Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Sixty
The table was wet when Red Mask awoke, and his body was slicked with sweat. The room was cold. So terribly cold. And there was that smell again.
He heard the sound of running water and saw the old man standing by the sink, his arthritic spine all twisted from the rear view. He was washing off steel tools.
The old man must have sensed something, for he turned around. Found Red Mask with his eyes. ‘You fell into unconsciousness.’
Red Mask tried to think back. There was no memory. ‘Is bullet removed?’
The old man shuffled over to the table and dropped the lump of mashed lead into Red Mask’s palm. ‘The bringer of so much sorrow. It is yours. Well earned.’
Red Mask looked at the source of his pain; it was so small.
‘I must go,’ he said.
The old man grimaced. ‘You can go nowhere. Your body is weak. Very weak.’
‘My spirit is strong.’
‘The spirit is housed by the body.’
Red Mask sat forward, and let out a cry. The pain was just as intense as before, but different. Less sharp, more diffuse. He swung his legs off the table and carefully stood. His legs trembled but did not give out.
‘I owe you much.’
The old man put a vial of pills into his hand. ‘You must take these. Every hour. To fight off the infection.’
Red Mask stuffed the vial into his pants pocket. Then the old man touched him.
‘Your body needs rest.’
‘I will rest when dead.’
‘That will not be long if you persist.’
Red Mask walked to the exit. Before leaving, he did something he hadn’t done in as long as he could remember – he cupped his hands together and bowed low to show his respect and gratitude to the man who had saved his life.
Or at the very least delayed his death.
Outside, the steep incline of concrete stairs took every bit of energy he had left to climb. Once at the top, he stepped out from under the awning and the rain hit him. Just a soft spatter of rain, but that was all it took. And within seconds, he was back there.
Back then . . .
Red Mask was small again. Weak. And alone.
A child.
Child 157, to be exact. It was his label now. He stood on his toes, terrified, but daring to peek through the iron bars of his window, into the pits of D Block below.
That was where the old man had been taken. It would be his final resting-place.
‘Who is your employer?’ the inquisitor with the blue sash demanded.
The old man before him trembled. He was seated on his knees, his chest and torso exposed, his rice-thin pants torn. Sweat and blood dripped down his sunburned brow and along the sides of his leathery wrinkled face. His long, uneven beard was patched with grey.
‘No one, there is no one,’ the old man said, and the desperation in his words was painful.
‘What is your former occupation?’ the blue-sashed man demanded.
The old man raised his branch-thin arms in the air, as if pleading for mercy. ‘I have told you many times—’
‘Put him in the tank!’ the inquisitor snapped.
The old man screamed and waved his arms, but when the guards came – and they always came, wearing that horrible, drab grey clothing – they took him easily, for he was too thin and too weak and too old to fight them off. They tied his arms behind his back, then dragged him across the room to the iron tub. It was filled with water, and the stink of it reached Child 157’s nose. It was the same water a hundred others had died in – including the old man’s wife just before midday.
‘I have done nothing!’ the old man cried out. ‘Nothing! I am inno—’
The guards forced his head beneath the water, cutting off his cries. Loud splashes filled the room. Frantic sounds, like a fish fighting for life. The old man’s legs kicked and his body bucked, and the water thrashed and spilled.
Child 157 watched from his window. He could not look away.
The room was hot and sweltering in the summer heat, but he felt cold now. Cold with fear. He watched for a long time as the guards continued the pattern – yanking the old man’s head from the tub, demanding answers from him, then slamming his face back into the water when they did not get the words they wanted. Every time they did it, more water splashed across the floor and wall, the odd splatters hitting Child 157 and wetting his skin.
The violence went on for a long, long time.
But eventually the old man’s body gave out. Or perhaps they held him under the water a second too long. The reason did not matter. When they pulled him from the tub, his neck fell forward limply and his face slammed hard on the lip of iron.
It was over.
Uncle was dead.
The inquisitor wrote something down in his book, then turned his eyes towards the iron-barred window of the cells. He found Child 157 and fixed him with a cold stare.
‘Bring in the next,’ he said.
Red Mask startled as he awoke from the memory. Cold water splashed his face, and it took him several seconds to realise it was not water from the drowning tub, but rain from above. Simple rain.
‘Uncle,’ he murmured.
It was a word he had not said in decades.
Confused by the recall, he turned and headed south. For Kingsway and Rupert. To meet the man who controlled his life every bit as much as the spirits controlled his destiny. His childhood mentor. His only grace. His last chance in this unforgiving world.
Sheung Fa.
Sixty-One
The Vancouver Jail was slower than usual. No arrestees were in the holding cell, and none were in the search bay. When Striker learned that Jail Sergeant Connors was away on sick leave, it was a stroke of good luck. Connors was newly made, and anal about the booking rules and procedures. For what Striker had planned, the procedures would be thrown out the window.
It was better for everyone not to have Connors around.
Striker told the wagon driver to leave Chinese Tony inside the back of the wagon, in the dark with the heat cranked up to full. He locked his Sig in the jail’s gun-locker, then stood outside the pre-hold and waited for the guards to buzz him in. They did, and he walked right through to the front desk. The jail guard was one he’d never seen before, a young black guy with huge glasses and a weary expression on his face.
‘Got a prisoner in the wagon,’ Striker told him. ‘Keep him in there.’
‘Sure thing, Detective.’
Striker went alone. Felicia had gone over to Headquarters at 312 Main to do some more searching on the Debate Club lead, and Striker was thankful for it. They needed more information, and he needed some space. Especially here and now.
Some tactics worked better old school.
He walked through the jail. In the thirty years it had been open, not much had changed. There were new policies and procedures, new forms and safety checks, but the essence of the jail remained untouched. It was a bad place. An unforgiving place. The walls were dark and dreary, the lighting was poor, and the place stank of piss and puke and shit and bleach.
Cologne of the Skids.
Striker went over his plan. He picked Cell Block 2 because there was a psychological advantage to having an inmate walk down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the jail. And he chose Cell 9 because it had been recently revamped into a temporary holding cell for high traffic times. Being revamped meant it had once been a search room for recently booked prisoners, and being a search room meant it was one of the few places in the jail that had no cameras.
The cell door was open. Striker stepped inside. The small ten-by-ten room contained two bunk beds and two fluorescent bulbs. It was too bright for his liking, so Striker climbed up on the top bunk and removed one of the bulbs, making the cell even darker.
‘You owe us big for this,’ a voice behind him said.
Striker turned and spotted Constable Chris Pemberton and Detective Pinkerton Morningstar – two of the biggest men on the force. Each man was at least six foot six and over three hundred pounds. Dressed in white, paper-like prisoner gear, Pemberton looked like a square-faced enforcer from the Aryan Nation, and Morningstar looked like the meanest blackest motherfucker ever to grace these prison walls.
They were perfect for the part.
Striker looked at Morningstar. ‘I pissed in the cell so it feels real for you.’
Pemberton chuckled, Morningstar did not. ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ he said.
Striker couldn’t have agreed more. Time was everything.
Pemberton and Morningstar stepped inside the cell, Striker shut the door on them, and then he went back upstairs and got to work. Within ten minutes, he had Chinese Tony run through the search bay and dressed in his prisoner digs. The man talked big and strutted around, giving everyone the gangster show Striker had seen a thousand times over. Striker walked Chinese Tony down the north stairway, gave him a smile, and said, ‘Dead Man Walking.’
Chinese Tony didn’t react.
When they reached Cell Block 2, Tony beelined for Cell 6. Before he got there, Striker grabbed his arm.
‘Slight change of plans.’
‘What the—’
Striker shoved him along the narrow grey corridor until they reached Cell 9, where Pemberton and Morningstar were waiting inside. A steel hatch covered a small pane of rectangular viewing glass, inset in the green steel door. With a quick flick of his finger, Striker opened it to reveal the two thugs inside.
‘How’s it going, ladies?’ he said. ‘Can I interrupt this Mary Kay meeting?’
Morningstar kicked the door. ‘Fuck you!’
Pemberton just stood there and looked menacing.
Striker grinned. ‘You getting all acquainted with one another in there?’ He looked at Pemberton and laughed mockingly. ‘Is it true what they say – once you have black . . .’
‘Go fuck your mother,’ Pemberton said. ‘You lying prick, Striker! You said you owed us one. Said you’d look out for us. You’re a lying fuck!’ He stepped forward and kicked the door so hard it shook and the viewing hatch closed.
Chinese Tony reared back nervously.
Striker held him steady. He flipped the hatch back open and made eye-contact with the two men inside. ‘Don’t get your panties in a knot, ladies, I brought you some fresh meat here. Now you can have a ménage-à-trois – Hotel Skid-style.’
A nervous whimper escaped Tony’s lips and his entire body tightened. ‘No fuckin’ way I’m going in there.’
Striker just smiled at him. ‘Hope you smuggled in some lube.’
‘I’m gonna tell my lawyer!’
‘Go ahead and tell him whatever you want. But he won’t get down here for at least three hours after the call is made. Plenty of time for some good old-fashioned lovin’.’
Chinese Tony’s face hardened. ‘Stop fuckin’ round, Striker.’
‘You should really consider your words better when you’re about to go in the can, Tony. You see the big black dude in there,’ he pointed through the glass window at Morningstar, ‘there’s a reason I picked him to be in your cell. And the white wacko, too. See, they were both victims as kids. Sexual molestation cases. Anal rape – real bad stuff. They’ve suppressed most of it, but I bet they’ll remember it all when I tell them your dirty little secret.’
Tony’s face paled. ‘I ain’t got no secrets.’
‘You’re a skinner, Tony.’
‘Fuck you, I am.’
‘Like the little boys.’
‘This is bullshit.’
‘Every cop knows it – and they’re just waiting for the information to nail your tight little ass to the wall.’ Striker pointed into the cell. ‘And soon they will, too. Unless we talk. Up to you really. You wanna talk to me – or you wanna take your chances in there with Ebony and Ivory?’
Tony’s chest was heaving and sweat dappled his skin, as if the Cell Block 2 was suddenly too hot.
‘Go fuck your mother.’
Striker didn’t hesitate. He opened the door, shoved Tony inside, and Tony let out a terrified croak.
‘Striker!’
‘I told you, Tony, I got dead kids on my hands and a crazed gunman out there. I’m willing to break all the rules on this one. And a piece of shit like you means nothing to me.’ Striker grabbed the edge of the door, looked at Morningstar and Pemberton, and smiled. ‘I told you guys I’d look out for you, and that I’d owe you one. Well, here it is. The name of your new cellmate here is Chinese Tony. He’s a skinner. Have fun with him.’
Striker slammed the door shut and the harsh metallic sound echoed throughout the halls. Not a second later, Chinese Tony let out a horrible cry and started pounding frantically on the door.
‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk, I’LL FUCKING TALK!’
Striker opened up the door, saw Chinese Tony on his stomach, trembling, crying, his prisoner clothing already half-ripped from the lower part of his thin white body. His ass was hanging out. In behind him, Pemberton and Morningstar stood with strips of Tony’s prison clothes in their hands. Striker turned his eyes down to Tony.
‘You’ll tell me everything?’ he said.
‘Everything, Striker, everything. I swear!’
‘Good. Because you shut me out again and you’ll be right back here – and next time, this door won’t open back up.’
Sixty-Two
Ten minutes later, Striker sat across from Chinese Tony in one of the interview rooms located behind the main booking area. The air was cooler and much more comfortable here, and the lighting was brighter. The room was secure.
‘Have some water,’ Striker said, and slid bottled water across the table.
Chinese Tony accepted it with trembling hands. He tried to uncap it, couldn’t, and Striker did it for him. He passed the water back and tried not to notice the bad smell in the room.
Chinese Tony had pissed himself.
Striker put down his water, fixed Tony with a hard look. ‘The van,’ he said. ‘Start talking.’
For a moment, Tony’s deep-set eyes took on a distant look, and he drank more and more water as if trying to delay the inevitable. After a few seconds, water spilled from the corner of his mouth onto the desk.
‘We just stole it, is all.’
‘Stole it?’
‘Stole it. We was out lookin’ for something – Ali K and me – and then we headed up through the back lane of Pender there.’
‘The south lane.’
He shrugged like it didn’t matter. ‘Yeah, I guess. We cut into one of them underground parkades, and then we heard this motor running. So we turned the corner and looked up, and there it was – this white van someone left running. One of the back doors was open. Like they was loading it or something.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, we just ran up to it and saw no one was there, so we slammed the back door and hopped in each side and drove it out of the underground.’ He stopped speaking, took in a long breath. ‘Underground was dark. Wasn’t till we got out on Georgia we realised there was those bodies in the back. And then – just like that – there was these cops behind us, and we just kinda panicked. We dumped the van and ran outta there, ran straight through the projects.’
Striker said nothing as he thought it over. The story made sense – Chinese Tony was a prominent car thief, and vans were his MO – but the odds of finding that van were bullshit. Striker fixed him with his best cold look.
‘One more lie and you go right back to the tank.’
‘I told you—’
‘You didn’t just happen across that van and steal it, Tony, someone hired you to do it. Who?’
‘I told you—’
Striker stood up. ‘Let’s go. Back to Cell 9.’
‘They’ll kill me if I tell!’
Striker said nothing. He stood by the door and studied Chinese Tony. The man looked frail, terrified. He was shaking so hard, the chair rattled against the floor. Striker leaned forward, down to Chinese Tony’s eye-level. ‘No one will ever know but you and me.’
Tony looked down, his lips trembled.
‘I promise you that,’ Striker added.
Chinese Tony wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his prison gear, then let out something between a laugh and a cry.
‘Kim Pham,’ he finally got out.
The name was familiar to Striker, and then he recalled – Kim Pham, the manager of the restaurant that owned the van.
Striker watched Tony’s face for any change in expression as he asked, ‘Who the hell is Kim Pham?’
‘He’s their leader.’
‘Whose leader? Leader of what?’
‘The Shadow Dragons.’
Striker stopped. All at once, Patricia Kwan’s nonsensical words came back to him: ‘. . . the house was filled with dragons . . .’ He let it hang in the back of his mind.
‘This Kim Pham,’ he said. ‘Did he contact you directly?’
Tony shrugged. ‘Well, no, not directly. He usually does. But not this time.’
‘Then how? Who?’
‘Some woman. Never heard her voice before. Left a message on my cell that they needed me again. Said it was urgent. But I never saw her, never got no name or nothing. Just did what I was told. Like I always do.’
‘Why did she hire you?’
Tony shrugged again. ‘To get rid of the van, to dump it in the river.’
‘Did you know why?’
‘I never knew there was gonna be any bodies inside, that’s for sure. I thought it was for insurance stuff.’
Striker thought about it, went over the timing and connections. If Chinese Tony had done his job right, the bodies would have ended up in the bottom of the Fraser River. Same place as where they’d fished out Que Wong.
‘What else can you tell me?’ he said.
‘That’s all I know.’
‘Should we revisit Cell 9?’
‘That’s all I know, man! Honest. There’s nothing else, they don’t tell me nothing. All I ever get is cash up front from one of their drop-off guys and then I never hear from them till they need me again.’
Striker studied the man, saw his fear, believed him.
He escorted Chinese Tony to an empty cell in Cell Block 2, then went outside and retrieved his gun from the locker.
It was time to pay a visit to the Fortune Happy restaurant.
Sixty-Three
The Golden Dragon Lounge was packed with the noon rush, so Red Mask circled around the large tinted-glass windows to the back lane, where the busboys were throwing out the trash. One of them, a young boy named Gock, recognised him.
Red Mask stopped him with a soft word. ‘Boy. You know my face?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘This is good. I must speak with Sheung Fa. Ask him to hold tea with me.’
The boy nodded and ran inside. Five minutes later, he returned and motioned for Red Mask to follow. He led him through the kitchen area, down a long hallway, then up another series of stairs until they reached a large wooden door.
‘He waits for you inside.’
When the boy turned to leave, he fled more than walked. Red Mask watched him go until he had descended the stairs and was no longer in view. Then he turned and entered Sheung Fa’s office.
Inside, the air was overly warm. Sheung Fa sat behind a desk made from a whitish wood Red Mask had not seen in twenty years. Out of respect, he bowed – as low as his body would allow in his injured state – and he held it until Sheung Fa told him otherwise in his gentle but commanding tone.
‘Stand freely.’
Sheung Fa’s face had changed since he had last seen him. The differences were almost imperceptible, but there was enough to show that no man escaped time. Not even Sheung Fa. His dark eyes stuck out against the silver of his recently-cut hair, and his goatee and moustache were freshly trimmed to match. Everything about Sheung Fa’s appearance was proper, professional, and exemplified great care.
‘Come forward,’ he said.
Sheung Fa spoke in English, for their dialects were too far apart. He gestured for Red Mask to sit in the chair opposite him, and Red Mask did as ordered. Sheung Fa then picked up the teapot and poured black tea. He did so slowly, as if the pouring of the tea was more a ceremony than a simple task.
Red Mask watched the steam rise from white china mugs. He waited for Sheung Fa to pick up his own cup, then followed suit. The tea was hot and tasted wonderful, if a little bitter. It was the first thing to pass his lips in twenty-four hours.
‘Thank you, Dai Lo. For tea and time.’
Sheung Fa put down his cup. ‘You are man of middle age now, so far from the youth I remember of years gone by. How is your father?’
Red Mask looked down. ‘Father is good. But time thins him.’
‘Time, or the past?’
‘I think both.’ He looked up again. ‘You and I not speak for years, Dai Lo, but never do I forget all you do for me in past.’
Sheung Fa smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. ‘You were but a boy then, a child. You would not have made it.’ For a moment, Sheung Fa turned his head and looked at the triangular pennant hanging in the corner of the room, the bright fiery red standing out against the black wood walls. When he spoke again, his voice was reserved, but strong. ‘I do not think of the past much these days. There has been enough pain. It is not good to allow it back.’
Then Sheung Fa’s pale face darkened. ‘I know of what transpires, and I am sorry for your loss. But your actions have caused great concern.’
‘I act only necessary.’
‘Do you? Was killing Pham a necessity? This has caused us much trouble and much work. We have taken action and disposed of the body. But the other three you left behind have been found, and they will surely be a problem.’
Red Mask met Sheung Fa’s stare. Explained. ‘Pham tried to end my life. To put fault at my feet. The plan, Dai Lo, was not mine, but Pham’s.’
‘And the responsibility?’
Red Mask looked down. ‘This is mine alone.’
Sheung Fa finished his tea, breathed out slowly. ‘Your honesty is refreshing.’
‘When Pham and the doctor attack, I react.’
Sheung Fa leaned forward and steepled his fingers. He thought in silence for a long moment before speaking. ‘The concern comes not from this office. It comes from higher up. Overseas.’
Red Mask felt his mouth go dry. ‘Shan Chu?’
Sheung Fa nodded. ‘I will speak with him on your behalf. I will try to steer him towards right thoughts. But this is all I can promise.’
‘Thank you, Dai Lo.’
Sheung Fa stood. He was taller than Red Mask remembered, nearly six feet, and slender. He rounded the table. When Red Mask started to bow, Sheung Fa stopped him with a soft hand. He pulled Red Mask close and gave him a long hug. ‘It is good to see you again, little one. Now tell me: how many can identify you?’
Red Mask pulled away from the contact. ‘There are two.’
‘And that is all?’
‘Yes, Dai Lo.’
‘And one is left from your mission?’
‘Yes.’
Sheung Fa nodded. ‘It is as we thought. These three will be Shan Chu’s greatest concern.’ He handed Red Mask a thin manila envelope.
Red Mask opened it and pulled out five pages. Four were written information on Homicide Detective Jacob Striker; the last was a photocopied picture of the man.
‘Is this correct?’ Sheung Fa asked.
‘It is him.’
‘The better you know your enemy, the greater your chance of success.’
‘Success?’
‘It is a pivotal time, little one. Follow the path and there yet may be a meeting for you with Shan Chu.’
Red Mask smiled, for the message was clear.
There was still hope. A new life for him, in Macau.
All it would take to get there was three more kills.
