A Lantern in the Window (13 page)

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.