The Survivor (50 page)
Authors: Sean Slater
Tags: #Police, #Fiction, #Suspense Fiction, #School Shootings, #Thrillers, #Suspense
‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘Getting this bullet out of my spine would be a nice start.’
He laughed, genuinely and hard, and touched her face. ‘I love you, Pumpkin.’
‘I love you, too, Dad.’
He fetched her suitcase from under the bed, made sure it was locked and secure, then helped ease her off the bed into the wheelchair.
‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re going home.’
One Hundred and Two
Striker had just finished getting Courtney seated and buckled into his Honda CR-V when the sound of squealing tires filled the underground. He turned and spotted a small car speeding around the bend in the dark parkade. Instinctively, he swept his hand under his jacket flap and touched the butt of his pistol. As the car drove closer, Striker saw that it was a silver Volvo, a car he recognised well.
Laroche.
Striker let his fingers slide off the butt of his gun as the Volvo came to a stop ten feet away. Even in the darkness, Striker could see the angry expression on Laroche’s face. The Deputy Chief climbed out, slammed the car door.
‘Striker!’ he roared.
‘This is a hospital, sir – the mental institution is down the road.’
Dressed in civilian attire, Laroche looked even smaller than he did in his dress pants and officer’s shirt. Beads of sweat rolled down his face, making his white skin appear even more sickly. He stormed up to Striker, his hands balled into fists.
‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he demanded.
‘Me, sir?’
‘I know it was you, Striker!’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘The complaint to Internal. The subsequent review over my handling of the Active Shooter file.’ When Striker said nothing, Laroche continued, ‘I’m getting demoted, Striker.
Demoted!
You’ve ruined my bid for Chief. Ruined it. My entire career!’
‘That’s very unfortunate, sir.’
Laroche’s eyes darkened and his face reddened till all the white had left his cheeks. ‘You think I don’t know you did this, Striker? You think I’m some kind of fool?’
‘Think, sir?’
Laroche swore out loud, raised a finger. ‘I don’t care if it takes the rest of my goddam career, I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done.’
Striker waited for Laroche to finish his rant, then stepped calmly forward and said quietly, ‘Let me give you a little bit of advice,
Superintendent
. When you’re in a field full of horses, don’t go looking for zebras. All you’ll find is more horses.’
Then Striker turned around, walked away from Laroche and climbed into the CR-V. Moments later, he and Courtney drove out of the underground parkade into the cold brightness of the blue-skied winter day. Courtney was returning home. Felicia was coming over for dinner. And Laroche was screwed. Striker let out a satisfied breath.
What more could a man ask for?
One Hundred and Three
Three hours later, Striker sat in the passenger seat of the undercover police cruiser. Felicia was driving. The sun was still out and the sky was an icy, cloudless blue – perfect for such a cold wintry day. Courtney was at home, being tended to by the outreach occupational therapist, so it gave them some time.
They were headed for the Ironworkers’ Bridge.
They took First Avenue out east, all the way to the Trans Canada Highway. As she drove, Felicia rambled on, mostly about the upcoming changes in Homicide, and also relaying the latest gossip of who was screwing around with whom – a topic that never got old at the Department.
Striker barely heard any of it. He was deep in thought, and way tired. There had been little sleep for him since the shootout on the bridge. Too many ideas and notions lingered in his head. Some things were entirely clear; others were not.
There was no doubt that Tran and Shen Sun Soone had been two of the three gunmen during the St Patrick’s High School massacre, and that they had recruited outcast Sherman Chan into becoming the third. From what Striker could piece together, Tran had been one of the planners of the attack; he was never intended to be one of the gunmen.
But when Que Wong failed to show, everything changed.
The order to kill the kids had come through Kim Pham – the manager of the Fortune Happy restaurant and
de facto
leader of the Shadow Dragons. His body had been found a week ago, in a stolen Toyota Camry that was dumped in the Fraser River – not overly far from the docks where Que Wong’s body had been located.
Kim Pham had been shot twice in the chest, once in the head. And Striker liked that discovery.
It had a little bit of irony to it.
The real mastermind behind it all had been Sheung Fa, who had carefully
suggested
the idea to his Shadow Dragon underlings. Sheung Fa was the known liaison officer – the White Paper Fan – of the 14K Triads in Vancouver, despite the fact that he passed himself off as a simple Chinese merchant. Striker had attempted to interview him numerous times, but Sheung Fa knew his charter rights better than anyone. He’d lawyered up, wasn’t talking, and Striker knew he never would.
The whole thing angered Striker so much he couldn’t sleep.
Sherman Chan, Que Wong and Raymond Leung – who was now known to be Que Wong’s distant cousin in from Hong Kong – had all been pre-planned fall guys from the very start. All three were bad people. Murderers without a conscience.
Striker had no pity for them.
But he would have loved to offer them deals on their testimony. Unfortunately, dead men don’t talk. Everywhere Striker looked, there were connections and coincidences and implications that singled out Sheung Fa.
But none of the hard evidence needed for court.
The more Striker went over it, the more it all made sense to him, in a twisted crazy way, and he let out a long, slow breath. He was tired. So goddam tired. And Felicia was still going on and on about work issues.
‘. . . and then Meathead suddenly tells everyone that Jay Hall is dating Ashley Grey – you know, that new girl that transferred over from Port Moody? The superhot one that looks just like Megan Fox?’ Felicia stopped talking and gave him a rap on the arm. ‘Hey, you even listening to me?’
Striker offered her a weak grin. ‘Yeah, Jay Hall is dating Megan Fox.’
This seemed to satisfy Felicia. They turned north on the Trans Canada, heading towards the North Shore, and Felicia continued chatting on until the Ironworkers’ Bridge came into view. At the sight of it, she stuttered, and Striker realised that all her small talk had been nothing more than a diversion from dealing with the situation at hand.
She dropped her eyes, got quiet for a moment. ‘What do you think’s gonna happen to the parents?’
Striker shot her a look. ‘Nothing worse than has already happened. Patricia’s still in critical, so who knows with her. But the rest have all hired Robicheaux, and from what I hear, he’s a pretty damn good lawyer.’
‘You think they’ll get good jail time.’
‘They’ll have to. Twenty-two kids died because of their actions.’
‘But they obviously didn’t expect—’
‘You don’t steal millions of dollars and not think some kind of violence is coming your way.’
‘I agree with that, but—’
‘Twenty-two kids, Felicia.’ Striker left it at that.
When they circled the bridge towards the south side, Felicia fixed him with a nervous look and said, ‘I don’t know why you do this to yourself.’
‘A young girl died because of me.’
‘She didn’t die because of you, Jacob, she had a chance to live because of you.’
‘And I failed her.’
‘It was an unwinnable situation. Jesus, it’s a miracle both girls aren’t dead.’
Striker pointed to the halfway point of the bridge. ‘Just stop there.’
Felicia pulled the car over, then put on the emergency lights so no other vehicles would smash into them from behind. The flowers Striker had brought – an arrangement of white roses – lay flat on the back seat.
Striker picked them up and left the car.
Then he did what he had done a dozen times since that horrible Halloween night – he stood out on the bridge deck and relived all that had happened. Every goddam second of it. He looked at where the van had been parked, where Shen Sun and the girls had been positioned, and he recalled the pitch fog of the night, illuminated by nothing but the van’s glaring headlights.
Now, it all felt like a movie in his head, one which would never end. The scenes were with him throughout the day, and at night they haunted his dreams, leaving him exhausted come the morning sun.
‘Jacob.’
He blinked, turned and looked at Felicia, who still sat in the police cruiser, parked in the slow lane. ‘What?’
‘You were just standing there, in a daze.’
‘I was . . . thinking.’ He moved down the bridge, then turned about and retraced his steps, going over the soundness of his tactics – how he’d approached the van, his stance towards the gunman, the way he’d improvised when Courtney fell forward and Shen Sun ran for Raine. He went over it again and again and again until his head hurt and he could feel the blood hammering behind his temples.
Drained, he approached the railing where Shen Sun had pulled Raine to her death. On all the other days he’d come here, he’d bent down and propped her flowers against the steel railing. Today he walked right up to the railing, looked down and stared at the turbulent green waters below. The flowers slipped from his fingers, and Striker watched them fall, counting the horrible seconds it took for them to hit the water.
Four and a half.
Striker frowned. The terror Raine must have felt before slamming into the cold, hard waters and being sucked down by the unforgiving currents. He counted the seconds in his head, over and over again. And another dreaded duty was yet to come. Patricia Kwan had been stabilised, and Dr Adler said he would be taking her from her induced coma soon.
Then Striker would have to inform her of Raine’s death. He could get someone from Patrol to do it, but knew he wouldn’t. Raine’s death had occurred because of his failure.
He would tell Patricia so.
Felicia came up to his side, and rubbed her hand on his back. Striker shook it off, not because he resented her touch, but because his ribs were still sore – broken from the bullets that had tagged him on the bulletproof vest that night.
‘It’s over,’ Felicia said. ‘And neither Raine nor Shen Sun Soone are coming back. You have to accept that, Jacob.’
Striker said nothing. He simply looked across the water to a small sandy inlet, just south-east of the native reserve. That was where the frogmen had finally found Raine’s body some six hours after her fall.
Shen Sun’s body had never been found.
Striker doubted if it ever would. The gunman had manifested into Striker’s life like a ghost from another realm, and he had gone out in much the same manner – there one moment, gone the next. Vanished soundlessly, like a fading phantom.
The thought made Striker shiver, and he recalled the gunman’s last words:
‘History is circle. Past is also future.’
Striker understood the hidden message in those words: that their paths would cross again one day, in this life or the next. The saying was old. A Chinese superstition. And Striker hoped it wasn’t true. God knows, he’d already suffered enough pain for this life and the next.
But if it did happen, he would be ready.
Felicia gave him a nudge. ‘You okay?’
He nodded. ‘I’m more than okay, I’m alive.’ He pulled her close and gave her a long, passionate kiss. When he pulled away, her cheeks were rosy and her lips stretched into a smirk.
‘Does this mean we’re on again?’ she asked.
Striker raised an eyebrow and smiled at her. ‘Let’s just say, you won’t be needing chocolate again for a long, long time.’
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