The world felt distorted. Off-kilter.

The fever was worsening.

He moved towards the south corridor, walking on feet that felt swollen and oddly light. Drops of sweat rolled down his brow and neck, tickling his overheated skin in the cold draught of the air conditioning.

‘Sir? . . . Sir? . . . Sir!’

He stopped. Looked left. Saw a very serious woman.

‘You must sign in.’

‘Of course.’

He floated left. Fumbled with the pen. Scribbled something in the book.

‘You don’t look well, sir. Is everything okay?’

‘Tickety-boo.’

He put down the pen. Turned towards the south hall. Headed down it.

Ten steps later, he reached Room 12 and came to a hard stop. Standing at the foot of the bed, talking to Nurse Janet, was the one man he had been battling ever since this nightmare had begun – Homicide Detective Jacob Striker.

The cop had finally found them.

One Hundred and Fifteen

‘How long has he been like this?’ Striker asked the nurse.

‘As long as I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘And that’s going on two years now. But I think it’s been longer. He was transferred here some time ago – I’d have to check his records.’

Striker nodded. He looked down at the pale man lying there, at all the tubes running from his arms to the machines standing bedside, and he noticed something. Where the man’s left hand should have been, there was only a mangled stump of flesh.

‘Is something wrong, Detective?’ the nurse asked.

He explained: ‘I’ve read the police reports. I know Archer was shot. But this,’ – he pointed to the stubby remains of the man’s left arm – ‘this was not in the report. What happened? Did it get gangrenous?’

The nurse shook her head. ‘We didn’t remove it. That was a result of the explosion.’

Striker and Felicia shared a glance. ‘What explosion?’

‘Perhaps I’d better get the file.’ The nurse left the room, and they were left with nothing but the soft shu-shush sound of the air compressor. She returned a few minutes later with a green folder and continued speaking as if the conversation had never stopped. ‘Ah yes, here it is. The bullet entered the spinal cord at the T11-12 level’ – she glanced up from the papers – ‘that’s the middle of the back.’

‘We understand that,’ Striker said.

‘Autopsies . . . of course you do.’ The nurse carried on. ‘The bullet left him paralysed, of course. But that was not the reason for the coma. That was brought on by the trauma from the explosion.’

‘Again, what explosion?’ Felicia asked.

The nurse flipped through the pages. ‘It says here an explosion occurred during the incident, but it doesn’t say exactly what.’

Striker gestured for the report. ‘May I?’

The nurse gave him an uncertain look, but then conceded. Striker took less than five minutes perusing the material, and by the time he was done, he understood things more clearly.

‘Archer was the lead guy and he was trying to breach the door,’ he said to Felicia. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. They were attempting entry and something went wrong. The C4 exploded – that’s what happened to his left arm. And somehow in the mayhem he got shot.’

‘It’s also why he had the stroke,’ the nurse explained. ‘The force, the trauma, the resultant high blood pressure – it all added up and was just too much for his body to handle as time went by.’

‘How serious was the stroke?’ Felicia asked.

‘A basilar, I’m afraid. There’s none more debilitating.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Felicia said.

‘It’s why he can’t breathe on his own any more. Why he can’t even blink.’

Felicia made a horrified sound. ‘You mean to say he can think perfectly normal in there, but he can’t even blink?’

The nurse’s expression was glum. ‘It’s one of the reasons the doctors put him under – the coma was induced. For humane reasons.’

Striker listened to everything the nurse said, and he felt sick for the man. He wrote down the name and practitioner number of the doctor in charge – a woman he had never heard of. Then he looked back at the nurse. ‘Does anyone come to visit him? A wife or kids?’

‘Oh yes, he has a wife. And a son and a daughter too.’

‘How old are they?’

‘Young. Fourteen or fifteen, I would think. To be honest, they don’t come all that often. The wife comes more, and even she is here only once a month. It used to be more, a long time ago, but over time . . . well, she’s been away more and more.’

Striker nodded. ‘I’d like to talk to them.’

‘I can’t give out their personal information.’

Striker understood the rules and regulations with regards to privacy. ‘Call the wife, please. Ask if she doesn’t mind seeing us. If she’s willing, we’ll meet her at her place, wherever that is.’

The nurse said she would do this, then turned to leave the room. Striker stopped her with a few words: ‘Is that it, by the way?’

She turned back. ‘Is what it?’

‘Is that all the people who come to see him?’

She shook her head. ‘Actually, there is one more. A man – he comes every day without fail. Has for almost two months now. It’s just so sad. He just sits there, inside the room, and he talks to him. Sometimes for hours.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Tom Atkins,’ she said.

‘Tom Atkins?’ Striker asked. The name sounded familiar for some reason. Had he read it in one of the reports? He wasn’t sure. ‘Is that the name he gives you?’

‘Well, he never actually gives me any name. I never really speak to him – that’s just the way he signs the guest book.’

Striker gave Felicia a quick glance, then focused back on the nurse. ‘This man . . . what does he look like?’

The nurse’s face tightened. ‘I actually don’t know for sure. He’s fiercely private. And I think he might also have injured himself in some way. He always covers himself up. Wears a kangaroo jacket sometimes. Or a baseball hat and sunglasses.’

Striker turned to Felicia. ‘Call Dispatch. I want plainclothes units here now.’

Felicia nodded and was already dialling.

The nurse was clearly taken aback. ‘Is . . . is everything all right?’

Striker ignored the question. ‘This man . . . when was he here last?’

‘Well, just . . . just yesterday.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Yes, I spoke to him. He’s quiet, but he’s really very nice. Really.’

‘Does he have an address or a telephone number? How do you get in contact with him if there’s an emergency?’

‘I . . . I call him. His number’s right there in the file. On the back page.’

Striker opened the folder and turned to the back. There, in red ink, was the name Tom Atkins, followed by a 778 number. A cell phone. He called up Info and got the operator to do a search on the number.

‘Prepay,’ came the reply.

In other words, untraceable.

Striker was not surprised. He turned to the nurse. ‘When exactly did you last speak to this man?’

‘Just . . . just a half-hour. After trying to get a hold of Mrs Davies but having no luck, I called Mr Atkins. I told him how sick Mr Davies was, and that now would be the time to give his final respects. He was quite concerned and said he’d be right down.’

The words made Striker’s hand drop near his pistol. He looked at Felicia, who was now just hanging up her cell. ‘You hear that?’

She nodded. ‘Got two plainclothes units on the way.’

Striker was about to ask if the plainclothes units were Fed or city cops when a loud, strident beeping noise filled the room. Upon hearing it, the nurse rushed over to the bed, then out of the room and down the hallway. She was calling for one of the doctors.