Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Ninety-Five

The search for the first of the three properties ended as quickly as it began. The first place, a private cabin previously owned by David Sutton, had been bulldozed to make way for a new set of condominiums that were already being sold as timeshares.

From there, they drove across the small village to the address for a man named Reginald Robinson. They’d barely set up on the place when a grey Audi Q7 pulled into the driveway, and a family piled out.

Striker spent less than a minute watching them unload their snowboarding gear before realizing this was another dead end. He approached the father, showed the man his badge and credentials, and explained that they were looking for Reginald Robinson.

The man’s response was direct. ‘He doesn’t live here. Hell, we just bought the place last summer.’

‘Do you mind me asking from who?’ Striker asked.

‘A doctor from the City.’

‘Dr Ostermann?’

The man nodded, and his face took on a nervous look. ‘Yes, I believe that was his name. Is everything all right? Should I be concerned?’

‘You’re fine,’ Striker said. ‘Thank you for your time.’

They left Robinson’s lot and drove to the last place on their list. As they made their way there, Striker felt a sense of futility wash over him. The last address they had was slightly farther out, on the east side of the village. If it was negative, they had nothing. It would be canvass time.

Not five minutes later, the road turned from asphalt to gravel, and they came to a T in the road. The right lane turned back towards the highway; the one to the left turned from gravel to hard-packed dirt, and ran straight.

Striker looked down that way. With the night fully cloaked and a fog brooding through the trees, all he could see was a mass of blackness, with the odd porch light piercing the haze. He parked the car on a small outcrop of gravel on the side of the road, then took out his flashlight and shone it all around the road, looking for a street sign. He could find none.

‘Google Maps says this is it,’ Felicia said. ‘Panorama Trail.’

He nodded. ‘It’s desolate.’

‘If we drive in, anyone there will see us coming a mile off.’

Striker agreed. Walking in was the best choice.

They got out and started up the trail.

The man who lived here before his death was Luc Bellevue. No transfer of property form had ever been filed, so by all accounts the place should have been used by his remaining family.

Striker and Felicia followed the bend of the road.

On the left side, a small lake appeared that was backed by tall thick trees that looked completely black in the night-time shadow. The air above the lake was dark and seemed clouded in mist. Everything was very, very quiet.

They marched on. A hundred metres later, around the long curve of lake, a cabin came into view. It was small. Quaint. Made of logs. It sat on the north side of the lake and backed right down to the shoreline.

When they reached the front of the cabin, most of the windows were dark and had the drapes pulled tightly across. Striker spotted movement in one of them. It was fast and fleeting, but it was there.

Someone was home.

Ninety-Six

The Adder found the Doctor downstairs in the study.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘PLEASE! ’

It was the tenth time he had begged her. He knew of nothing else to say.

She walked past him into the kitchen, a smile stretching her lips and her ice blue eyes holding him in their grip. It was as if she was enjoying this moment, relishing it. And the Adder knew that she was. Cruelty had always been one of her strongest traits.

‘I need it,’ he said.

The Doctor made no immediate response. She just stared at him for a long moment, and the smile slowly fell from her lips. Her eyes darkened. Her jaw turned tight. ‘You disgust me,’ she finally said. ‘You should have been the one who died that day, not my precious William. He would have learned. He would have listened. He would never have caused the damage that you have caused us.’

She held the disk delicately between her long fingers. When her eyes met the Adder’s – when the faintest hint of a smirk formed at the corners of her cruel mouth – he understood full well her intention.

‘No, please! NO!’

But his cry meant nothing.

The Doctor tightened her grip and snapped the disc in two. And the Adder let loose a howl that filled the room. He lashed out and grabbed the Doctor by the wrist, and bent it backwards. She let out a cry, half of surprise and half of pain. She tried to pull away from him. When he did not let her, she raised her free hand and smacked him across the face – a hard, full-forced SLAP!

He did not so much as flinch.

‘I wish you were never born,’ she spat. ‘I wish your whore of a mother had drowned you at birth – then my William would still be alive!’

‘William is dead,’ the Adder said. ‘He has been for a very long time.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You have never been anything but a wretched, pathetic failure, Gabriel. And a poor excuse for a son.’

The words were meant to hurt, but they had no effect on him. The Adder took them all in, thought them over . . . and then he nodded strangely.

‘But I’m not your son, am I?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I am my father’s son. And you are no longer his wife. You are not my mother. Not any more.’

‘How dare you!’ She slapped him across the face again, across the same stinging red mark that already marred his skin, and broke away from him. When he offered her no real reaction, but only smiled, she reared from him.

‘You stay back,’ she ordered.

‘You’re not my mother.’ He stepped towards her.

‘I said, stay back! I order you to stay back. You will listen to me. I am your doctor, Gabriel! Your DOCTOR!’

The Adder reached out and wrapped his long fingers around Lexa’s slender throat.

‘The game is over, Doctor,’ he said. ‘You lose.’

Ninety-Seven

Striker stepped off the dirt road on to one of the trails that snaked through the heavily forested area and paralleled the lake. Moving slowly and through shadow, he hoped to be hidden. When he and Felicia moved forward, making their way on to the private lot, they heard arguing inside the cabin.

He stiffened at the sound. He turned and looked at Felicia.

‘Male and female?’ he asked.

‘It sounds like it, but I can’t tell for sure.’ Felicia crept up to the window and peered inside. ‘I can’t see anything. Let’s just go in and get them.’

Striker motioned her back. ‘Not yet.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because we don’t know who’s in there yet. If Gabriel or Dalia or Lexa are in there, or if they come up the road and spot us, they’ll run. They’ll get away. And they’ll never stop killing. We need containment.’

Felicia agreed. ‘Then call in the Feds. The Whistler Police has units ten minutes away from here. Get them here and we can cordon off the whole house.’

Striker thought this over. ‘If Lexa or Gabriel or Dalia see them, they’ll take off and be gone again, and this time maybe for good.’

‘They can use plainclothes cops.’

Striker frowned. The talk had gone full circle, back to square one. A decision had to be made. He took out his phone, being careful to block the light of the screen with his body, and called 911. All he got was a dropped signal. He put the phone away.

‘No reception,’ he said.

The decision had been made for them.

He pointed to the southwest corner of the cabin. ‘Cover that. Scream if you need me and I’ll come running.’

Felicia just tightened her grip on her SIG and slowly made her way through the trees, around to the other side of the house. She’d barely been gone a minute when Striker detected a lone figure walking up the road: average height, long black hair, slender build.

Dalia.

Striker watched her as she walked up the road towards the cabin, then crossed the yard. Even in the darkness, he could see that her face was tight and lost. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

Ninety-Eight

The Adder stood outside on the frozen grass, his hot breath fogging up the cold night. Small bits of broken ice covered the toes of his runners, and the bottom of his pants legs were wet. In front of him, her upper body submerged face down in the freezing water of the lake, was the Doctor.

He looked down at her body and felt nothing. Because it was nothing.

Just a bad roll of the dice.

Behind him, the soft swish of a sliding door could be heard, and then there were footsteps on the deck. He didn’t bother to turn around. It was Dalia, he knew. Coming back again after running away – as she had done so many times before. Escape and return. Escape and return. Escape and return.

It was her life.

‘Gabriel?’ she asked.

Her steps came closer, and suddenly there was a gasp.

‘GABRIEL! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! Oh no! What have you done, Gabriel? What have you DONE!’

She screamed and then screamed some more. He said nothing to her. He did not so much as look in her direction. And seconds later, he heard her run off. Somewhere around the house. In that moment, he had lost her. She was gone. And he would never see her again.

Go after her.

It was a soft thought in his head, a whisper from the angels.

But he did not. He could not. For there were other plans now. And they were all that mattered. Running after Dalia would be changing the goal of the game – and that was the one thing that could never be changed. He had no choice in the matter; the rules were long written.

It was sad. On some deeper level, he knew this.

But what did that matter? He now wondered . . . had there ever been a choice? Perhaps it was always meant to be this way. Fated. Perhaps tonight’s game would even lead to his own death.

The thought was enthralling. If Death did come, he was prepared for it. He accepted it. He was happy for it. At last, his own time. His own Beautiful Escape. And he smiled because either way he would win this game – in the biggest release of his life when he freed Jacob Striker from this world, or in his own release from this torment. Either way, he was ready. Ready for the final throw of the dice. And why not? Nothing could last forever.

All games eventually came to an end.

Ninety-Nine

It happened fast. One moment, Striker was trying to move to a better position in order to see what all the screaming was about; the next moment, he saw Dalia racing around the house. She plunged through the trees away from him.

A second later, Felicia went racing after the girl.

‘Stop!’ Felicia called. ‘Vancouver Police, Dalia! STOP!’

In one brief moment, both women were swallowed by the darkness.

Striker started after them.

He got only a few feet before coming to a hard stop. There was no doubt that whoever was inside the cabin – Gabriel, Lexa or both of them – now knew of the police presence. If Striker went racing after Dalia, then Lexa and Gabriel would be free to escape. Maybe this time forever.

He was torn.

Felicia needed him. But if he allowed Lexa and Gabriel to escape, there was no telling how many more victims they would kill. Maybe not here, but in another town. Another province. Another country. Everywhere Lexa went, she left a trail of death in her wake. And over the years, she’d programmed Gabriel into being the Adder. All in all, it made one thing clear.

‘They have to be stopped.’

At any cost.

Striker turned back towards the cabin. It looked smaller now. Secluded and empty. Almost all the inside lights were off, and from this new location, Striker could hear the chug-chug-chug of the generator running out back.

Where Dalia had run from.

Striker readied his pistol, then made his way around the lot towards the back of the cabin. He reached the corner of the house, raised his pistol and peered around the edge. Everything there was quiet and the lake was eerily still. Fog floated across the water and through the trees like a living beast, so thick that Striker could not see across the lake. Out there, across the thin ice, there was only a rolling mass of cold murky blackness.

But no Lexa.

And no Gabriel.

Striker rounded the corner and made his way towards the cabin. The sliding glass door was wide open and the kitchen light was on. He walked up the slippery wooden steps of the porch, came flush with the entrance, and looked around the area.

No one was there to be seen.

He stepped forward into the kitchen and listened to the sound of his shoes against the hard tiles of the floor. Slowly, cautiously, he made his way through the first floor, and then the second.

The place was empty.

They were gone.

Frustrated, he made his way back outside. He stood on the porch and shone his flashlight around the lake. At first he saw nothing.

Then he discovered the body.

It was a few feet out from the edge, where the ice thinned and turned to freezing lake water. As he closed in on it, he saw that it was lying face down. He crouched low, reached out with one hand, and grabbed hold of the arm. When he flipped it over, a sense of desperation filled him.

It was Lexa.

The Adder had killed her. He was spiralling out of control.

And he was gone.

One Hundred

The voices were back, the laughter and giggles echoing in his head. But this time, the Adder managed to control them. He had lost his most precious of all precious videos and he did not have the headphones he needed for his iPhone, so he could not even listen to the white noise.

It did not matter.

A new sense of control filled his body. Electric. Empowering. Like ice water in his veins. Ever since breaching the line – ever since killing the Doctor – a sense of invulnerability had filled him. He was unstoppable.

Completely, utterly, one hundred per cent unstoppable.

And he nearly laughed out loud as he realized that.

He moved slowly through the wooded grove. Speed was not necessary. What mattered here was silence. Stealth. Besides, there was little point in running through the forest blind. Broken ankles were bad for the killing business.

As he walked steadfastly, thoughts of Jacob Striker filled his head. The big detective had looked so determined back at the cabin, so intense and powerful. The Adder had watched him from the shadows, impressed.

It had been foolish to do so – he should have been gaining as much ground between them as he could. But something about the detective intrigued the Adder. The man had a magnetic presence.

Like a tar pit sucking him down.

He headed straight north and, when he found the proper trail, increased his speed towards Green Lake. That was where Striker would eventually find him. It was a certainty. Because the Adder knew something important that no one else had known – not Detective Striker or Detective Santos or even the omnipotent Doctor herself. He knew where Larisa Logan had been hiding.

And he was determined to get there before Striker.

One Hundred and One

‘Felicia!’ Striker called out.

It was the tenth time he’d screamed her name, but to no avail, and now he was beginning to panic. He made his way back to the main road. Once there, he tried her cell again. The signal was weak, but the call went through, and it was picked up on the second ring.

‘Jacob?’ she asked.

‘Jesus, you scared the shit outta me. Where the hell are you?’

‘I’m back in the village. She ran here. But I’ve lost her.’

He was angry now. ‘I didn’t know if you were dead or lying in the forest somewhere. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘And Gabriel?’ She asked the question almost tentatively.

‘Gone. He killed Lexa.’

Felicia made a shocked sound. ‘My God.’

‘He’s spinning out of control, Feleesh. Gone right off the deep end. And he knows we’re here after him. No point in hiding that any more. Call the Feds. We need more units. We got to catch this guy before he escapes. I’ll meet you back in the village. By the flag pole in the centre square.’

‘Okay. I’ll call the Feds right now.’

‘And, Feleesh. Be careful on this one. We’ve lost sight of them, but that doesn’t mean they’ve run off.’

‘I can take care of myself, Jacob. Just get here.’ The line went dead and Striker started hiking back towards the cruiser. He’d gone less than ten feet when his phone vibrated again. He snatched it up, expecting to see Felicia’s name on the screen, but instead he saw that he had another text message. The send time was only a minute ago. He opened it up, saw Larisa’s name, and read the text:

Jacob, R U there?

He immediately typed back.

I’m here. Where are you?

After a moment, she responded:

I have proof, Jacob. A video. The doctors at Mapleview are killing people for money.

You need to come in.

They’ll send me back to Riverglen. To the doctor.

I won’t let them. I’ll be with you.

He received no response, so he typed back:

Larisa? U there?

You can’t stop them. And I can’t take this any more.

Let me help you!

Striker waited for a long moment, so long he thought Larisa had ended the conversation. But finally a text came back:

I’m so tired, Jacob. I’ll leave you the video I have of Sarah. No. 5 Old Mill Road. I hope it helps you stop them. Thanks for being my friend.

Striker got a bad feeling from her text. He recalled her PRIME files, remembered her emotional instability. He typed back:

Don’t do anything foolish, okay? I’m coming right now!

No response.

Larisa?

Nothing again.

Striker sprinted back down the trail to the cruiser. Once there, he punched the address into Google Maps and located it. He started the engine. Hit the gas. And left a trail of dirt and gravel in his wake.

Old Mill Road was only minutes away.

One Hundred and Two

Striker drove so fast he almost lost control of the cruiser on the icy gravel. When he reached Old Mill Road, he floored it. The road was narrow and old, unpaved. Tall rows of cedars and Douglas firs bordered the road, blocking out any of the weak moonlight that managed to struggle through the heavy blanket of fog.

The road was a strip of blackness.

He spotted a house at the end. Even in the pale glow of the cruiser’s headlights, the place looked ramshackle. Old. And dark. All the lights were off and the front door was wide open.

Striker wasted no time. He jumped out of the cruiser, taking out his flashlight and pistol at the same time.

He reached the front door, used the frame for cover, and flashed his light inside. Everything was dark and still and empty. He hit the light switch, but nothing happened. And he realized there were no sounds coming from the generator.

‘Larisa?’ he called out. ‘Larisa, it’s Jacob – are you here?’

When he received no response, he made the decision. There was no more time for delay. Flashlight illuminating the way, gun aimed ahead, finger alongside the trigger, Striker stepped into the darkness.

He moved quickly, not allowing himself to slow for even a second. He made his way out of the small foyer, through the living room, kitchen, den and then the bedroom.

But there was no sign of her.

He took the stairs into the basement more slowly, keeping his body tight to the wall. When he reached the bottom and his shoes touched the hard concrete of the cellar floor, he scanned the area around him and spotted a long narrow hallway. There was a doorway to the right and one straight ahead at the far end of the hall.

The doorway on the right was open; the one at the end was closed.

Striker moved forward to the first doorway. He stopped and aimed his flashlight into the room, illuminating all four corners.

And that was when he found her.

Slumped in a chair at the far end of the room was the woman he had been searching for these last three days.

‘Larisa! ’ he said.

He moved forward through the darkness. Came to within ten feet of her. And stopped hard. Her head was turned down and her eyes were half open. Dangling from her right hand was an empty pill case, and at her feet was a DVD case with the name Sarah Rose on it. Striker gently placed two fingers against her neck and felt for a pulse. She was warm, but he could feel no beating of her heart.

‘Please, Larisa,’ he said. ‘Please.’

He was running out of time.

One Hundred and Three

Desperation flooded him. Striker took out his cell to call 911; it rang on him before he could even dial. He stuck it to his ear.

‘Striker,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’ Felicia asked.

‘Number five Old Mill Road,’ he said. ‘No time for talk. I got Larisa here. She’s overdosed on pills. Call 911 for an ambulance and get your ass up here now.’

He hung up without waiting for a response, then grabbed Larisa and placed her on the floor, so he could begin CPR. Keep her heart going till the medics got here.

His phone vibrated again. He looked down and read the words:

I have proof, Jacob. I’m scared.

I have proof, Jacob. I’m scared

I have proof, Jacob. I’m scared.

;o)

He stood back up, momentarily confused. ‘What the hell?’

And his phone went off with another text:

Congratulations, Hero, you found her – or have I found you?

Snake eyes!

SNAKE EYES!

SNAKE EYES!