The Survivor (7 page)

Felicia looked up at him, her pretty face tense and her Spanish eyes dark as black coals. ‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘No, I’m trying to put one out.’

‘Jacob—’

Before their argument could continue, one of the suits from the Tech Division poked his head into the room. The man had an extremely thin frame, a hooked nose, and an enormous Adam’s apple. It was Ich –
Ichabod
, as everyone called him. As in Ichabod Crane, from
Sleepy Hollow
. Perspiration sheened on his face, and he was out of breath, like he’d just run a marathon.

‘God, finally I found you guys,’ he said.

Striker stopped washing his hands. ‘What you got, Ich?’

‘Just follow me,’ he said. ‘There’s something both of you need to see. Something really, really . . . strange.’

Eleven

Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.

He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.

He could not afford for this to happen again.

The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.

Number 426. This was very important.

Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.

Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one – not the chef, not the waitresses – so much as flinched or made eye-contact.

It was as if he were a ghost.

At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.

Red Mask scanned the room. In the far corner, Kim Pham, ever the gracious host, was offering fine whiskies to the clientele. He was thirty, and dressed as he always was – in a white suit, with a white shirt, black tie, and a pair of gold wraparound sunglasses on his head. His oily black hair had blond tips.

When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He grabbed two of his men. ‘Get him downstairs – and call the doctor. Be quick!’

Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tunnel.

Down, down, down they went.

And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light – a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.

Twelve

Striker hurried out of the boys’ changing room and headed down the hall. As he went, he scanned the walls and ceiling for any closed-circuit television. Cameras didn’t take long to find. They were mounted high on every corner. They were old models – big black boxy things. Striker noticed that they didn’t pan down or follow him as he walked.

That was not good news.

Striker followed Ich and Felicia on their way towards the security room. Up ahead, he heard Laroche’s nasally tone, so he cut away through the assembly hall. Inside, the elevated stage was empty and looming, and the room had a haunted feel.

The scene before Striker shocked him. Drying smears of blood coloured the stage’s front, and a yellow Star Trek costume had been left behind. Its fabric was splattered with red and torn. The sight made Striker realise he had gotten it wrong: the shootings hadn’t started in the cafeteria, but somewhere down here – in the hall or auditorium. It had all been such a panic, the exact details were hard to pull from his memory.

He looked around.

High above, Striker saw another camera. This one was silver and grey. Smaller. A newer model than the ones in the hall. He needed to know what its eye had seen.

As he cut through the opposite doorway into the next hall, before the door had even swung closed, he felt someone bump into his chest. He didn’t have to look down to see the person’s face to know who it was. He noted the small stature of the man’s frame, and out of the corner of his eye, saw a glimmer of that unnatural black hair, gelled heavily back and patted down with perfection.

Deputy Chief Laroche.

‘Striker!’ he said.

Striker stopped walking and faced the man he had moments earlier tried to avoid.

The DC was five and a half feet tall and less than one hundred and fifty pounds. Small in comparison to the normal population; puny by police standards, where the average cop was five foot ten and an even two hundred pounds.

‘Sir,’ Striker acknowledged.

‘I’ve been looking for you – have you turned in your clothes?’

‘Of course.’

‘And your gun?’

Striker forced a grim smile. ‘I’m fine, sir, thanks for asking.’

The Deputy Chief furrowed his brow. ‘What?’

‘Just informing you of my well-being. I’m sure that was your primary concern. I mean, one of your officers being in a shootout and all.’ When the Deputy Chief didn’t respond, but just stood there, hands on his hips, chest pushed out for dramatic effect, Striker added, ‘I didn’t want the worry weighing too heavily on your mind right now, when you’ve got so many press conferences to attend. God knows,
those
have to be stressful.’

The Deputy Chief’s lips compressed into a straight line. He looked around, as if to see who else was present. Striker looked too. He saw a few Global TV cameras just outside the front entrance, where a smear of yellow police tape blocked access.

The Deputy Chief cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes, Striker, it’s good. Good you’re unharmed. That was my first concern.’

‘Of course it was.’

When the Deputy Chief said no more, Striker looked back at Felicia, who stood beside the assembly-hall door. Her face was more strained now than it had been during the shootout.

‘Felicia is okay, too. In case you were wondering.’

The Deputy Chief stood there silently, letting the words digest.

‘Your gun, Striker,’ he finally said.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s being seized.’

‘That’s understood, sir. And you’ll have it once this incident is over.’

For a moment, the Deputy Chief said nothing. His eyes narrowed. Then: ‘It’s not a request, Detective Striker, it’s an order.’

Striker leaned forward, so that he was towering over the man. Leaned so close he could smell the oily sweetness of Laroche’s hair gel and the cigarette smoke on his breath.

‘Nice speech, sir,’ Striker said. ‘Now it’s my turn. First off, you’ve got my clothes, be happy with that. But you ain’t getting my gun – not until this incident is entirely over. And don’t bother spouting out any of that policy bullshit to me because safety supersedes policy – and what we have here is a legitimate safety concern.’

‘This is hardly—’

‘We don’t know where the gunman is, who he is, or even his motive – and I’ve already been involved in one shootout with him. For all we know he might come back. So the answer is no. No one gets my gun. Not till we got an in-custody or a dead body, preferably the latter.’

The Deputy Chief’s mouth twisted as if he’d eaten something sour. ‘We’ll get you another gun then, Detective Striker.’

‘Negative, sir. My gun is heavily modified. And I’m trained on this one.’

‘Striker—’

‘You’ll get my gun, don’t worry about that, but you’ll get it when the incident is over and not a second before.’ Striker paused. He looked back at Felicia, who stood looking uncomfortable next to Ich. ‘And don’t even think of pulling me off this case. I didn’t get shot at with a shotgun and an AK-47 so that you could come down here and play God. This file is mine. I’m the primary. I’ve had to kill over it, literally.’

The Deputy Chief shook his head. ‘You’re off, Striker. I have already made the decision.’

Striker leaned closer to the man, so close that when he whispered, no one but the two of them could hear. ‘I got video. Of you fixing your hair while the rest of us were hauling children out of the foyer.’

Laroche stared back at him. ‘Is that some form of threat?’

‘And eating sandwiches, too. What was it, anyway – Ham and Swiss? Tuna Delight?’

‘You want to end your career, Striker?’

Striker held up his BlackBerry. ‘Not the greatest video camera I ever had, but it sure gets the job done.’

The Deputy Chief opened his mouth, but no words came out. His neck stiffened. ‘This is insubordination, Striker. The Chief will hear about it. And the Police Board, as well.’

‘Good. Tell them to talk to my union rep. Directly.’ Striker forced his jaw to relax and let a smile break through. ‘I didn’t spend five years on the board for nothing, Laroche. I know my rights better than you know your policies. When you find out where the real authority stands – and ends – come find me. We’ll talk more then.’

Striker turned away and walked down the hall towards the security room. He had barely gotten ten steps when he heard the Deputy Chief barking orders at Felicia.

Striker ignored them. A sense of dark excitement flooded him as he wondered what evidence Ich had uncovered.

The security room was waiting.

Thirteen

Striker walked with Ich down to the school’s security room. As they passed one of the speakers from the PA system, a jittery voice made pleas for all students and teachers to gather in the gymnasium – the one place that had achieved lockdown.

The speaker crackled, then screeched with feedback. It irritated Striker. His hearing – all his senses – felt out of whack, one moment numbed, the next amplified. People’s voices were either too loud or muffled, the hall’s fluorescent bulbs were too bright or too dim, and everything around him smelled of fresh death.

He was drowning in it.

Felicia finally caught up, and they walked on. This was the exact same route they had taken when trying to locate and intercept the gunmen this morning, Striker noted. He looked around. He didn’t recall so many bodies. There looked to be a lot more than eleven. Already he had counted four. Each one was covered by an ordinary brown sheet.

Like little sandbags dropped here and there to stifle the flow of blood.

He wondered: had he had tunnel vision at the time of the shootings, or had these poor kids tried to escape and only made it this far? The latter seemed more realistic, but he didn’t know for sure. And the more he tried to recall the exact details of how everything had unfolded, the more blank spots he found in his memory.

He passed three more kids, each one covered by a spotted brown sheet. That made seven. The sight sickened him, and he wanted to look away.

But he would not do that.

Instead, he stared intently at every single one of the children he passed, taking the time to peel back the covers and see their faces. He took in the full horror of their expressions, the rictus of twisted emotions warping their features.

He took it all in, accepted the ugly truth. Embraced it. For it steeled his determination. He would remember these children forever, each and every one of them, in image and in feeling. And he would recall these images and feelings with vigour when he caught the twisted little fuck responsible for their slaughter.

‘Jacob,’ a voice said.

He looked up from the body of a child he was staring at in the hall – a young, brown-haired girl with skin that was slack and pale – and saw Felicia calling him into Principal Myers’s office. He took one last look at the girl, then gently brushed the hair from her eyes and covered her back up. He joined Felicia in the office.

The room smelled strongly of burning tobacco and menthol. Principal Myers was leaning on the window ledge in the corner of the room. Her unstable legs looked ready to buckle. Striker marched up to her; looked her over. Her face was like a hard-boiled egg: white, hard, ready to crack. Sweat had matted her hair to her face, and her eyes looked distant, unaware. The cigarette she was holding dangled precariously from her trembling fingertips.

‘Caroline,’ Striker started.

Nothing.

‘Caroline,’ he said, this time more sternly.

It brought her from her thoughts. ‘Oh Jesus Christ, my kids, my kids, my
kids
!’

Striker touched her arm, gave it a squeeze.

‘I need lists, Caroline. Start with the kids who are unhurt and sequestered in the gym. Make note of all who are accounted for. Then start a separate list of the dead. Constable Kolski’s already liaising with Fire and Ambulance. Just get him the pictures and he’ll make the confirmations. When we have those done, we’ll know who’s still missing.’

She nodded numbly. ‘Yes, yes . . . a list.’

‘I also need you to make note of all the deceased’s known connections – who they hung out with, what clubs they joined, what sports they played, who they hated, who hated them. I need all of it and I need it now.’

When Caroline didn’t immediately respond, Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Can you take care of this?’

‘Got it.’

He moved over to Ich, who was preoccupied with the computer terminals in the far corner of the room. ‘So what you got here, Ich? What’s so strange?’

Ich looked up from the keyboard, the soft blue glow of the computer screens turning his pale skin into an even sicklier colour. ‘It’s the school’s security system – it’s been disabled. Happened sometime before the shooting.’

Striker narrowed his eyes. ‘You mean turned off?’

‘No, I mean disabled.’

‘Explain it to me.’

Ich scratched his high cheekbones with both hands, as if he had a tic or maybe because Striker was annoying him. He licked his thin lips.