Two men dressed in white . . .

Paramedics.

And one between them. A face that made him smile and relax and brought back all the warmth that had been stolen from his body.

‘Feleesh,’ he said. His voice sounded weak and very far away.

‘Just relax, Jacob,’ she said. ‘They’re giving you some drugs. You need to stay still.’

He tried to get up; she pushed him back down.

‘You need to relax.’

‘Larisa . . .’

‘They got her, too, Jacob. She’s breathing and en route to Whistler hospital.’

He let go. Felt his body melt into the floor. And he lazily looked left.

Lying on his back was Gabriel Ostermann. Two other paramedics, both women, were hovering over the Adder, examining his chest and stomach area. In the centre of the two was a large meaty hole. Striker saw this glistening redness and the vague recollection of past gunfire returned to his ears.

His bullets had found their target.

Centre mass.

The simple action of looking at the Adder drained him, and Striker let his head fall back to the floor. He looked up, straight ahead at Felicia, who was hovering like an earthbound angel. Behind her, one of the female paramedics let out a surprised sound.

‘Jesus, this guy’s still alive,’ she said.

And Striker realized they were talking about Gabriel Ostermann.

‘He keeps whispering,’ one of the women said to her partner. ‘I can’t make it out. What the hell’s he saying? I’m the Villain? ’

Striker understood the word, and he breathed heavily as he spoke.

‘He said William . . . he said, I’m coming, William.’

And then the medications pulled him under and he did not wake for a long time.

EPILOGUE

One Hundred and Six

It was a grey Sunday morning – over twenty-four hours since the Adder had injected him with mivacurium chloride – and Striker still felt like he had a hangover. A steady thud-thud-thud drummed behind each temple like a second steady pulse that was impossible to ignore.

He was thankful that Homicide was empty.

The coffee brewing was fresh. He poured himself a cup of it and swallowed three painkillers – the sting of the burn would not go away. He wandered back through the rows of empty cubicles to his desk. Open on the desktop were four separate reports. The first one was the statement he was required to deliver to the Police Board regarding the Billy Mercury situation. This was mandatory for all police shootings. The report was almost done, but Striker was still unsure about the wording in a few lines. With his head as messed up as it was, having an agent from the Union look it over wasn’t a bad idea.

He saved the file for later.

The other three reports were all linked because they had to do with Gabriel Ostermann. The first of the three reports was for Mandy Gill’s murder. The second was for Sarah Rose’s. And the third was for Larisa’s attempted murder. There were undoubtedly dozens more charges coming, but none of them could be laid until all the proper paperwork had been gone through and all investigative ends tied. Knowing Gabriel was responsible for other murders was not enough to charge the man; they needed reasonable grounds. Evidence.

Striker blinked a few times as his eyes dried up. There was so much to do. So much to tie in. It would have been easier if Gabriel Ostermann had died. But the man had not. He had hung on until the ambulance crew got him to Whistler Medical Center, and since then his condition had been upgraded from critical to stable.

It concerned Striker. The man was going to live, and given his mental health status, there had already been rumblings from the Crown as to whether he was mentally fit to stand trial when he recovered from his injuries. The thought of the Adder ever being released again was a realistic concern.

And that was to say nothing of Dalia. The girl had vanished in the ski resort village. Striker had no idea where she had gone, but he did know this – she was out there somewhere and she was dangerous.

The whole situation gave him chills. Then again, maybe it was more the after-effects of the injection the Adder had given him.

He tried not to think about it. There was still a lot of work to do. So he buried his head in the computer and kept pounding away at the keys. He was so focused on the work, he barely heard the office door open behind him. Only when it slammed shut did he bother to turn around.

What he saw made him smile.

Standing in the doorway was Bernard Hamilton. His face was so red it matched the ruby silk dress shirt he wore. He stormed across the office, his ponytail swinging behind him, and stopped a few feet short of Striker’s desk.

‘Nice shirt,’ Striker said. ‘When did you go colourblind?’

Bernard just glared at him.

‘You think that stunt you pulled the other day was funny?’ he asked. ‘I could have lost my job.’

Striker wheeled his chair around to face the man. ‘Do I think what was funny?’

‘You know damn well what – sending me to Osler Street. That was Laroche’s house, for fuck’s sake! I stormed right in on his wife’s birthday party.’

‘Did she like the present you brought her?’

Bernard’s eyes narrowed. ‘This could cost me my chance at Cop of the Year, Striker! You know Laroche is on the board. He’ll never pick me now. You did this on purpose!’

Striker leaned back in his chair and nodded. ‘Really? Because I don’t remember telling you anything. How did you come across that address – another source?’ When Bernard said nothing back, Striker continued. ‘You know, I can’t help thinking that there’s a moral to the story here somewhere. Something to do with honesty maybe. I dunno, I’ll think about it.’

Bernard said nothing for a moment, and the crimson colour extended up past his forehead and on into his bald spot. His jaw turned hard and he extended his chin as he spoke.

‘I won’t forget this,’ he said.

Striker put his feet up on the desk and gave Bernard his best smile. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Because I already have.’

Hamilton stormed out of the office, and Striker watched him go. Suddenly, his headache was better and the coffee tasted fresher. He smiled as he sipped it.

It was almost like the sun had come out.

One Hundred and Seven

An hour later, Striker and Felicia walked down the long hallway of the east-end section of the Riverglen Mental Health Facility. They reached Dr Ostermann’s office, made a sharp left, and walked into the common room where patients were milling about in groups by the backgammon table, TV, and fireplace.

‘This is a good thing you’re doing,’ Felicia said.

‘It’s just something I have to do,’ he replied.

She smiled at him, reached across his arms, and stole a package of chocolates from the box he was carrying. She’d barely pocketed the candy before Striker found the man he was looking for, playing cards in a group of four.

‘Morning, Henry,’ he said softly.

The patient in the pale blue hospital clothes turned slowly around in his seat. One look at Striker and his face tensed. ‘You’re DANGEROUS!’ he yelled, and immediately stood up and clenched both his hands into fists.

In the far corner, the guard stood up from the table, but Striker waved him down.

‘I’m not dangerous today, Henry,’ Striker explained. He slowly pulled his jacket out of the way, revealing his side and showing that there was no gun holstered to his belt. ‘You showed me how wrong I was the other day, so I just wanted to come by and say thank you for teaching me that. And also to say I’m sorry if I upset you.’