AS ADAM EXITED HIS CAR, HE HIT MUTE ON HIS CELL PHONE BUT kept the connection open. Now he sat in his apartment with the door double locked, the security chain in place. The blinds were closed. The drapes were drawn. He hadn’t turned on the lights—he still wasn’t sure why, but somehow he felt more secure in the gloom. He listened to the sounds issuing from his phone, imagining the carnage at the scene.
At first all he heard were a few muffled thuds. Then voices, all raised, some shouting frantically, added themselves to the mix. Finally sirens provided a wailing counterpoint to the cacophony. He heard the squeal of tortured metal, and someone said, “Let’s get him out of there before the gas tank blows.” A different voice chimed in, “No, we shouldn’t move him. The ambulance is pulling up right now.”
Adam closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene as the next few moments unfolded. EMTs gently easing his friend from the car. A policeman, or maybe a sheriff’s deputy, picking up the phone—maybe removing it from Corky’s hand—and consulting the display.
Adam opened his eyes as a deep baritone sounded in his ear. “Is someone still on the line?”
Should he answer? This was his throwaway cell phone. There was no way to identify him through it. And maybe he could add vital information. Was Corky on any medications? Did he have any drug allergies? Then it hit Adam—he didn’t know any of those things. He hadn’t seen his friend in almost two years. And he’d only called Corky when he needed a favor. Adam cleared his throat. “Yes?”
“Is anyone there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Is anyone there?” the voice repeated.
Adam finally realized that he’d muted the phone. He thumbed the button again, and said, “I’m here.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m a friend of Corky’s—of Mr. Cortland’s. I’m in—” Adam hesitated. Caution returned. “I’m not there in Houston. We were talking on the cell phone, and he was complaining about some of the drivers on the freeway. Then I heard a crash. What happened?”
The reply made Adam’s blood run cold. “A wrong-way driver hit your friend head-on. A helicopter’s on its way to fly him to the nearest trauma center.”
Perhaps it was his imagination, perhaps it was real, but Adam thought he heard the whup-whup of helicopter blades getting closer. “How is he?”
“That’s for the medics to decide, but he looks pretty bad to me.”
“Which hospital?”
“Hermann—that’s Texas Medical Center. Now who is this? I need to get some information from you.”
Adam pushed the button to end the call. There was nothing more he could say to help Corky. He doubted that the police would go so far as to trace the call, but if they did, it would dead end at this cell phone. He’d get rid of it later tonight. He wondered what new information his friend had come up with about DeLuca. Whatever it was, Adam might never know.
Adam’s heart cramped as he realized he was thinking of the information Corky had for him as much as about his friend’s life. He sank to his knees and spoke in a voice almost too faint to hear, “God, I pray for Corky. I know You can save him. Please do it. Not for me—for him, his family, his loved ones. Please.”
Carrie was about to step into the shower, eager for the hot water to ease soreness in muscles tight for too long, when the ring of the phone stopped her. Her first impulse was to ignore it, but that passed quickly. She was a doctor, and she could never ignore the ringing of a phone or the beeping of a pager. She wrapped herself in a robe and answered, “Dr. Markham.”
“Carrie, it’s me . . . Julie.”
Guilt washed over Carrie. She’d let her promise to keep Julie updated slip her mind. The carousel on which she found herself spun faster and faster, and Carrie had been hanging on for dear life. She owed Julie the courtesy of a call, and instead, her friend had to call her.
Carrie moved to her bed and stretched out. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call. It’s been—”
“No need to explain,” Julie said. “But I’ve been worried about you since we last talked. What’s going on? Are you any closer to knowing who the shooter is?”
“The list keeps getting longer,” Carrie said. And Adam wanted to put you on that list, but I wouldn’t let him. “Someone must’ve let information slip, but we have no idea who.” She told her best friend about what she and Adam had found, ending with Rob Cole’s revelation to her just a few hours ago. “So what do I do now?”
“You could direct something at this list of suspects that would make the real shooter declare himself. That is, if you’re prepared for a face off.”
“That’s what Adam wants,” Carrie said. “But how do we do that?”
They kicked around ideas. Then Carrie glanced at the clock on her bedside table. “I need to cut this short. Adam’s coming by soon, and I really need to clean up.”
“No problem,” Julie said. “Give me one more minute before you hang up.”
“I know,” Carrie said. “We need to pray.”
“Want me to start?”
“No, I’ve got this one.” Carrie bowed her head, picturing her friend, hundreds of miles away, doing the same.
As she put down the phone and swung her feet off the bed, Carrie flipped on the TV in her bedroom just to have some noise in the house. She looked up as an ad flashed across the screen: “Your kids will love it,” the announcer said. Most of the time Carrie ignored such commercials, but this particular one started her thinking. A germ of an idea sprang up, one that might work. Of course, the plan was dangerous. Then again, doing nothing was proving dangerous as well.
Adam stuck to the pre-midnight shadows as he worked his way from his parked car along the alleys to the fence behind Carrie’s house. He scanned every driveway, kept his eyes moving, trying to stay concealed while giving the appearance of a man innocently walking to a neighbor’s house. The last thing he needed was for someone to call the police.
Since the shooter had already linked Adam with Carrie, maybe these precautions were worthless. Nevertheless, Adam didn’t want to lead his would-be assassin directly to her house—not tonight, not any night.
He paused at the fence and looked around to make sure no one was watching, then grabbed the top and pulled himself up. Adam managed to roll over the fence and land in Carrie’s backyard without sustaining more injuries than just wounded pride.
He rapped out the code, Carrie opened her kitchen door, and Adam slid through and double locked it.
“This is getting ridiculous,” she muttered.
“Not as ridiculous as being killed by a sniper’s bullet,” Adam said. “And you may recall that almost happened to both of us.”
She pointed. “Sit down. I have a fresh pot of coffee brewing.”
Once they were at the table sipping from their respective cups, Adam said, “Today I got another call from this law school classmate of mine, Corky.”
“The man who was going to hack into sites and get information for you?”
“I told you, he assured me it was just a matter of taking some shortcuts,” Adam said. “Anyway, he called me back this afternoon to give me a report.” In his mind, he heard again the crash, the sirens, the dire words of the man who’d picked up Corky’s cell phone. Adam shook his head as though to dislodge the thoughts. “Unfortunately my friend was in a head-on crash before he could tell me what he’d found.”
Carrie frowned and shook her head. “That’s terrible,” she said. “How is he?”
“I’ve got to call the hospital later tonight to see. But the man I talked with thought Corky was critical when they airlifted him to a trauma center.”
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 most 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.