Quarter to six, Striker thought disbelievingly.

The chase had felt so much longer.

He detected movement and looked left. Walking towards him, coming from the opposite end of the yard, was a familiar face: Sergeant Mike Rothschild – one of Striker’s oldest and dearest friends. In one hand was a roll of yellow police tape. In the other was a paper cup with a plastic lid. Coffee, no doubt.

‘Mike,’ Striker said.

As always, Rothschild had a warped smile on his face, one that made his moustache slope unevenly across his upper lip. His face held a look of concern.

‘You okay there, Shipwreck?’

‘Guy’s a friggin’ magician.’ Striker pointed towards the river. ‘I lost them down there somewhere. By the pier. It makes no sense.’

‘The dog’ll find something.’

Striker hoped to God so.

He looked at Rothschild. In the murky light of the factory’s glow, every line on the man’s grizzled face was apparent. He was pushing fifty now, and the years of policing and shift work had left their mark on him. Like it did every cop. But today Rothschild looked especially aged.

Striker knew why. Rothschild had a lot on his plate right now. Like Striker, he too had lost his first wife. And raising two grief-stricken little ones made the situation all the more difficult.

Striker asked him, ‘You almost done your shift?’

Rothschild laughed bemusedly. ‘Just beginning, man.’

‘Beginning?’

‘Yeah, I know, I look like shit – thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You just need some sleep.’

‘Tell me ’bout it. The twins haven’t been sleeping well. They’ve been giving me grief about this whole move thing; they don’t wanna leave the old house. Too many memories of their mother, I guess.’

Striker made a point of looking the man in the face. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there . . . to help with the move.’

‘Duty calls.’

Striker shook his head. ‘I’m the kids’ godfather. I should’ve been there. This damn job – it eats up your life.’

‘Yup. Faster than a fat kid devours a Mars bar. Get used to it, man, it ain’t gonna change.’

Before either one of them could say more, Air 1 – the Vancouver Police Department’s helicopter – roared overhead, the heavy percussive blasts of its blades beating down on them, stirring up the dirt and gravel of the parkway. As the chopper floated south, Felicia and their young witness were lit up on the side road.

Striker focused on them. ‘Something’s not right with that girl.’

Rothschild just nodded. ‘I’ll tape off the scene for you.’

Striker nodded his thanks. As Rothschild hiked down to the river, Striker beelined across the lot towards their witness.

The girl was still crumpled at the front of the police car. The unforgiving glare of the halogens made her tight face look like white rubber. She sat on the gravel of the road, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso as she rocked nervously back and forth. Her miniskirt rode up her thighs, exposing the curves of her ass, and her long blonde hair spilled over her knees as her head snapped from side to side in response to any sudden movement.

With more time now, Striker took a really good look at her. She was maybe seventeen. His daughter’s age. And the thought of Courtney being out in an area like this, at this time of the night, bothered him. The blood that had covered her forehead had now been wiped away.

He looked at Felicia. ‘The blood?’

Felicia stood up from her crouched position. ‘It was her own. From a small cut on her forehead. She banged it on something when she was scrambling to get away. Looked a helluva lot worse than it was.’

Striker knelt down in front of the girl and touched her arm. Despite the warm summer air, her skin was clammy, sweaty. And she flinched from the contact.

‘Look at me,’ Striker said softly.

No response.

‘Look at me.’

The girl lifted her head slowly, and Striker shone his flashlight in her eyes. The pupils were large – too large, even for this darkness – and they remained so, despite the glare of his flashlight and the car’s headlights. She licked her lips several times and rolled her tongue in her mouth as if it were too large to fit.

‘What are you on?’ he demanded. ‘Special E? Jib? What have you been taking?’

‘Uh, nothing. No. Nothing.’

Striker wrapped his fingers around the girl’s chin and made her look at him. ‘This is no time to screw around, kid. I’m not looking for charges, I’m trying to save a woman’s life. Now what the hell are you on?’

The girl stared back through glassy eyes. ‘Beans, I took some beans.’

Striker nodded. Beans. MDMA.

Ecstasy.

Judging by the size of her pupils, she’d taken an awful lot. And who knew what else she’d mixed in with it? There was more than just ecstasy in her. She was zoning out bad for that.

‘Why were you even down here in the industrial area?’ he asked. ‘There a rave somewhere?’

She nodded again, licked her lips. ‘Yeah, yeah. Big party.’

‘Where?’

The girl looked up for a moment, her eyes twitching left and right. Her teeth chattering. ‘Over there . . . somewhere. I dunno.’

‘Why did you leave the party?’

‘Had a fight. With Billy . . . we had a fight.’

‘Billy who? He your boyfriend?’

‘. . . so cold.’

‘Where did he go? Did he come after you?’

‘It’s so cold.’

Striker resisted the urge to swear and looked at Felicia. ‘Ambulance en route?’

‘A mile out.’

Striker turned silent. He watched the girl sniff and tremble as he thought things through. When she let out a strange hyena-like laugh, he frowned. She was high, confused, and her story was all over the place. But she had definitely stumbled onto something.

He looked back at the river’s edge. When thoughts of the bracelet entered his mind, he looked back at the girl. ‘Were you down by the docks?’

‘Huh?’

‘By the pier. By the river.’

‘No no no.’

‘This man you saw in the barn – did he take anything from you? A necklace or anything like that?’

‘Uh . . . no?’

Striker gloved up with fresh latex, then pulled the evidence bag from his pocket. When he opened it up and removed the bracelet, the girl looked at it with obvious confusion.

‘Do you recognize this?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

He put it away and tried coming at this from a different angle. ‘What do you remember about the woman in the barn?’

The words seemed to bring the girl a moment’s clarity. She blinked, sat up straighter. ‘Her cheeks . . . the bones were, like, really high.’

‘High?’

‘You know, like, prominent.’

‘And the man?’

The girl’s face tightened. ‘He’s a worker. From the plant.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Had . . . had on overalls. A uniform or something.’

Striker took a moment to write this down in his notebook, then continued with his inquiry. But the more he questioned the girl, the more she contradicted herself. In the end it was all gibberish. And when paramedics finally arrived, Striker’s frustration level had reached new limits. He stood up, curled his fingers into fists, and looked at Felicia, whose eyes were filled with concern.

‘Can you take care of this?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank friggin’ God.’

Feeling precious time slipping away, he turned around and headed for the one place he hoped would shed some clues on this whole mess.

The torture chamber in the steel barn.

Eight

Ten minutes later, Striker stood alone in the loft of the steel barn, directly in front of the chair where the woman had been bound. No restraints had been left behind. No ropes. No straps. No belts. No wires.