‘Hey,’ he said.
Striker stepped inside the garage. It smelled of oil and kitty litter and solvent. He looked out the window at the children playing, yelled out ‘Doughnuts!’ and Cody and Shana came running from the yard.
‘Hi, Uncle Jacob!’ Shana said.
Cody was too fixated on the box of treats to speak.
Striker passed the coffees to Rothschild and opened the box. The children overlooked the muffins and went straight for the doughnuts – a Boston Cream for Cody and some god-awful sprinkle mess for Shana. Treats in hand, they bounded off for the backyard again, and Striker thought of how long it had been since Courtney was that age.
It seemed a lifetime ago, and he missed it.
‘Thanks for the brew,’ Rothschild said. He opened up the lid and sipped some.
Striker nodded. ‘I needed it today.’
‘No sleep?’
He nodded. ‘Not a bit – you been getting any ringing in your ears? It’s been coming and going for me ever since the explosion.’
Rothschild snorted. ‘Naw. No ringing. Just a new-found sense of claustrophobia. I can’t even work on the car with the garage door closed.’
Striker laughed because he fully understood the feeling. ‘When you going back to work?’
Rothschild looked out the garage door at the clear blue skyline. ‘I dunno. Maybe never.’
At first Striker thought the man was joking, but upon closer inspection he could see the seriousness on Rothschild’s face. All that had happened the previous week had taken a toll on the man. That much was clear.
‘You just need some time is all.’
Rothschild looked back at him. ‘I don’t think so. Not this time.’ He crossed the garage and again approached the window where he stared at Cody and Shana in the backyard. ‘When that nutcase kidnapped them, it took something outta me, Shipwreck. Something deep . . . And I don’t know if I’ll ever get it back again.’
‘And yet they were fine,’ Striker pointed out. ‘Safe and sound – heck, they were eating sandwiches and doughnuts in the back of a police cruiser a half-mile away.’ When Rothschild said nothing, Striker joined him at the window. ‘They don’t even know anything was wrong, Mike.’
He nodded absently. ‘And God keep it that way.’
Striker nodded his agreement.
He sipped his coffee and turned away from the window. He studied Rothschild’s prized Cougar, and for a while the two men talked about life’s smaller issues – when Mike had bought the car, how the unpacking was going inside the house, and of the possible trip to Disneyland Mike was planning for the children. After a while, Rothschild grabbed one of the chrome engine parts and began polishing it. Then the conversation – like always – returned to work.
‘So what’s going on with Harry?’ Rothschild asked. He stopped polishing the manifold and looked over. ‘Lots of rumours going round – he gonna get off, or what?’
Striker just shrugged. ‘Who knows for sure? I gave what I had to Internal. It’s up to them now. But from what I hear, there’s already talk of a forced early retirement.’
‘Retirement?’ Rothschild laughed with scorn.
‘They may not have much of a choice. All the evidence is either old, linked directly to Koda, or circumstantial. We’re talking about something that happened ten years ago, and most of the witnesses are dead. Laroche assigned the case to John Reyes. And you know what a pit-bull that guy is – the file will go on for years.’
Rothschild said nothing. He just stood there with a rag in one hand and a shiny chrome exhaust pipe in the other. The talk of Harry had rankled him. ‘Goddam Harry – he could have killed us when he shot Oliver like that. I hope he gets whatever’s coming to him.’
A troubled look spread across Striker’s face.
Rothschild saw it.
‘What?’ he asked.
Striker shrugged. ‘Just Harry. The man’s confusing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When Oliver dropped the detonator, Harry had two options – he could have run away and saved his own ass, or he could have stayed behind and helped me try to save you and the kids . . . He stayed, Mike. Helped me drag and tip that steel table in front of us. It was what made the difference.’
Rothschild let out a humourless laugh. ‘So what are you talking about here, Shipwreck – redemption?’
‘I’m just saying it should count for something.’
‘So you’re glad he’s getting off?’
‘No. I think he should be charged to the full extent of the law . . . but I don’t have to be happy about it.’
Rothschild snorted but said nothing.
Striker sighed. He’d had enough of the dark conversation. He gestured out the garage window to Cody and Shana, who were playing in the yard. Giggling. Frolicking in the sun. It was a wonderful sight.
‘There are better things to focus on,’ he said.
The dark look on Rothschild’s face stubbornly remained for a moment, but then the lines there lessened, and he nodded. The two friends talked and drank their coffees and polished the chrome engine parts together until Cody sheepishly poked his head back into the garage and begged for another doughnut.
Striker gave the boy one, plus another for his sister. Then he threw the box on the work bench. Soon there would only be muffins left. Bran.
‘You still going over there?’ Rothschild suddenly asked.
‘Ireland?’ Striker nodded. ‘Yeah. Courtney’s going to be there three more weeks yet. I know she’s safe with Tate and his parents, and they’re probably having a wonderful time . . . but I kind of want to see her.’
Rothschild stopped polishing and looked at him. ‘What about Felicia?’
‘She’s coming too.’
He grinned. ‘Well, well. Fancy that. How’d you spin that one, Spiderman?’
Striker shrugged. ‘Wasn’t hard. Felicia’s never been there either. It will be a nice break for both of us. And you know what? We need it after all that’s gone on this last week.’
Rothschild finished the last of his coffee, then looked at the empty cup. ‘Want me to put on a pot?’
Striker shook his head. ‘I got to be going. Got a dozen things to do before we leave and I haven’t even packed yet. Besides, you know what they say’ – he gave Rothschild a wry grin – ‘it’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’
Rothschild laughed softly and kept on polishing the manifold.
‘Keep your day job,’ he said.
Two
Striker picked up Felicia at her home and they made the drive to White Rock in less than forty minutes. Not that they were rushing it. The drive out there was nice. Traffic was sparse, the sky was clear, and the weather was balmy. It gave both of them some time to relax a little as they passed by the ebbing tide of Crescent Beach and, kilometres later, the forested hills of South Surrey.
Their first stop was the Davies house.
Striker pulled up to the small rancher and stared at the place. Everything was falling to pieces, and it made him feel better about what he had accomplished. Felicia climbed out, and Striker joined her. As he fiddled with the paperwork, Felicia hiked up the stairs and knocked on the door.
No one answered.
‘We should have called,’ Felicia said.
Striker just smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
He stuffed the thick, legal-size envelope into the mailbox and closed the lid. Inside it were two bundles of paperwork: some legal documents, and some forms. The legal documents were from the Royal Logistics Corps. With Archer having passed away, the family was qualified to obtain assistance from the regimental fund of the British Army.
Enough to pay a good-sized monthly mortgage.