Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Call Dispatch. I want plainclothes units here now.’
Felicia nodded and was already dialling.
The nurse was clearly taken aback. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’
Striker ignored the question. ‘This man . . . when was he here last?’
‘Well, just . . . just yesterday.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Yes, I spoke to him. He’s quiet, but he’s really very nice. Really.’
‘Does he have an address or a telephone number? How do you get in contact with him if there’s an emergency?’
‘I . . . I call him. His number’s right there in the file. On the back page.’
Striker opened the folder and turned to the back. There, in red ink, was the name Tom Atkins, followed by a 778 number. A cell phone. He called up Info and got the operator to do a search on the number.
‘Prepay,’ came the reply.
In other words, untraceable.
Striker was not surprised. He turned to the nurse. ‘When exactly did you last speak to this man?’
‘Just . . . just a half-hour. After trying to get a hold of Mrs Davies but having no luck, I called Mr Atkins. I told him how sick Mr Davies was, and that now would be the time to give his final respects. He was quite concerned and said he’d be right down.’
The words made Striker’s hand drop near his pistol. He looked at Felicia, who was now just hanging up her cell. ‘You hear that?’
She nodded. ‘Got two plainclothes units on the way.’
Striker was about to ask if the plainclothes units were Fed or city cops when a loud, strident beeping noise filled the room. Upon hearing it, the nurse rushed over to the bed, then out of the room and down the hallway. She was calling for one of the doctors.
Striker didn’t need to ask what was going on. The answer was obvious.
Archer Davies had flat-lined.
One Hundred and Sixteen
The time of death for Archer Davies was 14:35 hours.
Twenty-five minutes later, at exactly three p.m., two plainclothes units arrived – federal cops from the RCMP.
Striker was grateful for their presence. He quickly debriefed them on the investigation and told them his suspicions – that this so-called Tom Atkins might really be one of the bombers. As he did the debrief, Felicia scoured the databases for any Tom Atkins that might be related to the files.
She could find none.
‘It’s got to be an alias,’ she said.
Striker agreed. For the moment, the name didn’t matter. He got the plainclothes units set up. He placed two men inside the room, one man out of sight in the south corridor, and one man outside the facility in an unmarked car.
Then the wait began.
When the clock struck three-thirty and the man listing himself as Tom Atkins had still not arrived, Striker’s sense of excitement slowly gave way to concern. When the clock struck four, his concern collapsed into full-blown disappointment. He signalled to the plainclothes unit that he was heading down the hall, then left the room and found the nursing station. Waiting there nervously was Nurse Janet.
‘Is everything going okay?’ she asked.
‘How often have you called him?’
‘Mr Atkins? Uh, probably eight or nine times this last month.’
‘Does he always arrive on time?’
She nodded. ‘Like clockwork.’
Striker cursed. ‘He knows we’re here.’ He said nothing for a long moment, he just stood there and went over everything in his head. ‘Contact him again.’
‘Call him?’
‘Do it on speakerphone.’
The nurse made no move to do so. Her face took on a tight look.
‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t absolutely crucial,’ Striker said.
The nurse placed a hand over her heart. ‘What . . . what do you want me to say?’
‘That Archer Davies has little time left, and that Mr Atkins must come down immediately if he wants to have any hope of saying goodbye. Tell him time is of the utmost importance. Minutes count.’
The nurse said nothing, but she nodded. And after taking in a deep breath and trying to stabilize her nerves, she walked over to the nearest phone, picked up the receiver and began dialling. Moments later, the call was answered.
‘Mr Atkins?’ the nurse asked.
‘Put the cop on the phone, Janet.’
‘I-I-I’m sorry?’
‘Put. The cop. On. The phone.’ His words were spoken slowly. Rhythmically.
Striker took the receiver. ‘I’m right here.’
‘So you are then. Good. Listen up. I’ve killed a cop before – one besides Koda and Osaka. And if I’m forced to, I’ll do it again. Without hesitation.’
Striker asked the man, ‘What’s your real name?’
‘Do you know, Detective, what happens when a bomb goes off at your feet? I’ll tell you. A half-pound of explosives will tear off one limb. A full pound will take off two. And a bomb with three pounds will take off everything. No one survives that.’
‘Listen to me—’
‘Soft tissue goes first. If you’re a man, the testicles are often torn right from the body. Not that it matters much. The percussive force destroys them internally regardless. As for the ladies – like your lovely Spanish partner there – it’s not uncommon for the breasts to be blown right off. You might want to suggest to Detective Santos that she start wearing her bulletproof vest from now on. Kevlar helps disperse the percussive force.’
Striker waited till the man finished talking. When there was finally silence on the phone, he asked the one question he needed an answer to.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘Walk away, Detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’
Then the line went dead.
One Hundred and Seventeen
The bomber stood in the woods to the west of the facility, almost directly on the US border, and stared through his binoculars at the man on the bed in Room 12. He looked like he was in there alone, but he was not, of course. The detective was in there with him, and so was at least one plainclothes cop. He couldn’t see them, but they were there.
He knew it.
Shivering in the shadows of a giant oak tree, he focused on the man in the bed and a strange stirring sensation slowly overpowered his numbness. It made him want to run. To break free. Like a wildebeest kicking loose at a lion’s claws. So many odd emotions intermingling.
Anxiety. Desperation.
Grief.
Archer Davies was dead.
Slowly, inevitably, the shield that he had built around himself these past ten years disintegrated. Crumbled like the walls of Babylon. And for the first time since he was a little boy, he panicked. How he longed to go inside that room. To hold that man’s hand one last time. To lay his head down on the man’s chest. And to just tell him that he loved him. That, more than anything.
Just to tell him he loved him.
The black cell vibrated in his pocket, and he let it ring. It would only be Molly, and fuck her anyway right now. She had never come to see him. Not once. It was unforgivable. All this violence they had committed, all her goddam faith, and yet in the end she could not face mortality – not even a death that was not her own.
The more he thought about it, the more angry and lost he became.
Tommy Atkins went to war
and he came back a man no more.
Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.
He died, that man who looked like me.