The Guilty (18 page)

The road looked warped. Off-kilter. And somehow tunnelled.

Or was it just him?

The bomber cut the corner onto Denman Street, using every bit of energy he had to turn the steering wheel. It felt unusually stiff and heavy. He came to a jerking stop and parked the van in
front of a cheap pizzeria. He jammed on the hand-brake. Crawled between the seats. Crashed down heavily in the empty cargo space. And rolled onto his back.

There was a smell in the cab, something sweet but stale. Like old pineapple. And it made him want to vomit.

That . . . or the pounding in his head.

He reached up, felt the side of his skull. There was wetness there. Stickiness. And the entire area felt numb. When he pulled his hand away, he saw the brown redness of drying blood.

The glass,
he realized.
Loose shards.

Not that it really mattered. He had lived through the blast, and he had felt it once more – that wonderful, heavenly, percussive force. It had shaken the earth around him and ravaged
through his body like an invisible wave, reorganizing his thoughts and setting his mind right.

The memories . . . they were slowly falling into place, more and more with every blast:

He blinked out of the memories. The thoughts were confusing. Out of order still. But
better.
He knew that they were better.

And he let out a small laugh.

In the front of the van, a door opened and closed. The engine started. And the vehicle got moving. It rocked about like a boat on rough waters, and the movement made his stomach queasy.

‘Are you okay, love?’ Molly’s voice was soft and nervous. Concerned.

‘I’m fine.’

In one moment, her voice went from concern and compassion to anger. ‘What the heck were you doing back there? We’ve been over this! Again and again and again! You could have gotten
yourself killed!’

‘Molly—’

‘You do it again, and that’s it. I mean it. I’ll end this mission.’

He said nothing back, because her words were empty threats. This mission would be completed. They both knew that.

Life would not be livable otherwise.

Her eyes turned watery. ‘What does it matter anyway? We failed again.’

He gave her a confused look.

‘Didn’t you see the ambulance?’ she asked. ‘He survived the blast. Chad Koda’s
still alive.
’

Her words cut into him. Stunned him. Turned him silent.

How had the man survived? It shouldn’t have happened that way. It should have never been possible. And then, like sun breaking through the clouds, he got it.

It was because of
Molly.

Molly and her damn ethical conflicts. Because of her, they had deviated from the plan. Used less explosives. To prevent further casualties. And in doing so, what had it gotten them? A failed
operation.

‘I’m taking you to a doctor,’ Molly said from the driver’s seat.

‘No! No doctors!’

‘But—’

‘
Never again
.’

Images burst through the bomber’s head. Flashes of times unknown. The nurse with the dark eyes and the small paper hat. The emaciated doctor who walked like a stork and talked in high
bird-like chirps:

There is no choice, young man . . . it has to come off, it simply must come off.

The memory was too much. The bomber rolled over onto his side. Vomited everything he had inside of him. Felt the coolness of the steel cab against his face in this overheated place. Dizzy, his
head was splitting . . . splitting in two. Like there was a worm eating through his brain.

Find the calm
, he told himself.
Pull back from it. Pull back!

But he was flailing now. The point of sanity was extending further and further away from him. And soon it would be too far to grasp at all. The clouds were there. Spreading, swirling,
thickening.

Ballooning.

There was no doubt about it.

The darkness was coming back on him again – that black wave of memories that took him back to the bad place where all of this began.

It was late by the time Striker and Felicia returned to his sleepy little Dunbar home. Two depressing messages were waiting for him on his cell, ones he had missed in all the
chaos.

One was from Rothschild, informing him that there were no leads on the scuba gear found on Mitchell Island. The other was from Medical Examiner Kirstin Dunsmuir, calling to inform them that the
fibres pulled from the victim’s body at the toy store matched the clothing Keisha Williams had been wearing when she’d left for work that morning. In short, it told them what they
already knew – that Keisha Williams was the victim of the toy store explosion.

That evidence was just the final nail in the coffin.

Striker found the knowledge depressing. The woman had five children, all between the ages of eight and nineteen. He’d lost his own parents at an early age himself, so he knew full well the
hardships and emptiness it would bring.

As for Dr Sharise Owens, her identity had been confirmed as well. Time of death was estimated to be 19:25 hours. And there was no longer any doubt she had been the woman down by the river
– a sample comparison of her shoe matched the footprints in the river silt.

All in all, it was a sad end to a hard day. Solomon Bay had still not been located. Koda was unconscious in the hospital, under police protection. And two women were now dead.

Striker felt like he had failed them all. He wondered if he was right about the big red numbers he had seen on the front of the two recovered dolls. A 6 and a 5. Did that really mean there were
four more victims on the bomber’s list? He also pondered the significance of the policeman’s uniform on the dolls. God forbid the bomber was an ex-cop. What then?

He didn’t even want to think about it.

Once inside his home, he sat down on the living room couch and was deep in thought on the matter when his cell went off. When he picked up, he heard Noodles’ deep voice, and the newest
information the Ident technician gave him was alarming. ‘I located the legs to that doll you found at the second blast,’ he said.

Striker sat up. ‘And?’

‘They’re just ordinary legs,’ Noodles said. ‘Wood. They match the police uniform perfectly. But here’s the weird thing, I got
three
of them.’

‘Three?’ Striker closed his eyes. ‘Three legs mean there were
two
dolls. You find any of the other pieces?’

‘No, and I don’t expect to. We’re lucky we found these. Everything here is mincemeat.’

‘So we got two crime scenes and three dolls for three victims,’ Striker said. ‘One of which – Koda – has survived.’

‘It would appear that way.’ Noodles let out a gruff sound. ‘Also, I had the doll taken apart. You were right about the pull-string. The toy’s got a voice-box inside it. A
cheap one.’

‘And?’ Striker asked.

‘And nothing. Thing was completely broken apart from the force. It’s irreparable, untraceable. Junk.’

The news was disheartening. Striker talked to Noodles for a bit more, then hung up. As he sat there on the couch, he looked around the room at nothing in particular and felt a bit overwhelmed.
He relayed the information to Felicia.

She seemed stunned by the news.

‘I need a drink,’ she said.

Striker echoed her feelings.

He got up and moved through the living room. Everything was quiet, and the silence felt wrong. It reminded him that Courtney was not home, but a million miles away on the other side of the
ocean.

Ireland – it sounded not continents away, but
worlds.

He cut into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of bottles of ice-cold beer – Miller Genuine Draft. He popped the caps. Gave one to Felicia.

‘Thanks,’ she said softly.

He just nodded and drank. The beer helped him relax, and it also felt good to have something cool to ward off the nonstop humidity. Wednesday had been one constant heat wave, and the house was
stuffy from it. He wished he’d bought another air conditioner to replace the one that had died last summer.

But if wishes were dollars, he would’ve been rich a long time ago.

Tired and yet overstimulated, they plunked themselves down on the sofa. Tried to relax. It wasn’t possible.

‘I still can’t believe Koda was a cop,’ Felicia said between sips. She looked at Striker and her face flushed with embarrassment. ‘I mean, I ran that guy a dozen times
through the system. It wasn’t in there. And the domestic report didn’t so much as mention that tidbit.’

Striker cradled the beer between his hands. ‘It’s not your fault, Feleesh. Koda’s not listed in PRIME because he retired about ten years ago –
before
the new
system was in place. All his records will be paper.’

Striker guzzled a third of the beer. ‘From what Osaka was saying, Koda spent the bulk of his years either being seconded or working for Operations teams – he was a sergeant in Dogs,
Drugs, and the Emergency Response Team. I was in Investigations all that time. So we would never have seen each other unless it was on a call.’

Felicia grew frustrated. ‘But even in the Criminal Harassment report, they didn’t mention Koda was a former member.’

Striker shrugged. ‘That’s just cops covering for cops. The author
purposely
omitted that detail . . . We’ll have to interview Koda tomorrow morning. When we’re
fresh.’

Felicia agreed. ‘No one gets blown up in their own house for no reason.’

Striker thought it over, then frowned. Feelings of anger, helplessness and urgency intermingled inside his chest. ‘There’s a connection here somewhere, between all the parties
involved, and we’ll find it,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what worries me.’ He looked up and met Felicia’s stare. ‘We’ve got a serial killer on our
hands here, Feleesh.’

‘A true classification requires three or more homicides,’ she started.

But Striker waved her off. ‘Don’t go all psychology on me. We’ve had three victims blown sky-high, and it’s a miracle one of them even survived. This bomber, he’s
always using the same MO. He knows the victims’ routines – that much is evident by the times and places he’s set the bombs. So he’s doing recon first. He does surveillance,
he sets the bomb, and then he waits for the show to begin.’

Felicia nodded as she thought it over. ‘There’s got to be a reason for the murders, some motivation
beyond
the violence – otherwise, this guy could have gone after
anybody. But we know these parties are connected in different ways.’

Striker let out a heavy breath and stood up. ‘We’ll learn the motivation as the body count rises.’

‘Rises?’

‘Make no mistake about it, Feleesh. More bombs are coming. Those numbers on the dolls all but prove it.’

He returned to the kitchen and brought back two more beers. He put Felicia’s on the table, then gave her a hard look. ‘If there are any more bomb calls tomorrow, remember – no
going in till the fire’s been put out and the structure’s been deemed safe. We could have had a nasty accident there today.’

‘I understand that, Jacob. Stop treating me like a rookie.’

Then stop acting like one,
he felt like saying. But he knew it would only start a fight. So he opted to go with, ‘I’m just looking out for you.’

‘It’s a fine line between covering your partner and being overprotective.’

‘Overprotective?’

‘You’ve been overprotective of me ever since the Billy Mercury shooting six months ago. Okay? Well, it’s over. I survived. Move on.’

Striker let out a humourless laugh. ‘And you derived all this because I stopped you from walking into a burning building today – one which, I might remind you,
exploded
in
the end.’

A cross look spread out on Felicia’s face. ‘It’s more than that, and you know it. You kept me out of the barn this morning too. You went in there and did the whole thing
yourself. Yet again. Jacob Striker – Solo Act.’

‘Oh come on.’

‘I’m serious.’

‘First off, you
had
to stay with the girl. We couldn’t leave her alone.’

‘Sure, but
I
could have cleared the place.’

Striker splayed his hands. ‘The girl was afraid of me; you saw that. But she liked you. She had a rapport with you. And for all we knew at the time, she might have been raped. I thought it
better to leave her with a female member.’

Felicia just shook her head and put down her beer, half finished. ‘You always have an excuse, don’t you?’

‘Not an excuse, it’s the truth. Besides, what’s wrong with me looking out for you? I
care
about you.’

‘Nothing’s wrong with that. But looking out for me and
controlling
me are two entirely different things. When we’re at work, I’m a homicide cop – not your
girlfriend. You can’t lock me away in a box forever.’

‘I know that . . . I was thinking more of a wooden crate.’

When Felicia didn’t laugh, Striker realized that somewhere along the line, the conversation had turned from relaxed and easygoing to tense and bothersome.

Felicia stood up. ‘Look, it’s late. I’d better be going.’

‘Going? You’re not going to stay?’

‘I have some things I need to get done at home.’

‘At
midnight
?’

She said nothing.

Striker shook his head. ‘This is crazy. You know, if you just moved in—’

‘We’ve been over this before, Jacob. A million times.’ Felicia let out an exasperated sound. ‘We move in together and one of us will be on the first transfer out of
Homicide – and it sure as hell won’t be you. Not Jacob Striker, the ten-year vet. Not
the man.
It’ll be me – the woman who everyone treats like a rookie.’