The Survivor (25 page)

Images popped up.

Spread across the screen were five jpegs. Four of them were the faces of children, smiling, happy. Three of them were now dead. One was presumably alive, the whereabouts unknown. The fifth jpeg was an image of a man he had not seen in decades. Not since those bad, bad times that he never thought about any more.

The sight stirred strange feelings inside of him.

The Man with the Bamboo Spine looked at the images for a long time as the plane crossed the Pacific Ocean and entered Canadian air space. He did not shut the computer down until the flight attendant announced that they would soon be making their descent.

He sat straight and said nothing more. Stared at the back of the seat in front of him as the plane prepared to land.

Vancouver, Canada.

He had arrived.

Forty-Two

Striker and Felicia left the crime scene in Rothschild’s capable hands and cruised the Skids. It was fast approaching two o’clock. Above them, any clarity of blue sky was being slowly hazed over with a depressive greyness.

It matched the areas they were searching – the Raymur underpass with its tranny hookers; Pigeon Park with its open drug trafficking; Oppenheimer with its endless fighting drunks; and now, Blood Alley with its drug-sick hypes and crazies.

At times, this city felt like a demented fun house.

Striker and Felicia were searching for someone who could ID the three dead men in the van. Their best bet was forty-five-year-old Carol Kalwateen, who went by the street name Trixie. She was a regular around the Skids, and Chinatown, and the Strathcona Projects. She had been a rounder for as long as Striker could remember.

Trixie had started out as a high-end call girl, one who was popular among the Asian gangs. So popular she’d ended up helping them in their business deals – holding six, providing a safe house, and often being paid as a go-between.

In her day, Trixie had done very well.

Then she’d become a girlfriend to a mid-level drug trafficker for the Red Eagles. A guy by the name of Ngoc. That had been a long time ago. So long it was measured in decades, not years. After that, Trixie had jumped loyalties from gang to gang, becoming connected internationally, and getting even richer in the process. Things had gone extremely well.

Then she’d started using her own product.

Within two years Trixie had become an addict – heroine and crack cocaine predominantly, but there was other stuff, too. A little meth. A little prescription. Over the years, her habit had grown, pushing past the point of her drug-sale profits. So she’d returned to stealing and whoring, doing up to twenty Johns a day.

And it showed.

Every time Striker saw her, she looked thinner, a bit more haggard. Back when he’d first known her, she hadn’t been that bad. He’d even liked her, found her more pleasant than the other crooks he had to deal with down here. But now she was just like the rest – a desperate addict. One step away from some violent form of death.

Such was the life of the Skids.

‘This is another one of her hangs,’ Striker told Felicia. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

They drove down the old, uneven cobblestones of Blood Alley, on the north side of the Stanley Hotel, which was the last chance for any drugged-out crazy before they were sleeping on the streets. Striker looked around the laneway. Cobblestone road, old iron lamps turned green from rain and time, and a small brick patio courtyard, hidden behind the roundabout of maple trees and flower-filled planters. The scene should have seemed quaint, tranquil. But this was Blood Alley.

It held nothing but pain, bad memories, and death.

‘Eyes left,’ Felicia said.

Striker looked past the roundabout and spotted the woman they’d been searching for. Trixie was leaning up against the far wall in one of the narrow alcoves beneath the rusted stairwell, the shadows almost hiding her completely.

Her twitching was what attracted their attention.

‘She’s got the sickies,’ Felicia said.

Striker agreed.

Trixie was swaying back and forth. Twisting like an old wooden building during an earthquake. Her muscles twitched. Her limbs jerked. She made nervous groans that were audible, even inside the car.

‘Man, she’s got it bad,’ Striker said. He brought the cruiser to a slow stop, then placed it in park. He climbed out, felt the cold rush of damp air on his face. Stepped around the rusting metal staircase and marched straight into the darkness.

Felicia caught up to him. There was a guy standing next to Trixie – a clean looking white guy, no doubt here for some cheap suck and fuck. She gave him a cold stare.

‘Get walking, asshole,’ she said.

He didn’t say a word – the guilty ones rarely did – but just spun away from them and hurried westward down the breeze-way, thankful he wasn’t going to be charged. Thankful that his wife and kids wouldn’t find out. When he was out of ear’s reach, Striker took a long hard look at Trixie and shook his head.

‘You’ll get killed down here, you know.’

Trixie looked back like she recognised him, but couldn’t find the name – despite the fact he’d arrested her thirty times and had dealt with her a couple hundred more. She took a weak step forward, into the better light of the old iron streetlamps, and focused on him.

‘Detective Striker?’

‘So you remember me.’

He looked her over, felt a tug at his heart. In the better light, the truth was harsh. She looked terrible. Her clothes were rags. Her emaciated body had no muscle left; she was just translucent skin over knobby bone. Drug eruption sores covered her flesh. Her right eye was swollen shut. The rest of her face was bruised like an overripe banana. She’d been shit-kicked, probably over a crack debt.

And down here, that meant as little as five bucks’ worth.

Striker killed any emotion he felt. He had to. ‘You breaching your No-Go, Trixie.’

A frantic look took over her face. ‘No, no, I—’

‘Four block radius from Abbott Street.’

‘Please, Detective Striker, please, please, please.’ Her voice was weak and desperate, but quickly turning 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. Maybe more.’

She glanced at him, and a nervous tension filled her eyes.

Striker smiled. ‘You’re feeling it already, aren’t you? I can tell. How long’s it been since your last fix? Six, seven hours? Already getting your insides all twisted?’

‘Please—’

‘Feeling that hunger just eating you alive? Well, just fucking wait. Wait till every cell in your body is screaming out for more crack and you start getting the dry heaves and the shakes, and then you’ll realise you’re only one day into your stay—’

‘I don’t know the fucker!’ she screamed. ‘I don’t know him, I don’t know him, I don’t fucking
know him
!’

Striker stopped talking. He just stood there calmly, giving Trixie an eternity to think. She was sweating, trembling, her eyes looking everywhere but at him. And he no longer cared.