Felicia reached into the back seat and grabbed the red folder. When she opened it up, Striker saw the first page – the one with the long codes – and he made the connection.
He pointed to one of the lines.
10–14141ML–MG900412.
‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘The first seven digits match Mandy Gill’s life insurance policy number.’
Felicia looked at this and nodded. ‘You’re right. And the rest?’
Striker looked at the next two letters. ‘ML – Manual Life, the insurance provider.’
‘Shit, you’re right,’ she said. ‘And look at the second half of the code – MG900412. MG . . . that would be Mandilla Gill. Followed by her date of birth. April twelfth, 1990.’ She looked down the page. ‘Jesus, she has them all listed right here. It’s ten pages long.’
Striker nodded. He got back on the phone and told Collins he would have to get back to him. When he turned to face Felicia, he saw that she was sitting there with a troubled look on her face.
‘What?’ he asked.
She spoke, almost hesitantly. ‘It looks like Lexa and Dalia and Gabriel have been stealing people’s identities, taking out life insurance policies, and then, after systematically bankrupting the victims, murdering them for the insurance claims, but making it look like accidents and tragedies and suicides.’
Striker nodded. ‘Complicated and devious, but yes.’
‘I have a problem with that. With the theory . . . it doesn’t make sense.’
‘In what way?’
‘Why? Why would they do this? By marriage, Lexa is part owner of the EvenHealth programme. It has to generate hundreds of thousands of dollars per year. And she gets a percentage on every SILC class any other clinic runs. They have a Beamer and a Land Rover. A mansion in Point Grey.’
‘And your point is?’
‘She doesn’t have to do this. She doesn’t need the money. She’s loaded.’
Striker looked back at her and shook his had. ‘You’re missing the point. It’s not about money, Feleesh. It never was.’
‘Then what is it about?’
‘Domination, manipulation, control. Lexa is the one running this thing, and she has been for years. She owned Ostermann. And she’s the reason why the kids are as screwed up as they are. She doesn’t do this for the money. Or for security. Or for anything materialistic. She does it for the thrill of the hunt. She does it because she’s a psychopath. A serial killer. And she lives for one thing and one thing only – the game.’
Ninety-Two
The Adder sat in the darkness of the closet with the laptop in his lap. Disc 1 ended, and he was filled with the heavenly bliss, that peace he felt every time he watched the video.
Disc 1.
William’s Beautiful Escape.
Two hours ago, out by the lake, he had thought it was his turn for the Beautiful Escape. When the Doctor had injected him and he’d felt his body melt into the ice below, the darkness had been warm and overpowering. Heavy magnetic waves had pulled him towards places unknown.
But now he was here again. Back in this world.
Back in the cold.
The thought did not stir his emotions. Not much ever did.
But the Doctor had. Earlier in the day. With one injection, she had broken all boundaries between them. Wiped away the invisible lines. In essence, she had betrayed him.
The whole thing was bemusing to him.
The Adder had no idea how many victims the Doctor had killed in what she called her ‘business’. And he didn’t really care. He knew the truth. This entire process was not a business, but a game to her – one of dominance and power and sadistic need. With every fresh death, she seemed to climb one more rung on that ladder in her mind.
But the joke was on her, because the Adder knew one thing about the game that the Doctor did not – there was no end to that ladder. It just went on for ever and ever and ever. Which left them with this demonic game they played. Just Gabriel and Mother; just the Adder and the Doctor.
In a never-ending game of Snakes & Ladders.
The thought made the Adder feel bad emotions again, so he leaned forward and hit Play, and once again William’s Beautiful Escape played out on the LED screen. The converted video was old and poor in quality. There was only static for sound. But that did not diminish it at all.
The Adder watched the young boy fall through the ice, and he saw himself there too – also just a boy – shaking, trembling, crying hysterically, then crumbling to the ground with his hands over his ears. Unable to look. Unable to face what was happening.
Unable to run for help.
Back then, this moment had been his own personal Hell on Earth; but over time – over several hundred viewings of the feed – the Adder had come to see the truth behind the moment. The reality. The only real importance.
Death; it was the only reason for living.
And William had been released from the chains of this cold world. He had been set free from this Hell. Utterly, totally free.
The Adder watched the screen with his eyes turning wet as the emergency workers came rushing in and pulled his little brother from the lake. His body was soaked, his skin as white as any angel. Inside his blood and meat were frozen, but his soul was soaring, soaring, soaring far away from here.
‘You’re free,’ the Adder whispered. ‘Fly away, little bird. Fly away.’
The film ended, and suddenly there was a blinding brightness.
The Adder raised his hands. Looked up at the closet door. And knew what had happened before his eyes even adapted.
The Doctor had found him.
Ninety-Three
From the runaway lane where Striker and Felicia were parked, the drive to the Whistler Blackcomb ski village was less than twenty minutes. Before pulling back on to the Sea-to-Sky Highway, Striker thought of Lexa and Larisa. What were the odds they would both be here in the village?
Not likely. And yet here they were.
A woman with dark eyes. That was what Larisa had texted.
The more he thought about it, the more he feared that finding Larisa might be as simple as finding Lexa. For they were both after Larisa. In a race – one Striker didn’t want to enter.
Lexa was an expert in finding her victims.
And that worried him.
Striker scanned through the notes he’d made on the files. They clearly showed that Lexa’s victims fell into one of two categories. They were either the marginalized people in society – the sex-trade workers, the mentally ill, the poor, the secluded and alone.
Or they were the extremely well-to-do – victims who had good jobs. Victims who had money. And extremely good credit. Victims who had been carefully selected, because they had no family. No friends. People whose entire life was work. People who no one would bother to worry about if they went missing or passed away from an unexpected tragedy.
Striker took the box from the back seat and passed it to Felicia.
‘I’ve been through these already,’ she said.
‘Not like this,’ he said. ‘Go through the files one more time, but this time look for victims who had status.’
‘Status? Why?’
‘Because with status comes money. When you get the top ten or fifteen income earners, run their name through the property registries and see if any of them owned property up in Whistler or Blackcomb.’
Felicia’s eyes took on an excited look. ‘One of them was another doctor,’ she noted. ‘And one was a lawyer, I think.’ She opened the box and started pulling files.
Striker drove back on to the highway and continued north towards the village. Ten minutes later, Felicia had compiled a list of the twelve most well-off victims. She got on the phone with her contact at the land registrar’s office, and began making notes. By the time Striker drove around the last curve of road and saw the bright halo lights of the ski resort, Felicia had already finished narrowing down their targets.