by Unknown
"Alex is your wife, Cam. You'd do anything to help and protect her. Well, I feel the same way about Becky. I'm in love with her. I have been since the first moment I laid eyes on her. I intend to marry her if she'll have me."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CONFOUNDED, CAM COULD only gape at his brother. "Marry her? Godalmighty, David, do you even begin to understand what you're saying here? You've never even had a—a pet to take care of, and you're thinking of taking on a family? And a tough one at that?"
"You figure I'm not up for the job?" David's tone held a note of warning, but Cam had rescued his brother from too many avoidable scrapes to heed it.
"You're not ready, no," he said flatly. "What happens when the novelty wears off a few months or years down the line, and you want out, just the way you've done so many times before? Grown-ups are one thing, but jeez, David, that little kid of Becky's needs stability in her life. You must realize that. You—you're still on probation from that last caper you pulled. You've got ladies phoning you from Vancouver, you haven't got any savings, you've only just started this new job—"
"I know all that." David's voice was low and earnest. "Becky knows it, too, because I told her every last rotten thing about myself I could think of. And she's scared. Who wouldn't be? It's gonna take me a long time to prove to her that I can be responsible, but I intend to do it."
Cam had long ago given up hoping that would happen. His temper snapped. "Don't give me any bull about being responsible, David. I know you, remember?" His voice rose, echoing in the enclosed area. "Damn it, I've yarded you out of more jams than I can count over the years. When you get tired of playing house with Becky and decide to move on, an innocent baby's going to get hurt because of you, and this time I won't be around to pick up the pieces."
"Maybe it's about time." The words were quiet, the tone icy. "Maybe I don't want you picking up the pieces anymore, Cam. I've done a lot of thinking since I met Becky. In my whole life, I've never had to face the consequences for anything I did, because you were always there fixing it for me. From the time I was a little kid, you fought all my battles, so I didn't have to. Don't get me wrong. You've been the best brother a guy could have, and I'm grateful, but it's past time I grew up." He drew in a deep breath and gave a rueful grin. "It's hard to know where to start, but I figured I should at least get out on my own. It has dawned on me it's not so good for you and Alex to have me hanging around.
"I've found myself an apartment to rent. A guy at work's moving in with his girlfriend, so I'll be moving out in a coupla days. I'm really grateful to you and Alex for letting me stay this long, but from here on in, I've gotta be independent, do things my way. If I make mistakes, I'll deal with them myself." His voice deepened, and Cam heard again that new note of determination. "I'll make plenty of mistakes as far as Emily's concerned—what the hell do I know about kids? With Becky, too. I don't know all that much about women, either, when it comes right down to it. But I'm gonna do my best."
He met Cameron's skeptical eyes and didn't flinch. "They won't be the kind of mistakes you think, Cam, so don't look like that. I'll learn as I go along. Which is exactly why I won't try to talk Becky into doing something she doesn't want to do. See, you just gotta let people make their own decisions. If they're the wrong ones, at least they got to make 'em themselves." He tossed the greasy rag down, embarrassed by so much sentiment, and awkwardly gave his brother a punch on the shoulder. "That's about it, then. No hard feelings, right? Gotta go. It's getting late. See ya later."
Cam watched him lope across the yard and take the back stairs two at a time. He had the strange feeling that part of his life was ending and there was nothing to take its place. Slowly, moving like an automaton, Cameron put all the tools away and carefully cleaned his hands in the bucket of solvent on the workbench. He heard David come out of the house, whistling cheerfully, and get into his car. The motor of the old Chevy roared to life, and he drove away.
Cameron closed and locked the garage doors and made his way into the house and up the stairs. The door to their bedroom was closed, and he could hear Alex moving around inside. He thought of going in to her, but he was filthy from the garage.
He went to the downstairs bathroom and stripped off his greasy work clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat on his skull.
"You were always there fixing it for me—"
He'd never stopped to think that maybe that wasn't the best thing. He'd grown up knowing his role in life was to take care of those he loved, and that meant trying to make things right for them.
Didn't it?
"You gotta let people make their own decisions—"
He knew he'd forced decisions on Alex without even explaining why. Uncomfortably, he remembered her saying she didn't want him telling her what to do or trying to solve her problems for her. In some peculiar way, she and David had sounded a lot alike tonight.
He rubbed shampoo into his scalp, forgetting that he'd already washed his hair.
"There was a time when you didn't have to ask what I needed from you— "
What had he done before in their marriage that he wasn't doing now? He had to figure it out, and fast.
"This marriage just isn't working anymore— "
After a long time and a lot of hot water, it dawned on him. He'd stopped listening, just as she'd said. He'd been obsessed with his own problems, but he hadn't dared share them with Alex.
He turned off the water and stepped out, and in spite of the steam, a cold shudder coursed through him. How could he have allowed things to go this far astray? How could he have put his marriage in danger?
He toweled himself dry and pulled on jeans and a shirt, and suddenly the single most important thing in the world was to find his wife and talk to her, really talk, right now.
He swallowed the fear that rose in him. Talking would mean letting her see how imperfect he really was; it would mean showing her all his inadequacies, revealing all the secret fears he'd denied to her and to himself. If he told her what it was like in the depths of his soul, never again would she view him as her hero, and that hurt terribly.
It was a terrifying prospect, letting Alex know how he'd failed her—and himself.
But David had done it. / told her every last rotten thing about myself—
Maybe his little brother was a hell of a sight braver than he was, Cam thought ruefully. He wrapped a towel around his middle and headed for the bedroom, determined to repair the damage he'd inflicted.
He tapped, opened the door and froze when he saw the packed suitcases on the bed. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, and she was stuffing silky underwear into a plastic bag.
"Alex, what are you doing?" He could hardly get the words past the constriction in his throat. She didn't answer right away, and he moved into the room toward her, teaching out and grasping her hand. "C'mon. This has gone far enough. I'll get dressed, and we'll go downstairs and sit down. I really need to talk to you."
She stepped back, away from him, deliberately removing her hand from his grasp. She sounded calm and distant.
"How many times in the past weeks have I said that to you, Cameron? I needed to talk to you, too, and every single time I tried, in one way or another, you refused." He heard her draw a deep breath and expel it. "Well, now / don't want to talk. I have nothing left to say to you."
He'd expected anger. This quiet resignation terrified him.
She turned and walked toward the dresser, gathering up her watch and several pairs of earrings, dropping them into her handbag.
She was slipping away, and he couldn't bear it. He grabbed a pair of faded jeans from the closet and tugged them on, and in two quick strides he caught her by the arm, turning her into his embrace.
She didn't resist. Instead she stood like a wooden carving, her sweater soft against his damp skin, her body stiff and passive. After an agonizing moment, he released her again. He had to try, somehow, to reach her. The only thing he had left was the ugly feeling
connected to the events that had led them both here to Korbin Lake, and at last, in utter desperation, he blurted them out to her.
"I left Drug Squad because I got labeled a bad narc, Alex." The words were so simple now that he'd voiced them. "Part of me believed that was true, that I was wrong, no matter how right the reasons were for what I did. Cops have this code of honor, and the worst thing a guy can do is break it. You know all about that, Alex. You doctors have it, too.
"The other guys turned against me, and they let me know it in all sorts of ways. They weren't there for me when I needed them, because I was a fink, not to be trusted, not one of them any longer. I couldn't do my job anymore, but by asking for this transfer, I felt like I was running away instead of facing up to the problem." He struggled for words that would convey what that sense of defeat had felt like, but he couldn't find any. "I just couldn't talk it over with you. I figured you'd think less of me, start seeing me the same way the guys on the squad did." He sighed. "I never meant to hurt you, Alex, but I know now I did. All I can say is, I love you. You know I do."
"Do you?" The depth of sadness in her voice tore at him. "I used to think so, but now I'm not sure anymore. Obviously you didn't love me enough to trust me, Cameron, to talk to me about what was really bothering you. What did you think, that I was only in this for the good times, that I wasn't tough enough or resilient enough to weather the bad? That I'd blame you for doing what you had to do?" She gave a sad little laugh. "Isn't it ironic that now I'm in almost the same situation you were? I've got to turn King in, just like you did with Perchinsky, and it would have helped so much, Cameron, so very much, if you'd shared how you were feeling before now."
She was silent so long he thought she was done. He struggled against the habit that silence had become, but before he could speak, she added in a desolate voice, "Now, I'm not sure of anything, Cam. I don't even know if I want to stay in this relationship anymore."
A quick jolt of panic raced up and down his spine. He had to stop this, he had to, before it went any further and something inconceivable happened.
"Look, you're exhausted." He thought of the man who'd died that morning on the operating table, the confrontation she'd had with King, the way he himself had acted, and he felt mortally ashamed. "You're probably hungry, and you're tired, love. C'mon down to the kitchen. I'll make you something to eat and then you can get a good night's sleep. We can talk this out first thing in the morning. I'll take the day off. We can spend it together, just the two of us."
"No, Cameron." She spoke very quietly. "Yesterday, the day before, last week... Lord, I'd have given anything to hear you say that. But not now. Now, it's too late."
Too late. The words sent icy fear slicing like a knife through his every nerve ending. "For God's sake, Alex-"
Her voice didn't waver. "I need some time on my own. Completely on my own. I don't want to stay here with you any longer." Now he could hear the pain that lay just underneath her rigid control. "I had such dreams for us here. I thought things were going to be wonderful. This place is beautiful, peaceful—yet I've been so unhappy. It hurts me too much to stay. So I'm taking a room at that motel just outside of town, the Slumber Lodge, or whatever it's called."
The words stunned him. "Alex, please. Don't do this." His hands were fists at his sides, but he knew the barrier he'd created between them wouldn't yield to force. He fought down panic. "We can work our way through this. I know we can. I know it's my fault, but I can make it up to you. Just give me a chance to try."
"I'm sorry, Cameron. I just can't. I'm all out of chances."
She looped her handbag over her shoulder and picked up her suitcase.
He wanted to beg. He wanted to weep. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and make love to her until neither of them had the strength to walk.
But he looked at her face, the mobile, animated face that revealed her every mood, and he saw there was no use. He'd never seen her look that cold, or that detached.
"You'll take care of Pavarotti for me, won't you?"
He nodded and watched the distance between them stretch into infinity. "Yeah, I'll do that. And if you need anything, I'm here."
She nodded.
He stood in the upstairs hall and listened to her footsteps as she went down the stairs. He heard her open and close the door, and a few moments later, he heard the motor of her car.
Gravel scrunched in the driveway.
Cameron closed his eyes and cursed himself for a fool. Then he sat down on the stairs, and for the first time since he was a very small boy, he wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY
"YOU ARE HEREBY notified that your admitting privileges at Korbin Lake General Hospital have been revoked subject to review by the hospital board, effective this fifteenth day of September..."
Two endless, miserable days later, Alex stared down at the letter that Ruthie had just placed on her desk with the rest of her mail. Typed on heavy bond, it had Harry Perkins's letterhead in ornate script at the top, and she read the words for the fourth time, still unable to believe them.
It was outrageous. It was totally unfair. It was exactly what she should have anticipated after her interview with him early Wednesday morning.
She'd spent a sleepless night after checking into a room at the Slumber Lodge Motel. She'd barely locked the door to unit 24 and laid her suitcase on the bed when the telephone on the bedside table buzzed.
"It's me," Cameron had said in a gruff tone. "I just wanted to be sure you got there safely."
The sound of his voice threatened to unravel the twisted skein of determination she'd wound around her emotions.
"I'm fine, Cameron."
"Good." There was a long, long, silence, filled with unspoken misery. Alex could visualize him so clearly, standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, scowling at the blackness outside the window.
"Well, I should go," she finally said. "I've got to settle in. Good night, Cam."
She'd hung up, and she hadn't allowed herself to cry, because she knew once she started it would be impossible to stop. She'd unpacked, put on her nightshirt, and then lain wakeful hour after hour in the strange room, her brain replaying every word of the conversation she and Cameron had finally had.
"You'd think less of me," he'd said. "Start seeing me the way the guys on the squad did."
As if she ever could see him as anything but what he was, an honorable man. Her heart ached for him, but at the same time, the agonizing hurt he'd caused by shutting her out was still in her heart, deep and insurmountable. He hadn't trusted the depth of her love.
He'd needed support and solace, and he hadn't come to her. He'd agonized and suffered the tortures of the damned for weeks—months—and he hadn't had enough faith in her to tell her what was bothering him. He hadn't shared any part of himself with her, his wife, supposedly his beloved.
So what did that say about their relationship, about the love she'd thought they'd shared, about the life they had together?
She couldn't bear to think about it anymore, so at three in the morning, she propped herself up on pillows and turned the television on to an old movie while she finally fell into a troubled sleep.
When morning came, she showered and dressed and was waiting in Perkins's outer office when he walked in.
Her heart sank, because she knew by the wary expression on his face that King had already talked to him. In a quiet and, she hoped, rational voice, she described the previous day's operation and its tragic outcome. She outlined the other disturbing things she'd observed, and concluded by saying that she couldn't ethically administer anesthetic again for any of Dr. King's procedures. She stopped short of saying there should be a full inquiry into the death of Johnnie Williams, but she implied it. When she was done, she laid her carefully prepared written report on his desk.
The whole time she'd been speaking, Perkins had fussed with a stack of papers on his desk, arranging and rearranging them. He'd never once looked up, and when she was finished, he clea
red his throat several times, still staring down at his desk blotter.
She waited.
"These are serious allegations, Dr. Ross. I hope you realize that."
Hysteria rose inside of Alex. Really, Perkins? And here I thought we were just indulging in trivial gossip.
"Of course I do," she managed to say. "This is a serious matter. A patient died." Again she waited, and for the first time, he looked up at her, and now she could see the overt triumph in his eyes.
"And the others who were in the operating room, Dr. Ross? They're prepared to substantiate what you've just told me?"
Becky had been absolutely right, Alex thought. Perkins intended to do nothing at all. She'd turned without another word and walked out.
Now, however, holding his letter in her hand, she realized how wrong she'd been about him. Instead of doing nothing, he'd immediately taken steps to get rid of her.
With shaking hands, Alex lifted the telephone and then set it down again. No, by God. She wouldn't do this by phone. She'd go over and confront Harry Perkins in person and demand an explanation. It wouldn't do any good—she understood that—but at least she would say all the things that needed to be said.
With the letter crumpled in one hand, she raced past a startled Ruthie and the sizable number of patients waiting to see her, out of the clinic and over to the hospital. Incensed, she barged into Perkins's office, marching past the wide-eyed secretary to the door of his inner sanctum, only to discover that it was locked.
"He's not here, Dr. Ross," the secretary said in a timorous voice. "He's in Calgary at a conference. He won't be back till next Monday."