Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

‘Riverglen?’ Striker asked. ‘You mean he’s being sectioned?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about charges?’

‘Can’t charge him. He’s being pinked,’ Laroche explained – a term used in lieu of institutionalized, due to the bright pink colour of the medical health warrant. ‘By order of his very own doctor.’

Striker gave Felicia a dark glance. ‘And which doctor would that be?’

‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

Striker swore. ‘This is bullshit. We should charge Mercury with attempted murder, then hold him for a Psych Doc.’

Laroche glanced back at the various camera crews that were setting up at the top of Hermon Drive. There were more of them now. As many as six. It was quickly becoming a media nightmare. They were here because of the fire, no doubt. But eventually the whole story would leak. It always did. Soon enough they would know about Billy, and then the real blitz would begin.

Laroche shook his head. ‘Billy can’t be charged criminally with anything – he’s been pinked.’

‘But—’

‘It’s not gonna happen, Striker.’

‘Why? Because of how it will look on the news? The man tried to kill us!’

Laroche was unmoved. ‘Mental illness supersedes criminal charges.’

Striker just glared at the man; the medical-versus-criminal debate had been going on for decades in Canada, and he knew it would never end. It was a black hole in the system, an area where bad people slipped through and criminal charges were lost.

‘This is wrong, and you know it.’

‘It’s reality,’ Laroche replied. ‘Don’t make it personal.’

Striker almost laughed. The man had just tried to kill them – how could he not make it personal?

He looked all around the area. He found it hard to breathe. His lungs still felt burned from the hot ash of the smoke, and the flesh of his fingers throbbed. He placed his good hand against the passenger-side door of Laroche’s unmarked cruiser and stabilized himself.

The world was spinning.

Laroche took notice, and his voice took on a softer tone. ‘It’s over, Striker,’ he said. ‘You can relax now.’

‘It’s not over – Larisa is still out there somewhere. She was connected to Dr Richter and the Mapleview Clinic, and so were Billy, Mandy and Sarah. Now Mandy and Sarah are dead, and I can’t find Larisa . . .’

The inspector nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I understand all that. But with Mercury institutionalized, the woman is out of immediate danger. We’ll find her. In time.’

‘In time ?’

Laroche turned and they met face to face. ‘Yes. When you’re in a better frame of mind. And in the meantime, I expect you to lay off Dr Ostermann.’

‘What?’

‘Are you even aware he is a yearly contributor to the Police Mutual Benevolent Association?’

‘I’m well aware.’

‘And that he is good friends with the mayor?’

Striker felt his jaw stiffen. ‘Again, your point’s lost on me.’

‘I’m just saying be careful with the man. Dr Ostermann has a good reputation in this city and he has powerful friends in all three levels of government. The last thing this department needs is more melodrama.’

Striker said nothing for a moment as he sized up the man. Then he realized: ‘You’re worried about a law suit.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I need to interview Mercury.’

He started to turn away; Laroche stopped him.

‘You can interview him later, Striker.’

‘Now. Before—’

‘Do I have to put you on mandatory leave?’ Laroche asked, and now there was a hardness in his tone.

‘Mandatory leave?’ Striker repeated. ‘Why? Because of the injury to my hand – or because of Dr Ostermann’s prized reputation?’

Laroche’s face darkened and his voice deepened. ‘You need a breather, Detective. Your way, or mine.’

Striker looked back at the man, saw the seriousness in his stare, and knew that this was one battle he was in no position to win. He took in a deep breath, shrugged, and gave in.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But this is a mistake.’

He took a long look at the swarm of media at the top of Hermon Drive, then glanced back at the raging fire, which had taken over the neighbouring row of townhomes. It was a beast of a blaze, and there was little doubt that the entire building would be nothing more than a blackened shell by the time the fire crews got everything under control.

With billows of hot ash and black oily smoke blotting out any trace of blue sky, Striker turned away from Felicia and Laroche and headed for the waiting ambulance. This wasn’t over. He knew it. Something was wrong. And because of Laroche, there was nothing he could do about it.

He was being taken from the road.

Forty-Nine

The visit to Burnaby General Hospital went fast, thank God. The doctor who treated Striker was one he had dealt with before on a few occasions. Dr Alison Montcalm was as friendly as ever, making light of the situation, yet also warning him of the risk of infection.

It was the standard speech.

The burn was worse than Striker had originally thought – first degree to the skin of his left-hand fingers, but second degree on the base of his palm. It hurt like hell.

Dr Montcalm gently cleaned the wound with a cold solution that stung. ‘Are you left-handed?’ she asked.

Striker winced. ‘No. Right.’

‘I’m surprised you grabbed the doorknob with your left hand then.’

‘I had my gun out at the time.’

Dr Montcalm nodded as she listened. She dressed the wound with antibiotic ointment, then taped a light dressing around the area to keep it clean. Striker looked at it and frowned. The blister that had formed was dead centre at the base of his hand, and it stung every time he so much as flexed it.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it,’ Dr Montcalm said. ‘I’m sure you’ll survive.’

Striker smiled at her. ‘Yeah. I have a way of doing that.’

He left Burnaby General as quickly as he came. Felicia had asked him to wait while she finished tidying up the crime scene back on Hermon Drive, but he couldn’t stay there a second longer. He hated hospitals. Always had, always would. Too many bad memories. It wasn’t until he was free of the front doors that he felt good again.

It was half-past noon, and he needed a mental break from it all, so he hailed a taxi and headed to the one place that ever gave him any solace.

He headed for home.

Once home, Striker climbed out of the taxi and paid the man. Far above, the sun was still out and glowing a strange, pale white colour in the frosty sky. It reminded Striker of the fire.

He killed the thought and started up the sidewalk. Despite the fact that it was lunchtime, frost still covered the gate. The air was so cold he could see his breath, even in the daylight. Winter was still here, no doubt, keeping the grass of his lawn frozen and brittle and the front porch steps slippery.

He unlocked the front door and went inside. The first thing he noticed was the flickering glow of the flames in the fireplace. It warmed the room with a gentle, welcoming heat. The soft lighting of the den made everything feel cosy and safe. And as Striker looked around the room, he smiled despite his pain and weariness.

Be it ever so humble, he thought.

He took off his coat, being careful not to catch the dressing of his hand on the cuff of the sleeve, and hung it up on the coat rack. Then he moved into the den and crashed down on the couch. Kicked off his shoes. Put his feet up on the table and enjoyed the heat.

A second or two later, he heard a door open down the hall, and Courtney came out.

‘Dad?’ she called.

‘Hey, Pumpkin.’

She shuffled down the hall on her crutches, then stopped at the entrance to the den. ‘I thought you were at work,’ she said.

‘I thought you were at school.’

A surprised look spread across her features, as if she realized she’d just been caught. ‘It’s a professional day.’

‘Hmm. Just like last Friday.’

Courtney’s blue eyes turned shifty, then they focused on his hand and turned hard. ‘What happened?’

‘Rough game of Rock-Paper-Scissors.’

‘I’m serious.’

He let out a long breath. ‘There was a fire in the projects. The burn is minor.’

She looked at the bandage, as if she could see right through all the gauze. ‘It gonna heal?’

‘It’s only first degree,’ he lied, ‘so yeah, in time.’

For a long moment, the two of them turned silent, Striker enjoying the heat of the fire and being home for the moment; and Courtney moving around the room and gathering her things.

Striker caught himself watching her. She was so much like her mother at times. A carbon copy of Amanda. The way she looked at him, the way she pursed her lips when she was thinking, the way she made soft clicking sounds with her teeth when she got stressed.

And the temper, too. The moodiness. In that, she was definitely her mother’s daughter. Sometimes, when Striker looked at her, he felt like he was staring at Amanda all over again, and it made him feel anxious and regretful for all that had happened in the past.

He tried not to think about it.

When Courtney put on her runners and started lacing them up, he took notice. ‘Going back to school on a Pro Day – wow, you are dedicated.’

‘I have other things to do.’

‘Like rehab,’ he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Dad, I’m going to my appointment, okay? God, you’re always riding me. What, does it make you happy or something?’

‘What would make me happy is if you would stop skipping your therapy sessions. You need them.’

‘And I’m going!’

Striker nodded. ‘Good. Say hi to Annalisa for me. And get her to check out your braces again, make sure they’re the right level.’

Courtney’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. ‘They’re crutches, Dad, okay? Crutches – not braces. I keep telling you that.’

‘Crutches, braces – it makes no difference.’

‘It makes a difference to me,’ she said, and her eyes suddenly looked wet.

Striker saw this, and he felt his heart clench. ‘I’m sorry, Pumpkin, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You never mean to do anything.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

Courtney offered no reply. She finished tying her laces, then stood back up. When she reached the door, she opened it and stepped outside without saying goodbye.

‘I can drive you,’ he said.

She looked back at him and her blue eyes were ice. ‘Why don’t you drive yourself, Dad. Take a trip down Sensitivity Street. Might do you some good.’

‘Courtney—’

She slammed the door behind her and was gone.

For a moment, Striker considered going after her, but then reconsidered. It would do no good. In fact, it would probably only make things worse. Courtney was just like her mother; when she got into one of her moods, nothing would fix it but time and space. And now he wondered what he’d done to set her off this time. He went over their conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong, then finally gave up. His hand hurt. His head hurt. And he was damn tired.

In the medicine cabinet was some Extra Strength Tylenol he’d bought for Courtney last year. It was old, probably past its due date, but he took some anyway. Then his mind returned to work, like it always did. He plucked his cell from his pocket and read the screen in hopes of finding voicemail.

There was none.

It pained him. Larisa was still out there somewhere, and here he was, taken off the road – forced from the job on injury reserve. He could have fought the issue, battled the doctor and Laroche, but then they would have been forced to fill out the Compensation Board forms right there and then. And once that was done, no one got back on the road without seeing the specialist.

The way it was now – so long as the forms were not filled out – Striker could play with it.

The thought pinballed around in his head as he sat there, trying to relax but not managing it. Too much had happened, and too much still had to be investigated. Mandy and Sarah. Larisa Logan and Billy Mercury. Drs Ostermann and Richter. Mapleview and Riverglen. And then there was the whole EvenHealth programme and the SILC sessions.

There was just so damn much – and that was outside of the problems he had with Courtney and Felicia. The more he thought about it, the more his head hurt. He leaned back on the couch, closed his eyes, and tried to clear his mind.

It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, and already it seemed like a long, hard day.

Fifty

When the front door swung open and a cold draught of winter air blew inside the den, Striker opened his eyes. How much time had passed, he wasn’t sure. He felt halfway between wakefulness and sleep. He sat up on the couch, took his feet off the table, and stretched. Standing at the entrance to the den was Felicia. Her long dark hair was brushed back over her shoulder, and her warm eyes were fixated on him.

‘Feel free to let yourself in,’ he said.

‘You were supposed to wait for me at the hospital.’

‘Had to leave. Nurses kept hitting on me. You would have flown into a jealous rage.’

‘You could at least have phoned me.’ She closed the door and walked into the room. ‘How’s your hand?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Fine. Sure. Just like everything else.’ She threw her coat on the chair, then shivered as if cold. She walked across the den, her dress shoes clicking on the hardwood surface, and sat down next to him. She kicked off her shoes, grabbed the blanket from the corner of the couch and wrapped it around herself.

‘It’s one-thirty in the afternoon and it feels like midnight,’ she said. ‘Crank the fire, will you? It’s freezing in here.’

Striker got up and turned the dial to High. Then he went into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. He warmed a couple of mugs as the brew percolated, then added some cream and sugar to each one. When it was done, he filled both mugs and brought them to the den.

‘Here.’ He handed her one.

She took it. ‘Thanks. You’re a dream.’

‘A nightmare?’

Felicia ignored the comment. She looked at the bandage covering his hand and wrist. ‘What degree of burn?’

‘Second.’ When Felicia made a face, Striker added, ‘We’re lucky that’s all it is, we could’ve died in there.’

She said nothing back, but her dark eyes took on a distant look. ‘Well, at least Mercury’s being institutionalized,’ she finally said. ‘And we can put an end to all this.’

Striker made an unhappy sound. ‘I’m not so sure we can.’

‘Why not?’

He put down his mug and turned on the couch to face her. ‘The psychology is all wrong.’

‘And since when did you get your doctorate?’

‘Don’t got to be a doctor to figure this one out, Feleesh. Think about it. You read the first message he sent. The game is on, and all that shit. He was basically challenging us, taunting us. Very direct and logical.’

‘So?’

‘So, the next thing we know he’s putting stuff on MyShrine, and it’s all crazy-ass shit. Stuff about the war in Afghanistan and demons and him being the Hammer of God – it’s all paranoid delusions.’

‘Which shows he’s been spiralling out of control.’

‘Fine. Then tell me, how does a guy who’s spiralling out of control maintain enough logic and sanity to lure us into a trap like that? Make no mistake about it – that was set for us, and Sarah Rose was the bait. Those cameras were meant for our deaths, too. There couldn’t have been a better location for it – almost as if he somehow directed Sarah Rose to be there.’

‘Directed?’ Felicia smiled at him. ‘I think you’re giving this guy too much credit.’

‘Am I? There was only one way in and out of that place, Feleesh, and the moment we went in, he trapped us. Ten-inch screws. A solid oak door. Combustible material to accelerate the fire. And through it all he was recording us – does that sound like a man who’s so delusional? Who’s seeing demons everywhere?’

‘He’s a soldier, Jacob. He’s broken from the war.’

‘I don’t buy it. If he came after us, shooting like a madman, fine. But not like this. And that’s to say nothing about the injections. Who knows what he’s been pumping into his victims.’

‘You’re assuming they were injected,’ she said. ‘We have no proof of that yet. No tox tests back. No syringes left on scene. Just a strange mark on Mandy Gill’s neck.’

‘And Sarah Rose’s, too.’

She gave him a tender look. ‘Are you sure about that, Jacob? One hundred per cent sure? The place was dim as hell, and there was a haze in the air, too. Not to mention how distended her body was – she’d been there for over a day, for sure. Maybe two. Then the fire starts and all hell breaks loose. We never really had a chance to assess the body properly.’

‘Then let’s go do it now,’ he said.

She gave him an uncertain look. ‘You didn’t hear?’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Burned completely,’ she said. ‘You won’t be discovering any needle marks on that flesh, even if there were some there for you to find.’

Striker cursed. He looked at the screen of his phone again, saw that there were no more messages from the Adder. And also no message from Larisa Logan. He sat heavily back against the couch. Rubbed his eyes with his one good hand. Scratched at a half day’s stubble on his face.

‘We’re missing something,’ he said again.

Felicia reached over and touched his face. ‘The only thing we’re missing here, Jacob, is some sleep. Some rest. Last week we put in over eighty hours. And we’ve put in more than thirty the last two days. We’re exhausted.’

He looked back at her, and even though he didn’t agree with everything she said, he knew there was truth to parts of it. He reached out to touch her, forgot his hand was injured, and raked his burned hand against the side of the couch. He flinched.

Felicia looked down at his hand. ‘It must hurt.’

‘It was a stupid thing to do, grabbing the doorknob like that.’

Felicia gently touched his fingers, where there was no bandage. ‘If you hadn’t done something, we would never have made it out of there.’

He said nothing back, he just looked at her, and before he knew it, her lips were on his lips – soft and wet and warm. He kissed her back, felt her mouth open, felt her tongue on his tongue.

He eased her back on the couch, and she let him. With his good hand, he pulled down her dress pants, tore them from her legs, then reached down and slid off her panties. She let out a soft sound as he felt her warmth and wetness, and she shuddered beneath his touch.

‘I want you, Jacob.’

He kissed her again. Breathed in the soft vanilla of her perfume. Listened to the moans that escaped her lips with every thrust of his body. And he lost himself in the moment.

Felicia was there. In his home. And they were together again, if only for the moment. The world outside may have been cold and harsh, but the mood in here was warm and inviting.

He wished it would never end.

Fifty-One

A while later, at almost two-thirty in the afternoon, Striker lay back on the couch and watched Felicia walk out of the washroom and return to the den. As she went, she adjusted her shirt, then began smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress pants. She looked beautiful in the soft glow of the fire. Her straight black hair spilled all around her shoulders and her dark eyes were warm and magnetic. She stepped into the den, in front of him, then met his stare and let out a sigh.

‘I can’t believe we’re here again,’ she said.

Striker smiled. ‘You mean in the den?’

‘Stop it, Jacob. You know what I mean.’ She gestured towards herself and then him. ‘This. Us. I didn’t want it to happen again.’ She reached up to adjust her earring and closed her eyes. ‘Oh God, how did this happen again?’

Striker sat up. ‘Well, first you touched my shoulder, then you looked into my eyes—’

‘Stop.’ She gave him a hard look, cutting him off. ‘Just knock it off, Casanova.’

He laughed, then stood up. He stepped forward, into her personal space. When he went to put his arms around her, she stiffened a little, so he let go. She looked up at him, and there was conflict in her eyes. Tenderness, yet stubbornness. Nothing changed.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘We’re back to square one. All over again.’

‘Is that really so bad?’

‘Well, no. Yes. Shit.’

Striker just looked at her and didn’t know what to say. Their relationship had been complicated from day one. Had it just been them, everything would have been fine. But it wasn’t just them. There was work. And Courtney. And everything in between.

And they both knew that would never change.

He wanted to say something. Felt he had to say something. But, like always, he couldn’t find the words.

‘So what now?’ she said softly. ‘Where do we go from here, Jacob?’

He met her eyes, felt the heaviness of her stare, and gave her the only honest answer he could think of:

‘Back to the case.’

Fifteen minutes later – after another failed attempt at reaching Dr Richter and getting only voicemail – Striker drove them out east. More than anything he wanted to interview Billy Mercury, but in order to do that, he had to do one of two things first – either arrest the man on charges of arson and attempted murder, or gain permission from the man’s psychiatrist.

Who was none other than Dr Erich Ostermann.

They had come full circle.

He drove towards Riverglen Mental Health Facility, where Billy Mercury had been sectioned to. When they were nearing the east end of Vancouver, Felicia let out a long hard breath.

‘Inspector Laroche is gonna freak when he sees you’re not on medical leave.’

Striker scowled. ‘Laroche . . . who the hell cares what he thinks?’

‘I will when he suspends us.’

Striker gave her a hot look. ‘Okay, first off, Laroche never put me on leave. I took myself off the road in order to deal with the injury to my hand – and I never filled out the Workers’ Compensation Board papers yet.’

‘Semantics. You can’t be back on the road again until you’re cleared by one of the doctors at Medicore.’

Striker said nothing back. Felicia was right about that one – she was always right about stuff like that. She knew the Rules and Procedures manual better than anyone, and she was the only cop he knew who had actually read the damn thing from beginning to end.

The Medicore Health Center was the primary health insurer the Vancouver Police Department contracted. Once an officer was off duty from an injury, they could not return until cleared by Medicore – not even if another specialist had already been consulted.

It was all to do with insurance claims, and, therefore, money. So nothing about the system was overly surprising.

Striker gave Felicia a quick glance. ‘I won’t argue that point, but don’t forget, the whole Medicore thing is just policy, not the law. And it’s not even our policy, it’s a Workers’ Compensation Board thing. If I make the injury worse, they’ll just fight me on it in court. Well, no big deal. I’m fine with that.’

‘You oversimplify everything.’

‘I wish I could do that with you.’

She gave him a hard look, then let it go. Striker was happy with that. There were other larger issues to deal with here than injury compensation.

When they reached the corner of Broadway and Nanaimo Street, Striker pulled over to the kerb.

‘What?’ Felicia asked.

He looked at her. ‘What time did Ostermann say he worked at Riverglen until?’

Felicia looked at the clock, and was surprised to see it was already going on three o’clock. ‘Shit, you’re right. He’ll be gone by now. Maybe we can intercept him somewhere on the way back into town.’

‘Or maybe he’ll be staying longer today because of Mercury.’

Striker took out his cell and called Riverglen. The call was answered by the main switchboard who then transferred him to the receptionist they had dealt with earlier in the day. She was less than friendly.

‘Dr Ostermann only works here in the mornings,’ she said, offering nothing further.

‘I understand that,’ Striker said. ‘But I thought he might be putting in some extra time this afternoon because of what happened today with Billy Mercury.’

The woman made a weary sound. ‘Mr Mercury is not Dr Ostermann’s only patient, I’m afraid, though he does seem to take up the bulk of his time. Dr Ostermann will be seeing him at the clinic.’

Striker cast Felicia a disbelieving glance. When he spoke again, it was difficult to keep the agitation out of his voice. ‘Hold on a second, are you telling me that Billy Mercury is not already at Riverglen? I thought he’d been institutionalized.’

‘He has been, and he will be here – after Dr Ostermann is finished seeing him.’

‘In a private clinic? I’m not comfortable with that.’

The woman let out a long breath, as if to express how tired she was of the conversation. ‘We have armed guards, Detective. We deal with a lot of violent patients. We do it all the time. And we do it quite well. There is nothing for you – or anyone else, for that matter – to be concerned about.’

Striker felt his fingers tighten on the cell. ‘You might think differently if it was your house he just burned down. Now which clinic is Dr Ostermann seeing Billy at?’

‘That’s confidential information.’

Striker had had enough. ‘I’ll put it to you this way: right now I’m dealing with an important investigation and I need to speak to Dr Ostermann as quickly as possible. If you don’t tell me where he is, I’ll charge you with Obstruction. And I’ll take the time to drive out there right now and arrest you myself. You got that? Now where the hell is he?’

The receptionist’s tone didn’t change, but she coughed up the information. ‘Dr Ostermann is where he always is on Thursday afternoons. He’s working with the EvenHealth programme.’

‘Which branch?’

‘It’s at Boundary and Adanac.’

Striker hung up the phone. When he turned to face Felicia, he saw a dark curiosity in her expression.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘Mapleview,’ Striker said. He put the car into Drive, hit the gas and drove down Broadway.

The clinic was only twenty minutes away.