The Guilty (2 page)

He drank the coffee anyway. Caffeine was needed. It was only five in the morning, and – judging by the heaping mounds of workflow back at the office – the shift was going to be a
tedious one.

In the passenger seat, Felicia sat with her visor down, staring at herself in the mirror. Her own cup of coffee, thick with cream and sugar, sat untouched in the pullout tray between them, and
that was unusual.

Striker gave her a few more seconds of looking into the mirror, then spoke:

‘Having a staring contest?’

Felicia let out a long sigh and flipped up the visor. She said nothing at first, but Striker knew the problem: Felicia’s birthday was today, and she didn’t like it.

‘Do I look thirty-three?’ she finally asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

She cast him a look of daggers, and Striker grinned. After a moment, her expression lightened and she let out a small laugh. ‘Yes, I’m being vain,’ she admitted. ‘But
it’s my birthday, so I’m allowed to be. And for the record, any more comments like that one and you’ll be sleeping alone on the couch tonight.’

Striker sipped his coffee and stared back at her. Having a working partnership and a secret relationship was exciting no doubt, but it was also a lot of work. Sometimes it was difficult to tell
where the two lines met.

‘Thirty-three,’ he finally said. ‘Hell, I should be so lucky. I crossed that bridge a long time ago.’ He gave her a smile and winked. ‘Don’t fret it, Birthday
Girl. You’ll be happy when the day’s done.’

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Little surprise I’ve been working on.’

Felicia gave him a wry look, like she was calling his bluff, but Striker just kept on smiling. He
did
have something planned – a romantic getaway for two in a quaint little bed
and breakfast at Whistler Mountain Ski Resort. The reservation was set for Thursday. Just the thought of getting away brought Striker a sense of peace, and for the first time in as long as he could
remember, he felt good.

Really, really good.

Then the call came in.

Sue Rhaemer, the Central Dispatcher for E-Comm, came across the air, her voice smooth yet rough, like sand in honey: ‘Got a 911 coming in,’ she broadcasted. ‘Cell call.
Girl’s screaming. Not making a whole lot of sense. Says she’s in the industrial area, somewhere down by the river . . . Keeps talking about two giant chimneys.’

Striker thought it over. ‘The cement plant.’

‘She’s talking about the smokestacks,’ Felicia agreed.

Striker dropped his cup in the tray holder, spilling some of the brew onto the carpet. He rammed the gearshift into Drive and pulled out onto Granville Street. Within seconds, he had the Fusion
up to eighty K and was flying through 29th Avenue.

Sue Rhaemer came across the air again: ‘Okay, we’ve lost her now – how close is the nearest unit?’

A patrol unit replied: ‘Alpha 21 – we’re the only car available right now, and we’re coming from Dunbar and 2nd.’

Striker swore. ‘That’s over in Point Grey – they’ll take twenty minutes.’

Felicia grabbed the radio and pressed the mike. ‘This is Detectives Santos and Striker. We’re three minutes out. We’re heading down.’

Striker hammered the gas so hard, Felicia fell back against the seat and almost dropped the mike. As she plunged it back into the cradle, Striker swerved into the fast lane. They raced south
down Granville Street, now at over one hundred K per hour, with speeds increasing.

Striker had a bad feeling about the call.

‘Why the hell would a young girl be down by the river – in the industrial area – at this time of the morning?’ he asked.

‘No good reason,’ Felicia replied.

Striker agreed.

He hit the gas and brought the car up to one-twenty.

Factory smoke roamed the black waterways of the Fraser River like lost souls. Where the winds were strong enough, that same smoke spilled back through the pulp mill and
concrete plant, blurring out a series of industrial lights so that they looked like distant dim halos.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Roll down your window so we can hear – the girl’s got to be close now.’

The words had barely left his lips when a small, awkward figure stumbled out into the centre of the gravel road. Striker hammered on the brakes to avoid hitting her, and the cruiser slid to a
stop with the sound of crunching gravel.

He jumped out into the clouds of swirling dust and drew his SIG Sauer. Only when the hard rubber grip of the pistol melded with the firm flesh of his palm did a sense of reassurance filter
through him.

They’d found her.

‘Check her out,’ he told Felicia. ‘I’ll cover us.’

The girl was crumpled on the road now, in front of their car. The bright halogen glare of the headlights made her face appear ghostly white and highlighted her long dishevelled hair. She was
missing one high-heeled pump, and her short miniskirt and halter top were both torn.

The left side of her face was covered in blood.

‘Jesus,’ Felicia gasped.

She dropped to one knee in front of the girl.

Striker moved in front of them, shielding both with his body as he scanned the smoky haze of the concrete plant and, beyond that, the rumbling waves of the Fraser River. Everything out there was
dark. Quiet. Unmoving.

‘Are you okay?’ Felicia asked.

‘He’s after me! He’s
after
me!’

‘Who’s after you?’

The girl started to cry. She looked back over her shoulder. At the other end of the lot was a small steel barn with an orange exterior lamp. The light looked unnatural in the smoky darkness.

‘He’s got her in there! In the steel barn!’

Striker’s eyes narrowed at the comment, and a coldness spilt through him. He turned around and met the girl’s stare.

‘Got
who
in there?’

‘Some woman. A black woman – she’s tied to a chair.’ The girl let out a sob. ‘
He’s going to kill her.’

The girl’s words ended any hope of waiting for backup.

‘I’m checking it out,’ Striker said. ‘Stay here with the girl.’

Felicia frowned. ‘Forget that – I’m coming with you.’

‘You
can’t
.’ He gestured to the bloodied girl. ‘You need to protect her until Patrol arrives. She can’t be left alone and she can’t come with
me.’

‘Then wait, Jacob. You need cover.’

‘No manpower, no time.’

Before Felicia could fight him on the issue, Striker wheeled about.

As he crossed the lot, the air grew thicker. Loose cement powder and gravel dust floated in the air and stuck to his face. Everywhere he looked, there was only darkness, blurred by the desperate
light of industrial lamps.

He rounded a row of cement trucks and the steel barn came back into view. Now at this closer distance, Striker could see that the building was on a separate lot, nestled in between the concrete
plant and the Fraser River. Thick blackberry bushes covered the perimeter, and surrounding the lot was a tall chain-link fence.

An odd spot.

Wasting no time, Striker climbed the fence, landed on the other side, and kept moving. When he reached the entrance to the barn, he stopped hard.

The door was half open.

He reached out. Pushed it open. And the hinges squeaked loudly. He looked inside.

The place looked
old
, long since deserted. All the windows were lined with rusted iron bars and covered with a fine layer of dust. From somewhere up high, a strange white light
flickered.

Striker took out his flashlight. Readied his pistol.

‘Vancouver Police!’ he called.

No reply.

‘Is anyone in there?’

When no one answered a second time, Striker made entry. The moment he was inside the barn and out of the doorway, the soft rolling hush of the river faded and was replaced by a heavy silence.
There was the strong smell of fuel and oil in the air.

Diesel
.

Striker kept moving. He worked his way past several stacks of old tyres and some piles of broken cement bags until he reached a narrow wooden staircase leading to a second level.

He aimed his forty-cal at the top of the stairs and moved slowly up them. The old wood groaned with every step, screaming out a warning to anyone above that he was coming.

Once at the top, the narrow beam of Striker’s flashlight revealed a small square loft with four windows – one on each side. A quick sweep of the flashlight showed that all four
corners were empty of threats.

No one was there.

Sitting dead centre in the loft was one empty chair. Striker moved towards it and a bucket of water came into view. There was also a yellow sponge. And an old forklift battery, sitting three
feet behind the chair.

As Striker stared at the battery, the wind blew in through the open windows; the wires extending from the terminals touched. The current arced and a quick spark of light flashed through the
room.

In the brief illumination, Striker noticed that the wood under the chair was discoloured. At first he thought it was blood, but a closer look suggested it was probably water. Lying in the centre
of the stain was a crescent-shaped piece of rubber with one long wire extending from the flatter end.

Oh Jesus
.

A darkness washed over Striker as he connected all the items in the room: the steel chair, the water-soaked floorboards, and the battery terminals hinted at much. But the rubber pad with the
wires –
that
was the clincher. It told Striker everything he needed to know.

He was standing in the middle of a torture chamber.

Striker whipped out his cell phone. He was about to call Felicia when a flicker of something caught his eye.

Movement
.

He swivelled left and looked out the south-facing window. There, down by the river shore, were the vague outlines of two figures. They were marching eastward through the thin wisps of factory
smoke, one ahead of the other.

Striker moved flush with the window for a better look. He aimed his flashlight and pistol at the silhouettes, and called out.

‘Vancouver Police! Don’t move!’

For one brief moment, the two figures stopped. Then the second one turned around. Though faceless in the darkness and fog, this one was taller than the first, and thicker in build.

Definitely a man.

For a moment, the man seemed to be complying. Then he raised his arm and the sharp hard
crack
of gunfire ripped through the night.

The window shattered.

Instinctively, Striker dove backwards, landing hard on the wooden floor. Shards of glass rained down around him. Bullets punched through the old boards and ricocheted off the iron support
beams.

He kept low on his belly. He covered his head, rolled for the stairs, and crawled down to the first level. By the time he hit the concrete, the angry sounds of gunfire had stopped and were
replaced by a distant, undulating wail.

Police sirens
.

Striker scrambled to his feet and raced outside. By the time he’d made it across the small lot, everything north of Kent Avenue was aglow. Police lights tinted the skyline red and
blue.

Striker headed down the trail that led to the river. Along the way, he used his cell to call Felicia. She answered on the first ring.

‘He’s running the river,’ Striker warned.

‘Jesus Christ, Jacob, what the hell was that – gunfire?’

‘Just get containment going. Start up a dog. Call in the chopper.’

He hung up and plunged ahead, keeping his body low with the bramble, making himself as small a target as possible. After one hundred metres, he emerged between two blackberry bushes and stepped
down onto river silt.

He looked east, then west. But both ways were empty.

Barren
.

‘What the hell?’

The sight made him frown. He’d made it to the shoreline in less than two minutes. No matter which way the two figures had gone, they should still have been visible.

Striker turned his eyes to the river. A summer fog hung overtop the waterway, one thin enough to see through. Visibility was good for a hundred metres at least. If the suspects had fled that
way, even in a vessel, he should have been able to spot them.

But the waters were empty.

It made no sense.

He shone his flashlight all around the riverbanks. In one patch of silt, right at the end of the trail, were a set of footprints. They faced east and disappeared after only three steps, where
the ground became firmer.

A few metres beyond was a small dock.

Striker approached it. Keeping his gun at the low-ready, he stepped onto the pier and the old planks groaned beneath his one hundred kilos of weight. The entire platform felt unstable. At the
end of the dock, on one of the posts, hung a thin rope. Striker moved up to it, then aimed his gun and flashlight into the river below.

Nothing but black water.

The two figures had just . . .
vanished
.

Frustrated, he was about to head back towards the barn when the beam of his flashlight caught something near his feet.

A
gleam
.

He knelt down on the dock. Gloved up with latex. And plucked the object from a wooden plank. Turning it over in his hand, he saw that it was a long thin bracelet, made of silver and gold
designs. Celtic. Or Gaelic. He wasn’t sure. On the links was a red-brown splatter. He took out his flashlight, and shone it on the links.

Not blood. River muck
.

The sight should have filled him with relief, but it did not. No blood meant less evidence for the lab. Less of a trail. Hopefully the barn would provide some decent DNA samples. The forensic
techs would have to start processing ASAP.

Striker bagged the jewellery and his cell went off.

He answered. ‘Striker.’

Felicia’s tone was one of relief and anger: ‘Where the hell are you now, Jacob?’

‘Down by the river. They’ve escaped.’