He wasn’t a hunter. Adam had never fired a rifle in his life. But somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind was a picture, probably from a movie or something, showing a hunter firing a rifle, working the bolt, and shells ejecting to the right side. So he was looking in the wrong place.
He returned to his position behind the left rear fender of the Hummer, faced Carrie’s car, and scanned the area to his right. Nothing there. He moved across the aisle, got on his hands and knees, and searched the area under the Hyundai sedan parked there. Still nothing. Finally he reached under the car and felt beneath the rear tires. There his patience was rewarded. His fingertips brushed a small object wedged beneath the edge of the right rear tire of the car. He started to pick it up, then thought better of it. If there were fingerprints, he should preserve them. He used a pen to tease out the shell, then pulled his handkerchief from his hip pocket and picked up the tiny brass casing, then twisted the cloth to make a small bundle that he stowed in his pants pocket.
He might have smeared any fingerprints on the casing when he picked it up. Even if he hadn’t, how could he get it checked? Adam still couldn’t wrap his head around asking the police for help. There’d be too much explaining to do. Maybe he’d call Dave.
Adam turned and trudged back toward the hospital. At least he was doing something. And, if the opportunity presented itself, he’d do more. He felt the assuring weight of the pistol in its ankle holster strapped to his right leg. He might have been passive for the past two years, but now he was ready to actively defend himself—and Carrie.
FIFTEEN
CARRIE SENSED, MORE THAN HEARD, MOVEMENT IN THE ROOM. She’d been shuttling in and out of sleep, her dreams and semi-waking thoughts a mishmash of men with guns, shadowy figures whose faces melted into new ones before her eyes, and patients tugging at the hem of her white coat to beg for healing.
Now she heard a noise—soft footfalls on the tile floor. She opened her eyes and saw Phil Rushton standing at her bedside.
“Sorry to wake you,” he said. “You need your rest.”
“No, no. I was through with those dreams—nightmares, actually. I needed to wake up.” She lifted her wrist to look at her watch but found it was gone. “What time is it anyway?”
“About noon,” Phil said. “Let’s have a look at you.”
He took a few moments to examine her, then settled into the chair at her bedside. “You’re an extremely lucky woman. An inch lower and that bullet would have cracked your skull, maybe required surgery. Two inches and it would have penetrated into the brain, and you’d be dead or permanently disabled. As it is, you had a concussion. That’s all.”
Carrie pushed the button to raise the head of her bed. “So am I okay for discharge?”
“You know better than that. I told you yesterday, we need to watch you for a while.”
“Phil, I feel fine, except for a headache that would put a mule on its back. I’m a doctor. I know the signs of a problem.”
“Knowing the signs is different than being able to recognize them in yourself.” Phil shook his head, and his expression told her she wasn’t going to win this argument. “I’d like to keep you a few more hours—make sure no late neurologic changes show up. Can we settle on five or six tonight?”
“Not what I’d like, but . . . I never thought I’d say these words. You’re the doctor.” She shrugged and offered a hint of a smile.
Phil was almost to the door when Carrie called after him. “Phil, how did you happen to be there to take care of me last night?”
He shrugged. “Had to come back to the ER anyway. Heard the commotion, saw you on the gurney. After that it was all reflex.”
As Phil went out the door, Adam came in. The two men did a clumsy do-si-do through the doorway before turning to face each other.
“Doctor.” Adam reached out his hand. “Thanks for what you’ve done.”
“Glad I could help.” He shook the proffered hand, then turned back to Carrie. “I’d wanted to meet this fabled Adam of yours, but not under these circumstances.”
“I’ll bet you’re beat,” Adam said. “Are you going to get some rest today?”
“No, but fortunately I only have office hours. No surgery, unless an emergency comes in.” He turned to face Carrie. “Let the nurse know if you have any increase in headache, any double vision, any nausea—”
“I know all the signs, Phil. Thanks.”
The surgeon grinned and left.
Adam moved to Carrie’s bedside. “What did the doctor tell you?”
“I can go home late this afternoon if there’s no change.” Carrie lowered the head of her bed slightly. “What have you been up to?”
“I stopped in the cafeteria for a quick cup. I’ll have to say, the coffee down there is absolutely terrible.”
“One of the first things I learned in med school,” Carrie said. “Bad hospital coffee is better than no coffee at all. But I’m glad you ate. Maybe by tonight I’ll feel like eating.”
Adam reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. He unfolded it, careful not to touch what it held. “I found this in the parking lot.”
Carrie reached out, but Adam pulled it away. “Don’t touch it. I’m going to see if my brother, Dave, can check the fingerprints on it.”
“Why not the police?” Carrie asked.
“Because I trust Dave. And I don’t have to explain things to him.”
Carrie decided not to start that argument again. She stared at the shell casing for a moment. “Twenty-two long rimfire,” she murmured.
“What did you say?”
“My dad had a rifle—called it a ‘varmint gun.’ We lived in Austin, and he used to take me out in the country and let me shoot it. It fired twenty-two caliber long bullets. And I always had to pick up the ejected cartridges, or ‘clean up my brass,’ as he called it.”
“Think this will help me find out who shot at you?” Adam asked.
“Probably the most common rifle in this part of the country. So don’t get your hopes up about using this to trace the shooter.”
“Well, we can still check the casing for fingerprints,” Adam said.
“You can try . . .”
Adam dropped into the chair. “That’s all I can do. I have to keep trying.” After a moment he made a “just a second” gesture, rose, and walked out. He returned with a pen and a thin pad of paper. “Got these from the nurse’s station. I think it’s time to start our list.”
Fifteen minutes later Adam dropped the pen and said, “This is ridiculous. The shooter could be anyone who’s moved to Jameson within the past six months or so.”
“Or someone who was already here, but with a Chicago connection that would let DeLuca’s family reach out to them, even after he died.”
“Oh, that helps a lot!” Adam said. “Why don’t I get the Jameson phone book and stick a pin in a random page?”
“Look at it another way. Let’s focus on last night. You didn’t see or hear any cars burning rubber out of the parking lot. So either the shooter got away without you seeing them—”
“Which was possible,” Adam said. “Remember, I was concentrating on you.”
“Or they stayed around. You mentioned that Rob Cole helped carry me in?”
Adam nodded.
“And what was he wearing?”
“A black T-shirt and jeans.”
Warning bells were going off in Carrie’s mind. “Why would he be there?”
“He told me he was an EMT. I assumed he’d just gotten in off a call.”
“No,” Carrie said. “If he’d been on duty, he would have had on a medium blue shirt with a logo on the pocket and navy cargo pants.”
Adam picked up his pen. “I guess he could have been the shooter. Shot at you from behind the Hummer, dumped the rifle into his vehicle, and emerged to be a Good Samaritan, thinking it would put him above suspicion.”
“Or if the target was supposed to be you, when he saw he’d hit me, guilt could have motivated him to
help,” Carrie said.
“Good point.”
“Who else was there when you brought me in?”
“The doctor—Dr. Rushton. He burst through the double glass doors right after I did,” Adam said. “He took charge immediately. Seemed like a natural thing.”
Carrie frowned. “He told me he had to see a patient, and I assumed he was already in the ER. But if he came from outside, why couldn’t he have fired the shot, dumped the gun, and burst in?”
“Do these guys have something against you?”
“I haven’t figured out Rob Cole. He’s acted . . . strange. And Phil Rushton? About the time I decide he’s trying to ease me out of the clinic, he says or does something nice.”
“Like save your life,” Adam said.
“I doubt whether his care made that much difference, but, yes.”
“And these are just the people we know about. The shooter could have been anyone.”
“This is bringing back my headache.” Carrie turned her head away and closed her eyes. She was certain of only two things. One, her life was in danger. And two, aside from Adam, she couldn’t trust anyone.
“Are you sure you want to leave the hospital already?” Phil Rushton asked.
Adam stood in Carrie’s hospital room behind the wheelchair in which she sat. He noticed that she hesitated before answering. He couldn’t blame her. In here it was safe, or at least, relatively so. Because there were no metal detectors at the door, Adam had been able to ignore the signs and keep his pistol with him inside the hospital. To get a security guard required a simple phone call. But once she went out the hospital doors, out into the world, Carrie would once more be a potential target for the shooter. And whether he was aiming at Adam or at her, if a bullet struck her the end result would be the same.
“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.
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