The Survivor (17 page)

She straddled him, and her long dark hair spilled across his neck and shoulders, sent tingles through his body. It made him hard, so hard he could feel the blood pulsing through his body. He pulled her into him, until her firm breasts pushed against his chest, and her thighs ground into his hips. Her inner thighs squeezed him tight, and he could feel her warmth there.

‘I want you,’ she said, over and over again.

He unbuttoned her shirt and pulled it back off her body, revealing a lacy purple bra, which fitted snugly against her caramel breasts. In one quick movement, he reached up and tore the straps off her shoulders. He slid the bra down, away from her breasts, exposing the curve of her nipples. They were large, hard, erect, and he kissed them. Licked them softly.

‘I want you inside me,’ she said.

He reached down, broke open the front of her pants, and loosened them from her waist; she helped him. When they were partway down her hips, Striker reached around her waist to the small of her back, felt the silky thin strap of her panties and ran his fingers down, reaching lower and lower until he felt warmth and wetness and—

‘I can’t believe it!’ Courtney screamed.

In a flash, Felicia rolled off of him and spun away towards the fireplace. She tried to cover herself up, adjust her clothes.

Striker sat there, frozen, and looked down the hall to where Courtney was standing in her sleepwear. Her hands were at her sides, balled into fists. Her eyes were afire.

‘Courtney,’ he started.

‘Mom’s dead not even two years.’

‘Listen to me.’

‘And you’re with that woman?’

‘Listen to me.’

‘I can’t believe you – you’ve already fucked her, haven’t you? Haven’t you? You
fucked
her!’ She threw her cell phone across the room, the device slamming against the old white plaster of the east wall.

‘That’s
enough
, goddammit!’

Courtney flinched at the roar of Striker’s words. Then she regained her composure; her defiance. She shook her head slowly, as if disgusted, and after a moment, she spun about and fled back to her bedroom. The door slammed shut behind her, she screamed out ‘I HATE you!’ and Striker could hear things being thrown around the room.

Striker stood up from the couch. He looked at the bedroom door and hesitated, wondering what to do. Finally, he turned to Felicia, who was still tidying herself up.

‘Should I go after her, or not?’

Felicia did up the last button of her shirt, let out a frustrated sound. ‘Just leave her be, Jacob. Give her some space and time. She needs it.’

He rubbed his hands on his face, felt the frustration spreading through him like a hot fever. This wasn’t fair. Goddammit, none of this was fair. He’d done everything right as a husband. Done his best as a father. And no matter how hard he tried with relationships, no matter what he did, he failed. Always. Utterly and completely.

And Courtney was suffering because of it.

His resilience crumbled away. He moved over by the fire and came up to Felicia. He reached for her hands. Hesitated. Then he let his own hands fall to his sides.

‘Look. I’m sorry. Really. I should never have started—’

‘I should go.’

‘Go? But it’s past midnight and you live way out off Commercial. Just stay here for the night.’

Felicia glanced down the hall. ‘That is not a good idea.’

‘It’s the only idea.’ He grabbed her gently, turned her around. ‘You can use the spare bedroom, the one in the basement. There’s a shower down there, too. Hell, I think you still have some clothes here.’

Felicia looked out the window, at the heavy darkness of the night.

‘Just stay,’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m asking you to. Please.’

She said nothing for a moment, just stood there, as if mulling the idea over. After a long moment, she tucked the tails of her shirt back into her pants, adjusted her belt, and muttered, ‘Fine.’

‘Good. I want you here.’

She ran her fingers through her hair. She reached up, touched his cheek and smiled. Then she sauntered out of the room. At the beginning of the hall, she stopped, looked back, and offered him a slight smile.

‘Pleasant dreams, Jacob.’

‘I’m sure.’

She laughed softly, a frustrated sound, then walked on.

Striker stood there with a deep sense of longing as he watched her sneak down the hall, turn the corner, and make her way down the stairs. Once he heard the last soft thumps of her feet on the staircase, he moved back to the couch. Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.

Aside from being horny, his mind wouldn’t rest. There were too many things he still needed to deal with. Courtney. And of course there was still Laroche: tomorrow, the Deputy Chief would close the Active Shooter file and take his gun. And maybe even place him on Mandatory Stress Leave. Again. File a report with Internal.

The list of problems was never-ending.

Sleep didn’t come easy, but the exhaustion helped. Eventually a deep, magnetic slumber overtook him, bringing on the nightmares. There were long red hallways and masked men. And of course there were the school kids, too. Screaming in the darkness. Calling out for him.

‘Detective Striker!’

‘Detective Striker!’

‘Detective Striker!’

But there was nothing he could do to save them.

Thursday

Twenty-Seven

Six thousand, three hundred and ninety-six miles away, in the entertainment district of Macau, Hong Kong, the Man with the Bamboo Spine sat in a stiff-backed chair made of black walnut wood and dyed-black leather. Cigarette smoke floated all around him.

It was ten p.m., local time, and the night was only beginning on the sixth floor of the Hotel Lisbon. This was the Lotus Flower Room. The deep red walls and ornate golden decor gave away the location to anyone who understood the significance.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine was not alone. Six men sat at the table with him. Four were Chinese, and two were white. The white guys had already laid down their hands.

The game was Texas Holdem. Once non-existent in Macau, it had caught on like wildfire. And the Man with the Bamboo Spine was pleased with the game, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he was very, very good at it. He was already up forty K. And this hand was going well.

His face helped him win. It was poker perfect. The disease had made sure of that, pulling back his skin so tight that expressions did not display across his harsh angular features. With eyes as black as oil sludge, he waited his opponent out.

‘Drink, sir?’

He turned his head and spotted the waitress, a diminutive girl with a pretty face and large fake breasts.

‘Hot water.’

The waitress hurried off across the room, her black high-heels clicking loudly on the marbled floor.

Across the table, the younger man finally bet. He was then checked by the big blind, and the Man with the Bamboo Spine raised them both. By the end of the round, the pot was past two hundred K and rising, and the last card could not have been a better one. King of hearts, completing the royal flush. He had the best hand of his life.

Then his cell rang.

Only one person ever called this phone. It existed for one purpose. So when it went off, a loud but ordinary ring, the Man with the Bamboo Spine put his cards down flat on the table and picked up. He listened for less than ten seconds, said, ‘Yes,’ and hung up.

With a royal flush for his hand and over four hundred thousand dollars in the pot, the Man with the Bamboo Spine stood up from the table and said, ‘Fold.’ Without another word, he took the elevator down to the ground floor where his driver was waiting.

It would take him twelve and a half hours to reach Vancouver, Canada, and the length of time was disconcerting.

Every minute was precious.

Twenty-Eight

When the phone rang, waking Striker at four-thirty in the morning, he was grateful for the interruption. He sat up with a jolt and snatched up the cell. ‘Detective Striker.’

The deep baritone response was as rough and smooth as sandpaper dipped in maple syrup. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.’

‘Rothschild?’

‘Get your ass out of bed.’

Striker blinked, surprised at hearing his old Sergeant’s voice. He looked across the room. Found the wall clock. Saw the time.

‘Jesus Christ, Mike, it’s not even five yet – what the hell’s going on?’

‘Just get your ass down here. And be quick about it. I’m on the Fraser. Right on the docks, south of Marine, behind the Superstore. At the C and D Plant.’

Striker scrabbled for a pen and paper, wrote down the address. Said, ‘Give me twenty minutes.’

‘Make it ten, the white-shirts are coming.’

Striker cursed. ‘Tell me it’s not Laroche.’

‘Just hurry the hell up, Shipwreck. And trust me on this one – you’re gonna wanna see this.’

Fifteen minutes later, Striker crossed into South Vancouver – District 3 – and neared the Fraser River. He sped the unmarked police cruiser down the slippery stretch of Marine Drive, then turned south on the old gravel road that twisted and turned, outlining the Fraser River. The road was half-frozen, and the car skidded at every turn.

If the road conditions were bad, the lighting was worse. The heavy blackness of night showed no hint of fading, and the relentless winds whipped the river into six-foot-high swells. Just ten feet away, the retaining wall gave way to the strong currents of the Fraser River. The water looked alive, angry. Striker eased his foot off the gas pedal.

No point in killing himself.

Just yet.

All along the shoreline, massive concrete smokestacks rose up like giant cannons, blasting steam into the night. Where the charcoal cloud ended and the billowing smoke began was impossible to tell. It was all one entity now, roaming slowly across the river. This was the industrial area, built up of pulp mills and gravel lots and concrete plants and import/export transfer stations.

No one but plant workers came down here.

At the next curve, Striker caught his first glimpse of the blue and red gleam. Three patrol cars were parked in the fog, in between a concrete plant and the shoreline.

Striker spotted Rothschild straight away. The Sergeant was loitering nearby, smoking a cigarillo and drinking what must be stale, cold coffee. Knowing Rothschild, the coffee would be his fifth of the night. Minimum.

Striker jumped out of the car and marched across the gravel roadway. The cold winds blew in from the water, numbing his face and stinging his ears. He zipped up the heavy wool of his long jacket, but it did little good.

‘Mike,’ he called. ‘Hey, Mike! Rothschild!’

Sergeant Mike Rothschild turned around, the heavy winds sending what little hair he had left into a frenzy of thin waves. He stood squarely, like a wall on legs, his shoulders turned inwards, his hands balled into fists.

‘Holy shit, man, ’bout fuckin’ time you got here. My balls are freezing, and I mean goddam freezing! Like little sperm-sickles.’

Striker grinned. ‘Tell me how you really feel, Mike, don’t hold back.’

Rothschild flashed his trademark smile – wry, almost dark, with his handlebar moustache rising higher on the left side. He slurped back his coffee, grimaced, then took off the lid and poured it out on the road.

‘Already friggin’ cold,’ he said. ‘Gas-station shit anyway. But hey, the cost is right.’ He laughed.

‘Why am I here?’ Striker asked.

‘Why you think? You’re Homicide, right?’

‘Take a look at my badge number. I’m not exactly first on the call-out list.’

Rothschild gave him a creepy smile. ‘Don’t need to be for this one.’

The way he said it made Striker nervous. ‘What exactly you got here?’

The smile left Rothschild’s lips and he pointed his cigarillo towards the river.

‘Came in as a floater. It wasn’t. The body was dumped here, but didn’t land properly in the water. Got hung up below the docks, half in, half out. Feet got a little eaten, but hey, what the fuck. I got here first and found a bullet wound to the back of the guy’s head.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the white unmarked patrol car tucked away from the crime scene, in the darkness next to the concrete plant. ‘Car Ten beat you here. He’s sitting there all toasty in his White Whale. Probably reading
What’s-Up-My-Ass Weekly
.’

Striker looked at the car, saw nothing but a dark windshield. ‘Which Inspector?’

‘Oakley.’

‘That’s good. He’s okay.’

‘
He
is. But he’s already called the Deputy Chief.’

‘Laroche?’

‘None other. And he’s on the way down.’

Striker found the notion disturbing. Homicides happened all the time in Vancouver, especially with the growing bouts of gang violence, and the Deputy Chief was never called – not unless the deceased was a person of some significance: an ambassador, or a dignitary. Maybe a celebrity. Or, God forbid, a cop.

He looked down towards the river, past the yellow strips of all-too-familiar police tape. Out there, waves crashed hard against the wooden rails of the docks, sounding angry and powerful. With the emergency lights flashing against the black waters and river mist, the scene looked like a goddam horror show.

‘Who we find in the drink?’

Rothschild grinned. ‘Don’t fall down the rabbit hole, Alice.’ He lit up another cigarillo and the leafy aroma of good tobacco floated through the air. ‘You can thank me later, Shipwreck. Captain Morgan’s the preference. Dark as it comes.’

Striker gave Rothschild a confused nod, then turned away and cut down towards the river.

The gravel-and-sand mixture was nearly frozen; it crunched beneath his boots. He ducked under the police tape and moved onto the walkway. The dock was old and wooden. Rickety. Made up of three separate sections, each one connected by a series of spiralling stairways leading down to the next platform. At the beginning of each section, a yellow lamp hung off a support beam, offering poor illumination to the platform below.

Being careful of his step, Striker hiked down to the lowest platform. Swells of river water slammed hard against the floating dock, rocking the structure back and forth and covering him with cold spray. The wind down here was even stronger, piercing his clothes and biting into his skin. Regardless, he marched on until he came flush with a young constable who stood at the forefront of the platform, shaking.