Текст книги "The Survivor"

Автор книги: Sean Slater

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

Urine.

He took another step forward and scanned everything.

Old planks put together to form benches and a table took up the bulk of the room, sitting out of place and centre stage. It bothered him. They were mostly covered by an orange tarp. Striker looked around. Though the bunker was old, it was still unfinished. Fraying chunks of pink insulation poked out through the white plastic sheets that stretched from two-by-four to two-by-four. Here and there, homemade wooden shelves had been nailed up haphazardly. In the far corner of the room sat a new workbench, covered in metal parts.

Everything seemed normal.

Seemed.

And then Striker took a closer look at the details. On the shelves, unlocked and out in the open, sat several copper pads, wire brushes, and dirty rags – cleaning tools for weaponry. On the far wall, overtop the fraying insulation hung a small piece of cardboard, containing handwritten directions on how to construct homemade grenades. And on the workbench, all the pieces of metal Striker had taken for scrap were actually filed-down splinters of metal filler for explosive devices. Shrapnel.

He had walked into a weapons lair.

‘Got gun stuff down here,’ Striker called up to Felicia. ‘Be ready.’

He raised his shotgun, swung into the centre of the room, and stopped abruptly. Down to his right, directly beside the workbench, a leg stuck out near the front of the benches. The leg was covered by black pants and a black runner. The remainder of the body was obscured by the hanging orange tarp.

‘Got a body!’ he called.

He took a wide arc around the couch for a better view.

Lying there, face up on the dirty concrete, was a young Asian male. A teenager. His mouth was agape, his empty eyes wide open. The top of his head was blown away, as if he’d shot a bullet through the roof of his mouth. Clutched in his right hand was a 40-calibre pistol. A Glock. And lying beside him on the ground was a blood-red hockey mask.

Striker eased his finger off on the trigger, but kept the gun at the low ready. ‘You can come down,’ he called.

He’d barely yelled the words and Felicia was beside him. She saw the damage to the gunman’s head and the wetness of his crotch. She wrinkled her nose.

‘Jesus Christ, another one,’ she said.

‘Good things come in threes.’

Striker studied the ceiling and saw a dirty spray of redness against the old brown wood. In the centre of the stain was a small hole, where the bullet had penetrated. Surrounding the hole were splinters of bone and splatters of skin and hair, and a mess of other dark things he could not define.

‘Keep us covered,’ he said.

When Felicia nodded, he handed her the shotgun and gloved up. He snapped the latex and leaned down over the dead kid. He took out the photocopied picture of Raymond Leung, the one Principal Myers had given him from last year’s yearbook. Comparing the picture with the dead boy on the cement floor left little doubt.

This was Raymond Leung.

Striker folded up the paper, stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. He reached down, grasped the gunman’s pistol with his thumb and index finger, and hit the mag release. He slid out the clip and took close inspection of the bullets, examining the casings.

‘Hydra-Shok rounds.’

Felicia let out a relieved sound. ‘Just like the ones in White Mask’s pistol.’

‘The ones he used on the targeted kids,’ Striker clarified. He pocketed the clip, expelled the last round in the pistol and gently laid it back down on the floor. He then searched through Raymond Leung’s pockets and found a crumpled-up piece of computer paper. He smoothed it out and looked over the page.

Felicia peered over his shoulder. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

Striker nodded. ‘Suicide note. “Fuck you and fuck the world”.’

‘Not much of a linguist.’

‘Yeah. He wouldn’t have made it past Deputy Chief in our Department.’

Felicia let out a strange laugh, one that resonated with relief more than humour. She took out her cell, flipped it open. ‘I’ll call it in.’

Striker nodded. He returned the note to the same pocket. When Felicia agreed to guard the body, Striker called for the plainclothes units to assist him in clearing the house. As he waited for them, he went over the case in his head. Everything had fallen into place: they had Raymond Leung’s body. Here, in his own residence. With his red mask beside him. And his gun. Which was filled with Hydra-Shok rounds.

All the pieces of the puzzle fitted perfectly. This should have filled Striker with elation. Or at the very least, an overpowering sense of relief. But it did nothing of the sort. Instead, it left him with a gnawing sense of worry. This was a homicide investigation. Nothing ever fitted together that easily.

Something was wrong.

Twenty-Four

It took over an hour, but when the clock struck seven, the Wong house was cleared. No one was home. The parents, Anson and May Wong, were apparently away on vacation, visiting family in China. They would have to be contacted as soon as possible. In the meantime, the entire house and yard needed to be guarded as a crime scene, and Felicia had already started taping off the area.

Striker thanked the plainclothes units for their assistance, then walked back towards the bunker where Red Mask – now known as seventeen-year-old Raymond Leung – lay dead. He had barely set foot in the backyard when he spotted the unmarked white cruiser parked in the lane.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

Striker scanned the yard and quickly located Inspector Beasley – the biggest brownnoser in the Department. He stood near the patio. The Deputy Chief was standing beside him, just in front of the hatchway leading into the ground. He was holding a white handkerchief to his thin lips, and when he caught sight of Striker, his face tightened and he took the handkerchief away.

‘I want a word with you, Detective.’ He marched over to Striker, and in a flash, Inspector Beasley was at his side.

Striker glanced at Beasley. ‘Brought the cheerleader, huh?’

The Deputy Chief wasn’t distracted. ‘Why wasn’t I notified of this address before you came here? And why wasn’t the Emergency Response Team called in? Jesus Christ, Striker, you didn’t even go over the air with it.’

Striker nodded. ‘That’s what you wanted to say to me?’

‘What the hell else would it be?’

‘How about “Good job – you found the killer”.’

‘How can I commend you when your results are based on luck?’

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘Luck?’

‘You didn’t follow even one proper procedure on this one – not one.’

‘I located the goddam gunman.’

‘And jeopardised your life in the process. And the life of your partner, too. And those of however many other cops might have had to come after you if things had gone poorly. Your recklessness will be documented.’

Striker laughed darkly. It was a typical response of Laroche; why had he expected otherwise? And really, what the fuck did the Deputy Chief know anyway? The man was a carpet cop; he had put in the minimum amount of time required for Patrol, then spent the rest of his twenty-four-year career in non-operational sections – and not even Investigative units. Places like Recruiting, and Training, and Human Resources. Hell, he’d even had a stint in the Graffiti Squad. All of his placements had been positions with the least stress. Away from the danger. Away from the violence.

It was a wonder he could even fire his gun any more.

‘You can turn in your gun now,’ Laroche said. ‘The immediacy of this incident is over.’

‘Over?’

‘I’m officially downgrading it.’

Striker looked beyond the Deputy Chief to where Noodles was taking pictures of the hatch. Standing next to him was Felicia. Her dark brown eyes focused on him with an almost pleading look. There was tenderness in her stare, and concern.

Striker looked away. Focused back on Laroche.

‘I wouldn’t be downgrading anything, if I were you, sir. Not just yet.’

Laroche gave a deep-bellied laugh. He looked back at Inspector Beasley. ‘And why is that, Striker? Why shouldn’t I downgrade it? Come on – enlighten us all with your wisdom.’

‘Well, for one, we only think we have all three shooters,’ Striker said. ‘Nothing has been confirmed. We don’t know for sure that Raymond Leung was actually the same guy we had a shootout with at the school.’

Laroche beamed. When he spoke again, there was condescension in his tone.

‘We know Sherman Chan was involved. And Quenton Wong, too. We got the bodies. Now we have their best friend and roommate, found dead in the red mask. What else would you have us believe?’ The Deputy Chief stepped closer and put a hand on Striker’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you came back too soon. Maybe you should go back on stress leave. Just for a while.’

Striker shrugged Laroche’s hand off his shoulder. ‘I’m back for good.’

Laroche smiled. ‘Fine then. But I’ll give you a little bit of advice, Striker. One that’ll get you through a lot in this profession. When you’re in a field full of horses, don’t go looking for zebras. All you’ll find is more horses.’

‘I don’t know about that. I already found a jackass.’

The Deputy Chief’s smile never faltered. ‘Always quick with the wit, aren’t you? Right down to the bitter end – and this is bitter, I am sure.’ He stepped forward, to within a foot of Striker, so close he had to look up to see Jacob’s face. ‘The immediacy of this file is over, and the case will be downgraded. Immediately. You can turn your pistol over to your partner. Consider it seized.’

Striker’s automatic reaction was to argue, but the more he thought it over, the more he had to admit that, this time, the Deputy Chief was right. If the immediate danger was over, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. His firearm was evidence now – had been since the first shooting – and for him to refuse to surrender it now that all three shooters had apparently been caught would put him in breach of the Police Act.

He relented.

‘You can have the goddam gun. I’ll hand it in first thing in the morning – when I know with certainty that this thing is over.’

An uncomfortable look flitted across the Deputy Chief’s face. It was as if he was wondering how much further he could goad Striker until it blew up in his face. The battle was already won; there was no need to push it further. And in the end, he opted to leave it be.

‘I will allow you that,’ he said, stressing the word allow. ‘But have it done by nine. And not a minute later. Otherwise it will be seen as a breach.’ He looked over his shoulder at Felicia and smiled wide. ‘You hear that, Detective Santos?’

She moved closer. ‘Yes, sir. Nine a.m.’

‘On the button.’

Striker walked over to the primary scene, where Noodles was working. Something tugged at the back of his mind.

‘You got a time of death, Noodles?’

Noodles stood up from his squatted position and said, ‘He’s stiff enough. Been a few hours, that’s for sure. Sometime this morning, I’d say.’

‘After nine-thirty – or before?’

‘If he’s Red Mask, it’d have to be after.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

Noodles shrugged. ‘We’ll know more when the autopsy’s done.’

‘You check the lividity?’

Noodles gave him an irritated look. ‘Stop bustin’ my balls, Shipwreck. Check with the Medical Examiner when she’s done.’

Striker frowned. ‘Is Kirstin Dunsmuir doing it?’

‘Yeah. The Death Bitch herself.’

Striker told Noodles to expedite what he could and keep him informed, then walked towards the back of the yard. He needed to get away from everyone. Far, far away. As he walked, his phone vibrated and he snatched it up.

Call Missed, the screen read.

Judging by the time that had passed, it must have come when he was clearing the house. He called his message box and, seconds later, heard the most wonderful sound he’d heard in as long as he could remember:

‘Hey, Pops, it’s me. Just got in and was wondering when you’d be home from work. I pulled out some fish for dinner – God knows you’ve probably chowed down on enough fast food your first day back. Anyhow, call me if you’re not gonna make it, okay? The Court is out.’

The call ended.

Striker hung up the phone, smiled, and before he knew it, he was chuckling. Christ, Courtney had no clue – no friggin’ clue – about all that had happened today. Insane, but true. And he wondered: did fifteen-year-old girls ever listen to the news? Even on the radio?

It didn’t matter.

He slid the BlackBerry back into its pouch and turned around. Canned laughter from Inspector Beasley boomed again, and Striker ignored it. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he truly didn’t care. Not about Laroche or the crime scene or his position in Homicide. He didn’t care about any of it. His daughter had called. She was safe and waiting for him.

He was going home.

Twenty-Five

Striker left their undercover cruiser with Felicia and got Patrol to drive him home. It was well after seven p.m. and the day had been a long one. Every muscle in his back and legs groaned with stiffness as he plodded up the front sidewalk on aching feet. Since he’d left the crime scene at Que Wong’s residence, the inky blackness of the night had deepened, stealing away the moon and stars. Leaving him with only icy rain and wicked winds.

He walked through the downpour, smiling. His home had never looked more peaceful, more welcoming than it did right now. And in that one moment, it was as if he had forgotten the stress of not only the shootings and the upcoming investigations, but the time off as well. Who knew, maybe one day he’d even come to terms with Amanda’s death.

Maybe Courtney would, too.

The porch light was on, the front door locked. He unlocked it and went inside. The draught sucked at his coat when the door closed. The wool of his long coat was wet, so he hung it up on the rack, and stood there in his borrowed suit, which was worn and wrinkled from the long day.

He looked around. The front room was mostly dark, with just a flickering light from the television set. Courtney was seated on the couch in her blue Old Navy sweats, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. She was as stiff as a board; her eyes were swollen from crying. When Striker moved closer, she blinked, as if coming out of a bad dream. She snapped her head to face him, let out a gasp, and before Striker knew it, she was off the couch and in his arms, trembling, her breaths coming in deep and heavy sobs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just so, so sorry.’

There was nothing else he could think of to say or do, so he just stood there, holding her and telling her it was over now. It was all over. And they were here. In their home. They were together. They were safe.

And he wondered if it was doing any good.

When the worst of it was over, when Courtney finally got herself together and pulled back from him, mascara had run down her cheeks. Striker wiped a thumb through one of the trails, and found himself studying her face – her soft blue eyes, her light brown freckles, her thick and curly auburn hair that fell all around her shoulders in heavy, fluid waves. All at once the sight pained him, for she was every bit her mother. Just as beautiful. More so even.

And Striker prayed that was all Courtney got of Amanda.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded absently. ‘Yeah. Sure. I guess. I didn’t know. Not until now, like ten minutes ago.’ She looked up at him with anxious eyes. No doubt she had a lot of questions, ones he didn’t particularly want to answer right now – or ever, for that matter – and he just stared back at her with a father’s tenderness. She seemed to grasp this, and the fact that he was exhausted from the hellish day, and her blue eyes fell away from his.

‘I just . . . need some rest,’ she said.

‘I know you do.’

‘Some sleep.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Pumpkin?’

For a moment she was silent. She just stared at the fireplace, her mind somewhere else. Then she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know . . . I know we’ve had some issues and all. It’s just been harder. Everything’s been a lot harder . . . since then.’

A dozen responses flashed through Striker’s head, all of them sounding hollow and forced. And how could they not? Bringing up Amanda was the last thing he needed right now – the last thing either of them needed, whether Courtney understood that or not.

He looked at the lines that underscored her eyes, and grimaced.

‘You look exhausted, Pumpkin. Maybe you should have a hot bath and relax. Want a glass of wine or something?’

‘Wine?’ She laughed in a sad way.

‘Guess not, huh?’

‘You ever think about her, Dad? I mean, really think about her?’

‘I loved your mother.’

‘But do you ever think about her? I mean, any more.’

‘Every day.’

‘You don’t show it.’

Striker detected the resentment in her tone. ‘Soon it’ll be two years, Courtney. I’ve learned to cope. You will, too. In time.’

‘I don’t want to cope.’ Her words struck out at him, fast and hard, and for a moment, the anger was back in her eyes – that explosive fiery temper of Amanda’s that burned everything in its path and took days to die out.

‘That’s not what I—’

‘It’s never what you meant. But that never stops you from saying things, does it?’ Courtney fixed him a sharp look. ‘You know what I can never get over? How you just let go of her so easy. Just, snap, like that. Like she was nothing.’

‘Nothing was nothing, Courtney. Believe me.’

‘Would you get over me that easy, too?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘What about today?’ She moved closer to him, her angry face growing even tighter. ‘You never even came after me, to see where I was. To see if I was okay. For all you know I could’ve been one of those kids—’

‘That’s enough.’ He moved forward, so quickly he backed Courtney up towards the wall. ‘Don’t you ever give me that crap – not now, not ever. I knew where you’d gone. Other kids had seen you on the bus. And I had confirmation you were okay. And still I kept trying to reach you all goddam day. Patrol went by the house three times, I sent Sheila to Metrotown, and I called your cell over twenty goddam times.’

She looked away, wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘You were screening your calls again, weren’t you, Courtney? Don’t think I don’t know that. You were screening your calls because you didn’t want to get shit on for skipping school again. I couldn’t even leave a message!’

Courtney sucked on her upper lip, said nothing. The fire in her eyes went out as quickly as a blown match. She looked down at the ground, her long hair falling around her face. When she spoke again, her voice was resigned.

‘I wasn’t screening my calls, Dad. The phone died.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Don’t believe me?’

‘You still managed to change your voice message. Three times.’

‘It’s set on random.’

‘Random?’

‘I’ve got a few different voice messages – all Britney stuff. They cycle automatically.’

Striker said nothing at first. He just let out a long breath, rubbed a hand over his face, felt like collapsing.

‘Christ,’ was all he managed to say.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Courtney said. ‘I had no idea. Really. I had no . . . no . . .’

She covered her face and stifled a sob, and all at once, the frustration and anger Striker felt vanished and was replaced by the usual grief and guilt. His heart plummeted in his chest. He wrapped his arms around Courtney for the second time and kissed her on the top of her head, and wished to God things could go back to the way they had been years ago.

Before Amanda died.

Finally, it was Striker who spoke.

‘Sometimes I think I got over your mother quicker than you did because you’re so much like her. I still feel like she’s around whenever I’m with you.’ He looked intently into her hurting, wide-eyed face. Made sure she saw the seriousness he felt. ‘You know that I would never abandon you, Courtney. Not for a millisecond.’

‘I know that, Dad.’

‘I only kept looking for the gunmen because I knew you were all right.’

‘I know.’

‘And because I believed that if they weren’t found – and soon – more kids would die.’

‘Dad, I know. I’m just . . . so tired. Stressed. God, I think I will go to bed. For the night. I’m just so exhausted.’

She gave him another hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, and when she went to let go of him, he held on for a while longer. Finally, when he did let go, she turned and headed for the bedroom. After ten steps, she stopped and looked back at him.

‘You eaten yet?’

‘I can make myself dinner, Pumpkin.’

She laughed. ‘Right. Pork and Beans or Chef Boyardee?’

‘Better than that – Nutella.’

She grinned. ‘I don’t mind cooking you that fish.’

‘Get some sleep, Pumpkin.’

She delayed. ‘Promise me you’ll eat something healthy.’

He held up a hand, as if pledging allegiance. ‘Everything I hate and more.’

‘Love you, Dad,’ she said, then slowly walked down the hall.

Striker watched her go, feeling as useless and ineffective as he had after Amanda had died. In five minutes he’d gone from feelings of love to rage to betrayal – and now he was back at love again. Intertwined with a lot of guilt. Sometimes he felt like his emotions were an endless ocean, and he was a wayward buoy floating up and down on the rough waters, being dragged wherever the currents took him.

And usually those currents were unpredictable and dangerous.

‘I love you, Courtney,’ he said.

But the room was empty.