The answer to all three questions was a resounding no.
When they were done with the interview, Striker stood up and put his notebook away. He shook the woman’s hand, and thanked her for her time. Then, with Felicia at his side, he walked to the front door.
‘Keep your phone nearby,’ he said to Dr Richter. ‘I have a feeling I’ll be calling you again.’
‘Any time,’ she replied.
But no smile parted her lips.
They drove back out of the cedar-covered hills of West Vancouver and took the highway to the downtown core. During the drive, Striker tried to relax his mind and let everything fall into place. But Felicia was unusually wired.
‘We have the connection,’ she said. ‘Dr Ostermann was seeing all four patients – Gill, Rose, Mercury and Larisa Logan – and he was seeing them not only during group sessions but one-on-one.’
Striker nodded. ‘I agree. He’s also about the same size and stature as the man who attacked me back at the Gill crime scene – but it’s all still circumstantial at this point. Everything.’
Felicia scowled. ‘Which means what, he gets a free ride?’
‘No. Which means we see the man.’
Felicia nodded, but her face took on a concerned look. ‘Just be careful you don’t tip him off on anything.’
Striker gave her a quick glance as they headed over the Lions Gate Bridge. ‘I said see him, not speak to him.’ He took out his cell phone and dialled Hans Jager – Meathead, to anyone who knew him. Meathead was one of the breachers for the Emergency Response Team. The man answered, they talked, and a few minutes later, Striker hung up the phone and headed for the Cambie Street bridge.
There was some equipment they needed to pick up.
Sixty-Nine
The Adder had no idea what time it was when he finished the set-up. It could have been eight o’clock at night, it could have been well into the morning hours. He did not know. He did not care. Time held little importance to him, and he only took careful note of it when on a mission. All that mattered now was that the set-up was complete. And that it was done well.
It was.
The bulk of the camera’s body sat within the steel bracket, which was screwed securely to the two-by-four beams of the dumbwaiter. The lens poked through the small hole in the wall, coming flush with the other side – just a one-inch lens that focused on the centre part of the Doctor’s private room.
The forbidden room.
The Adder turned on the camera and looked at the LED screen. The image displayed was angled perfectly. It captured the oak bureau across the room. The four-poster king-sized bed in the centre of the room. The locked cabinet in the far corner.
The camera took in everything.
As if scripted, the Doctor returned, and not alone. At first the Adder reared from the camera and started to make his way back down the long and narrow chute of the dumbwaiter. But something made him pause.
A dark curiosity.
He climbed back to the top and stared at the camera’s LED screen. Already the motion sensor had been triggered and the recording had been started. The two people in the room were beginning. The Adder had heard the act before. He had seen the results. He had known it existed.
But he had never actually seen it.
Now, as he stood in the darkness and watched the Doctor unlock the cabinet, a strange feeling invaded his chest. And it only got worse when he saw what the Doctor pulled out.
He should have felt shock. Fear. Revulsion. He should have felt all of these things, he knew, but he felt none of them. All he experienced was a growing tension in his chest, one that spread all throughout his core as he watched the LED screen in near disbelief.
When the screams began and the first glimpse of blood appeared, the Adder wanted to leave the chute, but he did not. He stayed there, fixated, immobile. A statue in the dark.
He just could not take his eyes away.
Seventy
The traffic was surprisingly bad, so they were later than anticipated. Striker half expected Meathead to be gone by the time they reached the north end of the Cambie Street bridge. But within seconds of reaching the bottom of Nelson Street, Felicia spotted a group of big men clad in black jump suits. In the heavy darkness of the night, they blended well. Most of them were climbing into a white van that was parked kerbside.
They were ERT. The Emergency Response Team.
Canada’s answer to SWAT.
The cluster of cops were Red Team, and Striker knew most of them: Reid Noble, who everyone called Jitters. Davey Combs, who was only five foot six but over two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle. And Victor Santos, who was a crazy-ass bastard and – thank God – no relation to Felicia. Their sergeant, Zulu 51, was Tyrone Takuto, a top-notch Eurasian cop Striker had known and respected for years. He would be Chief one day. Striker knew it.
All the men looked tired from training, but happy to be going. It was Miller time.
Striker parked on Nelson and scanned the street both ways. ‘You see Meathead anywhere?’
‘Just in my nightmares,’ Felicia said.
Striker laughed at that. She had barely spoken the words when they looked up at the nearest skyscraper and spotted the man. Meathead was rappelling down the south side of the building. He was three storeys up and still looked massive. At six foot four and two hundred and seventy pounds, he was a force to be reckoned with.
He saw Striker from the second storey level and gave a holler. When his eyes found Felicia, a large smile spread his lips and he yelled out, ‘Hey, honey-cakes, can I come down there and butter your muffin?’
‘Butter this!’ she called back.
Meathead let out a hoarse laugh, then rappelled down to ground level. He tried to lever down, did it a bit too fast, and accidentally unclipped before his feet were fully planted. He fell awkwardly, landing half on his ass, half on his hands.
‘Smooth,’ Felicia said.
Meathead looked up and grinned. ‘I always fall for the hotties.’
She made an ugh sound.
‘I was referring to Shipwreck.’
Meathead let out a hyena laugh and climbed to his feet. Striker was six foot one and two hundred and twenty pounds. No small man. And yet next to Meathead, he felt undersized. He moved up to the breacher, and the two bantered about their old partnership days for a few minutes. Then Meathead packed up his gear and started placing it in the transport van.
‘About the gear,’ Striker said.
Meathead nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. I got what you need right here, but you got to get it back to me tonight or Stark will have my balls in a sling.’
Striker nodded. James Stark was the inspector in charge of the Emergency Response Team. He was a by-the-book guy and would never have allowed Striker the gear he wanted without the proper paperwork – and even then, probably not. ERT was his baby, and he liked to keep it separate.
Meathead was sticking his neck out for them on this one, and Striker appreciated it.
‘Scout’s honour,’ he said.
Meathead just gave him a look like he didn’t fully believe him. Still he grabbed two pairs of night vision binoculars from his gear bag. He handed one to Striker, and Striker took it. When Felicia reached for hers, Meathead held them up to his eyes, looked at her chest, and said, ‘Yummy.’
‘Give me the goddam binocs,’ she said.
When Meathead held them out again, she snatched them away from him. She gave Striker a hard look and said, ‘I still think we should be getting SF for this.’