by Unknown
"You think I'd ever forget that night, Doc? Talk about pleasure and pain combined. I fell in love with you while you were digging that damned bullet out of my shoulder down in Emerge. It burned like all the fires of hell, and I remember your hair shining like gold in the lights." He rubbed his chin on her curly head."It was shorter than it is now, sort of all fluffy, like a halo, and you had on a blue shirt under your lab coat, and that little gold cross around your neck. I looked into those big blue eyes and then I got a glimpse of your legs, and that was that. I'd have gladly let you go on cutting me up all night if it meant being close to you."
Alex, too, remembered every instant of that first dramatic meeting. Corny as it sounded, it had been love at first sight for both of them. She knew that even if Cameron Ross had turned out to be the outlaw she'd first thought him to be, she'd be with him anyway.
Not that his real job was a walk in the park. Cameron's undercover work with the RCMP drug squad was dangerous. They both acknowledged that danger, and Alex bad tried her best to accept it. After a few ferocious quarrels, they'd resolved early on not to let either of their careers become a problem in their marriage, but she still worried when the phone rang late at night and he left without being able to tell her where he was going or what he was about to do.
He still resented the shifts that kept her at the hospital when he was on his days off, and he worried about the addicts who sometimes became violent in Emerge.
Cameron leaned down and pressed a kiss on her straight nose. "I'm staying, but come morning I'll have to leave right after I drop your folks off here. I'm not sure if I'll make it back. David's bail hearing's at ten this morning, and he'll probably need someone to sign as guarantor."
Alex had completely forgotten there was a world outside this corridor, outside this hospital. She'd forgotten everything except her own brother. Cameron's words reminded her that he, too, had a younger brother in trouble—different by far from Wade's problems, but worrisome all the same. She gave Cam a contrite look. "I forgot Dave's hearing was today, Cam. Sorry for being so self-centered."
He tightened his arm around her. "Hey, I didn't expect you to remember. But I do need to be there for him. Then I've got to meet someone in New West in the afternoon."
"How d'you think it'll go for David?"
David Ross had been part of a crowd that had rioted after a hockey game, causing untold damage to Vancouver's downtown core. He wasn't one of the people who'd looted and wrecked storefronts, but he'd been drunk and boisterous and rounded up with dozens of others, all of whom were charged with taking part in an unlawful assembly.
It wasn't the first time David had been in trouble, but it was the first time he'd been arrested, and Alex suspected it bothered Cameron, although he hadn't said as much.
Cameron didn't talk about his problems the way she did. It was just one more difference between them, convincing Alex of the old adage that opposites attract. His reticence made life difficult at times—he'd been unusually distracted and short-tempered over the past weeks, and she assumed it was over David. She usually managed to pry it out of him, but lately there just hadn't been time. He'd been working a lot of nights while she worked days, and their schedules meant she was leaving for work just as he came home.
"I hope he doesn't get sent to jail, Cam," Alex said now. "You don't think he will, do you?"
Cameron shook his head and sighed. "He shouldn't. It's a first offense. You never know, though. It depends on who he gets as a judge. If he does get off, I only hope this scares the living hell out of him." His voice hardened. "He's twenty-six, and it's bloody well time he grew up."
Again, Alex's thoughts went to her own brother. "That's what my parents always told Wade, that he should grow up, that he wasn't mature or responsible enough for his age," she said with a catch in her voice. "They never let him forget that he didn't go to university. They're scandalized that he's perfectly happy working at Sports Outlet."
"He also happens to play international rugby for Canada's world team," Cameron remarked dryly. "Being a world-class athlete is an accomplishment very few people ever attain. Wade's traveled all over the world—he's a big hero in Europe. Your folks should be really proud of him."
"You and I know that, but Mom and Dad sure don't see it that way. They feel that playing rugby's nothing short of suicidal. When he's leaving on tour Mom always manages to slip in some little remark about him getting seriously injured during a game."
Alex shook her head, tears once again close. "Maybe mothers really do have some sixth sense that way. She was right about him getting seriously injured, she just had the details wrong."
Neither spoke for a few moments. Both of them were painfully aware that Wade's rugby-playing-days were over, that the horrific extent of his injuries would mean months—perhaps years—of rehabilitation, even with the best outcome possible.
"His life's going to change so totally, Cameron," Alex whispered. Now that it seemed certain Wade would live, the ramifications of his injuries overwhelmed her. "Even if he regains motor function in his legs, it's going to take enormous effort on his part to walk again. It's still not certain whether or not he'll have any vision in his left eye, and he's likely going to lose at least two fingers on his right hand. He still needs so much more surgery." She fought to keep the tears at bay. "I keep telling myself how fortunate we are that there was no brain damage."
Cameron turned and took her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. She could feel his warm breath in her hair, his steady heartbeat against her breasts. She could feel his long-fingered hands cupping the swell of her hips, and his lean, taut body pressing against the length of her, her bulwark against the world.
"Nothing ever stays the same for very long, honey." Her ear was pressed against his chest, and his voice was a deep rumble. There was an edge of something like anger in it. "The very moment we think everything's going great is usually the moment before it all falls apart."
She hit him gently on the upper arm with a doubled fist. "You're such a pessimist, Cam." It was another of the differences between them that sometimes amused her and at other times made her frustrated and furious. They epitomized the old glass of water adage—she saw it half full and Cam knew it was half empty.
"That's probably why you're good for me, Doc. You always see the bright side of things." His voice was teasing, but his face was somber.
She shook her head, and it was a long moment before she admitted, "Not today, Cam. There wasn't any bright side at all today. I was really afraid. I still am."
If only there was something he could do to take that fear away, to make Alex feel better, Cam pondered late that afternoon.
Once again, he was in the unmarked car, this time driving toward skid row and the Commodore Hotel to arrest a dealer.
For a few hours today, he'd actually forgotten all about his work, even forgotten Perchinsky and the upcoming hearing—but it had taken the near death of his brother-in-law to bring even a small respite from the thoughts that circled inside his head like a monkey chasing its tail.
He thought now of Wade, and the sting of tears burned behind his eyelids. They weren't close friends, but he liked and respected Alex's brother, and he hoped with all his heart that Wade would recover. Cameron had called Alex several times during the day, and it was a huge relief to hear that Wade was gradually improving.
Cameron thought of his wife, and for a moment his love for her banished all the demons that plagued him. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he still marveled at the fact that she loved him back.
She'd looked absolutely exhausted and as tense as a piano wire when he'd dropped her parents off at the hospital that morning. He regretted not being able to stay with her and offer his support with his in-laws, but he'd had to race over to David's court hearing. Eleanor and Bruce were difficult, censorious people, and Cam knew it would be hard on Alex, explaining all the details and shouldering the brunt of their critical comments.
She'd gone home late in the afternoon, and he hoped she was now asleep. As soon as he arrested Martinuk, Cam planned to check on Wade at the hospital and then head home himself.
First, however, there was Martinuk to deal with. In his mind, he went over the meeting he'd just had with one of his informants, Ronald Donald Herring, better known as the Fish.
"Martinuk's holed up in room 20 at the Commodore," Fish had whispered, leaning across the narrow table in the back of the Royal City Cafe and spraying Cameron liberally with coffee-laced spittle. "He's burned Erinson—says he's gonna do him and then he's leaving town. He's hiding out until he meets with your boy tomorrow. He's got a Chinese gal bringing him food and stuff, so he won't show his face till then. Word is he's heading for Ontario soon as the hit goes down."
Martinuk was a dealer Cameron's men had arrested a month before. Out on bond, he'd failed to appear at his court hearing.
Cameron had sent one of his best young undercover men, Bobby Erinson, to try to establish contact. Erin-son, in his role as a local buyer, had managed to identify Martinuk's sources, setting up another meet for early tomorrow morning, at which time Martinuk and his offshore supplier would be arrested—except now it sounded more as if Erinson would get himself murdered.
Cameron was the senior officer in Drug Squad, and his job was to look after his underground people, making sure they were safe.
In order to protect Erinson, Cameron had to get Martinuk back into custody fast. He'd make the arrest himself, but he needed backup, so before he left New West he called the man who used to be his partner and asked him to meet him in the alley behind the Commodore.
The rundown brick rooming house came into view, and Cameron wheeled into the narrow alley beside the building.
He parked and walked over to the blue Chevy where Joe Knox sat, slouched low behind the wheel, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.
"Hey, Joe."
Without answering, Knox glanced up at Cameron and then returned his gaze to the overflowing garbage cans a few feet away. After a moment he said, "So what's going down, Ross?" There was the faintest bint of derision in his voice.
Cameron had guessed how it might be, had steeled himself against it, but still the bitterness of disappointment ate away at him. He'd come up against the same attitude numerous times in the past two weeks, ever since he'd blown the whistle on Perchinsky, but some part of him had gone on hoping Joe would understand.
Joe knew him, for God's sake. They'd been as close as brothers once. They'd worked these streets together when they both were as young as Bobby Erinson, covering each other's backs, loaning each other money, fellow soldiers in a dirty war.
But it was all there in Joe's face and in his voice, the carefully impersonal tone, the absence of any banter, the refusal to meet Cameron's eyes. It was obvious that Knox had sided with the group of men who'd decided Sergeant Cameron Ross had broken the faith, who'd informed on a fellow officer—a bad narc.
Cameron was suddenly tired of it all, of the years of living on the edge of the city's ugliest subculture. He was sick to death of the constant vigilance, the squalor, the deal making, the corruption, the power—and the twisted code of honor that allowed a senior officer to steal and use drugs, putting every man who worked for and with him in jeopardy, arrogantly confident that his fellow officers wouldn't say a word against him.
He forced himself back to the business at hand.
"Martinuk's up there in 20, Joe. The word is he's burned one of my guys. He's going to move right away, so I'm going in."
Knox nodded once and dragged deep on his cigarette, directing a cloud of acrid smoke at Cameron's face. He didn't offer to come along, or even acknowledge that he'd cover the alley.
Rage burned, swift and hot as a flash fire. Cameron wanted to tear the car door open and drag Knox out, throw him against the building and hold him there while he told him exactly how it had been, why he'd had to do what he'd done. Instead, he turned his back and sauntered away, around the corner and into the dingy, cigar-soaked lobby of the Commodore.
There was an ancient elevator, but he took the stairs instead, two at a time. The second-floor hallway was deserted and dimly lit. Through the thin walls came the sounds of a man and woman shouting obscenities, a radio playing a cowboy song.
Cameron put his ear to the door of 20 and listened.
Inside, a toilet flushed and a door banged, but there was no sound of voices. He could only pray that Martinuk was alone, as Fish had indicated.
Cameron sucked in a deep breath and drew his .38, took two steps back, raised his right leg and kicked the door in.
"Police. Don't move—"
Martinuk, in undershirt, pants, and bare feet, was in the process of opening a beer, and he was alone in the small room.
He let out a bellow of fear and rage and lofted the can.
Cameron ducked and it hit the wall behind him, spewing golden liquid across gray wallpaper. Martinuk lunged for the window and the fire escape, and in two long strides Cameron had him, cuffing him while he repeated the Miranda warning.
"Lawrence Martinuk, you're under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law-"
Next, he called Knox. "Portable 9, portable 6. Subject now in custody. Call for a wagon. Request backup up here. I'm in 20."
There was no response, but there wasn't time to repeat. Martinuk could have friends in the building, and getting cornered in this hole-in-the-wall room wasn't Cameron's intention.
"Let's go. Move it." Cameron had cuffed Martinuk's hands in front of him, and now he grasped the back of the man's belt, herding him ahead into the hallway.
They stepped out, and simultaneously the doors of 22 and 214 opened. Three men came out, dark, ugly men, their eyes flicking from Cameron's gun to Martinuk.
"Take this bastard—he's all by himself," Martinuk squealed before Cameron cut him off.
"I'm a police officer. First person down this hallway gets shot." He moved slowly, cautiously, holding the dealer like a shield in front of him.
The men didn't speak, but they effectively moved to block the stairwell. A shiver of foreboding went up Cameron's spine.
Knox, where the hell are you?
He moved away from the stairs, stabbing his elbow into the button that summoned the elevator.
Like snakes, the three men edged their way along the hall toward him.
How many could he take before they rushed him?
He could smell Martinuk, pungent with garlic and sweat and fear. The hall reeked of urine. He could hear the creaking old elevator rising painfully slowly from somewhere below him. The men were murmuring amongst themselves. He couldn't make out the words, but he could see the tension building in them.
Hurry up, Knox. For God's sake, hurry—
The three men moved again.
"Hold it right there. One more step and somebody gets it-"
Cameron's steady voice betrayed none of his inner turmoil. At last the elevator doors opened in slow motion. Still keeping Martinuk as a shield between himself and the three men, Cameron stepped back—and stumbled.
The elevator was a good six inches below the level of the hallway. Martinuk heaved his body away, but Cameron still had a tight grip on his belt. He recovered his balance and jerked his prisoner inside the small cage, stabbing at the button that closed the door.
The men moved again, closer now.
The black steel grid slid shut, and the elevator jerked once, stopped, jerked again, and then began to move downward.
Martinuk swore viciously, and Cameron forced his hand to release its death grip on the back of the man's belt so that he could pull his portable radio out of his jacket pocket.
"Portable 9, portable 6." Still no response. "Request immediate backup in lobby." The three men would easily beat the elevator down; they'd be waiting when Cameron stepped off.
But when the elevator d
oors slid open on the ground floor, the lobby was as deserted as it had been when he came in. No sign of the men.
No sign of Knox, either.
CHAPTER THREE
CAMERON, ICY AWEAT trickling down his spine, heart pounding against his rib cage, again propelled Martinuk ahead of him, out the street doors and into the welcoming dusky summer warmth of the June night.
A pedestrian stopped to stare at the cuffs on Marti-nuk's wrists. A blast of music came from a bar, and the smell of fish wafted from a dingy caf6 across the street.
There was no wagon waiting.
Knox was leaning nonchalantly against the wall just inside the alley, his cigarette only a butt now. He straightened and ground it out beneath his boot when Cameron approached with Martinuk.
"Where the hell were you, Knox? I called you twice. I damned nearly got ambushed in there!"
Knox shrugged. "Radio must be on the fritz. Never heard a sound."
Cameron deliberately reached for his portable.
"Portable 9, portable 6." The sound of his own voice echoed clearly back from the radio tucked in Knox's belt.
Killing rage swelled inside of Cameron. "That's a crock, Joe. You deliberately hung me out to dry."
Knox looked sheepish, but not the slightest bit repentant. He pulled out a new package of cigarettes, unwrapped them and selected one. He found a match and lit it, avoiding Cameron's eyes. Then he sauntered over to his car and used the car radio to call for a wagon.
Cameron watched as the man he'd once trusted with his life got in his car and, without a backward glance, drove into the street, leaving Cameron alone with his prisoner to wait for the wagon.
It was the beginning of an inevitable ending. On some level, Cam had known from the moment he decided to speak out against Perchinsky his days on Drug Squad were numbered. He just hadn't wanted to confront it. Now, he was forced to. He couldn't effectively protect the men who relied on him if his fellow officers weren't there when he needed them.
He knew that Knox was maybe in the minority, that perhaps there were a large percentage of men who felt he'd done the right thing, the only thing, but on the street, it was all or nothing. An undercover man's value was his knowledge, his contacts and his confidence in his buddies, the men who covered his back.
