Everything was clean and well cared for.
Striker took out his notebook and wrote down the details. When he put it away, he looked up and saw that the far wall was covered by two large maps. One of Kandahar, and one of the Lower Mainland – which constituted Vancouver and all the surrounding subsections. All across the Kandahar map were small red X-marks and the word: Daemon. Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.
Striker turned his eyes to the second map – the one of the Lower Mainland. On it were no scribblings, only a series of X-marks. Striker looked at them all and felt a cold sensation spread through his core.
Union Street and Gore Avenue. Hermon Drive and East 5th. The thirty-eight hundred block of Adanac Street in Burnaby – they matched the residences of Mandy Gill, Sarah Rose, and Larisa Logan.
The thought made Striker check his iPhone again, to see if there were any more messages from Larisa. But once again he was let down. None had been received.
He looked at the torn-up notebook pages on the table. All were the same, filled with barely legible scribblings. Words like Daemons, and Shadow men, and Succubus. Next to the collection of papers was a row of pill bottles. They were lined up perfectly.
Striker looked at them.
The bottles were all from Mapleview Clinic, and they each had Dr Ostermann’s name and what appeared to be a prescription number on the label. There were three different types of medication: Effexor and Lexapro were medications Striker was familiar with, but the last one – Risperidone – he had never heard of before. He took out his iPhone and Googled the medication. When he found a webpage listing, one word caught his attention:
Antipsychotic.
He put his iPhone away, moved up to the computer and grabbed the mouse. The moment he moved it the black screen of the monitor disappeared and was replaced by the white and blue page of MyShrine:
I saw them first in Afghanistan and Kandahar. In human form. They came in rows, wave after wave of masks.
But I KNEW what they were. The other soldiers may have been blind, but not me. I saw through the shells. And I took them all down. A soldier. An emissary. The HAMMER OF GOD!!!
Then I was, as I am today.
There is only one way to kill a daemon. A goddam Succubus. And that is through the heart.
The words made Striker pause.
A daemon – evil.
A succubus – the female.
Through the heart – the target area where the bullet had struck Felicia.
Striker leaned back against the wall as he realized this. ‘He warned me,’ he said softly. ‘Jesus Christ, he fucking warned me, right there in the wording. And I never saw it.’
Thoughts of Felicia taking that bullet flooded him and left him nauseous. He should have known. He should have seen it coming. But he hadn’t, and it had almost cost Felicia her life.
He would never forgive himself for that.
The thought remained heavy in his head, even when he turned away from the computer and spotted the landline telephone on the kitchen counter. He walked over and picked it up. Hit Redial. The call was picked up by a woman.
‘EvenHealth,’ she said. ‘How may I direct your call?’
‘Sorry, wrong number,’ Striker said, and hung up.
He scrolled back through the incoming calls and saw that the most recent two calls were blocked. Blocked calls were nothing out of the ordinary, but Striker didn’t like the timing. He called up his contact at the Bell, a guy named Clyde Hall, and asked him to run the incoming calls for Billy Mercury’s telephone number.
‘Off the record, of course,’ Striker added.
Clyde got back to him in less than thirty seconds. ‘Only two calls exist for today.’
Striker nodded as if the man could see him. ‘Numbers and times, Clyde.’
‘No problem.’
Clyde gave him the information, and Striker took it down. After thanking the man and hanging up, he looked at the data and frowned.
There was a correlation here.
Someone had called Billy Mercury’s telephone from an untraceable prepaid cell at exactly 1517 hours. This matched the time they left Mapleview Clinic. And then someone from the same untraceable cell had called again, just three minutes later – the time that they had arrived on scene at Billy’s.
A warning? Striker thought. A tip-off?
Or someone giving instructions?
He looked at the crazy writings on the table and at the delusional message on the MyShrine page, then he looked over at the folded clothes on the chair and the smoothed-out creaseless blanket in the corner of the room. Everything in this place spoke of madness and yet logic, delusions and yet clear, concise thought. And no matter where he looked, he saw no video recording equipment.
He didn’t like it. A bad feeling hung heavy in his chest. His instincts kicked in, and they were the one thing Striker never ignored. Something was wrong here.
They were missing something.
Fifty-Six
When Striker walked down the old wooden staircase to the north lane of Pender Street, directly behind Billy’s apartment, he saw that Car 10 had arrived. It was hard not to notice the man. Inspector Laroche was being his usual overbearing self.
Striker stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the scene. Both ends of the block had been taped off with big yellow smears of police tape, and news crews had already huddled at each end – BCTV to the east; CBC to the west. They had probably all driven up after the Hermon Drive fire. High overhead, the Chopper 9 news crew floated about beneath the clouds, its omniscient eye taking in the full scene.
Striker refused to look up.
Already, Noodles had arrived and was standing centre stage in this drama, by the body of Billy Mercury. The Ident technician had already taped off the surrounding area, set up cones, and was busy taking photographs. Click-click-click.
Striker approached the man, got to within twenty feet, and was cut off by the inspector. Laroche’s normally pale face was flushed red and his hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips.
‘Jesus Christ, Striker,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
Striker blinked. ‘What? What was I thinking?’
‘You’re damn right, what were you thinking. You just gunned down a mentally ill man – and you’re supposed to be on medical leave!’
Striker couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his jaw tighten. Billy Mercury had just killed two cops. And two paramedics, too. Mentally ill, he might have been. But so what?
‘He was a cop-killer.’
Laroche’s face remained tight. ‘He was a man who thought he was saving the world from demons.’ Laroche threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh Christ, it’s all over the radio, every thirty seconds: a mentally ill man, who was in our custody, is now dead along with four emergency workers.’ Laroche looked around the area, then shook his head as if bewildered. ‘You should have waited for cover, Striker! For the Emergency Response Team. And the mental health car. A negotiator. Christ, you didn’t even have a less lethal unit on scene!’
Less lethal – a beanbag shotgun or a Taser. Or, if the Emergency Response Team was around, an Arwen gun.
Striker frowned at that. He stepped forward into the inspector’s personal space and lowered his voice. ‘All other units were already searching other areas or stuck in containment. ERT was out at the range and too far away. And the doctor was our negotiator,’ he said. ‘I also had a Taser on the way. They just didn’t make it here in time because there was no time. He ambushed us.’