The Survivor (3 page)

‘Clear left,’ he said at the next lane.

‘Clear right,’ Felicia responded.

And so they went. It had been less than ten minutes since Red Mask had escaped, and already the memory felt surreal. The adrenalin from the shootout was thinning in Striker’s blood, and the shakes were hitting him hard. His palms sweated. His mouth was dry. And his chest felt hollowed out. He stared at the GPS, studying the map.

‘Where are the quadrants set?’

Felicia was on the radio with Dispatch, ordering more emergency units to the school – Ambulance, Fire, Ident, the whole gamut – and broadcasting the last known direction of travel of the suspect. When done, she hung up the mike and rotated the terminal to face him.

‘We got a weak box. Just six units in all. From Sixteenth to Thirty-third Ave, and from Blanca Street all the way to Dunbar.’

‘That’s a lot of land. Any mobiles?’

‘Just two.’

‘
Two
? But that makes only eight goddam cars.’

Felicia shrugged helplessly. ‘All units not in containment have been ordered back to the school. The Emergency Response Team is doing a full clear.’

‘How many units there?’

‘Four.’

That still made for only twelve units in total. ‘Where the hell is everyone?’

Felicia brought up the unit status, frowned. ‘Most are coming from way down south.’

‘Why so far?’

‘They had a gun call in Oakridge not an hour ago. Couldn’t be any further out. Real bad timing.’

Striker cursed. The timing of the gun call was too convenient, and he wondered if it was a diversion tactic. He looked down at the computer map. The box they’d set up was too large, and there were too many holes in it. To make matters worse, many of the roads serpentined through and around the forest of the nature reserve – which was another problem in itself. Even if they had the proper number of units – which they didn’t – visual continuity would be a bitch.

‘We need more units.’

‘They’re making requests from Burnaby North.’

That was RCMP territory. Mounties. Any help was welcome, but they were still too far away.

Up ahead was a blockade. Striker hit the brakes and they came to an abrupt stop. He looked both ways. Scowled. Sixteenth Avenue was a long line of gridlock in each direction. In the middle of the traffic, city engineers were tearing up the median.

Striker scanned the area and saw numerous flagmen in bright orange reflective vests amid tall stacks of blue tubing and clusters of yellow work vehicles. It was construction chaos.

‘No way he got through this mess,’ Felicia said.

Striker bit his lip, doubtful. He drove up to the nearest construction worker – a fat guy with tangled grey hair that hung down to the crack of his ass. The man looked back at them through mirrored sunglasses and nodded.

‘Dude,’ he said.

Felicia flipped open her wallet, exposing the badge. ‘You see a green Civic pass through here?’

The flagman brushed some hair out of his face. ‘Across this friggin’ nightmare? You kiddin’ me? No, I ain’t seen no one.’ He turned away, then started waving the westbound traffic through. A motorcycle swerved around a reversing dump truck and the flagman started screaming.

‘He didn’t come this way,’ Felicia said to Striker.

Striker didn’t respond. He just reversed out of the work area, back to Sixteenth Avenue, and studied all routes.

‘To go west, he’d have to cut across the gridlock and drive against the traffic.’

‘Which he likely wouldn’t do,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed. ‘It would bring him too much unwanted attention.’

‘So that leaves only east.’

But Striker didn’t like that either.

‘A right turn here is the natural turn,’ he said. ‘Especially when driving fast.’ He took a long look at the gridlock on either side of the construction zone, then grunted. ‘If he broke Sixteenth, we’re screwed.’

Felicia’s voice was harder this time. ‘He didn’t break it. And we’ve still got tons of lanes to cover to the south. Let’s do a grid search, lane by lane, right down to Dunbar.’

Striker dragged his sleeve across his brow, wiped away the perspiration. The air smelled strongly of Felicia’s perfume and of molten tar from the fresh blacktop. It left his skin feeling sticky.

‘The grid,’ Felicia pressed.

Strike finally relented. It was the logical thing to do, even if instinct told him otherwise. He cranked the wheel and made the turn.

Twenty minutes later, the grid search of the north-east quadrant was complete, and they found themselves back at the intersection of Sixteenth Avenue and Imperial Road. Exactly where they had started. The results were SFA.

Sweet Fuck All.

‘Too much time has passed,’ Striker said.

Felicia didn’t respond. She just got on the air and broadcast the areas they’d cleared, then slammed the mike back into its cradle. Her voice was gruff, tired. ‘Okay. Let’s start west.’

But Striker looked at the long procession of backed-up traffic and didn’t take his foot off the brake. He sat there, immobile, for a long moment, thinking. Debating.

Felicia punched his shoulder. ‘Earth to Jacob.’

He rammed the steering column in park, climbed out, and felt the cold winds bite into him. They blew his short brown hair in every direction. He bundled up the charcoal flaps of his long coat and marched towards the work crews at Sixteenth Avenue. The median and surrounding grasslands were torn up, with mounds of dirt and chunks of concrete scattered throughout the passageway, making it difficult to traverse.

Halfway across, Felicia caught up to him. ‘We should finish the grid,’ she said.

Striker gave her a quick but dismissive shake of his head. ‘He didn’t go that way. He knew the natural turn was to the right. And he knew we’d search that way for him.’

‘You’re giving this guy too much credit.’

‘Am I?’ He knelt down, raked his fingers along the ground and felt something sharp. Scattered across the brown-grey earth was a line of small dirty opaque cubes. He picked one up, rubbed it between his fingers, analysed it.

Safety glass. From a shattered rear window.

He turned to Felicia, held up the glass, and gave her a look of frustration.

‘Shift containment north,’ he said. ‘He broke the goddam line.’

Six

Within minutes, containment had shifted north, all the way to Fourth Avenue. Three more patrol cars arrived from the Oakridge area. They stayed mobile, patrolling the lanes and side roads. Striker was happy about the increased manpower, though he feared the response was too late.

Discovery Drive was a long, snakelike road, cutting through the thick clusters of maples and oaks and firs. On either side, million-dollar homes stood tall on oversized lots. All boasted creamy stucco, dark wood and old red brick. Walkways were flanked by sea-green lawns and gardener-tended flowerbeds.

Land of the elite.

Striker steered his cruiser down the slanted hillside while dialling his daughter’s cell phone. The line was in use, and the busy signal annoyed him. It should have gone directly to voice-mail, but it didn’t, so someone else must have been leaving her a message, too. He took in a deep breath. Courtney was safe, he knew that. She had skipped school. But that didn’t make him feel any better. He wanted to talk to her. To hear her voice. But all he got was an automated voice telling him that the person being called was not available.

He snapped the phone shut and drove on.

Now on the north side of the construction zone, he started another grid search. Four blocks into it, he spotted a middle-aged man dressed in blue jeans and a white polo-shirt standing in front of a white garage door. He was spraying off the roadside.

‘Clear right,’ Felicia said.

Striker didn’t reciprocate.

Quiet, focused, he slowed the car to a stop and hit the power button to roll down the driver’s side window. As it unrolled, the foul stench of rotting garbage blew into the car. Striker ignored it and looked at the man before him. He was of Middle Eastern descent. Tall, probably six foot three – an inch or two taller than Striker – and beefy, even in his limbs. He probably weighed in at two-forty.

The man let go of the nozzle, the spray from the hose cut off, and he turned and stared at the unmarked police car. When he found Striker’s eyes, he spoke without an accent.

‘Can I help you?’

Striker badged him and nodded. ‘You see a Honda Civic drive by here? Dark green. Had a smashed-out rear window.’

The man shook his head. ‘No. Nothing.’

‘How long you been here?’

The man shrugged. ‘Long enough to clean up the garbage. Maybe ten minutes.’

Striker looked past the man, down the lane. It was a dark alley, shaded almost entirely by the narrow three-storeys that dominated the north side of the road. When he saw nothing of interest, he looked back at the wide-bottomed garbage cans and knew where the stink was coming from.

‘What happened to your garbage?’

‘Friggin’ racoons.’ The man showed his first hint of emotion, his voice rising. ‘Gonna get a permit, set up some traps.’

Striker nodded like he didn’t care one way or the other. ‘If you see that car, don’t approach it, just call 911. Immediately.’

‘Sure.’

Striker drove on. Heading north. Always north. After four more blocks, he felt something tugging at the rear of his subconscious. He hit the brakes. Thought for a moment. Rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel.

Felicia gave him a curious look. ‘You got something?’

‘Hold on.’

He u-balled and drove back up the road just in time to see the Middle Eastern man enter his backyard. Striker rolled down the window once more, got his attention with a quick wave, and the man walked back over to the cruiser, his face looking tired and irritated. Like he had better things to do.

‘What now, Officer?’

Striker pointed to the wet pavement. ‘Racoons dump that garbage?’

The man nodded. ‘Yeah, I told you. They’re a damn nuisance.’

‘They ever do it before?’

‘Too many times to count.’

Striker looked at the righted garbage can. It was a large canister, heavy. There were no visible dents in it.

‘They normally knock it over like that, or just get inside?’

The man turned and looked at the garbage can, scowled. ‘Usually they just get inside.’

‘These racoons you got round here, they
ever
tip over one of those cans?’

‘Well, no, actually . . .’

Striker met the man’s eyes. ‘You
see
them knock over that garbage can?’

‘Nope.’

Striker nodded. ‘Thanks. Take care.’

The man walked away without saying more. Once he was gone, Striker turned to Felicia and saw the strange look she was giving him. He gestured towards the lane.

‘Those garbage cans are damn near full,’ he said. ‘Must weigh sixty pounds each. They don’t tip easy.’

‘And you think our guy did it.’

‘Sure as shit wasn’t Rocky the Racoon.’ Striker backed the car up a few more feet to give them a better view. He pointed. ‘Look at where the cans are placed,’ he said. ‘Right at the mouth of the lane. It’s exactly where Red Mask would hit one of them if he was driving too hard, too fast. Think about it. He comes down this way, north on Discovery. At the last second, he sees a good place to dump, or maybe a flash of red and blue lights. Who knows? Either way, he cranks the wheel too hard, takes the corner too wide, and what’s he gonna hit – anything that’s placed on the north side of the road at the very mouth of the laneway.’

Felicia raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re reaching.’

‘You got to reach if you wanna grab something. Get your gun ready, we’re clearing this lane.’

He gripped his pistol in his right hand and steered with his left as they edged forward into the alley. For the first third, he saw nothing. No good places to dump. No movement of any kind. Certainly no green Honda Civic with the rear windshield blown out.

Then, near the halfway point where the road widened, he spotted something. A small patch of torn-up grass on the south side of the road – a muddy portion that looked disturbed.

Striker hit the brakes, pointed it out to Felicia, saying, ‘Cover me.’

He got out and approached the breezeway.

It was a small patch of land, rectangular in shape, maybe thirty feet by fifteen, and it flanked a closed garage. The land here was a mixture of mud and gravel and crabgrass, running from the kerb all the way back to a giant willow tree that fronted the yard.

Striker walked over to the willow tree and looked down. In the mud, there were tire tracks, fresh ones. Their deep grooves were wider at the base of the tree, as if a car had suddenly and violently shifted. Lying across the tracks were a few willow tendrils. Striker looked at the tree and saw a horizontal gouge across the bark.

Right about bumper level.

‘Something hit this tree,’ he said to Felicia, ‘and not long ago. These marks are fresh.’ He knelt down on the cleanest patch of grass and looked at the impression in the mud.

‘Is it a Civic tire?’ Felicia asked.

‘How should I know?’

‘You’d think five years in Ident would do something for you.’

He gave her a dry look. ‘Only way to know for sure is with a casting, and that’s a job for Noodles.’ He analysed the tread prints. The impressions were clean, the near-frozen mud of the lawn holding the shape together. The lateral edge consisted of two longitudinal striations; the medial sections were composed mainly of 60-degree chevrons.

Felicia came up beside him, bent over for a better look. ‘You getting anything there, Columbo?’

‘First off, I prefer Sherlock,’ Striker said coolly. ‘Or at the very least, Matlock. Secondly, it’s impossible to tell if it was a Civic or not. But whatever it was, the tires are probably one hundred and ninety-five millimetres, which would translate into a fifteen-inch wheel diameter. Most likely.’

‘And what the hell does that mean?’

‘It means,’ he said, ‘that a smaller vehicle made these impressions. Something like a Honda Civic or a Toyota Tercel. Anything more specific than that requires lab work.’