It prevented a lot of unnecessary headaches.

As if on cue, Corporal Summer began barking orders to her searchers: ‘Gear up, people – masks and gloves, everyone. We need evidence of components. Anything you can find related to a fusing system: batteries, speaker wire, steel brackets. Nothing is trivial. And someone get some screens over those drains – we’re losing trace evidence!’

Screens on the drains?

It was music to Striker’s ears.

He watched the woman work for a moment, and he had to admit that something about her commanded presence. She was tall – a head taller than Felicia – and lean yet muscular. Athletic. She was also quite pretty. She looked no more than thirty-four – which would be ridiculously young for a federal bomb investigator, so he assumed she was older.

Her thick straight hair fell to her shoulders and was dyed a soft honey-blonde that contrasted with her darker skin tone. All in all, her looks were entirely civilian, yet her middle-of-the-road business suit screamed cop.

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Well, I’ll say this – she takes command well.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘She’d better be able to take command. She’s a corporal, after all – she’s told me that three times.’

Striker smiled. ‘Corporal. The dreaded C-word.’

As if sensing that their conversation was about her, Corporal Summer stopped walking around the crime scene and glanced in their direction. Upon seeing Striker, she beelined towards him. When she was near enough, she extended her hand and offered him a wide smile.

‘Are you Detective Striker?’ she asked.

He took her hand, a bit wary. ‘Yes . . .’

‘The same Detective Striker who dealt with the St James massacre?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, yeah, well, that was a while ago.’

Her already wide smile got even wider. ‘Oh my God, it’s such an honour to meet you, Detective. Really. I’ve read all about you and the active shooters you took down at St Patrick’s High School. That was such a . . . such an extraordinary case.’

The memories of that time were bad, and Striker tried to make light of it. He forced a laugh. ‘Well, I’m an extraordinary detective.’

Corporal Summer laughed wholeheartedly.

Felicia, meanwhile, just crossed her arms. ‘I seem to recall being beside you during the St James attack.’

Before Striker could respond, Corporal Summer brushed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and continued speaking to him. ‘You know, I would love to buy you a drink sometime and hear all about it – strictly in a professional manner, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Striker replied. ‘Corporal . . .’

‘Summer,’ she offered. ‘But you can call me Kami. We might as well be on friendly terms since we’ll be working together for a while.’

‘Tammy?’

She laughed. ‘Kami – with a K.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m Striker – with an S.’

Felicia rolled her eyes. ‘And I’m confused – with a C. Shouldn’t we be investigating this case?’

Striker gave her a surprised look, then nodded. ‘Of course, of course.’ He looked at Corporal Summer and changed the direction of the conversation. ‘So what exactly is your designation here?’

‘I’m a Certified Fire and Explosion Investigator. I’m also a member of the IABTI.’

‘Which is?’ Felicia asked against her better judgement.

‘The International Association of Bomb Technicians and Investigators. I trained down in Huntsville, Alabama, at the Hazardous Devices School. It was quite the course, really. You should try it sometime.’

Striker gestured to the front of the shop. ‘So, with your training and experience, what would you say this is – a bomb, or an accidental explosion?’

Corporal Summer adjusted the badge clipped to her belt and studied the scene. ‘Well, any determination at this point of the investigation would be merely preliminary, of course. But I will say this – I have mixed feelings. Could have been a natural gas explosion, the way the front wall was blown forward like that.’

Striker agreed. ‘And I couldn’t make out a definable epicentre.’

A look of surprise covered Corporal Summer’s face. ‘Well, well – someone’s been doing their homework.’

‘I like to dabble.’

Felicia gave him an annoyed look, one that Striker pretended not to see. He was about to suggest deploying a bomb dog when one of the firemen hosing down the smouldering rubble let out a startled cry. The man raised his hand in the air, alerting everyone of a casualty find, and the moment made Striker’s heart drop.

‘What have you got?’ he called out.

The fireman said nothing for a short moment, then his voice took on a nervous tone.

‘Looks like a woman,’ he finally said. ‘I just can’t tell for sure.’

Twenty-Four

The bomber gripped the walkie-talkie tightly as he struggled to navigate through the tunnels. It wasn’t easy; everything kept moving around on him and distorting – like the images in a funhouse mirror. The percussive blast had hit him good. Bits of plaster debris. Glass too.

Molly was right – he had been too close.

All in all, it had shaken his foundations, but that was okay because it had jarred his mind right again. To a place where everything almost lined up. Following the blast, he’d felt like he was floating on clouds. Or filled with a fever and lifting above it all. The memories . . . the memories slammed into place:

He was off to war again.

Father was spinning him round in the air, giving him an airplane ride.

Then his men were dying all around him – chunks of flesh being punched from their bodies by AK-47 fire.

And Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.

Then Father was leaving. Standing at the car. And he was sobbing, peeking out between the drapes, saying, ‘Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go.’

And the helicopter was dropping down – the loud whup-whup-whup of the blades sounding like angry thunder . . .

The timeline was wrong, he knew. Still in shambles. Out of place.

But it was better than before.

Despite the external chaos of the world around him, an inner calmness found him. A serenity. Because the jigsaw of his years was slowly unscrambling. And he hadn’t felt this good since . . . since . . .

Well, sometime.

He placed one hand against the cold wet concrete of the tunnel wall and took a moment to ward off the dizziness that was slowly submerging him. At his side, the radio crackled:

‘All clear. Proceed.’

‘. . . copy, all . . . all clear . . . Proceeding.’

When he reached the end of the tunnel, he used the ladder to climb out. It took all his strength. Once at street level, he slid into the back of the utility van, and Molly took care of the rest. He heard her climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and the vehicle got moving.

For a long time there was only silence. After many kilometres, Molly spoke. ‘You were too close.’ She turned around to look at him and let out a gasp. ‘God in Heaven – your face. You’re going to need stitches.’

He said nothing.

‘Did you hear me? You were too close. Again.’

He closed his eyes, tried to bumper back his pinballing thoughts. ‘It . . . it helps,’ he finally said.

‘It does not help. You’re scrambling your brains even worse.’

‘Molly—’

‘And enough with the ducks. This isn’t a game – it’s a higher calling.’

The bomber looked away. Grinned bemusedly.

A higher calling . . .

The notion sat in his head like a benign tumour. The whole idea of God was a foreign concept to him, a subject he could not understand. Codswallop. At times, Molly’s theological and emotional conflicts ate away at him. They were good people doing bad things. He got that.