The discussion went back and forth until eventually she said, “I give up. You’re going to do what you want. But please be careful.”
“Let’s talk about it at dinner,” Adam said.
Carrie agreed to meet him at a local steak house the next night. “In the meantime, please be careful.”
Adam patted his pocket. “I’ve been careful for two years. Now I’m prepared.”
In his car after breakfast, Adam thought about his next move. He’d called Bruce Hartley last night and related his prepared story, ending with his readiness to return to work.
Hartley seemed a bit taken aback by Adam’s call. “Uh, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you this soon. I mean, Janice and I need to talk. That is . . . Why don’t you come in about ten tomorrow and we’ll discuss it?”
Adam had plenty of time to run a couple of errands before meeting with Hartley. First he planned to stop at a store that sold police equipment. He was a civilian, but he figured they’d take his money as quickly as that of a member of the law enforcement community. He needed a holster for his pistol. He could wear one on his belt, concealed by a suit coat or a sports shirt with the tails out. Or he could get an ankle holster to keep the gun out of sight but readily accessible no matter what he wore. That might be an even better choice.
As he drove, Adam considered another problem—getting a concealed carry permit for the gun. It was legal in Texas to carry a handgun but only with a permit. Before the application could be submitted, the gun owner had to complete a mandated course of instruction. That was no problem. Adam was anxious to learn.
But signing up for a course and a carry permit would subject his identity to the scrutiny of a full background check by the Texas Department of Public Safety. With what Sam Johnson had told him, maybe he could just go to a gun range—better still, drive into the country with a box of shells and some empty cans. After all, Adam wasn’t planning a lot of long-distance shooting. Simple as one, two, three: get close to the target, point the gun at the main body mass, pull the trigger. He was hoping he wouldn’t be doing any shooting, that the threat of the gun would be enough if he came face-to-face with his attacker. But if it came down to it, he was prepared to use the pistol.
As Adam pulled to a stop outside the store, he felt the weight of the gun in his inside coat pocket. The holster would be a step in the right direction. Learning how to use the gun, practicing with it, would be another. After that, it was a matter of unmasking the would-be killer and bringing him to justice . . . whatever it took to do it.
Adam expected to be greeted by a barrage of questions when he walked in the door of Hartley and Evans. Instead, Brittany waved and smiled but continued her conversation with whomever was on the other end of the phone line. Bruce Hartley emerged from the break room with a mug of coffee, beckoned Adam to get his own cup, then disappeared into his office, leaving the door open.
When Adam was settled, Hartley sipped his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and propped one foot on the bottom drawer of his desk. “So you’re back quicker than I expected. Did the surgery go okay?”
Adam adopted what he hoped was a properly somber countenance. “I was too late. When I got there, they told me my brother had gone downhill so far that he was no longer a candidate for a kidney transplant. After he saw me he told them to take him off dialysis—said he’d gotten right with God and was ready to go.”
“That’s tough, man.”
“We had a good visit, and he told me good-bye.”
“I guess you’ll be going back for the funeral.”
“No, he didn’t want a memorial. He wanted his body cremated and the ashes scattered in some woods not far from the prison. The chaplain said he’d see to it.”
Adam could almost see Hartley decide how quickly he could shift gears from sympathy to business. Apparently it didn’t take long. “So let’s talk about your position.”
“You said you were going to hire a temp. How’s that working out so far?”
Hartley half turned to stare out the window of his office. “She’s worked out very well. Matter of fact, on Friday we offered her a permanent position.”
“After a week?”
“She was doing a good job, and we couldn’t afford to be short staffed.”
Adam clamped his jaws shut to hold back the comments that jumped to mind. He took a deep breath. “So where does that leave me?”
“Janice and I talked before we hired Mary—that’s her name, the new paralegal. We decided that if you came back, we’d offer you the same deal we offered Mary.”
If I came back? I told them two weeks. “And that is . . .”
“Go to work as a temp, same salary as before. If things go well, and we see there’s enough work to keep two people busy, we’ll make it permanent. Otherwise we’ll give you a good recommendation.”
A punch in the gut couldn’t have taken Adam’s breath away more effectively. True, he’d only worked there less than a year, but in that time he’d come to look on himself as an important part of the practice. Part of his new plan included returning not just to Jameson but to his job, resuming his usual schedule, making himself visible to his assailant. And, of course, he needed the income.
Adam didn’t see any choice. “I’ll take it. Are my things still in my old office?”
Hartley had the grace to look embarrassed. “Mary moved in there, so we boxed up your stuff and moved it into the storage room next door to her. I’ll get a desk and computer in there by tomorrow. You can start then.”
Both men rose. Hartley’s right hand moved, but he didn’t extend it. Just as well. Adam threw him a curt nod. “I’ll be in tomorrow.”
In the reception area an attractive brunette turned away from Brittany’s desk as Adam walked by. She smiled and held out her hand. “You must be Adam. I’m Mary.”
Adam forced a smile and took the proffered hand. “Adam Davidson. Pleasure to meet you.”
She held his hand a second or two longer, and he had a vague sense that she was flirting with him. “Likewise,” she said.
Adam watched Mary walk away, presumably to her office—his old office, but he’d have to get used to thinking of it in new terms. After Mary was gone Adam looked at Brittany and raised his eyebrows.
Brittany whispered, “There’s more to that story than you know.”
The woman’s voice carried a mixture of amazement and anger. “Dr. Markham, I can’t believe you’d charge me for that visit.” The middle-aged woman sat primly on the edge of the chair opposite Carrie Markham’s desk.
Carrie looked at the door of her office, hoping the office manager or someone who could help her with this argument might appear. She knew she had no chance to change the woman’s mind, but was determined to be calm as she tried to explain yet again. “Mrs. Freemont, you came to the clinic, told the receptionist it was an emergency because you were having a heart attack.”
“Yes, but it wasn’t a heart attack. And it didn’t take you long to find that out.”
“On the contrary. I left the patient I was seeing to examine you. I took a history. We ran an EKG and some lab tests and found—”
“I know. I’m overweight. I drink too much coffee. I ate some spicy food. It made acid come back up into my esoph . . . whatever that thing is between my throat and stomach. But the pain was really bad. I was afraid I was going to die. I thought it was a heart attack.”
Carrie forced a smile. “And I’m glad it wasn’t your heart. But, like the grocer and the dry cleaner, we have to charge for services rendered. Of course, if you’re indigent . . .”
Mrs. Freemont puffed out her chest like a pouter pigeon. “I’m by no means indigent.” She clutched her purse tightly, a purse Carrie recognized as a Dooney & Bourke, well beyond her own price range.
“I’m sure we can work out an arrangement for you to handle the balance of the bill left after your insurance paid.”
Mrs. Freemont was shaking her head before Carrie could finish the sentence. “It’
s not the money. It’s the principle.”
Carrie had heard this argument before, from Mrs. Freemont and others like her, and she knew that answer was far from the truth. No, it’s the money. “I’m sorry. If you wish, you can talk with the clinic administrator. But the matter is out of my hands.”
As the woman huffed out of her office, Carrie reflected that if looks could kill, she’d be lifeless on her office floor from hateful glares directed at her by Rose Freemont, Calvin McDonald, and a few other patients. And that thought triggered another one . . . one that made her catch her breath. Maybe Adam’s alternative theory hadn’t been too far off the mark. Maybe she was the target.
Carrie peered over her menu at Adam, who seemed engrossed in the dinner choices the restaurant offered. “They didn’t hold your job? You were gone a week, and they replaced you?”
“Hartley—he’s the senior partner—he made it sound like it was strictly a business decision, and maybe it was. The practice has been getting pretty busy. But what he told me before I left was they were going to arrange for Mary—that’s the new paralegal—to work for a couple of weeks while I was gone. He said if she worked out and they saw there was enough work for two, after I got back they’d add her full-time.”
“But they didn’t wait. And they didn’t just add her. They gave her your position and stuck you in some out-of-the-way office.”
The waiter came and took their orders. After he padded away, Carrie said, “So that’s it? It’s a done deal?”
Adam paused with bread in one hand, a knife bearing a pat of butter in the other. “Brittany, the receptionist, told me there was more to the story. So I bought her lunch, and she gave me the real scoop.”
Carrie wanted to ask more about Brittany but decided to let that go for now. She began making circles on the tabletop with the condensation from her water glass. “So what’s the ‘real scoop’?”
“First of all, Mary’s a looker. Mid- to late thirties, dark hair, a figure—”
Carrie raised an eyebrow that dared him to go on with his description. “Okay, no need to draw me a picture.”
Adam looked over Carrie’s shoulder. “No picture, but if you want a real-life snapshot, find an excuse to look behind you. She just came in.”
Carrie eased her napkin out of her lap, then bent to pick it up. She gave a quick glance. “Black sheath with a white jacket over it?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Didn’t get a good look, but from what I saw, I think you’re right.”
Adam murmured, “You’re about to get a better view. She’s coming over.” He stood. “Mary, good to see you.”
Carrie had always considered herself reasonably attractive: a nice face framed by blond hair and highlighted by green eyes. But at that moment she felt outclassed. Mary had carefully styled, shoulder-length black hair. Her blue eyes sparkled. Her teeth were as white and perfect as the simple pearl choker she wore.
And Mary’s voice matched her looks—slightly husky, definitely sultry, every word carrying an implied invitation. “Adam, I thought it was you.”
“Mary Delkus, this is Dr. Carrie Markham.”
Carrie stayed seated but held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“My pleasure,” Mary said. She glanced up and frowned. “Well, I see they’re serving our dinner, so I’d better get back. Doctor, nice to meet you. Adam, see you tomorrow.” She turned and wended her way to a table where an older man rose and pulled out her chair.
“Well, I have to agree. She’s a knockout,” Carrie said. “Should I know the man she’s with? He looks familiar.”
“Uh-huh. That’s Bruce Hartley. According to our receptionist, Mary lost no time getting close to him. Brittany says the woman must be handling a bunch of confidential files, because she spends a lot of time in Hartley’s office . . . with the door closed.”
“What did the other partner—what’s her name? Evans? What did Mrs. Evans have to say about all this?”
“That’s what surprises me. Janice Evans is a very sharp woman. Frankly, I don’t know how Hartley got her to agree to the move, but somehow he did.”
Their salads arrived, and they spent a few moments eating. After a couple of minutes, Carrie paused with a forkful of lettuce halfway to her mouth. “Seeing Mary with Bruce Hartley, I guess I know now how she got your position.”
“Oh, give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she really needed the job. And Hartley says she’s good at her work.”
Carrie laid her fork carefully on her salad plate. “Men! All a woman has to do is bat her eyes, and you think she’s the most innocent flower in creation. Believe me, the female of the species can be much deadlier than the male, as somebody once said.”
In a moment the waiter returned and replaced their salad plates with their entrees. After a few bites Carrie said, “Adam, since you told me how long Charlie DeLuca’s been dead, I’ve been rethinking the possibility that the attacks are aimed at me. Maybe you’re right.”
Adam frowned at Carrie’s words. “When I mentioned it, you didn’t think much of that theory. What made you change your mind?”
“You mean other than the fact that the first two attacks came when we were together?” Carrie sipped from her water glass. “I realized that it’s not so far-fetched that an angry patient might try to hurt me . . . even kill me.”
“Did something happen to bring about this change?”
Carrie nodded. “I had a visit from a hateful old woman, a patient of mine. She came to the clinic last month with chest pain and demanded immediate attention because she was having a heart attack. I dropped what I was doing to check her over. We discovered that what she had was chest pain from acid reflux.”
They stopped talking as the waiter cleared their plates. They passed on dessert, asked for coffee. When the waiter was gone, Adam leaned forward and took Carrie’s hand. “So you’d think the woman would be grateful.”
“Nope,” Carrie said. “When I gave her the news, I also told her she needed to lose weight, avoid all her favorite foods—caffeine, carbohydrates, carbonation, and chocolate—and take the medicine I prescribed. That didn’t sit well with her, so now she’s up in arms because she got a bill for my services. I mean, no heart attack, why should I charge her?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Nope, she was really livid when she left. And she’s not the only one. For instance, there are the patients like—well, there’s this man who brought his wife to the ER with pain in her abdomen. He apparently thought it was indigestion, but it turned out to be a perforated ulcer. By the time she came in, she was in shock. I made the diagnosis and got a surgeon to see her immediately, but she died on the operating table. The man hasn’t said as much, but judging from the way he looks at me every time our paths cross, I’m pretty sure he blames me for her death, and he’s pretty angry.”
“But—”
“Here’s our coffee. Let’s just drink it and relax,” Carrie said. She looked across the restaurant and saw Mary returning her gaze. “We can talk about this later, but not in such a public place.”
In a few minutes the waiter came by. “Would you like more coffee?”
Adam exchanged glances with Carrie. He was ready to go, and apparently, so was she. “I think we’re ready for the check.”
Outside, Adam took Carrie’s arm and steered her away from her car. “Get in mine. We need to talk some more.”
“No. Let’s go in mine. I have somewhere in mind, and it’s better if we’re in my car.”
Carrie led Adam to her silver Prius parked a little distance away from his Subaru. She motioned him toward the driver’s side. “Want to drive?”
“No, it’s your car. Go ahead and drive.”
In a moment the car rolled out of the restaurant parking lot. Carrie took a right at the first intersection. “Let me ask you a question,” she said. “Where would you say the safest place is for me to park right now?”
Adam thought about that. “The police station?”<
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“No,” Carrie said. “How long would we be there before someone came out and checked to see if there was a problem? Try again.”
“Your house?”
Carrie shook her head. “Not out front. Too dark and relatively isolated. And not in the garage. We’d be essentially trapped in the house.”
“So I guess you mean . . .”
“Yep, the hospital.”
Adam shivered a bit. “Not exactly a scene of happy memories for me,” he said. “Remember, someone tried to run me down there.”
“We’ll be fine. If anyone sees my car tonight, it belongs to a doctor who’s come back to the hospital.” Carrie wheeled the Prius into the parking lot nearest the Emergency Room. She chose a dark corner at the front. To their right, grass stretched like a calm black sea. To their left were probably a dozen or more empty spaces before the next car in the row, a huge, silver Hummer. Adam figured it belonged to some doctor who was more concerned with appearances than ecology.
She moved a lever and pushed a button to turn off the engine. “Now this is simply a doctor’s car in the hospital parking lot. And we should have some privacy.”
Adam half turned in his seat to face Carrie. “You were going to explain why the attacks could have been aimed at you.”
“I’ve already told you about two of my patients who seem to hate me—truly hate me. I could name a half dozen more. That happens to everyone, even a doctor. And one of these people could be going a little crazy about it.”
“I’ll accept that the drive-by shooting could have been aimed at you. The same could go for the firebomb at my office. But what about someone setting me up and trying to ram my car right here?”
“I thought about that,” Carrie said. “Let me ask you. If I wanted to hurt you, hurt you deeply, what would I do: hurt you or hurt someone you loved?”
“I guess—”
Adam never finished the sentence. Suddenly the driver’s side window exploded and Adam heard two sharp cracks separated by a couple of seconds. His first thought was of Carrie. In a single motion, he unlatched his seat belt, lunged across the intervening space, and pulled her toward him, covering her body with his. Before the echoes of the shots had died, Adam called out, “Carrie. Are you okay?” When there was no answer, he said, “Carrie! Speak to me!”
Heart Failure Page 13
