The Guilty (55 page)

Oliver’s expression communicated nothing.

‘Koda did cover up the shooting,’ Striker said. ‘And Owens did falsify the report . . . but that’s as far as it goes. When your father was shot, Oliver, it wasn’t
because everyone betrayed him. It was because the entire scene down there was chaos. Rothschild didn’t purposely shoot Archer in the back, it was an
accident
.’

For the first time, Oliver smiled. And he did so darkly. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Detective?’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘I take you for nothing. I don’t have to – the evidence speaks for itself.’

‘What evidence?’

Striker edged a little closer to the maintenance door. ‘During that call, Rothschild had to reposition. He moved from a south to north position. He had to – because of the downward
slope of the river. Otherwise he’d be shooting from a level position, lighting up his men instead of covering them.’

The dark look on Oliver’s face turned from one of anger to cold suspicion, but he remained silent.

‘You’re a military man,’ Striker said. ‘You have a hundred times more experience than I do.
Wartime
experience. So you tell me: does that make sense to
you?’

Oliver let out a long breath, wiped away the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ve seen the radio reports.’

‘I know you have. You got printed-up copies of the entire CAD call. But you didn’t actually pull the
tapes
, did you? I know you didn’t. Know why? Because
I
did.
And the tapes don’t match the call – just like the medical tapes don’t match the written report.’

‘The CAD call—’

‘CAD calls are typed out by Dispatchers on the fly, Oliver. People miss things, they make mistakes. If you had taken the time to listen to the actual tapes, you would have heard Rothschild
repositioning.’

Oliver’s face took on a blank look, then it tightened.

‘Liar,’ he said.

Striker shook his head. ‘No. I’m not. It was a rookie squad, Oliver. A bunch of novices thrown together at a moment’s notice. When Chipotle started shooting, the men just
panicked – all of them except your father, which doesn’t surprise me because he was the only one who had seen wartime action. Archer only turned to run when he realized he’d lost
the entire squad. And that’s when Rothschild tried to take out Chipotle. The bullet went through the living room window, north side, and exited out the south side through the dining room. It
struck your father as he ran for cover. That’s how he got hit in the back, Oliver. That’s how the breach went off.’

‘
Liar
,’ he said again.

‘It was an accident.’

Oliver’s face tightened. ‘It’s fucking
bollocks
.’

But Striker only shook his head solemnly. ‘Same goes for Osaka. His investigation was dropped only because he didn’t have enough evidence. Why? Because Koda wrote the police reports
and Owens doctored the medical reports. There was no cover-up on his part. He was just overburdened with work and the shooting looked straightforward.’ Striker reached the maintenance door.
‘You murdered an innocent man.’

Oliver’s entire body began to tremble. ‘
Lies
.’

‘It’s true. Your father’s shooting and the subsequent explosion was nothing more than a horrible accident in a chaotic gun battle. Osaka, Koda, Owens, Williams, the cops back
at my house, even your sister’s death . . . it’s all been for nothing. You were wrong.’

‘LIES!’
Oliver roared.

Striker stopped talking and took a long look at the man. The flesh of his face had turned a purplish-red colour now and spit bubbles formed on his lips. Beads of sweat covered his face and neck
regions, and his eyes were large and wild and glaring.

‘Where are the children, Oliver?’

His stare was faraway, his voice quiet. ‘It’s not true.’

‘They have no mother. She died just months ago.’

‘. . . not fucking true.’

‘Their father is all they have left.’

‘. . . not true . . .’

‘Oliver,’ Striker said. ‘
Oliver
.’

But the man was no longer listening. He was zoning out now. Fading. And his posture was sagging, his entire body leaning to the left. Striker focused on the man’s hands. They were
trembling, weakening, slowly loosening on the pressure-release plate of the detonator.

‘Oliver,’ Striker said again. ‘OLIVER!’

But it was no use. He was losing him.

Oliver heard his name being called, but the words seemed small – so distant that they were not only miles away but in another plane of existence. He was fading, he knew.
He could feel it. Slipping away to that faraway place where he and Molly were kids again, where Mother was baking scones and Father was healthy and strong and alive.

‘Oliver! Focus on me, Oliver!’

So hot . . . he was so goddam hot.

And so cold too.

Light. Swelling. Floating.

Recollections hit him. Memories slowly untangling in time:

Oliver looked up. Blinked. Let out a small laugh.

The memories made sense, the timeline was in order. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, his head felt clear. Like the clouds of confusion had finally dissipated.

He looked up at Striker oddly. ‘Do you believe, Detective?’

The question seemed to surprise the big cop. ‘Believe? You mean, in
God
?’

‘In God. In flesh and spirit.’

‘I believe there’s
something
there, yes.’

Oliver smiled sadly. ‘How fortunate for you. The feeling must be nice.’ When Striker offered no other words, Oliver continued. ‘You know what I believe in, Detective? I believe
in
Semtex
. I believe in fuse kits. And copper jacket rounds.’

‘Oliver—’

‘I believe in dust and bones.’

‘There’s still a way out of this, Oliver. A way to make things right.’

But Oliver shook his head. ‘You’re a good man, Detective. I can see that now. I’m glad I never killed you . . . But you’re wrong about everything.’

‘Oliver—’

‘You’re
wrong
.’

Striker studied the man sitting on the table across the room from him. Oliver was fading now. Spitting out gibberish. Swaying. Sagging. Ready to collapse.

Striker looked at the detonator in his hand.

Too far.

It was
too far
.

He tried to rouse the man
:
‘The children, Oliver – where are the children?’

But Oliver offered no answer.

To Striker’s left, Rothschild let out a moan, and a grating sound filled the room as his handcuffs slid against the steel pipe. Striker turned his eyes from Rothschild to the steel
maintenance door, then back to the pressure-release in Oliver’s hand. If he could reach Oliver in time, he could grab the man’s hands and maintain the pressure . . . but there was
thirty feet of distance between the men.

A lot of ground to cover.

Striker watched Oliver swaying on the table. When the man closed his eyes, Striker edged closer.

‘I got him!’
a voice suddenly said.

Striker was startled by the sound; he looked back towards the entrance of the room and saw Harry. Even in the strange red hue of the command room, it was obvious that the man’s face was
tight. His gun was drawn – aimed at Oliver.

‘
I got him
,’ he said again.

‘Harry, no, he’s holding a detonator—’

But it was too late.

The gun fired. Two loud explosions thundered through the room and the left side of Oliver’s chest burst open. He jerked, lilted, rolled off the steel table and landed on the ground. Even
as he fell, Striker raced towards him. Reached out for the pressure-release pad. But there was too much distance to cover.

The detonator had been released.

Ten seconds
. It was all they had.

A dozen thoughts raced through Striker’s mind: the amount of explosives strapped to Oliver’s chest; the hot steam powering through the steel pipes around them; the tripwires set up
in the tunnels beyond; Rothschild handcuffed to the pipes beside him; and the children – where were the children?

He grabbed the steel maintenance door. Slid open the latch.

Nine seconds
.

Yanked open the door and felt his heart drop.

No children inside.

Just supply boxes. Stacks of pipes. Some chairs. A panel of levers at the end.

Eight seconds.

Striker spun around, raced back into the room.

Seven
.

Rothschild was conscious now, screaming: ‘My kids – find my kids, Striker! Get my kids out of here!’

Six
.

Striker ran over to Oliver. Grabbed him roughly. And suddenly Harry was there beside him.

Five
.

They dragged the dead bomber into the maintenance room.

Four
.

Dumped him behind the column of supply boxes and steel pipes.

Three
.

Leaped from the room. Slammed the door behind them. Slid the latch.

Two
.

They grabbed the steel table. Flipped it over.

One
.

Yanked the table in front of Rothschild. Started to drop down behind it.

Zero
.

The bomb went off – a vicious explosion raged through the room, sounding like a locomotive powering through a mountain tunnel. One moment, Striker could see and hear and think; the next
there was only darkness and deafness and the air around them was wet and humid and suffocatingly hot.

The pipes
, he thought.
The steam
. . .

It was hissing all around them now.

They were going to cook to death.

Hot
. He was so unbelievably hot.

He was burning up. Couldn’t breathe. And there was blood. He could taste blood. In his mouth, in his throat. And the ringing in his ears was painful – a strange high-pitched
whine.

Striker opened his eyes. Saw nothing but darkness.

Closed them again.

When he re-opened them sometime later, white lights were flashing. Hazy beams pierced through the mixture of mist and dust like light-sabres through smoke. The illumination came from the far end
of the room, along with voices so soft and distant he could barely hear them.

‘
Jacob
,’ they sang. ‘. . .
Jacob
.’

Angels, calling his name.

‘. . . the children,’ he tried to say. ‘. . . find the children . . .’

But nothing would come out.

He felt hands take hold of him. Many hands. And suddenly he was suspended in the air. Floating, flying, his entire body lifting from the ground. He thought of Felicia, thought of Courtney, and
how he needed to stay with them. But when the darkness came, fighting it was as useless as trying to stop time. It swallowed him whole, a tidal wave of warmth and blackness. And Striker felt
himself go. He was fading into the nothingness now.

Dying.

Becoming dust and bones.

Just like Oliver . . .

Just like Oliver.

It was almost a full week later when Striker walked down the back alley of Trafalgar Street with a box of doughnuts and muffins in one hand and balancing two large coffees in
the other – Timmy’s mediums, double-double.

Cops’ blend.

The sweltering heat wave had slowly soothed out into a softer, gentler balminess, and the soft blue colour of the sky made the mid-morning air feel fresher and brisker than it had been in a long
while.

Striker relished the moment – it felt so good to be outdoors. Ever since he had been trapped in the dark depths of the steam tunnels, confined areas bothered him. He’d even been
avoiding elevator booths. And the thought of it made him chuckle with self-admonishing thoughts:

I’m turning into Felicia.

He spotted Rothschild’s house. As he neared, he heard the kids playing in the yard, and it filled him with a thankfulness he couldn’t explain. There was a certain grace about
children’s laughter. Especially now, after he had been so terribly close to losing them.

He listened to Cody yell out, ‘Don’t touch that, it’s
mine
!’ and smiled. He stood there, behind the fence, eavesdropping on their conversation, and he knew if he
stayed much longer he’d choke up. So he got his feet moving again.

Up ahead the garage door was open. Inside, the hood of the Cougar was up and there were chrome car parts lined up all along the work bench. Rothschild was leaning over the engine, looking down
and pretending he had even a modicum of mechanical skill. When Striker was close enough, Rothschild spotted him and nodded.

‘Hey,’ he said.

Striker stepped inside the garage. It smelled of oil and kitty litter and solvent. He looked out the window at the children playing, yelled out
‘Doughnuts!’
and Cody and
Shana came running from the yard.

‘Hi, Uncle Jacob!’ Shana said.

Cody was too fixated on the box of treats to speak.

Striker passed the coffees to Rothschild and opened the box. The children overlooked the muffins and went straight for the doughnuts – a Boston Cream for Cody and some god-awful sprinkle
mess for Shana. Treats in hand, they bounded off for the backyard again, and Striker thought of how long it had been since Courtney was that age.