angry and sinister. ‘I’m sick, I’m really sick. I need some. Really, really need some.’
Striker saw her pain, but had no time for pity or compassion. He gave Felicia the nod, and they each moved forward and handcuffed Trixie. He got the police wagon to attend and transport her back to the corner of Gore and Pender.
It was time for some answers.
Forty-Three
Courtney wasn’t sure what time it was, but when she looked away from the computer screen, out her bedroom window, she could see darkness at the horizon. The light was fading, the day almost gone. And the clouds had come back. It was so typical of Vancouver weather. So depressing.
No wonder Mom had wanted to move away.
A sad feeling enveloped her, and she took a sip from the herbal tea she’d made. Liquorice Spice. It was hot, and it burned her tongue a little, making her suck in a mouthful of air to help cool it down. She set the mug on the blotter, the smell of liquorice filling the room, and pulled a dark green kangaroo jacket over her shoulders, zipping it up against the cold.
Once again, Dad was screwing with her life by keeping the heat turned down. There was always something.
She looked back at the computer screen. The bluish light tinted the walls of the room around her. She was on Facebook. Lookin’, searchin’, bloggin’ — seein’ what was up. Everywhere she looked, people were blogging about the massacre at the school. At first she had to work hard to find something else because just the thought of the shootings made her feel like she was going to puke. So she logged off.
But the carnage was as darkly fascinating as it was terrible, and before Courtney knew it, she was back online. She went back to Facebook, logged in and read through what her friends were saying: that three gunmen had opened fire in the school for no apparent reason. And rumour had it that Sherman Chan was one of them.
‘Sherman?’ The word escaped her lips.
Courtney struggled to make some sense of it. She knew Sherman. Kind of. Well, she knew who he was. Some computer nerd. Always kept to his own little group. Always smiled at her and seemed really… nice.
It was hard to believe.
She paged through the forum, and read the list of the dead. The first three killed were people she didn’t know — one she’d never even heard of, which was rare for such a small school — but the fourth hit home. It was Tamara Marsden.
The name zapped Courtney like an electric shock. And she leaned back from the computer, as if this could somehow protect her. With nervous fingers, she scrolled down the page, reading the rest of the names. When she finished reading the list, she sat there very still. Then she shuddered. Cupped her hands over her mouth. Sobbed.
And she sat that way for a very long time.
Forty-Four
Striker and Felicia arrived back at the intersection of Gore and Pender Street, where the white van that held the three dead men in it was still cordoned off.
Trixie was secured in the side compartment of the police wagon, yelling and pounding her head against the steel door. It was nothing unusual, and Striker kept her there until he was ready.
When he had finished discussing his plan with Felicia, he made his way back to the wagon. The metal door was heavy. The latch felt cold against his hand and stubborn to move. He reefed it upward, hard, and the latch finally popped. The steel hinges groaned as the door swung outward. A musty smell of body odour and piss floated out of the cab.
‘Out,’ Striker ordered.
Trixie was crumpled against the grey steel wall of the compartment, still banging her head softly but continuously. Striker ordered her out again. When she didn’t respond, he reached in and grabbed her arm. The movement woke Trixie from her stupor, and she stumbled as she exited the wagon, almost landing face first on the pavement.
Striker caught her, held her up. He studied her as she looked around.
Her face took on a twisted look when she saw she was at Gore and Pender — one of her familiar hangouts — and not her usual abode of the Vancouver Jail. For the first time since Striker and Felicia had found her, her dark eyes looked focused and wary. She stared at the van, then at the restaurant down the road behind it.
‘Why are we here?’ she asked.
‘Information,’ Striker said.
Trixie’s face darkened. She was still cuffed, hands behind her back, and moving her arms around, trying to adjust the sharper edges of steel. Striker took her left arm and Felicia her right, and they escorted her across the road. Right up to the van.
The doors were closed.
Striker took the handle of the left door, Felicia the right. Then Striker turned to watch Trixie’s expression. He gave Felicia the word and they both reefed open the doors, revealing the carnage inside. When Trixie saw the three bodies, her face remained impassive. But when Striker reached in and turned the old man’s head so that she could see his face, her mouth tightened and her body twitched.
She knew him.
Just like Striker had known she would. He saw that Felicia had seen the change in expression, too.
‘I don’t know him,’ Trixie said.
Striker squeezed her arm. ‘Bullshit. Who is he?’
Trixie gave him a sideways sneer. ‘How the hell should I know? Lotsa old men down here.’
‘You twitch every time you see one?’ Felicia asked.
‘What you talking ’bout, girl?’ Trixie swore under her breath, then looked at Striker. ‘These cuffs are diggin’ into my goddam wrist.’
He made no move to loosen them. ‘Want a smoke?’
Her eyes lit up. ‘I’d fuckin’ love ya for one.’
‘Then turn around.’
Trixie did, and Striker removed the handcuffs. He walked over to the cruiser and returned with a pack of smokes. Camels. He always kept some in the glove box for occasions just like this. He handed her one. When she stuck it between her lips, he lit it and met her stare, saying, ‘Don’t mess around, right?’
She nodded, held up the smoke. ‘My word on it, man.’
Striker let her take a few puffs and calm down, then continued, ‘I’ve spent ten years down here, Trixie, and I’ve never seen this guy before. But you’ve spent your entire life down here; you know everyone and everyone knows you. So tell me, who is he?’
Trixie looked back at the old man in the van. Her mouth dropped open, and she spoke between ragged breaths. ‘Honest, I ain’t never seen him before. I swear to God, swear to God, swear to God.’
Striker turned to Felicia. ‘I guess you’re right, we should just lodge her. You wanna go back to the wagon and start the paperwork?’
Felicia looked at Trixie, said pleasantly, ‘Love to.’
When she was gone, Striker turned back to Trixie. Without emotion he said, ‘Listen up. I’ve dealt with you hundreds of times, so you know my word is good. Tell me who this guy is and no one will ever know. Don’t tell me, and I’ll throw you in the tank on this chicken-shit breach.’
Trixie’s hand trembled as she took a long drag. She blew it out with a fluttery breath, and Striker kept talking. ‘I’ll keep you in the tank on the Obstruct charge too, got it? For as long as I possibly can. Up to a week, for sure.
