‘Which particular programme?’

‘We called it SILC – Social Independence and Life Coping skills. The programme was designed to help some of our more stable patients gain their independence through what we called the trinity approach – regular counselling, group therapy sessions, and home visits. For some – for most – of the patients, SILC worked quite well. But for Billy, well, there were setbacks.’

‘What kind of setbacks?’ Striker asked.

‘Medication-related, mostly. Which sounds simple enough. But the medication was the only thing controlling his delusions. The group therapy sessions . . . these were aimed at the depression.’

‘And where exactly is Billy now?’

Dr Ostermann splayed his hands. ‘That’s the problem. I can’t get a hold of him. He is supposed to call into the office daily, but I’m afraid to say he hasn’t done so for quite some time. Almost a week.’ The doctor shook his head sadly. ‘This . . . unreliability was one of the reasons why he was removed from the group.’

‘Removed from the group, but not from the entire programme?’ Striker clarified.

‘Of course not, this is a rehabilitative programme, not a punitive one.’

‘You said, one of the reasons?’ Felicia noted.

Dr Ostermann nodded slowly. ‘Well, yes, there were other reasons as well.’

Striker pressed the issue. ‘What were they, Doctor?’

‘Billy had certain . . . obsessions.’

‘With what?’

‘More like with who,’ Dr Ostermann replied. He looked away from them for a brief moment and his lips puckered. ‘Billy was obsessed with Mandy Gill.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Striker said. ‘You’re only telling us this now?’

Dr Ostermann raised his hands in surrender. ‘It was never in a violent way,’ he insisted. ‘These were completely non-violent obsessions, I can assure you of that. Billy was never a . . . violent person.’

‘He was a soldier,’ Striker pointed out. ‘He is at least familiar with violence.’

Dr Ostermann tilted his head as he spoke. ‘Billy may have been a soldier, but he was a communications officer first,’ he explained.

‘Communications officer or not, he is still trained for violence,’ Striker replied.

‘Did he have obsessions with any of the other patients or staff?’ Felicia asked.

‘Well, yes. There was another, yes.’

Striker felt his blood pressure rising. ‘Names, Doctor. Names.’

‘She was another one of the patients. Her name is Sarah Rose.’

The surname meant nothing to Striker, but the first name made him pause. Sarah? Wasn’t that one of the names written down on the large piece of paper back at Larisa’s home? He looked at Felicia, and she nodded; she too had made the connection.

‘Sarah was the only one who really looked out for Billy,’ Dr Ostermann continued. ‘The only one who genuinely cared for him. I guess she was Billy’s only, well, friend. They became close. Too close. A romantic relationship, I believe – which was strictly against the rules of the therapy. I was forced to remove them from the group. It was for this very reason Sarah broke off their relationship.’

Striker couldn’t believe his ears.

‘Broke off their relationship?’ He swore out loud. This was more than a mental health nightmare, it was a possible drugfuelled domestic. He calmed his mind down and focused on the basics.

‘Were Sarah and Mandy close?’ he asked.

The doctor seemed perplexed by the question. ‘Yes, I believe they were. As close as anyone could get to Sarah – she was quite introverted, you know. Almost a recluse. It was all I could do, at times, to have her attend the counselling sessions. One time, I even had to get my receptionist to—’

‘Hold on a second,’ Striker said. ‘Sarah Rose isn’t one of the in-house patients?’

‘Oh dear lord, no. Sarah’s depression is quite treatable.’

‘So she’s not actually here? She’s out there on her own?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Give me her telephone number.’

‘Sarah does not have a telephone, but I do have her address.’

‘Then give me that, and a photograph of the woman if you have one.’

From his desk, Dr Ostermann pulled out a file and removed a photocopy of a picture of the woman. He also pulled out an old-fashioned Rolodex, found the address, then wrote it down on a yellow Post-it note. ‘This is the most current information we have on Sarah.’

Striker took the photocopy of the woman’s picture as well as the Post-it note. ‘We can finish this discussion later,’ he said. ‘Right now, we have to check on this woman’s welfare. You had better hope, Doctor, that she’s okay.’

Dr Ostermann’s face took on a tight expression, but he said nothing back.

Striker turned and gave Felicia a nod, and the two left the office and made their way down the long dark corridors of the Riverglen Mental Health Facility. They returned to their car, got inside, and headed towards Vancouver. Destination: the Oppenheimer area. More specifically, the violent slums of Princess Avenue.

It was time to see Sarah Rose.

Forty

The Adder sat in the driver’s seat of a plain white van. A GMC with double back doors and no rear windows. It could have been a work van. It could have been a delivery van, or any one of the old privately owned heaps around town. There were a million of them.

And that was why he had picked it.

Next to him on the centre console sat a small black Nokia cell phone. It was an old model by today’s standards. No camera. No touch-screen. Hell, no screen at all. No nothing. Just a plainJane model that was pre-paid through a 7-Eleven cash card. It was untraceable. And when the job was done, he would break it into pieces and discard them at the other end of town.

He was always overly careful. He had to be. The results of carelessness could be detrimental.

His legs jittered, and he began to fidget. The waiting was always the hardest part. Especially in a van that stank of old dampness and stale coffee. He looked at the paper cup of old Tim Horton’s decaf in the tray holder – the cup so old the writing had faded. He grabbed it, unrolled the window, and threw it outside.

Cold wind blew into the cab. Hit him like an invisible hand, slapping his skin. Far above, the sun shone almost white. All at once, it hit him, and he was slip . . . slip . . . slipping away. Back in time.

Back to then.

‘No, not now,’ he whispered. ‘Not again.’

His hands started to shake, and all at once he could hear the laughter all around him, as if it was happening right now, right here in the cab of the van. And then the sounds of the snapping started. Those terrible, thunderous crashing sounds.

He reached out, fiddled with the radio, and turned the knob to a station that didn’t exist. Cranked the volume and let the static sound fill his ears. That heavenly, heavenly noise . . .

It overpowered the old ghosts.

For now.

Still sweating, still shaking, he looked down at the cell again. As if sensing his desperation, it finally went off and relief flooded him. Only one person had this number. The Doctor. And so the Adder picked up on the first ring.

‘Yes.’ His voice was rough, weak.

‘He’s coming. There isn’t much time.’

The Adder nodded absently as if the Doctor could see him. ‘I am already here.’

‘Be careful, you can’t be seen.’

‘No one will know.’

The Doctor started to say more, but the Adder couldn’t listen. He hung up the cell and dropped it into the pocket of his black Kangaroo jacket. Zipped the pocket. Then pulled up the hoodie. Fighting the daemons of the past, he shouldered open the door and left the van.

The target suite was to the east, down the snaking, icy slope of Hermon Drive; the Adder knew this because he had already performed his recon of the area, and he had hauled all his gear inside the command room.