smiled at the unexpected gesture. “Thanks. If I’m back in North Carolina, I’ll stay with you again.”

  As he headed west, back to Jameson, Adam began work on a new plan. This one might not work either, but it was the best he could do. It would require one slight side trip on his journey, but the timing seemed right. And the thought of what he’d do there caused his pulse to quicken. On the one hand, what he was about to do frightened him. On the other, if this worked, both Adam and Carrie might be out from under the shadow of his would-be killer once and for all. Then again, if his plan misfired, he could end up in prison.

  Carrie rolled over and squinted at her bedside clock. If she was going to attend church today, she should get up. Of course, that was a big “if.” A gentle rain was falling outside, making this a perfect day to pull the covers over her head and sleep in.

  She wasn’t on c
all this weekend. The only people who’d look for her at church today were those wanting to ask questions about Adam’s absence. Those questions hadn’t slowed this week, but she’d finally reached the point where she could answer them almost without conscious thought. I don’t know where he’s gone. I don’t know why he left. I don’t know when he’ll be back. All true and all resulting in a tug at her heart that was almost physically painful.

  Adam hadn’t called again since their phone conversation was terminated by a tenuous cell phone connection. Carrie had been tempted to try calling him but wasn’t sure if he’d have cell reception or if he’d be able to talk. No, she had to trust him. He said he’d stay in touch.

  Carrie lay in bed and let the events of the past few weeks unreel in her mind. She felt as though she were on an emotional and spiritual roller coaster. She’d prayed for strength and courage but still felt weak and afraid. Now her lips moved silently. God, I know You’re in control of all things. But I can’t help it . . . I’m scared.

  Carrie’s prayer was interrupted by the insistent ring of her bedside phone. She’d just been wishing Adam would call back. Could this be him? Even though she knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, she answered the call with more than a little anticipation. “Dr. Markham.”

  “Carrie, this is Adam.”

  She flung the covers off, swung her feet over the side of the bed and slid them into slippers. “Adam, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? Is everything all right? When—”

  “Easy. I love you. I’ve missed you, more than I can say.”

  “I love you too. What—”

  “Look, we have lots to talk about when I get back, but I wanted to call and let you know that I’m on my way to Jameson. I should be there late tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Are you okay?” Carrie asked.

  “I’m fine. But the situation has changed. That’s one of the things we need to discuss.”

  Carrie took in what seemed like half the air in the room, then let it out slowly. “Is . . . is this call safe? I didn’t check the caller ID. Are you using—”

  “No need for any of that. I realized I’ve been going about this the wrong way all along. I thought I could protect us both by hiding. I was wrong. And I’m tired of running away.”

  “What’s changed?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you when I get back. I had a plan to stop the threats on my life at the source, but now I see they’re going to continue no matter what I might do. So I intend to face the would-be killer head on.”

  “So I don’t have to say I don’t know where you are?”

  “If anyone asks, you can say I called, I’ve been out of town because of a family emergency, but I’m coming back now.”

  She ran fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand.”

  Carrie heard the sound of a horn in the background. “Look, I’ve got to drive, and traffic’s heavy on the Interstate,” Adam said. “I have to make one stop, then I’m headed home. It will be really late when I get into town.”

  “I don’t care how late it is. I want to see you tonight.”

  “Okay. I’ll phone when I get near your house. I can park a couple of blocks away and go through the alleys, then knock on your back door.”

  “I thought you were through hiding.”

  “I am,” Adam said. “But I’m not going to lead the person who’s after me to your doorstep either. When I face him, I’ll choose the place—and it won’t be anywhere near you.”

  After the call ended, Carrie slipped into a robe and headed for the kitchen to have her first cup of coffee and throw together some breakfast.

  A few minutes ago she’d been ready to blow off church. No more. Church was exactly where she wanted to be this morning.

  As he drove, Adam considered how Charlie DeLuca’s death had changed things. He’d hoped he could get Charlie to call off the killer. But Charlie was dead, yet the attacks continued. It seemed to Adam his only remaining option was to identify the potential killer, whoever he was, and neutralize him.

  Maybe Carrie had been right. Maybe it was time to go to the police. But what, exactly, could he tell them? Someone shot at me. Oh, that report I filed about finding the bullet holes in my windshield? I lied about that. Sorry. And somebody threw a Molotov cocktail through a window of the building I was in. How do I know it was meant for me? I just do. But you have to believe me. Somebody even tried to run me over in the hospital parking lot. Did anyone see it? Well, no. But surely you know I’m telling the truth.

  No, this was his best option. It wasn’t great, and he didn’t really know if he could carry it off, but he didn’t see an alternative. So now he needed to buy a gun.

  As he rolled through East Texas, he kept an eye on the roadside signs, watching for the right exit. Finally he saw a billboard telling him where to turn for the First Monday Trade Days. Soon he was guiding his car through the streets of Canton, Texas, looking for a place to park. He found a lot where he traded five dollars for a slot into which he jammed his little Forester.

  Since moving to Jameson, Adam had heard about First Monday Trade Days in Canton. The activity didn’t actually take place on the first Monday of each month, but rather on the weekend before that day. Since today was the Sunday before the first Monday, Adam was in luck. Although he could undoubtedly find a flea market elsewhere this weekend, one that offered what he needed, he figured Canton would have the best selection.

  Adam picked up a map and studied it. Among the stalls where people sold everything from antiques to woodcraft were a number selling guns. But where should he begin? The choices ranged from gun dealers displaying a big inventory in open-air stalls to individuals with a few guns and knives laid out on plain folding tables. While Adam was considering his choices he discovered another option, one the map didn’t show.

  Adam jumped when a man approached him and said in a low voice, “Looking to buy a handgun?” He shook his head and walked away. After a couple of these encounters, he realized this was the way some individuals operated, choosing to sell a few pistols on a roving basis rather than pay the rental for a fixed space and deal with the paperwork required of a licensed dealer.

  Now that he was confronted with so many choices, Adam regretted his lack of preparation. He wanted a dependable handgun, small enough to be carried easily, effective at short range. But did he want a revolver, a semiautomatic, what? He had no idea.

  His work in the law office had familiarized him with Texas’s “concealed carry” laws. A carry permit would require that he pass a firearms training course. It would also require a more extensive computer background search than he was prepared to undergo. Adam Davidson wasn’t a convicted felon, but then again the identity he’d set up for himself when he struck out on his own might not hold up to intense scrutiny. After a few conversations Adam decided his best course of action was to buy a gun from a private dealer, one who didn’t fill out the sale form regular dealers used. He could worry about the matter of a carry permit later.

  After a number of fruitless stops, he wandered up to a small table tended by an older man wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and lighting one cigarette off the butt of the previous one.

  Adam looked through the man’s small stock of pistols, but in the end threw up his hands in both disgust and perplexity. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you want, son?”

  Why not? Adam gave him the story he’d developed as he went from stall to stall: his wife was being stalked by a former boyfriend, and he wanted a weapon to give her—small enough to carry in a pocket or purse but with adequate stopping power. He didn’t mind a used pistol, so long as it was in good condition and reliable.

  The man took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to point a nicotine-stained finger toward a small food stand about a hundred feet away. “See that tall, weather-beaten looking man at the table drinking coffee? That’s the Colonel. See if he’ll sell you that pistol his wife had
.”

  Adam thanked the man and headed toward the food stand. It sounded a bit unusual, but the whole day had been unusual. Might as well give it a try.

  The man at the table was leathery and lean. His white hair was the only indication of his age. He wore starched khakis, a white dress shirt open at the neck, and shined engineer’s boots. He looked up when Adam approached. “Yes?”

  “Sir, my name is Adam Davidson.” Adam extended his hand, and the man took it in a grip that was firm without making it a contest of wills.

  “Sam Johnson,” the man replied. “Most people call me Colonel.” He gestured to the other chair at the table. “What can I do for you?”

  Adam eased into the chair, then told the same story he’d given the last gun dealer. “He said to ask you if you’d sell me your wife’s gun. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I figured it was worth walking a hundred feet to talk with you.”

  Johnson took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and ran his gaze over Adam’s face. Then he tapped the shoebox at his elbow. “I come here every month and bring this. So far I haven’t been able to do anything about it. I can’t bring myself to be one of those guys who walks the grounds and asks perfect strangers, ‘You want to buy a gun?’ Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person. Maybe that’s you.”

  Adam wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was curious to know more about the man’s story. “I take it there’s something special about the gun.”

  “It was my wife’s.” Johnson lifted the lid of the box. “Ruger semiautomatic SR9C, mint condition.” The man looked into the middle distance and smiled. “Right after we were married, I told her a woman alone—and she was alone a lot of the time when I was deployed—a woman alone needed to protect herself. I bought this. Taught her how to use it.”

  “You said it was your wife’s.”