The Guilty (49 page)

Excited even.

‘Dis way, dis way,’ he said several times. ‘On da plain. You see. On da plain.’

Oliver followed. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his uniform as they went. Early still, a chilly dew covered the tall grass of the fields, but soon it would be stolen by the arid heat of
the day.

‘Hold up,’ he commanded.

They had neared their destination.

At the end of the trail was the bomb the cop had found – an Improvised Explosive Device buried deep within the rocky sand. It seemed to be a standard IED – one pound of HME, a
pressure-plate release pad, and tied to a dummy bomb beside it.

But looks could be deceiving. Especially when dealing with the Taliban.

Oliver assessed the scene and didn’t like it. The work area was narrow, less than four feet wide, and flanked by drainage canals. Beyond that, tall sweeping hills backed the plains. It was
an enemy haven – concealment below and cover above.

‘I don’t like it,’ Oliver said. ‘And I don’t like this man.’

‘He’s a cop,’ the point man said. ‘He’s ANP.’

‘Means nothing. They got sleepers everywhere.’

Oliver frowned. The situation was bad. He wanted nothing more than to retreat. But orders were orders in the Green Zone, and if he didn’t deal with the IED now, it would end up taking out
another soldier later on.

It
always
did.

Reality dictated. There was no choice.

‘Cover me,’ he told his men.

Then he started the long walk.

Voices from the past haunted him.

The cop, the cop, shoot the goddam cop!

The words blasted through Oliver’s head, a desperate scream no one else could hear. He sat up with a jolt, and suddenly, he was back in the command room. On the cot. In the stark hotness
of the dark grey room.

Out of one nightmare, into another.

For as the haze dissipated, the soft sounds of the monitor filled his ears. A jumble of words that caught his attention:

. . .
bomber
. . .

. . .
shootout
. . .

. . .
hero cop
. . .

And then the most horrible words he had ever heard in his life:

. . .
believed to be Royal Logistic Corps Warrant Officer Molly Howell.

Oliver forced his stiff neck left and gaped at the monitor. One look at the image was all it took. Standing there in the camera feed was the cop – the big Homicide detective, Jacob
Striker. And next to him were two large men in jumpsuits, loading a body hidden beneath a white sheet into a van.

The Body Removal Team.

‘Molly,’ Oliver said. His voice was soft and weak and tiny. ‘
Molly
.’

A sob filled his throat. Choked him mute. And like a slow pressing tide, Oliver felt himself slipping further and further away, into that dark fog of pain and medications, with only the image of
his sister in his head. This time, he did not fight the feeling. This time he allowed himself to be enveloped by the thick, churning darkness. Within seconds, it overpowered him completely.

It was done.

He had passed the point of no return.

Police had located the rear guard of the protection team by the time that Mike Rothschild arrived on scene at his own home; the guard had been knocked over the head and
rendered unconscious, but – aside from some bruises to his skull and to his ego – he was no worse for wear.

Striker found the situation odd. Why had Molly Howell not just killed the man? Why take a chance like that when a bullet to the head or a blade to the throat would have been so much more
effective? After all, dead men didn’t return to consciousness and call in alerts.

Clearly, there was a difference in beliefs between the two bombers.

And it appeared as if he was left with the more dangerous of the two.

Pondering all this, Striker sat on the back porch, staring intently at the toy seized from the crime scene and absently rubbing his thumb along the red number 1 painted on its torso. To his
surprise, the doll was not an accurate depiction of a policeman, but the personification of a duck, complete with legs and arms, and dressed in a policeman’s uniform.

It was strange. Such an odd thing for the bomber to leave behind. A policeman made sense to Striker, because there were so many connections there.

But a duck?

It was just so . . .
odd.

Striker heard an engine growl, looked up and spotted Rothschild’s Toyota minivan just outside the strewn-up police tape at the south end of the lane. The man parked, then came walking in
with purpose. The lines of his face were deeper than normal this morning.

‘Up here, Mike,’ Striker called.

Rothschild looked over the fence and spotted him. ‘The whole world’s gone insane!’

Striker did not respond. He just watched Rothschild enter the yard, stop at the entrance to his garage – which was now taped off as the primary crime scene with a patrolman standing guard
– and peer inside. After a long moment, Rothschild shook his head in disbelief, then walked up the back porch steps to Striker’s side.

‘So she was actually in there, huh?’

Striker nodded. ‘Planting a bomb under your hood.’

‘She pull on you?’

‘Went for the detonator.’

‘Son-of-a-bitch.’

Striker looked to the east, where the sun was breaking through the strange mist that had flooded the woods of the park. ‘The woman gave me no choice . . . I opened fire.’

‘You scratch my paint?’

Striker didn’t laugh. Black humour was usually the key to warding off depression, but today it didn’t feel so good.

Rothschild took a seat beside Striker in one of the patio chairs. ‘They take your piece?’

‘Yeah. Noodles seized it and brought me a new SIG. No flashlight attachment or grip though. Laroche wants me off the road till I meet up with the Trauma Team, but me and Felicia are
fighting him on it.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘They’re in there right now with Noodles and the coroner. It’s a nightmare.’

Rothschild said nothing. He just looked at all the golden streams of police tape stretching across the backyard, the laneway, and the garage. ‘I can tell you this much – next time I
paint the house, it won’t be yellow.’

Striker smiled for the first time. ‘How about white and blue?’ he said, and held up the toy duck.

All at once, Rothschild’s face changed. ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Crime scene. Molly Howell brought it with her. They’ve been leaving one of them for each victim, but we don’t know why. ’ Striker turned it over in his hands and
examined the toy. Its body was wood, its beak plastic. The toy was solid. Well built. Striker stuck his finger through the metal O-ring and Rothschild stiffened.

‘You sure—’

‘It’s been checked already.’

Striker gave the O-ring a yank and the bills flapped open and the duck began speaking:
‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

Rothschild reached out and took the duck from Striker. He held it in his hands, stared at it in wonder and partial disbelief. ‘This is more than a toy, Shipwreck. It’s Chief
Quackers.’

Striker looked hard at Rothschild. ‘You’ve seen this before?’

‘Of course, I have. It used to be our goddam mascot. In ERT.’

‘Mascot?’

Rothschild’s eyes took on a faraway look and he explained. ‘Was about ten years ago, I guess. I was on Red Team. That was when Chief Ackers was in charge. Guy was a self-righteous
prick. Condescending. Arrogant as hell. He interfered with everything. No one liked the man, and we couldn’t wait to get rid of him.’

‘I heard about Ackers. He only lasted one term.’

‘Yeah, the union stepped in on that one, thank God.’ Rothschild turned the duck over and over in his hands as he spoke. ‘Anyway, Ackers was always bitching about the
team’s stats and saying how we weren’t keeping track of our calls, and how it was making him look bad at the meetings.’

‘CompStat?’ Striker asked. It was the monthly meeting where city-wide statistics were discussed in public forums.

‘Yeah, goddam CompStat,’ Rothschild replied. ‘Anyway, one day, Koda comes walking into the bunker – he was our sergeant back then – and he’s got this little
white duck in his hands. Got it from someone he knew, his wife or something, I can’t really remember. But he pulls the string and it starts speaking about how these criminals are making him
quackers. And one of the guys says, “Holy shit, it’s Chief Ackers.” Then someone else yells, “No, it’s Chief
Quackers
.” And before you knew it everyone
was laughing because it was, like, a total slag on the chief and all. Next thing you know, it ended up being our team mascot . . . Chief Quackers . . . God, I never thought I’d see him
again.’

Striker looked at the duck for a long moment and felt some of the pieces fall into place. ‘They’ve been leaving one of these ducks for each victim.’

‘Like a calling card?’

Striker nodded. ‘Calling card, signature, taunt – call it whatever you want. The point is they’re doing it to let the victim know
why
this is happening.’

Rothschild shook his head. ‘But I was part of that squad and I still don’t fucking know why.’

Striker took back the duck and stared at it for a long moment.

‘Doesn’t matter if you know why or not,’ he finally said. ‘Oliver Howell thinks you do.’

The memory of losing his leg was so vivid to Oliver, like it had just happened yesterday – or to Oliver’s messed-up mind, like it had happened ten years ago, or ten
minutes.

It made no difference.

The tall beefy black cop from the Afghan National Police had led them to the site of the IED, and it was in the worst possible location – down a narrow strip of dirt, flanked on both sides
by canals and high sweeping hills. As Oliver made the long walk towards the bomb, the unusual tension from his squad was palpable.

He absorbed it right through his skin.

He reached the bomb site and felt himself sweating on the chilly valley plain. He scanned his eyes across the hills, east and west, searching for any sign of the enemy. But all he saw was cold
blue sky. Sweeping rocky hills of unforgiving terrain. And crevice after crevice, cave after cave.

The favoured ambush spots of the Taliban.

With time running thin, Oliver dropped low. Opened his case. And pulled out the tools required for the job – wire-cutters, alligator clips, and a paintbrush of fine horsehair. He lay prone
across the dirt and rock, and used gentle sweeping motions to brush away the pebbles and dirt until the rectangular form of the pressure plate became visible.

This was the first bomb, and that was a good start. But the wand had picked up
two
signals. So he angled himself to the right and performed the same actions once more until a second
plate was uncovered, this one a pressure-release pad.

Finding the plate was always a relief. And a smile broke Oliver’s lips. The operation was going smoothly thus far. And he felt good. Positive. Optimistic, even.

And then he saw the line – one long piece of dead wire snaking off to the east canal.

It was a goddam trap.

Oliver shoved himself back, spun about, and scampered to one knee in an effort to run. But the blast came. Light exploded, followed by a swelling of darkness as the earth rose up beneath him
like some giant creature breaking out of hell. An invisible force tore through his body, and was followed by a thunderous wave. Suddenly he was
airborne.
Floating, spinning, rolling
through the sky. When he finally landed, a wave of agony ripped through his body. He lay there, on the dirt of the path, feeling every inch of his being throb and spasm as he stared out, not thirty
feet into the field, and saw the ground being torn apart by gunfire rounds and mortar.

‘Sandman down – SANDMAN DOWN!’ Someone was screaming. One of his men.

Oliver could barely hear the man.

He managed to turn his head. To look back down the trail. And he saw his squadmates running his way.

High-calibre rounds rained down from the rocky terrain above. East
and
west. AK-47 fire. Mowing them down. In the constant drone of gunfire, half his men were ripped apart. Shreddings
of meat and tissue and blood exploded from their bodies. The few who survived the assault grabbed him. Lifted him from the ground.

‘The path,’ Oliver whispered weakly. ‘Stay on . . .
the path
.’

But no one could heard him, and suddenly more bombs were going off. Loud, thunderous booms. One explosion to the east – a one-pounder that tore off the bottom half of his point man’s
legs. And one to the west – a definite two-pounder that obliterated two other men completely.

And for Oliver, everything just sort of
sloooowed
down.

Greyed out.

Muted.

Even the high-powered chain guns of the Black Hawks seemed soft and distant as the rescue birds came sweeping in from the hills and rained fire on their enemies. To Oliver, none of it mattered
now. There was only pain and spasm, and a deep dark hollowness that was sucking him down like an animal in a tar-pit trap, covering his head in suffocating blackness.

He couldn’t
breathe
. . .

Back in the command room, Oliver’s eyes snapped open and he gasped for air.

His mouth was dusty dry, his tongue felt too large. Sounds from the monitors hit his ears. Talk of bombs and police. And for a moment, he thought it was the ANP cop again, and he reached for his
assault rifle. When he found no long gun there, he forced himself to sit up. And all at once, reality spilled over him like a cold wave.

The news was still on.

Molly was not there.

And she would never be coming back.

Oliver let out a wail.

A mixture of emotions hit him. His squadmates, gone. His friends, gone. His father and mother, gone. And now Molly . . . she too was gone.
Molly.
He wanted nothing more than to break
down and give up.