The survivor

Twenty-One

As Striker approached the body of Black Mask, he searched the floor for the machine gun. It had been an AK-47. A Kalashnikov. He was certain of that — or at least he had been — but as he scanned the area, it was nowhere to be seen. He recalled seeing it fly over the serving counter behind the hot food racks, right after he’d plugged the shooter.

But nothing was there. Just blown-apart pop cans, jars of Jell-O, and Saran-Wrapped sandwiches.

Doubt lingered in Striker’s mind, like the beginning of a migraine. He shrugged it away, pretended it didn’t exist, then spotted another round on the floor near the serving counter. It was longer than the one Felicia had found, and pointier, tapered near the front. The cartridge was grey steel, the bullet jacketed with dull copper plate.

An AK-47 round.

The find killed Striker’s doubts. The gun must have been secured by the first attending officers, he rationalised. Had to be. Sure as hell couldn’t leave a machine gun sitting around unattended. Not in a school of all places. It was a detail he would have to investigate later.

Even if a part of him didn’t want to know the answer.

The lighting above Black Mask was dim, because the overhead fluorescent lights had been shattered by the ricochet of gunshot blasts. It was fitting, if not poetic. Black Mask, out of the light, dead in the shadows.

The body was lying in the exact same position as the last gunman — on his back, hands out to the sides, face up towards the ceiling. Yellow crime scene tape formed a box around the tertiary crime scene, looking like an evil Christmas ribbon. Striker gloved up with fresh latex.

‘I’m not finished over there!’ Noodles called out.

‘You never are.’

‘Don’t fuck with it, Shipwreck!’

Striker was too deep in thought to respond. Red Mask had taken the time to de-face and de-hand the other shooter, White Mask — the one with the Quenton Wong ID in his pocket — but not this gunman. So why? It didn’t add up. Striker leaned over the body and studied it. This gunman’s physique was less muscled than the other. Thin. Not fully developed. It was not implausible that he was a teenager. A student.

Striker studied the mask of the fallen gunman. It was pitch black in colour, moulded to fit the face, with two horizontal slots for eyes.

Two bullets had struck Black Mask, one just left of the centre of his head — a perfect lethal shot — and one in the chest bone. Striker inspected the path of the first round. The fatal bullet had entered through the gunman’s left cheek, the shock of the impact shattering one third of the black hockey mask.

Striker recalled what Laroche had told Felicia: ‘The boy might have been innocent.’

Impossible, Striker thought. And yet, the words haunted him.

With gloved fingers, he reached out and gently peeled the mask up and over the gunman’s head. Dried blood had stuck the plastic to the young man’s face like a second skin, and it came off with a soft pop sound.

He was exposed.

Striker studied the face. The shooter was definitely a teenager. One he had never seen. Asian, young — maybe sixteen. Something tugged at the back of Striker’s mind.

‘Felicia,’ he called. She was standing by Noodles; the two were going over something. She stopped talking and looked over.

‘Yeah?’

‘Get Caroline.’

Felicia didn’t respond verbally. Maybe it was the tone in his voice. She nodded and left the cafeteria. When she returned with Principal Myers five minutes later, Striker saw that Caroline’s eyes were clearer now, but her face remained ghostly white. She walked across the cafeteria on wobbly legs.

‘Over here,’ Striker called.

Felicia marched along, unruffled and unconcerned; Principal Myers followed slowly, as if every step was painful. Her eyes scanned the cafeteria, stopping on every covered body that filled the room. The grief on her face was damn near palpable. Striker could tell what she was thinking:

Which ones of my kids are under those sheets?

Hardened cop or naive civilian, it was too much for anyone to assimilate.

Principal Myers came to within a foot of the crime-scene tape, where Striker was crouched, and she shivered as if cold.

‘Caroline-’

‘You want me to look?’

‘I’ve got a hunch who this kid is, and I think you know too.’ He looked up at the Principal. ‘Be warned, he’s been shot in the face. Most of the damage is out the back of the head, where the bullet exited, but still… it won’t be pretty.’

‘Okay,’ she managed.

Slowly, Striker stood up, to reveal the body behind him.

‘You recognise this kid?’

Principal Myers said nothing for a moment. She just wavered on the spot, and Felicia had to grab her arm for fear the woman would careen over. After a few seconds, tears slid down her face as she whispered, ‘It’s Sherman. My student helper.’

Striker nodded. ‘Now we know who turned off the video.’ He ducked out from under the crime scene tape. Spoke softly. ‘Who was this kid, Caroline? I mean, really. Who did he hang out with?’

‘He… he was a good kid. Really, he was. A good kid.’

‘Good kids don’t murder other kids.’ Together with Felicia, Striker guided the Principal away from the fallen gunman, to the other end of the cafeteria where there were no bodies or blood to distract her. Once there, he sat her down and said straight to her face: ‘Whatever image you had about this kid is gone, Caroline. Forget it. He’s not what you thought. I need you to be sharp here. Think hard. Who was Sherman Chan, and who did he hang out with?’

The woman reached into her suit jacket and pulled out a package of Kool Lights. Menthol.

‘Not in here,’ Striker said. ‘It’s a crime scene.’

She put them away. ‘He… he didn’t have a lot of friends. Sherman was a computer kid, a bit of a loner, really. Though he did hang out with two other boys. One was from the computer lab, and the other was his friend’s friend. An older boy by a few years. Previous drop-out.’

‘Their names?’

‘Raymond Leung was one of them,’ she said. ‘He was Sherman’s friend in the computer lab. A foreign kid. Exchange student from Hong Kong. Doesn’t speak a whole lot of English. I can get you his details.’

‘Good, we’ll need them.’ Striker wrote down the name in his notebook, then looked at Caroline. ‘And the other kid? The older one — the drop-out.’

‘Que Wong.’

‘Que Wong?’ Striker’s eyes shifted back to the crime scene behind them, where Noodles was taking swab samples from the headless gunman. He gave Felicia a quick glance, making sure she said nothing, then focused back on Principal Myers. ‘I need to speak to these kids, Caroline.’

She nodded. ‘I think they live together,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you their contact information. And photographs.’

Striker stopped her. ‘They haven’t been located yet?’

‘Raymond never showed up for school today, and as for Que — well, he’s been gone from this school for a long time now. Never really was in attendance, even when he was here.’

An electric sensation pulsed through Striker, but he said nothing more. As he ushered Principal Myers out of the cafeteria, he told her he needed their yearbook photos, or whatever else she had that was more recent. On the way down the hall towards her office to get him the printouts he required, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and wept.

Striker looked away and sighed. She was damaged goods now. Nothing would ever be the same for her again. Certainly not in this school.

And maybe not in life.

Felicia came up next to him. ‘Good instincts about Black Mask. You were bang on right about the kid.’

He turned to face her. ‘I know that. I always knew that. You should have known it too, instead of listening to Laroche.’

She let out a tight breath. ‘Look, Jacob, I never said I didn’t believe you.’

‘And you never said you did, either.’

‘You’re picking at straws.’

‘Am I? Look at the dead kid over there and tell me that.’ Striker tried to suppress his anger, but couldn’t. ‘ We’re the only reason more kids aren’t dead, Felicia. Us, not Laroche. And here Mr White-shirt wants to take my gun away. Un-fucking-real.’

‘Jacob-’

He turned away and grabbed his cell. He looked at the screen, saw that there were no calls, and grimaced. He dialled Courtney’s number again, got the latest Britney message, something about someone being a womaniser. That was good, it meant she was fine, though more concerned about changing her voice messages than contacting her father. Again, he tried to leave a message but couldn’t. He shut off the phone. Cursed. Caught Felicia’s stare.

‘She’s still screening her calls,’ he said.

‘She probably doesn’t know what happened yet — you know how teenagers are with the news — and she sure as hell doesn’t want you to know she’s skipping school. She probably has no clue about any of this. Otherwise she would call, Jacob. You know that.’

He looked at her like she was crazy. ‘How couldn’t she know? It’s been hours since the shootings.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe her cell died, maybe she left it at home, maybe she’s turned it off to avoid you because she knows she’s in shit. Who cares? We know she’s all right, people have already told us that. One of those girls — Marnie Jenkins — spotted her on a bus near the mall not an hour ago. She’s out there having fun.’

Striker moved to the cafeteria window, stared outside. The sky was losing light, everything looking colder and darker. It felt like it had two years ago when the problems with his wife, Amanda, were at their worst. Just prior to her death.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Almost four o’clock.’

Christ, he thought. Over seven hours since the shootings. It felt like days. Another life.

And now, maybe it was.

He drew his Sig and slid out the mag. He replaced it with another full one, out of habit, then put the pistol back into the holster. When he looked at Felicia, she was eyeing him warily.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I’m thinking the world has gone crazy.’ Striker scanned the cafeteria, took one last look at the hell he would never forget. At the blood that was everywhere, turning the floor into a giant red-and-white checkerboard. At Noodles, who was still taking fluid samples from one of the gunmen. At Sherman Chan — Black Mask — the student helper Striker had shot dead.

At everything.

It was too much. All too much.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Striker said. ‘I’m drowning in the shit. I need to leave this goddam school for bit. Clear my head. Everything here is too close.’

Through the double-doors, Striker spotted Caroline at the end of the hall. She had returned with the yearbook pictures, and Striker went out to meet her. He took them, thanked her, and left her standing and staring at the crime scene in front of her.

When Felicia caught up to him, Striker spoke aloud: ‘Sherman Chan was Black Mask. That fact is undeniable. And as far as we know — at least from the ID in the gunman’s pockets — Que Wong was White Mask.’

‘Which leaves only Red Mask,’ Felicia said.

‘Right. According to Caroline, Raymond Leung lived with Quenton Wong. He was also known to hang out with Sherman Chan. So it can’t be a coincidence that Raymond was absent from school today.’

‘You think he’s Red Mask.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

They headed for Kerrisdale.