Another one of the Doctor’s rules, broken.

As if sensing his thoughts, his cell phone rang and the Doctor’s name flashed across the screen. The Adder looked at it for a long moment, listening to the rings, not wanting to pick it up.

One. Two. Three . . .

He finally picked up. ‘I am here.’

‘Have you managed to calm yourself down?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what has happened since you left?’

‘No.’

‘Your father is dead, Gabriel. He committed suicide.’

The Adder said nothing.

‘Come to the lake house. We will meet you there. We need to . . . re-plan.’

The line went dead and the Adder stood there motionlessly.

Father dead. It was a strange notion. And it made him feel somehow hollow and light. He could not understand it.

He walked to the edge of the bluff and sat down on a rotting log. As he stared out over the black waters, he took out a DVD and cradled it in his hands. This was the one. The one that had started it all. And the thought of it made his heart beat faster, made his throat turn dry.

The voices would start soon; he knew their pattern well. And so he took out his headphones and plugged them into the speaker port on his iPod. Moments later, the only file loaded, and the blissful release of the white noise began.

The Adder needed it to clear his head. To calm his nerves. And to think.

Clear thought was essential right now. There was no place for error. No excuse for acting hastily. He simply could not afford to. The most crucial of all moments was almost here. For Homicide Detective Jacob Striker.

That thought made the Adder smile.

The Big Surprise was coming.

He could hardly wait.

Day Three

Seventy-Eight

It was early morning when Striker awoke from the stinging of his burned hand, and the day felt every bit a Friday. The room was dark and cold. He was in that realm, still somewhere between wake and sleep, and a sense of desperation filled him. He reached over in the darkness, felt for Felicia, and could not find her. Then he remembered she was sleeping on the couch.

That bothered him, and it woke him up fully.

He sat up in the bed, looking around the drab greyness of the room and trying to sort things out in his head. Yesterday had been a constant whirlwind, and discovering Gabriel Ostermann’s room and learning he was, in fact, the Adder had sent the investigation exploding in new directions.

So much had already been done, and so much was still required. Already, he had flagged the entire family – Gabriel, Lexa and even Dalia – on all the different systems: on PRIME, CPIC, and with even Customs and Interpol. He was taking no chances with this one.

The Adder could not escape again. He was a serial killer. And serial killers never stopped killing until one of two things happened – either they were caught, or they were killed.

Striker kicked the blankets off his legs and stood up. The first thing he did was grab his iPhone from the charger and read the screen. There were no new calls, and that was disappointing. He’d been hoping for something – for anything – from Larisa Logan.

But nothing had come in.

He dialled the number for Central Dispatch and was pleased to hear Sue Rhaemer’s voice: ‘CD.’

‘Shouldn’t you be off by now?’ Striker asked.

‘I already was,’ she groaned. ‘Got called in early. We’re short. The flu’s going round again.’

‘Anything on the file?’

‘Did I call you?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘Then there’s your answer.’

Striker ignored her testiness and nodded as if she could see him. ‘Keep me informed, Sue.’

He hung up the phone, then left his bedroom and did the usual grind. He checked on Courtney, who was still fast asleep in her bed, then put on some coffee and swallowed some Tylenol for his injured hand, then he woke Felicia. By the time they had both showered and poured a cup, it was just after six a.m. and the morning was still dark.

‘You ready?’ he asked her.

She offered him an eager smile. ‘We’re gonna find him today. I can feel it.’

He hoped she was right.

A half-hour later – after picking up another coffee, this time a traditional Timmy’s brew – they were back at the Ostermann mansion. The sun was still asleep, the air was cold and the morning sky a deep purple smear. To Striker, it felt like they had never left the crime scene. Only now there was a patrol guard posted outside the front and back of the house. He badged the guard – some young kid he had never seen before – and went inside.

They went straight to Dr Ostermann’s office. The room had already been photographed by Ident, and during the subsequent search, all sorts of files and folders of interest had been boxed as evidence.

Striker pointed to the farthest row of boxes. They were all ready-made cardboard containers, each with the case number written in thick black felt on the sides.

‘You take that row,’ he said to Felicia. ‘I’ll take the one over there.’

Felicia sipped her coffee, then made her way over.

Striker opened up the closest box and leafed through the paperwork inside. There were mounds of the stuff. Everything from paid bills to case studies to back-ups of patient files. And Striker now wished they’d brought a thermos of coffee for the day.

They were gonna need it.

As Striker went through the boxes, he made sure he kept everything in order. Nothing was more frustrating as an investigator than realizing something you’d already read was now a critical piece of evidence, but you had no idea where you’d left it. It was a lesson learned once, and learned hard, and never repeated.

The process was slow and time-consuming. By the time Striker got to the fourth box, he considered running down the road to grab them both yet another cup of coffee. He was about to suggest it when Felicia made an interested sound.

He looked over. ‘What ya got?’

‘Look at this,’ she said.

She held up a thin white file folder. On it was a printed label with the words: Jonathon McNabb. But when she opened up the file, there were no patient reports, only a list of credit cards and bank accounts. Attached to the inside back cover was an envelope. Felicia opened it and pulled out several pieces of identification: a BC driver’s licence, a social insurance number card, even a birth certificate.

The picture on the driver’s licence showed Gabriel Ostermann.

‘Let me see that,’ Striker said.

He took the driver’s licence from Felicia and scrutinized it. Everything was done in perfect detail, from the writing on the front and back of the card to the authentic-looking hologram on the front.

‘Are they fakes?’ Felicia asked.

Striker raised an eyebrow. ‘These are pretty good. They might be legit.’

‘So then is Gabriel Ostermann’s real name Jonathon McNabb, or is he using someone else’s identity?’

‘Call your guy at the credit bureau. Will he be in yet?’

Felicia nodded. ‘They’re on eastern time.’

Less than two minutes later, she hung up the phone and gave Striker the nod. ‘Victim of identity theft,’ she said. She pulled another file out of the same box. The name on this file was Eleanor Kingsley. When she opened up the folder, everything inside was the same as in the last folder – credit card applications, bank accounts, gas cards, and more. Attached to the back of the folder was another envelope. From it, Felicia took another stack of identification cards. Only this time the face wasn’t Gabriel Ostermann’s, it was Lexa’s.

‘Run the name with your contact,’ Striker said.