Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Six

A quarter-mile downriver, at the westernmost precipice of Mitchell Island, the bomber pulled himself and the woman in between the logs and flotsam that were jammed up against the shoreline. The woman was waterlogged – an anchor pulling him down. Had it not been for the scuba gear, they would never have made it.

Two hundred metres across the river, to the north, the entire area from Granville to Main was spotted with red and blue police lights. Completely knackered, it was all he could do to focus on them.

He tore the breathing apparatus from his lips and pulled himself and the woman up the steep bank of mud, deep into the island bush, until they were under the thick overhang of a pair of weeping willows.

There, he dropped to the ground and rolled the lifeless woman over so that she was facing upwards. He cupped a hand under the back of her neck. Angled her chin. Parted her lips. Blew air into her lungs.

Nothing.

He interlocked his fingers over her chest and began compressions. Finished. Breathed again. And repeated the process several times.

‘Breathe, for fuck’s sake. Breathe.’

Finally, when hope was almost gone, the woman made a gagging sound. She jerked and hacked and spewed, then rolled away from him. She formed a protective ball and lay shaking in the sand.

A numb relief spilled through the man.

He lay flat on his back and tried to control his breathing. He was thirty-six now, and though he did not feel old, he definitely felt worn. Damaged from the years of abuse and trauma.

He killed the thought and focused on the immediacies.

The nylon sheath of the prosthetic was soaked and it was losing suction against the stumpy end of his disfigured leg. He reached down, pulled the sheath tight, and felt the surgical screws inflaming his bones.

He tried to gather his breath.

Found it difficult.

High above, the eastern sky was lightening, turning from blood-pudding purple to a lesser bruised blue. All along the shoreline, the blinding glare of the police chopper spotlight was turning the riverbank white. The bird was far away right now, way down by the Arthur Lange Bridge. But that meant nothing. It could reach Mitchell Island in seconds. Even now, as it floated westward, the steady whump-whump-whump of the helicopter blades shook the air with a physical force, and they shifted his mind back to harsher times. More violent times.

The bomb going off, blowing him to pieces.

And the tragedy that had followed.

The recollection was vicious, malignant. And yet oddly enough, it slowed his frantic heart. Helped him breathe. Allowed him to regain his sanity again. It actually relaxed him.

And still the woman coughed and spluttered beside him.

After a short moment, the police helicopter floated all the way to Heather Street – too close; dangerously close. So he got moving. He dumped the flippers, oxygen tank and breathing apparatus in the river, then grabbed hold of the retching woman’s underarms and began dragging her through the grove. They headed for Twig Place Road.

Where the backup vehicle was parked.

Once under cover of thicker tree tops, a place where the chopper could no longer illuminate them with its omnipotent eye, the bomber took a moment to reassess the situation. The woman was awake now, fully conscious of what had happened – of what was still happening – and she gaped at him with large wide eyes. A disbelieving stare.

‘You . . . you saved me,’ she finally whispered.

He merely nodded.

‘Of course I did. You’re not supposed to die this way.’

Seven

Striker bypassed the steel barn with the orange lamp.

He hiked up the river embankment and cut through the loading zone of the cement plant. It was barely quarter to six now, and despite the police emergency lights, the early skyline was still cloaked by a charcoal fog.

Quarter to six, Striker thought disbelievingly.

The chase had felt so much longer.

He detected movement and looked left. Walking towards him, coming from the opposite end of the yard, was a familiar face: Sergeant Mike Rothschild – one of Striker’s oldest and dearest friends. In one hand was a roll of yellow police tape. In the other was a paper cup with a plastic lid. Coffee, no doubt.

‘Mike,’ Striker said.

As always, Rothschild had a warped smile on his face, one that made his moustache slope unevenly across his upper lip. His face held a look of concern.

‘You okay there, Shipwreck?’

‘Guy’s a friggin’ magician.’ Striker pointed towards the river. ‘I lost them down there somewhere. By the pier. It makes no sense.’

‘The dog’ll find something.’

Striker hoped to God so.

He looked at Rothschild. In the murky light of the factory’s glow, every line on the man’s grizzled face was apparent. He was pushing fifty now, and the years of policing and shift work had left their mark on him. Like it did every cop. But today Rothschild looked especially aged.

Striker knew why. Rothschild had a lot on his plate right now. Like Striker, he too had lost his first wife. And raising two grief-stricken little ones made the situation all the more difficult.

Striker asked him, ‘You almost done your shift?’

Rothschild laughed bemusedly. ‘Just beginning, man.’

‘Beginning?’

‘Yeah, I know, I look like shit – thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You just need some sleep.’

‘Tell me ’bout it. The twins haven’t been sleeping well. They’ve been giving me grief about this whole move thing; they don’t wanna leave the old house. Too many memories of their mother, I guess.’

Striker made a point of looking the man in the face. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there . . . to help with the move.’

‘Duty calls.’

Striker shook his head. ‘I’m the kids’ godfather. I should’ve been there. This damn job – it eats up your life.’

‘Yup. Faster than a fat kid devours a Mars bar. Get used to it, man, it ain’t gonna change.’

Before either one of them could say more, Air 1 – the Vancouver Police Department’s helicopter – roared overhead, the heavy percussive blasts of its blades beating down on them, stirring up the dirt and gravel of the parkway. As the chopper floated south, Felicia and their young witness were lit up on the side road.

Striker focused on them. ‘Something’s not right with that girl.’

Rothschild just nodded. ‘I’ll tape off the scene for you.’

Striker nodded his thanks. As Rothschild hiked down to the river, Striker beelined across the lot towards their witness.

The girl was still crumpled at the front of the police car. The unforgiving glare of the halogens made her tight face look like white rubber. She sat on the gravel of the road, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso as she rocked nervously back and forth. Her miniskirt rode up her thighs, exposing the curves of her ass, and her long blonde hair spilled over her knees as her head snapped from side to side in response to any sudden movement.

With more time now, Striker took a really good look at her. She was maybe seventeen. His daughter’s age. And the thought of Courtney being out in an area like this, at this time of the night, bothered him. The blood that had covered her forehead had now been wiped away.

He looked at Felicia. ‘The blood?’

Felicia stood up from her crouched position. ‘It was her own. From a small cut on her forehead. She banged it on something when she was scrambling to get away. Looked a helluva lot worse than it was.’

Striker knelt down in front of the girl and touched her arm. Despite the warm summer air, her skin was clammy, sweaty. And she flinched from the contact.

‘Look at me,’ Striker said softly.

No response.

‘Look at me.’

The girl lifted her head slowly, and Striker shone his flashlight in her eyes. The pupils were large – too large, even for this darkness – and they remained so, despite the glare of his flashlight and the car’s headlights. She licked her lips several times and rolled her tongue in her mouth as if it were too large to fit.

‘What are you on?’ he demanded. ‘Special E? Jib? What have you been taking?’

‘Uh, nothing. No. Nothing.’

Striker wrapped his fingers around the girl’s chin and made her look at him. ‘This is no time to screw around, kid. I’m not looking for charges, I’m trying to save a woman’s life. Now what the hell are you on?’

The girl stared back through glassy eyes. ‘Beans, I took some beans.’

Striker nodded. Beans. MDMA.

Ecstasy.

Judging by the size of her pupils, she’d taken an awful lot. And who knew what else she’d mixed in with it? There was more than just ecstasy in her. She was zoning out bad for that.

‘Why were you even down here in the industrial area?’ he asked. ‘There a rave somewhere?’

She nodded again, licked her lips. ‘Yeah, yeah. Big party.’

‘Where?’

The girl looked up for a moment, her eyes twitching left and right. Her teeth chattering. ‘Over there . . . somewhere. I dunno.’

‘Why did you leave the party?’

‘Had a fight. With Billy . . . we had a fight.’

‘Billy who? He your boyfriend?’

‘. . . so cold.’

‘Where did he go? Did he come after you?’

‘It’s so cold.’

Striker resisted the urge to swear and looked at Felicia. ‘Ambulance en route?’

‘A mile out.’

Striker turned silent. He watched the girl sniff and tremble as he thought things through. When she let out a strange hyena-like laugh, he frowned. She was high, confused, and her story was all over the place. But she had definitely stumbled onto something.

He looked back at the river’s edge. When thoughts of the bracelet entered his mind, he looked back at the girl. ‘Were you down by the docks?’

‘Huh?’

‘By the pier. By the river.’

‘No no no.’

‘This man you saw in the barn – did he take anything from you? A necklace or anything like that?’

‘Uh . . . no?’

Striker gloved up with fresh latex, then pulled the evidence bag from his pocket. When he opened it up and removed the bracelet, the girl looked at it with obvious confusion.

‘Do you recognize this?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

He put it away and tried coming at this from a different angle. ‘What do you remember about the woman in the barn?’

The words seemed to bring the girl a moment’s clarity. She blinked, sat up straighter. ‘Her cheeks . . . the bones were, like, really high.’

‘High?’

‘You know, like, prominent.’

‘And the man?’

The girl’s face tightened. ‘He’s a worker. From the plant.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Had . . . had on overalls. A uniform or something.’

Striker took a moment to write this down in his notebook, then continued with his inquiry. But the more he questioned the girl, the more she contradicted herself. In the end it was all gibberish. And when paramedics finally arrived, Striker’s frustration level had reached new limits. He stood up, curled his fingers into fists, and looked at Felicia, whose eyes were filled with concern.

‘Can you take care of this?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank friggin’ God.’

Feeling precious time slipping away, he turned around and headed for the one place he hoped would shed some clues on this whole mess.

The torture chamber in the steel barn.

Eight

Ten minutes later, Striker stood alone in the loft of the steel barn, directly in front of the chair where the woman had been bound. No restraints had been left behind. No ropes. No straps. No belts. No wires.

Using his flashlight to illuminate the area, he focused on the chair. It was an old thing, sturdy, made from steel legs and a solid steel backing. It was dusty, grimy, dirty as hell.

Not the greatest material for fingerprinting.

As he crouched down and examined the surface more closely, looking for any traces of hair or other DNA-testable substance, he noticed that there was no blood. The torture appeared to have been entirely electrical.

It was odd – something he had never seen.

Behind him, a plank groaned. Striker swivelled around and spotted a wizened old face at the top of the stairs. Barely reaching Striker’s shoulders, and weighing in at a measly sixty-five kilos, was Inspector Tekuya Osaka.

At fifty-five years of age, Inspector Osaka was nearing his 80-factor – that magical total derived from age plus years served. It allowed for superannuation, and for Osaka, retirement was fast closing in. The look on his face suggested he wished he’d taken an early leave. Striker couldn’t blame him.

‘You don’t look happy,’ Striker said.

Inspector Osaka just frowned. ‘This is downright creepy.’

‘Tell me about it. Guy used electrical torture.’

‘A stun gun?’

‘More like a wand of some kind.’

Inspector Osaka moved nearer. ‘A rather unusual instrument, don’t you think?’

‘The guy who did this is a pro.’

Osaka came to within a foot of Striker, his face better illuminated in the flashlight glow. With his thick white hair brushed back over his head and a matching goatee, he looked just like an Asian Colonel Sanders. ‘Haven’t heard of an electrical wand being used in years – not since that renegade biker got taken out back East.’

Striker made no reply. He was too intent on the scene before him.

Beneath the chair, the floorboards were no longer discoloured. The water stains had all but evaporated in the humid, growing heat. But the bucket was still there, half full of water. On the ground beside it was the old yellow sponge.

Everything would have to be swabbed for DNA.

Striker turned to look at the inspector. ‘I want this scene processed like no other, sir. Top priority. Private labs, if needed. If a woman really is missing, every minute counts.’

Inspector Osaka nodded. ‘Authorized.’

The word brought Striker a modicum of relief.

He stood up, feeling the haunts of two previous knee injuries, and took a final glance around. To the south, broken glass littered the windowsill and floor, and recollections of gunfire flooded him. He could still hear the shrill sounds of the glass breaking and the heavy, damn-near palpable blasts of the gunfire. It had been distinctive.

A forty-cal, for sure.

Striker moved up to the window. Analysed a few of the entrance holes in the frame. They were uniform, roughly ten to twelve millimetres in diameter, and the exit holes weren’t much wider. No mushrooming. In some areas, the wood from the beams had exploded outwards in uneven chunks.

Full Metal Jacket.

He looked at the holes for a long moment, at the broken and splintered wood, then let out a long breath. The rounds hadn’t missed him by all that much. Inches.

Inspector Osaka saw this too. ‘That was damn close, Striker.’

Striker said nothing; he just stared out the window. In the southeast, the sun was slowly creeping out from its earthly blanket, turning the skyline from a light bruised colour to a deep crimson. The natural light illuminated the waters below. Down there, the helicopter had already scoured the shoreline, but a much more thorough search still needed to be done.

He headed for the river.

Nine

Striker watched Inspector Osaka return to his police cruiser. His responsibility was to report the incident up the chain of command. With the unexpected health scare DC Hughes had suffered this past month, Superintendent Laroche was acting as the fill-in Deputy Chief.

That was bad news for Osaka, because Laroche was notorious for poking his nose into ongoing investigations and for being unfairly demanding. Striker had dealt with Laroche too many times to count, so he felt for Osaka.

By the time Striker had hiked down to the river, the sun had risen just enough to flood the entire waterway with a reddish glow. Being careful where he stepped, Striker crossed the sandy expanse and stepped onto the pier. At the far end, tied to the last post, was the rope he had found earlier, still dangling in the wind.

He walked down the pier and studied the rope. Unlike the thick nylon normally used to harness vessels, this rope was thin – a twine that could be bought at any hardware store. Definitely not easily traceable. Also of note, the knot fastening the rope to the post was of the ordinary overhand kind. Nothing unusual like a bowline, hitch or cat’s paw. Just a regular old knot.

The suspect had left them little to go on.

Striker took out his notebook and wrote all this down. By the time he had finished, Jim Banner had arrived on scene.

Banner – Noodles to all his friends – was making his way down from the roadside. Striker knew the man well. Hell, Striker was the one who had given Banner the nickname, after Banner had almost choked to death on a creamy linguine at the Noodle Shack. In return, Banner had nicknamed Striker Shipwreck – which Striker thought only fair, since it had been Banner’s boat Striker had destroyed in a not-to-be-discussed water-skiing incident.

Striker waved the man down. ‘Over here, Noodles.’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hold your friggin’ horses.’

Short, stubby, with white bushy eyebrows that made him look more Muppet than human, the ident technician waddled as he walked. He cut through the concrete plant loading zone and approached the dock. When he reached the river’s edge, Striker nodded.

‘’Bout time you got here – should I send you a special request next time?’

‘Sure. Address it to your mother’s bedroom.’

For the first time since this nightmare had started, Striker managed a bit of a smile. He explained to the technician all that had happened, then got Noodles to swab the bracelet for DNA and examine the cut rope. Once done, he guided him a few metres back towards the trail.

There, he stopped.

In the softer region of sand and silt were the footprints he had seen a half-hour earlier, during the chase. Three separate indentations. In the morning light, it was obvious that they were poor at best. Little ridge detail, blurred by the twisting motion in the sand. But one thing was for certain – the prints pointed in the direction of the dock.

‘Any chance of casting these?’ Striker asked.

Noodles placed his toolbox down on an unblemished section of land and crouched down low. Breathing hard from the exertion, his big belly protruding out, he pulled the flashlight from his tool belt and aimed the beam down into the first set of prints, then the second, and lastly the third.

He made some unhappy sounds.

‘Not good?’ Striker asked.

‘Poor. But we’ll do what we can . . . Any others?’

Striker shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve seen – but we haven’t done a full sweep of the beach yet. Got a canvass team being called out as we speak.’

Noodles just nodded.

Striker studied the footprints alongside the tech, assessing each one individually, then viewing them as an ongoing chain. After a moment, he pointed at two of the three shoe prints – the right ones.

‘The heel kicks out every time,’ he noted.

Noodles nodded. ‘Could have a fucked-up gait.’

‘Or a previous injury of some kind.’

‘Could be. But the ground here slopes down towards the river. So his foot would naturally slip a little, especially if he was trying to turn as he ran. Size is probably an eleven.’

‘An eleven?’

‘Or a ten.’

‘Great. We’ve just narrowed it down to eighty per cent of the adult male population.’

A few feet ahead, they found another print, this one much smaller. Possibly the victim. Noodles studied it. ‘There’s some basic ridge detail on this one,’ he said. ‘Enough maybe for a sample comparison . . . maybe . . . but the odds of discerning a brand and model are poor at best.’

‘Poor as in your chances of being voted Cop of the Year?’

‘Worse. Poor like your chances.’

Striker smiled weakly, then swore under his breath. He breathed in deeply, and the reedy stink of the river hit him.

Torture rooms. Rave girls. And vanishing suspects – this call was turning out to be the case from hell.

He was about to leave the river’s edge when something else caught his attention – something he noticed in only the first of the three footprints. He knelt down, took a pen from his pocket, and used it to point into the instep of the first footprint. There, in the dirt, was a small patch of a whitish-grey powder. In the mottled tones of sand and silt, it was almost indiscernible.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

Noodles took a long look. ‘Cement. Guy probably tracked it in from the plant yards – the stuff is everywhere.’

Striker said nothing for a moment, then nodded.

‘Analyse it anyway,’ he said.

‘If you want.’

‘I want,’ Striker said. ‘At this point we’re looking for miracles.’