The survivor

Forty-Four

Striker and Felicia arrived back at the intersection of Gore and Pender Street, where the white van that held the three dead men in it was still cordoned off.

Trixie was secured in the side compartment of the police wagon, yelling and pounding her head against the steel door. It was nothing unusual, and Striker kept her there until he was ready.

When he had finished discussing his plan with Felicia, he made his way back to the wagon. The metal door was heavy. The latch felt cold against his hand and stubborn to move. He reefed it upward, hard, and the latch finally popped. The steel hinges groaned as the door swung outward. A musty smell of body odour and piss floated out of the cab.

‘Out,’ Striker ordered.

Trixie was crumpled against the grey steel wall of the compartment, still banging her head softly but continuously. Striker ordered her out again. When she didn’t respond, he reached in and grabbed her arm. The movement woke Trixie from her stupor, and she stumbled as she exited the wagon, almost landing face first on the pavement.

Striker caught her, held her up. He studied her as she looked around.

Her face took on a twisted look when she saw she was at Gore and Pender — one of her familiar hangouts — and not her usual abode of the Vancouver Jail. For the first time since Striker and Felicia had found her, her dark eyes looked focused and wary. She stared at the van, then at the restaurant down the road behind it.

‘Why are we here?’ she asked.

‘Information,’ Striker said.

Trixie’s face darkened. She was still cuffed, hands behind her back, and moving her arms around, trying to adjust the sharper edges of steel. Striker took her left arm and Felicia her right, and they escorted her across the road. Right up to the van.

The doors were closed.

Striker took the handle of the left door, Felicia the right. Then Striker turned to watch Trixie’s expression. He gave Felicia the word and they both reefed open the doors, revealing the carnage inside. When Trixie saw the three bodies, her face remained impassive. But when Striker reached in and turned the old man’s head so that she could see his face, her mouth tightened and her body twitched.

She knew him.

Just like Striker had known she would. He saw that Felicia had seen the change in expression, too.

‘I don’t know him,’ Trixie said.

Striker squeezed her arm. ‘Bullshit. Who is he?’

Trixie gave him a sideways sneer. ‘How the hell should I know? Lotsa old men down here.’

‘You twitch every time you see one?’ Felicia asked.

‘What you talking ’bout, girl?’ Trixie swore under her breath, then looked at Striker. ‘These cuffs are diggin’ into my goddam wrist.’

He made no move to loosen them. ‘Want a smoke?’

Her eyes lit up. ‘I’d fuckin’ love ya for one.’

‘Then turn around.’

Trixie did, and Striker removed the handcuffs. He walked over to the cruiser and returned with a pack of smokes. Camels. He always kept some in the glove box for occasions just like this. He handed her one. When she stuck it between her lips, he lit it and met her stare, saying, ‘Don’t mess around, right?’

She nodded, held up the smoke. ‘My word on it, man.’

Striker let her take a few puffs and calm down, then continued, ‘I’ve spent ten years down here, Trixie, and I’ve never seen this guy before. But you’ve spent your entire life down here; you know everyone and everyone knows you. So tell me, who is he?’

Trixie looked back at the old man in the van. Her mouth dropped open, and she spoke between ragged breaths. ‘Honest, I ain’t never seen him before. I swear to God, swear to God, swear to God.’

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘I guess you’re right, we should just lodge her. You wanna go back to the wagon and start the paperwork?’

Felicia looked at Trixie, said pleasantly, ‘Love to.’

When she was gone, Striker turned back to Trixie. Without emotion he said, ‘Listen up. I’ve dealt with you hundreds of times, so you know my word is good. Tell me who this guy is and no one will ever know. Don’t tell me, and I’ll throw you in the tank on this chicken-shit breach.’

Trixie’s hand trembled as she took a long drag. She blew it out with a fluttery breath, and Striker kept talking. ‘I’ll keep you in the tank on the Obstruct charge too, got it? For as long as I possibly can. Up to a week, for sure. Maybe more.’

She glanced at him, and a nervous tension filled her eyes.

Striker smiled. ‘You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? I can tell. How long’s it been since your last fix? Six, seven hours? Already getting your insides all twisted?’

‘Please-’

‘Feeling that hunger just eating you alive? Well, just fucking wait. Wait till every cell in your body is screaming out for more crack and you start getting the dry heaves and the shakes, and then you’ll realise you’re only one day into your stay-’

‘I don’t know the fucker!’ she screamed. ‘I don’t know him, I don’t know him, I don’t fucking know him!’

Striker stopped talking. He just stood there calmly, giving Trixie an eternity to think. She was sweating, trembling, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. And he no longer cared.

This was about the kids in jeopardy, not her goddam addiction.

‘Either way, I’ll find out who he is,’ Striker said. ‘The fingerprinting will just take time, and it’s time I don’t have to waste.’ He took a half step closer, got right into her face and whispered, ‘I got kids dying out there, Trixie. And this old man might be the link I need to save them. So make your choice — tell me who he is and you walk, and no one knows any the better. Don’t tell me, and you spend the next two weeks being drug-sick in a jail cell. And I promise you this: when I find out who this old prick is — and I will find out — I’ll spread it round the streets that you were the rat who told me. So when you’re finished being drug-sick in your cell for ten goddam days, you can be welcomed back to the Skids the proper way.’

The look of anxiety in her eyes turned to outright fear, and she trembled even worse. ‘If they knew I told you, they’d kill me.’

‘No one will know, Trixie — unless you don’t tell me.’

Her eyes widened when she looked back at the old man. She was still terrified of him, even in death. And that spoke lots to Striker. Finally, Trixie gave in. ‘I don’t know the other two,’ she said. ‘But the old one… he was a bad man, Detective. A very bad man.’

‘His name.’

‘They call him “The Doctor”.’

‘His name, Trixie.’

She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, trembled.

‘Kieu,’ she said, and she started to cry. ‘His name is Jun Kieu.’