The Baby Snatchers (7 page)

Climbing behind the wheel, he glanced across
at her. Her head was turned away from him. She stared out the
window. Her hands were twisted in her lap and fresh tears slid
slowly down her cheeks. Sadness flooded through him, but there was
nothing he could do.

Feeling helpless and totally inadequate, Cam
switched on the ignition and kept his focus on the road. The sassy
midwife had been right. There would be time enough for questions
later. Right now, his baby sister needed to be left alone and given
time to heal.

“Cam?”

Cameron started at her husky question.
Weaving in and out of the burgeoning midday traffic, he’d let the
silence between them lengthen and had been lost in his heavy
thoughts. It took him a moment to realize Cynthia had spoken. “Yes,
honey?”

“Could you… Could you stop by a K-Mart?”

Cam frowned with uncertainty. “Now?”

She nodded and kept her eyes lowered.

“You want to go shopping?”

“No! I mean…yes… That is…” A blush stained
her cheeks crimson.

Cam shook his head, still confused. “There’s
a mall not far from where I live, but… Are you sure you’re up to
it? You’ve only just come out of hospital. I thought you might want
to go home and rest. I could fix us some lunch and get you settled
and then—”

“I need some things,” she blurted out, still
refusing to look at him.

“What kind of things? I have spare
toothbrushes in the bathroom and you’re more than welcome to borrow
my—”

“Women’s things.”

“Oh.” Now it was his turn to blush.

“Could we just go to a drugstore?” she said
quietly.

His lips compressed and he nodded.
“Sure.”

In the end, he gave her a handful of cash
and told her to go and buy what she needed. She’d taken the money
gratefully and had headed into the store. Cam waited for her in his
car. There were some things even an older brother shouldn’t be
forced to do and this was one of them. Not for the first time, he
wondered what the hell he was going to do.

* * *

Georgie scanned her list of patients and
tried to suppress a sigh. She was back at work after a couple days
off and had hoped to return feeling rested and rejuvenated, but it
hadn’t worked out that way. Her mother’s mention of Georgie’s
teenage indiscretion had stirred up painful, old memories and had
played on her mind night and day until she was all but consumed by
thoughts of the baby she’d given away.

She’d given birth to a little boy and he’d
been perfect in every way. Not that she’d been allowed much time
with him. Her mother had seen to that. Marjorie had assured her it
was for the best; that adoption was the only sensible thing to do.
Georgie was seventeen with the world at her feet. A baby was the
last thing she needed.

Over the months of her pregnancy, her mother
had slowly worn her down until Georgie finally agreed to sign the
papers, but the knowledge that she had a child—a son—living
somewhere in the world was never far from her thoughts.

Hearing Cynthia talk about the horrible home
life she and her brother had endured with their adoptive parents
had brought the whole awful time back and Georgie couldn’t help but
wonder if her son had fared better than them. She could only hope
and pray he’d been adopted by loving parents who treated him with
kindness and respect, but she couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling
that things might not have turned out like that.

What if he’d been adopted by people like the
Dawsons? What if he were being mistreated and would one day be
forced out on the street?

The knowledge that she couldn’t do anything
about it was slowly driving her mad. Though the laws now allowed a
birth mother to seek contact with her child, she was torn about
whether it was the right thing to do. Her son was now a
twelve-year-old. Presumably, he was settled and comfortable in his
life. She had no way of knowing if he’d been told the truth about
his adoption, or how he’d react if he hadn’t.

She’d agreed to give him up and it had been
the hardest thing she’d ever done.
Was it fair to either of them
to seek him out again?
Would he even want to see her?
No, she had to believe he was happy; that he was better off without
her in his life. Making contact with him now would only scare and
confuse him and he might struggle with the fact she’d given him
away. He might even blame her,
hate
her…

A shaft of pain tore through her at the
thought and she pressed a hand against her mouth to hold back a
gasp. She hadn’t wanted to give him up… She
hadn’t
! And yet,
she had done just that. With the slightest movement of her hand,
she’d signed all her parental rights away…

“Hey, Georgie, are you working on the
post-natal ward tonight?”

Blinking away her heavy thoughts, Georgie
turned to greet the nurse who strode up beside her.

“Hey, Julia. Yes, I’m looking after the moms
and bubs in beds ten to thirteen.”

Julia grimaced. “You’re in for a tough
night. Two of the four are heroin addicts. Both of them used
constantly during their pregnancies. The woman in bed twelve’s
addicted to methamphetamine and the one in bed eleven’s a chronic
alcoholic. Her baby’s been born with a severe case of fetal alcohol
syndrome.”

Georgie’s heart sank. Mothers withdrawing
from long-term drug and alcohol addictions were often rude and
demanding and their newborns usually also had serious issues. While
still in utero, the babies had become used to regular drug and
alcohol fixes. Now that they’d been born, the drugs had come to a
halt. It was imperative they withdraw from them slowly.

“I’ve been on a couple of days off. I’m not
familiar with any of these patients,” she said and continued to
walk toward the nurses’ station. Julia kept pace with her.

“Keep an eye on the woman in bed ten. Her
partner smuggled in heroin last night. Unfortunately, she’d already
taken the hit before we discovered it.”

“Had she already been given her methadone
dose?”

“Of course. A few hours before. She’d even
attended a therapy session earlier that morning.”

Georgie shook her head in despair. While
inpatients, both mothers and babies received treatment for their
addictions in the form of voluntary counseling and prescribed
medication in strictly controlled measures. It was hoped the
regulated dosage of methadone would aid both patients in a steady,
controlled withdrawal with fewer side effects, but it was meant to
be taken
instead
of the illicit opiate, not in addition.

The biggest problem the staff faced in the
hospital wasn’t dealing with the withdrawal symptoms, it was
ensuring the patients remained drug free while they were in the
hospital’s care. While drugs and alcohol were strictly prohibited,
it didn’t stop the women and even the babies from craving another
fix.

Some of the mothers promised to stay clean,
but Georgie had learned the hard way their promises often meant
nothing. If they weren’t getting a fix outside the hospital
boundaries, their partners brought it in, like in the case of the
woman in bed ten, and they were getting high right on the ward,
behind the seclusion of their privacy curtains.

It was incredibly sad and frustrating for
Georgie to watch the women destroy themselves over and over again.
They were mothers. Their babies were as dependent upon them as any
newborn could be. It was beyond difficult to watch the little
infants, already addicted to drugs, knowing that in a few days
they’d be discharged along with their mothers and their lives would
become something Georgie couldn’t even bear to think about.

“How is her baby doing?” Georgie asked
quietly.

“About as well as you’d expect. He’s
suffering many of the usual signs of withdrawal: sweating, fever,
shaking, vomiting and diarrhea. Poor thing.”

“When’s his mother due to be
discharged?”

“Tomorrow. FACS have been notified, but so
far, no one’s made an appearance on the ward. Let’s hope someone
assesses her before she leaves.”

A tension headache made itself known behind
Georgie’s eyes and she squeezed them shut in an effort to dislodge
it. Her shift had only just begun and already a familiar sense of
hopelessness and dread churned inside her.

It was hospital policy to notify the people
from FACS when the staff identified a baby at risk, but the social
workers were overworked and understaffed and there just weren’t
enough of them to follow up on every case. Georgie hated to think
how many children were suffering because of a lack of government
resources.

With every drug-addicted mother who left the
hospital with her baby in her arms, a tiny piece of Georgie died.
She wanted to take each and every baby home and raise it
herself—and that wasn’t merely a response to her ever-present
yearning for her own son.

But even if it were possible, it could never
happen. There were simply too many. She could never take care of
them all. That was the reason she’d felt so happy when Cynthia
Dawson’s brother had been found.

It had been a fortnight since the pair of
them had left the ward, hand in hand, and Georgie had been almost
overwhelmed with relief. Cynthia might not have a baby to care for,
but she was still a child herself. And for the moment, grieving
deeply over the loss of her newborn, she needed a lot of love and
support. Although she hardly knew him, Georgie was confident her
brother could provide that. His words and actions showed how much
he cared. From the moment he’d arrived on the ward, much of his
attention and focus had been on his sister.

Georgie thought of his slow and tantalizing
once-over and a shiver of remembered heat swept over her. He was a
very attractive man and one she wished she could spend more time
with, despite the potential minefields surrounding the issue of
adoption. Still, just because he had attitude concerning his
adoptive parents, that didn’t mean he was against adoption, period.
Did it?
She couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever be given
the opportunity to find out.

The month of May had all but evaporated and
soon winter would set in. Pale morning light filtered in through
the tinted windows that lined two walls of the squad room. Cameron
sat at his desk, methodically going through files and feeling less
than enthusiastic.

“Cameron, have you got a minute?”

Cameron looked up from his computer screen
and nodded toward his boss. “Sure, Holt. I’ll be there in a
minute.” He saved the work on his screen and then pushed away from
his desk. He met Holt in his office.

“What can I do for you, boss?”

Detective Superintendent Holt Denman’s
expression was troubled and he took a moment to answer. It looked
like he was trying to choose his words with care. Tension slowly
took hold in Cam’s gut. “Is everything all right?”

Holt gave a brief nod and pursed his lips.
“Yes. I’ve just had a rather disturbing phone call. It’s taking me
a moment to get my head around it.”

“What is it?”

“The New South Wales Police Commissioner
just called me. He’s had a visit from the premier. The man’s
accusing the staff at the Sydney Harbour Hospital of either
stealing or murdering his grandson. It appears he can’t quite make
up his mind. Apparently the child died suddenly at the hospital a
couple of days ago, within hours after his birth.”

Shock ricocheted through Cam’s body.
“
What?
”

“Yeah, I know. It sounds ludicrous and the
commissioner’s inclined to believe it’s nothing more than shock and
grief talking, but the premier’s insisting he has proof.”

“Wow.”

Holt grimaced. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t wait to hear,” Cam said, breathing
a little more freely. His initial shock at Holt’s announcement had
worn off.

The New South Wales Premier, John Jamison,
was known for his over-dramatic and somewhat paranoid ways. He’d
once accused a cleaner of spying on him from the bathroom adjoining
his office. After a comprehensive internal investigation at the
expense of the tax payer, it was decided the cleaner, who barely
spoke a word of English and had been in Australia less than six
months, was merely there to replace the supply of toilet paper and
had been oblivious to the premier’s presence.

“I told him you’d be available to interview
him within the next half hour. I understand he’s making his way
down from Macquarie Street as we speak.”

Cam threw his boss a wry grin. “Gee, thanks,
boss. What did I do to get on your wrong side today?”

Holt laughed off the question. “What can I
say? I guess you got lucky. You’ve had a bit of free time on your
hands since that meth investigation wound up. You might as well put
your time to good use. The premier’s interview ought to provide you
with an interesting diversion, if nothing else.”

Cam grimaced and made his way out of Holt’s
office. He detoured via the staff tea room and poured his second
cup of strong black coffee. It was barely nine in the morning, but,
more often than not, he relied on a regular intake of caffeine to
get him through the day. It probably wasn’t healthy, but there were
a hell of a lot of other vices which were worse. Besides, ever
since his sister had moved in, he’d found it hard to sleep and the
shot of caffeine lifted him out of the miasma of fatigue.

Most nights, he’d wake in the middle of the
night to the sound of his sister crying. It broke his heart to
listen to her distress. He’d found an excellent psychiatrist by the
name of Ava Wolfe who’d come highly recommended by the cute midwife
at the hospital, but so far, his sister seemed to be making very
little progress. It worried him that it had been more than a
fortnight and she still cried herself to sleep.