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.
Thoughts of Dave made Adam remember something he needed to do before keeping his rendezvous. He should give Carrie his brother’s cell phone number. If tonight’s showdown ended badly, Dave would know what to do. Of course, there was no way Adam was going to mention the worst-case scenario to Carrie. He’d just give her the number.
He pulled out his Ruger, ejected the magazine, checked the load. Would he need an extra magazine, more bullets? No, if ten rounds didn’t do it, he’d be dead. Adam pushed the thought aside. He slid the pistol into his ankle holster, pulled it out, then repeated the process until he was sure he could draw the gun easily when he needed it.
Adam opened his closet and found the Kevlar vest he’d purchased at the same time he bought the holster. It had resided in his closet to this point, but now was the time to wear it. He’d leave it on the bed until he left though.
Finally he pulled out his cell phone—the regular one—and made one last call. “Carrie, I’m about to leave for the cemetery.”
Her voice betrayed her anxiety. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t want to do it. I just don’t see any other options.”
“Will you call me when it’s over? Even if it’s late?”
“Sure.”
Adam gave her Dave’s number. “If anything bad happens . . .”
“Don’t say things like that,” Carrie said.
They talked for a few more minutes before Carrie said, “Adam, I love you.”
“And I love you, Carrie. When this is all over, I hope you’re ready to talk about our life together.”
“We can talk now,” she said.
“No, I need to get going. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“Please be careful. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I don’t want to lose you either,” he said.
They exchanged more “I love you’s” before ending the conversation.
Then Adam donned the vest, checked his gun again, and did a final run-through of his mental checklist. Time to go. It was only ten thirty, but he wanted to be in place early.
Adam chose Ridgewood Cemetery as a meeting site for a number of reasons. It was older and full of tall monuments and a few mausoleums, so he could hide easily. Like most cemeteries there was a fence around it, but the gates were never locked. And it was isolated enough that a gunshot wouldn’t attract curious neighbors. Of course that gunshot could be from his gun or that of his stalker, but he was willing to take the chance. Anything to bring this nightmare to a close.
Adam had done some scouting, so he knew where he was going. He’d found an open barn for the storage of equipment and material, and that was where he concealed his Subaru, between a tractor with a bucket for digging on the front end and another that pulled a small mower. It took him ten minutes to work his way through the cemetery to the spot he’d picked for his observation post. He was just settling in when he heard a single, faint noise off to his left. It was more than an hour before the appointed time, but Adam expected the shooter to come early. He eased his pistol from its holster and began a slow belly crawl toward the noise.
A form materialized from the shadow of a mausoleum. Adam stayed in his prone position, raised himself on his elbows, and braced his gun in a firing position with both hands. He flicked off the safety and took up the slack on the trigger. Working to keep his voice steady and authoritative, he said, “That’s far enough. Put your hands up. If I see a gun, I’ll shoot.”
“Adam?”
Adam exhaled deeply, and he felt his heart start beating again. He eased his pressure on the trigger. “Carrie? What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t let you do this by yourself. So I came to help.”
Adam dropped his voice to a whisper. “Get over here, and get down. We don’t want to alert the shooter.”
In a moment they were crouched behind the mausoleum Adam had chosen as his hiding place, peering around the low granite building toward the marble angel marking the McElroy plot. Adam thought about scolding Carrie for coming, but in truth, he was glad to see her. He put his mouth next to her ear and whispered, “Did you bring a weapon?”
She reached into the side pocket of her black cargo pants, pulled out a small canister, and held it up. “Mace,” she whispered.
The whine of a transmission alerted them to the approach of a vehicle. Bouncing headlights made the shadows dance as a light-colored SUV pulled up and stopped on the road near the McElroy plot. The driver killed the lights and lowered the window. He sat there for what Adam figured was five minutes, then the window buzzed up, the engine started, headlights flared, and the vehicle drove off.
“Could you see inside the SUV?” Adam asked.
“No,” Carrie said. “But I recognized the license plate as it drove away.”
“What was it?”
“It was a personalized Texas plate: HRT SRGN. It belongs to Phil Rushton.”