Striker smiled at the sight.

‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘I have a feeling we’re about to find out what they’re looking for.’

Sixty-Two

The lung compressor in the corner of the room made a soft shu-shush sound as the bomber stood motionlessly at the foot of the bed. Dressed in a pair of ordinary blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and sporting a pair of large mirrored sunglasses that covered up most of his face, he stared at the man before him.

He’s lost so much weight . . .

The thought pained him. He moved slowly around the bed until he was at the side, and there he delicately traced his fingers down the man’s arm. There was hardly any tissue there now, any meat. It was bloody awful. They were so thin. Child thin. The full-sleeve tattoos looked like deflated balloons.

Shu-shush, the compressor continued.

He continued tracing his finger up the man’s arm, all the way to his chest. So many bumps of scar tissue mottled the skin. On his arms. His chest. His neck and face and head. This, along with his own similar tattoos, was all they shared any more – scar tissue. He had it too. All over his body. Scars and scars and scars.

Little physical memories.

He leaned closer to the man. Whispered, ‘I might not be back. Maybe not ever . . . But know this: I’m making things right.’

The man on the bed showed no response that he had even heard the words, showed no response that he was even alive; he only breathed through the assistance of the lung compressor, and that rhythmic shu-shush sound continued to break the silence. It filled him with a sorrow so deep that his lungs ached, for he knew full well the outcome of a basilar artery stroke. Of locked-in syndrome. Every voluntary muscle of a person’s body failed, and yet the patient remained awake and aware. It was a living hell.

There were no delusions here.

None at all.

But there is always hope, Molly would say.

You can never give up, Molly would say.

We just need to have faith, she would say.

But Molly had not come with him. Like she never came. And there was no loving God up there, watching over them. Or if He was there, He sure as hell didn’t care.

No, there was no hope. There was no faith.

Not any more.

Hell, maybe there never had been.

Shu-shush.

His black cell rang. He picked up.

‘The GPS is done,’ Molly said. Her voice was tight, strained.

He said nothing back.

‘Installed and activated,’ she said.

Still, he said nothing.

He hung up the phone. He brushed his hand through the hair of the man on the bed. Kissed his forehead. Smelled his pungent body odour. Said, ‘I love you . . . I love you so much.’

And then the tears finally came – big salty drops, rolling down his cheeks and onto his lips, forcing him to flee the room altogether from what may well have been the final goodbye.

Shu-shush.

Sixty-Three

As Felicia drove their undercover cruiser eastward in pursuit of Harry and Koda, Striker sat in the passenger seat and continued going over all the various connections in his mind. The link between Koda and Sharise Owens was clear. But the link between Koda and Keisha Williams still felt vague.

Striker took out his notebook and searched for the phone number of Keisha Williams’ brother, Gerome. When he found it several pages back, he dialled the number. It rang but once, and the man answered. A sadness resonated in his tone, and Striker felt for him. He asked how the children were coping and if the Victim Services Unit had been helpful. The grief in Gerome’s voice made it clear that nothing was helpful right now. So Striker got down to business.

‘Keisha was the owner of the Toy Hut, was she not?’

‘Well, Keisha owned the business,’ Gerome said. ‘Not the actual building.’

‘Had making toys always been something she loved to do?’

‘Oh yes. Always. We didn’t have much money as kids. Our parents were broke. So Keisha used to make us things. She was always good at that, and I think the happiness it brought me made her feel better too.’

‘So she made toys all her life?’

‘Yes, sir. Mostly from wood. She was good with wood.’

‘And she did this as a career? All her life?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. She only opened the Toy Hut about ten years ago.’

‘What did she do before that?’ Striker asked.

‘She was a chartered accountant.’

Striker was surprised by this. ‘A chartered accountant? . . . Forgive me, Gerome, but I don’t get it.’

‘Get it, sir?’

‘Keisha and the children lived in social housing. She owned second-hand clothes. She looked in all ways like she was – well, for lack of a better word – poor.’

‘She was poor. The family just got by. Especially after her husband died – Chester had no life insurance, you know.’

Striker shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Why stay poor? If Keisha was registered as a chartered accountant, why didn’t she work as one?’

Gerome sighed. ‘You tell me, Detective. That was one of the things we used to fight about, Keisha and me. I always told her, “You and the kids got no money. Why don’t you go back to your old job? You can buy a place for you and the children.” But every time I brought it up, it just created more and more distance between us. Like whenever I told her to get rid of that Solomon guy.’

‘Did she work for a company?’

‘No. Was all private stuff, much as I know.’

‘And where does she keep her records?’

‘I dunno,’ Gerome said. ‘I been going through her stuff myself to see if she had any insurance for the children, but I ain’t found nothing so far. If she’s got records, they ain’t here, I can tell you that.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Did something bad happen in the distant past? Something that made her quit her career as a chartered accountant?’

Gerome let out a long breath, one filled with tension. ‘I honestly don’t know, Detective. She just upped and quit, and that was pretty much that. The topic was off limits around here. She made that pretty clear to me, clear to everyone. Lord, I’ll never know.’

Striker said nothing else on the matter. He just thanked Gerome for his time and told him to call if the children were in need of anything. Then he hung up and relayed what he had learned to Felicia.

‘Something must have happened,’ she said. ‘Why else quit a good job like that and live in poverty? It doesn’t make sense, even if she loved the other job. I mean, she had children to think about, right?’

Striker thought the same. Something must have happened.

Something bad.

Sixty-Four

Striker and Felicia continued tailing Harry and Koda out into the suburbs.

‘Not too close, not too close,’ Striker said.

Felicia gave him a cool look. ‘They’re two blocks east and one block north of us, Jacob. Unless they can see backwards and through the walls of the houses, we’re fine.’

Striker frowned. He couldn’t help the concern.

‘We have to be perfect here, Feleesh. Harry and Koda might chalk up our first meeting in the yards to a fluke, but one more lucky meet like that and they’ll know we’re tracking them. We need to maintain some distance until we figure out some of the other areas they’ve been searching. Then we can run the addresses and look for some connections.’