She gripped his arm. ‘My daughter, please, my daughter.’
‘Do you have any idea where she might be? We’re trying to locate her.’
‘Find her, please. You have to find her… find her…’
‘Where does she go? Who does she hang out with? Is there anyone I can call?’ Striker peppered her with questions. But the woman’s eyes glazed, and she retreated back inside her body. Her facial muscles relaxed. She deflated against the bed like a balloon with a fast leak and sweat dappled her pallid skin.
‘Dragons,’ she said one last time, her voice but a whisper. ‘The house was filled with dragons.’
One of the machines to Striker’s left let out a series of beeps, and the doctor motioned for the nurse. She hurried over, adjusted the settings, and gave the doctor and Striker a fierce motherly look.
‘That’s it,’ Dr Adler said to Striker. ‘No more.’
Striker didn’t argue the point. He retreated to the doorway, where he stopped, turned, stared. He watched the nurse and doctor fuss over their patient. Sadness swept through him, so heavy he felt the sorrow deep down in his lungs. The woman on the bed may as well have been Amanda all over again. And Striker recalled with horrifying clarity how he had felt two years ago, knowing his wife was dying and wondering how he was ever going to tell Courtney — their thirteen-year-old daughter — that her mother was never coming home again.
The memory cut into him as deeply now as it had done back then.
He stood in the doorway and stared at Patricia Kwan until the nurse ushered him into the hall. Outside, he met up with Felicia, who snapped her cell phone shut.
‘That was the coroner,’ she said. ‘The autopsy of our remaining gunman is done.’
Striker nodded.
It was the first good thing he’d heard all day.
Fifty-Two
It was late, and the night was dark and cold. It was all Red Mask could do to keep his feet moving and his body from collapsing.
His destination — a barely noticeable hole in the wall — was an old herbal shop, on East Georgia Street. Like every other shop in Chinatown, the banner out front was red on gold: Happy Health and Good Fortune Herbs and Pharmaceuticals.
Sheung Fa had taken him here, many years ago, when he was young. His words had been clear: ‘For you, always will these doors be open.’
And that was what Red Mask was now counting on. For in his deteriorated state, there was nowhere else to go. Certainly not home. He would never go home again. There was nothing more disgraceful a man could do than to knowingly bring evil into his father’s house. And with the amount of people he had now killed, there was evil all around him. He could feel it. Like diesel fumes on his skin.
The thought landed in Red Mask’s stomach like a hard stone, and his eyes welled with tears. He touched beneath his eyes. Amazement flooded him when he felt wetness. Weeping. He was actually weeping. Something that had not happened since childhood.
‘What happens to me?’
The words hung there, exposed as much as the hole in his shoulder.
He killed the thought and moved on. The pain was excruciating now. If not addressed, the injury would overtake him, and he would not last long enough to find the girl.
With the stairway tilting, he descended the concrete steps and stumbled into the darkness of the alcove below. The door was locked. He knocked three times and heard shuffling feet. When the door opened, his legs finally gave way and he collapsed.
‘Sheung Fa sent me,’ he said.
He repeated the words over and over again as he lay on the cold wet concrete.
It was all that he could do.
Fifty-Three
Striker led Felicia out the way they’d come, cutting through the west side admittance area of St Paul’s Hospital. He had just passed the waiting area, where construction was still underway — God knows there was always a renovation underway at St Paul’s — when he spotted the white unmarked police cruiser pulling into the Police Only parking out front.
The White Whale.
Deputy Chief Laroche.
‘Christ, not now,’ Striker muttered. And for an instant, he was tempted to turn down the nearest corridor and escape via one of the rear or side exits. There’d been enough stress over the last two days without having to deal with the white-shirted dictator again. Avoidance would have been a logical choice, for which no one would fault him, but Jacob Striker never ran from anyone.
Especially not Laroche.
‘Gear up,’ Striker warned.
He gave Felicia a quick look, saw the uncomfortable expression masking her tired face, and barged out the exit door, into the brisk night air. The hospital door had barely shut behind him when Laroche exited the vehicle, followed by his lackey, Inspector Beasley.
‘Well, he’s got Curly with him now. All he needs is to find a Moe.’
‘Jacob, please,’ Felicia started.
He ignored her. Stopped walking. Crossed his arms. Stood rooted to the spot.
The Deputy Chief closed the car door then looked at his reflection in the side mirror. He adjusted his belt, fidgeted with his tie, then patted and combed his thick black hair back over his head while Inspector Beasley waited for him on the sidewalk. When he finally stopped fussing and stood up straight, his eyes landed on the two detectives. And his face darkened.
‘Striker!’
‘Laroche.’
‘Jesus Christ, everywhere you go I have to set up a new crime scene.’
Striker blinked, couldn’t believe his ears. Not, ‘Good job at the Kwan house,’ or, ‘You were right, Leung wasn’t Red Mask,’ or even, ‘I’m glad to see you’re alive.’ No, he got none of those, and there would certainly be no commendation to follow. Just more bullshit. He cleared his throat and said politely, ‘Just bringing you more zebras, sir.’
Laroche said nothing. His white face turned pink. Striker expected a rebuttal of some sort, but none came. Instead the Deputy Chief swivelled his hips, found Inspector Beasley, and the two of them exchanged a nasty smirk. One that made Striker pause.
Just what the hell are they up to now?
The Deputy Chief gave Beasley a nod, and without a word Beasley returned to the White Whale, popped open the trunk, rummaged around for a second, then returned with a gun case. He handed it to the Deputy Chief, who then turned to Striker with a wide smile stretching his lips.
‘The order no longer comes from me,’ Deputy Chief Laroche said. ‘It comes from the top, this one — right from Chief Chambers himself. And he’s made his decision clear. You have to turn in your gun. Now. It’s evidence.’
Striker shrugged. ‘I never said it wasn’t.’
‘You refused to relinquish it.’
‘I did nothing of the sort; I promised to relinquish my gun once it was safe to do so, when the incident was over, and technically the incident was not over. Like I said before, it was a safety issue, pure and simple.’
Laroche’s smile didn’t falter.
