Snakes & Ladders

by Sean Slater

  ‘Vancouver Police!’ he called. ‘Is anyone inside?’

  No answer.

  He tried again: ‘Vancouver Police! Is anyone home?’

  Again, nothing.

  He drew the curtains and sheers aside, and shone the flashlight inside the apartment. Everything there was quiet, and still. The place appeared as vacant as the townhome unit across the road. Keeping his gun aimed into the darkness ahead, Striker climbed inside the window, felt his feet touch the vinyl surface of the floor, and looked around the area.

  On the floor by the window was the female end of a long electrical cord. Striker swept the flashlight along it to find the other end. The cord ran all the way to the entrance of the apartment, then under the door into the communal hall. Striker reached out for the light switch. He flicked it on, and nothing happened.

  The apartment had no power.

  Keeping his gun at the low-ready and his flashlight aimed ahead, he searched the entire apartment, starting with the main room he was in and then finishing with the lone bathroom and bedroom. Both were empty. Anyone who might have been here was now long gone.

  Striker opened the front door and peered into the hall. At his feet, the extension cord ran down the wall to an electrical outlet, where it was plugged in. He nodded absently. The room had had no power, and whoever had been in there had obviously needed some.

  Why, he wondered.

  Thoughts of the camera relay system he had seen flashed through his mind, and made his fingers tighten on the gun. He returned inside the apartment and shone his flashlight all around the front window looking for prints. What he found was a plastic package. He picked it up and read the label.

  Wood screws. Ten inchers.

  Perfect for mounting steel brackets and beams to a front door.

  ‘He was right here all along,’ Striker found himself saying. ‘Fuck!’

  He looked out of the window and studied the scene across the road. Out there on Hermon Drive, the entire row of townhomes was a mass of flame. Two fire trucks now occupied the block, their red flashing lights as bright as the fire. Felicia was down there, speaking to the Fire Captain and pointing to the series of units they had already cleared.

  The captain seemed relieved by this.

  Striker turned his eyes past them to the front of Sarah Rose’s apartment. This window was the perfect vantage point. The perfect spot for recon. And Striker began to wonder how the Adder had come across it. Was it by chance? Or was the whole thing planned?

  He hoped the former.

  But experience told him otherwise.

  He looked at the window where he had seen the video camera, tucked down in the lower left corner of the window. That area was now completely engulfed in flame, with two firemen hosing down the wall to no avail.

  With his hand stinging and his frustration growing, Striker left the apartment through the window he had come in. Mandy Gill was dead. Sarah Rose was dead. And any evidence inside the townhome was likely lost in the flames.

  It doesn’t get much worse, Striker thought.

  He thought wrong. A white unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up on scene and a short man in a pristine white dress shirt climbed out. It was Car 10. The Road Boss.

  Inspector Laroche had arrived.

  By the time Striker made his way back down the slope of lawn to street level, an ambulance and two patrol cars had arrived on scene. So had two news crews – a van from British Columbia TV News and one from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It was standard practice in the City of Vancouver. Word spread fast among the media. Nothing was sacred and no story was too small – so long as human lives were in jeopardy.

  Striker watched them with disdain. One of the reporters was a short blonde woman he recognized from a previous nightmare call. She’d distorted every fact of the case and ended up jeopardizing his investigation. The memory of it was still raw. She stepped out of the van and began raking a brush through her long blonde hair in preparation for the shoot.

  ‘I want tape up now,’ Striker said to one of the patrol cops.

  ‘Don’t anyone say one word to them,’ a deep voice ordered.

  Striker turned around and spotted the Road Boss. Inspector Laroche stood with his hands on his hips, assessing the carnage all around them. His deep voice seemed wrong for his diminutive body. As always, his uniform was impeccable. His pants were as black as his hair and pressed to equal perfection, and his white dress shirt was without wrinkle.

  It was hard to believe he’d been sitting in the car.

  The inspector saw Striker and marched over. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded.

  ‘It was the Adder,’ Striker said.

  Felicia came over and joined the conversation. ‘Billy Mercury,’ she clarified.

  Striker nodded. ‘It would appear so. We have to check his place right now. Get him on CPIC. Broadcast it on every channel.’ He made a fist as he thought this over and winced.

  Felicia took notice. ‘You’re hurt.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Your hand . . . Jacob, it’s burned.’

  Striker gave her an irritated glance. ‘It’s fine.’

  Laroche shook his head. ‘An on-the-job injury? No, you need to go to the hospital for that. And make sure you fill out the Workers’ Compensation Board forms.’

  ‘It’s nothing. A light burn. First degree at best.’

  ‘Department liability,’ Laroche said. He spoke the words like a speech he had memorized. ‘According to Workers’ Compensation Board rules, you have to attend the hospital and be assessed by a physician. Either you go, or I remove you from the road, effective immediately.’

  Striker felt his hands balling into fists again. This time he ignored the pain.

  ‘Someone needs to go after Billy Mercury,’ he said.

  ‘Someone already has,’ Laroche said. ‘Your All Points Bulletin worked well. Billy Mercury just got taken down by a pair of patrol cops, not ten minutes ago. He’s in custody as we speak.’

  Striker thought of the timeline. ‘Ten minutes ago? Where did this happen?’

  Laroche looked north. ‘Not five miles up the road. Hastings and Kootenay. Just outside his residence. He was screaming about demons and hellfire. Cops took him down right there in the bus loop.’

  Striker said nothing as he thought this over. The timeline fit. As did the proximity of the location. As did the man’s crazed actions.

  ‘He had his laptop with him when they took him down,’ Laroche continued. ‘And they hit the mother lode. Everything was on it. All his MyShrine pages were up and running, along with a million other chat rooms and blogs – Twitter, MySpace and LinkedIn.’

  ‘And?’ Striker asked.

  Laroche nodded. ‘Pretty much what you’d expect – talk of demons. Rants about the Middle East and the war. Accusations about the validity of the medications he’s on. And, of course, the threats. They were all in there – even the email he sent you. The man is clearly delusional, and highly volatile. He’s being taken back to Riverglen as we speak.’

  ‘Riverglen?’ Striker asked. ‘You mean he’s being sectioned?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about charges?’

  ‘Can’t charge him. He’s being pinked,’ Laroche explained – a term used in lieu of institutionalized, due to the bright pink colour of the medical health warrant. ‘By order of his very own doctor.’

  Striker gave Felicia a dark glance. ‘And which doctor would that be?’

  ‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

  Striker swore. ‘This is bullshit. We should charge Mercury with attempted murder, then hold him for a Psych Doc.’

  Laroche glanced back at the various camera crews that were setting up at the top of Hermon Drive. There were more of them now. As many as six. It was quickly becoming a media nightmare. They were here because of the fire, no doubt. But eventually the whole story would leak. It always did. Soon enough they would know about Billy, and then the real blitz would b
egin.

  Laroche shook his head. ‘Billy can’t be charged criminally with anything – he’s been pinked.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s not gonna happen, Striker.’

  ‘Why? Because of how it will look on the news? The man tried to kill us!’

  Laroche was unmoved. ‘Mental illness supersedes criminal charges.’

  Striker just glared at the man; the medical-versus-criminal debate had been going on for decades in Canada, and he knew it would never end. It was a black hole in the system, an area where bad people slipped through and criminal charges were lost.

  ‘This is wrong, and you know it.’

  ‘It’s reality,’ Laroche replied. ‘Don’t make it personal.’

  Striker almost laughed. The man had just tried to kill them – how could he not make it personal?

  He looked all around the area. He found it hard to breathe. His lungs still felt burned from the hot ash of the smoke, and the flesh of his fingers throbbed. He placed his good hand against the passenger-side door of Laroche’s unmarked cruiser and stabilized himself.

  The world was spinning.

  Laroche took notice, and his voice took on a softer tone. ‘It’s over, Striker,’ he said. ‘You can relax now.’

  ‘It’s not over – Larisa is still out there somewhere. She was connected to Dr Richter and the Mapleview Clinic, and so were Billy, Mandy and Sarah. Now Mandy and Sarah are dead, and I can’t find Larisa . . .’

  The inspector nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I understand all that. But with Mercury institutionalized, the woman is out of immediate danger. We’ll find her. In time.’

  ‘In time ?’

  Laroche turned and they met face to face. ‘Yes. When you’re in a better frame of mind. And in the meantime, I expect you to lay off Dr Ostermann.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you even aware he is a yearly contributor to the Police Mutual Benevolent Association?’

  ‘I’m well aware.’

  ‘And that he is good friends with the mayor?’

  Striker felt his jaw stiffen. ‘Again, your point’s lost on me.’

  ‘I’m just saying be careful with the man. Dr Ostermann has a good reputation in this city and he has powerful friends in all three levels of government. The last thing this department needs is more melodrama.’

  Striker said nothing for a moment as he sized up the man. Then he realized: ‘You’re worried about a law suit.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I need to interview Mercury.’

  He started to turn away; Laroche stopped him.

  ‘You can interview him later, Striker.’

  ‘Now. Before—’

  ‘Do I have to put you on mandatory leave?’ Laroche asked, and now there was a hardness in his tone.

  ‘Mandatory leave?’ Striker repeated. ‘Why? Because of the injury to my hand – or because of Dr Ostermann’s prized reputation?’

  Laroche’s face darkened and his voice deepened. ‘You need a breather, Detective. Your way, or mine.’

  Striker looked back at the man, saw the seriousness in his stare, and knew that this was one battle he was in no position to win. He took in a deep breath, shrugged, and gave in.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But this is a mistake.’

  He took a long look at the swarm of media at the top of Hermon Drive, then glanced back at the raging fire, which had taken over the neighbouring row of townhomes. It was a beast of a blaze, and there was little doubt that the entire building would be nothing more than a blackened shell by the time the fire crews got everything under control.

  With billows of hot ash and black oily smoke blotting out any trace of blue sky, Striker turned away from Felicia and Laroche and headed for the waiting ambulance. This wasn’t over. He knew it. Something was wrong. And because of Laroche, there was nothing he could do about it.

  He was being taken from the road.

  Forty-Nine

  The visit to Burnaby General Hospital went fast, thank God. The doctor who treated Striker was one he had dealt with before on a few occasions. Dr Alison Montcalm was as friendly as ever, making light of the situation, yet also warning him of the risk of infection.

  It was the standard speech.

  The burn was worse than Striker had originally thought – first degree to the skin of his left-hand fingers, but second degree on the base of his palm. It hurt like hell.

  Dr Montcalm gently cleaned the wound with a cold solution that stung. ‘Are you left-handed?’ she asked.

  Striker winced. ‘No. Right.’

  ‘I’m surprised you grabbed the doorknob with your left hand then.’

  ‘I had my gun out at the time.’

  Dr Montcalm nodded as she listened. She dressed the wound with antibiotic ointment, then taped a light dressing around the area to keep it clean. Striker looked at it and frowned. The blister that had formed was dead centre at the base of his hand, and it stung every time he so much as flexed it.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it,’ Dr Montcalm said. ‘I’m sure you’ll survive.’

  Striker smiled at her. ‘Yeah. I have a way of doing that.’

  He left Burnaby General as quickly as he came. Felicia had asked him to wait while she finished tidying up the crime scene back on Hermon Drive, but he couldn’t stay there a second longer. He hated hospitals. Always had, always would. Too many bad memories. It wasn’t until he was free of the front doors that he felt good again.

  It was half-past noon, and he needed a mental break from it all, so he hailed a taxi and headed to the one place that ever gave him any solace.

  He headed for home.

  Once home, Striker climbed out of the taxi and paid the man. Far above, the sun was still out and glowing a strange, pale white colour in the frosty sky. It reminded Striker of the fire.

  He killed the thought and started up the sidewalk. Despite the fact that it was lunchtime, frost still covered the gate. The air was so cold he could see his breath, even in the daylight. Winter was still here, no doubt, keeping the grass of his lawn frozen and brittle and the front porch steps slippery.

  He unlocked the front door and went inside. The first thing he noticed was the flickering glow of the flames in the fireplace. It warmed the room with a gentle, welcoming heat. The soft lighting of the den made everything feel cosy and safe. And as Striker looked around the room, he smiled despite his pain and weariness.

  Be it ever so humble, he thought.

  He took off his coat, being careful not to catch the dressing of his hand on the cuff of the sleeve, and hung it up on the coat rack. Then he moved into the den and crashed down on the couch. Kicked off his shoes. Put his feet up on the table and enjoyed the heat.

  A second or two later, he heard a door open down the hall, and Courtney came out.

  ‘Dad?’ she called.

  ‘Hey, Pumpkin.’

  She shuffled down the hall on her crutches, then stopped at the entrance to the den. ‘I thought you were at work,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you were at school.’

  A surprised look spread across her features, as if she realized she’d just been caught. ‘It’s a professional day.’

  ‘Hmm. Just like last Friday.’

  Courtney’s blue eyes turned shifty, then they focused on his hand and turned hard. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Rough game of Rock-Paper-Scissors.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  He let out a long breath. ‘There was a fire in the projects. The burn is minor.’

  She looked at the bandage, as if she could see right through all the gauze. ‘It gonna heal?’

  ‘It’s only first degree,’ he lied, ‘so yeah, in time.’

  For a long moment, the two of them turned silent, Striker enjoying the heat of the fire and being home for the moment; and Courtney moving around the room and gathering her things.

  Striker caught himself watching her. She was so much like her mother at times. A carbon copy of Amanda. The way she loo
ked at him, the way she pursed her lips when she was thinking, the way she made soft clicking sounds with her teeth when she got stressed.

  And the temper, too. The moodiness. In that, she was definitely her mother’s daughter. Sometimes, when Striker looked at her, he felt like he was staring at Amanda all over again, and it made him feel anxious and regretful for all that had happened in the past.

  He tried not to think about it.

  When Courtney put on her runners and started lacing them up, he took notice. ‘Going back to school on a Pro Day – wow, you are dedicated.’

  ‘I have other things to do.’

  ‘Like rehab,’ he reminded her.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Dad, I’m going to my appointment, okay? God, you’re always riding me. What, does it make you happy or something?’

  ‘What would make me happy is if you would stop skipping your therapy sessions. You need them.’

  ‘And I’m going!’

  Striker nodded. ‘Good. Say hi to Annalisa for me. And get her to check out your braces again, make sure they’re the right level.’

  Courtney’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. ‘They’re crutches, Dad, okay? Crutches – not braces. I keep telling you that.’

  ‘Crutches, braces – it makes no difference.’

  ‘It makes a difference to me,’ she said, and her eyes suddenly looked wet.

  Striker saw this, and he felt his heart clench. ‘I’m sorry, Pumpkin, I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You never mean to do anything.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  Courtney offered no reply. She finished tying her laces, then stood back up. When she reached the door, she opened it and stepped outside without saying goodbye.

  ‘I can drive you,’ he said.

  She looked back at him and her blue eyes were ice. ‘Why don’t you drive yourself, Dad. Take a trip down Sensitivity Street. Might do you some good.’

  ‘Courtney—’

  She slammed the door behind her and was gone.

  For a moment, Striker considered going after her, but then reconsidered. It would do no good. In fact, it would probably only make things worse. Courtney was just like her mother; when she got into one of her moods, nothing would fix it but time and space. And now he wondered what he’d done to set her off this time. He went over their conversation in his head, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong, then finally gave up. His hand hurt. His head hurt. And he was damn tired.