‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But this is a mistake.’

He took a long look at the swarm of media at the top of Hermon Drive, then glanced back at the raging fire, which had taken over the neighbouring row of townhomes. It was a beast of a blaze, and there was little doubt that the entire building would be nothing more than a blackened shell by the time the fire crews got everything under control.

With billows of hot ash and black oily smoke blotting out any trace of blue sky, Striker turned away from Felicia and Laroche and headed for the waiting ambulance. This wasn’t over. He knew it. Something was wrong. And because of Laroche, there was nothing he could do about it.

He was being taken from the road.

Forty-Nine

The visit to Burnaby General Hospital went fast, thank God. The doctor who treated Striker was one he had dealt with before on a few occasions. Dr Alison Montcalm was as friendly as ever, making light of the situation, yet also warning him of the risk of infection.

It was the standard speech.

The burn was worse than Striker had originally thought – first degree to the skin of his left-hand fingers, but second degree on the base of his palm. It hurt like hell.

Dr Montcalm gently cleaned the wound with a cold solution that stung. ‘Are you left-handed?’ she asked.

Striker winced. ‘No. Right.’

‘I’m surprised you grabbed the doorknob with your left hand then.’

‘I had my gun out at the time.’

Dr Montcalm nodded as she listened. She dressed the wound with antibiotic ointment, then taped a light dressing around the area to keep it clean. Striker looked at it and frowned. The blister that had formed was dead centre at the base of his hand, and it stung every time he so much as flexed it.

‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it,’ Dr Montcalm said. ‘I’m sure you’ll survive.’

Striker smiled at her. ‘Yeah. I have a way of doing that.’

He left Burnaby General as quickly as he came. Felicia had asked him to wait while she finished tidying up the crime scene back on Hermon Drive, but he couldn’t stay there a second longer. He hated hospitals. Always had, always would. Too many bad memories. It wasn’t until he was free of the front doors that he felt good again.

It was half-past noon, and he needed a mental break from it all, so he hailed a taxi and headed to the one place that ever gave him any solace.

He headed for home.

Once home, Striker climbed out of the taxi and paid the man. Far above, the sun was still out and glowing a strange, pale white colour in the frosty sky. It reminded Striker of the fire.

He killed the thought and started up the sidewalk. Despite the fact that it was lunchtime, frost still covered the gate. The air was so cold he could see his breath, even in the daylight. Winter was still here, no doubt, keeping the grass of his lawn frozen and brittle and the front porch steps slippery.

He unlocked the front door and went inside. The first thing he noticed was the flickering glow of the flames in the fireplace. It warmed the room with a gentle, welcoming heat. The soft lighting of the den made everything feel cosy and safe. And as Striker looked around the room, he smiled despite his pain and weariness.

Be it ever so humble, he thought.

He took off his coat, being careful not to catch the dressing of his hand on the cuff of the sleeve, and hung it up on the coat rack. Then he moved into the den and crashed down on the couch. Kicked off his shoes. Put his feet up on the table and enjoyed the heat.

A second or two later, he heard a door open down the hall, and Courtney came out.

‘Dad?’ she called.

‘Hey, Pumpkin.’

She shuffled down the hall on her crutches, then stopped at the entrance to the den. ‘I thought you were at work,’ she said.

‘I thought you were at school.’

A surprised look spread across her features, as if she realized she’d just been caught. ‘It’s a professional day.’

‘Hmm. Just like last Friday.’

Courtney’s blue eyes turned shifty, then they focused on his hand and turned hard. ‘What happened?’

‘Rough game of Rock-Paper-Scissors.’

‘I’m serious.’

He let out a long breath. ‘There was a fire in the projects. The burn is minor.’

She looked at the bandage, as if she could see right through all the gauze. ‘It gonna heal?’

‘It’s only first degree,’ he lied, ‘so yeah, in time.’

For a long moment, the two of them turned silent, Striker enjoying the heat of the fire and being home for the moment; and Courtney moving around the room and gathering her things.

Striker caught himself watching her. She was so much like her mother at times. A carbon copy of Amanda. The way she looked at him, the way she pursed her lips when she was thinking, the way she made soft clicking sounds with her teeth when she got stressed.

And the temper, too. The moodiness. In that, she was definitely her mother’s daughter. Sometimes, when Striker looked at her, he felt like he was staring at Amanda all over again, and it made him feel anxious and regretful for all that had happened in the past.

He tried not to think about it.

When Courtney put on her runners and started lacing them up, he took notice. ‘Going back to school on a Pro Day – wow, you are dedicated.’

‘I have other things to do.’

‘Like rehab,’ he reminded her.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Dad, I’m going to my appointment, okay? God, you’re always riding me. What, does it make you happy or something?’

‘What would make me happy is if you would stop skipping your therapy sessions. You need them.’

‘And I’m going!’

Striker nodded. ‘Good. Say hi to Annalisa for me. And get her to check out your braces again, make sure they’re the right level.’

Courtney’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. ‘They’re crutches, Dad, okay? Crutches – not braces. I keep telling you that.’

‘Crutches, braces – it makes no difference.’

‘It makes a difference to me,’ she said, and her eyes suddenly looked wet.

Striker saw this, and he felt his heart clench. ‘I’m sorry, Pumpkin, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You never mean to do anything.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

Courtney offered no reply. She finished tying her laces, then stood back up. When she reached the door, she opened it and stepped outside without saying goodbye.

‘I can drive you,’ he said.

She looked back at him and her blue eyes were ice. ‘Why don’t you drive yourself, Dad. Take a trip down Sensitivity Street. Might do you some good.’

‘Courtney—’

She slammed the door behind her and was gone.

For a moment, Striker considered going after her, but then reconsidered. It would do no good. In fact, it would probably only make things worse. Courtney was just like her mother; when she got into one of her moods, nothing would fix it but time and space. And now he wondered what he’d done to set her off this time. He went over their conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong, then finally gave up. His hand hurt. His head hurt. And he was damn tired.

In the medicine cabinet was some Extra Strength Tylenol he’d bought for Courtney last year. It was old, probably past its due date, but he took some anyway. Then his mind returned to work, like it always did. He plucked his cell from his pocket and read the screen in hopes of finding voicemail.

There was none.

It pained him. Larisa was still out there somewhere, and here he was, taken off the road – forced from the job on injury reserve. He could have fought the issue, battled the doctor and Laroche, but then they would have been forced to fill out the Compensation Board forms right there and then. And once that was done, no one got back on the road without seeing the specialist.