By the time he freed his leg, it was deep into the night, and even later before the pain subsided enough that he could walk on it. His bloodied foot was now a lump of ragged flesh, yet he limped to the door, unlocked it, and slipped outside.
He had no plan. No training. Not even any knowledge of the camp layout.
But he also had no choice.
Father was gone, for many days now. Too many to count. Taken to the Killing Fields, from which no one returned. Sisters Du and Hoc were dead, their necks broken with steel bars so the guards could save bullets. The only ones left were himself and Tran — Child 158 — and somewhere in the east building with the other infants was baby Loc.
Child 157 knew the truth. He was the eldest. Only he could save Mother.
The night was hot and black. Child 157 limped across the camp, with only the moon as a guide. He was only eight years old, and small for a boy. ‘A field mouse’, as Father often called him. The runt of the litter. He had barely gotten halfway across the camp when One-tooth caught him cutting in between the sacks of rice.
‘Rule-breaker, rule-breaker,’ the guard sang, his voice thick with cruelty. He pounced on Child 157 and dragged him out by his hair. He pulled him close, smiled. ‘You want to see much, then I will show you much, rule-breaker. Show you much, yes.’
Child 157 tried to break free of his grip, but that only angered One-tooth, who rose up and screamed in his face. Beat him down into the dirt. Beat him until he tasted his own blood and could not move. Beat him until One-tooth’s fists grew tired.
One-tooth then called the other guards, and together, they dragged him to the hollowed grounds east of the main building. Where the grass was always red and the earth was soft and mushy.
In the centre of the hollow stood the Nail Tree — a thick-trunked, knobby tree that was almost dead. Its branches had been sawn off and large nails driven into the bark. At the base of the tree were many bones.
The remains of the little ones.
‘We have a show for you,’ One-tooth told him.
And before Child 157 understood the meaning of One-tooth’s words, two of the other guards came out of the nearest building. They carried with them a small sack. At first he thought it rice, or grain — maybe they were going to eat in front of him and laugh at his starvation. But then a tiny arm dangled out, and he realised with horror:
‘Baby Loc!’
Child 157 rose up. He struggled to free himself, desperately, with all the strength he owned, but One-tooth held him in place with little effort.
‘Release me, RELEASE ME!’ He bent his head down and bit One-tooth on the hand as hard as he could, his teeth tearing into the flesh and drawing blood; when the guard screamed and let go of him, he raced for Baby Loc.
But he did not get far.
One of the other guards knocked him down, and before he could stand back up, One-tooth was on him, pinning him down in the grass, holding him firmly — the weight of a grown man’s body on that of an eight-year-old child’s.
He was helpless.
One-tooth yanked his head back, forcing him to look at the Nail Tree.
‘Bye, bye,’ One-tooth sang. ‘Bye bye, Baby Loc.’
He nodded to the two guards. One of them undraped the sack, then grabbed hold of the infant by both his legs. Child 157 screamed and struggled to get up, but One-tooth held him down firmly, laughing at his weakness.
Baby Loc was crying now, reaching out for Mother, but finding nothing. The guard holding Baby Loc’s ankles swung him around like a piece of wood, his head flying towards the Nail Tree. And there was a terrible crunch.
Child 157 screamed for Baby Loc. It did nothing.
The guard holding baby Loc swung him again. And again. And again. Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH.
The sound of Baby Loc hitting the Nail Tree stayed in Child 157’s head like a bad ghost. It would never leave him. When at last One-tooth climbed off of him, something snapped inside Child 157’s mind. Like a twig that could never be whole again. The pain was gone, the fear was gone. Everything was gone — replaced by a complete and total numbness.
It was all he knew.
Sixty-Eight
Striker and Felicia left Worldwide Translation Services and climbed into the cruiser. Striker sat behind the wheel, his mind working in overdrive, searching for a connection between a group of suburban kids from a sleepy Dunbar school, the Shadow Dragon gangsters, and the Khmer Rouge war which was thirty years over and two thousand miles away.
He found none. Their best lead now was Patricia Kwan — who lay unconscious in the hospital. Doctor or no doctor, weak or strong, it did not matter. Patricia Kwan was the only chance they had of finding her missing daughter.
She would have to be woken up again.
‘Saint Paul’s,’ Striker said. ‘You drive.’
They switched places, and Felicia drove west on First Avenue. As they went, Striker logged onto the laptop, then initiated PRIME, the report programme all the municipal forces had adopted ten years earlier. Every Patrol call written was in this database, and it was one more check box on his list.
Felicia switched to the fast lane, looked over at him. ‘Any theories?’
Striker pulled out his notebook and set it down on his lap. ‘I’m running every damn name we got through the patrol database. See if we can get even a weak connection. Right now I’d be happy with anything.’
Striker got to work. He typed in the names of all four kids involved — the ones that were known targets: Conrad MacMillan, Chantelle O’Riley, Tina Chow, and the still-missing Riku Kwan. A few minutes later, he deflated.
‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Jesus Christ, not a one.’
Felicia looked over. ‘What do you mean, not one?’
‘I mean they’re not even in the system as entities. Goddam zilch.’
It was frustrating. Not one of the kids had a youth record, or any criminal history in any of the information systems. Not one was even listed as a Witness or a Property Rep, or even a Person of Interest, much less a Suspect Chargeable. The closest matches Striker could find were Patricia Kwan and Archibald MacMillan — the parents of Riku and Conrad. Kwan, as they now knew, was a Vancouver cop. Her entity was automatically entered into the system upon hire date. And Archibald MacMillan was a fireman, so he was listed the same way.
Striker told this to Felicia.
‘What hall is Archie at?’ she asked.
Striker scoured through the report. ‘Hall Eleven. Got a notation here in the remarks field — says he’s specialised. HAZMAT.’ Striker looked over at Felicia. ‘They deal with chemical spills, explosive substances, meth labs, unknown terrorist devices — all that shit.’
Felicia turned south on Main. ‘I know what HAZMAT is, Striker. Christ Almighty, how junior do you think I am?’
‘Stands for Hazardous Materials.’
She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You’re such a shit. Any of the other parents come up?’
He focused back on the computer screen, scanned through the electronic pages. ‘No, not that I can see. The only Chows listed are all low scores, and there isn’t even an O’Riley on file.’ He used the touch-pad to close the extra windows, bringing him back to his original request of Archibald MacMillan. ‘Interesting though. Hall Eleven is at Victoria and Second — that’s District Two.’
‘What’s interesting about that?’
‘Both Archibald MacMillan and Patricia Kwan work in District Two, yet they live in Dunbar. And both their kids go to the same school.’
Felicia shrugged as if to say, So? ‘A lot of cops and firemen live in Dunbar,’ she said. ‘It’s a good family place. Try to cross reference them.’
Striker read through their histories. There was a lot.
Patricia Kwan had written over two hundred calls the past year. Pretty standard for a patrol cop. Everything from Break amp; Enters to Homicides. Archibald MacMillan had been to sixty-three calls, most of which were gas leaks and car accidents.