‘Jacob, you’re bleeding!’
He reached up with his free hand, touched his brow and felt the warm stickiness of fresh blood. He pulled his hand away, saw red.
‘He’s here. In a hospital gown. Red Mask.’ Striker looked around. Felicia had come from the south, and he had followed from the west, so there were only two ways the gunman could have fled. He ordered Felicia to take the north while he searched east.
At the end of the hall, the door to the outside fire escape was ajar. Striker kicked it open and stepped outside. He looked down and found a discarded pale green gown and janitor clothing. But the rest of the staircase was empty. As was the alley below.
Red Mask was gone.
Striker reached for his cell phone to call for units to Burrard Street, then realised he’d lost it somewhere in the mayhem. No radio either. And with the time already passed and Red Mask nowhere in sight, Striker knew they had lost him.
Again.
He scanned the streets below and the buildings all around him. Across the way, on the rooftop of the next building, a tall Asian man stood looking at him. He was thin, with overly long legs and arms, and his face looked tight and angled wrong, as if his skull was too big for his skin. He stared back at Striker, offering nothing. Not a wave, not a smile, not anything.
Striker called out to him. ‘You see a guy run down these stairs?’
The man looked back, said nothing.
‘You see him?’ Striker asked again.
‘No.’
Striker stepped back inside and slammed the fire-escape door closed. Dizziness overtook him. He leaned against the wall, felt a moment away from collapsing. He fought through the weakness, returned to the hallway and spotted Felicia. She gave him the thumbs-down gesture.
‘No luck.’
‘He went that way,’ Striker said, and passed her by. She asked him something he couldn’t make out, but he ignored her and hurried back down the hallway to Patricia Kwan’s room. As he marched through the blown-apart doorway, he heard agonised sounds coming from the bed.
What he saw took his breath away.
Felicia entered the room just behind him. She saw Patricia Kwan, stopped hard and put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear Christ.’
‘Just get a fucking doctor.’
Striker ran to Patricia Kwan and reefed her out of the bed, so hard he tore the IVs from her arms. He dragged her limp body into the washroom, turned on the water and began flushing her face.
He prayed to God he wasn’t too late.
Seventy-Two
Half an hour later, Striker sat on the examination table with his shirt off and an Intern assessing his head wound. His head was ringing and all sounds were dull, but what bothered him most was how weak he felt. Despite the lean muscle that covered his body, he felt thin, exposed. Had he not already been in such good shape, he would have broken down by now.
He wanted sleep.
The Intern was a young blonde girl. Striker allowed her to do her thing, all the while letting his own mind wander to the Critical Care Room, where Patricia Kwan was being treated. The thought of her made his head hurt — almost as much as his hands. He turned them over, studied his palms, and assessed the redness. When he made a fist, the skin felt swollen, like it might tear if he tightened his fingers too much.
The Intern took notice. ‘Doctor Hart is the Specialist. He’ll look at that. Should be here any minute.’
A knock came on the door, and Felicia entered the room. ‘Hey.’
Striker looked at her, not wanting to know but having to ask. ‘She okay?’
‘Patricia?’ Felicia shrugged. ‘Gonna take some time to know.’
‘What about her daughter?’
‘No news on Riku Kwan either.’ Felicia moved around the Intern, sat down on the only chair the room offered, and pulled a Cadbury chocolate bar from her coat pocket. She caught Striker’s stare and held it up for him to see. ‘Hazelnut. Got it from the vending machine in the staff lounge.’ She broke off a piece, leaned forward and stuffed it in his mouth. ‘For the pain.’
Striker chewed. The chocolate tasted wonderful, and he realised how hungry he was.
The Intern tutted as she assessed the gash that ran horizontally across Striker’s upper left brow. She wiped away some blood and said, ‘This is going to require stitches. But first we’ll have to get you in for some scans.’
Striker looked at her. ‘Scans? What kinda scans?’
‘CT. X-ray for sure.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘A few hours.’
‘Absolutely not. Just stitch me up.’
‘You hit your head pretty hard, Detective Striker,’ the young woman began. ‘I would really recommend-’
‘Just stitch the goddam thing.’
The Intern frowned. ‘Very well. Hold this against the wound.’ She then turned and headed out of the room, presumably to get supplies.
As she left, the Specialist walked in. Dr Hart was a tall man, terribly thin, with a face so long and gaunt it made Ich look tanned and square-jawed. He offered only the briefest introduction to Striker and did not so much as look at Felicia. He turned Striker’s hands over, asked him to make a fist, then nodded sagely.
‘Minor burns,’ he finally said. ‘Chemical. Not quite second degree. You’re lucky.’
‘Don’t feel so lucky,’ Striker told him.
‘Have you seen Ms Kwan?’ The doctor spoke the words without emotion. ‘Trust me, you’re lucky.’ He pulled out his prescription pad, scribbled on it. ‘Get this cream, apply it several times a day for two weeks. It will help with the skin elasticity. The scarring will fade over months.’
Striker nodded. ‘What the hell was it — battery acid?’
‘No, much worse. It was nitric acid, and in a highly concentrated form. Corrosive on human flesh and extremely disfiguring.’
Felicia interrupted. ‘Nitric acid? I’ve never heard of it.’
The doctor cast her a sideways glance, as if her comment was an annoyance. He finished working on Striker, then turned around and without another word, headed for the exit. When he reached the doorway, Striker called out to him.
‘Hey, Doc, tell me… Patricia Kwan — is she going to make it?’
Dr Hart stopped in the doorway. He gave Striker a long, hard look and raised his hands in a who-knows gesture.
‘Keep the stitches clean,’ he said, and left the room.
After the Intern stitched the gash on Striker’s brow, Striker and Felicia left the treatment room. Felicia walked slowly, and Striker loved her for it. Every muscle in his back felt bruised, deep down into his bones.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked.
‘Attached.’
‘The doctor said you have a concussion.’ She held up three fingers. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’
‘Tuesday,’ he said, and smiled.
‘You’re such a shit.’
They continued on. Striker steered Felicia away from the east hallway, where Patricia Kwan’s room was located, and where there were now an entire slew of cops guarding and taping off the scene. No doubt Noodles
