Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Seventy-Two

The Adder was sitting on the cold concrete floor, in his Place of Solace, thinking of nothing when he heard the loud angry shrenk! of the hatch being opened. Had he not locked it? He turned around oddly from his seated position, surprised by the familiar sound, and slowly slid the DVD – his most precious of all the precious videos – into the inner pocket of his coat. Then he looked back up towards the hatch.

Clambering down the ladder was the Doctor.

This surprised the Adder, for no one ever came down here. No one. Not in ten years. This room had always been his, and his alone. Having the hatch opened at all was an intrusion.

He climbed to his feet and turned around.

The Doctor reached the bottom of the ladder. ‘You taped it? You taped it, didn’t you? You stupid, stupid fool!’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Don’t lie to me !’

SMACK!

The Adder felt his head jolt to the left and he reeled backwards, his cheek hot and stinging. For a moment, he did nothing. He just stood there in the centre of the room and felt the air hum about him. Felt that feeling wash over him once more. And suddenly he was fading again. Melting away into that other place. And the sounds started to come back, starting with the high-pitched laughter.

‘I need some space,’ he found himself saying. ‘I’m losing control.’

The Doctor paid him no attention and instead found the box of DVDs on the floor. With one quick swoop, they were taken away.

And just like that the Adder couldn’t breathe.

‘No,’ he managed to get out.

‘You can’t have these.’

‘They’re mine.’

‘I’m destroying them.’

‘No, they’re mine! They’re mine!’

The Adder felt his entire body begin to shake, so hard the room wobbled and vibrated all around him.

As always, the Doctor paid him no heed. Just ignored him. Climbed back up the ladder. And took away the videos of everything the Adder held precious in life. Everything the Adder loved. Everything the Adder needed to calm the frantic voices in his head and keep himself rooted in the reality of this cold and horrible world.

The hatch slammed shut.

And then he was alone again.

Just him and the voices.

‘No,’ he said softly, and then there was a desperation in his voice even he could hear. ‘NO!’

The voices came at him in waves. Thunderous, overpowering waves. And the Adder did the only thing he could do. He gave in and let the voices take him away. And after that he remembered nothing.

Seventy-Three

Striker exited the front walkway of the lot, rounded the corner on to the sidewalk and continued east until he was out of view. He then ran back down the side of the neighbour’s lot, climbed the wall and dropped down next to Felicia under the dark shadows of the plum trees.

‘I could kill you,’ she said.

‘I had to go in, we were getting nowhere.’

‘You should have waited for me!’ she whispered angrily. ‘You always do this.’

‘It wasn’t planned.’

‘Bullshit. Are we a partnership here, or not?’

Before Striker could respond, loud yelling noises came from within the residence. The words were impossible to make out, but the voices were definitely male and female. And Striker knew he had done his job well.

Dr Ostermann and his wife were fighting.

‘What did you do in there?’ Felicia asked.

He shrugged. ‘I just cornered a dog.’

Felicia gave him a hard look. ‘What else?’

Striker shrugged. ‘I bluffed him. Told him we knew about the videos.’

‘You what?’

‘Let him think we have more than we have,’ Striker said. ‘It worked, Feleesh. It connected. Like a friggin’ home run. You should’ve seen the look on his face. He damn near had a coronary right there in the foyer.’

‘But at what cost? Now he might destroy the evidence.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Never. If he’s making videos, then you know as well as I do what they are – his goddam trophies. He’ll keep them forever, even at the expense of being caught. But he will try to hide them.’

‘Probably immediately.’

‘Exactly, so get ready to motor.’

Striker focused back on the house. He’d barely lifted the binoculars to his eyes when a table lamp smashed out through a front-room window. Shards of glass littered the front lawn and driveway, and the lamp came crashing down on top of Dr Ostermann’s X5, denting the hood and cracking the windshield. Almost immediately, the car alarm went off and the street was filled with long, undulating wails.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said.

They both got up. Striker got on his phone and called Central Dispatch. Sue Rhaemer told him they were already getting a call from a frantic neighbour.

‘We’re already on scene,’ Striker told her. ‘And we’re going in.’

He hung up the phone and they headed for the house.

Felicia ran beside him. They crossed the lawn, reached the roundabout, and were just nearing the front door when Striker’s cell went off again. Thinking Sue Rhaemer was calling back, he snatched it up. But instead of hearing Sue’s scratchy voice, he heard the hardened tone of Jim Banner.

‘Noodles, I’m going into a domestic here.’

‘The Ostermann house?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then be careful. We got the prints back on the can of varnish. And we got a perfect hit on them.’

‘Who do they come back to?’

‘Who do you think?’ Noodles replied. ‘None other than the doctor himself. Erich Reinhold Ostermann.’

Seventy-Four

When Striker and Felicia reached the front alcove of the Ostermann mansion, they each took sides. Striker glanced at the broken shards of glass that covered the front lawn and driveway, then at the table lamp that had broken apart when smashing into the BMW. Lastly, he looked at the room above, where curtains now hung out of the window.

‘Watch our backs,’ he told Felicia and gestured towards the window.

‘Copy. You take the door.’

Striker did. He moved up to the front door and knocked hard.

‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Dr Ostermann, it’s Detectives Striker and Santos – come to the door!’

No response.

He pressed the doorbell and heard the chimes go off inside the house.

‘Dr Ostermann! Lexa!’ he called, then added, ‘Dalia? Gabriel?’

But again there was no response.

‘Fuck this,’ he said.

He stepped back from the door and gave it a quick once-over. The door was made from solid oak with steel hinges, and the surrounding frame looked strong. It was going to be a bitch to kick in, but what other option did they have?

Striker turned around and gave the door three heavy donkey kicks, placing the heel of his shoe between the lock and frame each time. On the third kick, the frame cracked. On the fourth, it splintered. And on the fifth, the entire structure broke apart and the front door went crashing inwards.

Striker pulled out his pistol and used the broken frame as cover. ‘Chunk out,’ he told Felicia. ‘Chunk out!’

She nodded and drew her pistol.

And they headed into the house.

They swept into the foyer and quickly took sides; Felicia got the east, Striker took west. Striker strained his ears to detect anything besides the blaring car alarm out front, but heard nothing.

The house was dead silent.

‘It’s too quiet in here,’ Felicia said.

‘Just be ready,’ Striker told her.

Together they cleared the bottom of the house, starting with the living room and den area, then carrying on into the kitchen, a sitting room and the library.

At the far end of the hallway was the last room, the office. Striker reached it, tried the doorknob, and found it locked. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He simply took a step back, then swung his leg forward and kicked the door in with one try.

The lock snapped and the door broke inwards, revealing a small secluded office. There were no windows in the room. No closets. And no other doors. Just a huge old wooden desk with a computer on it, a pair of chairs on one side, and the doctor’s chair on the other.

A place for private sessions? Striker wondered. The emptiness of the room seemed odd.

‘It’s clear,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘Upstairs then.’

They spun about and made their way back down the hall. When they reached the foyer, they turned and started up the stairs.

Felicia spoke. ‘We should have a second unit for this. Patrol cops will be here soon.’

‘Not soon enough,’ Striker replied.

He pressed on, up the stairs.

When they reached the landing, they stepped into a hallway that led in both directions. Striker paused. A strong smell filled the hall – clean, floral, earthy. After a moment, he figured it to be herbal additives from the bath Lexa had been taking. Lavender. Or juniper, maybe.

‘Hold west,’ he said. ‘Make sure no one comes up behind us. I’ll clear the east end first.’

‘Got it,’ Felicia said.

Striker made his way down the hall. He came to a bathroom, complete with shower and tub, but this was not where the smell was coming from. Once cleared, he made his way down the hallway, clearing two more bedrooms along the way. The smaller one belonged to Dalia, Striker presumed, for the clothes on the chair were almost Goth in style, dark and drab, and all the same. The pictures on the wall were equally morbid. Posters of Marilyn Manson and the like.

The second bedroom was the exact opposite. A guest bedroom of sorts that looked made for a queen. The bed was immense, a king-sized, four-poster number, covered with a thick burgundy quilt that matched the colour of the drapes, which now hung out of the broken window. In the far corner of the room was a pair of high-backed floral Victorian-style chairs, and opposite them was a small bar, complete with fridge and an ice-cube machine.

Striker cleared the room then made his way down the hall, and came up beside Felicia. She still had her pistol aimed down the other side of the landing.

‘It’s all clear,’ he said. ‘You ready?’

‘Just go.’

Together, they made their way down to the west end of the hallway. They passed an old storage room, which was empty save for a few piles of boxes and an older-style television set. Then they cleared a reading room with a huge bay window that looked north over the cliffs and harbour below. Out there, the night was black and the waters below looked deep and violent.

Striker had no time for the view, and he carried on. So far they’d cleared almost two out of three floors in the house, and they had yet to run into one member of the family.

Striker didn’t like it.

When they reached the only other bedroom on this floor, Striker paused. It was the master bedroom. He knew this from the way Lexa had gestured to it during their earlier conversation in the foyer.

Through the door he could smell that strong, earthy scent.

He gave Felicia the nod to make sure she was ready, then pushed open the door. Inside, a king-sized bed owned the middle of the room, unmade. Next to it, the drawers of the credenza had been opened and dumped.

‘It looks like the place has been ransacked,’ Felicia said.

‘Or like someone was getting ready to run away in the middle of the night.’

Striker stepped into the room. He cleared the walk-in closet to his left, then made his way towards the last door, which led to an ensuite. When he reached it, Striker readied his pistol and slowly pushed the door all the way open with his foot.

What he saw inside the bathroom shocked him.

The windows were fogged, and the air was hot and humid. Along the far wall sat a Jacuzzi tub, filled to the rim with hot foamy water. The foam was not white, however, it was a deep brownish-red colour – because in the centre of the tub lay Dr Erich Ostermann.

His eyes were like a doll’s eyes, wide open and unfocused, and his skin was ghostly white. One of his arms lay beneath the discoloured water of the tub; the other draped over the side. One look at it and Striker saw the meaty razor gash running down the length of the forearm, on into the wrist and palm. There were several, in fact.

Deep, grooved lines that no longer bled.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘He killed himself

‘Just watch our backs,’ Striker said.

He stepped carefully into the room and looked around the area. On the floor, by the foot of the tub, lay an old razor knife. The blade was brownish-red.

On top of the toilet-seat lid was a note and a key.

Striker moved over to it. The paper was folded, and on the face were the two handwritten words:

Detective Striker

He gloved up and picked up the note. Opened it and read. The message was brief and direct:

Dear Detective Striker

I have spent over fifteen years perfecting the EvenHealth programme, dedicating countless hours of my time in the selfless service of others. I have sacrificed all for the lost and the ill, and would ask you only to consider this before destroying my legacy.

Before you act too rashly – before you tell the world what I have done – please consider this . . . intimately. The videos. They are not proud of them. Or of my weaknesses. To be blunt, I simply couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t stop, no matter how hard I tried, or how bad I felt afterwards.

Please, do not show this letter to anyone. Please do not tell the world what I have done. Especially not the other members of my profession. This is my final request.

With this letter is the key to my study.

Sincerely yours,

Doctor Erich Reinhold Ostermann

Seventy-Five

A friggin’ suicide, Striker thought. He couldn’t believe it was ending this way.

He read the note three more times and felt a sense of frustration wash over him. This was the coward’s way out, and it left him feeling empty. Like something had been stolen from him.

It also never told him where Larisa was located.

He gently folded the paper and placed it back exactly as he had found it. Sitting beside the letter was a key to the study. Striker picked it up, then returned to the master bedroom to join Felicia.

‘Suicide note?’ she said.

He just nodded.

‘Let’s clear the rest of this damn place,’ he said. ‘We still need to find the rest of the family.’ There was a sense of worry in his words; he could not hide it.

The quicker they got moving, the better.

They left the bedroom, then made their way down the hall to the stairway and continued up to the final floor. At the top of the stairs, the landing went three ways: east, west and one short add-on to the north.

They headed east. Down at the end was another bedroom with the door wide open. Striker and Felicia went down there. The room was very clean and orderly, with all types of clothes hanging in the closet, and a standard-sized bed. Striker guessed the room belonged to Dr Ostermann’s son, Gabriel.

From the bedroom they went back to the west side of the house. It turned into one giant loft. The room had been renovated into a movie room, complete with an overhead projector, movie-style seats with drink holders, and a surround-sound system built right into the walls. The room was impressive, and it made Striker wonder if Ostermann had watched his videos up here.

‘Clear,’ Felicia said.

‘Clear,’ Striker agreed.

He turned around and looked back into the hall. Every room had been cleared now. Every room except for one down the north hallway.

The doctor’s private study.

They made their way back down the hall, then turned north along what appeared to be an add-on to the house. The hallway went on for about fifteen feet before stopping at a plain door. Striker touched the wood. It was solid oak. Strong.

Before opening it, Striker paused. He looked all around the area for wires or hidden switches. Dr Ostermann had been bat-shit crazy. No matter what he said in his letter, no matter how much he prattled on about his legacy and the welfare of his patients, Striker would never trust the man. There was nothing a madman loved more than taking a couple of cops with him.

Seeing no imminent danger, Striker turned to Felicia.

‘Watch for traps.’

He reached out and grasped the doorknob. It refused to turn, so he stuck the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The lock clicked and the knob turned, and the door opened.

As it did, Striker scanned the room. What he saw surprised him. He had expected to see another office, similar to the one downstairs. A large desk. Some reading chairs. Maybe even a file folder or two. A credenza.

He saw none of that. Instead, he saw a cabinet in the far corner of the room, composed of polished redwood and shiny brass locks. The doors to it were closed.

In the centre of the room, he saw what appeared to be a large wooden table, also made from polished redwood. It was covered with scuff marks and scratches. Opposite the table, on the wall, hung a brand-new LED widescreen with a built-in Blu-ray player.

Striker made his way into the room. When he closed in on the table, he noticed that there were heavy iron pins and handcuffs attached to each side. And chains. On the top right handcuff, brownish-red liquid coloured the steel. The floor below it was also stained.

‘We got blood all over here,’ Striker said.

Felicia looked under the table and her face tightened. ‘We got torture stuff under here, too. Rods. Knives. Holy shit, a pair of pliers. Man, this guy was one sick puppy.’

Striker said nothing. He looked at the table with the bindings, then at the torture tools underneath it. A thought crossed his mind, and he made his way over to the redwood cabinet. Once there, he slowly opened the doors and looked inside.

Staring back at him was a black leather mask – the exact same type as the one he had seen on the suspect, back at the Mandy Gill crime scene. There were also two rows of DVDs. An external hard drive. And cameras – high-def tape, mini-disc and digital. The sight of it made his stomach tighten.

Felicia saw all this, too. ‘The mother lode.’

Striker didn’t reply. He was too busy taking it all in. He reached up to the top shelf and plucked up one of the Blu-ray discs. He took it over to the wall-mounted TV, turned on the Blu-ray player, stuck in the disc and hit Play.

The TV came to life.

On the screen was a man imprisoned in a cage. He was facing away from the camera, curled up on his side. His back and legs were bleeding and he was quivering.

‘Please,’ he whimpered. ‘Please.’

But his voice was weak, lost.

Barely a whisper.

Behind him, half in the shadows, was a figure. Dressed in a long dark cloak. The face was hidden, but in the person’s hand was a long, thin rod. Sharp steel. The end of it glistened with wetness.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘What a sick fuck.’

Striker took another look at the DVDs in the cabinet. One of the discs had no title but it displayed today’s date on the label. Thoughts of Mandy and Sarah filtered through his mind and were replaced by the image of Larisa.

It left him sick inside.

He stuck the disc in the player, but the machine couldn’t read it. Swearing, he took the disc out, cleaned it off, and tried again. But the machine displayed the same message:

Unreadable format.

‘Shit.’

‘You need a computer,’ Felicia said. ‘There was one in Ostermann’s main office.’

Striker didn’t hesitate. He took the disc with him down the two flights of stairs. When they reached the main-floor foyer, Striker could hear the sound of police sirens in the faraway distance, their sad wails slicing through the night. The sound felt good to his ears, and he continued down the hall.

They made their way into Dr Ostermann’s office. As Felicia booted up the computer, Striker took note of the throw carpet on the floor. It was a small rug, less than four feet wide and eight feet long, and it sat unevenly in the room, covering more of the right side than the left.

Why would the doctor leave it that way?

Curious, he walked across the room and stepped on it. As he did, he felt a little give in the centre. Some springiness. He stepped back, grabbed hold of the corner of the rug, and pulled it across the room.

Beneath it was a hatch in the floor.

‘Look at this,’ he said to Felicia.

She stopped fidgeting with the computer and came up beside him. ‘Wine cellar?’ she asked.

‘We’re about to find out.’

Striker slid his fingers through the iron handle and pulled; the hatch lifted with a metallic groan and Striker let it fall to the floor on the other side. He stared down the ladder, into what looked more like a concrete bunker than an old wine cellar.

The lighting down there was dim and appeared to be fluorescent. Weak, but it did the job. As Striker stared into it, something caught his eye. Stacked on the floor, near the bottom of the ladder, were some pertinent items.

A battery pack for a cordless drill.

A box of latex gloves.

And a half-dozen packages of relay cameras.

Striker drew his pistol and gave Felicia a hard look.

‘The Adder,’ Felicia gasped.

‘Keep your gun ready and cover me,’ Striker said. ‘I’m going down.’