The Survivor (36 page)

But something took him back to the time when he was eight years old. The worst time of his life. And then, without searching, he found the answer. It was the sun, beating down upon him with the same blinding white intensity it had every single day of the Angkors’ occupation of Cambodia.

Beating down upon his father as he toiled in the Killing Fields fourteen hours a day, his frail accountant’s hands cracked and bleeding, under the watchful eye of machine-gun guards.

Beating down upon his mother as she was hog-tied and raped for eleven days before the guards got bored and slit her throat.

Beating down on him and the other children as they were thrown together into that dusty pit where there was no food or water or safety from the guards.

Beating down upon them all with as much mercy as the Angkor offered.

Which was none.

Red Mask felt his body wilting from the cruelty of his thoughts. Where were these memories coming from? He was a man now, not some eight-year-old child – not Child 157. That boy had died long ago.

‘The spirits,’ he found himself saying. For there could be no other reason.

He closed his mind and willed his feet to move. And though his body listened, his mind was not as obedient. With every step, the memories of that time became clearer. The images more vivid.

Until he relived the nightmare all over again.

And Mother was screaming.

Screaming.

Screaming
. . .

Her ungodly cries filled the camp all night. Like the other nights, there was much laughter from the guards – cruel reptilian sounds – as Mother cried out for her ancestors to save her, or at the very least deliver her quickly into death. But the hours passed and her cries went unanswered.

Child 157 balled up in his cell, in uneven rows with the other children. Some of them writhed in hunger, some in pain. Others had not moved for a very long time. He barely noticed them; Mother was all that mattered. Her voice was everything. He tried to drown out her cries, to pretend he had no knowledge of what was happening to her. But he knew. He always knew.

At day’s end, when the guard entered to pour broth, Child 157 was quick to steal the key from the ring the man so lazily left hanging on the wall. The moment the guard finished his duties, Child 157 began prying the thin flesh of his ankle out of the shackle that bound him to the floor.

It was a slow and agonising task.

By the time he freed his leg, it was deep into the night, and even later before the pain subsided enough that he could walk on it. His bloodied foot was now a lump of ragged flesh, yet he limped to the door, unlocked it, and slipped outside.

He had no plan. No training. Not even any knowledge of the camp layout.

But he also had no choice.

Father was gone, for many days now. Too many to count. Taken to the Killing Fields, from which no one returned. Sisters Du and Hoc were dead, their necks broken with steel bars so the guards could save bullets. The only ones left were himself and Tran – Child 158 – and somewhere in the east building with the other infants was baby Loc.

Child 157 knew the truth. He was the eldest. Only he could save Mother.

The night was hot and black. Child 157 limped across the camp, with only the moon as a guide. He was only eight years old, and small for a boy. ‘A field mouse’, as Father often called him. The runt of the litter. He had barely gotten halfway across the camp when One-tooth caught him cutting in between the sacks of rice.

‘Rule-breaker, rule-breaker,’ the guard sang, his voice thick with cruelty. He pounced on Child 157 and dragged him out by his hair. He pulled him close, smiled. ‘You want to see much, then I will show you much, rule-breaker. Show you much, yes.’

Child 157 tried to break free of his grip, but that only angered One-tooth, who rose up and screamed in his face. Beat him down into the dirt. Beat him until he tasted his own blood and could not move. Beat him until One-tooth’s fists grew tired.

One-tooth then called the other guards, and together, they dragged him to the hollowed grounds east of the main building. Where the grass was always red and the earth was soft and mushy.

In the centre of the hollow stood the Nail Tree – a thick-trunked, knobby tree that was almost dead. Its branches had been sawn off and large nails driven into the bark. At the base of the tree were many bones.

The remains of the little ones.

‘We have a show for you,’ One-tooth told him.

And before Child 157 understood the meaning of One-tooth’s words, two of the other guards came out of the nearest building. They carried with them a small sack. At first he thought it rice, or grain – maybe they were going to eat in front of him and laugh at his starvation. But then a tiny arm dangled out, and he realised with horror:

‘Baby Loc!’

Child 157 rose up. He struggled to free himself, desperately, with all the strength he owned, but One-tooth held him in place with little effort.

‘Release me, RELEASE ME!’ He bent his head down and bit One-tooth on the hand as hard as he could, his teeth tearing into the flesh and drawing blood; when the guard screamed and let go of him, he raced for Baby Loc.

But he did not get far.

One of the other guards knocked him down, and before he could stand back up, One-tooth was on him, pinning him down in the grass, holding him firmly – the weight of a grown man’s body on that of an eight-year-old child’s.

He was helpless.

One-tooth yanked his head back, forcing him to look at the Nail Tree.

‘Bye, bye,’ One-tooth sang. ‘Bye bye, Baby Loc.’

He nodded to the two guards. One of them undraped the sack, then grabbed hold of the infant by both his legs. Child 157 screamed and struggled to get up, but One-tooth held him down firmly, laughing at his weakness.

Baby Loc was crying now, reaching out for Mother, but finding nothing. The guard holding Baby Loc’s ankles swung him around like a piece of wood, his head flying towards the Nail Tree. And there was a terrible crunch.

Child 157 screamed for Baby Loc. It did nothing.

The guard holding baby Loc swung him again. And again. And again.
Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH.

The sound of Baby Loc hitting the Nail Tree stayed in Child 157’s head like a bad ghost. It would never leave him. When at last One-tooth climbed off of him, something snapped inside Child 157’s mind. Like a twig that could never be whole again. The pain was gone, the fear was gone. Everything was gone – replaced by a complete and total numbness.

It was all he knew.

Sixty-Eight

Striker and Felicia left Worldwide Translation Services and climbed into the cruiser. Striker sat behind the wheel, his mind working in overdrive, searching for a connection between a group of suburban kids from a sleepy Dunbar school, the Shadow Dragon gangsters, and the Khmer Rouge war which was thirty years over and two thousand miles away.

He found none. Their best lead now was Patricia Kwan – who lay unconscious in the hospital. Doctor or no doctor, weak or strong, it did not matter. Patricia Kwan was the only chance they had of finding her missing daughter.

She would have to be woken up again.

‘Saint Paul’s,’ Striker said. ‘You drive.’

They switched places, and Felicia drove west on First Avenue. As they went, Striker logged onto the laptop, then initiated PRIME, the report programme all the municipal forces had adopted ten years earlier. Every Patrol call written was in this database, and it was one more check box on his list.

Felicia switched to the fast lane, looked over at him. ‘Any theories?’

Striker pulled out his notebook and set it down on his lap. ‘I’m running every damn name we got through the patrol database. See if we can get even a weak connection. Right now I’d be happy with anything.’

Striker got to work. He typed in the names of all four kids involved – the ones that were known targets: Conrad MacMillan, Chantelle O’Riley, Tina Chow, and the still-missing Riku Kwan. A few minutes later, he deflated.

‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Jesus Christ, not a one.’

Felicia looked over. ‘What do you mean, not one?’

‘I mean they’re not even in the system as entities. Goddam zilch.’

It was frustrating. Not one of the kids had a youth record, or any criminal history in any of the information systems. Not one was even listed as a Witness or a Property Rep, or even a Person of Interest, much less a Suspect Chargeable. The closest matches Striker could find were Patricia Kwan and Archibald MacMillan – the parents of Riku and Conrad. Kwan, as they now knew, was a Vancouver cop. Her entity was automatically entered into the system upon hire date. And Archibald MacMillan was a fireman, so he was listed the same way.

Striker told this to Felicia.

‘What hall is Archie at?’ she asked.

Striker scoured through the report. ‘Hall Eleven. Got a notation here in the remarks field – says he’s specialised. HAZMAT.’ Striker looked over at Felicia. ‘They deal with chemical spills, explosive substances, meth labs, unknown terrorist devices – all that shit.’

Felicia turned south on Main. ‘I know what HAZMAT is, Striker. Christ Almighty, how junior do you think I am?’

‘Stands for Hazardous Materials.’

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. ‘You’re such a shit. Any of the other parents come up?’

He focused back on the computer screen, scanned through the electronic pages. ‘No, not that I can see. The only Chows listed are all low scores, and there isn’t even an O’Riley on file.’ He used the touch-pad to close the extra windows, bringing him back to his original request of Archibald MacMillan. ‘Interesting though. Hall Eleven is at Victoria and Second – that’s District Two.’

‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘Both Archibald MacMillan and Patricia Kwan work in District Two, yet they live in Dunbar. And both their kids go to the same school.’

Felicia shrugged as if to say,
So?
‘A lot of cops and firemen live in Dunbar,’ she said. ‘It’s a good family place. Try to cross reference them.’

Striker read through their histories. There was a lot.

Patricia Kwan had written over two hundred calls the past year. Pretty standard for a patrol cop. Everything from Break & Enters to Homicides. Archibald MacMillan had been to sixty-three calls, most of which were gas leaks and car accidents.

Striker cross-referenced their names. ‘Interesting . . .’ he said.

‘What you got?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing astounding, but they’ve only been to one call together. Just a few months back, in fact. A house on Pandora Street, Seventeen Hundred block.’

‘That’s the industrial area,’ Felicia noted. ‘What kind of file is it?’

He clicked on the link and waited until the incident number popped up.

‘Okay, there’s actually two calls here,’ he said, ‘and they’re linked. First one came in as a Suspicious Circumstance, then later the same night, it was linked to an Arson call at the same address.’ He queried the number and got back a generic CAD call with only the address and time listed. There was nothing in the remarks field. Not even a name. Frustrated, he ran the incident number for a report and got back a three-word message.

‘Event Not Found,’ he said. Meaning it was either non-existent or locked for security reasons.

‘Any badge number associated?’ Felicia asked.

‘Nothing.’

Striker called Info, asked if they could bring up the report. But the same message came back to them as well. Irritated, he closed the CAD call.

‘I want to see that house on Pandora,’ he said.

‘It’ll have to wait,’ Felicia told him. ‘We’re here.’

Striker looked up from the laptop screen and saw the tall steel gates and old red brick of the hospital before him.

They had reached St Paul’s.

Sixty-Nine

Red Mask stood in the east wing of St Paul’s Hospital and looked through the windowed door that led into the Critical Care Unit. In there was Patricia Kwan.

His next target.

He was dressed in janitor’s clothes, which he’d taken off the old man he’d killed in the next wing. He also wore latex gloves – so he would leave no prints – and a gown overtop his clothing. With only one good arm, the baggy gown hampered him in reaching his pistol, but the uniform was necessary to enter the CCU. So he left the back straps loose.

It was the best he could do.

On the other side of the doorway, Patricia Kwan’s room was under guard. Red Mask had expected no different. A young cop, about twenty-five years old, leaned on the doorframe. He looked bored. With the exception of the nurses and orderlies who roamed the walkways, no one else was around.

And this was to Red Mask’s benefit.

He carried the jar and duct tape in his left hand. The weight of his tools was not much, minimal really, but the stress it put on his shoulder was alarming. He closed his mind to the pain and focused on the task at hand.

In his right hand, he carried a small oxygen tank, one he’d stolen from the cancer ward. He had taken two of them, and purposely left one by the CCU entrance doors. The tanks were pressurised and heavy, about thirty pounds.

It would be more than enough.

He waited patiently for the nurse to leave, then swiped the keypad with the janitor’s access card and entered the Critical Care Unit. He looked at nothing as he made his way down the corridor, just kept his eyes straight ahead, as if he were a tired man finishing his shift. When he neared the cop, he glanced left. Saw that the man wasn’t paying attention.

It was the only opening he needed.

Mustering as much strength as his shoulder would allow, he swung the oxygen canister; the cop spotted the movement and raised his arms – but the reaction came far too late. The oxygen tank impacted with his face, smashing his head into the door and breaking his nose. He dropped to the floor, as limp as rice noodles.

Red Mask took no chances. He drove the tank into the cop’s face one more time, then opened up Patricia Kwan’s door and scanned the room. When he saw no one but the woman on the bed inside the room, confidence filled him. He placed the jar and tape down on the nearest counter, then set the oxygen tank down on the floor, just inside the doorway.