Snakes & Ladders (32 page)

None of it was expired.

Striker checked out the washroom and saw that there was deodorant, toothpaste, dental floss and soap. The only towel in the room had been hung up to dry. So had the floor mat.

Everything was clean and well cared for.

Striker took out his notebook and wrote down the details. When he put it away, he looked up and saw that the far wall was covered by two large maps. One of Kandahar, and one of the Lower Mainland – which constituted Vancouver and all the surrounding subsections. All across the Kandahar map were small red X-marks and the word:
Daemon. Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.

Striker turned his eyes to the second map – the one of the Lower Mainland. On it were no scribblings, only a series of X-marks. Striker looked at them all and felt a cold sensation spread through his core.

Union Street and Gore Avenue. Hermon Drive and East 5th. The thirty-eight hundred block of Adanac Street in Burnaby – they matched the residences of Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.

The thought made Striker check his iPhone again, to see if there were any more messages from Larisa. But once again he was let down. None had been received.

He looked at the torn-up notebook pages on the table. All were the same, filled with barely legible scribblings. Words like
Daemons
, and
Shadow men
, and
Succubus
. Next to the collection of papers was a row of pill bottles. They were lined up perfectly.

Striker looked at them.

The bottles were all from Mapleview Clinic, and they each had Dr Ostermann’s name and what appeared to be a prescription number on the label. There were three different types of medication: Effexor and Lexapro were medications Striker was familiar with, but the last one – Risperidone – he had never heard of before. He took out his iPhone and Googled the medication. When he found a webpage listing, one word caught his attention:

Antipsychotic
.

He put his iPhone away, moved up to the computer and grabbed the mouse. The moment he moved it the black screen of the monitor disappeared and was replaced by the white and blue page of MyShrine:

The words made Striker pause.

A daemon – evil.

A succubus – the
female
.

Through the heart – the target area where the bullet had struck Felicia.

Striker leaned back against the wall as he realized this. ‘He warned me,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus Christ, he fucking warned me, right there in the wording. And I never saw it.’

Thoughts of Felicia taking that bullet flooded him and left him nauseous. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. But he hadn’t, and it had almost cost Felicia her life.

He would never forgive himself for that.

The thought remained heavy in his head, even when he turned away from the computer and spotted the landline telephone on the kitchen counter. He walked over and picked it up. Hit Redial. The call was picked up by a woman.

‘EvenHealth,’ she said. ‘How may I direct your call?’

‘Sorry, wrong number,’ Striker said, and hung up.

He scrolled back through the incoming calls and saw that the most recent two calls were blocked. Blocked calls were nothing out of the ordinary, but Striker didn’t like the timing. He called up his contact at the Bell, a guy named Clyde Hall, and asked him to run the incoming calls for Billy Mercury’s telephone number.

‘Off the record, of course,’ Striker added.

Clyde got back to him in less than thirty seconds. ‘Only two calls exist for today.’

Striker nodded as if the man could see him. ‘Numbers and times, Clyde.’

‘No problem.’

Clyde gave him the information, and Striker took it down. After thanking the man and hanging up, he looked at the data and frowned.

There was a correlation here.

Someone had called Billy Mercury’s telephone from an untraceable prepaid cell at exactly 1517 hours. This matched the time they left Mapleview Clinic. And then someone from the same untraceable cell had called again, just three minutes later – the time that they had arrived on scene at Billy’s.

A warning? Striker thought. A tip-off?

Or someone giving instructions?

He looked at the crazy writings on the table and at the delusional message on the MyShrine page, then he looked over at the folded clothes on the chair and the smoothed-out creaseless blanket in the corner of the room. Everything in this place spoke of madness and yet logic, delusions and yet clear, concise thought. And no matter where he looked, he saw no video recording equipment.

He didn’t like it. A bad feeling hung heavy in his chest. His instincts kicked in, and they were the one thing Striker never ignored. Something was wrong here.

They were missing something.

When Striker walked down the old wooden staircase to the north lane of Pender Street, directly behind Billy’s apartment, he saw that Car 10 had arrived. It was hard not to notice the man. Inspector Laroche was being his usual overbearing self.

Striker stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the scene. Both ends of the block had been taped off with big yellow smears of police tape, and news crews had already huddled at each end – BCTV to the east; CBC to the west. They had probably all driven up after the Hermon Drive fire. High overhead, the Chopper 9 news crew floated about beneath the clouds, its omniscient eye taking in the full scene.

Striker refused to look up.

Already, Noodles had arrived and was standing centre stage in this drama, by the body of Billy Mercury. The Ident technician had already taped off the surrounding area, set up cones, and was busy taking photographs.
Click-click-click
.

Striker approached the man, got to within twenty feet, and was cut off by the inspector. Laroche’s normally pale face was flushed red and his hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips.

‘Jesus Christ, Striker,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

Striker blinked. ‘What? What was I
thinking
?’

‘You’re damn right, what were you thinking. You just gunned down a mentally ill man – and you’re supposed to be on medical leave!’

Striker couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his jaw tighten. Billy Mercury had just killed two cops. And two paramedics, too. Mentally ill, he might have been. But so what?

‘He was a
cop-killer
.’

Laroche’s face remained tight. ‘He was a man who thought he was saving the world from
demons
.’ Laroche threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh Christ, it’s all over the radio, every thirty seconds: a mentally ill man, who was in our custody, is now dead along with four emergency workers.’ Laroche looked around the area, then shook his head as if bewildered. ‘You should have waited for cover, Striker! For the Emergency Response Team. And the mental health car. A negotiator. Christ, you didn’t even have a less lethal unit on scene!’

Less lethal – a beanbag shotgun or a Taser. Or, if the Emergency Response Team was around, an Arwen gun.

Striker frowned at that. He stepped forward into the inspector’s personal space and lowered his voice. ‘All other units were already searching other areas or stuck in containment. ERT was out at the range and too far away. And the doctor
was
our negotiator,’ he said. ‘I also had a Taser on the way. They just didn’t make it here in time because there was no time.
He ambushed us
.’

Laroche was unwavering. ‘Of course he did. What did you expect? You corner a dog and he’ll bite, Striker. Every single time.’

‘I did what was necessary.’

‘No, what you did was create a situation here where there was no way out for anyone involved – not unless someone got shot. It’s called Officer-Created Jeopardy. And make no mistake about it, that’s exactly how the press will view this thing. Every goddam newspaper and newsreel’s gonna have the Big Story, and it’ll go on for weeks, if not months. It’s gonna rain down on us now.’

Striker looked down at Laroche and felt like grabbing him and twisting him into a pretzel. ‘You think I give two shits about the friggin’ media?’ he asked. ‘Felicia took one in the chest, and you’re worried about how this will look on the friggin’ news?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s chest. ‘No one would’ve been shot period if you had followed proper procedure.’

‘It was a dynamic situation.’

‘Because you made it that way. You’re just lucky that Dr Ostermann wasn’t hurt or killed in the process.’ Laroche shook his head. He took in a long breath, then seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, Striker. I’m glad you’re okay. And Felicia, too. But you guys royally fucked this one. And I’ll be sending my findings to the Police Board for review.’

‘You do that,’ Striker said. ‘Be sure to include the part about how I warned you this would happen back on Hermon Drive, when you refused to charge Mercury and send him to jail. When you let him be transported in an ambulance instead of a police wagon, despite the fact he had just tried to burn up two cops. Make sure you include all of that – because I most certainly will when I write up my response through the Union.’

For a moment, Laroche seemed even smaller than his fivefoot-seven frame. Moments later, a camera crew from one of the unaccredited news groups was caught trying to sneak in between the houses from the south side of the laneway. Laroche went rushing over, and Striker turned and spotted Sergeant Mike Rothschild entering the strip.

‘How you holding out?’ Rothschild asked.

‘I need to check on Felicia.’

‘Burnaby General. Go there. I’ll take over the scene here.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.’

The sergeant grinned. ‘Just get out of here before Hitler there knows you’re gone.’

Striker didn’t have to be told twice. He walked back to Kootenay Street where they had dumped the wheels, and climbed inside the cruiser. Moments later, he was headed down Boundary Road for Burnaby General Hospital. Where Felicia and Dr Ostermann had been taken.

It was less than ten minutes away.

The Adder was shaking. Shaking so hard he could hardly hold on to the rungs of the ladder as he made his way deeper and deeper into his room. When his feet touched concrete, he raced across the room and slid the disc into the player so hard and fast he nearly jammed the machine.

The DVD began playing and the screen came to life.

On it was the woman cop. Standing in the laneway. Watching the big detective move slowly up the stairs. She was beautiful – the Adder could see that in his analytical, separated way – with her long brown hair draping down the caramel skin of her neck. She was in her prime, no doubt, bursting with beauty and energy and radiance. Like a star going supernova.

The Adder watched her, standing there, completely unaware of the hidden threat. Then the bullets came.

One – a miss.

Two – another miss.

And then three – the most perfect, wonderful shot he had ever seen. A lightning bolt from an
angel
. And suddenly Detective Felicia Santos was reeling. She arched backwards, landed hard on the pavement, and lay there with a stunned look in her pretty eyes.

The camera angle was bad, and the Adder had to zoom in to see the expression on her face. And that was when he discovered the God-awful truth of what had happened. She opened her eyes, and touched her chest . . .

The
vest
.

The goddam Kevlar vest.

‘NO!’ he screamed. ‘NOOOO!’

Shaking all over, uncontrollably, he took the disc from the tray and snapped it in half, slicing his hand as he did so. Then he stepped forward and kicked the cabinet. Hard. The entire thing swayed back and forth, as if it would tip over and come crashing down on the concrete.

The Adder could not have cared less.

His moment of pure, untainted beauty –
stolen
from him in an instant.

‘
No
,’ he said again, though softer this time. And now there were tears leaking from his eyes. Big salty drops rolling down his cheeks.

It was unfair.

So terribly unfair.

Soon his head began to pound, to
throb
. It was as if there was a worm inside his skull, eating away at his brain tissue. And then the sounds came back, flooding him, deluging him, drowning him in great, awesome waves.

The laughter.

Then the snapping and cracking.

And then the silence. That horrible, horrible
silence
.

With unsteady hands, the Adder scrambled for his iPod. Jammed in the headphones. Hit Play. And listened to the white noise. Turned it up to full volume.

But this time, it did little good.

The sounds of the outside world did not matter now, for they were overpowered by the ones that echoed inside his head. All he could hear was the loud cracking sounds of ice and that coldness washing all over him again.

Relax, he told himself. You have to
relax
.

But it did little good.

He was unravelling.

By the time Striker made it to Burnaby General Hospital, his heart was racing and his mood was darkening quicker than the five o’clock skyline. No matter how many times he tried to erase the memory of the MyShrine taunt the Adder had left him, the image remained.

He parked the undercover cruiser out front in the Police Only parking, climbed out, and walked in through the Emergency Room front doors. Inside, the hospital was packed. A line of weary-looking patients snaked along the hall, and another group lined up all the way to the entrance doors. It was busy, but still nowhere near the chaos that ruled at St Paul’s.