‘EvenHealth,’ she said. ‘How may I direct your call?’

‘Sorry, wrong number,’ Striker said, and hung up.

He scrolled back through the incoming calls and saw that the most recent two calls were blocked. Blocked calls were nothing out of the ordinary, but Striker didn’t like the timing. He called up his contact at the Bell, a guy named Clyde Hall, and asked him to run the incoming calls for Billy Mercury’s telephone number.

‘Off the record, of course,’ Striker added.

Clyde got back to him in less than thirty seconds. ‘Only two calls exist for today.’

Striker nodded as if the man could see him. ‘Numbers and times, Clyde.’

‘No problem.’

Clyde gave him the information, and Striker took it down. After thanking the man and hanging up, he looked at the data and frowned.

There was a correlation here.

Someone had called Billy Mercury’s telephone from an untraceable prepaid cell at exactly 1517 hours. This matched the time they left Mapleview Clinic. And then someone from the same untraceable cell had called again, just three minutes later – the time that they had arrived on scene at Billy’s.

A warning? Striker thought. A tip-off?

Or someone giving instructions?

He looked at the crazy writings on the table and at the delusional message on the MyShrine page, then he looked over at the folded clothes on the chair and the smoothed-out creaseless blanket in the corner of the room. Everything in this place spoke of madness and yet logic, delusions and yet clear, concise thought. And no matter where he looked, he saw no video recording equipment.

He didn’t like it. A bad feeling hung heavy in his chest. His instincts kicked in, and they were the one thing Striker never ignored. Something was wrong here.

They were missing something.

Fifty-Six

When Striker walked down the old wooden staircase to the north lane of Pender Street, directly behind Billy’s apartment, he saw that Car 10 had arrived. It was hard not to notice the man. Inspector Laroche was being his usual overbearing self.

Striker stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked around the scene. Both ends of the block had been taped off with big yellow smears of police tape, and news crews had already huddled at each end – BCTV to the east; CBC to the west. They had probably all driven up after the Hermon Drive fire. High overhead, the Chopper 9 news crew floated about beneath the clouds, its omniscient eye taking in the full scene.

Striker refused to look up.

Already, Noodles had arrived and was standing centre stage in this drama, by the body of Billy Mercury. The Ident technician had already taped off the surrounding area, set up cones, and was busy taking photographs. Click-click-click.

Striker approached the man, got to within twenty feet, and was cut off by the inspector. Laroche’s normally pale face was flushed red and his hands were balled into fists and resting on his hips.

‘Jesus Christ, Striker,’ he said. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

Striker blinked. ‘What? What was I thinking?’

‘You’re damn right, what were you thinking. You just gunned down a mentally ill man – and you’re supposed to be on medical leave!’

Striker couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his jaw tighten. Billy Mercury had just killed two cops. And two paramedics, too. Mentally ill, he might have been. But so what?

‘He was a cop-killer.’

Laroche’s face remained tight. ‘He was a man who thought he was saving the world from demons.’ Laroche threw his hands in the air. ‘Oh Christ, it’s all over the radio, every thirty seconds: a mentally ill man, who was in our custody, is now dead along with four emergency workers.’ Laroche looked around the area, then shook his head as if bewildered. ‘You should have waited for cover, Striker! For the Emergency Response Team. And the mental health car. A negotiator. Christ, you didn’t even have a less lethal unit on scene!’

Less lethal – a beanbag shotgun or a Taser. Or, if the Emergency Response Team was around, an Arwen gun.

Striker frowned at that. He stepped forward into the inspector’s personal space and lowered his voice. ‘All other units were already searching other areas or stuck in containment. ERT was out at the range and too far away. And the doctor was our negotiator,’ he said. ‘I also had a Taser on the way. They just didn’t make it here in time because there was no time. He ambushed us.’

Laroche was unwavering. ‘Of course he did. What did you expect? You corner a dog and he’ll bite, Striker. Every single time.’

‘I did what was necessary.’

‘No, what you did was create a situation here where there was no way out for anyone involved – not unless someone got shot. It’s called Officer-Created Jeopardy. And make no mistake about it, that’s exactly how the press will view this thing. Every goddam newspaper and newsreel’s gonna have the Big Story, and it’ll go on for weeks, if not months. It’s gonna rain down on us now.’

Striker looked down at Laroche and felt like grabbing him and twisting him into a pretzel. ‘You think I give two shits about the friggin’ media?’ he asked. ‘Felicia took one in the chest, and you’re worried about how this will look on the friggin’ news?’

Laroche raised a finger and pointed it in Striker’s chest. ‘No one would’ve been shot period if you had followed proper procedure.’

‘It was a dynamic situation.’

‘Because you made it that way. You’re just lucky that Dr Ostermann wasn’t hurt or killed in the process.’ Laroche shook his head. He took in a long breath, then seemed to deflate a bit. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong, Striker. I’m glad you’re okay. And Felicia, too. But you guys royally fucked this one. And I’ll be sending my findings to the Police Board for review.’

‘You do that,’ Striker said. ‘Be sure to include the part about how I warned you this would happen back on Hermon Drive, when you refused to charge Mercury and send him to jail. When you let him be transported in an ambulance instead of a police wagon, despite the fact he had just tried to burn up two cops. Make sure you include all of that – because I most certainly will when I write up my response through the Union.’

For a moment, Laroche seemed even smaller than his fivefoot-seven frame. Moments later, a camera crew from one of the unaccredited news groups was caught trying to sneak in between the houses from the south side of the laneway. Laroche went rushing over, and Striker turned and spotted Sergeant Mike Rothschild entering the strip.

‘How you holding out?’ Rothschild asked.

‘I need to check on Felicia.’

‘Burnaby General. Go there. I’ll take over the scene here.’

‘Thanks, Mike. I owe you one.’

The sergeant grinned. ‘Just get out of here before Hitler there knows you’re gone.’

Striker didn’t have to be told twice. He walked back to Kootenay Street where they had dumped the wheels, and climbed inside the cruiser. Moments later, he was headed down Boundary Road for Burnaby General Hospital. Where Felicia and Dr Ostermann had been taken.

It was less than ten minutes away.

Fifty-Seven

The Adder was shaking. Shaking so hard he could hardly hold on to the rungs of the ladder as he made his way deeper and deeper into his room. When his feet touched concrete, he raced across the room and slid the disc into the player so hard and fast he nearly jammed the machine.

The DVD began playing and the screen came to life.

On it was the woman cop. Standing in the laneway. Watching the big detective move slowly up the stairs. She was beautiful – the Adder could see that in his analytical, separated way – with her long brown hair draping down the caramel skin of her neck. She was in her prime, no doubt, bursting with beauty and energy and radiance. Like a star going supernova.