The Survivor (16 page)

‘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.

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.’