The survivor

Twenty-Five

Striker left their undercover cruiser with Felicia and got Patrol to drive him home. It was well after seven p.m. and the day had been a long one. Every muscle in his back and legs groaned with stiffness as he plodded up the front sidewalk on aching feet. Since he’d left the crime scene at Que Wong’s residence, the inky blackness of the night had deepened, stealing away the moon and stars. Leaving him with only icy rain and wicked winds.

He walked through the downpour, smiling. His home had never looked more peaceful, more welcoming than it did right now. And in that one moment, it was as if he had forgotten the stress of not only the shootings and the upcoming investigations, but the time off as well. Who knew, maybe one day he’d even come to terms with Amanda’s death.

Maybe Courtney would, too.

The porch light was on, the front door locked. He unlocked it and went inside. The draught sucked at his coat when the door closed. The wool of his long coat was wet, so he hung it up on the rack, and stood there in his borrowed suit, which was worn and wrinkled from the long day.

He looked around. The front room was mostly dark, with just a flickering light from the television set. Courtney was seated on the couch in her blue Old Navy sweats, her eyes fixed on the TV screen. She was as stiff as a board; her eyes were swollen from crying. When Striker moved closer, she blinked, as if coming out of a bad dream. She snapped her head to face him, let out a gasp, and before Striker knew it, she was off the couch and in his arms, trembling, her breaths coming in deep and heavy sobs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m just so, so sorry.’

There was nothing else he could think of to say or do, so he just stood there, holding her and telling her it was over now. It was all over. And they were here. In their home. They were together. They were safe.

And he wondered if it was doing any good.

When the worst of it was over, when Courtney finally got herself together and pulled back from him, mascara had run down her cheeks. Striker wiped a thumb through one of the trails, and found himself studying her face — her soft blue eyes, her light brown freckles, her thick and curly auburn hair that fell all around her shoulders in heavy, fluid waves. All at once the sight pained him, for she was every bit her mother. Just as beautiful. More so even.

And Striker prayed that was all Courtney got of Amanda.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded absently. ‘Yeah. Sure. I guess. I didn’t know. Not until now, like ten minutes ago.’ She looked up at him with anxious eyes. No doubt she had a lot of questions, ones he didn’t particularly want to answer right now — or ever, for that matter — and he just stared back at her with a father’s tenderness. She seemed to grasp this, and the fact that he was exhausted from the hellish day, and her blue eyes fell away from his.

‘I just… need some rest,’ she said.

‘I know you do.’

‘Some sleep.’

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Pumpkin?’

For a moment she was silent. She just stared at the fireplace, her mind somewhere else. Then she spoke. ‘I’m sorry, Dad.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know… I know we’ve had some issues and all. It’s just been harder. Everything’s been a lot harder… since then.’

A dozen responses flashed through Striker’s head, all of them sounding hollow and forced. And how could they not? Bringing up Amanda was the last thing he needed right now — the last thing either of them needed, whether Courtney understood that or not.

He looked at the lines that underscored her eyes, and grimaced.

‘You look exhausted, Pumpkin. Maybe you should have a hot bath and relax. Want a glass of wine or something?’

‘Wine?’ She laughed in a sad way.

‘Guess not, huh?’

‘You ever think about her, Dad? I mean, really think about her?’

‘I loved your mother.’

‘But do you ever think about her? I mean, any more.’

‘Every day.’

‘You don’t show it.’

Striker detected the resentment in her tone. ‘Soon it’ll be two years, Courtney. I’ve learned to cope. You will, too. In time.’

‘I don’t want to cope.’ Her words struck out at him, fast and hard, and for a moment, the anger was back in her eyes — that explosive fiery temper of Amanda’s that burned everything in its path and took days to die out.

‘That’s not what I-’

‘It’s never what you meant. But that never stops you from saying things, does it?’ Courtney fixed him a sharp look. ‘You know what I can never get over? How you just let go of her so easy. Just, snap, like that. Like she was nothing.’

‘Nothing was nothing, Courtney. Believe me.’

‘Would you get over me that easy, too?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘What about today?’ She moved closer to him, her angry face growing even tighter. ‘You never even came after me, to see where I was. To see if I was okay. For all you know I could’ve been one of those kids-’

‘That’s enough.’ He moved forward, so quickly he backed Courtney up towards the wall. ‘Don’t you ever give me that crap — not now, not ever. I knew where you’d gone. Other kids had seen you on the bus. And I had confirmation you were okay. And still I kept trying to reach you all goddam day. Patrol went by the house three times, I sent Sheila to Metrotown, and I called your cell over twenty goddam times.’

She looked away, wouldn’t meet his eyes.

‘You were screening your calls again, weren’t you, Courtney? Don’t think I don’t know that. You were screening your calls because you didn’t want to get shit on for skipping school again. I couldn’t even leave a message!’

Courtney sucked on her upper lip, said nothing. The fire in her eyes went out as quickly as a blown match. She looked down at the ground, her long hair falling around her face. When she spoke again, her voice was resigned.

‘I wasn’t screening my calls, Dad. The phone died.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Don’t believe me?’

‘You still managed to change your voice message. Three times.’

‘It’s set on random.’

‘Random?’

‘I’ve got a few different voice messages — all Britney stuff. They cycle automatically.’

Striker said nothing at first. He just let out a long breath, rubbed a hand over his face, felt like collapsing.

‘Christ,’ was all he managed to say.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Courtney said. ‘I had no idea. Really. I had no … no…’

She covered her face and stifled a sob, and all at once, the frustration and anger Striker felt vanished and was replaced by the usual grief and guilt. His heart plummeted in his chest. He wrapped his arms around Courtney for the second time and kissed her on the top of her head, and wished to God things could go back to the way they had been years ago.

Before Amanda died.

Finally, it was Striker who spoke.

‘Sometimes I think I got over your mother quicker than you did because you’re so much like her. I still feel like she’s around whenever I’m with you.’ He looked intently into her hurting, wide-eyed face. Made sure she saw the seriousness he felt. ‘You know that I would never abandon you, Courtney. Not for a millisecond.’

‘I know that, Dad.’

‘I only kept looking for the gunmen because I knew you were all right.’

‘I know.’

‘And because I believed that if they weren’t found — and soon — more kids would die.’

‘Dad, I know. I’m just… so tired. Stressed. God, I think I will go to bed. For the night. I’m just so exhausted.’

She gave him another hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, and when she went to let go of him, he held on for a while longer. Finally, when he did let go, she turned and headed for the bedroom. After ten steps, she stopped and looked back at him.

‘You eaten yet?’

‘I can make myself dinner, Pumpkin.’

She laughed. ‘Right. Pork and Beans or Chef Boyardee?’

‘Better than that — Nutella.’

She grinned. ‘I don’t mind cooking you that fish.’

‘Get some sleep, Pumpkin.’

She delayed. ‘Promise me you’ll eat something healthy.’

He held up a hand, as if pledging allegiance. ‘Everything I hate and more.’

‘Love you, Dad,’ she said, then slowly walked down the hall.

Striker watched her go, feeling as useless and ineffective as he had after Amanda had died. In five minutes he’d gone from feelings of love to rage to betrayal — and now he was back at love again. Intertwined with a lot of guilt. Sometimes he felt like his emotions were an endless ocean, and he was a wayward buoy floating up and down on the rough waters, being dragged wherever the currents took him.

And usually those currents were unpredictable and dangerous.

‘I love you, Courtney,’ he said.

But the room was empty.