‘Who no one has seen in years,’ Striker said. ‘And from this morning, we got parts from a picana, some scuba gear, and one gunman who’s an expert shooter.’

‘Expert?’

‘Don’t kid yourself, Feleesh. That bastard wasn’t too far from tagging me back there in the barn – and that’s a two-hundred-metre shot. By pistol, not long gun.’

‘Which leaves us with what?’ Felicia asked.

Striker let out a bemused laugh. ‘Take your pick. A mad bomber. A professional hitman. A domestic gone wrong. A hate crime. An abortion issue. And we haven’t even touched on organized crime groups yet.’

Felicia’s eyes took on a distant look, and Striker continued speaking. ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Let’s stop wondering about possible suspects and look at the victims. Who – and what – are they?’

Felicia listed them out. ‘A trauma surgeon, a toymaker and a realtor. Not the most likely of combinations. Not the easiest links to connect.’

‘Of course not,’ Striker said. He offered Felicia a grim smile. ‘Nothing’s been easy so far. Why start now?’

He left Felicia’s side and took a cursory look around the kitchen and then the den. He stopped hard when he saw one of the craters in the west wall. Stuck within the plaster was what appeared to be a doll of some kind.

Striker gloved up and gently removed the piece.

Felicia neared him. ‘What you got there?’

‘The remains of a doll.’

Stunned and yet excited, Striker showed her the toy. It had been almost destroyed by the blast. The upper and lower parts were completely gone. All that remained was the torso, which was chipped and covered in debris. It was dressed in the tattered remains of a policeman’s uniform.

Striker turned it over, saw that there was a small hole in the back of the doll and the frayed remains of a string hanging down.

‘Look at that,’ Felicia said.

Striker nodded. ‘It looks like a pull-string of some kind.’

‘Maybe like one of those Chatty Cathy dolls,’ Felicia suggested. ‘You pull the string and it talks.’

‘I’m not touching that string, not till it’s cleared.’

Felicia stared at the frayed rope. ‘You think that could have been used as a triggering device?’

Striker thought it over. It seemed unlikely. And even less likely to be used as an explosives base – if the doll had been packed with explosives, nothing would have been left of it.

‘It’s for something else,’ he finally said, but he had no idea what. ‘We’ll give it to Noodles for a good forensic examination.’ He paused in thought before continuing. ‘You know, I found another one just like this back at the first crime scene, but since the blown-up business was a toy store, I didn’t think much of it. Till now.’

A wariness took over Felicia’s stare. ‘Was that last one exactly the same?’

‘Exactly,’ he started to say, but stopped when he saw the red number painted on the front of the doll. ‘Wait a second . . . the last doll had a big red five on the front.’

Felicia leaned closer for a better look. ‘This one’s a six,’ she said softly.

Her words sent a chill through Striker, for their relevance was obvious. The numbers may have been out of order, but the bomber was counting out his victims, one by one. Altogether it told Striker one very important thing:

There were at least four more to go.

Thirty-Eight

Harry parked his car at the corner of Burrard and Pacific and stared at the spectacle before him. Chad Koda’s place. Blown sky-high. It was unreal. Explosions going off here and there. People dying in fiery blasts. What the hell was this – Mexico?

Harry closed his eyes.

He had been to Koda’s house. He had just been there.

His fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the small muscles around his knuckles hurt. He had to will them to let go. So many thoughts rampaged through his head. The past connections were many – too many to discount. A headache was growing behind his temples, a ringing filled his ears. Once, twice, three times – and then he clued in.

He grabbed the cell from the seat and jammed it to his ear.

‘Detective Eckhart,’ he got out.

‘Hi, Dad!’

In two words, the thickening shroud of tension dissipated, and suddenly Harry felt like he could breathe again. ‘How you doing there, son? You being a good boy for your mom?’

‘Yeah. Mom says I can have ice cream for dessert, if you say it’s okay too. Can I? Can I please? Please?’

Harry laughed softly. Six-year-olds. Christ. ‘Only if you save some for me.’

‘I will, I will!’

‘Put your mother on the phone.’

‘Can I play Minecraft?’

‘Twenty minutes. No more. Now put your mother on the phone.’

The phone clicked, and for a moment Harry thought the line had gone dead. Then a soft, feminine voice filled the receiver: ‘Hey, sweetie. Coming home now?’

‘Not for a while.’

She turned silent for a moment, as if sensing his tension. ‘Everything okay?’

He took in a deep breath. ‘Listen to me carefully, Sandra. Really carefully. I want you to take Ethan and go to your sister’s place tonight.’

She let out a worried sound. ‘What – why? Harry, what’s going on?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘But—’

‘Later, Sandra.’

She made a nervous sound. ‘Okay, Harry, okay. We’ll go.’

He could hear the fear in her voice, the jitteriness, and he worried about her driving this way. ‘It’s all precautionary, Sandra. That’s it. Just precautionary.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll call you when we get there?’

‘Yes. Make sure you do. I love you, Sandra. And like I said, I’ll explain it all to you later.’ He hung up without waiting for a response. When he put the cell on the passenger seat, it dropped from his clumsy fingers. They felt numb. He felt numb. Numb all over. Because deep down he knew the truth.

It was happening. Really fucking happening.

The past had finally caught up to them.

Thirty-Nine

It was after nine when Striker and Felicia finally finished going over the details at Chad Koda’s house, but it felt like midnight. Striker was sorting through the twenty or so pages of notes he’d written down during the investigation and feeling bombarded by numerous streams of evidence, most of which didn’t seem to connect. He was halfway out the front door when they bumped right into Harry.

Striker looked at his watch, then back at the older cop.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Harry just swore. ‘Goddam press is everywhere.’

‘Get used to it.’

Harry looked back outside at the stream of reporters gathered at the edge of the yellow line, cursed again, then pushed past Striker and Felicia into the foyer. Once inside, he stopped like he’d been smacked back by some invisible force. Gaped at the destruction.

‘Jesus mercy,’ he said.

Strewn across the foyer, separating the rest of the house, was a thick slash of police tape, and on the other side of it forensic searchers, dressed in blue booties and matching lab gowns, were conducting a grid search of the room.

Felicia reached out and touched Harry’s arm. ‘You can’t go in there right now.’

Harry just nodded on autopilot, but said nothing. After a long moment, he turned his eyes away from the crime scene and met Striker’s stare. ‘Is this connected to the toy shop?’

‘Why are you here, Harry?’ Striker asked.