Laroche was unwavering. ‘Of course he did. What did you expect? You corner a dog and he’ll bite, Striker. Every single time.’
‘I did what was necessary.’
‘No, what you did was create a situation here where there was no way out for anyone involved – not unless someone got shot. It’s called Officer-Created Jeopardy. And make no mistake about it, that’s exactly how the press will view this thing. Every goddam newspaper and newsreel’s gonna have the Big Story, and it’ll go on for weeks, if not months. It’s gonna rain down on us now.’
Striker looked down at Laroche and felt like grabbing him and twisting him into a pretzel. ‘You think I give two shits about the friggin’ media?’ he asked. ‘Felicia took one in the chest, and you’re worried about how this will look on the friggin’ news?’
Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s chest. ‘No one would’ve been shot period if you had followed proper procedure.’
‘It was a dynamic situation.’
‘Because you made it that way. You’re just lucky that Dr Ostermann wasn’t hurt or killed in the process.’ Laroche shook his head. He took in a long breath, then seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, Striker. I’m glad you’re okay. And Felicia, too. But you guys royally fucked this one. And I’ll be sending my findings to the Police Board for review.’
‘You do that,’ Striker said. ‘Be sure to include the part about how I warned you this would happen back on Hermon Drive, when you refused to charge Mercury and send him to jail. When you let him be transported in an ambulance instead of a police wagon, despite the fact he had just tried to burn up two cops. Make sure you include all of that – because I most certainly will when I write up my response through the Union.’
For a moment, Laroche seemed even smaller than his fivefoot-seven frame. Moments later, a camera crew from one of the unaccredited news groups was caught trying to sneak in between the houses from the south side of the laneway. Laroche went rushing over, and Striker turned and spotted Sergeant Mike Rothschild entering the strip.
‘How you holding out?’ Rothschild asked.
‘I need to check on Felicia.’
‘Burnaby General. Go there. I’ll take over the scene here.’
‘Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.’
The sergeant grinned. ‘Just get out of here before Hitler there knows you’re gone.’
Striker didn’t have to be told twice. He walked back to Kootenay Street where they had dumped the wheels, and climbed inside the cruiser. Moments later, he was headed down Boundary Road for Burnaby General Hospital. Where Felicia and Dr Ostermann had been taken.
It was less than ten minutes away.
Fifty-Seven
The Adder was shaking. Shaking so hard he could hardly hold on to the rungs of the ladder as he made his way deeper and deeper into his room. When his feet touched concrete, he raced across the room and slid the disc into the player so hard and fast he nearly jammed the machine.
The DVD began playing and the screen came to life.
On it was the woman cop. Standing in the laneway. Watching the big detective move slowly up the stairs. She was beautiful – the Adder could see that in his analytical, separated way – with her long brown hair draping down the caramel skin of her neck. She was in her prime, no doubt, bursting with beauty and energy and radiance. Like a star going supernova.
The Adder watched her, standing there, completely unaware of the hidden threat. Then the bullets came.
One – a miss.
Two – another miss.
And then three – the most perfect, wonderful shot he had ever seen. A lightning bolt from an angel. And suddenly Detective Felicia Santos was reeling. She arched backwards, landed hard on the pavement, and lay there with a stunned look in her pretty eyes.
The camera angle was bad, and the Adder had to zoom in to see the expression on her face. And that was when he discovered the God-awful truth of what had happened. She opened her eyes, and touched her chest . . .
The vest.
The goddam Kevlar vest.
‘NO!’ he screamed. ‘NOOOO!’
Shaking all over, uncontrollably, he took the disc from the tray and snapped it in half, slicing his hand as he did so. Then he stepped forward and kicked the cabinet. Hard. The entire thing swayed back and forth, as if it would tip over and come crashing down on the concrete.
The Adder could not have cared less.
His moment of pure, untainted beauty – stolen from him in an instant.
‘No,’ he said again, though softer this time. And now there were tears leaking from his eyes. Big salty drops rolling down his cheeks.
It was unfair.
So terribly unfair.
Soon his head began to pound, to throb. It was as if there was a worm inside his skull, eating away at his brain tissue. And then the sounds came back, flooding him, deluging him, drowning him in great, awesome waves.
The laughter.
Then the snapping and cracking.
And then the silence. That horrible, horrible silence.
With unsteady hands, the Adder scrambled for his iPod. Jammed in the headphones. Hit Play. And listened to the white noise. Turned it up to full volume.
But this time, it did little good.
The sounds of the outside world did not matter now, for they were overpowered by the ones that echoed inside his head. All he could hear was the loud cracking sounds of ice and that coldness washing all over him again.
Relax, he told himself. You have to relax.
But it did little good.
He was unravelling.
Fifty-Eight
By the time Striker made it to Burnaby General Hospital, his heart was racing and his mood was darkening quicker than the five o’clock skyline. No matter how many times he tried to erase the memory of the MyShrine taunt the Adder had left him, the image remained.
He parked the undercover cruiser out front in the Police Only parking, climbed out, and walked in through the Emergency Room front doors. Inside, the hospital was packed. A line of weary-looking patients snaked along the hall, and another group lined up all the way to the entrance doors. It was busy, but still nowhere near the chaos that ruled at St Paul’s.
Striker made his way down the hall to a patient room that consisted of six beds, separated only by hanging drapes. Felicia was in the sixth one. Striker was surprised to see her already in the process of tightening her suit belt, and wincing from the pressure. She looked up and spotted him. A look of relief fell across her face, and she smiled.
‘Hey, Tiger.’
Striker walked over and helped her with her coat. ‘You’re done?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. Fast Track – it pays to be the police.’
‘And what did they find?’
‘The body of a twenty-year-old woman,’ she said with a grin.
‘Hell, I can find one of those.’
She smiled at his comment and when she did Striker felt something tug at his heart strings. At thirty-two years of age, Felicia was almost ten years his junior. It was not a lot of time, but enough to feel the difference. Sometimes she seemed generations away from him. And then, at times like these, time didn’t even exist.
‘How are you?’ he asked, the humour all gone from his voice. ‘Really, Feleesh.’
She shrugged carefully. ‘Some of my ribs are bruised, especially around my breastbone, but nothing got broken. Not even a hairline fracture. Trauma plate took the full brunt of it. I think I’ll have the thing framed and put on the wall . . . I got lucky this time.’
‘Not as lucky as me,’ he replied.