Striker ran his finger along the yellow tape, feeling smoothness and grit. He stepped into the hallway, the burned hardwood clunking and creaking beneath his boots. All around him, blackened pillars rose up like gnarled fingers. Some of the beams continued up past the first floor; others were burned so badly they’d broken and toppled over. Striker crossed into the room and found the one area that was least affected by the fire.
He stopped, studied the wall. Said: ‘Come here. Look at this.’
When Felicia joined him, he pointed to a series of hollows in the leftover, grey-foam latticework. He gloved up, reached out and took hold of the remaining shelf of foam. Despite the intense heat of the fire, the material had remained supple. It bent as Striker yanked on it, but remained firm.
‘This is it,’ he said.
‘It?’
‘The key to all this.’
‘ This?’ Felicia looked at the burned-away insulation. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the stasis-foam. What Brady was talking about.’
‘I don’t get it.’
He smiled. ‘You will.’
Felicia made a face, and Striker gestured for her to follow. He led her from one room to another, through the empty pockets of blackened framework. This second room looked no different than the first, except in the far corner. A warped metal box lay on the ground with piles of what looked like melted wire surrounding it. Striker picked the box up, forced it open and studied the inside. Most of the inner panel was a clean grey colour, except the bottom half, which was blackened.
‘Fuse box. Source of the fire.’
Felicia furrowed her brow. ‘Brady said they used white gas.’
‘They did — for the second fire.’
‘ Second fire?’ Felicia looked at Striker, then at the destruction all around her. ‘You think there were two fires?’
‘I’m betting on it.’ He walked to the window, where no glass remained, and stared outside, down into the north lane of Pandora. Outside, a series of industrial garbage cans lined the lane.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
They tried to go out of the kitchen door down into the backyard, but the stairs were all but burned away, so they cut back through the house, went out through the front door and took the sidewalk around the house. Once in the rear lane, Striker flipped open the first of five huge garbage containers. He looked inside, but could see little in the darkness.
‘Lot of garbage cans for one place,’ Felicia noted.
‘Exactly.’
Striker continued flipping open the rest of the lids. When done, he took out his Maglite and shone it inside the garbage cans, one at a time. The first two were empty. At garbage can number three, he stopped, reached inside and pulled out three empty plastic cups and the remnants of two very large fans. The fan blades were covered in soil. He held one of them up and muttered, ‘Jesus Christ, could it be that simple?’
Felicia frowned. ‘I’d say no, since I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.’
He threw the box back into the garbage can and met her stare. ‘It was a grow-op, Feleesh.’
‘A pot palace?’ She looked doubtful. ‘There’s no record of a grow-op ever being here.’
‘Exactly. So why not? That’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it?’ He looked at the array of plastic cloning cups in the next garbage can and shook his head. ‘There has to be documentation somewhere.’
Felicia got out her cell. She called Info and requested an Incident History Location on the address. After a couple of minutes, the operator got back to her, and she hung up the phone.
‘Nothing new,’ she said. ‘All that’s listed here is the first Suspicious Circumstance call, and then, a few hours later, the Arson.’
Striker walked around the far side of the house, searching through the burned refuse. When he found nothing of value, he hiked back to the front. Analysed the devastation the fire had caused. Saw the Condemned by City sign.
‘With a fire of this magnitude, they’d have to shut off the power first,’ he said. ‘Get an engineer to attend. Electrical and Structural. I know some people at the City — you got any contacts with the electric company?’
‘Yeah, I got one at BC Hydro. Just up the road from here.’ She looked at her watch. ‘But it’s getting late though. She might not even be there.’ She flipped open her cell again. ‘Hold on, I’ll see what I can get.’
As Felicia made the call, Striker walked back to the roadside. Once there, he scanned the street for any video cameras, found none, then spotted the only other house that still survived on this block.
Sitting under the lone working streetlamp was a rickety old two-storey, covered in blue-painted stucco. A rusted iron fence ran around the yard, which was covered mostly by crabgrass and other weeds. Out front of the yard was a collection of old metal garbage cans, most of which had no lids and were dented.
Striker detected movement in the upper window of the house. Peering out from between the curtains was a thin, old woman. The moment Striker met her eyes, the curtains swished shut, and she was gone.
Felicia came up the walkway. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ve got someone at Hydro who’ll help us, but we’ve got to go now.’
Striker kept his eyes on the house across the street. He hesitated. Something about the old woman struck him as odd — no doubt, she was one of the many fruitloops in this area; everyone down here was wing-nut crazy — but the way she had ducked out of view told him something was up. He turned to Felicia and threw her the keys.
‘Meet me back here when you’re done.’
‘You’re not coming?’
‘No,’ he said, and flashed her a grin. ‘I think I just found us a witness.’
Eighty-Three
The memories of being Child 157 settled in Shen Sun’s brain like cold fall mists in the Danum Valley. They left him fragmented and drained. As they always did. Amidst the fading recollections, a light clicked on and stole him from the stupor. He focused left. There, in the first ground-window of a nearby house, an old white woman was having tea.
For a moment, Shen Sun almost ignored her. He was tired and felt weak — as thin as rice paper. But something in her living room caught his eye. The television screen. The news was on, with a blonde woman reviewing the high-school massacre. Behind her pale face flashed the image of the gwailo.
Detective Jacob Striker, the headline read. Hero cop.
The image twisted Shen Sun’s guts. He turned his whole body away, and the bundle of papers Sheung Fa had given him fell from his pocket.
Information on Detective Jacob Striker.
Shen Sun picked the paperwork up, stared at it with bad thoughts. As he flipped through the pages, the last one — the photocopy of Jacob Striker’s picture — unexpectedly broke into two, and Shen Sun realised there were actually two pictures stuck together. He separated them and studied the photograph he had not seen.
The image was that of a young girl. About sixteen, with long, curly, reddish-brown hair, milky skin and light freckles. Her eyes were a soft, sad blue.
The image filled him with excitement and renewed vigour. And he laughed out loud, silently praising Sheung Fa for protecting him still. It all made sense to him now. He had found The Way.
He would kill the Man with the Bamboo Spine, saving Father. And then he would repay Detective Striker for all that the man had stolen from him — Sheung Fa, Tran, his future with the Triads, his entire life. Shen Sun stared at the picture of the young girl and felt everything fall into place.
A daughter for a brother. It was more than fitting.
It was karma.
Eighty-Four
Striker watched Felicia drive away, south towards Hastings Street. When the roar of the Crown Vic faded, the sound of the wind became more prominent, howling between the burned framing of the house.