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Clarkson, I am waiting for you."

    Clarkson smiled slightly, as if knowing that John inhaled that name, remembering it for all time. "I have my job," he said. He reached out and touched the police insignia lightly. "You have yours." He toasted John with his soft drink. "May we both do it well."

    He turned and loped away, before John could add another word of plea. The guards framed him and the group marched into the bowels of the hospital.

    The splash of coldness over his hand brought John back. Looking down, he saw that he had squeezed his plastic container in two. The contents had drenched his hand and the carpet at his feet. He took a swallow of the remainder, found it had gone suddenly bitter, and slammed it into the waiting trash bin.

    Had he really expected to make a difference?

    He told himself as he left that he had not, but the knot in his throat and stomach told him otherwise; just as his father had always hoped, he thought he could make a difference, and that he had to try. The failure settled in him like a burning ulcer, and it would never leave. Not late that afternoon when he heard on the radio that Dover had nearly died during surgery, but that the brilliant young assistant Clarkson had demonstrated a new technique, saving him. Nor would that sense of defeat leave as Rubidoux went on patrol, and the waves of riots swept by him, and crime, and drugs, and violent marriages. Every triumph eased the burn a little and made his decisions bearable. He wondered sometimes if Clarkson felt the same.

Chapter Four

    "Clarkson, I want you to head the team on this one. I'll assist, of course, but I think you've proved yourself."

    Wade looked across the walnut conference table at Dr. Kevin Eisner and tried not to let triumph be read in his features, but gave a confident nod instead, thinking how far he had come from Phelmans' disdain of his abilities. "I'd be pleased to." Although pleasure could not describe the well-being he felt. The stories-high windows gave him an excellent view of Los Angeles, haze and all, and of the palm trees far below swaying in a slight wind. He would not trade all the clean air of his former residency for the view he looked at now. "Let me know how the team fills out."

    "Good. I'm going to be sending you her full medical charts for you to go over later this afternoon, but I will tell you her surgery is already scheduled for Wednesday, nine a.m." Eisner paused, his mild brown eyes blinking. "Not to bring a human element into this, but this young lady has two small children at home and a concerned husband, and in my dealings with her, I have found her to be an exceptional person. You might want to step in this evening after rounds and you've gone over her charts, and talk with them… let them know what procedures we'll be using and what the prognosis is." Eisner cleared his throat. "They're rather overwhelmed by all this."

    "First thing this evening, then." Wade sketched himself a note on the pad in front of him.

    Eisner nodded. He flipped through the paperwork he held, turned to Dr. Emilio Chavez, and began to assign another case as Clarkson rocked back slightly in his chair.

    * * *

    In the office which had been given to him, a room with a single bank of windows overlooking hazy freeways and the hospital grounds from a number of floors up, he thumbed through the various printouts and tests. The surgical procedure would be demanding, but Linda Elliot's prognosis was excellent. He should have no trouble as the operation presented itself, and it pleased him to know he could tell her and the family that. It was a benefit of the grueling work that he did… the grateful smiles, sighs of relief, and an occasional hug. Sometimes the joy would be so bountiful that he would stand there ignored and yet the tide of celebration would flood him and that would be enough.

    And yet, there would always be that time when he had looked into a young policeman's face and found himself remarking that it was