The survivor

Seventy-Two

Half an hour later, Striker sat on the examination table with his shirt off and an Intern assessing his head wound. His head was ringing and all sounds were dull, but what bothered him most was how weak he felt. Despite the lean muscle that covered his body, he felt thin, exposed. Had he not already been in such good shape, he would have broken down by now.

He wanted sleep.

The Intern was a young blonde girl. Striker allowed her to do her thing, all the while letting his own mind wander to the Critical Care Room, where Patricia Kwan was being treated. The thought of her made his head hurt — almost as much as his hands. He turned them over, studied his palms, and assessed the redness. When he made a fist, the skin felt swollen, like it might tear if he tightened his fingers too much.

The Intern took notice. ‘Doctor Hart is the Specialist. He’ll look at that. Should be here any minute.’

A knock came on the door, and Felicia entered the room. ‘Hey.’

Striker looked at her, not wanting to know but having to ask. ‘She okay?’

‘Patricia?’ Felicia shrugged. ‘Gonna take some time to know.’

‘What about her daughter?’

‘No news on Riku Kwan either.’ Felicia moved around the Intern, sat down on the only chair the room offered, and pulled a Cadbury chocolate bar from her coat pocket. She caught Striker’s stare and held it up for him to see. ‘Hazelnut. Got it from the vending machine in the staff lounge.’ She broke off a piece, leaned forward and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘For the pain.’

Striker chewed. The chocolate tasted wonderful, and he realised how hungry he was.

The Intern tutted as she assessed the gash that ran horizontally across Striker’s upper left brow. She wiped away some blood and said, ‘This is going to require stitches. But first we’ll have to get you in for some scans.’

Striker looked at her. ‘Scans? What kinda scans?’

‘CT. X-ray for sure.’

‘How long will that take?’

‘A few hours.’

‘Absolutely not. Just stitch me up.’

‘You hit your head pretty hard, Detective Striker,’ the young woman began. ‘I would really recommend-’

‘Just stitch the goddam thing.’

The Intern frowned. ‘Very well. Hold this against the wound.’ She then turned and headed out of the room, presumably to get supplies.

As she left, the Specialist walked in. Dr Hart was a tall man, terribly thin, with a face so long and gaunt it made Ich look tanned and square-jawed. He offered only the briefest introduction to Striker and did not so much as look at Felicia. He turned Striker’s hands over, asked him to make a fist, then nodded sagely.

‘Minor burns,’ he finally said. ‘Chemical. Not quite second degree. You’re lucky.’

‘Don’t feel so lucky,’ Striker told him.

‘Have you seen Ms Kwan?’ The doctor spoke the words without emotion. ‘Trust me, you’re lucky.’ He pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled on it. ‘Get this cream, apply it several times a day for two weeks. It will help with the skin elasticity. The scarring will fade over months.’

Striker nodded. ‘What the hell was it — battery acid?’

‘No, much worse. It was nitric acid, and in a highly concentrated form. Corrosive on human flesh and extremely disfiguring.’

Felicia interrupted. ‘Nitric acid? I’ve never heard of it.’

The doctor cast her a sideways glance, as if her comment was an annoyance. He finished working on Striker, then turned around and without another word, headed for the exit. When he reached the doorway, Striker called out to him.

‘Hey, Doc, tell me… Patricia Kwan — is she going to make it?’

Dr Hart stopped in the doorway. He gave Striker a long, hard look and raised his hands in a who-knows gesture.

‘Keep the stitches clean,’ he said, and left the room.

After the Intern stitched the gash on Striker’s brow, Striker and Felicia left the treatment room. Felicia walked slowly, and Striker loved her for it. Every muscle in his back felt bruised, deep down into his bones.

‘How’s your head?’ she asked.

‘Attached.’

‘The doctor said you have a concussion.’ She held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

‘Tuesday,’ he said, and smiled.

‘You’re such a shit.’

They continued on. Striker steered Felicia away from the east hallway, where Patricia Kwan’s room was located, and where there were now an entire slew of cops guarding and taping off the scene. No doubt Noodles would be there, or at least on his way. And Deputy Chief Laroche, too.

Striker was in no mood to talk to him.

They took the east elevator down to the first floor, then went outside through the north side exit. The sun was out, fighting through the cloud. The moment the hospital door closed behind them, Striker spotted the very people he was trying to avoid — Inspector Beasley and his diminutive leader, Deputy Chief Laroche.

They were parked out front.

Striker studied him through the windshield. The Deputy Chief’s face looked tired, like he hadn’t gotten his full ten hours’ sleep last night, and there was plenty of agitation in his tight facial muscles. The sight should have made Striker smile, but he didn’t. Oddly, he felt for the man.

Much as Striker hated to admit it, Laroche had his own stresses, too.

Laroche exited the White Whale, which was parked at the kerb. As he slammed the passenger door, he spotted Striker. Instantly, his dark eyes narrowed and his white face turned red.

‘What the hell have you done now, Striker?’ he asked.

Striker stopped walking. ‘What have I done?’

‘You’re damn right, you. Everywhere you go I have to follow with more men and more crime scenes. We got six of them now, and that’s just the primaries, set up from here to Dunbar. Department’s running out of goddam crime-scene tape, and I’m out of men. You’ve effectively killed our budget for the entire year.’

Striker looked back, deadpan. ‘Yes, I know you’re very concerned about your budget, sir. And I’m sure Constable Kwan will be too — if she survives her injuries.’

Laroche’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not the one who put her in that position.’

‘Of course not, because you don’t do anything. Only thing you do well is your hair. You got one out of place, by the way.’

‘Striker-’

‘You know, Kwan might care about your budget, too. If she survives her injuries. And if we can find her daughter.’

‘Don’t be so-’

‘Riku Kwan is still missing, by the way, in case you weren’t aware of that. I know she’s just a young girl and her safety doesn’t rank up there with your fiscal matters, but I thought you should know.’

Laroche pointed a finger. ‘I’m writing you up, Striker. And I’ll be forwarding this to Internal. Today.’

The Deputy Chief turned away from Striker, towards Inspector Beasley, and began giving the man shit about something. Striker ignored them both. There were more important things to focus on right now. In order to learn Red Mask’s identity, they were going to have to learn more about the Shadow Dragons.

And that meant using every resource Striker had.

He got on his cell and called up Meathead, the man who had the most connections to experts on Asian gangs. Meathead answered on the second ring, and Striker filled him in on what kind of expert they needed.

‘So?’ Striker asked. ‘You know of any?’

Meathead’s reply was quick and definitive. ‘Yeah, just one. The Lamb. ’