The Survivor (6 page)

Felicia stepped forward, and for the first time, she looked shaken. ‘How bad is it?’

Takuto just kept looking at the school. ‘Things like this make you fear sleeping,’ he murmured.

Striker understood him completely. Night terrors.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Last I heard we had eleven confirmed dead, over thirty wounded.’

Striker scanned the line of ERT members. Each one of them looked exhausted, like they’d just been on a ten-day mission, not a two-hour school clearing.

‘What else you find in there?’ he asked.

‘Just carnage. Pretty much what you’d expect.’

‘Any traps, any explosives?’

‘IEDs? No, none.’

‘Not even a homemade rig?’

‘None yet. But the dogs are still searching.’

Striker thought this over. No booby traps. Unusual. IEDs – or Improvised Explosive Devices – were the norm nowadays. And that was mainly because of an Active Shooter’s intent. Terror wasn’t the only goal here: inflicting the maximum number of casualties was a high priority. The more carnage, the more coverage. The better the headlines.

The media spotlight was everything.

Striker watched Takuto tell his boys to take five, then strip off his ballistic helmet and goggles. He used his forearm to mop the sweat from his brow, then sat down on a kerb and leaned back against the cream stucco of the school’s outer wall. Striker was about to ask him more questions when Takuto looked across the parking lot and sneered.

‘Look at that prick.’

Striker glanced back and spotted Deputy Chief Laroche in the White Whale. The man was brushing his hair back over his head and checking out his teeth in the mirror. It wasn’t until the three media vans pulled up – one for BCTV, the other two Global – that Laroche finally lumbered out of the vehicle.

The mob of reporters rushed towards the school, microphones and video cameras ready. They reached the yellow crime scene tape and stopped hard, bunching together, almost crawling over one another. There was excitement in their faces, a palpable buzz in the air. Children had been slaughtered in the safety of their school.

Story of the Century.

Without thinking, Striker neared the mass. Watched the reporters fixing their make-up. Positioning themselves for the cameras. Making sure they got their best angle.

Moments later, Deputy Chief Laroche strutted in from the north. He marched stoically up to the crime scene tape, his pressed hat held gently in both hands, rim down – just the way Striker was sure he’d practised in front of the mirror a hundred times. The lineless perfection of Laroche’s hair told anyone who cared to notice that he never wore the damn hat. It was just a necessary prop, a part of the intended image.

Striker listened to the beginning of the speech, the Deputy’s voice dripping with cosmetic grief, his words laced with heavy pre-planned pauses, and Striker wondered if the man had taken the same long pauses while sucking back his Starbucks sandwich in the car.

‘I was on scene in
minutes
,’ the Deputy said.

And when one of the reporters asked him if he’d ever faced an Active Shooter before, Laroche looked him in the eye, offered a steely expression, and reminded the group of his wartime experience, being carefully vague so as to never really explain what he did during the war, and adding at the last moment: ‘There were children, dammit,
children
– how couldn’t we respond?’

It was too much for Striker to take, and he knew he had to do one of two things – expose the man for the fraud he was and make a scene in front of the media, or remove himself from the situation. Common sense and compassion told him that the last thing the families needed at this time was a police drama. So he gritted his teeth and turned away. With a heavy heart, he marched through the school’s front doorway and stepped back into the carnage that this day’s insanity had wrought.

Ten

An hour later, Striker finished helping the paramedics check the last of the unresponsive bodies. Then he made his way to the boys’ changing room. It was just after twelve noon. He stood alone at one of the sinks, looked around. Everything in the room felt too small – the green lockers, the yellow benches, the white hand-dryers on the wall.

His body shivered uncontrollably. His suit jacket was gone, left behind somewhere in the chaos – he’d draped it over one of the exposed children – and his shirt was so saturated with blood it looked more red than white, sticking to his skin wherever it was stained.

The blood wasn’t his, and that pained him, filled him with a strange revulsion. More bodies had been discovered, some by the dogs, some by police. Some of the wounded, in an effort to hide from the gunmen, had hidden themselves from help as well, and it had been their demise.

Striker had done his best to save them all – the wounded, the dying – and to his credit, his actions might have saved a few lives. He understood that. Deep in his heart, he understood that. But more of the wounded had died than been saved.

A lot more.

Felicia’s earlier words now haunted him: ‘We should go back.’

And he wondered if she had been right. After all, what had they gained by pursuing Red Mask?

The horrors of the cafeteria still filled his mind. The heat of the gun as it kicked in his hands; the hot smell of gunsmoke; the shrill cries of the teenagers.

They would be with him forever.

It made him think of Courtney. Again. Word had come in through the student grapevine. She’d been seen by friends at the mall, but it was Metrotown, not Oakridge. She was safe and unhurt, and by the sounds of things completely unaware of the school shootings.

It didn’t make him feel any better.

With trembling hands, he reached down and snatched the BlackBerry from his belt. The screen was smeared with sticky redness. He wiped it on his trousers. During the past half-hour, he had called her ten times, but she had yet to return his call. And he was getting
mad
. He dialled her number yet again, and this time it rang through to voicemail:

‘Hey there, you’ve reached the Court! Don’t get
toxic
on me ’cause I can’t take your call right now – I’m out getting ready for the concert. Just two more days til BRIIITNEEEY!’

The concert . . .

The Britney Spears concert.

What else could matter in the life of a fifteen-year-old girl? Were it not for the hell around him Striker could have laughed.

The greeting ended with a loud beep. Striker tried to leave a message, but couldn’t. The message box was full. He hung up, called home, and got no answer there either. Just Courtney’s small voice on the answering service. It made him feel sick.

‘For Christ’s sake!’ He slammed the cell down on the sink.

‘She’ll call, Jacob.’

The sound alerted him. He looked up at the reflection in the mirror and watched Felicia as she entered the boys’ changing room. Unlike him, her clothes were almost blood-free. She wore blue latex gloves and held a bundle of rumpled clothes and some brown paper bags. He hadn’t heard her open the door, much less sneak into the room. She was like a goddam fox sometimes. But a tired one now. Despite the sharpness of her Spanish eyes, everything else about her appearance looked haggard. Her shirt was sloppily half-tucked into her trousers, and her face looked older than it had this morning.

Almost as old as he felt.

‘First I can’t get through at all,’ he explained. ‘Now her message box is full.’

Felicia closed the door, came nearer. ‘Well, she wasn’t here when the shooting started, twenty people have testified to that. She’s out with her friends at Metrotown. Skipping school. Safe and sound. So don’t freak on me.’

‘I don’t
freak
.’

The BlackBerry screen was sitting on the lip of the sink. The bloodied screen stuck out amidst the white porcelain. Striker willed the phone to ring. It didn’t, so he stood there silently.

Felicia came right up beside him, touched his arm. ‘Look, you gonna be okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re shaking.’

‘You excite me.’

She frowned. ‘You know, Jacob, if it’s too soon for you after your wife’s—’

‘It’s not.’

‘I’m just saying, it wasn’t all that long ago that Amanda died, and—’

‘Jesus Christ, Felicia, we were just in a shootout this morning, and now we’re back where it all happened. It’s got nothing to do with Amanda! You sure as hell never thought it was too soon when we were dating.’ He gave her a challenging look, then felt the wind go out of his sails. He closed his eyes. ‘Let it go, okay? For just once, listen to what I say and let–it–go.’

‘
Fine
.’

Striker turned on the hot-water tap. The trickling was loud in the boys’ changing room – amplifying the fact that no boys were there, getting ready for gym class. There was no laughing. No joking. No chatter. Just a harsh, overbearing silence.

When steam rose from the basin, Striker put his hands under the hot water and watched the white enamel turn pink. For the first few teenagers, he had worn latex, but soon the gloves had become so slippery, he’d abandoned them. Now, his hands dripped with redness. It was everywhere.

He sniffed softly, winced. The coppery smell of old, dried blood was all around him now, overpowering, and no matter how viciously he scrubbed his skin, more blood seemed to wash off of his hands.

Felicia cleared her throat. She dropped the bundle of clothes on one of the change-room benches, shifted from foot to foot. ‘Got these from Holmes. He’s your size, more or less. Either way, it’s some new clothes.’

He kept scrubbing. ‘Don’t need them.’

‘Your shirt is
soaked
, Jacob. In blood.’

‘I’ll change later. At home.’

She let out a heavy breath, as if debating something, then made eye-contact with him in the mirror’s reflection. ‘Look, they’re seizing your clothes.’

He stopped scrubbing.

‘Because of the shooting,’ she said. ‘It’s an order. From Deputy Chief Laroche.’

‘Laroche.’ Striker almost spat the word. ‘That spindly little fuck. Spent half the morning in front of the camera while we were looking for kids.’

‘Jacob—’

‘Christ, he even realise we got dead kids out there, or he too busy getting his hair to look just right?’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘Is it?’ Striker held out his arms, showing the blood. ‘Look at me, Felicia.
Look at me
. You see that? It’s blood. Children’s blood. You see Laroche? He’s been on scene for damn near two hours, and his shirt is still white and pristine. Not a friggin’ splatter on his shirt, not a wrinkle in his slacks.’

‘It’s not his job—’

‘His job? His
job
? He took an oath to save lives, first and foremost. End of discussion.’ Striker gave her a sideways look. ‘You should stop and listen to yourself once in a while. Ever since you worked under that guy, you act like he’s the goddam Pope or something. I don’t know if he’s going to retire at year’s end or ascend to the heavens.’

Felicia’s lips tightened at the comment.

‘I just hope he doesn’t hurt himself when he falls off his pedestal. It’s a long way down, baby.’

‘That’s enough.’

‘Damn right it is.’ He unbuttoned the shirt and stripped it from his body. He saw Felicia looking at him, and threw her the shirt. ‘He gonna seize my underwear, too?’

Felicia said nothing, she just bagged the shirt. When she met his eyes again, he gave her a defiant look.

‘What else?’

‘He wants your gun.’

Striker recoiled. ‘Over my dead body,’ he started. Then he lost the words and zoned out.

Something bugged him. Something was wrong here. As much as he hated to admit it, especially with Laroche being involved, seizing his clothes was normal procedure – who knew what trace elements he’d picked up from the kids he’d been trying to save? – but seizing his gun before the incident was over, now that was another matter entirely. He stopped washing the blood off his hands and arms, and turned around. Saw nervousness in Felicia’s eyes.

‘What the hell is going on, Feleesh?’

‘There’s a lot going on, Jacob, I’m not privy to every—’

‘Don’t mess with me. Not now.’ He stepped towards her and spoke with slow deliberation. ‘What – is – going – on?’

Her lips pressed together, as if she didn’t want to speak. Her eyes took on a thousand-yard gaze.

‘The first kid you shot . . .’

‘What kid?’

‘The kid, the gunman – Black Mask. He might . . . he might not have been involved, we think.’

‘
We
?’

‘Well, the Deputy Chief. Laroche.’

Something spasmed inside Striker’s chest, tightened like a steel band across his heart ‘The kid had a hockey mask on.’

‘It’s Halloween week.’

‘And he was holding a gun – a fucking machine gun.’

Felicia raised her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Jacob, I’m just relaying the message.’

He let out a shocked laugh. ‘“Relaying the message”? Jesus Christ.’ He leaned on the sink and replayed the scene over and over again in his mind. Black Mask had held a gun, there was no doubt about it.

A friggin’ machine gun.

Right?

The exact details eluded him now; the entire morning was a blur. And after a long moment, he gave up trying to recall it. He snapped out of the memory. Made the water colder, then splashed some on his face. Dried himself off with a paper towel.

Felicia opened another paper bag for his trousers. He pulled them off, handed them to her and put on the new ones Holmes had lent him. When he attached the gun holster to his belt, Felicia gave him a hard look.

‘Jacob—’

‘Laroche ain’t getting my gun.’

‘It’s an order.’

‘Fuck him and fuck his orders. This isn’t over, Felicia. That prick’s still out there somewhere, and he’s gonna strike again. I know he is, you know he is. And I’m not going to be unarmed when it happens.’ He adjusted the holster, slid his Sig into the leather pouch and locked it down. ‘Laroche wants my gun, he can come get it – when we got someone in custody, and not a second before.’