DESPITE KNOWING THAT DAVE MIGHT TRY TO TALK HIM OUT OF HIS idea, Adam dialed his brother soon after arriving home that evening. The conversation went about as he expected, but in the end Dave agreed to help. “I’ll accept that you won’t tell me everything you have in mind, but give me a call after you’re on the road. I don’t want you to do anything foolish.”
“Have I ever done anything without thinking it through?” Adam asked.
“Lots of times, but we won’t go into that now,” Dave said.
Adam spent a restless night, turning over facts and suppositions, looking for puzzle pieces to fit together and failing at every turn, wondering how best to handle things at the end of his journey.
The next morning he rolled out of bed when he smelled coffee brewing, grateful for his habit of setting the automatic coffeemaker each evening. He’d just poured his first cup when the doorbell rang. He looked at his watch. Who could it be at seven thirty in the morning? Surely last night’s call hadn’t produced results already. And if Carrie needed something, she’d phone. Whatever it was, he might as well meet it head-on.
At the door, he peeked through one of the pair of glass side panels and saw a tall, middle-aged man standing patiently on the tiny porch. His visitor wore a tan, western-cut suit, and his leathered face was topped by a straw Stetson. Adam couldn’t see his feet, but he’d be willing to bet they were shod in boots. Whoever this man was, he was certainly a son of the Southwest.
Adam opened the door on the chain and said, “Yes? Can I help you?”
The man reached inside his coat, and Adam tensed. Maybe if he threw himself to the floor, the first shot would miss. He could slam the door shut, lock it, and sprint for the back door.
The stranger pulled out a leather badge wallet, flipped it open, and said, “Keith . . . or should I say, Adam? I’m Sam Westerman, U.S. Marshalls Service out of Fort Worth. Your brother, Dave, said you needed some help. He asked me to drop by and lend a hand.”
Still wary, Adam said, “Sam, I hope you won’t mind if I seem extra suspicious, but did my brother give you anything to tell me?”
“You mean, like your first car was a Ford, your first dog was a mongrel, and your first girlfriend was named Ann?”
Adam relaxed for the first time in days. He undid the security chain and opened the door. “Come in. The coffee’s ready. Let’s sit down and talk.”
Adam had most of it worked out by the time he walked in the door of Hartley and Evans, LLP, the next morning. He tried to use bits and pieces of the truth as a foundation for his fiction. For instance, it was true that his parents were dead. It was true that he had one sibling, a brother. Even his destination wasn’t total fiction. But beyond that, the story was a construction of half-truths and downright lies. Adam thought he could pull it off. And if things didn’t play out as he’d planned, he’d simply have to wing it.
Brittany was at her desk, sipping from a steaming cup in her right hand, blowing on the nails of her left. A capped bottle of nail polish was centered on her desk.
“Change your mind about the color of your polish?” Adam asked, his smile leaving no doubt that he was joking.
“Just some repair work,” Brittany said, frowning as she inspected her hands. “I was going to get an early start on these papers, but I chipped a nail. And since one of my prime duties is to dress up the place, I figured I should take care of that before things got too busy.”
“Are you saying I don’t bring class to the office?” Adam asked.
“You’re okay, but you really should dress more like Mr. Hartley. One look at him, those custom-tailored suits and designer ties, and our clients know they’ve got a winner.”
Adam took silent exception. All the external trappings in the world couldn’t disguise Hartley’s true self—he was a poorer-than-average lawyer reacting to a midlife crisis with a series of women. But there was no need to argue the point. “Speaking of the bosses, is either one of them in?”
Brittany put down her coffee and tested the nail. Satisfied that it was dry, she stowed the polish in a desk drawer and pointed down the hall. “Mr. Hartley’s in court this morning. Mrs. Evans is in her office. She said she was going to work on a brief, and no one was to disturb her.”
“I’ll chance it,” Adam said, and strode away.
In keeping with the office’s policy, Janice Evans’s door was open. She was bent over a law book, looking up from time to time to make notes on a yellow legal pad. Adam tapped on the jamb.
Evans didn’t look up. “Unless the president or the chief justice wants me, I’m busy.”
“Sorry, I’m neither. But I need to speak with you.”
Evans frowned, then said, “Come on in. I know you well enough to be certain you wouldn’t interrupt me if this weren’t important.” She leaned back and rested her hands on the open law book in front of her. “What’s up?”
Adam adopted a properly somber expression. “I got a call last night from my brother.”
“You told us you were an orphan and an only child.”
“Yes, my parents are dead. And I told you I didn’t have any siblings, because for all practical purposes, I don’t. We’ve been estranged for the better part of ten years. But I got a call last night that my brother’s in advanced-stage renal failure. The doctors say only a kidney transplant can save him. And since I’m his only living kin, they want to test me to see if I can be the donor.”
“Can the testing be done here? Or in one of the large cities in the area? Dallas maybe?”
“Probably,” Adam said, “but if the match is good, they want to do the surgery immediately. It’s easier if I go there.”
“Where is ‘there’?”
Adam took a deep breath. “The surgery would be done at Duke University Medical Center, but right now my brother’s at the Federal Medical Center in Butner, North Carolina.”
Evans frowned. “Butner. That name’s familiar. Why does it ring a bell?”
“Because there’s also a Federal Prison in Butner. That’s where my brother’s serving thirty to life for murder.” He waited what he considered a proper interval before adding, “That’s why we’re estranged.”
Carrie exited her car on Wednesday morning, squared her shoulders, and marched across the parking lot toward the clinic entrance. Her task was simple, yet harder than anything she’d ever been asked to do. She knew that every time she told the story of Adam’s departure, not only would it cause her real pain, but she’d also have to project an air of shame, as though his leaving represented a failure on her part.
As the glass doors into the clinic slid to the side with a soft whoosh, she prepared to face the day. She made it as far as her office without more interaction with clinic staff than perfunctory exchanges of “good morning.” Carrie dropped her purse into her desk drawer, shrugged into a fresh white coat, and looked at the top of her desk. As always, her schedule was centered on the blotter—a busy day, but that was good. It might keep her mind off Adam.
Carrie shuffled through the reports, noted the phone messages, and decided there was nothing there that couldn’t wait. Technically, she had no patients in the hospital, but even though others had taken over their care, she wanted to drop by and see Mrs. Lambert and Mr. Burnett. Lila met her in the hall, but after a quick, and she hoped normal, greeting, Carrie hurried on.
Phil’s note on Mrs. Lambert’s chart was, as always, brief and to the point. “POD #1. Doing well.” Post-op day one. Had it been less than twenty-four hours since Carrie stood in the ER and watched while Phil took over the care of her patient? She’d thought she was unhappy then. But since that time things had gone increasingly downhill in Carrie’s life.
Mrs. Lambert’s family wasn’t in the waiting room—apparently they’d been sent home to get some rest.
Mr. Burnett was also in the surgical ICU, his condition satisfactory after his craniotomy last night. He hadn’t regained consciousness. Carrie knew that when he did, the news of what lay ahead of him would be devastating to the old man. She made a courtesy note on his chart, asking the social worker to page her if she needed assistance from Carrie in getting him into a rehab facility.
It was pretty much a certainty that Mr. Burnett would be unable to go back to independent living. When he fell, the severe head injury changed his life forever. Carrie could identify with that. Her life had changed as well. And she had no idea what would happen as a result.
Some of it had been difficult for Adam, some easier than he’d imagined. Bruce Hartley came in shortly after lunch. Janice Evans quickly buttonholed the senior partner and they disappeared into her office, where they remained, the door firmly closed, for an hour. When they emerged, Bruce stuck his head through Adam’s door and said, “Can I see you in my office?” The tone was pleasant enough, but Adam knew that following Bruce was mandatory, not optional.
Once Adam was seated in Hartley’s office, the lawyer leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Janice explained your situation to me, and we’re sympathetic. You’ve been an invaluable asset in the few months since you joined us. We recognize your need to go, but the office has to keep running.”
Adam felt his gut tighten. He had to go, whether on good terms or bad, but his employers accepting his story would give credibility to his leaving town. “I—”
Hartley put up his hand to stop Adam. “As it happens, last week I interviewed a woman who recently moved to the area. She’s an experienced paralegal, and she’s looking for work. I called her, and she’s agreed to take over your position on a temporary basis.” He pursed his lips. “If you’re back and able to resume work in two weeks, we’ll give her a good recommendation and help her get a job elsewhere in Jameson. If you’re not, then . . .” He let the words trail off and made a palms-up gesture, as though no one could blame him for the action that followed.
Adam shrugged. “I understand,” he said. In two weeks, maybe less, he’d have done what he needed to do. Depending on what followed, he’d be back or it wouldn’t matter.
After that it was simple. His apartment rent was paid for another three weeks. No need to forward his mail. He never got any. Adam exchanged his rental car for his newly repaired vehicle, tolerating the good-natured kidding about staying away from gunfire in the future. He cashed a check at his bank and told the teller, a notorious gossip, his story about a sick brother who needed one of his kidneys.
The next day his alarm went off at six a.m. A breakfast of buttered toast and coffee was almost more than his stomach could stand. By seven he was ready to go. He loaded two suitcases into the back of his little SUV, took one last look around the apartment, and walked out the back door, locking it after him. It was time for the most important trip of his life.
He plugged the GPS system he’d bought into the cigarette lighter and called up the destination he’d programmed into it the night before. In the cup holder of his Forester were a bottle of cold water and a travel mug of hot coffee. On the seat beside him, his prepaid cell phone lay next to a folded map of the United States. Adam slipped on a pair of sunglasses and pulled away from the curb in front of his apartment. A robotic voice warned him of a “left turn in two hundred feet.” He eased the car into the left lane, clicked on his blinker, and tightened his grip on the wheel.
By now, Adam executed avoidance maneuvers like a pro, ignoring repeated demands from the GPS to “when possible, make a legal U-turn.” When he was certain he wasn’t being followed, he got back on track to his destination. He had no idea what was ahead. He wasn’t even certain this was his best course of action. But it was the best he could do. Directions for the drive were coming from the GPS system, but Adam prayed that God would direct his actions.
The first question came at noon.
Carrie was sitting at her desk thumbing through a professional journal and munching on a sandwich Lila brought her from the food court. What was it? Tuna? Ham? It might as well be cardboard. But she had to eat.
She had gone through the same thing after John’s death. She had no appetite. Food had no taste. Time dragged by, marked by painful memories of the past and fears of what the future might hold. Would Adam’s departure prove to be as hard as John’s death? Both almost killed her.
Phil Rushton, a white coat covering his dress shirt and muted tie, tapped on the frame of her open door. “Got a sec?”
Carrie washed down a bite of sandwich—it turned out to be grilled cheese—with a swallow of Diet Coke. She blotted her lips with a paper napkin. “Sure, come on in.”
Phil eased into one of the chairs across the desk from Carrie. “You shouldn’t gulp your food like that. You’ll get an ulcer.”
“I’ve been doing this since my second year of premed. If it hasn’t burned a hole in my duodenum by now, I don’t think it will.” She laid aside the remains of her sandwich. “What’s up?”
Phil sat down and crossed his legs, revealing navy over-the-calf socks above black wingtip shoes. “Just checking on how you’re doing. I don’t want you to burn yourself out. It seems that every time I look up, you’re in the office or ER, even when you’re not on call. You need some time away.”
Carrie decided to say what she was thinking. “Phil, how is that different from what you do? Both of us spend a lot of time practicing our profession, but I guess that’s our choice, isn’t it?”
Phil nodded. “Touché. And I must admit that you’re not burying yourself in your work as much since you began going out with Adam.” He looked down at her hand. “I hadn’t noticed until now. You’re not wearing your ring anymore. Is something going on?”
Carrie was acutely aware of her bare left hand. “I don’t want to discuss that.” She looked straight at Phil. “Adam’s left town. I don’t know whether he’s coming back or not.”
“Why did he leave? Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know,” Carrie said. She reached up to dab at the corner of her eyes, a gesture that wasn’t fake. Just the mention of Adam’s departure was enough to bring her to the verge of tears.
Phil rose. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. You know you’re very special to everyone here. If there’s anything I can do . . .” He let the words hang for a moment, then turned and left the room.
Carrie leaned back and tried to ignore the urge to cry. She replayed Adam’s leaving once more. Was he in danger? Would he be back? Or had she lost the love of her life for yet a second time?
For reasons she couldn’t fully explain, Carrie swiveled her chair and reached into the bookcase behind her desk to retrieve a dusty, leather-bound volume. She laid it on top of the journal she’d been reading and opened it to the front page. The ink was fading, but the words were still clear: “To Carrie. Let this be a lamp unto your feet, a light unto your path. Corrine Nichols.”
Carrie hadn’t thought of that sweet lady in years. But maybe the gift she’d given to a medical student just starting on her Christian pilgrimage was what Carrie needed right now as she struggled to hold on to the spark of faith that flickered within her. She let the book fall open and ran her finger down the pages, looking for direction in a life that was rapidly sinking into despair.
Adam squinted into the sun and reached into his pocket for his sunglasses. His journey took him eastward, and that meant each morning he had to drive into the sun. Couldn’t be helped. The quicker he reached his destination, the quicker he could start his search for the puzzle piece he needed. He planned to use every available hour of daylight.
He’d spent last night in a Holiday Inn just west of the Texas-Arkansas border. Their “free buffet breakfast” of juice, Danish, and coffee was about all he could tolerate—not because it was so bad, but because the butterflies that took up residence in his stomach when he started the journey were still fluttering furiously.
Adam intended to call Carrie last night, but by the time he arrived at the motel, he was too tired to do anything but shower and fall into bed. He didn’t want to try phoning her during the day—cell coverage was sometimes spotty where he was, and if he did get through, she was hard to reach between patients. Besides, leaving a message for her would be worse than no call at all. No, right now he’d concentrate on his driving. He’d phone her tonight for sure.
The eighteen-wheelers speeding eastward on Interstate 20 made using his cruise control impossible. Instead, Adam guided his little SUV along, speeding up and slowing down, passing and being passed, always careful to stay under the speed limit. The last thing he needed was a traffic stop.
As the driving became automatic, Adam let some of the thoughts he’d suppressed surface. Why had he thought this harebrained scheme would work anyway? The smart thing would have been to pack up and leave town for good, strike out for a new city and bury himself there. Leaving the relative security of the Witness Security Program had probably been a mistake. On the other hand, it had brought Carrie into his life. And for that, he was eternally grateful.
Would this work? Could he—? No matter. Adam had to set short-term goals and not look beyond them. First, leave Jameson. Make sure the story got out, one that was believable but left him an option to return. Then make this drive. When he reached his final destination, call Dave and ask for his help in the last stage of the plan. Despite the promise he’d made, Adam hadn’t called Dave. Why? Because if he revealed the final step of this scheme too soon, he knew his brother would surely try to talk him out of it.
And if this failed? He didn’t want to think about that possibility.
The plan had to work.