Leaving a light on was something he never did.
Shen Sun watched and waited. Inside the unit, there was only stillness. No one appeared to be home. And no one was on the streets either.
That bothered Shen Sun even more than the light being left on.
He had spent ten years living here. Never was Raymur Street so quiet. Since setting up in his vantage point, he had not seen one police car drive by. And that was highly unusual. It told him one important thing: undercover cops were around.
Minutes ticked by slowly. The stillness made him edgy, made him want to return home. But if Father had taught him anything in this life, it was the importance of patience.
And so Shen Sun waited.
Just as he had waited so many years ago, in the forest brush that flanked the east end of Section 21. The memory was hot, blending in with his fever, and before Shen Sun knew it, he felt as small as a child again.
As small as Child 157.
Eighty-Two
As Striker and Felicia drove towards the 1700 block of Pandora Street, angry stormclouds floated in from the north, threatening rain and turning the grey twilight a purplish black.
It was fitting for the area. Everywhere Striker looked there was nothing but square concrete building after square concrete building. Some were brown, some were grey, some were a dirty, time-stained beige. But all were the same ugly industrial design.
It was half past six, and there was little sign of life on the street. Just the odd hooker working her corner, and the binners and homeless camped out between the lots, scavenging what they could from the trash cans. Striker watched one girl take note of the undercover cruiser and drop back into the shadows.
When they reached the 1800 block of Pandora Street, the darkness deepened. There were only two sources of light: the streetlamp at the end of the road and the yellow neon glow from Tony’s Autobody Shop, on the south side. The shop was closed for the night.
Halfway down the road, Striker spotted the building he was looking for. It was the lone house — or what was left of it — sitting on the north side of the road. Nestled between a condemned warehouse and an empty lot.
As they drove nearer, the extent of the damage to the house became clearer. Half the exterior was damn near demolished. The other half, barely standing, was nothing but a burned-out shell.
Striker glanced at Felicia. ‘Looks like the last time you tried to cook.’
She smiled. ‘This coming from the man whose daughter makes his every meal.’
‘Point taken.’ Striker frowned. The mere mention of Courtney gave him pause. He tried her again, at home and on her cell.
Nothing.
‘Give it up,’ Felicia said, sensing his thoughts. ‘She’s a woman, she’ll talk to you when she’s ready.’
‘Which means never.’ He opened the car door, got out. The overpowering stench of chicken guts hit him immediately. The smell filtered down from the slaughterhouse which sat a half block to the east, and it permeated everything.
Felicia brought a hand to her nose and winced.
Striker moved on.
A narrow cement path led from the sidewalk to the remains of the house. By the time they’d reached the front porch area, the chicken smell had been overtaken by the reek of burned wood and insulation. Impressive, considering the fire had been out for weeks. The front door and frame were completely gone. On the floor, just inside the foyer, a leftover string of yellow police tape stretched horizontally from beam to beam. Hanging from the tape was a sign: Condemned by the City of Vancouver.
Striker ran his finger along the yellow tape, feeling smoothness and grit. He stepped into the hallway, the burned hardwood clunking and creaking beneath his boots. All around him, blackened pillars rose up like gnarled fingers. Some of the beams continued up past the first floor; others were burned so badly they’d broken and toppled over. Striker crossed into the room and found the one area that was least affected by the fire.
He stopped, studied the wall. Said: ‘Come here. Look at this.’
When Felicia joined him, he pointed to a series of hollows in the leftover, grey-foam latticework. He gloved up, reached out and took hold of the remaining shelf of foam. Despite the intense heat of the fire, the material had remained supple. It bent as Striker yanked on it, but remained firm.
‘This is it,’ he said.
‘It?’
‘The key to all this.’
‘ This?’ Felicia looked at the burned-away insulation. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s the stasis-foam. What Brady was talking about.’
‘I don’t get it.’
He smiled. ‘You will.’
Felicia made a face, and Striker gestured for her to follow. He led her from one room to another, through the empty pockets of blackened framework. This second room looked no different than the first, except in the far corner. A warped metal box lay on the ground with piles of what looked like melted wire surrounding it. Striker picked the box up, forced it open and studied the inside. Most of the inner panel was a clean grey colour, except the bottom half, which was blackened.
‘Fuse box. Source of the fire.’
Felicia furrowed her brow. ‘Brady said they used white gas.’
‘They did — for the second fire.’
‘ Second fire?’ Felicia looked at Striker, then at the destruction all around her. ‘You think there were two fires?’
‘I’m betting on it.’ He walked to the window, where no glass remained, and stared outside, down into the north lane of Pandora. Outside, a series of industrial garbage cans lined the lane.
‘Follow me,’ he said.
They tried to go out of the kitchen door down into the backyard, but the stairs were all but burned away, so they cut back through the house, went out through the front door and took the sidewalk around the house. Once in the rear lane, Striker flipped open the first of five huge garbage containers. He looked inside, but could see little in the darkness.
‘Lot of garbage cans for one place,’ Felicia noted.
‘Exactly.’
Striker continued flipping open the rest of the lids. When done, he took out his Maglite and shone it inside the garbage cans, one at a time. The first two were empty. At garbage can number three, he stopped, reached inside and pulled out three empty plastic cups and the remnants of two very large fans. The fan blades were covered in soil. He held one of them up and muttered, ‘Jesus Christ, could it be that simple?’
Felicia frowned. ‘I’d say no, since I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.’
He threw the box back into the garbage can and met her stare. ‘It was a grow-op, Feleesh.’
‘A pot palace?’ She looked doubtful. ‘There’s no record of a grow-op ever being here.’
‘Exactly. So why not? That’s the million-dollar question, ain’t it?’ He looked at the array of plastic cloning cups in the next garbage can and shook his head. ‘There has to be documentation somewhere.’
Felicia got out her cell. She called Info and requested an Incident History Location on the address. After a couple of minutes, the operator got back to her, and she hung up the phone.
‘Nothing new,’ she said. ‘All that’s listed here is the first Suspicious Circumstance call, and then, a few hours later, the Arson.’
Striker walked around the far side of the house, searching through the burned refuse. When he found nothing of value, he hiked back to the front. Analysed the devastation the fire had caused. Saw the Condemned by City sign.
