Heart Failure (6 page)

“But you didn’t,” Carrie said.

“I couldn’t. I tried, but it was harder with each day that passed. Sometimes the arguments lasted well into the night. Then Bella told me she was pregnant.”

Despite herself, Carrie caught her breath. Did Adam have a child?

“I was overjoyed,” Adam continued. “But Bella didn’t share my feelings. She wasn’t ready for motherhood. She told me she was going to visit a friend. She came back in a week and told me she’d lost the baby. It wasn’t long before I found out that actually she’d had an abortion. That was the last straw for me.”

“What did you do?”

Adam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, as if he could
drive away the images that plagued him. “I put together a detailed file to be used against my father-in-law and his associates. When I had everything ready, I contacted the District Attorney and said I was prepared to testify before a Grand Jury and at any resulting trial. In return, I wanted protection.”

“Obviously, they said yes.”

Adam nodded. “I told my wife and father-in-law that I needed some time away, packed a suitcase, and left. The next time I saw them was at his trial.”

The DA assured Adam that the U.S. Marshalls Service would keep him safe until after the trial. He was ferried back to Chicago from Milwaukee to testify before the Grand Jury. After that, the marshalls moved him from city to city, always under a new name, until finally he came back to Chicago to testify at his father-in-law’s trial. The process had been a slow one—two years, in fact. And as each day passed, Adam wondered if he’d made the right choice.

“What about your wife?” Carrie asked.

“Once she learned what I had done, she filed for no-fault divorce—in Illinois it’s called ‘irreconcilable differences.’ My absence sped up the process. Before I returned for her father’s trial, the divorce was final.”

“And your father-in-law?”

“The jury convicted him of a whole laundry list of crimes. He ended up with a total sentence of thirty years. He should have gotten even more.”

“So you’re safe now. Why not resume your true identity? Why not go back to Chicago?”

Adam laughed without mirth. “My life wouldn’t be worth ten cents. Charlie DeLuca was part of a big organization, not
to mention his family members and people who owed him favors. As soon as his sentence was handed down, I’m certain the word went out to kill me.”

Carrie thought about this. “What brought you here to Jameson eight months ago, then?”

“After the trial one of the places the Witness Security Program—it’s usually shortened to WITSEC—had me working in was an office supply store in a small town in Iowa. One day a guy showed up with my picture, asking if anyone at work knew me. Apparently no one cared for the guy’s attitude, so they told him they had no idea what he was talking about. But the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that my new identity wasn’t all that secret. After all, WITSEC has a lot of moving parts, and all Charlie DeLuca’s family, or hired gun, or whoever had to do was spread around enough money and they’d find me. It was time to find somewhere else, but this time, on my own.”

“So the program didn’t move you here?”

“No, I moved myself. No one knows where I am now . . . or, at least, I thought that was true. But if that shooting Saturday night wasn’t random, someone’s found me, and until I know for sure, I don’t want to talk with the police.”

“Why?”

“When I was working in Charlie DeLuca’s office, I learned he had contacts with cops on the take in police departments from California to New York. There’s no reason to think that doesn’t include Texas.”

Carrie was shaking her head before he stopped talking. “Why didn’t you choose a large town, like Dallas? Surely it would be easier to get lost there.”

“It is, but it’s also more likely that organized crime has a
bigger presence in a large city than in someplace like Jameson. I’m close enough to Dallas to enjoy the benefits, but a smaller place like Jameson seemed a lot safer.”

“So you haven’t told anyone where you are?”

“Just one man. He’s a marshall, but this move is totally off the books. Besides, I’d trust Dave with my life.”

Carrie frowned. “Why?”

“He’s my older brother. He’s David Branson, Jr.”

Carrie thought about the story she’d heard. It revealed an Adam who had the moral fiber to do the right thing, even if it meant losing his identity, his family . . . and perhaps his life. True, he should have told her the story before asking her to marry him, but she could see by the pain in his eyes as he told the story how much it cost him to reveal it now. This wasn’t the Adam she thought she knew, but what she’d heard did nothing to erase her love for him.

Carrie was ready to say something to Adam when the crash of breaking glass made them both bolt from their chairs and hurry toward the front of the building. A large hole ringed with shards was all that remained of the plate glass window in the reception area. Smaller pieces of glass littered the carpet like diamonds. The drapes, one area of carpet, and two of the upholstered chairs in the room were on fire, sending tongues of flame licking outward, threatening a larger blaze. Wisps of acrid black smoke stung Carrie’s eyes and seared her lungs.

“Are you okay?” Adam yelled.

Carrie stifled her coughing long enough to say, “Just fighting the smoke. Is there a fire extinguisher here?”

“It’s in the hall,” Adam said. “I’ll get it. Call the fire department.”

As Carrie dialed 911, her first thought was for their safety. But her second was that despite Adam’s insistence on not being involved with the police, now he’d have to be. She wondered how he’d handle their questions—and where it might go from there.

FIVE

ADAM HAD THE FIRE EXTINGUISHED BY THE TIME THE FIRE DEPARTMENT arrived, but the firemen spent another fifteen or twenty minutes making sure there were no areas that might burst into flames later.

The police arrived at almost the same time as the firemen. Facing them wasn’t exactly what Adam wanted, but there was nothing to be done about it. He’d simply have to put the most innocent face he could on the incident.

The patrolman taking Adam’s statement asked him, “Any idea why someone might have done this?”

Adam knew how this worked. He expected the question, and had his answer ready. “There are two lawyers who work here. The most likely explanation is that someone didn’t like the way one of the attorneys handled his case.”

“Any recent cases handled by the firm that could have triggered this?”

“I don’t know of any, but you should ask the lawyers. One of them should be here soon.”

The patrolman looked at his notes. “When this call came in and you gave your name, the computer kicked out a recent report you made about vandalism to your car. Think someone’s out to get you?”

Adam struggled to maintain a calm demeanor. “I doubt it. That was a simple case of vandalism. I don’t think there’s a connection here.”

The questioning went on in that vein for what seemed like an hour, although when he glanced at his watch Adam found it had taken only twelve minutes. When it seemed the questions were coming to an end, the patrolman turned to Carrie and asked, “Anything to add, ma’am?”

Adam tried to send her a silent message.
Please don’t say anything about what I’ve told you. Please
.

Carrie’s face was smudged with soot, her blond hair was a mess, her green eyes were red-rimmed. She was the perfect picture of “let’s get this over with so I can go home.” She gave the patrolman a shy smile. “No, I have no idea who could have done this. Adam and I had some things to discuss, and we needed a quiet place to do it.” She grimaced as she looked around. “Unfortunately, this wasn’t it.”

Adam breathed a sigh of relief when Janice Evans walked in. Now maybe the police and firemen would direct their questions to her. Before he could introduce Evans to Carrie, the attorney strode over and held out her hand. “Janice Evans. You must be Dr. Markham. Adam has mentioned you.”

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” Carrie said.

“It happens,” Evans replied. “Sorry you were involved.”

The policeman’s first question to Evans was, “Any dissatisfied clients who might have done this?”

Her response was a calm shrug. “Sooner or later, someone decides his lawyer didn’t do right by him. Some of them send nasty letters. A few file complaints with the bar association. But I must say I’ve never had one go quite this far.” She grimaced as she turned to look at the damage. “After you’re through talking with me, I’ll call a client who’s a general contractor. Maybe I can convince him to board up the window tonight.” She nodded toward Carrie. “Adam, why don’t you take Dr. Markham home? Come back here afterward so we can talk about keeping the practice running tomorrow.”

“I have my car, thanks.” Carrie nodded once to Evans, once to Adam, before she hurried toward the door.

“I’ll see you out,” Adam said, hurrying after her.

Carrie beeped her car unlocked and was inside it before Adam reached her. He stood there, wondering what Carrie’s response would be to her second brush with danger in such a short period of time. Surely it couldn’t be good.

Carrie lowered the car window. “Yes?”

He wasn’t sure what to make of her tone, but the look on her face conveyed a desire to leave more strongly than any words could. He wanted to hold her, beg her to stay, assure her that his goal was to keep her safe, but she started the engine and looked ready to drive away.

“Carrie, I’m so sorry. I hate to leave things like this. We still have a lot to talk about.”

“When? How? Each time we get together someone tries to kill you—and me in the bargain.”

“Would you like me to follow you home to be sure you get inside safely?”

“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.”