Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Fifty-Five

Twenty minutes later, Felicia sat in the back of an ambulance with two paramedics and Dr Ostermann. The initial assessment was not as bad as Striker had feared it was going to be: her ribs didn’t appear to be broken, but without an X-ray, there was no true way of knowing. Without a doubt they were bruised. Deeply.

As one of the paramedics palpated Felicia’s ribs, Dr Ostermann leaned back in the seat beside her. His eyes were closed and his breathing was still far too fast and uneven. He wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. ‘I feel . . . ill,’ he said softly, then vomited into the bag the medic had given him.

Striker assessed the man. He appeared so different to how he had looked before. Weaker. Older. Fragile.

‘It’s over,’ Striker told him.

When Dr Ostermann did not respond, Striker turned to Felicia. She winced as the medic touched her ribs, but still managed to smile at him.

‘Are you okay?’ Striker asked. It was the tenth time he had asked her this.

She frowned. ‘Go check out the crime scene or something.’

‘I will when you’re—’

‘Really, Jacob. Please. Just go check out the crime scene.’

He didn’t move at first. He just stood there and looked at her.

Lost her. The notion was unthinkable, yet true. He had almost fucking lost her.

Finally, he moved back. ‘I’m gonna go check out his place,’ he said.

Felicia looked relieved. ‘Go.’

Striker closed the ambulance doors. Before moving, he turned his head and stared at the body of Billy Mercury, lying in the very centre of the laneway. Blood had pooled all around him in a distorted, oval shape, and the skin of his face and arms looked terribly pale. Bloodless.

Striker moved up to him. He bent down on one knee and studied the man’s face. Even in death, Billy Mercury looked ill. More than ill, he looked downright insane. His lips curled back, exposing uneven yellow teeth, and his pupils were black and way too large. Like a doll’s eyes.

Demons, the man had said.

Striker shook his head at this. It was a sad statement on the state of this world that Billy Mercury was a war vet. He’d been through combat. And he had broken down because of it. The numerous mental health problems he suffered were in no way his fault. Demons; there had been many of those in Billy Mercury’s life.

But it was all over now.

Striker looked up at the cop guarding the body. A young woman who looked no more than twenty-three.

‘Who took the gun?’ he asked.

‘Sergeant Rothschild, Detective.’

He nodded. Rothschild had seized the shotgun, too. Good. That meant they were in good hands.

Striker looked back at the woman. ‘When Jim Banner from Ident gets here, tell him I’m already up in the suite.’

The cop said she would, and Striker left the dead body of Billy Mercury lying in the middle of the lane. He walked to the parking lot and took note of the licence plates of the vehicles left in the lot – the Toyota Tercel and the old van. Neither came back to Billy Mercury, and within minutes, both the owners were located as living in one of the bottom suites.

Disappointing, Striker thought.

He had hoped for a lead.

He left the vehicles behind and slowly started back towards Safe Haven Suites. The wooden stairs creaked loudly as he walked them, as if warning him once more. But he continued on.

Pandora’s Box had already been opened. He might as well see what was inside.

The door to Billy Mercury’s unit was painted dark brown and had been labelled not with a proper sign but a thick smear of white paint:

103.

The door was already open, though just a few inches.

Striker stopped in the entranceway and took out his flashlight. This was one part of the investigation he was not going to rush. Billy had been excessively paranoid, and Striker was worried about encountering IEDs – improvised explosive devices – in the suite.

Booby-traps.

Without opening the door any further, Striker shone his flashlight inside the apartment. He looked all around the edge of the door and saw no signs of tampering – no wires or snares or flip-switches. Satisfied, he gloved up with fresh blue latex, grimacing as it snapped against his burned hand. He pushed on the door lightly. It glided open effortlessly and soundlessly, revealing the apartment inside.

All the lights were out. Only the rear window offered some natural light. Striker scanned the suite. What he saw was surprising.

The place was damn near empty. The apartment owned nothing but two wooden chairs and a small table in the far corner of the room. On it was an old desktop computer and a mouse with keyboard, along with some papers and pill bottles.

Striker turned his eyes from the computer to the rest of the tiny apartment. Like any Single Room Occupancy dump, it was an all-in-one – a kitchen, washroom, and a common room, which also served as a bedroom.

The place was almost empty of furniture. No bed sat in the corner, just a blanket and a pillow on the ground. But at least the floor was clean. The blanket had been spread out into a perfect creaseless rectangle. Billy Mercury had made his bed after getting up in the morning.

Striker found that odd. It didn’t seem to go with his psychosis.

In the same corner of the room was a pile of clothes. Striker inspected them. All were freshly laundered, ironed and folded precisely.

Striker noted that, too.

He looked briefly around the kitchenette. The plates had been washed and set in the drying tray; the counters were clean; and when he opened up the cupboards and fridge, there was plenty of food. Basic stuff. Peanut butter and jam. Bread. Coffee and cream. Some Raisin Bran cereal.

None of it was expired.

Striker checked out the washroom and saw that there was deodorant, toothpaste, dental floss and soap. The only towel in the room had been hung up to dry. So had the floor mat.

Everything was clean and well cared for.

Striker took out his notebook and wrote down the details. When he put it away, he looked up and saw that the far wall was covered by two large maps. One of Kandahar, and one of the Lower Mainland – which constituted Vancouver and all the surrounding subsections. All across the Kandahar map were small red X-marks and the word: Daemon. Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.

Striker turned his eyes to the second map – the one of the Lower Mainland. On it were no scribblings, only a series of X-marks. Striker looked at them all and felt a cold sensation spread through his core.

Union Street and Gore Avenue. Hermon Drive and East 5th. The thirty-eight hundred block of Adanac Street in Burnaby – they matched the residences of Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.

The thought made Striker check his iPhone again, to see if there were any more messages from Larisa. But once again he was let down. None had been received.

He looked at the torn-up notebook pages on the table. All were the same, filled with barely legible scribblings. Words like Daemons, and Shadow men, and Succubus. Next to the collection of papers was a row of pill bottles. They were lined up perfectly.

Striker looked at them.

The bottles were all from Mapleview Clinic, and they each had Dr Ostermann’s name and what appeared to be a prescription number on the label. There were three different types of medication: Effexor and Lexapro were medications Striker was familiar with, but the last one – Risperidone – he had never heard of before. He took out his iPhone and Googled the medication. When he found a webpage listing, one word caught his attention:

Antipsychotic.

He put his iPhone away, moved up to the computer and grabbed the mouse. The moment he moved it the black screen of the monitor disappeared and was replaced by the white and blue page of MyShrine:

I saw them first in Afghanistan and Kandahar. In human form. They came in rows, wave after wave of masks.

But I KNEW what they were. The other soldiers may have been blind, but not me. I saw through the shells. And I took them all down. A soldier. An emissary. The HAMMER OF GOD!!!

Then I was, as I am today.

There is only one way to kill a daemon. A goddam Succubus. And that is through the heart.

The words made Striker pause.

A daemon – evil.

A succubus – the female.

Through the heart – the target area where the bullet had struck Felicia.

Striker leaned back against the wall as he realized this. ‘He warned me,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus Christ, he fucking warned me, right there in the wording. And I never saw it.’

Thoughts of Felicia taking that bullet flooded him and left him nauseous. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. But he hadn’t, and it had almost cost Felicia her life.

He would never forgive himself for that.

The thought remained heavy in his head, even when he turned away from the computer and spotted the landline telephone on the kitchen counter. He walked over and picked it up. Hit Redial. The call was picked up by a woman.

‘EvenHealth,’ she said. ‘How may I direct your call?’

‘Sorry, wrong number,’ Striker said, and hung up.

He scrolled back through the incoming calls and saw that the most recent two calls were blocked. Blocked calls were nothing out of the ordinary, but Striker didn’t like the timing. He called up his contact at the Bell, a guy named Clyde Hall, and asked him to run the incoming calls for Billy Mercury’s telephone number.

‘Off the record, of course,’ Striker added.

Clyde got back to him in less than thirty seconds. ‘Only two calls exist for today.’

Striker nodded as if the man could see him. ‘Numbers and times, Clyde.’

‘No problem.’

Clyde gave him the information, and Striker took it down. After thanking the man and hanging up, he looked at the data and frowned.

There was a correlation here.

Someone had called Billy Mercury’s telephone from an untraceable prepaid cell at exactly 1517 hours. This matched the time they left Mapleview Clinic. And then someone from the same untraceable cell had called again, just three minutes later – the time that they had arrived on scene at Billy’s.

A warning? Striker thought. A tip-off?

Or someone giving instructions?

He looked at the crazy writings on the table and at the delusional message on the MyShrine page, then he looked over at the folded clothes on the chair and the smoothed-out creaseless blanket in the corner of the room. Everything in this place spoke of madness and yet logic, delusions and yet clear, concise thought. And no matter where he looked, he saw no video recording equipment.

He didn’t like it. A bad feeling hung heavy in his chest. His instincts kicked in, and they were the one thing Striker never ignored. Something was wrong here.

They were missing something.

Fifty-Six

When Striker walked down the old wooden staircase to the north lane of Pender Street, directly behind Billy’s apartment, he saw that Car 10 had arrived. It was hard not to notice the man. Inspector Laroche was being his usual overbearing self.

Striker stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the scene. Both ends of the block had been taped off with big yellow smears of police tape, and news crews had already huddled at each end – BCTV to the east; CBC to the west. They had probably all driven up after the Hermon Drive fire. High overhead, the Chopper 9 news crew floated about beneath the clouds, its omniscient eye taking in the full scene.

Striker refused to look up.

Already, Noodles had arrived and was standing centre stage in this drama, by the body of Billy Mercury. The Ident technician had already taped off the surrounding area, set up cones, and was busy taking photographs. Click-click-click.

Striker approached the man, got to within twenty feet, and was cut off by the inspector. Laroche’s normally pale face was flushed red and his hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips.

‘Jesus Christ, Striker,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

Striker blinked. ‘What? What was I thinking?’

‘You’re damn right, what were you thinking. You just gunned down a mentally ill man – and you’re supposed to be on medical leave!’

Striker couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his jaw tighten. Billy Mercury had just killed two cops. And two paramedics, too. Mentally ill, he might have been. But so what?

‘He was a cop-killer.’

Laroche’s face remained tight. ‘He was a man who thought he was saving the world from demons.’ Laroche threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh Christ, it’s all over the radio, every thirty seconds: a mentally ill man, who was in our custody, is now dead along with four emergency workers.’ Laroche looked around the area, then shook his head as if bewildered. ‘You should have waited for cover, Striker! For the Emergency Response Team. And the mental health car. A negotiator. Christ, you didn’t even have a less lethal unit on scene!’

Less lethal – a beanbag shotgun or a Taser. Or, if the Emergency Response Team was around, an Arwen gun.

Striker frowned at that. He stepped forward into the inspector’s personal space and lowered his voice. ‘All other units were already searching other areas or stuck in containment. ERT was out at the range and too far away. And the doctor was our negotiator,’ he said. ‘I also had a Taser on the way. They just didn’t make it here in time because there was no time. He ambushed us.’

Laroche was unwavering. ‘Of course he did. What did you expect? You corner a dog and he’ll bite, Striker. Every single time.’

‘I did what was necessary.’

‘No, what you did was create a situation here where there was no way out for anyone involved – not unless someone got shot. It’s called Officer-Created Jeopardy. And make no mistake about it, that’s exactly how the press will view this thing. Every goddam newspaper and newsreel’s gonna have the Big Story, and it’ll go on for weeks, if not months. It’s gonna rain down on us now.’

Striker looked down at Laroche and felt like grabbing him and twisting him into a pretzel. ‘You think I give two shits about the friggin’ media?’ he asked. ‘Felicia took one in the chest, and you’re worried about how this will look on the friggin’ news?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s chest. ‘No one would’ve been shot period if you had followed proper procedure.’

‘It was a dynamic situation.’

‘Because you made it that way. You’re just lucky that Dr Ostermann wasn’t hurt or killed in the process.’ Laroche shook his head. He took in a long breath, then seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, Striker. I’m glad you’re okay. And Felicia, too. But you guys royally fucked this one. And I’ll be sending my findings to the Police Board for review.’

‘You do that,’ Striker said. ‘Be sure to include the part about how I warned you this would happen back on Hermon Drive, when you refused to charge Mercury and send him to jail. When you let him be transported in an ambulance instead of a police wagon, despite the fact he had just tried to burn up two cops. Make sure you include all of that – because I most certainly will when I write up my response through the Union.’

For a moment, Laroche seemed even smaller than his fivefoot-seven frame. Moments later, a camera crew from one of the unaccredited news groups was caught trying to sneak in between the houses from the south side of the laneway. Laroche went rushing over, and Striker turned and spotted Sergeant Mike Rothschild entering the strip.

‘How you holding out?’ Rothschild asked.

‘I need to check on Felicia.’

‘Burnaby General. Go there. I’ll take over the scene here.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.’

The sergeant grinned. ‘Just get out of here before Hitler there knows you’re gone.’

Striker didn’t have to be told twice. He walked back to Kootenay Street where they had dumped the wheels, and climbed inside the cruiser. Moments later, he was headed down Boundary Road for Burnaby General Hospital. Where Felicia and Dr Ostermann had been taken.

It was less than ten minutes away.

Fifty-Seven

The Adder was shaking. Shaking so hard he could hardly hold on to the rungs of the ladder as he made his way deeper and deeper into his room. When his feet touched concrete, he raced across the room and slid the disc into the player so hard and fast he nearly jammed the machine.

The DVD began playing and the screen came to life.

On it was the woman cop. Standing in the laneway. Watching the big detective move slowly up the stairs. She was beautiful – the Adder could see that in his analytical, separated way – with her long brown hair draping down the caramel skin of her neck. She was in her prime, no doubt, bursting with beauty and energy and radiance. Like a star going supernova.

The Adder watched her, standing there, completely unaware of the hidden threat. Then the bullets came.

One – a miss.

Two – another miss.

And then three – the most perfect, wonderful shot he had ever seen. A lightning bolt from an angel. And suddenly Detective Felicia Santos was reeling. She arched backwards, landed hard on the pavement, and lay there with a stunned look in her pretty eyes.

The camera angle was bad, and the Adder had to zoom in to see the expression on her face. And that was when he discovered the God-awful truth of what had happened. She opened her eyes, and touched her chest . . .

The vest.

The goddam Kevlar vest.

‘NO!’ he screamed. ‘NOOOO!’

Shaking all over, uncontrollably, he took the disc from the tray and snapped it in half, slicing his hand as he did so. Then he stepped forward and kicked the cabinet. Hard. The entire thing swayed back and forth, as if it would tip over and come crashing down on the concrete.

The Adder could not have cared less.

His moment of pure, untainted beauty – stolen from him in an instant.

‘No,’ he said again, though softer this time. And now there were tears leaking from his eyes. Big salty drops rolling down his cheeks.

It was unfair.

So terribly unfair.

Soon his head began to pound, to throb. It was as if there was a worm inside his skull, eating away at his brain tissue. And then the sounds came back, flooding him, deluging him, drowning him in great, awesome waves.

The laughter.

Then the snapping and cracking.

And then the silence. That horrible, horrible silence.

With unsteady hands, the Adder scrambled for his iPod. Jammed in the headphones. Hit Play. And listened to the white noise. Turned it up to full volume.

But this time, it did little good.

The sounds of the outside world did not matter now, for they were overpowered by the ones that echoed inside his head. All he could hear was the loud cracking sounds of ice and that coldness washing all over him again.

Relax, he told himself. You have to relax.

But it did little good.

He was unravelling.

Fifty-Eight

By the time Striker made it to Burnaby General Hospital, his heart was racing and his mood was darkening quicker than the five o’clock skyline. No matter how many times he tried to erase the memory of the MyShrine taunt the Adder had left him, the image remained.

He parked the undercover cruiser out front in the Police Only parking, climbed out, and walked in through the Emergency Room front doors. Inside, the hospital was packed. A line of weary-looking patients snaked along the hall, and another group lined up all the way to the entrance doors. It was busy, but still nowhere near the chaos that ruled at St Paul’s.

Striker made his way down the hall to a patient room that consisted of six beds, separated only by hanging drapes. Felicia was in the sixth one. Striker was surprised to see her already in the process of tightening her suit belt, and wincing from the pressure. She looked up and spotted him. A look of relief fell across her face, and she smiled.

‘Hey, Tiger.’

Striker walked over and helped her with her coat. ‘You’re done?’

She nodded. ‘Yeah. Fast Track – it pays to be the police.’

‘And what did they find?’

‘The body of a twenty-year-old woman,’ she said with a grin.

‘Hell, I can find one of those.’

She smiled at his comment and when she did Striker felt something tug at his heart strings. At thirty-two years of age, Felicia was almost ten years his junior. It was not a lot of time, but enough to feel the difference. Sometimes she seemed generations away from him. And then, at times like these, time didn’t even exist.

‘How are you?’ he asked, the humour all gone from his voice. ‘Really, Feleesh.’

She shrugged carefully. ‘Some of my ribs are bruised, especially around my breastbone, but nothing got broken. Not even a hairline fracture. Trauma plate took the full brunt of it. I think I’ll have the thing framed and put on the wall . . . I got lucky this time.’

‘Not as lucky as me,’ he replied.

She reached out and touched his face. Striker grabbed her around the waist and gently pulled her close and gave her a long soft hug. He buried his face in her hair. Breathed in. Smelled that familiar vanilla scent.

She felt so, so good. He never wanted to let go.

Felicia pushed him back softly. ‘Jacob, people are looking.’

‘Let them look,’ he said. ‘Hell, let’s give them a show.’

She laughed at that, then winced. ‘My ribs.’

When he finally pulled back from her, her cheeks were slightly red from blushing and she stood there looking awkward. Striker wanted to kiss her. Right there in the hospital.

But something else broke into his mind. He turned his eyes from Felicia to the rest of the unit and saw that each and every bed was already filled with someone he didn’t recognize. He frowned.

‘Where the hell is Dr Ostermann?’

Felicia frowned. ‘The good doctor checked himself out as quickly as he could. I told him to wait here for us, that we would need a written statement from him and all that, but he kept saying he was worried about his staff – it seemed like a line to me.’

‘A convenient one.’

‘Either way, he took off outta here once he was done. When the nurse was checking me over. He left.’

Striker didn’t like it. Honest men didn’t run. And he didn’t buy the fact that Ostermann was worried about his staff. For one, he didn’t seem like that kind of boss. For two, they’d already told him everyone was fine. He was about to comment on it when his cell went off. He looked down at the screen and saw the name Jim Banner displayed. He picked up.

‘What you got for me, Noodles?’

‘How’s Felicia?’ he asked.

‘She’s okay, she’s right here with me.’

Noodles let out a relieved sound, then got right down to business. ‘I managed to pull another print off the fridge in unit 305,’ he said. ‘A palm print.’

‘It comes back to Mercury, right?’

‘Actually, it comes back to no one.’

This startled Striker. Mercury was a soldier. His prints were on file. ‘You mean the print wasn’t good enough?’ he asked.

‘No, I mean the print doesn’t belong to Billy Mercury.’

Striker felt his mood darken a little further. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

‘That’s it.’

‘Then I’ll get back to you later.’

Striker hung up the phone and relayed the information to Felicia. She didn’t seem concerned one way or the other. ‘A thousand people might have been in that suite,’ she said. ‘We never knew for sure if the print belonged to the suspect. Obviously, it doesn’t.’

Striker said nothing; he wasn’t so sure. He stood there, brooding, and thought of everything from the bad print to the way Ostermann had run out of the hospital. And the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. After a long moment, he met Felicia’s stare again.

‘You done here?’ he asked.

‘I was twenty minutes ago.’

‘Good, then let’s go find Dr Ostermann . . . The man has a lot of explaining to do.’

The moment they were back in the cruiser, Striker started the engine and Felicia turned on the heater. The sun was still out, but just barely. It was half-past five, and the oncoming winter evening was invading everything in its path.

While the car warmed up, Striker brought Felicia up to speed on everything that had happened while she was being escorted to the hospital – everything from Laroche’s accusations of Officer-Created Jeopardy to the conflicting evidence he’d found inside Billy Mercury’s apartment. When he was done with the debrief, his mind felt more settled. More focused.

And specific facts stuck out.

He looked at Felicia. ‘So with the exception of the Risperidone – which is an antipsychotic, by the way – every other medication Billy was on is the exact same as those for Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.’

She nodded absently as she thought this over. ‘But is that because they’re cookie-cutter referrals, or because each one of those patients suffered from the exact same disorder? Maybe those medications work most effectively in that combination.’

Striker bit his cheek as he thought. ‘That’s not what bothers me. What does is the preference of the drug type.’

‘I don’t follow.’

He explained. ‘There’s over a thousand types of mood stabilizers out there, but our victims and our bad guy were on the same type. And the same type of antidepressant as well.’

‘So? They were also all in the same programme.’

‘And therein lies the problem,’ Striker said. ‘Dr Ostermann is the one who runs the therapy group, this SILC or whatever the hell it’s called. And yet, with the exception of Billy, the one who’s providing all the medications is Dr Richter. Why is that?’

‘Is it really all that important?’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no. But this much is certain: Dr Richter is one of the main connections here – to Mandy and Sarah through their medications, and to Larisa through the counselling.’

‘And Billy?’

‘Indirectly through the Mapleview Clinic. With Ostermann. And all their rehabilitative programmes.’

Felicia nodded. ‘And no callback from Richter yet?’ she asked.

‘No, and I’ve left several messages. But in reality it’s only been twenty-four hours.’ Striker thought this over. ‘Maybe, in the end, there’s a logical answer to Richter and Ostermann being involved.’

‘There is. It’s called counselling,’ Felicia said.

Striker raised a hand defensively. ‘I’m not completely discounting their validity here, I’m just . . . analysing things. Carefully.’ Striker looked out of the window, at the sun which was now slowly falling in the west, into a darkening blue skyline. ‘There’s something else, too.’

‘What?’

‘The gun Mercury used. Dispatch broadcast that it was taken from one of the fallen officers.’

‘The unit on scene said that.’

Striker nodded. ‘Well, that was a mistake. It wasn’t even a SIG Sauer. Maybe a nine mil.’

Felicia nodded. ‘Then let’s trace it.’

Striker agreed. He got on the phone and called Noodles, hitting Speakerphone as it dialled. The technician answered on the second ring. ‘Shipwreck,’ he said.

‘The gun,’ Striker replied. ‘You have a chance to check it yet?’

‘Sure. It’s been almost two hours since the shooting, so the entire scene has been photographed, the body autopsied, the gun tested for ballistics – and oh yeah, I also discovered the cure for cancer.’

Felicia laughed at this; Striker did not.

‘I need the results on that gun, Noodles. And I need them quick.’

The man just laughed sourly. ‘Can’t run it through the registry anyway, if that’s what you’re thinking – there’s no serial.’

Striker cursed. He should have figured as much. ‘They filed it off?’

‘Filed and acid burned.’

‘Really?’ Striker thought this over. He said goodbye to Noodles and hung up the phone. Then he turned in the seat to face Felicia. ‘Doesn’t that seem a little strange to you?’

‘What part?’

‘The whole thing. Billy somehow obtains a gun—’

‘Nothing surprising there. The guy was in the army. Did time overseas. He could probably get a rocket launcher, if he wanted one.’

‘Fine, fine, I’ll give him that. But then he files off the serial numbers and acid treats the metal.’

‘So?’

‘Two questions: one, would someone as delusional as Billy Mercury be focused on doing something like that in his current mental state? And two, why would he bother getting rid of the serial numbers in the first place? Did he think we’d never guess his identity? It was a suicide mission. He went toe-to-toe with us in a gun battle. Does it make sense from a psychological perspective?’

Felicia shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’m not a psychiatrist.’

‘Exactly, and the one we wanted to talk to skipped the hospital the moment he got a chance.’

Felicia nodded. ‘He really hightailed it.’

Striker turned back in his seat. He put the car into Drive, hit the gas, and pulled back on to the road. But instead of heading west, he headed north. Felicia cast him a questioning stare.

‘Where we going?’ she asked.

‘Back to Mapleview. I’m seizing Mercury’s medical files.’