But he could not. Ever since the death of Mandy, everything had felt more personal to him. These weren’t just sudden deaths, they were lost lives. There was no ignoring that fact.
The thought was depressing, and he tried to vanquish it by keeping busy. He shone the flashlight all over Sarah Rose’s body, looking for any trace evidence. The white blouse she wore was distended over her breasts and belly, and the buttons looked one gas bubble away from popping. The body was bloating profusely. Evidence of this could be seen in the swelling of her cheeks, and of her fingers too, where the rings all appeared to be three sizes too small. The one on her ring finger was so tight, the gold looked melted into the flesh.
Striker noted this ring, and turned to Felicia. ‘Did you research her fully on the way over?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Felicia said the words like she was offended; research was always the passenger’s job.
‘Was she married?’
Felicia nodded. ‘According to PRIME, she was married. Years ago. To a man named Jerry something. I can’t remember the details, but he died of an overdose. I’ll read up more on it when we get back to the car.’
Striker looked back at the ring on her finger. ‘Guess she never let go of him.’
He used a gloved finger to pull away the soft material of her blouse, exposing the neck and upper sternum regions. Using his flashlight, Striker inspected the skin. On the right side, there was nothing out of the ordinary, just paleness and bloating. On the left side, a very small area of the skin looked different to the rest. A tiny red dot.
A puncture mark?
With all the bloating of the body it was difficult to tell, but the mark was in the same area – lateral to the base of the neck, over the first rib area – just like Mandy Gill’s injury.
Thoughts of injections again filtered through Striker’s mind. He took out his notebook and made a crude drawing of the neck and the position of the possible puncture mark. He then drew a diagram of the room, and noted something critically important – the positioning of the body.
Mandy Gill had been seated in her easy chair, facing the window.
Now so was Sarah Rose.
Striker turned slowly around and looked at the window with bad thoughts filling his head. He put away his notebook and approached it. The window was small – much too small for an intruder to fit through, especially with iron security bars blocking off the inside.
But that wasn’t what he was concerned about.
As Striker got closer to the frame, he could see that the panes of glass were quite dirty. As if they had never been cleaned since the townhome had been built. The dirt was so thick, the outside world was difficult to make out.
Except in one place.
A small portion in the bottom right corner. There, the glass was sparkling clean, as if someone had cleaned it today.
Striker leaned closer for a better look. What he saw made him reach for his pistol. Positioned on the other side of the glass was another camera.
They were being filmed.
Forty-Six
The Adder finished covering the front door with the wood varnish, then threw the last of the empty cans into his burlap sack. He removed his leather gloves and snapped on a fresh pair of latex, covering up the red rash of his skin.
Smiling, he stood back and examined his work. The door was so wet it glistened in the cold winter sun.
It was beautiful.
Unfortunately, there was no time for enjoying his work. He grabbed the lighter from his pocket – a long, ten-inch one for lighting barbecues. With his fingers trembling from the excitement, the Adder took a half step back. Raised the lighter. And pulled the trigger.
The entire front door exploded with a soft whoooosh! sound, and white-hot flame crawled up the front of the building like a living beast.
It was beautiful, the Adder thought again.
So undeniably beautiful.
Mesmerizing.
He fought to pull his eyes from the blaze. With the operation complete, he regained his focus, grabbed his burlap sack from the ground, and hurried back across the road to the Command Room. Minutes were critical now. He needed to be out of sight when the cops and fire crews arrived. And more important than that, he needed to be sure the video feed was being properly transmitted and recorded.
That was essential.
He climbed back inside the ground-level apartment and pulled the drapes closed. The moment the outside light was blocked, a sense of relief spilled through him.
It was done.
The job was complete.
He glanced over at the computer screen, saw that the video was recording – saw the two detectives moving through Sarah Rose’s suite – and an excited sound escaped his lips. Outside, smoke was already flowing strongly from the fire – the dark angry tail of the beast snaking around the west side of the building. The sight filled the Adder with a sense of heavenly calm.
It was here. It was here. It was here . . .
The Beautiful Escape had arrived.
Forty-Seven
Striker whirled away from the camera.
‘Someone’s here!’
He drew his gun and scanned the area all around them. As if on cue, four tiny red lights turned on, one at each corner of the ceiling. Like the glowing red eyes of some angry creature. Striker raised his gun to fire, then stopped as he realized what he was looking at.
More cameras.
‘There’s smoke!’ Felicia said.
Striker saw it, too. He searched through the black haze that was unfurling. At first, in the dimness of the basement area, he had thought the smoke was leftover residue from the burned coffee grounds in the kitchenette. But now as he looked at the thickening mass unrolling around them, he realized the truth of what was happening.
The place was on fire.
They’d walked right into a trap.
Gun out, he hurried back into the hallway that led to the stairs, and then the front door. All he could see down at the far end was a smear of puffing blackness. A crackling noise now filled the air. And it was growing louder.
‘Come on!’ he screamed to Felicia. ‘We have to get the hell outta here!’
She ran to his side and they moved back down the long narrow corridor together. The closer they got to the stairs, the more the blackness thickened – to the point where it was difficult to breathe. The air was hot, irritating Striker’s eyes and choking his lungs. Felicia began coughing, and raised her arm to cover her mouth.
When they reached the first step of the stairs, Felicia tripped and almost fell, but Striker snagged her. He pulled her with him, up the stairs. When they got halfway, Felicia tugged at his jacket.
‘It’s too hot,’ she yelled above the noise. ‘We’re running right towards the fire – we have to turn back. Find another way.’
Images of the floor layout flashed through Striker’s head; the entire apartment was below ground level, and the only windows he had seen were small and barred.
‘There is no back,’ he yelled. ‘This is the only way out!’
Without waiting for a response, he pushed on up the stairway, pulling her with him. They reached the small alcove of the inside foyer. Here, the heat from the fire was immense, palpable through the front door. Without thinking, Striker reached out and grabbed the doorknob—
And yanked his hand back.
The knob was blisteringly hot. He quickly stripped off his jacket, wrapped it around the knob, turned it and pushed hard.
The door wouldn’t budge.
Felicia shone her flashlight on the door. With the thick smoke billowing all around them, it was almost impossible to see.
She pointed at the plate. ‘It’s a one-way lock!’