Heart Failure (22 page)

“Yes,” Carrie finally said. “I’m ready.”

Rushton raised a cautionary finger. “Remember to—”

“Yes, Phil,” Carrie snapped. “I’m a doctor. I know how to
take care of a scalp wound. I know about the complications after a concussion. I know to take it easy for a day or two.” She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her tone had moderated. “I’m truly grateful for your care. You didn’t have to do it. You could have passed me on to the ER doctor or one of the neurosurgeons. Don’t think I’m unaware of that. But I’m a grown woman, as well as a physician. I need a measure of independence.”

Rushton spread his hands wide. “Okay. But call—”

Adam could tell how much it cost Carrie to keep her voice level. “I’ll call you if I need anything. Right now Adam is going to drive me home, where I plan to soak in a warm tub and eat a pint of Blue Bell ice cream. I’ll be at work . . . What is today, anyway?”

“Tuesday, late afternoon,” Adam chimed in.

“I’ll take tomorrow off and be in on Thursday. If you’d let the schedulers and my nurse know, I’d appreciate it.”

While an aide wheeled Carrie away, Adam, this time armed with the key, hurried to the parking lot to retrieve her car. The first thing he did was lower what was left of the shattered side windows. It made the car drafty but presented no other problem. Then he swept glass fragments off the front seat. That action brought a sense of déjà vu, as he recalled doing the same thing after the gunshots in front of the theater—gunshots that signaled the start of this nightmare.

Adam pulled the Prius into the circular driveway where discharges were sent on their way. With Carrie belted safely into the passenger seat, he stepped on the brake pedal, pushed the button to start the car, moved the selector lever to Drive, and pulled away from the hospital.

“See, driving a hybrid isn’t so difficult, is it?” Carrie asked.

Adam ignored the remark. “Don’t you have some flowers to take home?”

“I asked that they be distributed to other patients in the hospital.”

“That was generous,” Adam said. “When we get to your house, would you like me to stay there with you? At least for—”

“Stop right there!” Carrie turned to face him. “Adam, I love you. I’ve missed you, but I don’t think I’m going to be good company. Once I’m inside, I promise to lock all the doors and windows. If anything suspicious happens, I’ll pick up the phone and call 911.” She saw the hurt in his eyes. “But you’ll be my second call.”

Adam nodded. “Would it be okay if I phoned to check on you?”

Carrie looked down at her lap. “Of course. And I’ll call you. But I was serious about the long soak and the pint of ice cream.”

They were quiet for the rest of the journey. Adam insisted on helping her into the house. He reached down to his right ankle, unsnapped the Velcro fastener securing his pistol, and with the gun in his fist, went through all the rooms. Empty. No evidence that anyone had been there since Carrie left.

Then, with her safely inside the house, Adam pulled Carrie’s car into the garage and lowered the door. He found her in the living room, relaxing in an easy chair. He dropped her keys on the front table and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to call a taxi to take me back to the restaurant to get my car.”

Carrie pushed herself out of the chair. “I’m not sure I’ve said it, and even if I did, I probably didn’t say it enough—thank you.”

Adam grasped Carrie’s shoulders, kissed her, and pulled her to him. “Believe me, if I could undo all this, I would. But if I did that I wouldn’t have you in my life. And right now you’re the only thing that gives me hope—you and the knowledge that God’s in control. He’s got my back in all this.”

Carrie looked up at Adam. “Not only yours—mine too. Ours.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “I’ve kept God at arm’s length too long. I’m trying to make Him part of my life now, like you have all along.” She buried her head on his shoulder, and Adam felt as though his heart would burst with happiness.

True to her promise, Carrie luxuriated in a warm bath until she felt like a prune. During the soak she consumed the remains of a half-gallon of Blue Bell Rocky Road ice cream she found in her freezer. Now she lay under the covers of her bed, wrapped in her ratty but extremely comfortable robe.

She toyed with the idea of sleep, but it was still too early. Besides, she felt as though she’d done nothing but sleep for the past twenty-four hours. TV? Not really. The critic who called that medium a “vast wasteland” had been right when he’d said it, and it was still true. She picked up the book at her bedside, read a few words, then put it down when she found her mind wandering.

Like good doctors in her specialty, she loved a diagnostic puzzle. She enjoyed the challenge of taking clues, putting them together this way and that, until the mystery began to come clear. Now she was involved in a mystery of her own, one that had life or death implications. And since she had time available, Carrie decided to shuffle the pieces of information she had to see if they formed a pattern.

She retrieved the pad and pen from her bedside table, a necessity for doctors receiving phone messages, and headed the page “Possibles.” After a moment’s thought, she crumpled and discarded the sheet. As Adam had said before, she might as well pick up the Jameson phone book. On the next sheet she drew a vertical line. To the left of it she wrote “Adam,” to the right, “Carrie.” Then she drew a line under both names, forming a T-chart. Again, the left-hand column offered almost infinite possibilities. The column under her name was more limited—mainly patients and their family members who could be so displeased with her they might try to harm her . . . or harm Adam as a way to get revenge on her.

There was no doubt in her mind. The top name on the list in the right-hand column was Calvin McDonald. Carrie shivered as she recalled her last encounter, when he passed her in the hall of the clinic and glared wordlessly at her. She remembered thinking,
If looks could kill . . .
Carrie wrote a few more names under his, including Mrs. Freemont, but after a moment she went back to the top and underlined McDonald’s name . . . twice.

The ringing of her phone interrupted her thoughts. Maybe Adam was calling to check on her. Or maybe Phil. She was surprised to find that it was neither.

“Carrie, how are you doing?”

“Julie. So good to hear your voice.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to call. Finally my curiosity couldn’t stand it any longer. What’s going on with you and Adam?”

“Wow, where do I begin?” Carrie hesitated only briefly. Surely it was safe to share her information with her best friend.
Besides, Julie was a couple of hundred miles away. And who would she tell?

Carrie brought Julie up-to-date on all that had happened, including the shooting that came within inches of taking her life. “Now I’m at home, wrestling with the possible identity of the person behind this.”

“I presume you and Adam are good?”

“We’re more than good.” She paused and weighed her words. “I think that, despite everything that’s happened, we’re closer than ever.”

“That’s great. I’m glad to see that God’s working in your life and Adam’s right now.”

“I guess He is. While Adam was gone, I started reading my Bible. One particular verse really hit me, one about God giving us a new heart. And I think He’s doing that for me.”

“Wait a sec,” Julie said. “I know the one.” There was the sound of turning pages. Finally she said, “Here it is. Ezekiel 36:26. ‘Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you.’”

“Well, that’s what He’s done,” Carrie said. “And I’m grateful.”

After leaving Carrie’s home that evening, Adam thought about asking the taxi to drop him at the office but soon discarded the idea. Better to start fresh in the morning anyway. He gave the driver the address of the restaurant where he’d left his car. He’d stop by the grocery for provisions before heading home.

He’d been in the Rancho Motel for several nights, then a series of one-night stays on his trip, but now he was ready to go home—his real home. As he steered his car toward his
apartment, he ran details through his mind. His complex was primarily filled with young urban professionals, most of them not yet home from work. There were no children playing in the courtyards, no foot traffic to speak of. The possibility of witnesses to an attack was slim. Dusk was approaching. All things considered, Adam decided to redouble his efforts at vigilance.

He drove around the block a couple of times, alert for people sitting in cars or standing in doorways. On the third time, he pulled into the covered parking area provided for tenants but didn’t go to his assigned slot. Instead, he chose a vacant spot as close to the back entrance of his apartment as possible. He pulled his pistol from its holster and shoved it into the waistband of his trousers, ready for action. Adam eased out of his car and looked around. Nothing stirred.

He emerged from the car and reached back for two bags of groceries, grabbing one with each hand. Adam decided that if shots were fired, he’d drop the bags, duck for cover, and start shooting. Could he really fire his gun? The picture of Carrie in his arms, blood covering her head, came to his mind. If he needed something to steel his resolve, this was more than enough. He flexed his shoulders to relieve the tension there, then pivoted three hundred sixty degrees. No one was in sight.

From the parking lot, he scurried to his back door, which he suddenly realized he needed to unlock. Adam set the bags on the ground long enough to pull out his keys. He gave another glance around, drew the pistol from his waistband with one hand, opened the door with the other. Holding the pistol at his side to partially conceal it, he picked up one bag and shuttled it inside, repeating the process with the other. He made one last trip outside, locking his door behind him, to move his car
to its proper spot. Adam didn’t want to start a war with the neighbor whose slot he’d occupied.

The walk to his back door, his arm held along his leg to conceal his gun, seemed to take an hour. Finally he was inside, the doors double locked. When he put the pistol on the kitchen table, he noticed his hand was trembling.

Was this going to be his life from now on? Holding his gun in one hand when he took groceries from his car? Flinching from shadows, jumping at every noise? No! It might be that way until he could get the shooter to reveal himself, but he wasn’t going to live like that forever. He recalled a line from his childhood, one he wanted to open the window and shout to the person trying to kill him: “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
And when you do, I’ll be ready
.

SIXTEEN

WEDNESDAY MORNING SUNLIGHT STREAMING THROUGH A SMALL opening toward the top of her bedroom’s drawn drapes woke Carrie. She’d kept them and all the other drapes and blinds in the house closed since she came home from the hospital. With all the doors locked, she felt relatively safe.

Since the shooting, her sleep had been troubled. This morning she had vague recollections of dreams that made her sweat and her pulse pound, yet the details escaped her.

When she left the hospital, she’d told Phil Rushton she’d be in on Thursday. That was tomorrow, and as she swung her feet off the bed and shoved them into slippers, Carrie was happy she hadn’t followed her first inclination and declared she’d work today. Of course, it was possible that Phil, in his sleep-deprived state, might have forgotten to pass the word along to the schedulers. Oh well. She’d check that in a minute.

She followed the smell of freshly brewed coffee, grateful
she remembered to activate the auto-brew feature on her coffee maker last night. A cup in hand, she ambled into the living room and dialed the clinic’s back line. Although most of the doctors weren’t due in for at least an hour, she was certain Marie would be at her desk, making sure the day’s appointment sheets were printed off for distribution to the physicians.

Sure enough, Marie answered on the second ring. “Clinic, this is Marie.”

“Marie, this is Dr. Markham.”

“Oh, how are you doing? I’m so sorry for your accident.”

It wasn’t an accident. Someone meant to shoot me
. “Thanks. I just wanted to make sure I don’t have any patients scheduled for today.”