‘What exactly is going on here?’ he demanded.

Striker stepped forward to meet the man. ‘Your patient has escaped.’

‘Who? Not Billy?’

‘Yes, Billy. He just killed two cops and the ambulance attendants.’

Dr Ostermann wavered where he stood. For a moment, Striker thought he might keel over in front of him. But then he placed his hands on the receptionist’s counter and blinked.

‘Oh God. Oh dear God,’ he got out.

‘Let’s go,’ Striker said. ‘You’re coming with me.’

This seemed to wake the doctor up. ‘Go? But . . . but where?’

‘Three blocks north. To Billy’s place.’

Dr Ostermann took a full step back. ‘Billy’s place? But-but-but . . . why me?’

‘Because you’re the only one I know who has any kind of a rapport with the man. He’s your patient, Doctor. Depending on how things go out there, we might have need of you.’

‘But, but I can’t—’

‘You’re coming, Doctor. End of discussion.’

Striker took Dr Ostermann by the arm and guided him out of the front doors of the facility. Before closing the door, Striker looked back at the receptionist and gave the order. ‘Lock this place down. Every door, every window. And don’t open up again until the police return.’

The receptionist nodded daftly, blinked, then got herself moving and hurried down the hall. With her gone, Striker turned to face the front and spotted Felicia racing back to their car. He pushed Dr Ostermann forward, down the building’s steps. When they reached the cruiser, he gave the man an intense stare.

‘Prepare yourself, Doctor,’ he said. ‘We’re about to find out just how good a psychiatrist you really are.’

Fifty-Four

Billy Mercury lived in a rundown dump in the thirty-six hundred block of East Hastings Street. Safe Haven Suites. Striker knew the building well.

Safe Haven.

Nothing here was safe, and it sure as hell wasn’t a haven. The place was a halfway house for people of all types who were trying to glue their life pieces back together again. Everyone from the mentally ill to the criminally minded lived here.

It had been that way for ten years.

The place was poorly designed. Having been constructed and reconstructed several times over the years in order to create more and more suites, the layout was now a maze. All the evennumbered suites faced on to the front side of the building, which was Hastings Street. All the odd-numbered suites – like Billy’s unit, number 103 – backed out on to the north lane of Pender. Knowing this, Striker dumped his vehicle at the east end of the laneway, then got out on foot.

A few blocks north and east was the primary crime scene, where Billy had killed two cops and two paramedics. There were more than six units up there now, and Striker considered calling a few of them away to block off the north side of the building. Even though Billy had no exit there, it was always good practice to have the place contained.

In situations like this, surprises were generally bad.

Striker got on the radio. ‘We need a few more units to this location,’ he said.

The dispatcher’s response was blunt. ‘There are none. I’ve got some coming from District 4, but they’re gonna be a while.’

Striker thought this over. ‘Send the first one here to cover the north side of the building. I don’t want this guy running on me.’

The dispatcher said she would, and Striker opened the trunk. Inside were a shotgun and two bulletproof vests. He took out Felicia’s vest and handed it to her. He then gave his own vest to Dr Ostermann.

‘Put it on,’ Striker ordered.

The doctor said nothing, and quickly draped it around himself. Once he had his arms through the openings, Striker readjusted the straps so that the trauma place was properly centre. He gave it a hard rap with his knuckles.

It was good.

Felicia took notice. ‘You need a vest, Jacob.’

‘Just keep your eyes up,’ he told her. ‘Billy could be anywhere right now.’

‘Which is all the more reason you need some Kevlar.’

He gave her a hard look. ‘We only got two.’

‘Then take Ostermann’s vest and keep him here out of trouble.’

‘The doctor comes.’

‘But—’

‘He’s the only one Billy trusts and connects with. We might need him, and if we do there won’t be time to come back to the car. The doctor comes.’

Dr Ostermann cleared his throat nervously. Back in the safe setting of the clinic environment, he had offered a powerful and impressive aura; now he looked as scared as a field mouse. ‘Billy has never been an especially close patient of mine,’ he said. ‘He’s generally resistant to my suggestions.’

Striker ignored the man. He took out the shotgun and slammed the trunk of the car. The heavy black steel and rubberized grip felt good in his hands. Like a little piece of heaven. He racked a round, then gave them both a nod.

‘Game on.’

The alleyway was narrow and long.

Striker led them down it, creeping westward slowly. He went first, with Felicia at the rear, bracketing the doctor between them.

Lining the right side of the lane were the back entrances to the numerous small shops that opened up on to East Hastings Street – Bridal Dreams wedding gown and dress shop; Dario’s Italian meats; and the Italian Bakery. Above these shops, along the top floor, were more rented suites. Their extended balconies were perfect spots for a sniper.

‘Watch the balconies,’ Striker told Felicia.

‘Copy,’ she said. ‘I got the balconies.’

They moved on.

To the left, the backsides of houses lined the lane – all the homes from East Pender Street. Each one was a carbon copy of the next. Standard lot. Square back yard. Small unattached garage.

Another perfect place for an ambush.

Striker relaxed his fingers on the shotgun. The black steel of the trigger guard was cold against his skin, but it felt good. Felt like reassurance. Like protection.

They reached the parking lot to Safe Haven Suites.

Striker stopped at the beginning of the fence and used it as concealment. He took the moment to slow down their pace – which was always a good thing in moments like this – and reassess how things might unfold if they got into a gunfight in this area. The key was to never lose control over yourself.

Calmness equalled precision; and smoothness equalled speed.

‘You see his suite?’ Felicia asked from behind.

‘Hold on,’ he said.

Striker leaned around the edge of the fence and studied the parking lot and rear of the building. The lot was small, barely able to hold five or six cars, and the pavement was sloped. Immediately behind the parking lot was a tall wooden fence, the paint chipped and muddied. Rising up out of the fence, dead centre, was an old wooden staircase that led to the upper floors.

Striker pointed to the top, west side.

‘That should be Billy’s unit.’

‘But he’s unit 103,’ Felicia said. ‘Shouldn’t that be the ground floor?’

Striker nodded. ‘Should be, but it isn’t here. This entire place is ass-backwards.’ He glanced at Dr Ostermann. The man’s face was white, tense. His breathing was too fast. ‘You ever been here for a home visit?’

Dr Ostermann shook his head. ‘No, never. I always saw Billy at the clinic. And, of course, at Riverglen.’

Striker frowned. He had been hoping for a layout of the suite. Not knowing was never good. For a moment he considered looking at one of the other suites – this was always good practice in apartment blocks where, floor after floor, the layout was the same – but he soon killed that idea. Safe Haven Suites was too much of a mishmash. It wouldn’t help.

Like it or not, they’d be going in blind.

Before moving in, Striker took one last look at the buildings flanking Safe Haven – at the empty balconies and then at the open garages. He saw no signs of threat, but that didn’t alleviate his concern. He didn’t like the idea of climbing the staircase before clearing the yards – it left them clustered together and in the open.