The survivor

Fifty-One

Over an hour later, Striker stood in the crowded admitting area of St Paul’s Hospital and sipped coffee from a paper cup. The nurse had kindly brought it to him, and it was just as bad as the sludge they cooked up in Homicide.

Striker’s hands shook as he held the cup. Enough to spill some of the brew over the rim and burn his skin. It was a normal reaction, he told himself. Especially after his second firefight in two days.

He only wished he could believe the inner voice.

With almost two days gone, it felt like they were losing ground. Red Mask had escaped again. And Patricia Kwan was now fighting for her life. All they’d found in the gunman’s wake was a stolen Toyota Camry parked out front. Even with a priority rush, the blood results would take weeks, and he had little faith in any prints coming back.

It ate away at him.

Even worse was the woman’s daughter, Riku Kwan. The girl was missing, which was only one step away from the worst possible scenario. When Felicia entered the room, Striker broke from the negativity that was sucking him down and met her in the doorway.

‘Did they find her?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Felicia said. ‘Riku Kwan is nowhere to be found. We got her flagged as a missing person on CPIC, but so far no one’s got a clue.’

Striker ran through the list in his head. ‘What about her father?’

‘Separated from the mom, we think. Turns out he’s an international lawyer. Pretty good one, too. Makes a gazillion dollars a year. He’s away on business right now — somewhere in Asia. We’re trying to get a hold of him, but so far no luck.’

‘We got lots of luck — it’s just all bad. What about the Amber Alert?’

‘On all the stations.’

‘TV or radio?’

‘Both. They’re broadcasting her name on every station.’

‘And photo?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I want her picture up there too.’

‘They’re working on it, Jacob.’ Felicia looked past Striker towards the Fast Track Admittance and bit her lip. ‘The mother in there?’

‘They took her to surgery a while ago.’

Felicia sighed. ‘Let’s hope she knows something when she wakes up.’

‘Let’s just hope she wakes up.’

The words felt heavy. And Striker couldn’t help thinking things might have been different if he’d gotten there sooner. If, if, if. If Deputy Chief Laroche hadn’t told Ich to shelve the feed. If they’d gotten the audio sooner. If he’d pressed just a little bit harder and stood his ground.

There were a million ifs.

Felicia touched his shoulder. ‘You did good in there.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Jacob-’

He pulled away. ‘I had him, Felicia, I fuckin’ had him. Damn near lined up. If I’d just been a little bit quicker, that prick would be six feet under right now.’

‘And if you hadn’t done what you did, Patricia Kwan would already be dead.’

‘She still might be.’

‘Focus on the investigation,’ she said.

‘Which part? We got yet another crime scene and what has it brought us? Nothing. Just a reminder that we got a bunch of dead kids already, and one more who is targeted and still out there somewhere where we can’t find her.’

‘We’ll find her, Jacob.’

He turned his body so that he was facing Felicia. ‘What we don’t know is, why. I mean, Christ, do we have even one decent connection between these kids?’

‘Three of them were members of the Debate Club.’

‘What about Kwan?’

‘Unfortunately, no, she’s not on the list — but it’s the closest thing we’ve got so far.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over. Debate Club. It seemed a ridiculous notion. And Riku Kwan wasn’t a member.

Just then, the door to the surgery room opened up and the doctor emerged. His name was Dr Adler — a tall, sandy-haired Australian man with an accent thicker than Vegemite. He had already taken off his surgical cap, but was still wearing the pale green gown. He looked as tired as Striker felt.

‘How is she?’ Striker asked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Critical, but stable.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t know.’ He scratched his nails down his face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. ‘The bullet didn’t have an exit wound. It fragmented, and the pieces ricocheted off the scapula, then rebounded back off her sternum — like a pinball in her thorax. It did a lot of damage to her liver and lung.’

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Sounds like a Hydra-Shok round.’

Felicia nodded, and Striker returned his attention to the doctor. ‘We need to speak to her.’

Dr Adler looked at Striker like he’d lost his mind. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s not a request, Doctor.’

‘It doesn’t have to be. I’m sorry, Detective, but my responsibility is to the patient. Mrs Kwan is already heavily sedated, delirious, and in great pain. To try to bring her out of such a state could possibly-’

‘Her daughter’s life depends on it,’ Felicia said.

This seemed to shut the doctor up.

Striker nodded solemnly. ‘If we can’t locate her daughter, the girl will be murdered. And right now the only lead we got is the woman in there.’

Dr Adler looked away, thought for a moment. The moment lasted a long time. Finally, after much obvious internal debate, he muttered something Striker could scarcely make out.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s it. And any signs of cardiac distress, I shut it down.’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said quietly. ‘Just find the girl.’

Fifteen minutes later, Striker stood at the third-floor entrance to the Critical Care Unit. He was dressed in a pale-green smock that barely fit around the bulge of his Sig Sauer, and a green hair-net that looked more like a woman’s shower cap from the seventies than proper surgical attire. The hospital gear clung to his body like green under-armour, testifying to the thickness of his shoulders and chest.

Felicia stood beside him, dressed in the exact same fashion. She looked him over, her eyes resting on his chest.

Striker noticed. He cleared his throat, said: ‘Anyone ever tell you that hair-net really brings out your eyes?’

The nurse appeared — a small chubby black woman. ‘This way,’ she said. She used a key card to open the door and then ushered them into the Critical Care Unit. They followed her down to room four, where Patricia Kwan was recovering.

When Striker entered the room, he was taken aback.

Everything was exactly the same as when Amanda had died two years ago. Not a damn thing was different. And for a moment, he felt sucker-punched by life. He hated this hospital. Hated everything about it.

He suppressed the feeling, got to work.

The room smelled strongly of bleach and disinfectants. Aside from the bleak light that creaked through the brown drapes, everything appeared cold and sterile. Patricia Kwan laid supine on the bed, with both bed railings locked in the up-position. Tubes and wires ran from both her arms into several machines that stood bedside, an array of red digital numbers blinking across their screens.

Her chest barely moved.

Striker moved closer, stared at Patricia. Her face looked unnatural. Swollen. The skin appeared distended and thin, like an overstuffed sausage membrane. Her dark eyes were slightly open. They were glossy, like wet candy. She moaned, a sound that was barely audible in the small room, and Striker wondered if she did this in response to their presence, her pain, or the nightmares she was suffering.

He turned to the nurse. ‘She even awake?’

‘Stupor,’ was all the nurse offered.

Dr Adler entered the room and monitored the machines. The expression on his weary face was one of concern, and he gave Striker and Felicia a look that suggested it was time to get things started.

Striker stepped forward. ‘Ms Kwan? Ms Kwan? Patricia?’

The woman’s eyes blinked a few times, then turned towards him.

‘I’m Detective Jacob Striker from the Vancouver Police Department. I’m the cop that saved you.’

She offered no response, verbal or otherwise. She just stared at him through empty eyes.

‘Patricia, I know this is hard for you right now, but these are questions I have to ask. Do you remember what happened tonight? Back at the house?’

Patricia Kwan shivered beneath the blankets. She tried to speak, only managed to croak, then began to cough. When the fit subsided, the nurse gave her water. She made another attempt to speak, and the voice which came through was low and scratchy and weak.

‘The house… was on fire.’

‘On fire?’

‘ Fire. There was fire… all around me… out of control.’

‘Patricia-’

‘Dragons… breathing fire…’

Felicia looked at the doctor. ‘This is no good,’ she said. ‘The woman is delirious.’

Striker placed his hands on the bed railing, fingers gripping so tightly his knuckles blanched. As he leaned down to hear Patricia better, the smell of her body odour hit him. She smelled bad. Like she was sick. Like a dog ready to be put down. He ignored the smell, continued: ‘Do you know the man who attacked you? Do you recognise him from anywhere?’

Patricia said nothing, didn’t move. And for a moment Striker thought he had lost her altogether. But then her eyes grew wide and regained some clarity. She jolted in her bed.

‘My daughter!’

She tried to sit up, let out an agonised wail, grabbed at her ribs and then collapsed back on the bed. The doctor and nurse immediately stepped forward to check the machines.

As they moved, Felicia’s cell went off. She reached down for it, and the nurse glared at her.

‘Not in here you don’t.’

Striker gestured for her to take the call outside, and she did, leaving him alone with the nurse and the doctor, and he was grateful for it.

‘Patricia,’ he began again.

She gripped his arm. ‘My daughter, please, my daughter.’

‘Do you have any idea where she might be? We’re trying to locate her.’

‘Find her, please. You have to find her… find her…’

‘Where does she go? Who does she hang out with? Is there anyone I can call?’ Striker peppered her with questions. But the woman’s eyes glazed, and she retreated back inside her body. Her facial muscles relaxed. She deflated against the bed like a balloon with a fast leak and sweat dappled her pallid skin.

‘Dragons,’ she said one last time, her voice but a whisper. ‘The house was filled with dragons.’

One of the machines to Striker’s left let out a series of beeps, and the doctor motioned for the nurse. She hurried over, adjusted the settings, and gave the doctor and Striker a fierce motherly look.

‘That’s it,’ Dr Adler said to Striker. ‘No more.’

Striker didn’t argue the point. He retreated to the doorway, where he stopped, turned, stared. He watched the nurse and doctor fuss over their patient. Sadness swept through him, so heavy he felt the sorrow deep down in his lungs. The woman on the bed may as well have been Amanda all over again. And Striker recalled with horrifying clarity how he had felt two years ago, knowing his wife was dying and wondering how he was ever going to tell Courtney — their thirteen-year-old daughter — that her mother was never coming home again.

The memory cut into him as deeply now as it had done back then.

He stood in the doorway and stared at Patricia Kwan until the nurse ushered him into the hall. Outside, he met up with Felicia, who snapped her cell phone shut.

‘That was the coroner,’ she said. ‘The autopsy of our remaining gunman is done.’

Striker nodded.

It was the first good thing he’d heard all day.