Heart Failure

by Richard L Mabry

  Adam eased up and peered through the remains of the driver’s side window. Nothing moved. No one was visible in the dark parking lot. His hand went to his ankle holster, but he left the gun there. First, check on Carrie.

  He bent down and touched her shoulder. “You can get up now.”

  Adam shook Carrie, gently at first, then more vigorously, but there was no response. He touched her head and his fingers came away wet. He held his hand in front of his face, but it was too dark to see. Nevertheless, he was sure—his hand was wet with Carrie’s blood.

  FOURTEEN

  ADAM WAS OUT HIS DOOR IN A SECOND. HE SPRINTED AROUND the car. If the shooter was still out there, Adam was making himself a target, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was Carrie. He opened the driver’s side door and unlatched the seat belt that still held her, folded sideways toward the passenger side. He scooped her into his arms and ran for the ER doors that beckoned in the darkness. They seemed a mile away, but he covered the ground as fast as he could. Between ragged breaths, he shouted, “Help! She’s been shot. Somebody help!”

  At what appeared to be a loading dock for the emergency vehicles, a younger man emerged from between two parked ambulances and jogged toward Adam.

  “I thought I heard gunshots. What’s going on?” he called as he closed the gap between them.

  Adam gulped air. “She’s been shot,” he said. “Help me get her inside.”

  As they approached the double glass doors, light-spill from inside showed Adam what his fingers had already told him: Carrie’s face was covered with blood.

  As soon as they were inside, the other man called to the woman behind the desk, “We need help. Stat. Dr. Markham’s been shot!”

  After that, things went almost too quickly for Adam to follow. Two men in hospital scrubs wheeled a gurney into the waiting room, took Carrie from Adam’s arms, and gently laid her on the stretcher. A third man, wearing a navy golf shirt and dark slacks, charged through the outer doors, took in the scene, and went into action. Even without a white coat, his demeanor screamed, “I’m a doctor.”

  The doctor bent over Carrie. “She’s breathing.” He pried her eyelids apart. “Pupils equal.” He put his fingers on her wrist and nodded. “Pulse is steady and firm.” He cocked his head toward the doors. “Let’s get her inside.”

  Adam started after them, but the doctor stopped him with a single shake of the head. “Get her signed in. After that the police are going to want to talk to you. If you wait out here, I’ll let you know her condition as soon as I can.”

  The man who had helped him get Carrie inside was still standing by Adam. He touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m more worried about Carrie . . . Dr. Markham.”

  “The doctor who took her into the ER is Dr. Rushton. He’s a cardiac surgeon, not a neurosurgeon, but he’s one of the senior staff. Believe me, he’ll see that she gets the best of care.”

  Adam took in a big breath. “Thanks for your help.”

  “I’m a paramedic.” He shrugged. “It’s what I do.” The man exchanged a few more words with Adam, then slipped out the double doors and was gone.

  Carrie’s first thought was that she must have overslept. She didn’t recall hearing the alarm, and she wasn’t sure what day it was, but there was a sense that she needed to get up, get out of bed right away. She’d be late to work.

  She opened her eyes, blinked twice to clear the haze that clouded her vision, and discovered she wasn’t in her bed. This wasn’t even her room. Carrie turned a fraction to the right, but stopped as little men with hammers began a percussion concert inside her head.

  “So you’re awake.”

  The voice was familiar, even if the setting wasn’t. Carrie cut her eyes to the right while keeping her head still and got a glimpse of Adam leaning over the rail on the side of her bed. In the background she heard phones ring, conversations in hushed tones, the squeak of rubber soles on waxed tile. She sniffed. Yes, there it was, faint in the background—a familiar, antiseptic scent. She was in a hospital.

  “Adam—” She tried to clear her throat. “Adam,” she croaked once more.

  “Here.” He ladled a spoonful of ice chips into her mouth. “Suck on these. The doctor says if you tolerate them, I can give you a few sips of water.”

  Doctor? She sucked on the ice, swallowed, and tried again. “How did I get here? The last thing I recall, we were sitting in my car in the hospital parking lot.”

  “Maybe I can help you remember.”

  Another familiar voice, one that seemed less out of place. Carrie managed to turn her head fractionally until she could see Phil Rushton standing beside Adam. “Phil, what’s going on?”

  This Phil was nothing like the cool, calm cardiac surgeon she knew. His eyes were red-rimmed. Faint stubble marked his face. He looked as though he’d been on an all-night bender. “You’ve been here a little less than six hours. He—” He nodded to indicate Adam. “He carried you into the ER about nine last night. You’d been shot.”

  Carrie did a quick mental inventory. Nothing hurt other than her head. She wiggled her hands and feet. “Shot! Where? How?”

  Phil frowned, obviously unhappy at the memories of the event. “You were in your car in the parking lot when a gunshot through the driver’s side window struck you in the head. The bullet plowed a furrow in your scalp. Of course, the wound bled profusely, as scalp injuries do.”

  “Did I have surgery?”

  “No, you were lucky. The bullet followed the contour of the skull without entering it. It gave you a concussion, but nothing worse. Nothing that should cause lasting damage.”

  Carrie moved her left hand toward her head but stopped when she felt the tug of an IV line. She inched her right hand upward and felt a bandage on her head. “Did you . . . did you have to—?”

  Phil managed a smile. “No, we didn’t shave any of your hair, although the bullet burned a crease up there. I think you can cover it when you style your hair.”

  “Is her memory loss a problem?” Adam asked.

  “No. Retrograde amnesia is common after a concussion. Hers seems to involve a short time span, and that’s good. Sometimes the memory comes back, but even if it doesn’t, it’s probably no major loss. Otherwise, Carrie’s neurologically intact.”

  Carrie turned her head a bit more, ignoring the pain now. She looked at both men—she wanted to see their faces when she got her answer. “Do the police know who did it?”

  “No,” Adam said. “I told them we were sitting in the parking lot talking when someone took a shot at the car.”

  Phil spread his hands. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I have no idea, Phil,” Carrie said. She wasn’t about to blow Adam’s cover at this point. If the incident strengthened Phil’s suspicions that she was involved in something bad, so be it. Meanwhile, she moved to the question that was most important to her right now. “So when can I get out of here? When can I go back to work?”

  “We want to watch you for another day to make sure there’s no late intracranial bleeding,” Phil said. “Then you should take a couple of days off to recover from the shock of all this.”

  “I don’t need a couple of days off,” Carrie said. She leaned forward as if she were about to get up. “And I want to leave now. I’m a doctor. I know what to watch for. Can I talk with my neurosurgeon?”

  “You don’t have one. I took charge of the case myself.”

  Carrie frowned. “I guess I owe you my thanks—but why you? Why not get Dickerman or Neece to look in on me?”

  Phil had the grace to blush. “I was headed for the ER when you were brought in. My first reaction, of course, was to take charge. By the time we knew you were stable, I saw no need to call in a neurosurgeon. I’m not totally incompetent, you know.”

  “No, Phil. I trust you.” Carrie relaxed back onto the pillow as wooziness threatened to overcome her. “And I think I was a bit premature in
saying I want to go home. Maybe I’d better rest.” She managed a smile. “Thanks, both of you.”

  Adam said, “You’re welcome. And don’t forget the guy who helped me get you from the car to the ER. He said he was a paramedic. His name was . . .” He paused, apparently searching his memory. Then his face brightened. “Rob Cole.”

  The rattle of cart wheels and the clatter of dishes roused Adam. He stretched, feeling as though someone had put every bone in his body into a vise before twisting the handle as far as it would go. He opened his eyes, squinted, then looked at his watch. Six a.m.

  Carrie had finally dropped off to sleep less than three hours ago. Adam mounted guard from a chair in her room, rousing with every noise. He intended to keep Carrie safe, no matter what it took. He didn’t think the potential killer was still in the hospital, but there was no way to know. Unconsciously his hand reached to his ankle, where, through the cloth of his pants, he felt the comforting presence of his pistol.

  A light tap at the door preceded the entrance of an older woman. She wore dark blue hospital scrubs, partially covered by a red-and-blue print jacket. “Good morning, Dr. Markham.”

  Carrie came awake slowly. “I guess I’d forgotten that patients are awakened this early.”

  The nurse’s smile never wavered. “Some of us have been up all night. But I’m glad you got some rest.”

  The woman, whose nameplate read “Grace,” went through a routine Adam had heard Carrie call “vital signs.” She helped her patient slide toward the top of the bed, pushed a button that raised her to a sitting position, and said, “Ready for some breakfast? Dr. Rushton said you could have a general diet if you wanted it.”

  Carrie started to nod, stopped abruptly, and flinched. She said in a soft voice, “Yes, please. Especially coffee.”

  “Coming right up,” Grace said over her shoulder.

  Adam looked into Carrie’s eyes. They were bloodshot, with dark circles beneath them, and he thought he’d never seen any that were more beautiful. He shuddered as he realized how close she’d come to death last night.

  “Have you been here all night?” Carrie asked.

  Adam nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “You don’t have to sit here and guard me.”

  “I’m not about to leave,” he said.

  “This wasn’t your fault,” Carrie said.

  “I still think—”

  “Don’t think. Neither of us could have prevented this. The shooter missed, and I’m going to be okay, except for a scar on my scalp.”

  The conversation paused while a dietary worker served Carrie’s breakfast tray. When she’d gone, Carrie said, “I’m not sure how much of this I’m going to eat, but I don’t want to feed you leftovers. Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and get a hot breakfast?”

  Adam was already shaking his head. “I’d rather stay here.”

  “Do you think he might make a try for me while I’m here in the hospital?”

  Adam didn’t have to ask who she meant. “I don’t think so,” he said, “but I’d rather not take any chances.”

  “Well, at least go to the nurse’s station and let them get you a cup of coffee.”

  Adam finally agreed, and in five minutes he was back in Carrie’s room, Styrofoam cup in hand.

  He raised his cup in a toast. “To better days.”

  She nodded and took a sip from her cup.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wish the bullet had hit me instead. I’d give anything to spare you.”

  “I love you for saying that.” She swallowed a bite of toast and washed it down with coffee. “But I’ll say it again: this is not your fault. Besides, we don’t really know who the bullets were intended for.”

  “True, they could have been meant for either of us . . . but they almost killed you.”

  Carrie settled her coffee cup onto the tray and pushed away the wheeled table that held her food. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

  Adam lowered the head of Carrie’s bed to a more comfortable position. “Do you want me to go?”

  Carrie hesitated so long Adam thought his heart would stop. Then, in a tiny voice, she said, “Stay. Please.”

  Adam felt his heart start beating. He could breathe again. “I was hoping you’d say that. And I hope I can bring this thing to a close soon. I want us to begin living our lives again without looking over our shoulders.”

  Carrie tried to hitch herself upward on the bed. Adam was on his feet in an instant, tenderly helping her. As she leaned back on her pillow, she said, “What did the police say when you talked with them last night?”

  “When the policeman taking my statement found out my name—and I couldn’t think of a way to lie myself out of it—he ran it through his computer. When it spit out the information that I reported shots through my windshield not long ago, followed by having a Molotov cocktail thrown through the window of the building I was in, he got a lot more serious with his questions. I kept insisting that both episodes were probably just malicious mischief. Finally, after he’d pretty well pumped me dry, I followed him around as he checked the shooting scene.”

  “Did they dig out the bullets like they did from your car?”

  Adam shook his head. “Nope. The bullets went all the way through both the driver’s side and passenger side windows. They’re somewhere out in the field that borders the parking lot, and good luck finding them.”

  Carrie lapsed into silence. Adam saw her eyes close, and he used the opportunity to slip out of the room and get another cup of coffee. When he came back, she was snoring gently. He eased into his chair, leaned back, and tried to recreate the shooting scene, focusing on where the shooter was.

  The Prius was in the farthest corner of the lot, with probably a dozen empty parking spaces to the left, the direction from which the shot was fired. The shooter probably hid behind the nearest vehicle, a Hummer. Call it a hundred feet.

  Adam was no expert on handguns, but he figured their effective accurate range was nowhere near a hundred feet. So this was more likely a long gun, a rifle of some kind.

  That led him to two conclusions. The first was that it made no difference whether the police compared the bullets fired at him in front of the theater to those fired in the hospital parking lot. Two different weapons were used. In the first attack someone drove slowly by and fired a handgun out an open passenger window. Adam had seen it. The second attack came from farther away, and he was willing to bet the shooter used a rifle.

  The second conclusion opened up a whole new train of thought. If the shots came from behind the Hummer, how did the attacker get away? There’d been no squeal of tires, no headlights moving in the parking lot.

  Where was the rifle? Surely the police would have found it, but they’d said nothing to that effect. Maybe the shooter stowed the rifle in the trunk of his vehicle, then escaped into the hospital. Or perhaps the person ducked into his car and simply waited until Adam was inside the building before driving away.

  Adam’s focus had been on Carrie, not suspicious persons in the area. The shooter could have been anyone he’d encountered last night, or someone he hadn’t even seen.

  Carrie stirred, and Adam eased to her bedside. She opened her eyes and blinked a few times. “I’m here,” he said. “Nothing to worry about. I’m here.”

  As Adam stepped off the elevator, the smell of food from the cafeteria reminded him that his last meal had been almost eighteen hours ago. The coffee this morning helped, but why not have a quick lunch? No, he didn’t want to take the time. The charge nurse promised to keep an eye on Carrie’s room while he was gone, but Adam still hated to be away for very long. He had things to do, and he needed to hurry.

  Adam checked his watch and decided he’d better call the office first. He stepped outside to use his cell phone. Brittany answered and put him right through to Janice Evans. He explained what had happened and told her that although he planned to stay at the hospital with Carrie today, he’d be at work the next mor
ning. She told him to call if things changed.

  While he was outside the hospital, Adam decided to look at the scene of last night’s shooting. Carrie’s Prius was where he’d left it, surrounded now by other cars. The policeman told Adam last night that he could remove the yellow crime scene tape and move the car this morning. He would have done so except that when he retrieved Carrie’s purse, he’d locked the car and dropped the key into it. The purse—and key—were in a closet in her room. So the Prius would stay there for a bit longer.

  The driver’s side window was partially shattered, and glass fragments dotted the front seat. The passenger side window showed damage as well. The grassy area beyond the car was quiet now. He pictured figures there last night or early this morning, combing the area with metal detectors to look for the expended slugs, occasionally stooping to pick up something, then discarding bottle caps, coins, and other objects that made the instruments whine. Good luck finding that particular needle in this haystack.

  He was certain the police had already searched for ejected shell casings as well, but Adam wouldn’t be satisfied until he carried out a search of his own. He turned and made his way back toward the ER doors. The Hummer was still there—at least, he thought it was the same one. It was in what seemed to be the right place, and the windshield and back window were covered with dew from overnight. He stood behind the left rear fender of the vehicle, the position from which he figured the shots were fired.

  Adam looked around but saw nothing but a few bits of trash. He dropped into a push-up position and peered beneath the Hummer. No, nothing under there except a small puddle of grease near the right front wheel—maybe a bad seal on an axle boot. But that wasn’t what Adam was hunting.