‘Fucking demons!’ the man screamed. He raised the gun—
And Striker pulled the trigger. He blasted off another round of buckshot, then racked and fired another. The first one took Billy in the shoulder; the second one tore through his chest and came out of his back.
The gun fell from his hands and landed with a soft click on the asphalt. His head dropped, then he fell. His body shuddered for a moment, then became still.
Striker raced forward and kicked the handgun far across the road, away from Billy. It was a black pistol. Not police issue. With the gun out of the way, Striker dropped one knee on top of Billy’s back, pinning him to the ground. He searched for more weapons.
All he found was a constant flow of blood.
‘. . . daemons . . .’ the man said one last time, but his voice was soft and faraway.
He was dying.
Striker jumped back to his feet and searched out Felicia. She was lying half on her stomach, half on her side, trying to get up. Her hair was draped across her face and her gun was two feet ahead of her.
She was crawling for it.
‘I got you!’ Striker yelled.
He raced over to her side. Grabbed her by the shoulders. Pulled her on to her back. And readied himself to stop the flow of blood.
But none came.
‘My ribs,’ she breathed. ‘My fucking ribs.’
He looked down at her chest, at the torn fabric of the Kevlar. He saw the twisted steel of the trauma plate, and let out a sigh of relief.
‘He tagged me,’ Felicia said in disbelief. ‘The fucker actually tagged me.’
Striker said nothing for a long moment, he just stared at her with a horrible sense of desperation flooding his chest. With Dr Ostermann proned out on the ground and sobbing, and Billy Mercury lying dead behind them, Striker pulled Felicia close and held her tight.
‘I thought I lost you,’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ, I thought I fucking lost you.’
It was all he could think of to say.
Fifty-Five
Twenty minutes later, Felicia sat in the back of an ambulance with two paramedics and Dr Ostermann. The initial assessment was not as bad as Striker had feared it was going to be: her ribs didn’t appear to be broken, but without an X-ray, there was no true way of knowing. Without a doubt they were bruised. Deeply.
As one of the paramedics palpated Felicia’s ribs, Dr Ostermann leaned back in the seat beside her. His eyes were closed and his breathing was still far too fast and uneven. He wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm. ‘I feel . . . ill,’ he said softly, then vomited into the bag the medic had given him.
Striker assessed the man. He appeared so different to how he had looked before. Weaker. Older. Fragile.
‘It’s over,’ Striker told him.
When Dr Ostermann did not respond, Striker turned to Felicia. She winced as the medic touched her ribs, but still managed to smile at him.
‘Are you okay?’ Striker asked. It was the tenth time he had asked her this.
She frowned. ‘Go check out the crime scene or something.’
‘I will when you’re—’
‘Really, Jacob. Please. Just go check out the crime scene.’
He didn’t move at first. He just stood there and looked at her.
Lost her. The notion was unthinkable, yet true. He had almost fucking lost her.
Finally, he moved back. ‘I’m gonna go check out his place,’ he said.
Felicia looked relieved. ‘Go.’
Striker closed the ambulance doors. Before moving, he turned his head and stared at the body of Billy Mercury, lying in the very centre of the laneway. Blood had pooled all around him in a distorted, oval shape, and the skin of his face and arms looked terribly pale. Bloodless.
Striker moved up to him. He bent down on one knee and studied the man’s face. Even in death, Billy Mercury looked ill. More than ill, he looked downright insane. His lips curled back, exposing uneven yellow teeth, and his pupils were black and way too large. Like a doll’s eyes.
Demons, the man had said.
Striker shook his head at this. It was a sad statement on the state of this world that Billy Mercury was a war vet. He’d been through combat. And he had broken down because of it. The numerous mental health problems he suffered were in no way his fault. Demons; there had been many of those in Billy Mercury’s life.
But it was all over now.
Striker looked up at the cop guarding the body. A young woman who looked no more than twenty-three.
‘Who took the gun?’ he asked.
‘Sergeant Rothschild, Detective.’
He nodded. Rothschild had seized the shotgun, too. Good. That meant they were in good hands.
Striker looked back at the woman. ‘When Jim Banner from Ident gets here, tell him I’m already up in the suite.’
The cop said she would, and Striker left the dead body of Billy Mercury lying in the middle of the lane. He walked to the parking lot and took note of the licence plates of the vehicles left in the lot – the Toyota Tercel and the old van. Neither came back to Billy Mercury, and within minutes, both the owners were located as living in one of the bottom suites.
Disappointing, Striker thought.
He had hoped for a lead.
He left the vehicles behind and slowly started back towards Safe Haven Suites. The wooden stairs creaked loudly as he walked them, as if warning him once more. But he continued on.
Pandora’s Box had already been opened. He might as well see what was inside.
The door to Billy Mercury’s unit was painted dark brown and had been labelled not with a proper sign but a thick smear of white paint:
103.
The door was already open, though just a few inches.
Striker stopped in the entranceway and took out his flashlight. This was one part of the investigation he was not going to rush. Billy had been excessively paranoid, and Striker was worried about encountering IEDs – improvised explosive devices – in the suite.
Booby-traps.
Without opening the door any further, Striker shone his flashlight inside the apartment. He looked all around the edge of the door and saw no signs of tampering – no wires or snares or flip-switches. Satisfied, he gloved up with fresh blue latex, grimacing as it snapped against his burned hand. He pushed on the door lightly. It glided open effortlessly and soundlessly, revealing the apartment inside.
All the lights were out. Only the rear window offered some natural light. Striker scanned the suite. What he saw was surprising.
The place was damn near empty. The apartment owned nothing but two wooden chairs and a small table in the far corner of the room. On it was an old desktop computer and a mouse with keyboard, along with some papers and pill bottles.
Striker turned his eyes from the computer to the rest of the tiny apartment. Like any Single Room Occupancy dump, it was an all-in-one – a kitchen, washroom, and a common room, which also served as a bedroom.
The place was almost empty of furniture. No bed sat in the corner, just a blanket and a pillow on the ground. But at least the floor was clean. The blanket had been spread out into a perfect creaseless rectangle. Billy Mercury had made his bed after getting up in the morning.
Striker found that odd. It didn’t seem to go with his psychosis.
In the same corner of the room was a pile of clothes. Striker inspected them. All were freshly laundered, ironed and folded precisely.
Striker noted that, too.
He looked briefly around the kitchenette. The plates had been washed and set in the drying tray; the counters were clean; and when he opened up the cupboards and fridge, there was plenty of food. Basic stuff. Peanut butter and jam. Bread. Coffee and cream. Some Raisin Bran cereal.
None of it was expired.
Striker checked out the washroom and saw that there was deodorant, toothpaste, dental floss and soap. The only towel in the room had been hung up to dry. So had the floor mat.