The Vanishing Track (20 page)

Denman came down on both feet, upright, and directly in front of the open door; the delivery man crashed into the front doors on the opposite side of the car. He caught his breath and charged. Denman stood his ground, and when his attacker was just about to collide with him, quickly stepped to the side and drove his forearm up into the man's chin, his arm bent and his open hand reaching skyward. He then quickly reversed direction and drove his hand down toward the train station platform. The man crumpled to the ground.

Denman heard the sound signaling the doors about to close and quickly pulled the man back on board. Then he deftly stepped backward and escaped the closing doors. In another second the SkyTrain was speeding to the next stop. The whole confrontation had lasted less than thirty seconds.

Denman raced down the stairs out of the station and ran toward Cole's address.

The man on the train had been a decoy.

But a decoy for what?

COLE STOOD UNDER
the glare of the fluorescent tube lights, the smell of Korean food heavy in the air. Two folding tables, pushed together in the middle of the room, were surrounded by six chairs. The tattered venetian blinds on the windows were closed. Cole quickly pulled the tangled cord to hoist them open. They raised no dust. He looked out toward the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden, then west at the darkened outline of the Lucky Strike. He turned back to the room, and noted a chalkboard mounted on one wall, nothing written on it, and no chalk. A small garbage pail sat by the door. As Cole surveyed the empty space, he smelled expensive cologne and the delicate scent of roses over the oily fragrance of the food. He studied the floor, and in addition to his own wet prints he could see the outline of other wet shoes and boots. Based on their shape, he guessed that they had been made by both men and women.

People had been in this room. And had just left.

DENMAN HAD HIS
phone in his hand, managing to key in a message as he ran. He hit send and then put the phone back in his pocket.

He could see the Lucky Strike Hotel to his left. Suddenly the darkened shape of the building was illuminated from outside. Spotlights around the base of the building blazed brightly. Two dozen police cars and vans roared to a near simultaneous stop in front of the building. Christ, he thought, the shit is going down
right now
. He slowed a moment, but then decided it wasn't his concern. His concern was Cole Blackwater.

COLE HESITATED, THINKING
about the man he had followed. He had used his cell phone twice, once when Cole and Denman split up, and again when he turned onto Taylor Street.

He had tipped off the Lucky Strike Supper Club, hadn't he? Dinner is not being served, Cole imagined him saying. I've been made.

What was the second call? Coast is clear. But Cole had been out front by then. Back door.

Suddenly the night outside the window lit up like day, and Cole could see the Lucky Strike pop out of the darkness into sudden clarity. Now what? he thought. But he didn't stop to look. Instead, he bolted from the room and ran down the darkened hall toward the far end. There must be a second exit. He found the stairs and started down, as if into a darkened pool. He reached the bottom and felt for a crash bar. He pushed his way through and found himself in the alley that ran parallel to Pender, forty feet from its exit onto Columbia Street.

He had time to draw one quick breath of the damp night air.

The blow caught him behind the ear. He felt a hollow ring and then pain shot through his skull and down his neck. He fell to his hands and knees in a slick puddle of water.

He heard a man laugh.

Not the ribs, he thought, not the ribs.

ADRENALINE POURED INTO
Denman's system, but he channeled it, making it work for him, giving his feet wings. He found a break in the traffic and dashed across the street, horns blaring, a car skidding to a halt in front of him, an angry voice. More sirens. Popping. Shouts.

He reached 82 Pender. Denman wrenched the door open, the stairwell inside lit by a faint light at the top. He took the stairs three at a time, then ran down the hall, where an open door spilled light into the corridor and illuminated a takeout package on the floor. Denman slowed and skidded through the doorway. The room was empty.

COLE CRAWLED FORWARD
, his mouth open. He spat. From his position he could see two sets of feet behind him. Not the ribs, he thought. He felt the heat of blood on his temple, leaking toward his eyes.

He tried to crawl across the alley to where a garbage dumpster loomed. One set of legs moved behind him, closing the distance in a few strides. Cole ducked his head to protect himself from the anticipated blow, and a heavy object caught him on the shoulder, knocking him into the trash surrounding the dumpster. Cole struck out with his left leg and felt it connect with his attacker's shin. He had been aiming for the knee, hoping to break it. The blow turned the man sideways and gave Cole a second to grab the dumpster and pull himself up.

His vision was blurred, but at least he could see his assailants now. One man had a piece of lead pipe in his hand. He wore a balaclava over his face. The second man had on a dark hooded sweatshirt under a tattered raincoat. He wore a bandana over his mouth. He had a knife in his hands, the short blade pointing down, the way you would hold it if you wanted to stab a man.

Cole straightened up and tried to clear his vision, but the forms of his assailants moved in and out of focus. The man with the pipe swung for Cole's head, but Cole blocked the swing. The pipe missed his face by two inches. Stepping forward, Cole drove his right fist into the man's nose, breaking it. A jet of blood hit Cole in the face. The attacker staggered back into the wall, his left hand holding his nose, his right still clinging to the pipe.

The second man came forward with the knife held low and deadly, and flashed it back and forth toward Cole's gut. Cole wore layers of clothing that would protect him from some of the force of the knife, but not all. He kept his back to the wall. The man lunged when Cole feigned a slump. Cole side-stepped and drove his fist into the man's temple, momentarily disorienting the attacker. Cole tripped backward and found himself against the dumpster again, a telephone pole between him and the distant street.

His attackers both pressed forward.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The man with the broken nose swung his pipe at Cole's head, but Cole let his legs go out from under him and the pipe grazed his cap, knocking it off his head and leaving a spray of rainwater hanging in the air. The pipe clanged angrily against the garbage bin. Leaning forward on his knees, Cole drove his right fist into the man's groin. The man's legs buckled, and suddenly he was kneeling in front of Cole in the rain-soaked alley. Cole drove his forehead into the man's face, colliding with the man's broken nose. The man let out a blood-curdling scream. Then Cole felt a boot connect with his back and he went numb from the pain. He felt himself sink into the bloody embrace of the man holding the pipe, only just aware of the knife-wielding man behind him. Cole closed his eyes; all of his will to fight seeped into the bloody alley. The knifeman grabbed him by the hair. Cole's only thought was of Sarah.

WHERE THE FUCK
was Cole?

As Denman scanned the room, the sound of a scream reached him from somewhere outside. He ran to the other end of the hall and down the stairs. The momentum of his body carried him through the door and into the alley. Cole was slumped over a man's body, blood on his shadowed face, and another man held him by the hair, a knife to Cole's throat. Denman was on him in a second. He grabbed the hand holding Cole and flipped the man over his hip and face down onto the ground, catching the man's blade safely in his other hand. Denman pressed his knee on the man's back below the arm he had twisted tight, keeping the attacker down in the puddle on the alley floor.

“Cole, you okay?” he shouted. “You're bleeding.”

“Yeah, but it's mostly his.” Cole said, struggling to his feet. He pushed the man with the pipe to the ground and met no resistance.

“Give me your belt,” Denman said. The man beneath him struggled, and Denman applied a little more pressure to the twisted arm. Cole handed Denman his belt. Denman looped it through the man's own pants and then buckled it around his wrists, pulling it tight. He slowly released the pressure from the man's arm and got to his feet.

He took Cole's head in his own hands and looked him over. “You're bleeding behind your right ear. You're going to need stitches. There's blood on your face but I don't see a wound.”

“It's his,” Cole said, wiping the blood from his eyes and from around his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“What did you do, bite his nose off?”

“No, but it's broken. At least twice.”

Denman bent down and pulled the mask off the man, who lay without moving. Denman felt for a pulse. “He's alive.” Denman pulled his cell out and dialed 911.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling the cops.”

“What if
these
are the cops?”

“Well, then, I guess we're in the animal soup, ain't we?”

“I think we're pretty deep in it one way or another,” said Cole, looking around. His vision was still blurry. “We've got to case that room,” he said.

“There's nothing there.”

“We've got to be sure.”

“Police,” Denman spoke into the phone. “There's been an assault in the alley between Hastings and Pender, in the one-hundred block. Both perpetrators are immobilized. Yes, I understand.” Denman hung up the phone.

“Let's go,” he said. He helped Cole to his feet. “You okay? I think we better get you to the hospital.”

“I'm okay. Just a scratch. And my ribs. Nothing new. But we case the room first, then we'll see about a hospital.”

They reached the room and stepped inside. Cole looked closely at the blackboard, trying to read anything that may have been written there. Denman turned over the garbage bin but it was empty. “They even cleared out their trash.”

“They were tipped by the meatball I was following.”

“There's nothing here,” said Denman. “Let's book.”

“What's that smell?” Cole asked.

“Perfume,” said Denman, looking out the window at the Lucky Strike. “We've got to get you some help, Cole.”

“You take me to the hospital and they will call the cops for sure.”

“Juliet.”

“Okay. But at my place.” They opened the door and stepped onto Pender. Police sirens wailed closer, and the street was lit by the floodlights around the Lucky Strike.

“The cops are raiding the hotel,” said Cole.

“What was your first clue, Sherlock?”

Denman pulled his cell from his pocket. “Juliet, it's Denman. Yes, everything is fine. Well, maybe not great. Look, can you hop a cab to Cole's place? Bring your first-aid kit, okay?” He gave Juliet Cole's address.

“I've got to go,” said Denman, looking up the street. “There are going to be fifty complaints of excessive force by morning. It will help if I've been on the scene to witness it.”

He flagged down a cab. “Get yourself home. Juliet will be there in a few minutes. I'll come by in a couple of hours to check on you.”

“Denny,” Cole said.

Denman had his cell phone to his ear, waking up his colleagues. “What's up?” he said turning to Cole.

“Thanks.”

“All in a day's work.”

JOHN ANDREWS LOOKED THE WAY
a cop should. He was six feet tall, with broad, square shoulders, a flat, trim stomach, and strong legs. He wore his uniform with the crispness one might expect from a senior military officer. Though he could dress in plain clothes if he wanted, Andrews liked the formality of the uniform, especially when dealing with the public, with City Hall, or with reporters.

When he stepped into the briefing room, a flurry of flashes from digital cameras exploded. He kept his expression neutral. He sat down behind the table, the flags of the city, province, and country behind him.

“I have a statement to read,” he said, speaking into the two dozen microphones and digital recorders in front of him, “and then I'll take your questions.

“Last evening, members of the Vancouver Police Department's tactical squadron, as well as officers from Division 2's crowd control units, moved to restore public order and protect public safety by disbanding the illegal occupation of the Lucky Strike Hotel. Afterward, Vancouver Police reassembled barricades to prevent access to the hotel, which is a major public safety concern and fire hazard. Our officers escorted members of the End Poverty Now Coalition and other illegal occupants of the hotel from the building. In total, fifty-three arrests were made. Fire officials have confirmed that there were numerous fire code infractions, including open cooking fires, throughout the building. Drug paraphernalia and narcotics were seized. The Lucky Strike Hotel has now been cleared of the illegal occupancy, and the protestors face numerous charges, ranging from possession of narcotics to breach of peace to assaulting a police officer. With this action,
VPD
and the City of Vancouver are sending a strong statement that this form of illegal protest will not be tolerated in our city.”

He stopped and looked up. “I'll take your questions now,” he said, pointing to a blond woman sitting in the front row.

“How many officers were involved in the raid?” she asked.

“In total, about one hundred and fifty, including officers stationed outside the building to maintain peace and order.”

“There are reports that tear gas was used in the raid. Can you confirm this?” asked the reporter from
CTV
News.

“Tear gas was used to ensure the safety of our officers when they entered the premises.”