Wednesday

One

The bomb may have been set to go off in three hours, but the fuse had been lit nine years ago. They had been long years. Hard years. And the notion of it all brooded in the bomber’s mind like a nuclear winter haze.

He knelt on the concrete floor of the steel barn and stared at the woman who was strapped to the chair in front of him. She was attractive. Middle-aged. Dark-skinned. And she was crying softly – had been for damn near an hour now. Mascara-thick tears stained her ebony cheeks.

Her sorrow meant nothing.

He turned his eyes away from the woman. Ignored her sobbing and waffling and suffering. Instead, he focused on the burlap sack, for it was what mattered now. As he opened the bag, the orange light of the barn lamp tinted his face, making his damaged skin look like a dried-up peel. It was a sight to behold, and the gobsmacked woman tied to the chair could not help but stare.

He focused on the strange motley of items he was removing from the bag.

Yellow sponge . . . check.

Micro-tape recorder . . . check.

Red file folder . . . check.

And of course, the toy – a hand-crafted wooden duck, dressed in a policeman’s uniform. That was the essential piece . . . BIG check.

The bomber stared at the toy. The wooden duck was roughly the size of an iron, and had been personified with arms and legs, so that it somewhat resembled a Daffy or a Donald Duck, and not a real one. Painted on its chest was a bright red number 6. The sight of it made the bomber smile sadly. He stuck his finger through the steel O-ring, gave it a pull, and listened to the bird’s voice-box come to life:

‘These criminals are making me quackers!’

The recording ended, and he looked at the duck for a long moment. His smile slipped away, but he did not frown. He did not show any emotion. He just knelt there looking at the wooden duck and feeling overwhelmed by memories – ones which were slanted and out of order.

Like a row of freight train cars that had gone off the tracks.

When his thoughts derailed, he stared at the woman. A strange mix of emotions distorted her face. Confusion. Fear.

Pain.

She choked back her tears. ‘Pl-please. I’ve told you everything. You don’t . . . you don’t have to do this.’

In an instant, his expression changed. Turned dark. And his blue eyes looked like ice under the jagged rim of black hair. When he angled his head to see her, his face looked maniacal in the strange orange hue of the barn lamp.

‘I’m not doing anything,’ he said. ‘You’re the reason for all of this. And you bloody well know it.’

The woman broke down.

He barely heard her sobs. Already he was looking at his watch, going over timelines, analysing strategy. So far, the operation was going well.

Battle One of this long war had started.

Were it not for the fact that he really didn’t want to do this – hell, he didn’t want to hurt anyone – the bomber would have smiled. Because everything was going perfectly well. Spot on without a glitch.

And then the teenage girl stumbled through the first-floor doorway.

And everything went to hell.

Two

Homicide Detective Jacob Striker sat in the driver’s side of the undercover Ford Fusion and sipped from a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee, black. The brew was hot – too hot for the summer heat wave which had moved in late June and was still residing like a bad tenant, halfway through July.

He drank the coffee anyway. Caffeine was needed. It was only five in the morning, and – judging by the heaping mounds of workflow back at the office – the shift was going to be a tedious one.

In the passenger seat, Felicia sat with her visor down, staring at herself in the mirror. Her own cup of coffee, thick with cream and sugar, sat untouched in the pullout tray between them, and that was unusual.

Striker gave her a few more seconds of looking into the mirror, then spoke:

‘Having a staring contest?’

Felicia let out a long sigh and flipped up the visor. She said nothing at first, but Striker knew the problem: Felicia’s birthday was today, and she didn’t like it.

‘Do I look thirty-three?’ she finally asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not any more.’

She cast him a look of daggers, and Striker grinned. After a moment, her expression lightened and she let out a small laugh. ‘Yes, I’m being vain,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s my birthday, so I’m allowed to be. And for the record, any more comments like that one and you’ll be sleeping alone on the couch tonight.’

Striker sipped his coffee and stared back at her. Having a working partnership and a secret relationship was exciting no doubt, but it was also a lot of work. Sometimes it was difficult to tell where the two lines met.

‘Thirty-three,’ he finally said. ‘Hell, I should be so lucky. I crossed that bridge a long time ago.’ He gave her a smile and winked. ‘Don’t fret it, Birthday Girl. You’ll be happy when the day’s done.’

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Little surprise I’ve been working on.’

Felicia gave him a wry look, like she was calling his bluff, but Striker just kept on smiling. He did have something planned – a romantic getaway for two in a quaint little bed and breakfast at Whistler Mountain Ski Resort. The reservation was set for Thursday. Just the thought of getting away brought Striker a sense of peace, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt good.

Really, really good.

Then the call came in.

Sue Rhaemer, the Central Dispatcher for E-Comm, came across the air, her voice smooth yet rough, like sand in honey: ‘Got a 911 coming in,’ she broadcasted. ‘Cell call. Girl’s screaming. Not making a whole lot of sense. Says she’s in the industrial area, somewhere down by the river . . . Keeps talking about two giant chimneys.’

Striker thought it over. ‘The cement plant.’

‘She’s talking about the smokestacks,’ Felicia agreed.

Striker dropped his cup in the tray holder, spilling some of the brew onto the carpet. He rammed the gearshift into Drive and pulled out onto Granville Street. Within seconds, he had the Fusion up to eighty K and was flying through 29th Avenue.

Sue Rhaemer came across the air again: ‘Okay, we’ve lost her now – how close is the nearest unit?’

A patrol unit replied: ‘Alpha 21 – we’re the only car available right now, and we’re coming from Dunbar and 2nd.’

Striker swore. ‘That’s over in Point Grey – they’ll take twenty minutes.’

Felicia grabbed the radio and pressed the mike. ‘This is Detectives Santos and Striker. We’re three minutes out. We’re heading down.’

Striker hammered the gas so hard, Felicia fell back against the seat and almost dropped the mike. As she plunged it back into the cradle, Striker swerved into the fast lane. They raced south down Granville Street, now at over one hundred K per hour, with speeds increasing.

Striker had a bad feeling about the call.

‘Why the hell would a young girl be down by the river – in the industrial area – at this time of the morning?’ he asked.

‘No good reason,’ Felicia replied.

Striker agreed.

He hit the gas and brought the car up to one-twenty.

Three