Excerpt: Drastic Measures
By Bobby Hutchinson
CHAPTER ONE
St. Joseph's Medical Center sprawled in Vancouver's watery June sunshine like a gigantic gray toad, solidly situated on a large and expensive chunk of land smack in the center of the city's downtown core, a few short blocks from both skid row and some of North America's most breathtaking and expensive beachfront real estate. The hospital had none of the attractive patina aging sometimes endows on even the ugliest architecture.
St. Joe's had aged badly, its vast assortment of buildings patch worked haphazardly onto the original six bed infirmary founded in 1914 by Mary Margaret Constantine, an intrepid and invincible sister superior with the Angels of Mercy.
It was eight minutes before eleven on a Tuesday morning, and the emergency room was abnormally quiet.
Emergency physician Dr. Alexandra Ross had been at work almost four hours and she'd only seen one other patient besides the one she was presently treating. The first patient had been what the staff called a "mandown," an alcoholic from the nearby skid row area who'd suffered a seizure with resulting lacerations and minor head injury. She could hear him in one of the observation cubicles, intermittently cursing and begging the nurses for a drink.
This quiet time was undoubtedly just a lull before the hurricane struck, Alex mused as she looked at the X ray and assessed the young and healthy specimen of muscular manhood sitting in the wheelchair in front of her.
He wore purple jogging shorts, a green headband and a white tee. His bare right foot was propped on the chair's extended footrest, and the middle toe was obviously fractured.
"It's a clean break, Mr. Siddon. We can either anesthetize you to set it or—" She cradled the man's wide, long foot in one hand, steadying it, and gave a sudden sharp pull on the crooked toe. Just as Alex had known they would, the clean edges of the bone snapped into place and the toe was straight again.
"Or we can just do this," Alex purred.
"Ooowww. Son of a bitch—" The young man turned red in the face and glared up at Alex from the wheelchair. "Damn it all, Doc, that hurt like hell."
"Sorry, Mr. Siddon, but that was so much easier on you than having to undergo anesthesia just to set a toe, don't you agree?"
She grinned wickedly at him, and after a moment, he attempted a white lipped smile and nodded.
"All we need to do now is bind this to the next digit, to keep it steady while it heals." She swiftly wound a length of gauze around the injured toe and the one next to it and secured it with tape.
"Now, I'll just give you a prescription for pain, and then you're out of here in time for lunch. You allergic to anything?"
He shook his head and Alex scribbled on her pad, ripped a page off and handed it to him. "Take these only if and when you need them. Keep off that foot as much as you can. You'll need a set of crutches for a while, but your toe'll be like new in about six weeks. And don't go running into any more bricks, okay? Now, did someone bring you to Emerg, or shall I have Lorraine call you a cab?"
"My buddy's right over there, waiting for me. Say, you work here all the time, Dr... ?" His eyes dropped to the nameplate attached to her lapel, lingering an instant too long on her breasts.
"Dr. Ross?"
"Yup, I'm afraid I'm here all of my working hours." Actually, a large portion of her life had been spent here, she mused. She'd been born in this very hospital thirty-four years ago. She'd interned here, done her residency here, gotten this job in Emerg three years ago, and she'd even met her husband here. There were times when Alex wondered what it was about her and St. Joe's.
"You look awfully young to be a doctor."
It was a comment Alex was accustomed to hearing. "It's the excitement of setting broken toes," she said breezily. "Keeps a person from aging."
Mr. Siddon was now looking at Alex in an entirely different fashion than he had a moment before, taking in the riotous mop of thick golden brown curls reaching past her shoulders, the delicate features devoid of any makeup, the wide mouth, naturally rosy and full lipped. She had thick-lashed dark blue eyes and graceful curves not quite hidden by the white lab coat. He liked what he saw.
"So, Doc, you ever get any time away from this joint, like, say, for food?" His voice was husky, his tone suggestive, the anger of a moment before transformed into heat of a different sort. "I know this great Italian restaurant just over on Robson. I'd love to take you there for lunch."
Alex raised her eyebrows and smiled at him again, a smile totally devoid of any flirtatiousness. It was obvious his toe was better if other parts of his anatomy were kicking in.
"Once in a long while they let me out, and when they do, I tend to spend time with my husband."
It was his turn to give her a rueful grin. "Can't blame a guy for trying. He's a lucky man. Tell him I said so."
"Shall do."
The triage nurse, Leslie Yates, interrupted them. There was a note of urgency in her quiet voice.
"Paramedics are arriving with a young male MCA—" it was the term the team used for motorcycle accident "—ETA three minutes. We're set up in two."
"Thanks, Les. There goes our quiet morning." Adrenaline poured through Alex as she hurried with her small group of nurses to trauma room two. Hastily they donned protective clothing, sterile gloves and glasses. The room had an outside port for the ambulance's arrival, and in seconds the attendants hurried in with a stretcher.
Alex glimpsed one scuffed high-heeled cowboy boot. The other boot was gone. A blue stocking covered the foot, and it was immobilized in a pillow splint.
"Blood pressure 80 over 50, heart rate 150, respiration 34 and shallow—"
Voices called back and forth, nurses moved, quick and purposeful. Organized chaos reigned, and Alex assessed the injuries.
Fractured right ankle—
He had a young man's strong, long, muscular legs, dark hair covering the areas not bleeding from cuts and abrasions.
Deep laceration of upper left thigh—
What was left of his clothing had been entirely cut away.
Sandbags surrounded him.
Spinal injuries—
One torn and bloody hand clutched the side of the gurney. The other was wrapped in a loose dressing.
Definite injury to extremities—
His strong, naked torso was half covered in gauze trauma dressing with blood seeping through.
Probable internal injury. Liver? Spleen? Bleeding—
Alex heard the anguished, steady sound coming from him, a raw, choking cry of mingled fear and agony that would have torn at her heart had she not heard similar sounds countless times before here in the ER.
All that registered now was that the sounds were a good sign. At least his air passages were open and unobstructed.
"Let's have a look—"
The trauma team were blocking her from a clear view of the man's head.
"What's the story here? When exactly did it happen?" The first hour was crucial; she needed to know exactly how much time she had left of that hour.
She was rattling off questions and instructions as the attendants stepped aside and she stood directly over the patient.
"Sir, can you—" She looked down into what had been an exceptionally handsome face, damaged now and studded with shards of glass. Brown curls, only a shade darker than her own, were matted with dust and blood. The left cheekbone was shattered, and tanned skin lay bare from temple to chin.
For an instant, time stopped.
Alex made a strangled sound and her knees gave way. She had to grab the side of the gurney to keep erect, and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down, and her voice came out in a wavering high-pitched cry.
"Wade." The name seemed to well up out of the dizzy sickness building within. "Oh, my God, it's my brother, it's my brother, Wade—"
"Dr. Palmer, you take over here." It was trauma nurse Helen Kramer's authoritative voice that broke the horrified, frozen tableau Alex's words created in the small
crowd of people now grouped around the stretcher.
The young intern, Palmer, shot Helen a panicked look.
"Susan, page Dr. Chan or Dr. Murdoch. Get one of them down here stat to take over for Alex." She grasped Alex's arm. "Come with me. Let the rest of the team take care of him."
Alex threw off Helen's hand and bent low over the stretcher.
"Wade, it's me. It's Alex, listen to me, Wade." His blue eyes, so much like her own, were open, but agony was reflected there instead of recognition.
She didn't think he could see her, and she wasn't sure he heard her, either. A mask of pain contorted his face, and the terrible moaning continued unabated.
"Wade, we're going to help you. Just concentrate on staying with us, okay?"
Please, God, help us keep him alive. Please don't let my little brother die...
The doors burst open behind her, and Dr. Henry Murdoch charged into the room with bull-like authority.
"Get that portable X ray in here now," he began. "I'll need a cutdown tray, and get him typed and crossed. Send for a neurosurgeon—"
Helen again took Alex's arm and gently but firmly led her out of the room.
Sergeant Cameron Ross drove the unmarked police car down the Vancouver streets, automatically choosing the route that would most quickly take him to the courthouse in the city's downtown core. He hoped to obtain a search warrant for a house in a quiet, expensive neighborhood where quantities of cocaine were being distributed to dealers by the son of one of the city's foremost politicians.
He drove with the easy grace of a policeman totally familiar with the city, one hand on the wheel, the other curled around a foam coffee cup. He was running on caffeine and nervous energy these days.
After nearly ten years on the RCMP drug squad, he was accustomed to the wide range of emotional reactions his job could produce in any single shift, all the way from mind-numbing boredom to gut-wrenching fear, often in a matter of seconds.
But it wasn't either boredom or fear that was bothering him now. It was more a constant anxiety, a deep, gnawing uncertainty in the pit of his gut that wouldn't go away.
If he could talk about it with Alex, maybe it would ease his tension, but so far, he hadn't been able to bring himself to confide in his wife. Maybe tonight. She was on days at the hospital, and they'd have some time together this evening. He'd tell her the whole sordid story tonight.
Trouble was, he'd wanted to reach some kind of resolution about the whole mess himself before he talked to Alex, and so far, that hadn't happened. He was just as screwed up over it as he'd been two weeks ago.
Two long weeks of being wrenched from sleep every hour, his body wet with sweat, stale sickness roiling in his stomach, his mind going over and over his decision and the upcoming hearing. Had it been the only alternative? Even now, in broad daylight, Cam wondered.
Fink, snitch, pipeline.
He knew all too well the labels his fellow policemen were using about him. The fact that what Cam had done made their working lives easier and safer had no bearing whatsoever on the way his fellow members viewed his actions.
The police radio burbled out a steady, nearly indistinguishable stream of sound as Cam stopped at a light, not conscious of either driving or listening, his brain still going over events for what seemed the billionth time.
Along with a small percentage of the other officers on Drug Squad, he'd known for over a year that Staff Sergeant Emil Perchinsky, NCO in charge of street crews and Cam's immediate supervisor, had become a junkie. The word was that Perchinsky had been cutting exhibits with corn sugar to supply his ever increasing heroin habit.
Perchinsky had become almost arrogant about it, knowing that the strict code of silence and loyalty to a fellow officer would protect him, and it had—until two weeks ago, when one of the young recruits Cameron was responsible for had almost died because Perchinsky, on heroin, loose-tongued and publicity happy, had leaked information to the press about a major roundup that was about to occur.
As a result, the dealers knew that an undercover man had infiltrated their organization, and Constable Norm Cardinal had come within inches of being snuffed out.
Cam still shuddered at the memory. He'd managed to warn Cardinal, get him to a safe house, but it was touch and go. The moment he knew for certain the young constable was safe, Cam had made his decision. He'd gone to the inspector in charge of Drug Squad and made a verbal and written statement attesting to the fact that Perchinsky was using.
He wasn't surprised when he was totally unsupported. No one else would give statements, adhering to the strict code of silence among fellow officers, but Perchinsky had cut his own throat by refusing to take a drug test.
He was suspended with pay for disobeying a direct order and then, desperate for the heroin he'd filched so easily from the exhibit locker, he'd been arrested on the street buying from a dealer. He was now facing orderly room and criminal proceedings.
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 43Vancouver."
"Delta 7, 43Vancouver, 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. "43Vancouver, portable Delta 7, 4359512."
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 tee 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—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, his 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.
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