Heart Failure

by Richard L Mabry

  There was a long silence as each sipped coffee, lost in their own thoughts. Then Carrie said, “So what else happened today?”

  “Well . . . Mary, the new paralegal, keeps pushing me to have lunch or dinner with her. I’ve put her off for another few days, but eventually that’s going to happen. I don’t know what she’s up to, but I don’t think her aim is to get better acquainted with a coworker.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible she’s genuinely interested in you?”

  “That’s flattering, but no. Besides, she’s already got her hooks into Bruce Hartley,” Adam said. “I suppose I’m being paranoid, but I get a sense that she’s trying to uncover my identity.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know which is worse—her trying to make a play for you or her trying to find out who you really are.” Carried studied him for a moment. “I guess we can worry about that when it happens.”

  “What about your day?” Adam asked.

  “Pretty interesting. I had lunch with Rob Cole.” She went on to tell Adam Rob’s story. “I don’t know whether he was about to reveal his real name or if he was just toying with me. But I certainly think he’s a prime suspect.”

  “We seem to keep adding names to that list,” Adam said. “Anyone else?”

  “Actually, yes, but . . . I don’t know . . . ,” Carrie said.

  “What?”

  “Well, I was in Phil Rushton’s office today and noticed the diplomas on his wall.”

  Adam’s eyebrows went up. “And?”

  “All his training was in Chicago.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily tie him to Charlie DeLuca, but it’s certainly a potential link,” Adam said.

  “Not only that, but Phil’s been acting sort of funny toward me lately.” She paused. “He even asked about you, wanted to know if I knew your background.” She shook her head. “I think we have to consider him a suspect.”

  “I suppose,” Adam said. “And I have another name for our list. Janet Evans stopped by my office today—during the course of our conversation she mentioned some gambling debts of Bruce Hartley’s that one of our clients paid off. Apparently it saved the firm.”

  “Really?” Carrie seemed shocked. “What’s the significance of that?”

  “One of the things Charlie DeLuca was involved in was loan sharking,” Adam said. “Anyway, I looked up Bruce in Martindale-Hubbell.”

  “In what?”

  “It’s the list of all the attorneys in the United States. When I saw that he went to law school in Wisconsin, I was about to log off. Then I decided to see where he grew up.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Close. Elmwood Park, which is a suburb of Chicago, with one of the largest Italian populations in the area.”

  “So he could have had contact with the DeLuca family . . . ?”

  “Right,” Adam said. “So we have Rob Cole, Phil Rushton, and Bruce Hartley, plus no telling how many others as suspects. Now how do I find out which one is shooting at us? And why.”

  “Are you really determined to confront the shooter?” Carrie asked.

  Adam thought about it for a moment. He clenched his jaw so tight it ached, relaxing it only long enough to say, “If that’s what it takes.”

  Carrie took his hand and squeezed it. “I don’t like it, but if there’s no better option, I have a plan that might help us identify the person stalking you.”

  Carrie was at her desk the next morning, sipping on a cup of lukewarm coffee and flipping through her phone messages, when Lila popped her head in the door.

  “Can you return Tim Gallagher’s call as soon as possible? He phoned early this morning and said it was important that he reach you.”

  That puzzled Carrie. She had encountered Gallagher a time or two at parties but was pretty sure he wasn’t a patient. If he had a medical emergency, he probably would have gone to an ER or urgent care center, not call her office. Maybe this was a personal call. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy—middle-aged, good-looking, if you liked the jock type. But wasn’t he married? Besides that, if he was calling to ask her on a date, he wouldn’t do it this early in the morning, would he? On the other hand . . . Oh, stop it. Just phone the man.

  Carrie found the proper slip and dialed the number. Gallagher answered before the first ring was complete. “Coach Gallagher.”

  Coach? She had a vague memory that he was a teacher, and now that she thought about it, he sort of looked like a coach. “This is Dr. Markham. You said it was urgent that I call you back. Do you have a medical problem?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’m trying to avoid one.” A bell sounded in the background—not a gentle tinkle, but a strident sound followed by a crescendo of voices mixed with the shuffling and slamming of metal doors. “Excuse me. School’s starting, and I have an eight o’clock class. Can I call you back at nine?”

  Carrie hated setting a time to take a call. She much preferred to do the phoning on her own schedule. Besides, she might not be able to turn loose at nine o’clock. But now Gallagher had piqued her curiosity. “Sure. Tell whoever answers that I’m expecting your call. If I can’t get free, we’ll have to play phone tag, I guess.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” And he was gone.

  Carrie turned to her nurse, who was still in the doorway. “Lila, do you have any idea why Coach Gallagher would need to talk to me?”

  “None at all,” Lila said. “But when he calls back, don’t forget to tell me. I’m dying to know.”

  It was almost nine fifteen before Lila stuck her head in the exam room door. “Can you take that call you were expecting?”

  As it turned out, Carrie had just told her patient she’d order some lab work, then see him back in a few days to evaluate how the new medication was working. Lila was dispatched with the patient to schedule the tests while Carrie went into the office and punched the blinking light on her phone. “This is Dr. Markham.”

  “Tim Gallagher again. Sorry I had to call back like this. I know you’re busy.”

  “No problem. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you like baseball?”

  The question came out of the blue and left Carrie wondering what was behind it. Was the coach asking for a date? Did he have some tickets he wanted to give away? “Uh, actually, I do. Why?”

  “I’m the varsity baseball coach at Jameson High School. We have a game at four this afternoon, and the doctor who usually attends is sick. We don’t anticipate any problems—worst we’ve ever had was a broken wrist when one of my players disregarded my instructions and slid home headfirst—but I kind of like having a doctor in attendance.” He paused, apparently decided she wasn’t going to respond, so he continued, “Would you consider coming to the game today? Four o’clock. The field next to the high school. I’d really appreciate it. And I can promise you’ll see a good game—we’re playing last year’s district champs.”

  The invitation brought welcome memories to Carrie. At her high school, girls hadn’t been allowed to play “hardball,” but they had a killer softball team. She’d pitched and played shortstop, and they’d challenged for the state championship. If she couldn’t be on the diamond, she could at least be near it. Why not?

  “Let me check my schedule to see if I can get away early,” Carrie said.

  “Fine. This number’s my cell. Send me a text when you know. And thanks.”

  Fifteen minutes later Carrie sent Gallagher a message. “See you this afternoon at the game.” For the rest of the day she found herself humming “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

  Last night Adam had taken the SIM card from his throwaway phone and destroyed it using Carrie’s hedge shears. The phone itself went into a dumpster. Today he spent his lunch hour at Radio Shack, purchasing another prepaid cell phone for the project he had in mind. He paid cash, and when the clerk asked for a name, he said Tony Kubek. If this didn’t end soon, he’d run out of names of past Yankee players.

  Adam would target the three men he and Carrie decided were the mos
t likely candidates to be the shooter: Rob Cole, Bruce Hartley, and Phil Rushton. It had taken some digging, but now he had the phone numbers he needed to carry out the scheme.

  Carrie’s idea was an attempt to smoke out the shooter. At first what she proposed seemed unnecessarily complex to Adam. Why not make the phone calls from his own phone, using his own name? She reminded him that even if one of these men was guilty, two were not; what would they think if they received such a message from him? No, this way they hoped only the guilty person would be able to decipher the words. Then, if he responded, Adam would be ready for him.

  Of course, the scheme carried risk, but it was a risk Adam was anxious to take. She begged him to call his brother for backup, but he reminded her that Dave’s right arm was in a sling, and he was just out of the hospital. No, Adam would do this by himself. He had to.

  The first step in his scheme demanded some privacy. Both lawyers left the office a bit early, Bruce accompanied by Mary Delkus, so Adam and Brittany were left to close up. “You go ahead,” he told her. “I’ve got a few odds and ends yet to do. I’ll lock up.” Brittany usually had a date, and apparently today was no exception. She thanked him, and in a moment he heard the door slam.

  Adam eased the new cell phone from its charging cradle, checked that the battery and signal levels were good, and thought about the message he was about to deliver. He’d found that both Rushton and Hartley were hardly ever home before eight in the evening. Cole, like most of his generation, had no landline, and he often ignored his cell phone while he was on duty, as he was tonight. Adam’s plan was to deliver his message to each man’s voice mail from an untraceable phone. Then he would see who responded.

  He opened his desk drawer and removed a sack that bore the logo of Toys “R” Us. Adam withdrew a black device that looked like one of the respirator masks worn by painters. He held it close to his mouth and spoke into it, feeling quite foolish. As though the words came from Darth Vader, complete with raspy breathing, he heard himself say, “Testing, testing.” Adam couldn’t resist adding, “Luke, I am your father.” Despite the gravity of what he was about to do, that brought a grin to his face.

  Well, here goes. He dialed the first number. If, by chance, they answered, he’d just hang up. But after five rings he got the recorded message. At the beep he—or rather, Darth Vader—said, “I’m tired of this. Let’s put an end to it. Meet me tonight at midnight, Ridgewood Cemetery, at the stone angel on the McElroy plot.” When he pushed the button to end the call, he was sweating. One down, two to go.

  After he ended the last call, Adam leaned back in his chair. It was done. There was no turning back. God, maybe this is crazy. Maybe it’s the only way. In either case, I’m going to need Your help. Please.

  TWENTY-TWO

  CARRIE LEANED AGAINST THE WIRE FENCE THAT SEPARATED THE playing field from the bleachers and took in the spectacle before her. Dark green grass, so closely mowed it looked like carpet, contrasted with the rusty tan of the infield dirt. Lines chalked with the precision of a stretched string demarcated the playing field. That was where the action took place—“between the lines.”

  The home team had the first-base dugout, but right now the bench was empty. Jameson players in white uniforms with the word “Eagles” in blue on the front and numbers on the back were in right field, throwing baseballs, stretching, showing the exuberance typical of high school athletes. A middle-aged man whose uniform bore the number 37 stood near the dugout, hands in his hip pockets.

  Carrie called to him. “Coach?”

  He turned and flashed a smile. “Dr. Markham. Thanks so much for coming.”

  “My pleasure.” She gestured to the bleachers behind the dugout. “I’ll be up here if you need me.”

  “Hope we don’t, but I appreciate having you around.”

  The game started, and Carrie let the experience carry her back to her high school days. She’d had a major crush on the baseball team’s star, the shortstop. She could still see him in her mind’s eye: tall, muscular, with wavy blond hair and sparkling eyes. He’d had his choice of girlfriends, so she thought her heart would jump out of her chest when he asked her out. The evening ended quickly, though, when she discovered his main objective was to score—and not by crossing home plate.

  Despite Carrie’s love of the game, life—in the form of medical school and all that came afterward—intervened. This was the first baseball game she’d seen in at least ten years. She made a promise to herself that it wouldn’t be another decade before she saw another.

  Carrie snapped out of her reverie and looked at the scoreboard. It was already the top of the second inning. Carrie did a double take as the visiting Wildcat batter stepped to the plate. High school students certainly seemed larger than they were in her day—at least, this one did. The batter was over six feet tall and probably weighed more than two hundred pounds. He looked more like a football player than a first baseman. She wondered if the Eagle pitcher felt the way David felt when he first saw Goliath.

  The first pitch was a slow curve that broke tantalizingly just off the plate. The batter took it for ball one. The second pitch was also outside. Two balls, no strikes. Carrie leaned forward in her seat, her clenched fists resting on her thighs. Walk him. Don’t throw him anything he can hit. Be careful.

  The pitcher peered in to the catcher for the sign, shook off a couple, then wound up and delivered a fastball. Undoubtedly he meant for it to be on the outside corner, but instead it headed, belt-high, for the center of home plate. The batter took a short stride with his front foot and swung so hard Carrie thought she felt the breeze.

  A loud ping from the aluminum bat resonated throughout the park. The ball might have come out of the pitcher’s hand at eighty miles per hour, but the line drive going back at him was probably going a hundred. The ball hit the pitcher squarely in the chest, and he dropped like a felled tree.

  The baseball spun to rest in the red clay surrounding the pitcher’s mound. The batter, now standing on first base, threw up his hands in dismay. The umpire spread his arms and yelled, “Time.” And in the stands a stunned silence gave way to a rising murmur.

  Carrie was on her feet in an instant. She sprinted toward the gate to the field while yelling at Coach Gallagher, “Get the AED. Have someone call 911.”

  His teammates stood in a wide semicircle around the fallen player. The umpire and opposing coaches approached but stayed at a respectful distance. Carrie reached the boy, who lay on his side, his legs drawn under him. She rolled him onto his back, ripped open his jersey, pushed his T-shirt upward, and put her ear to his bare chest. No heart sounds. Commotio cordis: a blow to the chest, usually in a younger person, hitting at exactly the right time of the cardiac cycle to stop the heart from beating. She had less than three minutes to get it started if the boy was going to live.

  Coach Gallagher knelt by her side, holding what looked like a black backpack. “Ready for this?”

  “Open it, then make sure everyone stands back.”

  Carrie pulled a yellow-and-black plastic case from the pack, happy that all athletic events now were required to have one of these at hand. Every model was different, but the principle remained the same: deliver a jolt of electricity to jumpstart the heart.

  She made sure the AED—the automatic external defibrillator—was powered. Then Carrie used the tail of the pitcher’s tee shirt to dry sweat from his chest. Quickly, she applied the pads, one on the upper right chest, the other the lower left. Did this one have an analyze button? Yes. She pushed it and got the expected result. Cardiac arrest.

  “Everyone, stand clear. Don’t touch him until I say it’s safe.” She said a silent prayer and hit the button to deliver a shock. No response. She waited for the machine to recharge, then shocked the boy again. Still no heartbeat.

  The clock was ticking. How much time did she have left? Maybe a minute, certainly no more. While the machine recharged again, Carrie debated starting external chest compressions. The books said to wait
two minutes between shocks. She couldn’t wait. If this one didn’t do it, she’d carry out external CPR until the emergency medical technicians arrived. After a few more seconds, she said, “Stand clear. Here we go again.”

  Another prayer. Another shock. This time there was a heartbeat—faint at first, then growing stronger with every beat. The boy took a shallow breath. Then another. Carrie closed her eyes and breathed a prayer. Thank You, God.

  She checked the heart rhythm, and it appeared normal. A siren in the background signaled the approach of the medics. In the ambulance she could hook him up to an EKG, start an IV to establish a lifeline for delivery of needed drugs. “I’ll ride with him to the ER,” she told the coach. “Will you notify his parents?”

  “Sure,” mumbled Coach Gallagher. He heaved the biggest sigh in the world. “I’ve never seen that happen. Never even heard of it. But I’m sure glad you were in the stands. Thanks.”

  Carrie nodded once. “No problem,” she said. “I guess God wanted me here.”

  Adam sat in the office for a few minutes after sending his messages, alternately worrying and praying. Finally he stowed the voice changer in his brief case and eased out the door, locking it behind him. By now it was almost dark and every shadow he passed on the way to his car seemed to be the hiding place for someone waiting to kill him.

  When he was finally in his car, he didn’t bother doing his usual maneuvering to lose a tail. If you want me, come and get me. At home he paced the floor, thinking and rethinking his plan. Could he have improved on it? Maybe. Did it really matter if he’d tweaked it? Probably not.

  He dressed in the same clothes he’d worn for his last stealthy trip to Carrie’s: green sweatshirt, black jeans, dark athletic shoes. He considered smearing his face with camouflage paint but discarded the idea. He’d feel ridiculous.

  Adam thought about calling his brother, but what good would it do? Dave would tell him he was crazy, then offer to drive to Jameson and serve as backup for Adam. And his brother was in no shape to face a gunman. Matter of fact, Adam was probably in no shape, but things had been set in motion, and there was no way to stop them now.