Snakes & Ladders

by Sean Slater

  Striker thought this over, comparing the two. And something else occurred to him. While clearing this place, he had seen medications and newspapers and even some flyers – but no mail.

  None of any kind.

  He looked around the townhome, going through the drawers and cupboards and closets. Eventually, on the top shelf above the fridge, he found what he was looking for – a small plastic organizer. He pulled it down, opened it, and flipped through the contents.

  Inside the folder were all sorts of bills, and all of them marked paid in thin red pen. There were receipts for the electric company and the phone company and even separate listings of Visa and MasterCard payments. In the back of the folder, there was one section for bank records, another for insurance papers, and one for miscellaneous details.

  Striker noticed one thing: the bills were all old, outdated by at least six months. The oldest went back two years. The most recent bill he could find was one for the cable company, and that had been paid in July of the previous year.

  After that, there was no mail.

  ‘Keep your eyes open for another mail organizer,’ he said.

  Felicia nodded and began snooping around the other rooms.

  After another fruitless search of the kitchen, Striker put the organizer he was holding back on the shelf, then returned to the den where Felicia was making a list of the medications.

  ‘You find anything?’ he asked her.

  She looked up. ‘No. Maybe she just gets rid of the stuff.’

  ‘She doesn’t. Her old stuff is all still there. And it’s all categorized. This woman was anal about it.’

  Felicia thought it over before speaking. ‘Well, according to my guy at the welfare office, she just moved here two months ago. Maybe she hasn’t done a change of address yet. Either way, I don’t think it’s something to be concerned over.’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘It’s more than missing mail. It’s a broken pattern in the woman’s daily routine. And if you look at the way she kept track of everything before, something here has changed.’

  Felicia said nothing in reply; Striker made a mental note of the issue. He gloved up with fresh latex, then returned to the body of Sarah Rose.

  Even in death the woman looked troubled. Her face was sad, and in the dim light of the room, her long blonde hair looked like brittle straw. Her flesh seemed more like sculptured wax than human skin. It was tight across her bloated tissue, stretching her mouth open and deepening the wrinkles near her brow.

  Striker shone his flashlight on the woman’s face. Her icy blue eyes stared at nothing, and the pupils did not change. They remained milky, lost-looking, and seemed to stare right through him – as if accusing him of being too late to save her.

  He looked away. Took a moment to collect his thoughts. He tried to re-set his viewpoint. To think of Sarah Rose not as a person, but as just another body. Another sudden death.

  One of the thousand he had seen.

  But he could not. Ever since the death of Mandy, everything had felt more personal to him. These weren’t just sudden deaths, they were lost lives. There was no ignoring that fact.

  The thought was depressing, and he tried to vanquish it by keeping busy. He shone the flashlight all over Sarah Rose’s body, looking for any trace evidence. The white blouse she wore was distended over her breasts and belly, and the buttons looked one gas bubble away from popping. The body was bloating profusely. Evidence of this could be seen in the swelling of her cheeks, and of her fingers too, where the rings all appeared to be three sizes too small. The one on her ring finger was so tight, the gold looked melted into the flesh.

  Striker noted this ring, and turned to Felicia. ‘Did you research her fully on the way over?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’ Felicia said the words like she was offended; research was always the passenger’s job.

  ‘Was she married?’

  Felicia nodded. ‘According to PRIME, she was married. Years ago. To a man named Jerry something. I can’t remember the details, but he died of an overdose. I’ll read up more on it when we get back to the car.’

  Striker looked back at the ring on her finger. ‘Guess she never let go of him.’

  He used a gloved finger to pull away the soft material of her blouse, exposing the neck and upper sternum regions. Using his flashlight, Striker inspected the skin. On the right side, there was nothing out of the ordinary, just paleness and bloating. On the left side, a very small area of the skin looked different to the rest. A tiny red dot.

  A puncture mark?

  With all the bloating of the body it was difficult to tell, but the mark was in the same area – lateral to the base of the neck, over the first rib area – just like Mandy Gill’s injury.

  Thoughts of injections again filtered through Striker’s mind. He took out his notebook and made a crude drawing of the neck and the position of the possible puncture mark. He then drew a diagram of the room, and noted something critically important – the positioning of the body.

  Mandy Gill had been seated in her easy chair, facing the window.

  Now so was Sarah Rose.

  Striker turned slowly around and looked at the window with bad thoughts filling his head. He put away his notebook and approached it. The window was small – much too small for an intruder to fit through, especially with iron security bars blocking off the inside.

  But that wasn’t what he was concerned about.

  As Striker got closer to the frame, he could see that the panes of glass were quite dirty. As if they had never been cleaned since the townhome had been built. The dirt was so thick, the outside world was difficult to make out.

  Except in one place.

  A small portion in the bottom right corner. There, the glass was sparkling clean, as if someone had cleaned it today.

  Striker leaned closer for a better look. What he saw made him reach for his pistol. Positioned on the other side of the glass was another camera.

  They were being filmed.

  Forty-Six

  The Adder finished covering the front door with the wood varnish, then threw the last of the empty cans into his burlap sack. He removed his leather gloves and snapped on a fresh pair of latex, covering up the red rash of his skin.

  Smiling, he stood back and examined his work. The door was so wet it glistened in the cold winter sun.

  It was beautiful.

  Unfortunately, there was no time for enjoying his work. He grabbed the lighter from his pocket – a long, ten-inch one for lighting barbecues. With his fingers trembling from the excitement, the Adder took a half step back. Raised the lighter. And pulled the trigger.

  The entire front door exploded with a soft whoooosh! sound, and white-hot flame crawled up the front of the building like a living beast.

  It was beautiful, the Adder thought again.

  So undeniably beautiful.

  Mesmerizing.

  He fought to pull his eyes from the blaze. With the operation complete, he regained his focus, grabbed his burlap sack from the ground, and hurried back across the road to the Command Room. Minutes were critical now. He needed to be out of sight when the cops and fire crews arrived. And more important than that, he needed to be sure the video feed was being properly transmitted and recorded.

  That was essential.

  He climbed back inside the ground-level apartment and pulled the drapes closed. The moment the outside light was blocked, a sense of relief spilled through him.

  It was done.

  The job was complete.

  He glanced over at the computer screen, saw that the video was recording – saw the two detectives moving through Sarah Rose’s suite – and an excited sound escaped his lips. Outside, smoke was already flowing strongly from the fire – the dark angry tail of the beast snaking around the west side of the building. The sight filled the Adder with a sense of heavenly calm.

  It was here. It was here. It was here . . .

  The Beautiful Escape had arrived.

  Fo
rty-Seven

  Striker whirled away from the camera.

  ‘Someone’s here!’

  He drew his gun and scanned the area all around them. As if on cue, four tiny red lights turned on, one at each corner of the ceiling. Like the glowing red eyes of some angry creature. Striker raised his gun to fire, then stopped as he realized what he was looking at.

  More cameras.

  ‘There’s smoke!’ Felicia said.

  Striker saw it, too. He searched through the black haze that was unfurling. At first, in the dimness of the basement area, he had thought the smoke was leftover residue from the burned coffee grounds in the kitchenette. But now as he looked at the thickening mass unrolling around them, he realized the truth of what was happening.

  The place was on fire.

  They’d walked right into a trap.

  Gun out, he hurried back into the hallway that led to the stairs, and then the front door. All he could see down at the far end was a smear of puffing blackness. A crackling noise now filled the air. And it was growing louder.

  ‘Come on!’ he screamed to Felicia. ‘We have to get the hell outta here!’

  She ran to his side and they moved back down the long narrow corridor together. The closer they got to the stairs, the more the blackness thickened – to the point where it was difficult to breathe. The air was hot, irritating Striker’s eyes and choking his lungs. Felicia began coughing, and raised her arm to cover her mouth.

  When they reached the first step of the stairs, Felicia tripped and almost fell, but Striker snagged her. He pulled her with him, up the stairs. When they got halfway, Felicia tugged at his jacket.

  ‘It’s too hot,’ she yelled above the noise. ‘We’re running right towards the fire – we have to turn back. Find another way.’

  Images of the floor layout flashed through Striker’s head; the entire apartment was below ground level, and the only windows he had seen were small and barred.

  ‘There is no back,’ he yelled. ‘This is the only way out!’

  Without waiting for a response, he pushed on up the stairway, pulling her with him. They reached the small alcove of the inside foyer. Here, the heat from the fire was immense, palpable through the front door. Without thinking, Striker reached out and grabbed the doorknob—

  And yanked his hand back.

  The knob was blisteringly hot. He quickly stripped off his jacket, wrapped it around the knob, turned it and pushed hard.

  The door wouldn’t budge.

  Felicia shone her flashlight on the door. With the thick smoke billowing all around them, it was almost impossible to see.

  She pointed at the plate. ‘It’s a one-way lock!’

  Striker said nothing. He just stepped back and gave the door a couple of solid kicks, once at the bottom and once in the middle. The door barely budged. He shoved hard at the top, then stepped back, coughing.

  Smoke was flowing heavily through the cracks now. Like something liquid. Soon the air around them would be too thick to see anything, and they’d be scrambling in darkness.

  Blind.

  There was no time.

  Striker aimed his gun. ‘The lock! Shoot out the lock!’

  Felicia said nothing; she just raised her pistol and pulled the trigger. Bang!-bang!-bang!-bang! – rapid fire on the door. She shot all twelve bullets, until she had emptied her entire magazine. Then she reloaded.

  Striker did the same, concentrating his fire on the lock and plate. By the time his clip was out of ammo, over twenty-four bullets had punched through the oak. Breaking it. Splintering it apart.

  He stepped back and gave the door a few hard kicks. The lock and wooden frame surrounding it broke outwards, but the door remained strong. Intact.

  ‘Make the hole bigger!’ Striker yelled.

  Felicia was already firing before he finished his sentence. She blasted eleven more rounds into the wood, then reloaded her last mag. Striker did the same, then gave the door a few more hard kicks.

  This time the entire middle of the door broke outwards.

  At first, Striker felt a sense of relief, and Felicia let out a cry. But then smoke billowed through the hole, and the cracking and popping sounds of the fire became amplified.

  Flames curved inside the hole of the door.

  ‘Get back, get back!’ Striker yelled.

  The smoke was hot with specks of burning ash. It burned his skin and throat. Made it difficult to see.

  Striker grabbed Felicia, pulled her close. ‘The frame!’ he screamed. ‘Shoot six inches above the lock! One spot so we can kick it through. Shoot! ’

  Felicia opened fire with her last clip, the explosions of the rounds overpowering the roar of the fire. Striker followed suit, emptying his last magazine.

  ‘I’m out of ammo!’ Felicia yelled.

  Striker said nothing. All in all, they’d put a total of sixty-eight rounds through the door. Trying to weaken one area enough to create a hole and expose the beams behind.

  It had to be enough.

  He leaped forward and kicked the door with everything he had. The entire structure rattled and something wooden let out a snapping noise.

  Felicia began kicking the door, too.

  They hit the door again and again and again. Eventually, after what could have been twenty or forty kicks – Striker would never know – something gave way. The door broke outwards and came toppling down with a loud shrieking snap! Striker saw smoke and ash and flame – and a glimpse of blue sky.

  Felicia ran forward, but Striker hauled her back. Yanked off her jacket. Shoved it into her stomach.

  ‘Use this!’ he screamed. ‘Over your hair and face!’

  She took it and held it over her head, and Striker pushed her forward. In one quick movement, she dived through the doorway and disappeared from view.

  Striker did the same. Head down, he tightened his grip on his coat, held his breath, and searched for an inch of blue sky. He saw none, but took his chances anyway, for there was no other option.

  He plunged forward into the fiery blackness of the blaze.

  Forty-Eight

  By the time Striker escaped through the hole in the door and made it past the lawn to the safety of the sidewalk, Felicia was already on the cell, calling for assistance.

  Striker turned his eyes from her to the building; the entire front of Sarah Rose’s complex was engulfed. Bright orange flames crawled all over the west side of the building, up the roof, and were now spreading northward towards the next unit.

  ‘We got to get everyone out of there!’ he said to Felicia.

  He raced across the lawn to the next unit and kicked in the door with one try. Felicia ran to the next home and did the same. Once done, he ran around the rest of the building, clearing all the units. By the time he was finished and had returned to the front lawn, the sky above the complex was a mass of black angry churls.

  The sting of his hand stole his attention. He looked down and saw red swollen skin. When he tried to contract his fingers, it hurt like hell. It hurt to do nothing. Somehow, somewhere he’d burned it in the fire. Maybe when he’d tried to turn the doorknob.

  His gun was empty, and that was never good. So Striker returned to their cruiser, opened the trunk, and got some more ammo from the munitions box. He loaded up all three mags, then gave one to Felicia on the way back.

  ‘Load up,’ he said.

  Off in the distance, the high-pitched wail of fire trucks could be heard, coming from the south. Someone had called in the fire, and Striker was thankful for it.

  He looked back and studied the blazing fire, then focused his stare down at the iron-barred window. No hope in hell of reaching the camera now. The entire building was aflame and the camera would undoubtedly be incinerated.

  Striker studied the fire. The roof and sides were a bright reddish-yellow hue. But the doorway where he and Felicia had escaped was different from the rest – it was a bright yellowwhite. And the smoke from there was darker than the rest, an oily black colour.<
br />
  An accelerant had been used. There was no doubt about it.

  He took a moment to examine the area. In less than a minute, he found an empty can in the bushes flanking the front walkway. He gloved up, knelt down, and picked it up. Read the label.

  Steinman’s Wood Varnish.

  The warning label showed a bright red flame and a caption that read: Flammable.

  ‘Collect this,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘It’s evidence.’

  With his hand stinging, he took out his notebook and scribbled down the time and where the can had been found. As he looked back up, he spotted several pods of looky-loos coming out from the projects. Some of them were brave enough to creep out on to the sidewalk, but most of them stayed inside the safety of their own yards to watch the show. The sight of them reminded Striker of the figure he’d seen watching them when they’d first arrived.

  He looked across the road to the suite where he had seen the mysterious figure; the drapes were now closed. Odd, since everyone else had come out to see what was going on.

  He put away his notebook and started back across the street.

  Felicia walked over and looked at him. ‘Where you going?’ she asked.

  He barely glanced back. ‘I’m checking something out.’

  ‘Jacob—’

  ‘Just stay there, Feleesh. We need to let the bucket-heads know we cleared the other townhomes. Otherwise they’ll head into the fire themselves.’

  She looked ready to say more, but Striker didn’t give her the chance. He hightailed it across Hermon Drive towards the apartment where he’d seen the person watching them. At the time, he had deemed him one of the neighbourhood busybodies.

  Now he wondered.

  Striker drew his pistol and hiked up the small crest of hill, keeping to the side of the suite, out of the line of fire. When he reached the window, he took out his flashlight and shone it through the glass. It was difficult to see. The only area visible was between the hanging drapes, and there were still sheers blocking his view.

  He was about to circle the building and try the front door, when he noticed something. The window was open a crack. He reached out, pulled on it, and the window opened fully.