Snakes & Ladders

by Sean Slater

  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.’

  Henry said nothing for a long moment, then his expression relaxed a little. His posture deflated and he rubbed his nose. ‘That’s okay then . . . I guess.’

  ‘Here, Henry. I got you something.’

  Striker held out the box.

  When Henry looked guardedly inside the box and saw the rows of yellow M&M packages, his face brightened.

  ‘Peanut!’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ Striker said. ‘Peanut’s the best.’

  Henry let out an excited gasp and grabbed the box. Laughing, he sat back down and began passing out M&M packages to his card-playing friends. Within seconds, he forgot that Striker and Felicia were even there.

  ‘You ready?’ Felicia asked.

  Striker nodded. ‘Let’s go.’

  They left the common room and made their way back down the grey halls of the facility. As they went, Felicia tore open the package of M&Ms she’d pilfered and popped a few in her mouth. She held up her hand and showed Striker her palm.

  ‘Melt in your mouth, not in your hands.’

  He grinned. ‘You, or the M&Ms?’

  She gave him a wry look and laughed.

  Outside, the sun was out, high in the centre of the blue sky, and the wind was whipping in hard from the river. It blustered on as they climbed into the cruiser and drove out of the parking lot. When they were back on the freeway, heading for Vancouver, Felicia spoke again.

  ‘Feel better?’ she asked him.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, then added: ‘I guess you’re right. Chocolate does make everything better.’

  One Hundred and Eight

  They returned home at twelve noon. There was still a shitload of work to be done on all the reports, but he didn’t care. Courtney had a session with her occupational therapist at one o’clock, and Striker wanted to make damn sure she got there on time.

  They parked out front on Camosun Street and Striker got out. High overhead, the sun was bright. The frost on the trees glistened and the lawn looked freshly wet. Everything shimmered in the sun. The day felt refreshed. Like spring was on its way.

  It made Striker feel good.

  He walked up the porch steps into his home. The moment they were inside, Felicia walked over and put on the gas fire, then crashed down on the couch. She draped a blanket over her legs.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ he said.

  She stretched her arms above her head and let out a yawn. ‘Done.’

  He was about to join her on the couch, maybe even grab himself a beer – why not? He had earned it – when Courtney exited her bedroom and stepped into the hall on her crutches. She ambled down the hallway, reached him and gave him a onearmed hug.

  ‘Hey, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Hey, Pumpkin. How’re the braces holding?’

  She gave him an irritated look. ‘I’ve told you before, Dad. They’re not braces, they’re—’

  ‘A walker?’

  For a moment, Courtney’s eyes took on a resigned look, then her lips crooked into a smile. She leaned over and punched him on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re a jerk,’ she said.

  ‘I know, but I love ya.’

  She smiled at him, and Striker loved to see that. It made him feel good. She was happy.

  Then he noticed something else about her. She was dressed in a black pair of Lululemon yoga pants and a dark red workout top that was so tight it looked like a second skin. Bright red lipstick turned her thin lips thick and pouty, and dark eyeliner made her blue eyes stand out like they were coloured contacts. Even her hair was done. Flat-ironed straight.
/>   ‘Kinda dolled up for therapy,’ he noted.

  Courtney shared a smirk with Felicia and, as if on cue, the front doorbell rang. When Striker started for the door, Courtney cut him off and gave him a look of daggers.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she said.

  Striker let her. When she opened the door, a young man stood there. He was dressed in casual pants and a Peabody coat. Within two minutes, Striker learned that his name was Jeremy Holmes, he was taking graphic design at BCIT, he was giving Courtney a ride to therapy, and he drove a yellow electric Smartcar.

  Before Striker could question the kid further, Courtney intervened. She got between them and ushered Jeremy out through the door. She looked back over her shoulder and grinned as they went.

  ‘Bye, guys. Don’t wait up.’

  ‘Goodbye, Pumpkin,’ Striker said.

  He stood in the doorway, and Felicia joined him. They watched Courtney and her friend approach his car. Once there, Jeremy opened the passenger door for Courtney, took her crutches, helped her inside, and closed the door behind her. He looked back at the house, and gave Striker and Felicia a wave before climbing inside the vehicle.

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Striker said. ‘He has an attitude.’

  Felicia grinned. ‘You don’t like him because he wants your daughter.’

  ‘That’s reason enough.’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Just be happy she’s found someone, and he seems like a nice kid. He certainly doesn’t come across like a bad boy.’

  Striker stared at the small car fading down the road. ‘I guess not a lot of bad boys drive yellow Smartcars.’

  ‘Definitely not.’ She leaned back and looked at him. ‘What did you drive when you were his age?’

  ‘A Volkswagen van.’

  ‘So you were the one fathers had to worry about.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘It’s karma,’ she said, and laughed.

  Striker grinned at her comment. But he didn’t move from the spot. Not even after the little yellow Smartcar had turned the corner and disappeared from view behind the row of houses that lined 29th Avenue.

  ‘It feels like she’s growing up too fast,’ he said.

  ‘Just be grateful that she can grow up, Jacob. She was a pretty lucky girl last year. It could have turned out far worse.’

  Striker nodded in agreement. The words were so true.

  One Hundred and Nine

  They walked from Camosun up to Dunbar Street, a small stretch of road that owned everything from a Starbucks coffee at 18th Avenue to the movie theatre off 29th. Striker didn’t much care where they went. He just wanted to get out of the house.

  Having Felicia there with him was an added bonus.

  They stopped at an old English pub for lunch and a couple of drinks. Felicia had chicken strips and a glass of red; Striker ordered Toad in the Hole and a tall glass of Guinness. When the draught came, it was dark as molasses and had a swirling cloud of head at the top.

  Striker took a long sip of it and felt his body relax.

  ‘So,’ Felicia asked. ‘How comes the report?’

  Striker gave her a weary look. ‘I’m hoping to be done by February – of next year.’

  She laughed at that. And from there, the conversation jumped all over the place: the possibility of Gabriel not standing trial due to his state of mind; Dalia, missing and still out there somewhere; Larisa recovering nicely; and the monkey court they were going to have to go through over Billy Mercury’s death. The one thing they didn’t talk about was them. And Striker left the topic alone. It was sunny out. He had Felicia with him. And a tall glass of Guinness in his hand.

  Why risk ruining that?

  As if sensing his thoughts, Felicia reached out and touched his hand. ‘You did a good job out there, Jacob, a really good job.’

  ‘We both did,’ he said. ‘We do this stuff together. We’re a team, Feleesh.’

  The comment made her smile. ‘It was a good investigation. Though I have to admit, the best part was the way you led Bernard out to Laroche’s place.’ She laughed so hard she almost spilled her wine. ‘God, that was the best part of the day. You really fooled him.’

  Striker was pleased with that. ‘Oscar performance?’

  ‘A Golden Globe, at least.’

  ‘A Globe? That’s an insult.’

  ‘Okay, maybe one of those Emmys then.’

  Striker put on his best dejected look, and Felicia grinned back. ‘You know, I’m not really all that hungry,’ she said. ‘If we watch our time, we can get back to your place before Courtney’s even left the doctor’s office – then I’ll give you your real award.’

  ‘On second thoughts, I’ll take the Emmy.’

  Felicia laughed, and Striker ordered the bill. After he had paid it, he went to get up from the table, but stopped when he saw the intense look Felicia was giving him.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Where do we go from here, Jacob?’

  ‘Who knows, Feleesh?’ he said. ‘Just roll the dice.’