Текст книги "The Guilty"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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One Hundred and Forty-Nine

Striker studied the man sitting on the table across the room from him. Oliver was fading now. Spitting out gibberish. Swaying. Sagging. Ready to collapse.

Striker looked at the detonator in his hand.

Too far.

It was too far.

He tried to rouse the man: ‘The children, Oliver – where are the children?’

But Oliver offered no answer.

To Striker’s left, Rothschild let out a moan, and a grating sound filled the room as his handcuffs slid against the steel pipe. Striker turned his eyes from Rothschild to the steel maintenance door, then back to the pressure-release in Oliver’s hand. If he could reach Oliver in time, he could grab the man’s hands and maintain the pressure . . . but there was thirty feet of distance between the men.

A lot of ground to cover.

Striker watched Oliver swaying on the table. When the man closed his eyes, Striker edged closer.

‘I got him!’ a voice suddenly said.

Striker was startled by the sound; he looked back towards the entrance of the room and saw Harry. Even in the strange red hue of the command room, it was obvious that the man’s face was tight. His gun was drawn – aimed at Oliver.

‘I got him,’ he said again.

‘Harry, no, he’s holding a detonator—’

But it was too late.

The gun fired. Two loud explosions thundered through the room and the left side of Oliver’s chest burst open. He jerked, lilted, rolled off the steel table and landed on the ground. Even as he fell, Striker raced towards him. Reached out for the pressure-release pad. But there was too much distance to cover.

The detonator had been released.

One Hundred and Fifty

Ten seconds. It was all they had.

A dozen thoughts raced through Striker’s mind: the amount of explosives strapped to Oliver’s chest; the hot steam powering through the steel pipes around them; the tripwires set up in the tunnels beyond; Rothschild handcuffed to the pipes beside him; and the children – where were the children?

He grabbed the steel maintenance door. Slid open the latch.

Nine seconds.

Yanked open the door and felt his heart drop.

No children inside.

Just supply boxes. Stacks of pipes. Some chairs. A panel of levers at the end.

Eight seconds.

Striker spun around, raced back into the room.

Seven.

Rothschild was conscious now, screaming: ‘My kids – find my kids, Striker! Get my kids out of here!’

Six.

Striker ran over to Oliver. Grabbed him roughly. And suddenly Harry was there beside him.

Five.

They dragged the dead bomber into the maintenance room.

Four.

Dumped him behind the column of supply boxes and steel pipes.

Three.

Leaped from the room. Slammed the door behind them. Slid the latch.

Two.

They grabbed the steel table. Flipped it over.

One.

Yanked the table in front of Rothschild. Started to drop down behind it.

Zero.

The bomb went off – a vicious explosion raged through the room, sounding like a locomotive powering through a mountain tunnel. One moment, Striker could see and hear and think; the next there was only darkness and deafness and the air around them was wet and humid and suffocatingly hot.

The pipes, he thought. The steam . . .

It was hissing all around them now.

They were going to cook to death.

One Hundred and Fifty-One

Hot. He was so unbelievably hot.

He was burning up. Couldn’t breathe. And there was blood. He could taste blood. In his mouth, in his throat. And the ringing in his ears was painful – a strange high-pitched whine.

Striker opened his eyes. Saw nothing but darkness.

Closed them again.

When he re-opened them sometime later, white lights were flashing. Hazy beams pierced through the mixture of mist and dust like light-sabres through smoke. The illumination came from the far end of the room, along with voices so soft and distant he could barely hear them.

‘Jacob,’ they sang. ‘. . . Jacob.’

Angels, calling his name.

‘. . . the children,’ he tried to say. ‘. . . find the children . . .’

But nothing would come out.

He felt hands take hold of him. Many hands. And suddenly he was suspended in the air. Floating, flying, his entire body lifting from the ground. He thought of Felicia, thought of Courtney, and how he needed to stay with them. But when the darkness came, fighting it was as useless as trying to stop time. It swallowed him whole, a tidal wave of warmth and blackness. And Striker felt himself go. He was fading into the nothingness now.

Dying.

Becoming dust and bones.

Just like Oliver . . .

Just like Oliver.

EPILOGUE

One

It was almost a full week later when Striker walked down the back alley of Trafalgar Street with a box of doughnuts and muffins in one hand and balancing two large coffees in the other – Timmy’s mediums, double-double.

Cops’ blend.

The sweltering heat wave had slowly soothed out into a softer, gentler balminess, and the soft blue colour of the sky made the mid-morning air feel fresher and brisker than it had been in a long while.

Striker relished the moment – it felt so good to be outdoors. Ever since he had been trapped in the dark depths of the steam tunnels, confined areas bothered him. He’d even been avoiding elevator booths. And the thought of it made him chuckle with self-admonishing thoughts:

I’m turning into Felicia.

He spotted Rothschild’s house. As he neared, he heard the kids playing in the yard, and it filled him with a thankfulness he couldn’t explain. There was a certain grace about children’s laughter. Especially now, after he had been so terribly close to losing them.

He listened to Cody yell out, ‘Don’t touch that, it’s mine!’ and smiled. He stood there, behind the fence, eavesdropping on their conversation, and he knew if he stayed much longer he’d choke up. So he got his feet moving again.

Up ahead the garage door was open. Inside, the hood of the Cougar was up and there were chrome car parts lined up all along the work bench. Rothschild was leaning over the engine, looking down and pretending he had even a modicum of mechanical skill. When Striker was close enough, Rothschild spotted him and nodded.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker stepped inside the garage. It smelled of oil and kitty litter and solvent. He looked out the window at the children playing, yelled out ‘Doughnuts!’ and Cody and Shana came running from the yard.

‘Hi, Uncle Jacob!’ Shana said.

Cody was too fixated on the box of treats to speak.

Striker passed the coffees to Rothschild and opened the box. The children overlooked the muffins and went straight for the doughnuts – a Boston Cream for Cody and some god-awful sprinkle mess for Shana. Treats in hand, they bounded off for the backyard again, and Striker thought of how long it had been since Courtney was that age.

It seemed a lifetime ago, and he missed it.

‘Thanks for the brew,’ Rothschild said. He opened up the lid and sipped some.

Striker nodded. ‘I needed it today.’

‘No sleep?’

He nodded. ‘Not a bit – you been getting any ringing in your ears? It’s been coming and going for me ever since the explosion.’

Rothschild snorted. ‘Naw. No ringing. Just a new-found sense of claustrophobia. I can’t even work on the car with the garage door closed.’

Striker laughed because he fully understood the feeling. ‘When you going back to work?’

Rothschild looked out the garage door at the clear blue skyline. ‘I dunno. Maybe never.’

At first Striker thought the man was joking, but upon closer inspection he could see the seriousness on Rothschild’s face. All that had happened the previous week had taken a toll on the man. That much was clear.

‘You just need some time is all.’

Rothschild looked back at him. ‘I don’t think so. Not this time.’ He crossed the garage and again approached the window where he stared at Cody and Shana in the backyard. ‘When that nutcase kidnapped them, it took something outta me, Shipwreck. Something deep . . . And I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back again.’

‘And yet they were fine,’ Striker pointed out. ‘Safe and sound – heck, they were eating sandwiches and doughnuts in the back of a police cruiser a half-mile away.’ When Rothschild said nothing, Striker joined him at the window. ‘They don’t even know anything was wrong, Mike.’

He nodded absently. ‘And God keep it that way.’

Striker nodded his agreement.

He sipped his coffee and turned away from the window. He studied Rothschild’s prized Cougar, and for a while the two men talked about life’s smaller issues – when Mike had bought the car, how the unpacking was going inside the house, and of the possible trip to Disneyland Mike was planning for the children. After a while, Rothschild grabbed one of the chrome engine parts and began polishing it. Then the conversation – like always – returned to work.

‘So what’s going on with Harry?’ Rothschild asked. He stopped polishing the manifold and looked over. ‘Lots of rumours going round – he gonna get off, or what?’

Striker just shrugged. ‘Who knows for sure? I gave what I had to Internal. It’s up to them now. But from what I hear, there’s already talk of a forced early retirement.’

‘Retirement?’ Rothschild laughed with scorn.

‘They may not have much of a choice. All the evidence is either old, linked directly to Koda, or circumstantial. We’re talking about something that happened ten years ago, and most of the witnesses are dead. Laroche assigned the case to John Reyes. And you know what a pit-bull that guy is – the file will go on for years.’

Rothschild said nothing. He just stood there with a rag in one hand and a shiny chrome exhaust pipe in the other. The talk of Harry had rankled him. ‘Goddam Harry – he could have killed us when he shot Oliver like that. I hope he gets whatever’s coming to him.’

A troubled look spread across Striker’s face.

Rothschild saw it.

‘What?’ he asked.

Striker shrugged. ‘Just Harry. The man’s confusing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When Oliver dropped the detonator, Harry had two options – he could have run away and saved his own ass, or he could have stayed behind and helped me try to save you and the kids . . . He stayed, Mike. Helped me drag and tip that steel table in front of us. It was what made the difference.’

Rothschild let out a humourless laugh. ‘So what are you talking about here, Shipwreck – redemption?’

‘I’m just saying it should count for something.’

‘So you’re glad he’s getting off?’

‘No. I think he should be charged to the full extent of the law . . . but I don’t have to be happy about it.’

Rothschild snorted but said nothing.

Striker sighed. He’d had enough of the dark conversation. He gestured out the garage window to Cody and Shana, who were playing in the yard. Giggling. Frolicking in the sun. It was a wonderful sight.

‘There are better things to focus on,’ he said.

The dark look on Rothschild’s face stubbornly remained for a moment, but then the lines there lessened, and he nodded. The two friends talked and drank their coffees and polished the chrome engine parts together until Cody sheepishly poked his head back into the garage and begged for another doughnut.

Striker gave the boy one, plus another for his sister. Then he threw the box on the work bench. Soon there would only be muffins left. Bran.

‘You still going over there?’ Rothschild suddenly asked.

‘Ireland?’ Striker nodded. ‘Yeah. Courtney’s going to be there three more weeks yet. I know she’s safe with Tate and his parents, and they’re probably having a wonderful time . . . but I kind of want to see her.’

Rothschild stopped polishing and looked at him. ‘What about Felicia?’

‘She’s coming too.’

He grinned. ‘Well, well. Fancy that. How’d you spin that one, Spiderman?’

Striker shrugged. ‘Wasn’t hard. Felicia’s never been there either. It will be a nice break for both of us. And you know what? We need it after all that’s gone on this last week.’

Rothschild finished the last of his coffee, then looked at the empty cup. ‘Want me to put on a pot?’

Striker shook his head. ‘I got to be going. Got a dozen things to do before we leave and I haven’t even packed yet. Besides, you know what they say’ – he gave Rothschild a wry grin – ‘it’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’

Rothschild laughed softly and kept on polishing the manifold.

‘Keep your day job,’ he said.

Two

Striker picked up Felicia at her home and they made the drive to White Rock in less than forty minutes. Not that they were rushing it. The drive out there was nice. Traffic was sparse, the sky was clear, and the weather was balmy. It gave both of them some time to relax a little as they passed by the ebbing tide of Crescent Beach and, kilometres later, the forested hills of South Surrey.

Their first stop was the Davies house.

Striker pulled up to the small rancher and stared at the place. Everything was falling to pieces, and it made him feel better about what he had accomplished. Felicia climbed out, and Striker joined her. As he fiddled with the paperwork, Felicia hiked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

‘We should have called,’ Felicia said.

Striker just smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

He stuffed the thick, legal-size envelope into the mailbox and closed the lid. Inside it were two bundles of paperwork: some legal documents, and some forms. The legal documents were from the Royal Logistics Corps. With Archer having passed away, the family was qualified to obtain assistance from the regimental fund of the British Army.

Enough to pay a good-sized monthly mortgage.

As for the forms, they were from the Police Mutual Benevolent Association. The cops-for-cops charity had put forward enough funds to cover one year of a sports programme for each child – hockey for Logan and figure-skating for Rachel. Striker even added a cheque of his own to cover the required equipment expenses.

When they got back into the car and started driving again, Felicia reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘That was really nice of you,’ she said.

‘The kids are both in high school now. But better late than never.’

‘They’ll remember this.’

Striker shrugged. ‘I was eighteen when my parents died. I had to take care of my siblings and it was all we could do to get by. It hurt to see other kids playing sports when Tommy wanted to and couldn’t.’ He let out a long breath and found it odd how the memory still upset him. ‘You know, playing hockey was the only thing Tommy ever asked me for, and I couldn’t give it to him.’

‘You did more for them than any other brother would, Jacob – you raised them.’

He shrugged. ‘Same thing when Courtney was little . . . I think of all the time and money we spent on Amanda’s sickness, and all the things Courtney sacrificed. I can never get those times back for her again . . . but I can do something good for someone else. I can do this.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

Striker said nothing back, and Felicia tightened her grip on his hand as they drove down 16th Avenue towards Highway 99 in the noon-day sun. They headed back for Vancouver. For the subsidized apartment complexes of Creekside Drive. Where the Williams children lived.

Striker had a little package for them too.

Three

It was three o’clock when Striker parked his vehicle in the long-term parking at Vancouver International Airport. He and Felicia removed their bags from the trunk and took the skywalk from the second level into the main terminal of international departures.

The moment they had checked in their luggage and were walking into the waiting area, Felicia asked Striker to get them a couple of coffees and then beelined towards the nearest book store. They met up ten minutes later, Striker with a couple of coffees – a standard Americano for him, a caramel latte for her – and Felicia with a handful of magazines and two novels.

She handed him the latest Brad Thor novel, and Striker smiled. They sat down in a booth, sipped their coffees, and read. It felt so good to relax. Striker had barely finished page two of Black List when his cell went off. He looked down at the display and saw the words BLOCKED NUMBER.

That meant work.

He let out an exasperated sound. ‘You gotta be kidding me.’ He jammed the phone to his ear. ‘Striker.’

‘It’s Kami,’ came the response. ‘Corporal Summer. From the RCMP.’

He laughed. ‘I know who you are.’

‘Oh.’ She sounded surprised. ‘Well, I just wanted to let you know that I put in my last evidence page into your report. So if this whole thing with Harry Eckhart ever goes to trial, you have everything you need from me. I’ll post you my notes through the internal mail. Shouldn’t take but a few days.’

‘Much appreciated.’

‘Call me if you need anything else,’ she added.

‘I will.’

Corporal Kami Summer said goodbye, hung up, and the line went dead.

The end of the conversation brought Striker a sense of relief. Over the past few days, he’d had enough work-related calls to last him a lifetime. He powered off the iPhone and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. When he looked up again, Felicia was eyeing him curiously.

She licked away a milk-foam moustache.

‘Kami – with a K?’ she asked.

‘That depends on whether it’s going to get me into trouble – with a T.’

Felicia just gave him a deadpan stare, and Striker laughed. She raised her magazine once more and went back to her column. Striker let her read for a few minutes, then broke the silence.

‘I have a surprise for you.’

She lowered her magazine, intrigued. ‘Go on.’

‘We never did get away for your birthday, so after we spend a couple of days with Courtney and Tate, I’m taking you away somewhere special. It’s already planned. Booked.’

Her smile widened and she put the magazine flat down on the table.

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘Just a little bed and breakfast I found overlooking the Cliffs of Moher. Five-star accommodation. A room with a fireplace. Our own personal hot tub overlooking the bay. And of course, almond bark and champagne when we arrive.’

She reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘I can’t wait.’

Striker was glad to see her smile.

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘No computers, no phones, no friggin’ sirens and alert tones. Just the two of us. Finally, some quality time together.’ He smiled. ‘Quality time – with a T . . . Or would that be a QT?’

Felicia grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s with a U and I.’

Striker laughed softly. ‘Corny. But I’ll take it.’

Felicia leaned forward, touched his face with her fingers, and kissed him on the lips – one long, slow, tender kiss. When she sat back again, her eyes were warm and caring, and they made Striker smile. He felt good. He felt relaxed. He felt free again. There was no doubt about it.

It was going to be one hell of a holiday.

Acknowledgement Section

The Guilty would not have been possible without the specific help of the following people:

• Sergeant Phil Chambers whose knowledge of explosives and vast experience as a former Breacher of the Emergency Response Team were invaluable to my research

• Sergeant Steve Thacker (AKA The Silver Fox), whose experiences in numerous Investigations sections offered me not only direction but a unique insight.

• Constable Kirk Longstaffe (AKA Stone Cold) who made sure I didn’t commit any policing faux pas

• Joe Cummings (better known as Python Joe), who is one of the best brainstormers I have ever worked with

• And Ian Bailey (no nickname; just plain old Ian – all six foot four of him), who never lets me forget the media slant of the inciting events.

On a professional level, I have to thank the following people who helped turn a good manuscript into an excellent novel:

• My editor extraordinaire, Emma Lowth, whose thoughtful suggestions no doubt enriched the story

• My copyeditor, Ian Allen, whose attention to detail was downright life-saving at times

• Publishing Director Suzanne Baboneau, who had belief in this series from the get-go

• And the rest of the staff at Simon & Schuster. Whether they are marketing the new book or designing the next jacket, everything they do is always top notch and much appreciated.

Also on a professional level, I have to thank everyone at the Darley Anderson Agency. For those of you who don’t know, they have the patent on making dreams come true.

• Clare Wallace

• Mary Darby

• Rosanna Bellingham

• Darley, himself

• And of course my awesome agent, Camilla Wray, who is my lifeline in the publishing world and always a joy to hear from.

Last of all, I have to thank my lovely wife, Lani, who takes on the bulk of the family duties (the not-so-fun ones) so that I may have the time required to research, outline and write these novels, each of which seems to take an inordinate amount of time.

I thank you all,

Sean