Snakes & Ladders (41 page)

‘It’s all clear,’ he said. ‘You ready?’

‘Just go.’

Together, they made their way down to the west end of the hallway. They passed an old storage room, which was empty save for a few piles of boxes and an older-style television set. Then they cleared a reading room with a huge bay window that looked north over the cliffs and harbour below. Out there, the night was black and the waters below looked deep and violent.

Striker had no time for the view, and he carried on. So far they’d cleared almost two out of three floors in the house, and they had yet to run into one member of the family.

Striker didn’t like it.

When they reached the only other bedroom on this floor, Striker paused. It was the master bedroom. He knew this from the way Lexa had gestured to it during their earlier conversation in the foyer.

Through the door he could smell that strong, earthy scent.

He gave Felicia the nod to make sure she was ready, then pushed open the door. Inside, a king-sized bed owned the middle of the room, unmade. Next to it, the drawers of the credenza had been opened and dumped.

‘It looks like the place has been ransacked,’ Felicia said.

‘Or like someone was getting ready to run away in the middle of the night.’

Striker stepped into the room. He cleared the walk-in closet to his left, then made his way towards the last door, which led to an ensuite. When he reached it, Striker readied his pistol and slowly pushed the door all the way open with his foot.

What he saw inside the bathroom shocked him.

The windows were fogged, and the air was hot and humid. Along the far wall sat a Jacuzzi tub, filled to the rim with hot foamy water. The foam was not white, however, it was a deep brownish-red colour – because in the centre of the tub lay Dr Erich Ostermann.

His eyes were like a doll’s eyes, wide open and unfocused, and his skin was ghostly white. One of his arms lay beneath the discoloured water of the tub; the other draped over the side. One look at it and Striker saw the meaty razor gash running down the length of the forearm, on into the wrist and palm. There were several, in fact.

Deep, grooved lines that no longer bled.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘He killed himself

‘Just watch our backs,’ Striker said.

He stepped carefully into the room and looked around the area. On the floor, by the foot of the tub, lay an old razor knife. The blade was brownish-red.

On top of the toilet-seat lid was a note and a key.

Striker moved over to it. The paper was folded, and on the face were the two handwritten words:

He gloved up and picked up the note. Opened it and read. The message was brief and direct:

A friggin’ suicide, Striker thought. He couldn’t believe it was ending this way.

He read the note three more times and felt a sense of frustration wash over him. This was the coward’s way out, and it left him feeling empty. Like something had been stolen from him.

It also never told him where Larisa was located.

He gently folded the paper and placed it back exactly as he had found it. Sitting beside the letter was a key to the study. Striker picked it up, then returned to the master bedroom to join Felicia.

‘Suicide note?’ she said.

He just nodded.

‘Let’s clear the rest of this damn place,’ he said. ‘We still need to find the rest of the family.’ There was a sense of worry in his words; he could not hide it.

The quicker they got moving, the better.

They left the bedroom, then made their way down the hall to the stairway and continued up to the final floor. At the top of the stairs, the landing went three ways: east, west and one short add-on to the north.

They headed east. Down at the end was another bedroom with the door wide open. Striker and Felicia went down there. The room was very clean and orderly, with all types of clothes hanging in the closet, and a standard-sized bed. Striker guessed the room belonged to Dr Ostermann’s son, Gabriel.

From the bedroom they went back to the west side of the house. It turned into one giant loft. The room had been renovated into a movie room, complete with an overhead projector, movie-style seats with drink holders, and a surround-sound system built right into the walls. The room was impressive, and it made Striker wonder if Ostermann had watched his videos up here.

‘Clear,’ Felicia said.

‘Clear,’ Striker agreed.

He turned around and looked back into the hall. Every room had been cleared now. Every room except for one down the north hallway.

The doctor’s private study.

They made their way back down the hall, then turned north along what appeared to be an add-on to the house. The hallway went on for about fifteen feet before stopping at a plain door. Striker touched the wood. It was solid oak. Strong.

Before opening it, Striker paused. He looked all around the area for wires or hidden switches. Dr Ostermann had been bat-shit crazy. No matter what he said in his letter, no matter how much he prattled on about his legacy and the welfare of his patients, Striker would never trust the man. There was nothing a madman loved more than taking a couple of cops with him.

Seeing no imminent danger, Striker turned to Felicia.

‘Watch for traps.’

He reached out and grasped the doorknob. It refused to turn, so he stuck the key into the lock and gave it a twist. The lock clicked and the knob turned, and the door opened.

As it did, Striker scanned the room. What he saw surprised him. He had expected to see another office, similar to the one downstairs. A large desk. Some reading chairs. Maybe even a file folder or two. A credenza.

He saw none of that. Instead, he saw a cabinet in the far corner of the room, composed of polished redwood and shiny brass locks. The doors to it were closed.

In the centre of the room, he saw what appeared to be a large wooden table, also made from polished redwood. It was covered with scuff marks and scratches. Opposite the table, on the wall, hung a brand-new LED widescreen with a built-in Blu-ray player.

Striker made his way into the room. When he closed in on the table, he noticed that there were heavy iron pins and handcuffs attached to each side. And chains. On the top right handcuff, brownish-red liquid coloured the steel. The floor below it was also stained.

‘We got blood all over here,’ Striker said.

Felicia looked under the table and her face tightened. ‘We got torture stuff under here, too. Rods. Knives. Holy shit, a pair of pliers. Man, this guy was one sick puppy.’

Striker said nothing. He looked at the table with the bindings, then at the torture tools underneath it. A thought crossed his mind, and he made his way over to the redwood cabinet. Once there, he slowly opened the doors and looked inside.

Staring back at him was a black leather mask – the exact same type as the one he had seen on the suspect, back at the Mandy Gill crime scene. There were also two rows of DVDs. An external hard drive. And cameras – high-def tape, mini-disc and digital. The sight of it made his stomach tighten.

Felicia saw all this, too. ‘The mother lode.’

Striker didn’t reply. He was too busy taking it all in. He reached up to the top shelf and plucked up one of the Blu-ray discs. He took it over to the wall-mounted TV, turned on the Blu-ray player, stuck in the disc and hit Play.

The TV came to life.

On the screen was a man imprisoned in a cage. He was facing away from the camera, curled up on his side. His back and legs were bleeding and he was quivering.

‘Please,’ he whimpered. ‘
Please
.’

But his voice was weak, lost.

Barely a whisper.

Behind him, half in the shadows, was a figure. Dressed in a long dark cloak. The face was hidden, but in the person’s hand was a long, thin rod. Sharp steel. The end of it glistened with wetness.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said. ‘What a sick fuck.’

Striker took another look at the DVDs in the cabinet. One of the discs had no title but it displayed today’s date on the label. Thoughts of Mandy and Sarah filtered through his mind and were replaced by the image of Larisa.

It left him sick inside.

He stuck the disc in the player, but the machine couldn’t read it. Swearing, he took the disc out, cleaned it off, and tried again. But the machine displayed the same message:

Unreadable format
.

‘
Shit
.’

‘You need a computer,’ Felicia said. ‘There was one in Ostermann’s main office.’

Striker didn’t hesitate. He took the disc with him down the two flights of stairs. When they reached the main-floor foyer, Striker could hear the sound of police sirens in the faraway distance, their sad wails slicing through the night. The sound felt good to his ears, and he continued down the hall.

They made their way into Dr Ostermann’s office. As Felicia booted up the computer, Striker took note of the throw carpet on the floor. It was a small rug, less than four feet wide and eight feet long, and it sat unevenly in the room, covering more of the right side than the left.

Why would the doctor leave it that way?

Curious, he walked across the room and stepped on it. As he did, he felt a little give in the centre. Some springiness. He stepped back, grabbed hold of the corner of the rug, and pulled it across the room.

Beneath it was a hatch in the floor.

‘Look at this,’ he said to Felicia.

She stopped fidgeting with the computer and came up beside him. ‘Wine cellar?’ she asked.

‘We’re about to find out.’

Striker slid his fingers through the iron handle and pulled; the hatch lifted with a metallic groan and Striker let it fall to the floor on the other side. He stared down the ladder, into what looked more like a concrete bunker than an old wine cellar.

The lighting down there was dim and appeared to be fluorescent. Weak, but it did the job. As Striker stared into it, something caught his eye. Stacked on the floor, near the bottom of the ladder, were some pertinent items.

A battery pack for a cordless drill.

A box of latex gloves.

And a half-dozen packages of relay cameras.

Striker drew his pistol and gave Felicia a hard look.

‘The Adder,’ Felicia gasped.

‘Keep your gun ready and cover me,’ Striker said. ‘I’m going down.’

Striker aimed his SIG Sauer and scanned the area below as he prepared to descend. There was no movement down there, just a still, murky dimness. The room appeared medium in size. Maybe twenty feet by thirty. Lots of grey concrete. A bed that was messed up. A dresser next to it with a small widescreen TV and a Blu-ray player. And a cabinet, holding a computer.

It all seemed rather ordinary.

Striker stepped on the first rung of the ladder and looked below. It was a surprising drop. Over fifteen feet down to hard concrete. He kept his gun pointed below, ready for anything unexpected, as he made his way down.

From above, Felicia covered him.

When Striker’s feet touched bottom, he turned around and stared at the room before him. From this vantage point he could see that the bed was actually an old futon, and the space beneath it was empty, save for a pair of old runners.

The room smelled strongly of disinfectant. Something like bleach. And as Striker made his way around the perimeter, he found the source of the smell. Sitting in the far corner, tucked behind one of the boxes of latex gloves, was an old can of varnish.

Steinman’s
.

The sight made him tighten his grip on the gun.

‘What you got down there?’ Felicia called.

‘It’s a friggin’
lair
,’ he called back. ‘The Adder’s. No doubt about it.’

‘I’m coming down.’

Thoughts of getting trapped back at Sarah Rose’s place flashed through Striker’s mind. ‘No!’ he called. ‘Stay up there. We need you up there covering our backs.’

‘Patrol’s with me.’

Striker looked up and spotted a blue uniform behind her. ‘Okay, fine. But get someone to guard the top there. I don’t need us getting trapped in another burning building.’

Felicia got the patrol unit to cover them, then came down the ladder and joined Striker. The moment she looked around, her claustrophobia kicked in. Striker knew it; he’d seen it in her a million times.

‘You can wait upstairs,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to be down here.’

‘Just get looking.’

He did. He started with the shoes under the bed. The label inside said size ten and a half. Same as the suspect’s shoe imprints they’d found back at Mandy Gill’s place, in the secondary crime scene.

Striker turned the runners over and analysed the tread. Checkered. And the wear pattern on the right toe was far greater than on the left shoe, suggesting an awkward gait. Maybe from a previous knee or hip injury. Maybe something congenital. Regardless, the pattern of wear matched the sole imprints from the crime scene.

‘There’s no doubt,’ Striker said.

‘I’m getting the creeps,’ Felicia said.

‘Just keep your guard up. There could be traps.’

Felicia turned away and started carefully searching through the bedding on the futon; Striker left her there and approached the cabinet. On the desktop sat a new computer case, three external back-up drives, and a mouse with keyboard. Lining the top shelf was a row of DVDs and Blu-ray discs. All of them were brand-new, unused, still covered with cellophane wrap.