He was determined to get her that.

He took out his iPhone, logged into his Gmail account, and sent her a message. In the subject heading, he typed: URGENT!!! Then he worked out a few sentences:

Larisa, I know about the medical warrant. And the murders. We may have caught the person responsible. Can’t say more. You and I need to talk. Now. Please call me or email back ASAP. I’m here for you.

Striker

He sent the email, then put his iPhone on top of the dashboard and grabbed the remainder of his burger. He brought it to his mouth, found he couldn’t eat, and threw it in the bag. He sipped his coffee and watched the sky slowly turn a darker shade of purple. He wished to God there was something else he could do for the woman. He wished she would just get back to him.

But the minutes passed and his cell never rang.

Felicia finished her Filet-o-Fish and looked over at him. ‘Hey. You okay?’

Striker said nothing. He just looked at the world beyond the windshield and frowned. It looked like a cold and dark place out there. And to Larisa Logan, it was. He blamed himself for that. For not responding to her calls until it was too late.

It had been a terrible mistake.

Sixty-One

Sweat dampened the Adder’s body. He could feel it as he lay there on the cold hard concrete of the floor. Drips of sweat, sliding down his cheeks. Drips running down his neck. Down his back. Everywhere.

His heart was racing. And the more he thought of the woman detective surviving the attack, the worse his heart pounded.

No more, he thought.

Please, no more.

As if on cue, the bell rang. The high bell. Not the one that was low and resonated all through his chamber like the call of some ungodly demon – that was the one that summoned him to the Doctor’s office. No, this one was the sound of the angels. The chimes. And it told him he had done well today.

The Adder struggled to sit up. Wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. Looked daftly around the room.

Broken in two in the middle of the floor was a DVD. Try as he might, the Adder could not recall breaking it. His memory failed him. All he knew now was the lost feeling that filled his insides.

That terrible, terrible feeling of grieving.

The bell chimed again, this time twice. And the Adder knew it was time to go. The Doctor was alerting him, and as always it was best not to keep the Doctor waiting.

He climbed to his knees. Then to his feet. And made his way towards the ladder. He climbed the rungs numbly, mechanically, until he reached the hatch. As he undid the latch, a sense of surreal awareness came over him. It was time to play the part again. To put on his outer-world face. His mask. To become one with the facade of the upstairs world.

His reward was waiting.

Sixty-Two

When Striker’s iPhone went off on the car’s dashboard, he snatched it up like it was a bomb ready to go off, and read the screen. He was hoping to see Larisa’s name, or an email notification. Instead he saw the name Jim Banner across the display.

Striker hit the Talk button and put the phone to his ear.

‘Noodles,’ he acknowledged.

The technician sighed. ‘God, I hate that nickname.’

‘Just be happy you didn’t choke on Fish Balls. Now what do you have for me?’

‘How about another partial print, for starters?’

Striker leaned forward in the seat. ‘Where?’

‘We recovered one from apartment 109 in Hermon Heights – the suite across the road from Sarah Rose’s place, the one you thought this guy might have been watching you from.’

‘I knew it,’ Striker said. ‘And?’

‘Nothing earth-shaking, but we got some relatively interesting findings. I dusted all the areas you wanted – the electrical outlets, the window and frame, the plug end of the extension cord – and we got something. One single print on the inside of the front window. When I was doing it, one of the neighbours came by. Told me that suite’s been vacant for over six weeks, ever since the last renter moved out.’

‘And the print – you run it?’

‘Can’t. It’s just a partial,’ Noodles replied. ‘Nothing good enough to send through the database. But I did use it for a comparison.’

‘With whose?’

‘Billy Mercury’s. And once again, it doesn’t match.’

Striker thought this over. Just because the print was on the inside of the window, and just because it didn’t belong to Billy Mercury, that didn’t prove anything. Anyone could have been in that suite over the last six weeks. A squatter. Some neighbourhood kids. The landlord. Anyone. Or it could belong to the previous tenant.

They needed corroboration.

‘Did you compare it with the prints found on the fridge at the Lucky Lodge?’ he asked.

‘There’s the key,’ Noodles said. ‘The print might not match up with Billy Mercury’s prints, but it’s a perfect match with the one I found on the fridge at the Lucky Lodge.’

Striker felt a bolt of energy surge through him. What were the odds of finding two partial prints at two separate crime scenes that matched?

The answer was zero.

‘What about the can of varnish?’ Striker asked.

‘We got a good print there too. But it’s not the same.’

‘Not the same?’

‘Doesn’t match the print on the window, doesn’t match Billy’s.’

Striker frowned. There was no doubt that the varnish had been used as an accelerant on the door. ‘Run the print through the databank when you get time and let me know the results either way. For all we know, it could come back to a checkout girl. And swab everything for DNA. We need something here, Noodles. Gimme some magic.’

‘The only tricks I know involve a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a pair of air stewardesses.’

Striker smiled into the phone. ‘Just call me the moment you know.’

He hung up the cell and relayed the entire discussion to Felicia, paying particular attention to the fact that the partial print from the fridge back at the Mandy Gill crime scene matched the print from the window at the Sarah Rose crime scene.

The news seemed to shock her.

‘It has to be connected,’ she admitted. ‘The odds are too high.’

‘Which means that there’s a very good chance Billy Mercury wasn’t acting alone.’

‘Jesus.’

Felicia rubbed her face, massaging her temples. She brushed her hair back over her shoulders and shook her head as if she just couldn’t believe it. Without warning, she opened the car door.

Cold wind swept into the car, sucking away the heat.

‘I need some air,’ she said.

She climbed out, and Striker got out with her. He took his coffee cup with him. They walked down the long stretch of Kootenay Street, just below the highway overpass, where it was dark and quiet. They talked. After going over everything from beginning to end one more time, Felicia stopped walking and turned to face him.

‘Only two people stick out to me – Dr Ostermann and Dr Richter.’

Striker agreed. ‘Dr Richter is nowhere to be found. And I don’t like the way Ostermann is constantly avoiding us and skirting around our questions. There’s more going on here. You can bet your pay cheque on that.’

Felicia shivered, but nodded in agreement. She bundled up her coat, then snagged the coffee cup from his hand and slurped some back. She kept the cup.

‘Ostermann has proximity to everyone involved,’ she noted. ‘The timelines also correlate; he was seen driving like a madman through the area five minutes after you got into a fight with the suspect at Mandy Gill’s crime scene. He’s been resistant to our questions from the beginning. He had a sharp pain in his side that first night we spoke with him – maybe from a high fall. And last of all, we’ve caught him lying to us about working at Mapleview. Which is odd. Why lie about something so trivial?’