by Unknown
Next week, Cam would have to stand up at a formal hearing and testify against Perchinsky. The exhibit locker had been inspected, and it was now common knowledge that quantities of heroin were missing. If convicted— which seemed inevitable—Perchinsky would be discharged from the force, with a fair possibility that he'd do jail time.
And Cam would have to live with the fallout of being the guy who'd fingered a fellow officer. The fact that he was in line for Perchinsky's job made it just that much worse, and it horrified him that anyone could think he was simply jockeying for a promotion.
Cam was pulled from his reverie by his call sign on the radio. "Delta 7, XJA 43-Vancouver."
"Delta 7, 43-Vancouver, fifteenth and Cambie," he responded automatically.
"Delta 7, can you give me a land line?"
Glancing at his watch, Cam swore under his breath. He didn't have a lot of spare time to get the warrant, but he couldn't ignore the request for a confidential call. It could be an emergency with one of his men.
"Delta 7, copy." He wheeled the car into the parking lot of a fast-food chain and jogged to the pay phone on the outside of the building, his portable in his hand. He checked the number on the phone and pushed the button on his portable. "43-Vancouver, portable Delta 7, 435-952."
In a moment, the phone rang and he picked it up.
"Sergeant, there's an urgent personal message from St. Joe's-"
Alex. Oh please God, don't let anything have happened to my Alex— Cam's very skin seemed to shrink with dread, and his heart hammered against his ribs.
"Your brother-in-law, Wade Keenan—motorcycle accident—critical condition—St. Joe's—your wife needs you—"
Not Alex. Wade.
Cam felt ashamed of the momentary relief that crashed through him. Hang in there, sweetheart. I'm coming.
He didn't remember hanging up the phone or racing for the car. He wove expertly through traffic, his entire being focused on getting to her as fast as he could. And still one tiny part of his brain focused on Perchinsky.
Of course he wouldn't be able to tell her now...
THEY TOLD ALEX they'd sent for Cameron, but she couldn't have said how long it was before she saw him loping toward her down the hallway. For a moment, her shocked brain saw him as a stranger, the way she'd seen Wade not long before.
But this man wasn't injured. His tall, strong body was loose-limbed and graceful. Power and sensuality were inherent in the way he moved.
His long, thick, inky dark hair was slicked back, tied with a leather shoelace at the base of his skull. Over his shoulder he carried the battered old brown leather jacket that he claimed was his good luck token. Around his waist was the black zippered pouch that held his .38 police special. His plain gray T-shirt was sleeveless, baring the anchor tattoo on his right biceps. His jeans fitted like a second skin, and his heavy boots clattered on the tile.
His face was hard angles and deep shadows, exotic and dangerous, but his worried brown gaze was gentle, intent on Alex's face, and the tight, hard knot inside her loosened just a little as she bolted into her husband's arms.
"Cameron. Oh, God, Cam, I'm so glad you're here." The iron control she'd exerted for the past half hour backfired on her now, and her body began to tremble in his embrace, harder and harder until she didn't think she could stand.
"Easy, honey. I've got you. Just try to relax. How is he?"
The image of Wade, naked and helpless and broken, flashed again in her mind's eye, and the shudders increased until she thought she'd fly apart.
"Not... not good." She couldn't speak of it yet, not even to Cam. She had to skirt around it, talk of other, more ordinary things until the pain receded a little. She struggled for control, trying to stop the tremors that passed through her, searching for the mundane to avoid the unthinkable.
"How'd—how'd you get here so fast, Cam?"
He understood her need to work up to it slowly. "Susan called the detachment, and they got me on the radio." He folded her into his body, pressing her hard against him, supporting her as her nervous system released some of its shock and tension.
She breathed in the dear, familiar smell of him, the aftershave she'd given him for Christmas, the softener she used in the dryer, the unique body scent she knew as well as she knew his name. Against her stomach she could feel the outline of the pouch that held his gun, a mute reminder of the danger he lived with in his undercover work.
At last the trembling subsided. She tilted her head back, and with dry, burning eyes, looked up into his face. "Cam, I'm not sure he's going to make it. There's spinal injury, internal bleeding, head injuries. Murdoch called in Bellamy, and they made me leave—"
"He'll make it." There was absolute confidence in his deep, quiet voice. "Wade's young and he's in excellent condition. He's also a fighter. And you've told me often enough that Bellamy's the finest surgeon there is. I know Wade's going to come through fine, sweetheart."
She was the doctor—she knew all too well what the risks were, and yet it was his assurances that lifted some of her awful fear and made it bearable. She stood within the circle of his arms, absorbing some of his own enormous strength, and although nothing had changed, everything was easier.
"Has anyone called Thea yet, Alex?"
She nodded, still resting against him. "Susan did. Thea's out on a shoot over in West Van somewhere near the canyon—they weren't sure exactly where. Her agent's gone to pick her up and bring her here."
Wade had lived with exotic Thea Calhoun for more than two years now. The dramatic six-foot fashion model wasn't the kind of woman Alex might have chosen for her younger brother. Thea struck Alex as somewhat superficial, obsessed with her job and the intrigues of its milieu. Alex couldn't help but wonder how she would handle this calamity.
"What about your parents?" Eleanor and Bruce Keenan were in San Diego, where Eleanor, a psychotherapist, was attending a conference.
"Oh, God. I'd better call them right now." Dread filled her, and again the ever-present nausea rose in her throat, along with a sudden fierce and unreasonable anger at her parents. They'd always been so critical of Wade. If he died now, it would be without ever once having heard them say they were proud of him, proud of anything he'd ever done.
"I'll call them for you," Cameron said. "They're staying at the Half Moon Inn on Shelter Island, right?"
Alex nodded, enormously relieved to have him make the call.
"You come and sit down in the staff lounge. I'll tell Helen where you are so they can find you as soon as the operation's over." He loosened his arms, leaving one looped around her shoulders, walking her down the corridor. "I'll be back the minute I've talked to your folks."
To Alex's relief, the lounge was empty. As usual, it smelled of burned coffee and stale egg sandwiches. Her knees felt weak, and she collapsed on the sagging brown sofa. She was still shaky, and icy cold now, as well.
Shock, her medical training automatically diagnosed.
The last, awful glimpse she'd had of Wade was vivid in her mind, and now that she was alone, the tears came. She bent forward, head on her knees, at first fighting the need to cry and finally succumbing.
"Alex, sweetie." Like a minor explosion, the lounge door burst open and a small, slender young woman still in operating-room greens, booties on her tiny feet, hurtled into the room and threw herself onto the sofa, hitting Alex in the rib with an elbow as she wrapped her arms around her and hugged her close, the fierce embrace both clumsy and endearing.
"Oh, God, Alex. How awful for you." The words were filled with compassion, spoken in a rich, deep contralto that should have belonged to a Valkyrie instead of this diminutive, redheaded lady. She was half smothering Alex, pressing her nose into a shoulder that carried the sharp and distinctive odor of the delivery room. "I just this minute heard about your brother. I'm so sorry. I talked to Cameron in the hall, and he said they're still operating."
"Hi, Morgan." Alex returned her friend's embrace, absorbing the love and compassion a
nd caring that Dr. Morgan Jacobsen exuded like a rare perfume. It was suddenly easy, held close in this young woman's arms, to let the flood of words and feelings loose.
"Oh, Morgan, it's so awful, it's—it's horrible to be a relative, just waiting to hear what's happening," she wailed. "I—I didn't even know it was Wade at first. The ambulance brought him in and I looked down and—and then when I went into the OR, John Bellamy made me leave. He hollered at me and said if I didn't go he'd have me carried out, but I wanted to stay. He's my brother, Morgan." For a second, sobs choked her. "I'm so afraid he's not going to make it. There were—" Her throat closed at the memory of the unspeakable damage done to Wade's beautiful young body, and the tears came with a vengeance, cutting off further words.
One part of Alex was astonished at the sounds that came from her throat, high, keening cries and guttural sobs that she couldn't remember making since she was a very small child. Her chest hurt and her nose ran, and she laid her head on her friend's smelly shoulder and cried as if her heart would break.
"That's it, sweetie, that's it, let it all out." Morgan patted and hugged and consoled her during the worst of it, at last absently lifting the hem of her surgical gown to mop at Alex's face, impervious to the suspicious stains that covered most of the garment.
The action, so typical of Morgan, who'd never once in her life had a tissue when she needed it, finally brought a watery smile to Alex's swollen face. "God, Morgan, get that away from my nose. You know, you've got blood on your face—and is that amniotic fluid all over you?"
Morgan glanced down at herself, totally unconcerned.
'' Probably. I just delivered the most beautiful little girl you've ever seen."
Alex sniffled and wiped at her nose. "You say that about every single kid you deliver, Morgan."
"Well, it's the truth, every single time." Pleased at having made her friend smile, Morgan's all-encompassing grin lit up her pleasant features. "Now, is there anything at all I can do, people you want me to call, anything you need to be picked up or delivered or paid?"
Alex shook her head. "Cam's gone to call Mom and Dad in San Diego. Someone's gone for Thea."
"Well, if you need me to meet your parents at the airport or take that cat of yours home with me or phone aunties in Alaska or anything, just let me know."
"I don't have aunties in Alaska, you nutcase." Alex took Morgan's small, chapped hand in her own and squeezed it. "And Pavarotti would get you evicted. But thanks, pal." They smiled at each other, all the years of their friendship a strong bond between them.
The door opened again, and this time it was the tall, stoop-shouldered figure of surgeon John Bellamy who entered the room.
Morgan's grasp on Alex's hand tightened, and they both stood up. Alex's eyes flew to Bellamy's face, knowing from personal experience that good or bad news is always signaled first by body language, the lack of expression on a carefully neutral face, the tired smile that telegraphed success.
Bellamy was smiling.
"He's come through the operation with flying colors. He's a tough young man. I don't have to tell you that the next day or so is crucial, Alex, but I think he's going to make it. I'd bet money on it, in fact. I called in Ben Halsey to take a look at what plastic surgery needs to be done on his hands and face—he'll start the procedures as soon as your brother's strong enough." He sobered and cleared his throat. "Now, about his spine..."
Alex felt her heart begin to hammer, and dread seeped through her all over again. Was her brother, her beautiful, tall, strong brother with his athlete's body, doomed to never walk again?
CHAPTER TWO
"WHAT ABOUT HIS SPINE?" Alex could hardly get the words past the lump in her throat.
"I suspect either a fracture of the cervical vertebrae or a dislocation," Bellamy began. "But there's too much swelling at this point to know whether or not the damage is permanent. As soon as he's stabilized, we'll do a myelogram, but right now it wouldn't tell us much. In the meantime, I've used Cruthfield tongs to ensure proper alignment."
Alex shuddered. Cruthfield tongs were a device inserted into each side of the skull, attached to traction ropes and weights, designed to keep the patient totally immobile. She'd always thought they resembled a medieval torture device.
"You—you don't have any idea yet whether he'll be able to walk again?" She knew the answer, but she felt compelled to ask anyway.
Bellamy shook his head. "It's much too early to tell. As you know, spinal injuries are unpredictable." He went on at some length, detailing possible outcomes, but Alex didn't hear more than a word here and there.
What mattered, she realized, was that Wade was alive. The relief of that simple fact was overwhelming. For the moment, it seemed to her that was all that mattered. She'd deal with the spinal injury when she knew for certain how bad it was, but for now, survival was the issue. In spite of Bellamy's reassurances, she knew all too well that a high percentage of patients injured as severely as Wade died within the first twelve hours.
Thea arrived soon after the operation was finished, her arresting, asymmetrical features frozen into a mask that revealed little of what she really felt. Alex explained exactly what Wade's injuries were, feeling that if she was Thea, she'd want to know every detail.
Thea listened without saying a single word. She didn't even ask, as Alex had, whether or not Wade would be able to walk.
When Alex was finished, Thea simply nodded and said, in her deep, throaty voice, "Okay, I understand. Take me to him now."
Alex did, and Thea made one shocked, horrified sound when she saw him, but she didn't burst into tears or say anything. She sat down beside his bed and hadn't moved since, not even to go to the bathroom. Her long, wild raven black hair spilled over the scarlet-and-gold designer silk pant suit she'd been modeling when her agent located her. She was wearing it still, perched beside Wade's bed amidst the array of wires and tubes and bleeping machines that surrounded him in Intensive Care.
The rules were strict, and various staff members and Alex herself had tried to move Thea out of the busy area. She didn't refuse; she seemed simply not to hear anyone speaking to her. She constantly touched some part of Wade's face and torso with her long, beringed fingers, and she put her lips close to his bandaged, tonged head and murmured to him for minutes at a time.
With her wild mass of curling hair and what remained of her dramatic makeup, she looked like some exotic animal the staff had trapped and were holding captive in the sterile confines of the small, brightly lit cubicle.
Hours and hours passed. Wade went on living.
Toward morning, there was a definite improvement in his condition, and the tension in Alex eased somewhat, leaving awful weariness in its stead. She knew it was terrible of her, but she was dreading the arrival of her parents. Eleanor and Bruce were booked on the first direct flight they could get out of San Diego, a night flight, and Cameron had promised them he'd meet them at the airport at 5:00 a.m. and bring them directly to St. Joe's.
"I know exactly what they're both going to say when they get here." Alex sighed, glancing at Cam, who'd been at her side since he'd arrived the previous morning. It was now almost 3:00 a.m. of another morning, and he and Alex were strolling hand in hand up and down the dimly lit corridor outside Intensive Care. She'd tried to sit, even to lie down on one of the cots the interns used, but she couldn't be still. Every nerve ending in her body seemed to be vibrating discordantly.
"First, Dad's going to corner John Bellamy and question every single detail of the surgical procedure until John's ready to strangle him. John studied under Dad, so he can't very well tell him just to go to hell, even though it's high time somebody did."
Bruce Keenan was a retired surgeon, renowned in his time for innovative techniques which he refused to recognize were now outdated. The problem was, as Alex knew all too well, her father believed that no one could do anything quite as well as he believed he could himself.
"And Mom's going to resent the hell out of Thea bein
g in there with Wade. She'll go on to me about guilt complexes and opposing personalities and the subconscious reasons we do things. I swear to God all that psychobabble keeps her from really feeling much herself. She's told me countless times that she doesn't think Thea's the right person for Wade, and now I'm going to have to hear it all over again."
Cameron grinned down at her. "Sounds familiar, huh? It's exactly the same thing Eleanor said about me when we eloped." He did his best to turn his deep voice into a parody of Eleanor's tenor, hoping to coax a smile from Alex. "We like him, dear, but are you quite sure he's the person for you? Your values are very different, you know." There was the faintest trace of bitterness in his tone. "Your folks just don't believe anybody's really good enough for their kids."
Alex didn't argue. They'd discussed this before, and she'd admitted reluctantly that he was right. Instead, she changed the subject. "Why don't you go on home now, Cam, and get a few hours' sleep before you have to go to the airport?"
"Nope. I'm not leaving you alone in this joint at a time like this, Alex." He shuddered. "God, I despise hospitals."
She looked up at him, into the unfathomable brown of his eyes, thinking of the differences between them and how much she loved him. She needed him at this moment more than she ever had. "Hey, Sarge, I don't mind hospitals at all. In fact, I happen to have a soft spot for this old dump," she said with a strained smile. "It's where I first met you, remember? I thought you were the best-looking outlaw I'd ever seen."
And looking at him now, she thought so still.
Cam gave her his tight-lipped, crooked half smile, the smile that always made something in her chest swell and turn over.