Striker didn’t need to ask what was going on. The answer was obvious.

Archer Davies had flat-lined.

One Hundred and Sixteen

The time of death for Archer Davies was 14:35 hours.

Twenty-five minutes later, at exactly three p.m., two plainclothes units arrived – federal cops from the RCMP.

Striker was grateful for their presence. He quickly debriefed them on the investigation and told them his suspicions – that this so-called Tom Atkins might really be one of the bombers. As he did the debrief, Felicia scoured the databases for any Tom Atkins that might be related to the files.

She could find none.

‘It’s got to be an alias,’ she said.

Striker agreed. For the moment, the name didn’t matter. He got the plainclothes units set up. He placed two men inside the room, one man out of sight in the south corridor, and one man outside the facility in an unmarked car.

Then the wait began.

When the clock struck three-thirty and the man listing himself as Tom Atkins had still not arrived, Striker’s sense of excitement slowly gave way to concern. When the clock struck four, his concern collapsed into full-blown disappointment. He signalled to the plainclothes unit that he was heading down the hall, then left the room and found the nursing station. Waiting there nervously was Nurse Janet.

‘Is everything going okay?’ she asked.

‘How often have you called him?’

‘Mr Atkins? Uh, probably eight or nine times this last month.’

‘Does he always arrive on time?’

She nodded. ‘Like clockwork.’

Striker cursed. ‘He knows we’re here.’ He said nothing for a long moment, he just stood there and went over everything in his head. ‘Contact him again.’

‘Call him?’

‘Do it on speakerphone.’

The nurse made no move to do so. Her face took on a tight look.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to do this if it weren’t absolutely crucial,’ Striker said.

The nurse placed a hand over her heart. ‘What . . . what do you want me to say?’

‘That Archer Davies has little time left, and that Mr Atkins must come down immediately if he wants to have any hope of saying goodbye. Tell him time is of the utmost importance. Minutes count.’

The nurse said nothing, but she nodded. And after taking in a deep breath and trying to stabilize her nerves, she walked over to the nearest phone, picked up the receiver and began dialling. Moments later, the call was answered.

‘Mr Atkins?’ the nurse asked.

‘Put the cop on the phone, Janet.’

‘I-I-I’m sorry?’

‘Put. The cop. On. The phone.’ His words were spoken slowly. Rhythmically.

Striker took the receiver. ‘I’m right here.’

‘So you are then. Good. Listen up. I’ve killed a cop before – one besides Koda and Osaka. And if I’m forced to, I’ll do it again. Without hesitation.’

Striker asked the man, ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Do you know, Detective, what happens when a bomb goes off at your feet? I’ll tell you. A half-pound of explosives will tear off one limb. A full pound will take off two. And a bomb with three pounds will take off everything. No one survives that.’

‘Listen to me—’

‘Soft tissue goes first. If you’re a man, the testicles are often torn right from the body. Not that it matters much. The percussive force destroys them internally regardless. As for the ladies – like your lovely Spanish partner there – it’s not uncommon for the breasts to be blown right off. You might want to suggest to Detective Santos that she start wearing her bulletproof vest from now on. Kevlar helps disperse the percussive force.’

Striker waited till the man finished talking. When there was finally silence on the phone, he asked the one question he needed an answer to.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Walk away, Detective. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.’

Then the line went dead.

One Hundred and Seventeen

The bomber stood in the woods to the west of the facility, almost directly on the US border, and stared through his binoculars at the man on the bed in Room 12. He looked like he was in there alone, but he was not, of course. The detective was in there with him, and so was at least one plainclothes cop. He couldn’t see them, but they were there.

He knew it.

Shivering in the shadows of a giant oak tree, he focused on the man in the bed and a strange stirring sensation slowly overpowered his numbness. It made him want to run. To break free. Like a wildebeest kicking loose at a lion’s claws. So many odd emotions intermingling.

Anxiety. Desperation.

Grief.

Archer Davies was dead.

Slowly, inevitably, the shield that he had built around himself these past ten years disintegrated. Crumbled like the walls of Babylon. And for the first time since he was a little boy, he panicked. How he longed to go inside that room. To hold that man’s hand one last time. To lay his head down on the man’s chest. And to just tell him that he loved him. That, more than anything.

Just to tell him he loved him.

The black cell vibrated in his pocket, and he let it ring. It would only be Molly, and fuck her anyway right now. She had never come to see him. Not once. It was unforgivable. All this violence they had committed, all her goddam faith, and yet in the end she could not face mortality – not even a death that was not her own.

The more he thought about it, the more angry and lost he became.

Tommy Atkins went to war

and he came back a man no more.

Went to Baghdad and Sar-e.

He died, that man who looked like me.

The words seemed to lack punch now as he chanted them.

With the tears leaking out his eyes, he took one final look at the man on the bed, and realized that his final goodbye would never come now. The detective had made sure of that.

‘Goodbye,’ he whispered.

It was all he could do.

One Hundred and Eighteen

When the line had gone dead, Striker knew it was time to change tactics. Tom Atkins – or whatever alias the man was using – would never return to the care hospital now.

Striker got on his cell and called up the regional RCMP brass who had lent them the plainclothes units. After a lengthy discussion, the RCMP Superintendent agreed to maintain surveillance of the Sunset Grove Care Centre, just in case the bombers returned. With the place now secure, Striker and Felicia headed out to speak with the Davies family. According to the hospital documents, Archer’s wife’s name was Lilly, and she lived in White Rock with her two children, Logan and Rachel.

It was just a ten-minute drive down the road.

The lot was small, as was the house on it, which was composed mainly of blue wood trim and old white stucco that was now a dirty beige colour. The place looked like it had been built in the 60s. So did the old Ford jalopy in the driveway.

They parked and climbed out.

Striker reminded Felicia, ‘I’ve already instructed the care home not to call Mrs Davies until I tell them to do so. So whatever you do, don’t mention Archer’s death. Right now we need to get information from this woman. We need her calm.’