‘A soldier, yes.’
Kim Pham became silent. He looked up at the flat-screen monitor that hung on the far wall. The news was on. The entire focus was St Patrick’s High. The images were blunt: yellow police tape; dead kids; frantic parents; lots of cops. Pham watched for a long moment, then nodded in acknowledgement of what was happening. He turned around slowly and gave Red Mask an odd look.
‘Where is Tran?’
The words hollowed out Red Mask’s heart. ‘Tran is no more.’
‘Stop talking in fucking riddles!’ Kim Pham yelled. He paused. ‘And what about Sherman Chan?’
‘Dealt with. As planned. But not… not Que Wong.’
‘Not Que.’ The words sounded flat as Kim Pham spoke them. ‘You let him get away?’
‘He did not show. That is why Tran had to come.’
‘Fuck! Another fucking failure. There’s gonna be a lot of heat over this, a lot of heat. They will not tolerate this.’ Kim Pham got on his cell, dialled and had a quick conversation in a dialect Red Mask could not understand. When he closed the flip-phone, he asked, ‘Where is Tran’s body?’
‘Where it fell.’
‘Stop talking in chicken fucking English — where did it fall?’
‘Saint Patrick’s.’
Kim Pham’s eyes took on a faraway stare. Eventually, he nodded. Gave Red Mask’s uninjured shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Rest, my friend. You need to heal.’ As Kim Pham turned to go, he gave the doctor a sideways glance. The old man nodded back. The movement was minimal, but Red Mask noticed the exchange.
And he acted.
When the doctor came towards him with the syringe, Red Mask grabbed the old man’s wrist. ‘What is name of medicine?’
The doctor tried to pull away. ‘It’s… it’s an antibiotic.’
‘What is name?’
‘… Naxopren…’
‘Liar!’ In one quick motion, Red Mask bent the old man’s wrist back until a loud crack filled the room. The doctor screamed, fell back, and Red Mask sat up. Kim Pham turned from the door, his hand going for his gun.
Red Mask was quicker. With his good arm, he pulled the Glock from behind his waistband and fired three times from the hip.
Pham’s white suit exploded with redness and he let out a strangled sound; he fell forward, landing hard on the dirty green vinyl. Almost immediately, the stairwell door burst open and the two men who’d brought Red Mask downstairs raced into the room.
Red Mask shot them both. By the time they hit the ground he was rushing across the small room. He locked the stairwell door. Spun and found the doctor. The old man was crouched in the corner, the needle still clutched in his broken right hand.
‘I have done nothing! Nothing!’ he whispered.
Red Mask neared the old man. ‘Untrue. You have done much, Doctor Kieu. In Vu Nuar, and Anlong Veng. Yes, you have done much horrible things. What is name of medicine?’
‘Naxopren! Naxopren!’
‘Inject yourself.’
The doctor’s eyes became rounder. ‘I… am not sick.’
‘Inject yourself!’
When the doctor did not move, Red Mask snatched up the syringe and drove the needle into his shoulder.
The old man screamed. ‘Please, please, Mok Gar Tieun!’
But Red Mask did not listen. He depressed the plunger.
The old man gasped. Trembled. Started to cry.
Red Mask’s face hardened. ‘Tears from you, Doctor? An irony — and an insult to your victims.’
The old man opened his mouth to speak, but only spittle came out. He clutched at his chest, then fell forward and slumped in the corner like a child’s doll. His breaths came deep and heavy; soon he began to shake more violently. Foam bubbled all around his lips. And then he became still.
The threat was over.
Red Mask struggled to get up and let out a cry when he put pressure on his injured shoulder. He focused on the TV screen. The news was on, showing a photograph of the cop who had ruined everything. The one who had manifested from nothing. Beneath his face was a name: Detective Jacob Striker.
Red Mask stared at him with dead eyes, this man who had killed Tran.
Let him come, he thought. It will change nothing. I will find the girl. And I will finish the job.
He headed for the exit with this one thought on his mind. The girl was still out there somewhere — the only one who had escaped him. Now that Tran was gone, her death was all that mattered. He would find her. And then he would kill her.
Twenty
Striker approached the cafeteria with Felicia beside him. The doors were open. Standing out front of them was a young cop — male, East Indian, easily six feet tall and square-jawed. A solid guy, no doubt, but still a rookie. Had to be. Only rookies got stuck with the shittiest of all posts — guard duty. When Striker got close enough to see the badge number on his shirt, he nodded with understanding. The kid barely had six months under his belt.
Six months, and already this would be his worst day on the job.
Striker badged him, then grabbed a pair of protective booties and slipped them over his shoes. Felicia did the same. They gloved up and stepped under the police tape.
The first thing Striker noticed was the smell — not of blood or of urine or of anything bad. It was a sweet smell — almost caramel-like. He looked ahead to the kitchen and saw the blown-apart racks of Coke bottles. Black liquid was stuck to the floor. Memories of dropping to the ground with shotgun blasts impacting over his head hit Striker, as explosive in his mind now as they had been in reality six hours ago.
He jerked in response to the memory and slowed his steps. Then he felt Felicia’s heavy stare upon him. No doubt analysing him. If he stalled at all, the questions would begin:
Is it too soon, Jacob?
Do you need some time, Jacob?
Are you coping, Jacob?
Without meeting her eyes, he said, ‘It’s sticky here,’ and made a point of walking around the tacky goo. He marched into the eating area where the gunfight had erupted, and immediately spotted four covered bodies. Students.
He turned away and saw another body. From where it lay, he knew it was one of the gunmen.
‘White Mask.’
Dark fascination overtook Striker, and he moved forward.
The body of the gunman lay face up between the first and second row of cafeteria tables. The bloodied-red vinyl around the body had been blocked off by red cones and bright strands of yellow tape.
Another crime scene within the crime scene.
Emotions hit Striker. So many of them. They mixed into some strange concoction he could not define. Suppressing them, he walked right up to the police tape, crouched low, and looked at the body.
The gunman’s head was completely gone, as were both his hands — obliterated in response to the shotgun blasts Red Mask had pumped through them. Even now as Striker stared at the carnage, he could hear the violent explosions reverberating through the room: ka-boom, ka-boom, ka-BOOM. Up this close to the body, he could now clearly detect the unique stink of death — the urine and blood and shit. And the faint trace of burned gunpowder, which lingered as a dark reminder.
‘There’s not much of the prick left,’ Striker said.
