Ricochet

Christmas Day, 7:00 p.m.

He stood at the window, staring out, and watched the snow come down. Six floors below, the traffic along Burrard Street was almost at a standstill as cars skidded and lurched and struggled to move inches along the road. Across the way a snowplow was working the thoroughfare, piling up mounds of whiteness as its flashing amber light cut like staccato notes through the monochromatic hush. From far away came the sound of bells calling the faithful to worship, but the man who stood at the window did not feel a thing.

Robert DeClercq loathed hospitals and the memories they held.

Behind him, from the corridor beyond the open door, the newly-appointed Chief Superintendent could hear the hum of rubber wheels rolling across a tile floor, the vibration of metal on stainless steel, and—from somewhere off in some far room—a moan of forlorn resignation. The voices of nurses echoed down the hall just above a whisper.

Inside this room the only sound was the steady blip . . . blip . . . blip of an electronic heart monitor.

DeClercq turned from the window and walked over to the bed. There he turned a chair around and sat down with his arms and chin resting on its back. The person lying on the bed was now sound asleep. The smell of antiseptic agents crept up the policeman's nose. Audibly, he sighed.

"Can you hear me?" DeClercq asked, his voice no more than a whisper. "You're going to make it through," he said. "I want you to live. Strange, but somehow I feel that you're my only hope."

There was no movement from the bed, and for several long minutes the man did not say a word.

Eventually, however, he began to speak again.

"The shot that killed Genevieve was a ricochet. I feel this need to talk to you . . . this need to let you know that I don't hold you to blame. I ... I know her death wasn't your fault and . . . and I admire what you did. I do hope you can hear me ... Do you mind if I speak to you?"

From the corridor outside came the sound of gasps, of choking, then the sound of running feet. Crepe soles squeaking swiftly across tile. Then there followed the closing of a door.

"I ... I almost killed myself once. That I want you to know. I actually had the gun in my mouth and was going to pull the trigger, but I didn't. Two friends saved me . . . and one was Genevieve. She made me promise after that . . . promise that no matter what happened to me again, I'd never take my life. Yet when they told me she was dead I almost broke that promise. I still wish I could do it . . . but I can't ... for the sake of her. God knows I love her still.

"It's ironic, don't you think, how the line between life and death is always in shifting motion? We never seem to know where it is at any given time. Any act at any moment might be the little shove that pushes us across. You see she was trying to help him!"

There was the wail of an ambulance outside, the eerie Doppler effect of its siren closing on the Emergency arcade below.

From the corridor, the same door opened as had closed a minute before. Now there was no gasping. There was no sound at all.

"This fellow Flood never should have been allowed to be a cop. Do you want to hear about him, this man who you brought down? We're slowly getting the facts.

"Flood has a background connected to drugs. He came from the East End. His father was an alcoholic and his brother was a junkie. His brother was evidently murdered because of his drug connections. The man was recruited into the Police Academy under serious reservations. I wish he'd never got in.

"For the past few months Flood had been seeing Dr. George Ruryk, a psychiatrist I know. Ruryk says the man had problems and that he had been depressed. Doubted himself as a man, doubted himself as a cop. I suppose he had the cocaine as his ticket out. Stole it from some busted pusher's stash to traffic it himself and retire on the profit. Is that how you got onto him? An underworld tip?"

Out in the corridor, a hospital morgue bed was being rolled into the room from which had come the gasps.

"Ruryk suggested that Flood attend a seminar at UBC. Genevieve taught the class. I guess he fell in love with her, perhaps it was obsession. Avacomovitch saw them once having lunch together. Genny was always doing that, reaching out to help anyone who had a problem and who was struggling to cope.

"He must have called her on that night and begged her to come over.

"I guess she realized when she got there that matters were out of control. Maybe he told her about the drugs, the money they were worth, and asked her to run away with him. Who knows? Maybe he was just acting out his dead brother's trip.

"Anyway, she called me at the Armouries the night of the Red Serge Ball and told Jim Rodale that the guy had a problem. I must have received the message just about the time she died. Just about the time that you closed in to make the arrest and Flood pulled the gun.

"You know, I wonder if the guy would ever have let Genevieve bring the problem to me? Perhaps he had snapped and was going to take her hostage 'cause she wouldn't go along. Or maybe she succeeded in convincing him that it was wrong. What does it matter now?

"In a way I'm glad you killed him. The man was a disgrace."

Out beyond the window a car was stuck in the snow in the hospital quiet zone. Its speakers were blaring rock and roll, the electric scream of Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love.

DeClercq, in a whisper, leaned closer to the bed. "I had a child once, I want you to know, and I loved her very much. She was stolen from me and I never got to watch her grow up. I want you to understand that your father felt the same way about you. If he were alive today, he'd be very proud.

"When I was your age, your father was my mentor: Alfred taught me most of what I know today. He was then even older than I am now, but there was this bond between us. I met your mother only once, just after you were born and shortly before the three of you went North. She was a very beautiful woman and I wish we'd kept in touch. I was very surprised to find that you had grown up to join the Force. When I saw your name on that list of members as I was drawing up the Squad, I was stunned. I'd only seen you once before, that time in Montreal, but I remember clearly to this he watched you trying to learn how to crawl across the floor. He was a very good man.

"Before your father went missing in that blizzard on the Arctic Patrol I saw him one more time. He came to see me in Quebec City and asked me for two favors. One was to keep something safe for him, that he would pick up later. The other was to ask me—should anything ever happen to him—if I would see to it that you were taken care of.

"It was shortly after that he disappeared and your mother took you away."

Outside in the street some carolers were singing Come All Ye Faithful. Robert DeClercq reached for his coat and removed something from the pocket.

"Soon you're going to be better, and I hope we will be friends. It may be late, but I'd like to keep that promise to your father. Just as he was to me, I'd like to be your mentor. I'd like to think that in a way you are the replacement for my stolen child.

"Here ... I have something for you."

Slowly DeClercq reached out and placed the Enfield revolver on the bedside table.

"This belonged to your grandfather. To Inspector Wilfred Blake. Your father left it with me, the last time we met in Quebec. I want it to be yours.

"But there's something else I have to say, and I hope I say it right.

"That time in Montreal when you were just a baby crawling on the floor, your father turned to me and said: 'Robert, do you see it? There's something in those eyes. Have you ever seen a child's eyes sparkle quite that way?' And then he turned to you and said: 'Sparky, come to Daddy,' and you began to crawl.

"Even then it showed, though you were just a child. That determination in your eyes. That will to be somebody."

Abruptly there was a jerk, and then a movement on the bed. DeClercq leaned even closer, emotion in his voice.

"I know you're going to do it. That you'll carry on the legend. Just keep on going like you are and you might—just might—outdo even Wilfred Blake."

Slowly, the eyes opened and looked up at him.

Then from the bed, ever so faintly, Katherine Spann smiled.