Sean Slater - The survivor

Just like Mom.

Over an hour later, Striker stood in the crowded admitting area of St Paul’s Hospital and sipped coffee from a paper cup. The nurse had kindly brought it to him, and it was just as bad as the sludge they cooked up in Homicide.

Striker’s hands shook as he held the cup. Enough to spill some of the brew over the rim and burn his skin. It was a normal reaction, he told himself. Especially after his second firefight in two days.

He only wished he could believe the inner voice.

With almost two days gone, it felt like they were losing ground. Red Mask had escaped again. And Patricia Kwan was now fighting for her life. All they’d found in the gunman’s wake was a stolen Toyota Camry parked out front. Even with a priority rush, the blood results would take weeks, and he had little faith in any prints coming back.

It ate away at him.

Even worse was the woman’s daughter, Riku Kwan. The girl was missing, which was only one step away from the worst possible scenario. When Felicia entered the room, Striker broke from the negativity that was sucking him down and met her in the doorway.

‘Did they find her?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Felicia said. ‘Riku Kwan is nowhere to be found. We got her flagged as a missing person on CPIC, but so far no one’s got a clue.’

Striker ran through the list in his head. ‘What about her father?’

‘Separated from the mom, we think. Turns out he’s an international lawyer. Pretty good one, too. Makes a gazillion dollars a year. He’s away on business right now — somewhere in Asia. We’re trying to get a hold of him, but so far no luck.’

‘We got lots of luck — it’s just all bad. What about the Amber Alert?’

‘On all the stations.’

‘TV or radio?’

‘Both. They’re broadcasting her name on every station.’

‘And photo?’

‘Not yet.’

‘I want her picture up there too.’

‘They’re working on it, Jacob.’ Felicia looked past Striker towards the Fast Track Admittance and bit her lip. ‘The mother in there?’

‘They took her to surgery a while ago.’

Felicia sighed. ‘Let’s hope she knows something when she wakes up.’

‘Let’s just hope she wakes up.’

The words felt heavy. And Striker couldn’t help thinking things might have been different if he’d gotten there sooner. If, if, if. If Deputy Chief Laroche hadn’t told Ich to shelve the feed. If they’d gotten the audio sooner. If he’d pressed just a little bit harder and stood his ground.

There were a million ifs.

Felicia touched his shoulder. ‘You did good in there.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘Jacob-’

He pulled away. ‘I had him, Felicia, I fuckin’ had him. Damn near lined up. If I’d just been a little bit quicker, that prick would be six feet under right now.’

‘And if you hadn’t done what you did, Patricia Kwan would already be dead.’

‘She still might be.’

‘Focus on the investigation,’ she said.

‘Which part? We got yet another crime scene and what has it brought us? Nothing. Just a reminder that we got a bunch of dead kids already, and one more who is targeted and still out there somewhere where we can’t find her.’

‘We’ll find her, Jacob.’

He turned his body so that he was facing Felicia. ‘What we don’t know is, why. I mean, Christ, do we have even one decent connection between these kids?’

‘Three of them were members of the Debate Club.’

‘What about Kwan?’

‘Unfortunately, no, she’s not on the list — but it’s the closest thing we’ve got so far.’

Striker said nothing as he thought it over. Debate Club. It seemed a ridiculous notion. And Riku Kwan wasn’t a member.

Just then, the door to the surgery room opened up and the doctor emerged. His name was Dr Adler — a tall, sandy-haired Australian man with an accent thicker than Vegemite. He had already taken off his surgical cap, but was still wearing the pale green gown. He looked as tired as Striker felt.

‘How is she?’ Striker asked.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Critical, but stable.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I don’t know.’ He scratched his nails down his face, leaving a red mark on his cheek. ‘The bullet didn’t have an exit wound. It fragmented, and the pieces ricocheted off the scapula, then rebounded back off her sternum — like a pinball in her thorax. It did a lot of damage to her liver and lung.’

Striker looked at Felicia. ‘Sounds like a Hydra-Shok round.’

Felicia nodded, and Striker returned his attention to the doctor. ‘We need to speak to her.’

Dr Adler looked at Striker like he’d lost his mind. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘It’s not a request, Doctor.’

‘It doesn’t have to be. I’m sorry, Detective, but my responsibility is to the patient. Mrs Kwan is already heavily sedated, delirious, and in great pain. To try to bring her out of such a state could possibly-’

‘Her daughter’s life depends on it,’ Felicia said.

This seemed to shut the doctor up.

Striker nodded solemnly. ‘If we can’t locate her daughter, the girl will be murdered. And right now the only lead we got is the woman in there.’

Dr Adler looked away, thought for a moment. The moment lasted a long time. Finally, after much obvious internal debate, he muttered something Striker could scarcely make out.

‘Five minutes,’ he said. ‘That’s it. And any signs of cardiac distress, I shut it down.’

Striker met the man’s stare. ‘Thanks, Doc.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said quietly. ‘Just find the girl.’

Fifteen minutes later, Striker stood at the third-floor entrance to the Critical Care Unit. He was dressed in a pale-green smock that barely fit around the bulge of his Sig Sauer, and a green hair-net that looked more like a woman’s shower cap from the seventies than proper surgical attire. The hospital gear clung to his body like green under-armour, testifying to the thickness of his shoulders and chest.

Felicia stood beside him, dressed in the exact same fashion. She looked him over, her eyes resting on his chest.

Striker noticed. He cleared his throat, said: ‘Anyone ever tell you that hair-net really brings out your eyes?’

The nurse appeared — a small chubby black woman. ‘This way,’ she said. She used a key card to open the door and then ushered them into the Critical Care Unit. They followed her down to room four, where Patricia Kwan was recovering.

When Striker entered the room, he was taken aback.

Everything was exactly the same as when Amanda had died two years ago. Not a damn thing was different. And for a moment, he felt sucker-punched by life. He hated this hospital. Hated everything about it.

He suppressed the feeling, got to work.

The room smelled strongly of bleach and disinfectants. Aside from the bleak light that creaked through the brown drapes, everything appeared cold and sterile. Patricia Kwan laid supine on the bed, with both bed railings locked in the up-position. Tubes and wires ran from both her arms into several machines that stood bedside, an array of red digital numbers blinking across their screens.

Her chest barely moved.

Striker moved closer, stared at Patricia. Her face looked unnatural. Swollen. The skin appeared distended and thin, like an overstuffed sausage membrane. Her dark eyes were slightly open. They were glossy, like wet candy. She moaned, a sound that was barely audible in the small room, and Striker wondered if she did this in response to their presence, her pain, or the nightmares she was suffering.

He turned to the nurse. ‘She even awake?’

‘Stupor,’ was all the nurse offered.

Dr Adler entered the room and monitored the machines. The expression on his weary face was one of concern, and he gave Striker and Felicia a look that suggested it was time to get things started.