‘Should I go after her, or not?’
Felicia did up the last button of her shirt, let out a frustrated sound. ‘Just leave her be, Jacob. Give her some space and time. She needs it.’
He rubbed his hands on his face, felt the frustration spreading through him like a hot fever. This wasn’t fair. Goddammit, none of this was fair. He’d done everything right as a husband. Done his best as a father. And no matter how hard he tried with relationships, no matter what he did, he failed. Always. Utterly and completely.
And Courtney was suffering because of it.
His resilience crumbled away. He moved over by the fire and came up to Felicia. He reached for her hands. Hesitated. Then he let his own hands fall to his sides.
‘Look. I’m sorry. Really. I should never have started-’
‘I should go.’
‘Go? But it’s past midnight and you live way out off Commercial. Just stay here for the night.’
Felicia glanced down the hall. ‘That is not a good idea.’
‘It’s the only idea.’ He grabbed her gently, turned her around. ‘You can use the spare bedroom, the one in the basement. There’s a shower down there, too. Hell, I think you still have some clothes here.’
Felicia looked out the window, at the heavy darkness of the night.
‘Just stay,’ Striker pleaded. ‘I’m asking you to. Please.’
She said nothing for a moment, just stood there, as if mulling the idea over. After a long moment, she tucked the tails of her shirt back into her pants, adjusted her belt, and muttered, ‘Fine.’
‘Good. I want you here.’
She ran her fingers through her hair. She reached up, touched his cheek and smiled. Then she sauntered out of the room. At the beginning of the hall, she stopped, looked back, and offered him a slight smile.
‘Pleasant dreams, Jacob.’
‘I’m sure.’
She laughed softly, a frustrated sound, then walked on.
Striker stood there with a deep sense of longing as he watched her sneak down the hall, turn the corner, and make her way down the stairs. Once he heard the last soft thumps of her feet on the staircase, he moved back to the couch. Tried to sleep. Couldn’t.
Aside from being horny, his mind wouldn’t rest. There were too many things he still needed to deal with. Courtney. And of course there was still Laroche: tomorrow, the Deputy Chief would close the Active Shooter file and take his gun. And maybe even place him on Mandatory Stress Leave. Again. File a report with Internal.
The list of problems was never-ending.
Sleep didn’t come easy, but the exhaustion helped. Eventually a deep, magnetic slumber overtook him, bringing on the nightmares. There were long red hallways and masked men. And of course there were the school kids, too. Screaming in the darkness. Calling out for him.
‘Detective Striker!’
‘Detective Striker!’
‘Detective Striker!’
But there was nothing he could do to save them.
Thursday
Twenty-Seven
Six thousand, three hundred and ninety-six miles away, in the entertainment district of Macau, Hong Kong, the Man with the Bamboo Spine sat in a stiff-backed chair made of black walnut wood and dyed-black leather. Cigarette smoke floated all around him.
It was ten p.m., local time, and the night was only beginning on the sixth floor of the Hotel Lisbon. This was the Lotus Flower Room. The deep red walls and ornate golden decor gave away the location to anyone who understood the significance.
The Man with the Bamboo Spine was not alone. Six men sat at the table with him. Four were Chinese, and two were white. The white guys had already laid down their hands.
The game was Texas Holdem. Once non-existent in Macau, it had caught on like wildfire. And the Man with the Bamboo Spine was pleased with the game, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he was very, very good at it. He was already up forty K. And this hand was going well.
His face helped him win. It was poker perfect. The disease had made sure of that, pulling back his skin so tight that expressions did not display across his harsh angular features. With eyes as black as oil sludge, he waited his opponent out.
‘Drink, sir?’
He turned his head and spotted the waitress, a diminutive girl with a pretty face and large fake breasts.
‘Hot water.’
The waitress hurried off across the room, her black high-heels clicking loudly on the marbled floor.
Across the table, the younger man finally bet. He was then checked by the big blind, and the Man with the Bamboo Spine raised them both. By the end of the round, the pot was past two hundred K and rising, and the last card could not have been a better one. King of hearts, completing the royal flush. He had the best hand of his life.
Then his cell rang.
Only one person ever called this phone. It existed for one purpose. So when it went off, a loud but ordinary ring, the Man with the Bamboo Spine put his cards down flat on the table and picked up. He listened for less than ten seconds, said, ‘Yes,’ and hung up.
With a royal flush for his hand and over four hundred thousand dollars in the pot, the Man with the Bamboo Spine stood up from the table and said, ‘Fold.’ Without another word, he took the elevator down to the ground floor where his driver was waiting.
It would take him twelve and a half hours to reach Vancouver, Canada, and the length of time was disconcerting.
Every minute was precious.
Twenty-Eight
When the phone rang, waking Striker at four-thirty in the morning, he was grateful for the interruption. He sat up with a jolt and snatched up the cell. ‘Detective Striker.’
The deep baritone response was as rough and smooth as sandpaper dipped in maple syrup. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.’
‘Rothschild?’
‘Get your ass out of bed.’
Striker blinked, surprised at hearing his old Sergeant’s voice. He looked across the room. Found the wall clock. Saw the time.
‘Jesus Christ, Mike, it’s not even five yet — what the hell’s going on?’
‘Just get your ass down here. And be quick about it. I’m on the Fraser. Right on the docks, south of Marine, behind the Superstore. At the C and D Plant.’
Striker scrabbled for a pen and paper, wrote down the address. Said, ‘Give me twenty minutes.’
‘Make it ten, the white-shirts are coming.’
Striker cursed. ‘Tell me it’s not Laroche.’
‘Just hurry the hell up, Shipwreck. And trust me on this one — you’re gonna wanna see this.’
Fifteen minutes later, Striker crossed into South Vancouver — District 3 — and neared the Fraser River. He sped the unmarked police cruiser down the slippery stretch of Marine Drive, then turned south on the old gravel road that twisted and turned, outlining the Fraser River. The road was half-frozen, and the car skidded at every turn.
If the road conditions were bad, the lighting was worse. The heavy blackness of night showed no hint of fading, and the relentless winds whipped the river into six-foot-high swells. Just ten feet away, the retaining wall gave way to the strong currents of the Fraser River. The water looked alive, angry. Striker eased his foot off the gas pedal.
No point in killing himself.
Just yet.
All along the shoreline, massive concrete smokestacks rose up like giant cannons, blasting steam into the night. Where the charcoal cloud ended and the billowing smoke began was impossible to tell. It was all one entity now, roaming slowly across the river. This was the industrial area, built up of pulp mills and gravel lots and concrete plants and import/export transfer stations.
No one but plant workers came down here.
At the next curve, Striker caught his first glimpse of the blue and red gleam. Three patrol cars were parked in the fog, in between a concrete plant and the shoreline.