Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Sixty-Nine

The Adder had no idea what time it was when he finished the set-up. It could have been eight o’clock at night, it could have been well into the morning hours. He did not know. He did not care. Time held little importance to him, and he only took careful note of it when on a mission. All that mattered now was that the set-up was complete. And that it was done well.

It was.

The bulk of the camera’s body sat within the steel bracket, which was screwed securely to the two-by-four beams of the dumbwaiter. The lens poked through the small hole in the wall, coming flush with the other side – just a one-inch lens that focused on the centre part of the Doctor’s private room.

The forbidden room.

The Adder turned on the camera and looked at the LED screen. The image displayed was angled perfectly. It captured the oak bureau across the room. The four-poster king-sized bed in the centre of the room. The locked cabinet in the far corner.

The camera took in everything.

As if scripted, the Doctor returned, and not alone. At first the Adder reared from the camera and started to make his way back down the long and narrow chute of the dumbwaiter. But something made him pause.

A dark curiosity.

He climbed back to the top and stared at the camera’s LED screen. Already the motion sensor had been triggered and the recording had been started. The two people in the room were beginning. The Adder had heard the act before. He had seen the results. He had known it existed.

But he had never actually seen it.

Now, as he stood in the darkness and watched the Doctor unlock the cabinet, a strange feeling invaded his chest. And it only got worse when he saw what the Doctor pulled out.

He should have felt shock. Fear. Revulsion. He should have felt all of these things, he knew, but he felt none of them. All he experienced was a growing tension in his chest, one that spread all throughout his core as he watched the LED screen in near disbelief.

When the screams began and the first glimpse of blood appeared, the Adder wanted to leave the chute, but he did not. He stayed there, fixated, immobile. A statue in the dark.

He just could not take his eyes away.

Seventy

The traffic was surprisingly bad, so they were later than anticipated. Striker half expected Meathead to be gone by the time they reached the north end of the Cambie Street bridge. But within seconds of reaching the bottom of Nelson Street, Felicia spotted a group of big men clad in black jump suits. In the heavy darkness of the night, they blended well. Most of them were climbing into a white van that was parked kerbside.

They were ERT. The Emergency Response Team.

Canada’s answer to SWAT.

The cluster of cops were Red Team, and Striker knew most of them: Reid Noble, who everyone called Jitters. Davey Combs, who was only five foot six but over two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. And Victor Santos, who was a crazy-ass bastard and – thank God – no relation to Felicia. Their sergeant, Zulu 51, was Tyrone Takuto, a top-notch Eurasian cop Striker had known and respected for years. He would be Chief one day. Striker knew it.

All the men looked tired from training, but happy to be going. It was Miller time.

Striker parked on Nelson and scanned the street both ways. ‘You see Meathead anywhere?’

‘Just in my nightmares,’ Felicia said.

Striker laughed at that. She had barely spoken the words when they looked up at the nearest skyscraper and spotted the man. Meathead was rappelling down the south side of the building. He was three storeys up and still looked massive. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with.

He saw Striker from the second storey level and gave a holler. When his eyes found Felicia, a large smile spread his lips and he yelled out, ‘Hey, honey-cakes, can I come down there and butter your muffin?’

‘Butter this!’ she called back.

Meathead let out a hoarse laugh, then rappelled down to ground level. He tried to lever down, did it a bit too fast, and accidentally unclipped before his feet were fully planted. He fell awkwardly, landing half on his ass, half on his hands.

‘Smooth,’ Felicia said.

Meathead looked up and grinned. ‘I always fall for the hotties.’

She made an ugh sound.

‘I was referring to Shipwreck.’

Meathead let out a hyena laugh and climbed to his feet. Striker was six foot one and two hundred and twenty pounds. No small man. And yet next to Meathead, he felt undersized. He moved up to the breacher, and the two bantered about their old partnership days for a few minutes. Then Meathead packed up his gear and started placing it in the transport van.

‘About the gear,’ Striker said.

Meathead nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. I got what you need right here, but you got to get it back to me tonight or Stark will have my balls in a sling.’

Striker nodded. James Stark was the inspector in charge of the Emergency Response Team. He was a by-the-book guy and would never have allowed Striker the gear he wanted without the proper paperwork – and even then, probably not. ERT was his baby, and he liked to keep it separate.

Meathead was sticking his neck out for them on this one, and Striker appreciated it.

‘Scout’s honour,’ he said.

Meathead just gave him a look like he didn’t fully believe him. Still he grabbed two pairs of night vision binoculars from his gear bag. He handed one to Striker, and Striker took it. When Felicia reached for hers, Meathead held them up to his eyes, looked at her chest, and said, ‘Yummy.’

‘Give me the goddam binocs,’ she said.

When Meathead held them out again, she snatched them away from him. She gave Striker a hard look and said, ‘I still think we should be getting SF for this.’

SF. Strike Force. The Vancouver Police Surveillance Team.

Striker frowned. Felicia had already brought up the topic in the car and, as usual, she was refusing to let the issue go.

‘We can do this ourselves,’ he said.

‘We’re not trained for it.’

‘Trained?’ He laughed. ‘We’re not going mobile, we’re just setting up a stake-out. Like a drug buy. God, how many of those have you done?’

Felicia just shrugged. She’d probably done over a hundred in her time.

‘We’re just making observations,’ Striker said.

‘SF is still the best way to go.’

‘And SF will take time,’ he argued. ‘Time to write up the forms. Time to make the requests. Time for them to be read over and approved. And you know as well as I do that Laroche does nothing out of policy.’

Felicia said nothing for a long moment, then looked at her watch.

‘It’s getting late,’ she said.

Striker agreed. He looked at Meathead. ‘I’ll put these back in your locker when we’re done.’

‘Be sure you do,’ he said. ‘This is my ass on the line.’

Striker said nothing more. He took the gear with him and stuffed it in the trunk. When Felicia returned to the car, they hopped inside and got going. It was going on for nine o’clock now, and there was no time to waste.

The Endowment Lands were only ten minutes away.

The Ostermann house was on Belmont Avenue.

Striker parked a few blocks out and they went in on foot, coming in from the west. When they reached the lot, Striker slowed down. Inside the gated entrance, the house sat with most of the lights turned off. Only a few were left on – the ones in the library and kitchen, most noticeably.

‘Looks like no one’s home,’ Felicia said.

Striker pointed to the Land Rover parked beside the house and the BMW in the drive. ‘Someone’s home.’

He assessed the house. The rooms that interested him the most – the master bedroom, the office and what appeared to be the study – were all located on the southwest side. That made the small grove of Japanese plum trees the best vantage point for surveillance. There was a small elevation there, near that corner of the yard, and the area was dark.

‘Over there,’ he suggested.

‘I already see it,’ Felicia said.

Striker looked at the neighbouring lot, the one to the east. There were no dogs. No sign of people. And all the lights in the house were off, as if the owners were away for the night.

It was the perfect place for entry.

Gear in hand, they made their way into the neighbouring lot. All down the yard, a stone-and-cement wall separated the two properties. When they were a third of the way down, in behind the tall, bony Japanese plum trees, Striker stopped. He checked his cell phone to be sure it was set on vibrate, then looked at Felicia.

‘Make sure your ringer is off.’

She did.

Satisfied, he assessed the wall. It was eight feet high, so he had to give Felicia a boost over. Once she was there, he took a running start, sprung up off the wall and pulled himself over behind her.

In the Ostermann yard everything was quiet and still. From the grassy elevation they knelt on, the entire south and east sides of the mansion could be seen. Between the trees to the north, Striker could see past the end of the floodlit yard to the cliffs beyond. Out in the strait, the moon shimmered off the waves and made the water look like smoked glass.

‘We can see the bedroom, den and study from here,’ Felicia noted. ‘But the library and kitchen are completely out of view.’

Striker nodded. ‘Then go around back. See if you can find a different vantage point for the kitchen and library. When you get one, call me. That way we’ll have the whole house covered.’

Felicia climbed to her feet and slowly made her way down the east side of the house. When she turned the corner, she was blocked from sight by the barbecue area. With her out of sight, Striker took out his binocs and used them to focus in on the front of the house.

In the driveway was Dr Ostermann’s BMW. Parked at the east side of the house was the Land Rover. Striker looked past it, past the stone-and-steel pillars of the driveway and the old-fashioned lanterns that lined the cobblestone walkways. He focused on the window to the doctor’s study.

The blind was drawn, the drapes pulled shut behind it.

His cell vibrated against his side, so he snatched it up and brought it to his ear.

‘I have a good position,’ Felicia said. ‘I can see the entire north and west sides of the house.’

‘Anything of interest?’

Felicia made an unhappy sound. ‘The place looks empty.’

‘Just keep watching. And be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’

He hung up and looked at the house.

For a long moment, he watched the study, staring at the blind as if it would suddenly pop open and reveal to him the secrets that lay behind it. It didn’t, of course, and after a few more minutes, Striker placed his focus on the office below. It appeared vacant. All the lights were off. There was no movement inside.

He looked at the master bedroom. There the drapes were only half pulled shut, but with the telescopic lens of the binocs he could see inside.

Everything there was just as dark and still as the office.

He was just about to reposition himself to be more comfortable, when the bedroom door opened and the light flicked on. Walking in through the door was Dr Ostermann – although walking seemed an odd word for it. He moved gingerly, limping more than walking. And when he began to take off his shirt, the action clearly pained him. He slid the shirt off his body and let it drop to the floor.

As Striker watched the man, he noticed a few long reddish marks. Scratch marks maybe. One ran down the side of the man’s neck and one trailed across the top of his back. He tried to focus in for a better look, but the doctor stepped out of view and remained hidden behind the partly closed curtains.

Striker remembered how gingerly the man had moved the first time he had met him – just hours after the suspect had fought with him and jumped out of the third-storey window of Mandy Gill’s building.

Now, here he was, seemingly injured again.

It was strange.

The thought had barely formed in his mind when the front door suddenly swung open. From the house ran Dalia. She had her hands over her ears and her face was tight. She raced across the front yard, opened the gate, and then ran down Belmont Avenue to the west. When she reached the next lot, Striker lost sight of her.

Something was wrong.

Striker took out his cell and called Felicia. ‘You getting anything back there?’

‘Nothing. All dead.’

‘Well, I got the doctor in view, and he looks like he’s been in a fight again. Plus, Dalia just went racing out of the house like it was on fire. Something’s going on here, Feleesh. I’m moving in for a closer look.’

‘Let’s get another unit here first.’

‘This will just take a second.’

‘There’s something weird about this family, Jacob. I don’t like it. It’s not safe.’

‘No police work is.’

‘This is different.’

‘Just cover me, Feleesh. Cover me and keep your radio turned on.’

He hung up the phone, got up from his prone position and made his way through the plum trees. As he reached the driveway and roundabout, he tucked the binoculars inside his inner coat pocket, then made his way up the steps of the front walkway.

The front door was half open, and everything inside the mansion was quiet and still. Down at the far end of the hall, the lights from the kitchen and library were on, flooding the area with bone-yellow light.

No one was there.

Striker stepped inside the foyer. The air felt hot compared to outside, and the soft hum of the furnace filled his ears.

‘Hello?’ he called out.

No response.

He leaned back outside and hit the doorbell. Loud chimes rang through the house, echoing in the foyer. Moments later, the sound of footsteps could be heard, stomping across the hardwood floor above.

Master bedroom, Striker deemed.

He waited patiently as the footsteps grew louder, until Dr Ostermann appeared at the top of the stairs. Even from a floor away, the beads of sweat on the man’s skin were noticeable, as was the heavy breathing of his chest. His dark eyes were acute and flitted constantly around the foyer, even if his body moved lethargically. He took one step down the mahogany staircase and, upon seeing Striker, came to a sudden stop.

‘Detective,’ he said. He could not hide the surprise in his voice. ‘This is rather . . . unexpected.’

‘You and I need to talk.’

Dr Ostermann nodded slowly. ‘Need to talk . . . Well, yes, of course. Why don’t you drop by tomorrow morning and we—’

‘Not tomorrow. Now,’ Striker said.

He closed the door behind him.

Seventy-One

For some reason, the library was excessively hot and humid. Hot air blew in from the furnace ducts all around the room, strong and steady. Striker closed one of the vents with the toe of his shoe. As he looked around the room, he saw the Ostermann family’s photographs on the mantel once more. Staring back at him were the pictures of Lexa and Dalia, Dr Ostermann and Gabriel. The first time Striker had come here, something about these pictures had bothered him. At the time, he didn’t know what.

Now he understood.

It was the smiles. Each one near perfect, as if carved into their faces. But there were signs within those expressions of other emotions. The fear in Lexa Ostermann’s eyes; the hollowness in Dalia’s stare; and the way that Gabriel looked back, eyes acute and focused, the smile on his lips never causing a wrinkle near his eyes or brow.

It was all plastic.

Only the doctor looked truly happy, his smile stretching his goatee across his face. The rest of the family looked like they were all wearing masks. Striker wondered what was behind each one. As he considered this, Dr Ostermann stepped into the room behind him. His face looked tired and his slumped posture was no different.

‘This is about Billy again, I would presume.’

Striker gestured towards the picture of Dalia. ‘She’s a beautiful girl.’

Dr Ostermann nodded, almost hesitantly. ‘She is that. She is also stubborn and defiant and complicated.’

‘How is her hearing?’

The doctor blinked. ‘Her hearing? Why, it’s fine, as far as I’m aware. Why do you ask?’

‘Because she ran out of here like a bat outta hell, covering her ears. So I’m thinking either she’s been hearing things she doesn’t like, or there’s a problem with her ears.’

Dr Ostermann’s face turned slightly pink. ‘What are you here for, Detective?’

‘I came here to discuss some . . . oddities that keep popping up with Billy’s case, but then when Dalia came racing out of the front door, I reconsidered.’

‘I can assure you, Detective, you do not need to worry about Dalia.’

‘I think I do.’ Striker took a step closer to Dr Ostermann and gazed at the side of the man’s neck. At the crimson bands in his flesh. ‘Where’d you get those marks?’

Dr Ostermann’s face reddened further. ‘I hardly think that’s any of your business.’

‘Then we got a problem here, because I do think it’s my business. In fact, I think it’s my duty.’ Striker took his hands from his coat pockets and explained. ‘I got a girl racing out of here like the house is on fire, and I got you with marks up your neck and back, moving about with the sensitivity of a burn victim. All in all, it makes me ask myself: is everyone here all right?’

For a moment, Dr Ostermann’s eyes took on a strange, panicked look, and Striker half expected the man to run. Or maybe even attack. But the doctor did none of this. Dr Ostermann took a long look at him, as if to compose his thoughts, and then let out a jovial laugh.

‘You think I’m abusing my family?’ he asked.

‘It crossed my mind.’

Dr Ostermann finally stopped chuckling, and when he did all humour left his face. ‘You are quite the investigator, Detective Striker.’ He pulled his collar away from his neck, so that Striker could better see the marks. ‘It’s called shingles.’

‘Shingles?’

‘Yes. Brought on by the herpes zoster virus. I’m sure you’ve heard of it before – the chicken pox virus.’ When Striker said nothing back, Dr Ostermann continued. ‘It usually only comes out when a person is at their weakest. Which, I guess, would make it my own fault. I’ve been working weeks of sixty and seventy hours for half a year now. Stress at Mapleview; stress at Riverglen – it’s no wonder my body has become run-down. And then all the drama that was happening with Billy – well, I guess that was all it took to put me over the edge.’

‘Shingles,’ Striker said again.

Dr Ostermann nodded slowly. ‘It’s been a very unpleasant two days now. I have marks down my neck and back and waist – and I can hardly move. Even showering is painful.’

Striker said nothing back as he thought this over. ‘And Dalia?’ he asked.

Dr Ostermann sighed. ‘Fighting her mother – as usual. Which is why I was upstairs in the first place. They’re too much alike, those two, and when they get like that, it’s best to just leave them alone. Retreat to a place of solace.’

‘And where is your wife now then?’

‘In the bath, I would think. She was drawing one when I heard the doorbell.’ Dr Ostermann gave Striker a long look before sighing. ‘If you insist, I can get her out of the tub to come down here and talk to you.’

Striker ignored the comment and focused the conversation back on other matters. ‘How long were you treating Mandy for?’

Dr Ostermann raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re changing subjects, I see. How long did I treat Mandy Gill for? I’m not sure. A couple of years, I would think.’

‘And Sarah Rose?’

‘About the same.’

‘What about Billy?’

‘I’ve been treating Billy ever since he came back from Afghanistan and was recommended to my programme, which would be about three years ago – is there a point to all this, Detective?’

‘What about Larisa Logan? How long were you treating her?’

Dr Ostermann’s face took on a look of understanding, and he nodded. ‘I see now. Larisa. I’m afraid I can say little about her.’

‘I know you were treating her.’

‘I will neither confirm nor deny that.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Striker said. ‘I already have confirmation. I know that you were seeing all four patients – Mandy, Sarah, Billy and Larisa. Now three of them are dead and Larisa is missing. Does that not seem odd to you?’

Dr Ostermann gingerly sat down in one of the library chairs, letting out a tender sound as he did. ‘Unfortunately, Detective, it does not. All it tells me is that I should have seen how dangerous Billy was in the first place. It tells me that I failed at being his doctor and it cost two innocent people – maybe even three – their lives.’

Striker was unmoved. ‘It tells me something else – that maybe I’ve been looking at the wrong person.’

Dr Ostermann’s face had a lost expression; then it tightened and turned pink. ‘I understand your insinuation, Detective, and it is not appreciated.’

‘I wouldn’t think so.’

Dr Ostermann stood up from the chair. ‘I think it’s time you took your leave, sir. And when you return next time I should hope you have a warrant, for I will surely have spoken to my own counsel – criminal and civil. It would appear our friendly conversations are over.’

Striker nodded. ‘That choice is entirely yours.’

When Dr Ostermann gestured towards the library exit, Striker took a long look around the room, purposely taking his time, then walked down the hall towards the front door. When he reached the foyer, he ran right into Lexa Ostermann.

‘Detective Striker?’ she said, surprised.

‘Mrs Ostermann.’

She looked down at herself – at the revealing kimono she wore – and her cheeks blushed. She gestured upstairs, to the west side of the house. ‘I’m sorry . . . I was getting into the bath . . . I thought you were Dalia coming back . . .’

‘Do not speak to him,’ Dr Ostermann said, coming up behind them.

Lexa’s face took on a confused look.

Striker ignored the man. He nodded to Lexa, then moved to the front door. Once there, he turned around and looked at them. Dr Ostermann stood in the forefront, his face hard as rock, his fingers curled into fists. Behind him, on the first step, stood Lexa. Her cheeks were rosy with blush and her deep brown eyes looked uncertain beneath the long, blonde curls of hair that fell across her brow.

Shingles? Striker thought.

He thought of how he and Felicia had almost burned up in that fire. And he remembered the camera set up outside the window, facing in through the iron-barred panes of glass, capturing their demise. It angered him, and he felt like grabbing the doctor right there. Snapping him in two. Instead, he gave the man a long, hard look and smiled. ‘One last thing you might be interested in, Dr Ostermann . . . I know all about your videos.’

The angry, smug look fell from Dr Ostermann’s face and was replaced by a pale sick expression.

Lexa looked at her husband. ‘What videos? What is he talking about?’

Dr Ostermann said nothing. He reached out, and with a trembling hand opened the front door. ‘Goodnight, Detective.’

‘Not for you, it won’t be.’

Striker walked through the front door and never looked back.