Текст книги "Snakes and ladders"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

One Hundred and Four

Striker tore his eyes away from the text, knowing for certain the Adder was here. He placed his back to the wall, moved slowly to the corner of the room, and kept scanning with his flashlight and gun. With the exception of him and Larisa, the room was empty. Dark. Quiet.

There was only one way in, and only one way out.

For a moment, he considered staying put. Keeping all his attention on the doorway and waiting for back-up. Then he heard a door slam out front. Thoughts of being trapped in another inferno flashed through his mind, as did the notion of Gabriel Ostermann escaping once more.

He got moving.

Gun aimed ahead of him, flashlight illuminating the way, Striker made his way back across the room and turned towards the front foyer. The door leading out front was just a stairway away.

It was closed.

Striker took a step towards it, then heard a shuffling sound behind him. He stopped and slowly turned around. He looked back down the hallway. On the right side was the doorway into the room where Larisa’s body lay on the floor. At the far end was the only other room the basement owned. The door there had been closed when he’d first come down the stairs.

Now it was open.

He moved to one side of the hall, out of the main line of fire, and took aim on the open doorway. He called out:

‘Vancouver Police, Gabriel. I know you’re here and I’ve got every reason to believe you’re armed and dangerous. Come out with your hands where I can see them and you won’t get hurt.’

No response.

Striker listened for a moment, heard nothing else. He slowly left his position of cover and made his way down the hall. When he came to within ten feet of the open doorway, he shone his flashlight inside the room.

From the cover of the door frame, the weak beam of his flashlight caught a vague shape. Someone was hiding in a small nook of the wall. In the closet. He took aim on the figure and called out once more:

‘I see you, Gabriel. Don’t move!’

But the figure only turned slightly and shuffled out of view; as it moved, Striker caught a brief glimpse of the man’s face. There was no doubt about it.

It was Gabriel.

The Adder.

‘I said, don’t move, Gabriel!’ Striker ordered again.

When the Adder disappeared from Striker’s line of fire, Striker seized the moment before it was lost. He moved forward, ready to fire. It wasn’t until he had stepped right into the room that he realized his mistake. What he was staring at wasn’t a closet; it was the wall. And as he looked at the wall, he saw a poster on it – but the writing was all backwards.

Then he realized. It was not a wall but a full-length mirror.

The Adder was behind him.

He spun to the right just as he felt an arm wrap around his neck from behind. There was a sharp pinprick and, almost immediately, a numbing sensation ran from his neck throughout the rest of his body, snaking out like long pulsating tendrils.

Striker shoved back, but it was too late. He felt his body melting on him. His legs gave out. And he went down firing.

He hit the floor hard. Felt the air explode from his lungs. And watched the darkness sweeping into his sight from all corners of his periphery. He thought of his daughter, Courtney, and then of Felicia and Larisa, whose life depended on him escaping this moment.

But the last image Striker saw, as he was sucked down by the heavy blackness, was that of Gabriel. The Adder was staring back at him, his pale twisted expression the only visible beacon for him in a dark and cold vacuum.

One Hundred and Five

First came the sound.

There was a faint, wailing noise in the background, like the soft banshee cries of some strange beast coming to take him away. The wail grew louder and louder until it was right on top of him – an overbearing echo in his ears. Until Striker realized the source of the call:

Sirens.

Striker tried to open his eyes, and then he realized they were already open. The strange supple warmth slowly washed away from him and was replaced by a stark coldness. The darkness slowly ebbed away, and Striker looked up to see three people on top of him.

Two men dressed in white . . .

Paramedics.

And one between them. A face that made him smile and relax and brought back all the warmth that had been stolen from his body.

‘Feleesh,’ he said. His voice sounded weak and very far away.

‘Just relax, Jacob,’ she said. ‘They’re giving you some drugs. You need to stay still.’

He tried to get up; she pushed him back down.

‘You need to relax.’

‘Larisa . . .’

‘They got her, too, Jacob. She’s breathing and en route to Whistler hospital.’

He let go. Felt his body melt into the floor. And he lazily looked left.

Lying on his back was Gabriel Ostermann. Two other paramedics, both women, were hovering over the Adder, examining his chest and stomach area. In the centre of the two was a large meaty hole. Striker saw this glistening redness and the vague recollection of past gunfire returned to his ears.

His bullets had found their target.

Centre mass.

The simple action of looking at the Adder drained him, and Striker let his head fall back to the floor. He looked up, straight ahead at Felicia, who was hovering like an earthbound angel. Behind her, one of the female paramedics let out a surprised sound.

‘Jesus, this guy’s still alive,’ she said.

And Striker realized they were talking about Gabriel Ostermann.

‘He keeps whispering,’ one of the women said to her partner. ‘I can’t make it out. What the hell’s he saying? I’m the Villain? ’

Striker understood the word, and he breathed heavily as he spoke.

‘He said William . . . he said, I’m coming, William.’

And then the medications pulled him under and he did not wake for a long time.

EPILOGUE

One Hundred and Six

It was a grey Sunday morning – over twenty-four hours since the Adder had injected him with mivacurium chloride – and Striker still felt like he had a hangover. A steady thud-thud-thud drummed behind each temple like a second steady pulse that was impossible to ignore.

He was thankful that Homicide was empty.

The coffee brewing was fresh. He poured himself a cup of it and swallowed three painkillers – the sting of the burn would not go away. He wandered back through the rows of empty cubicles to his desk. Open on the desktop were four separate reports. The first one was the statement he was required to deliver to the Police Board regarding the Billy Mercury situation. This was mandatory for all police shootings. The report was almost done, but Striker was still unsure about the wording in a few lines. With his head as messed up as it was, having an agent from the Union look it over wasn’t a bad idea.

He saved the file for later.

The other three reports were all linked because they had to do with Gabriel Ostermann. The first of the three reports was for Mandy Gill’s murder. The second was for Sarah Rose’s. And the third was for Larisa’s attempted murder. There were undoubtedly dozens more charges coming, but none of them could be laid until all the proper paperwork had been gone through and all investigative ends tied. Knowing Gabriel was responsible for other murders was not enough to charge the man; they needed reasonable grounds. Evidence.

Striker blinked a few times as his eyes dried up. There was so much to do. So much to tie in. It would have been easier if Gabriel Ostermann had died. But the man had not. He had hung on until the ambulance crew got him to Whistler Medical Center, and since then his condition had been upgraded from critical to stable.

It concerned Striker. The man was going to live, and given his mental health status, there had already been rumblings from the Crown as to whether he was mentally fit to stand trial when he recovered from his injuries. The thought of the Adder ever being released again was a realistic concern.

And that was to say nothing of Dalia. The girl had vanished in the ski resort village. Striker had no idea where she had gone, but he did know this – she was out there somewhere and she was dangerous.

The whole situation gave him chills. Then again, maybe it was more the after-effects of the injection the Adder had given him.

He tried not to think about it. There was still a lot of work to do. So he buried his head in the computer and kept pounding away at the keys. He was so focused on the work, he barely heard the office door open behind him. Only when it slammed shut did he bother to turn around.

What he saw made him smile.

Standing in the doorway was Bernard Hamilton. His face was so red it matched the ruby silk dress shirt he wore. He stormed across the office, his ponytail swinging behind him, and stopped a few feet short of Striker’s desk.

‘Nice shirt,’ Striker said. ‘When did you go colourblind?’

Bernard just glared at him.

‘You think that stunt you pulled the other day was funny?’ he asked. ‘I could have lost my job.’

Striker wheeled his chair around to face the man. ‘Do I think what was funny?’

‘You know damn well what – sending me to Osler Street. That was Laroche’s house, for fuck’s sake! I stormed right in on his wife’s birthday party.’

‘Did she like the present you brought her?’

Bernard’s eyes narrowed. ‘This could cost me my chance at Cop of the Year, Striker! You know Laroche is on the board. He’ll never pick me now. You did this on purpose!’

Striker leaned back in his chair and nodded. ‘Really? Because I don’t remember telling you anything. How did you come across that address – another source?’ When Bernard said nothing back, Striker continued. ‘You know, I can’t help thinking that there’s a moral to the story here somewhere. Something to do with honesty maybe. I dunno, I’ll think about it.’

Bernard said nothing for a moment, and the crimson colour extended up past his forehead and on into his bald spot. His jaw turned hard and he extended his chin as he spoke.

‘I won’t forget this,’ he said.

Striker put his feet up on the desk and gave Bernard his best smile. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Because I already have.’

Hamilton stormed out of the office, and Striker watched him go. Suddenly, his headache was better and the coffee tasted fresher. He smiled as he sipped it.

It was almost like the sun had come out.

One Hundred and Seven

An hour later, Striker and Felicia walked down the long hallway of the east-end section of the Riverglen Mental Health Facility. They reached Dr Ostermann’s office, made a sharp left, and walked into the common room where patients were milling about in groups by the backgammon table, TV, and fireplace.

‘This is a good thing you’re doing,’ Felicia said.

‘It’s just something I have to do,’ he replied.

She smiled at him, reached across his arms, and stole a package of chocolates from the box he was carrying. She’d barely pocketed the candy before Striker found the man he was looking for, playing cards in a group of four.

‘Morning, Henry,’ he said softly.

The patient in the pale blue hospital clothes turned slowly around in his seat. One look at Striker and his face tensed. ‘You’re DANGEROUS!’ he yelled, and immediately stood up and clenched both his hands into fists.

In the far corner, the guard stood up from the table, but Striker waved him down.

‘I’m not dangerous today, Henry,’ Striker explained. He slowly pulled his jacket out of the way, revealing his side and showing that there was no gun holstered to his belt. ‘You showed me how wrong I was the other day, so I just wanted to come by and say thank you for teaching me that. And also to say I’m sorry if I upset you.’

Henry said nothing for a long moment, then his expression relaxed a little. His posture deflated and he rubbed his nose. ‘That’s okay then . . . I guess.’

‘Here, Henry. I got you something.’

Striker held out the box.

When Henry looked guardedly inside the box and saw the rows of yellow M&M packages, his face brightened.

‘Peanut!’ he said.

‘Of course,’ Striker said. ‘Peanut’s the best.’

Henry let out an excited gasp and grabbed the box. Laughing, he sat back down and began passing out M&M packages to his card-playing friends. Within seconds, he forgot that Striker and Felicia were even there.

‘You ready?’ Felicia asked.

Striker nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

They left the common room and made their way back down the grey halls of the facility. As they went, Felicia tore open the package of M&Ms she’d pilfered and popped a few in her mouth. She held up her hand and showed Striker her palm.

‘Melt in your mouth, not in your hands.’

He grinned. ‘You, or the M&Ms?’

She gave him a wry look and laughed.

Outside, the sun was out, high in the centre of the blue sky, and the wind was whipping in hard from the river. It blustered on as they climbed into the cruiser and drove out of the parking lot. When they were back on the freeway, heading for Vancouver, Felicia spoke again.

‘Feel better?’ she asked him.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, then added: ‘I guess you’re right. Chocolate does make everything better.’

One Hundred and Eight

They returned home at twelve noon. There was still a shitload of work to be done on all the reports, but he didn’t care. Courtney had a session with her occupational therapist at one o’clock, and Striker wanted to make damn sure she got there on time.

They parked out front on Camosun Street and Striker got out. High overhead, the sun was bright. The frost on the trees glistened and the lawn looked freshly wet. Everything shimmered in the sun. The day felt refreshed. Like spring was on its way.

It made Striker feel good.

He walked up the porch steps into his home. The moment they were inside, Felicia walked over and put on the gas fire, then crashed down on the couch. She draped a blanket over her legs.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said.

She stretched her arms above her head and let out a yawn. ‘Done.’

He was about to join her on the couch, maybe even grab himself a beer – why not? He had earned it – when Courtney exited her bedroom and stepped into the hall on her crutches. She ambled down the hallway, reached him and gave him a onearmed hug.

‘Hey, Dad,’ she said.

‘Hey, Pumpkin. How’re the braces holding?’

She gave him an irritated look. ‘I’ve told you before, Dad. They’re not braces, they’re—’

‘A walker?’

For a moment, Courtney’s eyes took on a resigned look, then her lips crooked into a smile. She leaned over and punched him on the shoulder.

‘You’re a jerk,’ she said.

‘I know, but I love ya.’

She smiled at him, and Striker loved to see that. It made him feel good. She was happy.

Then he noticed something else about her. She was dressed in a black pair of Lululemon yoga pants and a dark red workout top that was so tight it looked like a second skin. Bright red lipstick turned her thin lips thick and pouty, and dark eyeliner made her blue eyes stand out like they were coloured contacts. Even her hair was done. Flat-ironed straight.

‘Kinda dolled up for therapy,’ he noted.

Courtney shared a smirk with Felicia and, as if on cue, the front doorbell rang. When Striker started for the door, Courtney cut him off and gave him a look of daggers.

‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

Striker let her. When she opened the door, a young man stood there. He was dressed in casual pants and a Peabody coat. Within two minutes, Striker learned that his name was Jeremy Holmes, he was taking graphic design at BCIT, he was giving Courtney a ride to therapy, and he drove a yellow electric Smartcar.

Before Striker could question the kid further, Courtney intervened. She got between them and ushered Jeremy out through the door. She looked back over her shoulder and grinned as they went.

‘Bye, guys. Don’t wait up.’

‘Goodbye, Pumpkin,’ Striker said.

He stood in the doorway, and Felicia joined him. They watched Courtney and her friend approach his car. Once there, Jeremy opened the passenger door for Courtney, took her crutches, helped her inside, and closed the door behind her. He looked back at the house, and gave Striker and Felicia a wave before climbing inside the vehicle.

‘I don’t like him,’ Striker said. ‘He has an attitude.’

Felicia grinned. ‘You don’t like him because he wants your daughter.’

‘That’s reason enough.’

She squeezed his arm. ‘Just be happy she’s found someone, and he seems like a nice kid. He certainly doesn’t come across like a bad boy.’

Striker stared at the small car fading down the road. ‘I guess not a lot of bad boys drive yellow Smartcars.’

‘Definitely not.’ She leaned back and looked at him. ‘What did you drive when you were his age?’

‘A Volkswagen van.’

‘So you were the one fathers had to worry about.’

‘This isn’t about me.’

‘It’s karma,’ she said, and laughed.

Striker grinned at her comment. But he didn’t move from the spot. Not even after the little yellow Smartcar had turned the corner and disappeared from view behind the row of houses that lined 29th Avenue.

‘It feels like she’s growing up too fast,’ he said.

‘Just be grateful that she can grow up, Jacob. She was a pretty lucky girl last year. It could have turned out far worse.’

Striker nodded in agreement. The words were so true.

One Hundred and Nine

They walked from Camosun up to Dunbar Street, a small stretch of road that owned everything from a Starbucks coffee at 18th Avenue to the movie theatre off 29th. Striker didn’t much care where they went. He just wanted to get out of the house.

Having Felicia there with him was an added bonus.

They stopped at an old English pub for lunch and a couple of drinks. Felicia had chicken strips and a glass of red; Striker ordered Toad in the Hole and a tall glass of Guinness. When the draught came, it was dark as molasses and had a swirling cloud of head at the top.

Striker took a long sip of it and felt his body relax.

‘So,’ Felicia asked. ‘How comes the report?’

Striker gave her a weary look. ‘I’m hoping to be done by February – of next year.’

She laughed at that. And from there, the conversation jumped all over the place: the possibility of Gabriel not standing trial due to his state of mind; Dalia, missing and still out there somewhere; Larisa recovering nicely; and the monkey court they were going to have to go through over Billy Mercury’s death. The one thing they didn’t talk about was them. And Striker left the topic alone. It was sunny out. He had Felicia with him. And a tall glass of Guinness in his hand.

Why risk ruining that?

As if sensing his thoughts, Felicia reached out and touched his hand. ‘You did a good job out there, Jacob, a really good job.’

‘We both did,’ he said. ‘We do this stuff together. We’re a team, Feleesh.’

The comment made her smile. ‘It was a good investigation. Though I have to admit, the best part was the way you led Bernard out to Laroche’s place.’ She laughed so hard she almost spilled her wine. ‘God, that was the best part of the day. You really fooled him.’

Striker was pleased with that. ‘Oscar performance?’

‘A Golden Globe, at least.’

‘A Globe? That’s an insult.’

‘Okay, maybe one of those Emmys then.’

Striker put on his best dejected look, and Felicia grinned back. ‘You know, I’m not really all that hungry,’ she said. ‘If we watch our time, we can get back to your place before Courtney’s even left the doctor’s office – then I’ll give you your real award.’

‘On second thoughts, I’ll take the Emmy.’

Felicia laughed, and Striker ordered the bill. After he had paid it, he went to get up from the table, but stopped when he saw the intense look Felicia was giving him.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Where do we go from here, Jacob?’

‘Who knows, Feleesh?’ he said. ‘Just roll the dice.’