Текст книги "The Survivor"
Автор книги: Sean Slater
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
Twenty-Six
When Felicia unexpectedly arrived, the night was darker than a day-old bruise. The icy rain had stopped, but the wind continued – a vocal force battering every window of the house. Striker heard the soft roar of a patrol car out front – those Crown Vics had a distinctive rumble – and saw the quick flash of halogen headlights as they beamed across the bay window.
He struggled to get up from the couch and looked out the window just in time to see Felicia trudge up the walkway, her pretty Spanish face caught in the soft glow of the exterior lights.
She looked tired, depleted. Hell, she was threadbare.
And yet she was always beautiful. Striker saw that every time he looked at her. At times like this, he berated himself for ending their relationship and letting her go six months ago.
It had been a complicated time, he told himself.
A necessary decision. It was for the best.
There were a hundred more clichés he could dredge up, but none of them were true. And none made him feel any better.
Felicia reached the front door, and instead of rapping softly on the wood, she leaned around the railing and peeked inside the bay window. Dark hair framed her dark eyes. She saw Striker and a warm smile spread her wide lips.
‘Amway calling!’
He moved to the foyer and opened the door. A large gust of wind snuck inside the house. It swept right through him, and he shivered. Felicia stepped inside the foyer, hugging herself to keep warm, and kicked the door closed with the heel of her boot.
Striker smiled at her. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
Felicia looked over her shoulder. ‘I don’t see any nice girls in here.’ She grinned. ‘You like my Amway joke?’
‘Would’ve preferred Watchtower.’
She raised an eyebrow, and the two of them just stood there looking at one another. It was a fleeting moment, and it struck Striker as funny, how they could be so different outside of work, where they were often at each other’s throats.
‘So we gonna stand here trading one-liners all night, or you gonna invite me in?’ she finally asked.
‘You don’t need an invitation here.’ He swung his arm outwards to guide her into the den. Spotted the clock above the fireplace. Saw it was well past twelve. ‘Jesus, you’re still working?’ he asked.
‘Just the small stuff.’
‘You mean Laroche?’
She grimaced. ‘Hardy-har-har. Anyhow, I’m done for the night.’ She took off her jacket, threw it to Striker, who hung it on the coat-rack. ‘I was down at Ident with Noodles for the past hour. Poor guy looks like he’s gonna keel over any minute. He better lose some weight or he’s gonna have a heart-attack. I swear, he needs to think of his health once in a while.’
‘Speaking of which, you should be in bed.’
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘Don’t tempt me.’
She ran her fingers through her long hair, loosening it, then moved into his personal space. The humour left her eyes, and was replaced by the vulnerable look of honesty. ‘I was worried about you, Jacob.’
‘So you’re not here for my gun.’
She sighed. ‘Boy, you really know how to kill a moment.’
He raised his hands, palms forward, to signal he had no intention of arguing, then offered a quick apology. He led her into the living room, where he crashed down on the couch and beckoned her to join him. Felicia sat down at the end closest to the fireplace, where she basked in the heat.
‘Freezing out there.’
‘I’ll get you something.’ From the closet, Jacob grabbed a heavy wool blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. He then went to make them a couple glasses of rye with hot water and lemon.
In the kitchen, Striker put on the kettle, then took the bottle of Wiser’s from the cupboard and put it on the counter. When he went to open the fridge door to look for lemons, something distracted him. Stuck on the outside of the fridge door was a small yellow happy face. It was just one of the many junky trinkets Courtney had stuck up there – a magnetic picture clip holding a photo of Amanda from their last Christmas together; a scattering of magnetic letters, from which Courtney had spelled out BRITNEY; and this small round happy face.
Similar to the one they’d found in the stolen Honda Civic.
The magnet was weak, and it came away with little resistance. Striker rolled the happy face between his fingers, and knew he would have to see the stolen Honda Civic again. He put the magnet in his pocket, and the kettle began to whistle.
He finished making their drinks. When he returned to the living room, Felicia looked warmer and relaxed. He offered her one of the mugs and asked, ‘What were you helping Noodles with?’
She took the mug, cradling it between her fingers, relishing the heat. ‘Evidence log. And tagging. They found Black Mask’s machine gun, by the way.’
‘The AK-47? Where?’
‘Serving counter, I think. In the cafeteria. The Emergency Response Team had already seized it during their clear.’
‘Ballistics—’
Felicia held up a hand. ‘Already being done as we speak. Prints, swabs, ballistics – you name it. The amount of work is insane.’ She sipped her drink, licked her lips, and her eyes took on a faraway stare. ‘Funny, all my life I’ve wanted one of these calls, dreamed about being even a small part of an actual Active Shooter situation, and then – bang! – here I am, dead smack in the centre of it, and I just can’t wait for it to end.’
‘It burns you out.’
‘Like gasoline.’
Striker sipped his rye and lemon, gave her a hesitant stare, then looked down at his drink.
‘What?’ she asked.
He didn’t want to say it but had to. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure it’s over.’
‘Not this again.’
‘Yeah, I know, don’t go looking for zebras. I always knew Laroche was a clown, but funny, too? Wow, how lucky am I!’
‘Jacob—’
‘Hey, you asked, and all I’m doing is pointing out the facts. Some of them – a lot of them – don’t add up with these gunmen.’ He put his drink down on the table, then started counting off the problems on his fingers. ‘One, why disable the security system if they’re gonna be foolish enough to carry ID in their pockets? And for that matter, why would Red Mask – Raymond Leung – blow off Que Wong’s head and hands?’
‘To conceal his identity.’
‘Of course. But why do that if Wong is carrying ID? It doesn’t make any sense. And why do it if he was just going to run home and kill himself. If he’s on the run, why kill himself at all?’
Felicia shrugged. ‘Panic? Fear? Family embarrassment? A twisted sense of honour? Who knows. We’re not dealing with rational people here.’
‘But that’s point number two. You see, I think we are.’
Felicia grinned darkly over her drink. ‘You think an Active Shooter is rational?’
‘The purpose might be irrational, but the plan itself was put together on good logic. Don’t kid yourself, Felicia, it was solid. Think about the facts: what kind of car did they steal for their getaway? A 1994 Honda Civic. Dark green. Not only is it the most common stolen car on the road, but they picked the most common year and colour.’
‘Actually the Dodge Caravan is number one on the stolen list.’
‘Fine,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll give you that, the Civic is number two. But tell me this, which vehicle would you choose, knowing there was a chance of a police pursuit? A clunky old van that rolls a corner at fifty miles an hour, or a small sports car that can blend in anywhere?’ When Felicia didn’t respond, Striker asked her: ‘You think that’s a coincidence?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay, fine, I’ll give you that too. But what about point number three: the time of the shooting. Nine a.m., on the dot – the exact time when Alpha shift is on break. Only cars we had on the road out there were Bravo Shift, and because it was still early enough, no Charlie units had cleared. There couldn’t have been a better time for a weak police response.’
Felicia hedged. ‘The timing could boil down to pure luck.’
‘All right – but then what about point number four – and this is a big one: these pricks had gun-fighting skills. Pure and simple. They were good. And I still have a real problem believing the gunmen we were duelling with back there in the cafeteria were nothing but a group of disgruntled computer science kids. Kids with no criminal history. No police files. Christ, not even a firearms licence.’
‘I know it looks off, Jacob, almost ridiculous, but Columbine was the exact same.’
Striker let out a frustrated sound. ‘Then what about the calls made before the shooting started?’
‘What calls?’
‘Twenty minutes before the shooting started, there were two 911 calls placed from Oakridge Mall. Fake gun calls. Robberies. We sent five of our Bravo units up there to deal with it, so they were way out of the picture when the real shootings started. What do you call that? Just another coincidence?’
Felicia thought it over, then said, ‘It sounds well-planned, true. But that kind of thing happens all the time – even in the Skids. Look at all the drugged-out zombies that hang out on those streets. If they can do it, anyone can. God knows it doesn’t take a criminal mastermind to divert police resources.’
‘I know that, Felicia, but I’m not talking about these things on an individual basis; I’m talking about them collectively. When added up, the shootings appear to be more than luck and decent planning – they look like a hired hit.’
‘A hired hit? You mean pros?’
‘Yes, professionals. Or at the very least someone with some type of army experience. Like a disgruntled soldier come back from Afghanistan. Or a hired mercenary. Someone with real know-how.’
Felicia looked doubtful. ‘Why would a hired soldier be involved with Saint Patrick’s High School students?’
Striker put down his mug. ‘That’s a whole different issue. Despite what Laroche is telling people, we still don’t know the true reason behind all this. Everything we have is speculation. Think about it. What the hell did these kids do to warrant such extreme violence?’
‘Or what did they see?’ Felicia said.
‘Either way, something tells me this is more than high-school politics, Felicia. A lot more.’
Felicia downed the rest of her drink, looked outside at the dark night, and sighed.
‘What?’ Striker asked.
‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘Some of the moments today, when you took charge, I resented you for it – but I also admired you for it. I wish I had your confidence, Jacob, your self-assurance.’
‘You do.’ Striker leaned forward, made sure he had her full attention. ‘There’s two kinds of people in this world, Feleesh. Them and Us. Too many of Them give in and break.’
‘That’s how I feel sometimes.’
‘Bullshit. We’re the other kind.’
‘Other kind?’
‘The survivors. And you showed that every minute of the day today, whether you were shooting it out with those gunmen or investigating Red Mask’s disappearance. You did good, Feleesh. You came through. Hell, we both did.’
Felicia exhaled and a grin found her lips. ‘It’s good to hear you say that.’ She leaned across the couch, nearer to him. ‘I guess there comes a time when you just have to let go.’
Let go.
The words hit home, and Striker nodded slowly. He looked at her for a long moment, with so many emotions colliding in his heart, ones he couldn’t find the right place for. Everything was a mixed-up jumble.
‘You never really know what someone’s made of till your life’s on the line,’ he said. ‘Well, today you really came through for me. Gave me cover when I was down and out. And I’ll never forget that.’
She reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. Her skin was warm. Soft. Tender.
‘What happened, Jacob? What happened to us?’
He let out a heavy breath. ‘You were so bitchy in the mornings.’
‘Be serious.’
He leaned back and her hand fell away. ‘It was just . . . just too soon. After Amanda’s death.’
‘Too soon for you? Or for Courtney?’
Striker looked away. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Everything matters. You know, Jacob, life would be a lot easier if Courtney knew the truth.’ When he didn’t respond, Felicia said, ‘She still doesn’t know, does she?’
Striker stared at the fire. ‘No.’
‘Amanda was her mother. Harsh or not, she deserves to know the whole story.’
‘I’m going to tell her.’
‘When?’
‘When she’s sixty.’
‘This isn’t a joke. It’s been – what, twenty months since the woman died, and—’
‘Leave it alone, Felicia. Please. For once just leave it alone.’
‘I want to, Jacob, I always want to. But where does that leave us?’
The words hit him strangely, made him feel empty and alone and desperately in need of companionship. He stared back at Felicia. Saw tenderness in her eyes. And the soft wetness of her open mouth. He wanted her now more than ever. He reached out and pulled her close.
And she came easily.
She was breathing hard, her ribs rising and falling against his hands. She felt good. So real, so alive. He kissed her lips, tasted the hot booze in her mouth, the slipperiness of her tongue. Heard her say, ‘I want you, Jacob.’
She straddled him, and her long dark hair spilled across his neck and shoulders, sent tingles through his body. It made him hard, so hard he could feel the blood pulsing through his body. He pulled her into him, until her firm breasts pushed against his chest, and her thighs ground into his hips. Her inner thighs squeezed him tight, and he could feel her warmth there.
‘I want you,’ she said, over and over again.
He unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it back off her body, revealing a lacy purple bra, which fitted snugly against her caramel breasts. In one quick movement, he reached up and tore the straps off her shoulders. He slid the bra down, away from her breasts, exposing the curve of her nipples. They were large, hard, erect, and he kissed them. Licked them softly.
‘I want you inside me,’ she said.
He reached down, broke open the front of her pants, and loosened them from her waist; she helped him. When they were partway down her hips, Striker reached around her waist to the small of her back, felt the silky thin strap of her panties and ran his fingers down, reaching lower and lower until he felt warmth and wetness and—
‘I can’t believe it!’ Courtney screamed.
In a flash, Felicia rolled off of him and spun away towards the fireplace. She tried to cover herself up, adjust her clothes.
Striker sat there, frozen, and looked down the hall to where Courtney was standing in her sleepwear. Her hands were at her sides, balled into fists. Her eyes were afire.
‘Courtney,’ he started.
‘Mom’s dead not even two years.’
‘Listen to me.’
‘And you’re with that woman?’
‘Listen to me.’
‘I can’t believe you – you’ve already fucked her, haven’t you? Haven’t you? You fucked her!’ She threw her cell phone across the room, the device slamming against the old white plaster of the east wall.
‘That’s enough, goddammit!’
Courtney flinched at the roar of Striker’s words. Then she regained her composure; her defiance. She shook her head slowly, as if disgusted, and after a moment, she spun about and fled back to her bedroom. The door slammed shut behind her, she screamed out ‘I HATE you!’ and Striker could hear things being thrown around the room.
Striker stood up from the couch. He looked at the bedroom door and hesitated, wondering what to do. Finally, he turned to Felicia, who was still tidying herself up.
‘Should I go after her, or not?’
Felicia did up the last button of her shirt, let out a frustrated sound. ‘Just leave her be, Jacob. Give her some space and time. She needs it.’
He rubbed his hands on his face, felt the frustration spreading through him like a hot fever. This wasn’t fair. Goddammit, none of this was fair. He’d done everything right as a husband. Done his best as a father. And no matter how hard he tried with relationships, no matter what he did, he failed. Always. Utterly and completely.
And Courtney was suffering because of it.
His resilience crumbled away. He moved over by the fire and came up to Felicia. He reached for her hands. Hesitated. Then he let his own hands fall to his sides.
‘Look. I’m sorry. Really. I should never have started—’
‘I should go.’
‘Go? But it’s past midnight and you live way out off Commercial. Just stay here for the night.’
Felicia glanced down the hall. ‘That is not a good idea.’
‘It’s the only idea.’ He grabbed her gently, turned her around. ‘You can use the spare bedroom, the one in the basement. There’s a shower down there, too. Hell, I think you still have some clothes here.’
Felicia looked out the window, at the heavy darkness of the night.
‘Just stay,’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m asking you to. Please.’
She said nothing for a moment, just stood there, as if mulling the idea over. After a long moment, she tucked the tails of her shirt back into her pants, adjusted her belt, and muttered, ‘Fine.’
‘Good. I want you here.’
She ran her fingers through her hair. She reached up, touched his cheek and smiled. Then she sauntered out of the room. At the beginning of the hall, she stopped, looked back, and offered him a slight smile.
‘Pleasant dreams, Jacob.’
‘I’m sure.’
She laughed softly, a frustrated sound, then walked on.
Striker stood there with a deep sense of longing as he watched her sneak down the hall, turn the corner, and make her way down the stairs. Once he heard the last soft thumps of her feet on the staircase, he moved back to the couch. Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.
Aside from being horny, his mind wouldn’t rest. There were too many things he still needed to deal with. Courtney. And of course there was still Laroche: tomorrow, the Deputy Chief would close the Active Shooter file and take his gun. And maybe even place him on Mandatory Stress Leave. Again. File a report with Internal.
The list of problems was never-ending.
Sleep didn’t come easy, but the exhaustion helped. Eventually a deep, magnetic slumber overtook him, bringing on the nightmares. There were long red hallways and masked men. And of course there were the school kids, too. Screaming in the darkness. Calling out for him.
‘Detective Striker!’
‘Detective Striker!’
‘Detective Striker!’
But there was nothing he could do to save them.
Thursday
Twenty-Seven
Six thousand, three hundred and ninety-six miles away, in the entertainment district of Macau, Hong Kong, the Man with the Bamboo Spine sat in a stiff-backed chair made of black walnut wood and dyed-black leather. Cigarette smoke floated all around him.
It was ten p.m., local time, and the night was only beginning on the sixth floor of the Hotel Lisbon. This was the Lotus Flower Room. The deep red walls and ornate golden decor gave away the location to anyone who understood the significance.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine was not alone. Six men sat at the table with him. Four were Chinese, and two were white. The white guys had already laid down their hands.
The game was Texas Holdem. Once non-existent in Macau, it had caught on like wildfire. And the Man with the Bamboo Spine was pleased with the game, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he was very, very good at it. He was already up forty K. And this hand was going well.
His face helped him win. It was poker perfect. The disease had made sure of that, pulling back his skin so tight that expressions did not display across his harsh angular features. With eyes as black as oil sludge, he waited his opponent out.
‘Drink, sir?’
He turned his head and spotted the waitress, a diminutive girl with a pretty face and large fake breasts.
‘Hot water.’
The waitress hurried off across the room, her black high-heels clicking loudly on the marbled floor.
Across the table, the younger man finally bet. He was then checked by the big blind, and the Man with the Bamboo Spine raised them both. By the end of the round, the pot was past two hundred K and rising, and the last card could not have been a better one. King of hearts, completing the royal flush. He had the best hand of his life.
Then his cell rang.
Only one person ever called this phone. It existed for one purpose. So when it went off, a loud but ordinary ring, the Man with the Bamboo Spine put his cards down flat on the table and picked up. He listened for less than ten seconds, said, ‘Yes,’ and hung up.
With a royal flush for his hand and over four hundred thousand dollars in the pot, the Man with the Bamboo Spine stood up from the table and said, ‘Fold.’ Without another word, he took the elevator down to the ground floor where his driver was waiting.
It would take him twelve and a half hours to reach Vancouver, Canada, and the length of time was disconcerting.
Every minute was precious.
