‘Shut up! . . . Look, there – he ejaculated.’

The Girl made no reply, only another uncomfortable sound.

‘Do not make me do this again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

There was silence. No more conversation. Just the sound of footsteps walking away down the hall.

The Adder did not move from the ladder. He stayed there, rooted to the spot like a gargoyle, and replayed the dialogue in his head. Over and over again. And a strange feeling rose up inside him. One he didn’t like. The Doctor was stirring things up. Old things within him. Bad things. Feelings.

It was the Doctor’s fault.

Like a distant, growing thunder, the laughter started in the Adder’s head. And he closed his eyes, as if this would somehow shut out the sounds. Before they could expand on him again – before they could crash down on him like cold lightning – he climbed back down the ladder, opened up the dumbwaiter, and grabbed his recording equipment from the shelves. He shoved it all into a burlap sack, along with a drill, screw-gun and some screws.

Then, with the burlap sack slung around his shoulder, the Adder crouched down low and climbed inside the dumbwaiter. He then began climbing up the old chute, one bracket at a time. He headed for the second floor.

For the room that was forbidden.

Sixty-Seven

Striker and Felicia spent the next half-hour checking out the rest of Metrotown Mall, but Striker knew in his heart it would be a wasted effort. Larisa had seen Bernard Hamilton of Car 87, and she had hightailed it as far from Burnaby South as her legs would carry her.

Their one big chance, destroyed.

While Felicia did another run around of the main level, Striker attended the security office and spoke to the two guards inside. He emailed the office a copy of Larisa’s picture and told them to scour the footage and see if they could find her.

He had little hope of success.

By the time he was done and leaving the small office, Felicia was already outside waiting for him. She had two cups of Tim Horton’s coffee in her hands and a tired but determined look on her face. Striker took one of the paper cups from her, said thanks.

‘Any luck?’ he asked, already knowing the answer.

‘She’s gone,’ was all Felicia said.

Striker could not help but scowl as they headed back to the car. ‘This is such bullshit,’ he griped. ‘That fuckin’ Bernard. He’s royally screwed it for us on this one.’

Felicia nodded. ‘I wonder who his source is.’

Striker took a sip of his coffee. It was too sweet. As usual, Felicia had put sugar in it. ‘There is no source,’ he said. ‘Never was.’

‘Then how—’

‘Hamilton was eavesdropping on our conversation when we went over the air,’ he said. ‘He heard you on Dispatch, then he listened in when we switched to Info and requested a Burnaby unit to attend here. He caught on. Figured out we were coming for Larisa.’

‘You really think? That’s pretty devious.’

‘I know it is, and I know Bernard.’ Striker thought of how they had also coincidentally run into Bernard at 312 Main Street when checking for warrants. There were too many coincidences with the man. He turned to Felicia. ‘Run a history of Bernard’s unit status. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he was closer than we were when we made the call to Burnaby. It’s how he got on scene so fast.’

Felicia grabbed the computer and ran the Remote Log. After a few seconds, she nodded. ‘You’re right, he was already out here at the same time we made the call. He put himself out at Boundary and Adanac Street.’

Striker glanced over at her. ‘Recognize the location?’

‘Mapleview,’ she said.

‘Exactly. He was probably there looking for Larisa. Or trying to get information.’

‘But why? Why would he care so much?’

Striker gave her a bemused look. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Bernard doesn’t care. When was the last time you saw him put in this kind of work for any other mentally ill patient?’

‘Well, never.’

‘Exactly. Bernard just wants to be the one to save Larisa. Think about it. She’s a former employee of the Vancouver Police Department. A Victim Services worker, no less. And she’s been through hell and back. Now Bernard Hamilton – caring community cop and all-around godsend – comes along and rescues her from her mental illness. Think of how he’d spin that one.’

Felicia nodded. ‘More glory in his bid for Cop of the Year.’

‘Exactly. The worst part is he knows he’s actually putting her in greater danger – and ruining our chances of getting her back safely. But he doesn’t care. Because he wants to be the one who scores on the arrest.’ Striker felt his entire body grow tight with anger. ‘He’ll never get that award. Not ever. Because everyone knows what he’s all about. He doesn’t care about Larisa or any of them.’

‘He cares about the publicity,’ Felicia said.

‘He wants publicity, I’ll make sure he gets some,’ Striker said. ‘Starting off within the department.’

Felicia gave him a curious look, and he smiled at her darkly.

‘Later,’ he told her. ‘When the time is right.’

A half-hour later, at exactly eight o’clock, they drove back over Boundary Road municipal border and entered the City of Vancouver.

‘We’re looking at this the wrong way,’ Striker said. ‘Let’s stop trying to find out where Larisa went and find out why.’

Felicia gave him an odd look. ‘We already know why.’

‘Do we?’ he asked.

‘The medical warrant.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s something else she’s running from here, something besides the medical warrant. There has to be. Think about it. The woman emailed me and told me she believed Mandy was murdered. She also had Sarah’s name written down in her place. At the time, we thought it was all part of her mental illness. But now I wonder.’

Felicia nodded. ‘It was almost like she had proof.’

Striker thought of all the opened DVD cases they had found on the floor of Larisa’s ransacked rancher.

‘We need to find out what that proof was,’ he said.

Felicia opened up the laptop with a renewed sense of energy about her. ‘Let’s go over everything one more time.’

Striker pulled over to the side of the road. He opened up his notebook, then the file folder of all the evidence he had collected back at Larisa’s rancher. There was a ton of stuff. Stories. Articles. Newspaper clippings.

One thing stuck out more than all the rest. It was the article from the Vancouver Province newspaper about the man who committed suicide at the Regency Hotel. Someone had used a thick pen to write LIES! LIES! LIES! across it.

Striker read through the article, saw that the victim’s name was Derrick Smallboy. The man was said to have suffered from depression, addiction and fetal alcohol syndrome.

A hell of a trio.

Striker found the article intriguing, in a dark sort of way. ‘Run this name,’ he said to Felicia. ‘Derrick Smallboy. Age twenty-eight.’

She did, and after a moment the feed came back.

‘He’s deceased,’ she said.

‘I know that; he’s the guy from this article. Read up on him, tell me what you find.’

Felicia did. After a long moment, she looked up with a shocked look on her face. ‘Holy shit, Jacob, look at this. Says here that Smallboy suffered from depression, FAS, alcoholism, and schizophrenia. This guy was really messed up. He ended up throwing himself off the top of the Regency Hotel.’

‘I know all that.’

‘Be patient,’ she told him, and read on. ‘Says here he was enrolled in the EvenHealth programme, and was taking SILC classes.’

That made Striker take notice.

He leaned over and scanned through the report. As he learned the basics – that Derrick Smallboy had plummeted from the top of the Regency Hotel with no witnesses and no evidence of foul play – something else caught his eye.