On the floor by the window was the female end of a long electrical cord. Striker swept the flashlight along it to find the other end. The cord ran all the way to the entrance of the apartment, then under the door into the communal hall. Striker reached out for the light switch. He flicked it on, and nothing happened.
The apartment had no power.
Keeping his gun at the low-ready and his flashlight aimed ahead, he searched the entire apartment, starting with the main room he was in and then finishing with the lone bathroom and bedroom. Both were empty. Anyone who might have been here was now long gone.
Striker opened the front door and peered into the hall. At his feet, the extension cord ran down the wall to an electrical outlet, where it was plugged in. He nodded absently. The room had had no power, and whoever had been in there had obviously needed some.
Why, he wondered.
Thoughts of the camera relay system he had seen flashed through his mind, and made his fingers tighten on the gun. He returned inside the apartment and shone his flashlight all around the front window looking for prints. What he found was a plastic package. He picked it up and read the label.
Wood screws. Ten inchers.
Perfect for mounting steel brackets and beams to a front door.
‘He was right here all along,’ Striker found himself saying. ‘Fuck!’
He looked out of the window and studied the scene across the road. Out there on Hermon Drive, the entire row of townhomes was a mass of flame. Two fire trucks now occupied the block, their red flashing lights as bright as the fire. Felicia was down there, speaking to the Fire Captain and pointing to the series of units they had already cleared.
The captain seemed relieved by this.
Striker turned his eyes past them to the front of Sarah Rose’s apartment. This window was the perfect vantage point. The perfect spot for recon. And Striker began to wonder how the Adder had come across it. Was it by chance? Or was the whole thing planned?
He hoped the former.
But experience told him otherwise.
He looked at the window where he had seen the video camera, tucked down in the lower left corner of the window. That area was now completely engulfed in flame, with two firemen hosing down the wall to no avail.
With his hand stinging and his frustration growing, Striker left the apartment through the window he had come in. Mandy Gill was dead. Sarah Rose was dead. And any evidence inside the townhome was likely lost in the flames.
It doesn’t get much worse, Striker thought.
He thought wrong. A white unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up on scene and a short man in a pristine white dress shirt climbed out. It was Car 10. The Road Boss.
Inspector Laroche had arrived.
By the time Striker made his way back down the slope of lawn to street level, an ambulance and two patrol cars had arrived on scene. So had two news crews – a van from British Columbia TV News and one from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It was standard practice in the City of Vancouver. Word spread fast among the media. Nothing was sacred and no story was too small – so long as human lives were in jeopardy.
Striker watched them with disdain. One of the reporters was a short blonde woman he recognized from a previous nightmare call. She’d distorted every fact of the case and ended up jeopardizing his investigation. The memory of it was still raw. She stepped out of the van and began raking a brush through her long blonde hair in preparation for the shoot.
‘I want tape up now,’ Striker said to one of the patrol cops.
‘Don’t anyone say one word to them,’ a deep voice ordered.
Striker turned around and spotted the Road Boss. Inspector Laroche stood with his hands on his hips, assessing the carnage all around them. His deep voice seemed wrong for his diminutive body. As always, his uniform was impeccable. His pants were as black as his hair and pressed to equal perfection, and his white dress shirt was without wrinkle.
It was hard to believe he’d been sitting in the car.
The inspector saw Striker and marched over. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded.
‘It was the Adder,’ Striker said.
Felicia came over and joined the conversation. ‘Billy Mercury,’ she clarified.
Striker nodded. ‘It would appear so. We have to check his place right now. Get him on CPIC. Broadcast it on every channel.’ He made a fist as he thought this over and winced.
Felicia took notice. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Your hand . . . Jacob, it’s burned.’
Striker gave her an irritated glance. ‘It’s fine.’
Laroche shook his head. ‘An on-the-job injury? No, you need to go to the hospital for that. And make sure you fill out the Workers’ Compensation Board forms.’
‘It’s nothing. A light burn. First degree at best.’
‘Department liability,’ Laroche said. He spoke the words like a speech he had memorized. ‘According to Workers’ Compensation Board rules, you have to attend the hospital and be assessed by a physician. Either you go, or I remove you from the road, effective immediately.’
Striker felt his hands balling into fists again. This time he ignored the pain.
‘Someone needs to go after Billy Mercury,’ he said.
‘Someone already has,’ Laroche said. ‘Your All Points Bulletin worked well. Billy Mercury just got taken down by a pair of patrol cops, not ten minutes ago. He’s in custody as we speak.’
Striker thought of the timeline. ‘Ten minutes ago? Where did this happen?’
Laroche looked north. ‘Not five miles up the road. Hastings and Kootenay. Just outside his residence. He was screaming about demons and hellfire. Cops took him down right there in the bus loop.’
Striker said nothing as he thought this over. The timeline fit. As did the proximity of the location. As did the man’s crazed actions.
‘He had his laptop with him when they took him down,’ Laroche continued. ‘And they hit the mother lode. Everything was on it. All his MyShrine pages were up and running, along with a million other chat rooms and blogs – Twitter, MySpace and LinkedIn.’
‘And?’ Striker asked.
Laroche nodded. ‘Pretty much what you’d expect – talk of demons. Rants about the Middle East and the war. Accusations about the validity of the medications he’s on. And, of course, the threats. They were all in there – even the email he sent you. The man is clearly delusional, and highly volatile. He’s being taken back to Riverglen as we speak.’
‘Riverglen?’ Striker asked. ‘You mean he’s being sectioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about charges?’
‘Can’t charge him. He’s being pinked,’ Laroche explained – a term used in lieu of institutionalized, due to the bright pink colour of the medical health warrant. ‘By order of his very own doctor.’
Striker gave Felicia a dark glance. ‘And which doctor would that be?’
‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’
Striker swore. ‘This is bullshit. We should charge Mercury with attempted murder, then hold him for a Psych Doc.’
Laroche glanced back at the various camera crews that were setting up at the top of Hermon Drive. There were more of them now. As many as six. It was quickly becoming a media nightmare. They were here because of the fire, no doubt. But eventually the whole story would leak. It always did. Soon enough they would know about Billy, and then the real blitz would begin.
Laroche shook his head. ‘Billy can’t be charged criminally with anything – he’s been pinked.’
‘But—’
‘It’s not gonna happen, Striker.’
‘Why? Because of how it will look on the news? The man tried to kill us!’