‘Chad Koda was an old friend of mine.’

Striker was surprised by this news. He took a quick glance at Felicia, then back at Harry. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Harry just raised an eyebrow. ‘I haven’t actually spoken to Chad in, well, years, I guess . . . but when I saw the explosion on the news, I recognized the house immediately. I headed right up.’

Striker said nothing for a moment, waiting for Harry to continue with more of an explanation. When he didn’t, Striker summed it up. ‘This is a very strange situation, Harry. You have a direct connection to Keisha Williams, another direct connection to Chad Koda, and through the both of them, an indirect connection to Dr Sharise Owens.’

The words just hung there, and Harry’s eyes never left the destruction in the living room.

‘How bad is he?’ he finally asked.

‘Koda? I don’t know. Alive. They took him to St Paul’s.’

‘I’m heading up.’

Without so much as another word, Harry turned and walked back out the front door. He took the front steps two at a time, rounded the sidewalk, and headed up the block.

Striker said nothing; he just stepped onto the front porch and watched Harry step under the yellow line of police tape at the end of the block. The second he did, a swarm of media reporters buzzed around him. Flashes went off; cameras panned; feeds started.

Harry paid them no heed. He pushed aggressively through the mob, knocking one reporter on her ass and sending a cameraman tripping over the kerb. He climbed into his Honda CRV, did a U-turn, and was gone.

Felicia came up beside Striker.

‘That was screwed,’ she said.

Striker agreed; he was about to discuss the situation with her further when one of the forensic searchers located something in the living room and called over Corporal Summer. With gloved hands, she opened a clear plastic bag, and the searcher dropped the piece of shrapnel inside.

Striker couldn’t help himself. He moved back inside the house, and Felicia followed. They were soon joined by Inspector Osaka at the entrance to the living room, where all three of them met with the bomb specialist.

‘What have you got?’ Striker asked.

Corporal Summer held up the plastic bag. Inside it was a chunk of green rectangular plastic, less than an inch wide and two inches long. Connected to it was a long wire and a shiny silver box.

‘Is that a motherboard?’ Striker asked.

She nodded. ‘With a transmitter attached. It looks like it came from a cell phone.’

Felicia studied the find. ‘So it’s a remote detonator, is what you’re saying.’

‘Part of one.’

Corporal Summer spoke the words with concern, and Striker understood why. ‘Hold on a second,’ he said. ‘If the detonator was found right here in the living room, then where was the bomb triggered from?’

Summer lowered the bag and met his stare. ‘Inside the house.’

‘Where inside the house?’

‘Most likely somewhere in this vicinity.’

Striker blinked in near disbelief. ‘Then whoever set it off would have been blown up in the explosion.’

‘Almost certainly.’

The conclusion drawn from Corporal Summer’s words was easy for everyone to see; there had been only two bodies in the area at the time of the explosion – Dr Sharise Owens, who had been strapped to a chair, and Chad Koda, who had miraculously survived the blast.

Inspector Osaka looked uneasy. ‘Are we honestly considering whether Chad Koda might have been responsible for this?’

Striker frowned. It sounded ludicrous – and it went completely against their theory that a bomber was out there, using numbered dolls to count off his victims. Still, as outlandish as the notion seemed, it would have been irresponsible of them not to consider and rule out all alternative theories.

‘Let’s talk it out,’ he suggested.

Felicia nodded and went over all they had.

‘Chad Koda broke up with Dr Owens years ago after she aborted his child. And he was still quite emotional about that when we talked to him today, so he definitely had motive. Meanwhile, the detonator is right there in your hands, so he definitely had the means. Add in the fact that he miraculously survived the blast, and alarm bells have to go off.’

Striker remained less convinced. ‘That’s a pretty far leap.’

‘It’s just a theory,’ she replied. ‘But remember that doctor at Fort Bragg? He killed his family, then stabbed himself to make it look like he’d fought off a bunch of home invaders to save them all.’

Striker remembered the case. ‘You’re talking about Jeffrey MacDonald,’ he said. ‘The man was a medical doctor and a practising physician – he knew how to safely injure himself. It doesn’t appear that Koda had the same expertise. Plus, to stab yourself is one thing. It’s a controlled action. But to half kill yourself in a bomb blast is an entirely different matter. Koda could easily have died here tonight.’

‘Maybe he was supposed to,’ Felicia replied.

Her words were soft spoken, and they intrigued Striker.

‘A murder-suicide?’ He hadn’t thought of that. But he still remained unconvinced. ‘Koda may have had the motive and the means, but do we seriously think he had the ability to pull something like this off?’

‘Without a doubt,’ Osaka said.

It was the first thing the inspector had said with any force. Striker looked at the man in slight surprise. ‘He’s a realtor, sir.’

‘And a retired cop. Hell, he was a sergeant in ERT. Red Team.’

The words stunned Striker. This was the first time he had ever heard this information. ‘A retired cop? Red Team? How the hell do you know this?’

Osaka shrugged. ‘Simple,’ he said. ‘I worked with the man.’

Forty

The road looked warped. Off-kilter. And somehow tunnelled.

Or was it just him?

The bomber cut the corner onto Denman Street, using every bit of energy he had to turn the steering wheel. It felt unusually stiff and heavy. He came to a jerking stop and parked the van in front of a cheap pizzeria. He jammed on the hand-brake. Crawled between the seats. Crashed down heavily in the empty cargo space. And rolled onto his back.

There was a smell in the cab, something sweet but stale. Like old pineapple. And it made him want to vomit.

That . . . or the pounding in his head.

He reached up, felt the side of his skull. There was wetness there. Stickiness. And the entire area felt numb. When he pulled his hand away, he saw the brown redness of drying blood.

The glass, he realized. Loose shards.

Not that it really mattered. He had lived through the blast, and he had felt it once more – that wonderful, heavenly, percussive force. It had shaken the earth around him and ravaged through his body like an invisible wave, reorganizing his thoughts and setting his mind right.

The memories . . . they were slowly falling into place, more and more with every blast:

He was off to war again.

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

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

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 Mother was crying, not wanting him to go.

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

He blinked out of the memories. The thoughts were confusing. Out of order still. But better. He knew that they were better.