The Survivor (29 page)

‘We’ll find her, Jacob.’

He turned his body so that he was facing Felicia. ‘What we don’t know is,
why
. I mean, Christ, do we have even one decent connection between these kids?’

‘Three of them were members of the Debate Club.’

‘What about Kwan?’

‘Unfortunately, no, she’s not on the list – but it’s the closest thing we’ve got so far.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over. Debate Club. It seemed a ridiculous notion. And Riku Kwan wasn’t a member.

Just then, the door to the surgery room opened up and the doctor emerged. His name was Dr Adler – a tall, sandy-haired Australian man with an accent thicker than Vegemite. He had already taken off his surgical cap, but was still wearing the pale green gown. He looked as tired as Striker felt.

‘How is she?’ Striker asked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Critical, but stable.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t know.’ He scratched his nails down his face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. ‘The bullet didn’t have an exit wound. It fragmented, and the pieces ricocheted off the scapula, then rebounded back off her sternum – like a pinball in her thorax. It did a lot of damage to her liver and lung.’

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Sounds like a Hydra-Shok round.’

Felicia nodded, and Striker returned his attention to the doctor. ‘We need to speak to her.’

Dr Adler looked at Striker like he’d lost his mind. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s not a request, Doctor.’

‘It doesn’t have to be. I’m sorry, Detective, but my responsibility is to the patient. Mrs Kwan is already heavily sedated, delirious, and in great pain. To try to bring her out of such a state could possibly—’

‘Her daughter’s life depends on it,’ Felicia said.

This seemed to shut the doctor up.

Striker nodded solemnly. ‘If we can’t locate her daughter, the girl will be murdered. And right now the only lead we got is the woman in there.’

Dr Adler looked away, thought for a moment. The moment lasted a long time. Finally, after much obvious internal debate, he muttered something Striker could scarcely make out.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s it. And any signs of cardiac distress, I shut it down.’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said quietly. ‘Just find the girl.’

Fifteen minutes later, Striker stood at the third-floor entrance to the Critical Care Unit. He was dressed in a pale-green smock that barely fit around the bulge of his Sig Sauer, and a green hair-net that looked more like a woman’s shower cap from the seventies than proper surgical attire. The hospital gear clung to his body like green under-armour, testifying to the thickness of his shoulders and chest.

Felicia stood beside him, dressed in the exact same fashion. She looked him over, her eyes resting on his chest.

Striker noticed. He cleared his throat, said: ‘Anyone ever tell you that hair-net really brings out your eyes?’

The nurse appeared – a small chubby black woman. ‘This way,’ she said. She used a key card to open the door and then ushered them into the Critical Care Unit. They followed her down to room four, where Patricia Kwan was recovering.

When Striker entered the room, he was taken aback.

Everything was exactly the same as when Amanda had died two years ago. Not a damn thing was different. And for a moment, he felt sucker-punched by life. He hated this hospital. Hated everything about it.

He suppressed the feeling, got to work.

The room smelled strongly of bleach and disinfectants. Aside from the bleak light that creaked through the brown drapes, everything appeared cold and sterile. Patricia Kwan laid supine on the bed, with both bed railings locked in the up-position. Tubes and wires ran from both her arms into several machines that stood bedside, an array of red digital numbers blinking across their screens.

Her chest barely moved.

Striker moved closer, stared at Patricia. Her face looked unnatural. Swollen. The skin appeared distended and thin, like an overstuffed sausage membrane. Her dark eyes were slightly open. They were glossy, like wet candy. She moaned, a sound that was barely audible in the small room, and Striker wondered if she did this in response to their presence, her pain, or the nightmares she was suffering.

He turned to the nurse. ‘She even awake?’

‘Stupor,’ was all the nurse offered.

Dr Adler entered the room and monitored the machines. The expression on his weary face was one of concern, and he gave Striker and Felicia a look that suggested it was time to get things started.

Striker stepped forward. ‘Ms Kwan? Ms Kwan?
Patricia
?’

The woman’s eyes blinked a few times, then turned towards him.

‘I’m Detective Jacob Striker from the Vancouver Police Department. I’m the cop that saved you.’

She offered no response, verbal or otherwise. She just stared at him through empty eyes.

‘Patricia, I know this is hard for you right now, but these are questions I have to ask. Do you remember what happened tonight? Back at the house?’

Patricia Kwan shivered beneath the blankets. She tried to speak, only managed to croak, then began to cough. When the fit subsided, the nurse gave her water. She made another attempt to speak, and the voice which came through was low and scratchy and weak.

‘The house . . . was on fire.’

‘On fire?’

‘
Fire
. There was fire . . . all around me . . . out of control.’

‘Patricia—’

‘Dragons . . . breathing fire . . .’

Felicia looked at the doctor. ‘This is no good,’ she said. ‘The woman is delirious.’

Striker placed his hands on the bed railing, fingers gripping so tightly his knuckles blanched. As he leaned down to hear Patricia better, the smell of her body odour hit him. She smelled bad. Like she was sick. Like a dog ready to be put down. He ignored the smell, continued: ‘Do you know the man who attacked you? Do you recognise him from anywhere?’

Patricia said nothing, didn’t move. And for a moment Striker thought he had lost her altogether. But then her eyes grew wide and regained some clarity. She jolted in her bed.

‘My daughter!’

She tried to sit up, let out an agonised wail, grabbed at her ribs and then collapsed back on the bed. The doctor and nurse immediately stepped forward to check the machines.

As they moved, Felicia’s cell went off. She reached down for it, and the nurse glared at her.

‘Not in here you don’t.’

Striker gestured for her to take the call outside, and she did, leaving him alone with the nurse and the doctor, and he was grateful for it.

‘Patricia,’ he began again.

She gripped his arm. ‘My daughter, please, my
daughter
.’

‘Do you have any idea where she might be? We’re trying to locate her.’

‘Find her,
please
. You have to find her . . . find her . . .’

‘Where does she go? Who does she hang out with? Is there anyone I can call?’ Striker peppered her with questions. But the woman’s eyes glazed, and she retreated back inside her body. Her facial muscles relaxed. She deflated against the bed like a balloon with a fast leak and sweat dappled her pallid skin.

‘Dragons,’ she said one last time, her voice but a whisper. ‘The house was filled with dragons.’

One of the machines to Striker’s left let out a series of beeps, and the doctor motioned for the nurse. She hurried over, adjusted the settings, and gave the doctor and Striker a fierce motherly look.

‘That’s it,’ Dr Adler said to Striker. ‘No more.’

Striker didn’t argue the point. He retreated to the doorway, where he stopped, turned, stared. He watched the nurse and doctor fuss over their patient. Sadness swept through him, so heavy he felt the sorrow deep down in his lungs. The woman on the bed may as well have been Amanda all over again. And Striker recalled with horrifying clarity how he had felt two years ago, knowing his wife was dying and wondering how he was ever going to tell Courtney – their thirteen-year-old daughter – that her mother was never coming home again.

The memory cut into him as deeply now as it had done back then.

He stood in the doorway and stared at Patricia Kwan until the nurse ushered him into the hall. Outside, he met up with Felicia, who snapped her cell phone shut.

‘That was the coroner,’ she said. ‘The autopsy of our remaining gunman is done.’

Striker nodded.

It was the first good thing he’d heard all day.

Fifty-Two

It was late, and the night was dark and cold. It was all Red Mask could do to keep his feet moving and his body from collapsing.

His destination – a barely noticeable hole in the wall – was an old herbal shop, on East Georgia Street. Like every other shop in Chinatown, the banner out front was red on gold:
Happy Health and Good Fortune Herbs and Pharmaceuticals
.

Sheung Fa had taken him here, many years ago, when he was young. His words had been clear: ‘For you, always will these doors be open.’

And that was what Red Mask was now counting on. For in his deteriorated state, there was nowhere else to go. Certainly not home. He would never go home again. There was nothing more disgraceful a man could do than to knowingly bring evil into his father’s house. And with the amount of people he had now killed, there was evil all around him. He could feel it. Like diesel fumes on his skin.

The thought landed in Red Mask’s stomach like a hard stone, and his eyes welled with tears. He touched beneath his eyes. Amazement flooded him when he felt wetness. Weeping. He was actually weeping. Something that had not happened since childhood.

‘What happens to me?’

The words hung there, exposed as much as the hole in his shoulder.

He killed the thought and moved on. The pain was excruciating now. If not addressed, the injury would overtake him, and he would not last long enough to find the girl.

With the stairway tilting, he descended the concrete steps and stumbled into the darkness of the alcove below. The door was locked. He knocked three times and heard shuffling feet. When the door opened, his legs finally gave way and he collapsed.

‘Sheung Fa sent me,’ he said.

He repeated the words over and over again as he lay on the cold wet concrete.

It was all that he could do.

Fifty-Three

Striker led Felicia out the way they’d come, cutting through the west side admittance area of St Paul’s Hospital. He had just passed the waiting area, where construction was still underway – God knows there was always a renovation underway at St Paul’s – when he spotted the white unmarked police cruiser pulling into the Police Only parking out front.

The White Whale.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

‘Christ, not now,’ Striker muttered. And for an instant, he was tempted to turn down the nearest corridor and escape via one of the rear or side exits. There’d been enough stress over the last two days without having to deal with the white-shirted dictator again. Avoidance would have been a logical choice, for which no one would fault him, but Jacob Striker never ran from anyone.

Especially not Laroche.

‘Gear up,’ Striker warned.

He gave Felicia a quick look, saw the uncomfortable expression masking her tired face, and barged out the exit door, into the brisk night air. The hospital door had barely shut behind him when Laroche exited the vehicle, followed by his lackey, Inspector Beasley.

‘Well, he’s got Curly with him now. All he needs is to find a Moe.’

‘Jacob, please,’ Felicia started.

He ignored her. Stopped walking. Crossed his arms. Stood rooted to the spot.

The Deputy Chief closed the car door then looked at his reflection in the side mirror. He adjusted his belt, fidgeted with his tie, then patted and combed his thick black hair back over his head while Inspector Beasley waited for him on the sidewalk. When he finally stopped fussing and stood up straight, his eyes landed on the two detectives. And his face darkened.

‘Striker!’

‘Laroche.’

‘Jesus Christ, everywhere you go I have to set up a new crime scene.’

Striker blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. Not, ‘Good job at the Kwan house,’ or, ‘You were right, Leung
wasn’t
Red Mask,’ or even, ‘I’m glad to see you’re alive.’ No, he got none of those, and there would certainly be no commendation to follow. Just more bullshit. He cleared his throat and said politely, ‘Just bringing you more zebras, sir.’

Laroche said nothing. His white face turned pink. Striker expected a rebuttal of some sort, but none came. Instead the Deputy Chief swivelled his hips, found Inspector Beasley, and the two of them exchanged a nasty smirk. One that made Striker pause.

Just what the hell are they up to now?

The Deputy Chief gave Beasley a nod, and without a word Beasley returned to the White Whale, popped open the trunk, rummaged around for a second, then returned with a gun case. He handed it to the Deputy Chief, who then turned to Striker with a wide smile stretching his lips.

‘The order no longer comes from me,’ Deputy Chief Laroche said. ‘It comes from the top, this one – right from Chief Chambers himself. And he’s made his decision clear. You have to turn in your gun. Now. It’s
evidence
.’

Striker shrugged. ‘I never said it wasn’t.’

‘You refused to relinquish it.’

‘I did nothing of the sort; I promised to relinquish my gun once it was safe to do so, when the incident was over, and technically the incident was not over. Like I said before, it was a safety issue, pure and simple.’

Laroche’s smile didn’t falter.

‘Well, there’s no safety issue any more, Detective Striker. The Department will issue you a new gun, now that your old one is being seized.’

Striker dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun and ran his fingers along the grip. It was rubberised – one of the many adjustments he’d made to the Sig – and it had the flashlight attachment on the muzzle, one that needed to be made by special order.