Sean Slater - The survivor

‘Jacob-’

He turned away and grabbed his cell. He looked at the screen, saw that there were no calls, and grimaced. He dialled Courtney’s number again, got the latest Britney message, something about someone being a womaniser. That was good, it meant she was fine, though more concerned about changing her voice messages than contacting her father. Again, he tried to leave a message but couldn’t. He shut off the phone. Cursed. Caught Felicia’s stare.

‘She’s still screening her calls,’ he said.

‘She probably doesn’t know what happened yet — you know how teenagers are with the news — and she sure as hell doesn’t want you to know she’s skipping school. She probably has no clue about any of this. Otherwise she would call, Jacob. You know that.’

He looked at her like she was crazy. ‘How couldn’t she know? It’s been hours since the shootings.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe her cell died, maybe she left it at home, maybe she’s turned it off to avoid you because she knows she’s in shit. Who cares? We know she’s all right, people have already told us that. One of those girls — Marnie Jenkins — spotted her on a bus near the mall not an hour ago. She’s out there having fun.’

Striker moved to the cafeteria window, stared outside. The sky was losing light, everything looking colder and darker. It felt like it had two years ago when the problems with his wife, Amanda, were at their worst. Just prior to her death.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Almost four o’clock.’

Christ, he thought. Over seven hours since the shootings. It felt like days. Another life.

And now, maybe it was.

He drew his Sig and slid out the mag. He replaced it with another full one, out of habit, then put the pistol back into the holster. When he looked at Felicia, she was eyeing him warily.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

‘I’m thinking the world has gone crazy.’ Striker scanned the cafeteria, took one last look at the hell he would never forget. At the blood that was everywhere, turning the floor into a giant red-and-white checkerboard. At Noodles, who was still taking fluid samples from one of the gunmen. At Sherman Chan — Black Mask — the student helper Striker had shot dead.

At everything.

It was too much. All too much.

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Striker said. ‘I’m drowning in the shit. I need to leave this goddam school for bit. Clear my head. Everything here is too close.’

Through the double-doors, Striker spotted Caroline at the end of the hall. She had returned with the yearbook pictures, and Striker went out to meet her. He took them, thanked her, and left her standing and staring at the crime scene in front of her.

When Felicia caught up to him, Striker spoke aloud: ‘Sherman Chan was Black Mask. That fact is undeniable. And as far as we know — at least from the ID in the gunman’s pockets — Que Wong was White Mask.’

‘Which leaves only Red Mask,’ Felicia said.

‘Right. According to Caroline, Raymond Leung lived with Quenton Wong. He was also known to hang out with Sherman Chan. So it can’t be a coincidence that Raymond was absent from school today.’

‘You think he’s Red Mask.’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

They headed for Kerrisdale.

Courtney sat opposite Raine and Que in a small secluded booth. It faced the front door, which led directly into the north lane of Kingsway. An unusual entrance anywhere else, but it seemed to make sense with this restaurant, the Golden Lotus. Everything about the place felt secluded and secretive. No sign lit up the parking lot, telling the world the restaurant even existed; the iron-barred windows were blocked from view by dark green hanging drapes, and there were no printed menus. Que had ordered everything for them in Cantonese.

When the food came, Courtney had to admit he’d done well.

Raine pushed a plate of pan-fried prawns towards Courtney. They smelled of garlic and green onions. ‘You got to try one of these, Court, serious. They’re to die for.’

She took one and broke off the tail. Put the meat in her mouth. It tasted strongly of chilli pepper and something sweet.

‘Isn’t that just so damn good?’ Raine said again. ‘I could eat, like, the whole plate myself. Serious. The whole plate.’ She plucked up another one and stuffed it into Que’s mouth. He let her, not really looking at either of the girls but keeping his eyes on the doorway.

It had been like that the entire meal, and it was making Courtney nervous.

No one would ever have accused Que Wong of being a social butterfly, but he had barely said two words since they’d gotten there. Hell, he’d said more to the waiter when ordering their food. And as for the food, he’d hardly touched a thing, instead choosing to sip from the bottle of Wiser’s Deluxe he had ordered with the meal. He just sat there, sipping whisky, waiting and looking out the front window. He chewed the prawn mechanically, then caught Courtney’s stare.

‘Want more?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Then what is it?’

‘You’re sweating.’

He tilted his eyes up, as if he could somehow see the beads of perspiration dampening his brow, and grabbed a napkin. After wiping his forehead, he muttered something about the restaurant being hot.

But the restaurant wasn’t hot. If anything, it was cold. So cold that Courtney had put on her jacket. She looked to Raine for a response.

But Raine was smelling the glass of whisky Que had poured for her and wincing. She caught Courtney’s stare and giggled. When Courtney didn’t respond, she gave her a look that said, What now?

Courtney said nothing. She looked outside to where Que had been staring all meal long, and saw the growing darkness of the sky. A quick glance at her watch told Courtney it was now half past four, and she let out a surprised sound. In an hour, Dad would be finishing up his shift in Homicide. An hour after that, he’d be home. And given the fact he knew she’d been skipping, he was gonna be in one hell of a mood. The thought soured her, and she wished her mom was still around. Missed her terribly.

‘Hey, you okay?’ Raine said.

Courtney looked up. ‘I have to go.’ She pulled out her wallet.

‘Don’t bother,’ Que said. He reached into the left pocket of his designer hoodie and pulled out his wallet. It was a fancy one, black shiny leather, maybe eel or snakeskin, and covered by a red and gold design she couldn’t make out. More noticeably it was bulging with green, easily a couple of inches thick.

Que got up from the table, pulled out a pack of Player’s Filter Lights cigarettes and lit one up. Took a long drag. He walked to the register, where a slender Asian girl was adding up receipts behind a Cash Only sign. She touched his arm several times and smiled a lot. Que didn’t seem to notice. He paid for the meal, all the while keeping his head craned to the alley outside.

Courtney leaned across the table. ‘You see how much money he’s got in his wallet?’

Raine shrugged. ‘Always does.’

‘How’s he get it?’

‘His dad’s a businessman overseas. In Hong Kong. Makes theme parks or hotels or something like that. Something fancy. Anyway, he’s loaded. Don’t worry so much, Court. God, you always worry!’

When Que returned to the table, Raine got up, excused herself, and went to the washroom. With her gone, a silence filled the air. Uncomfortable. Courtney listened to the clatter coming from the kitchen, looked up and found Que’s fake green eyes staring heavy on her. He took another deep drag on his cigarette, blew out a long trail of smoke, and grinned.

‘I should take you out for dinner sometime, too, you know.’