The

Survivor

First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2011

A CBS COMPANY

Copyright © Sean Slater, 2011

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

No reproduction without permission.

® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

The right of Sean Slater to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78

of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

1st Floor

222 Gray’s Inn Road

London WC1X 8HB

www.simonandschuster.co.uk

Simon & Schuster Australia

Sydney

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-0-85720-038-9

Library Hardback ISBN 978-0-85720-187-4

eBook ISBN: 978-0-85720-039-6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by M Rules

Printed in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

The Survivor is dedicated to:

My wife, Lani, who has given me two wonderful children and always makes our house a happy home,

And to my mother, Jo-Ann Oakley, who puts everyone else first and is always there with her endless love and support.

Acknowledgements

Special thanks go to:

My partner, Constable Kirk ‘O.M.T.’ Longstaffe, for being the perfect soundboard and first reader (and safeguard).

Constable Warren ‘The code word is “hot dog”’ Tutkaluke, for his expertise in ammunition types and operations.

And to Sgt Steve ‘the Silver Fox’ Thacker, for his expertise in department structure and investigative techniques.

Any mistakes made from their assistance are mine alone to bear.

I would also like to acknowledge the following people, who have long supported (or in some way suffered because of) my writing career:

Luke and Riley, for sitting there beside their father so many times, writing their own little stories and reading their own little books. You are always so good and you make me so proud.

Larry ‘Poppa’ Oakley, who has been there for everyone since day one.

Bill and Jamie.

Cindy – I’m sorry about the typewriter . . . (No, I’m not).

My father (I miss you) and Mary (I just saw you), and Adamo and Nick.

Lydia and Gail and Yen Yen.

Dean and Lori Methorst, who offered support and an Oscar-winning show of interest throughout the early years.

Harry Methorst, who suffered through every one of my first drafts.

Rita Methorst, for her support (and for putting up with Harry ;o).

Dietrich Martins, who let me drag him to every local bookstore Vancouver owns.

Helga, Joe, Ian and Paula, who make up the best critique group in the world.

Jason ‘a green flash of light’ Gallant.

Joe and Margot Cummings, with whom Lani and I share memories of story and Stella.

Lisa and Phil ‘Watch out for those Tic Tacs’ Webb.

Gramps and Grandma, who helped me pay for some of those writing courses.

Dean and Kris, who took off the blinders and showed me what voice was.

Taffy Cannon for her encouraging words during a difficult time.

My college professor Chris Rideout, who in one semester showed me what passion for story truly is.

Daniel Kalla, John Fuller and Ros Guggi, for setting up the wonderful time and experience I gained during the Sunday Serial Thriller(s) in The Province newspaper.

Kasia Behnke, Rosanna Bellingham, Madeleine Buston and Zoe King, who make up the wonderful staff at Darley Anderson Agency.

My talented editor at Simon & Schuster UK, Libby Yevtushenko, and my copy editor, Joan Deitch, who helped turn this good story into a great book.

Suzanne Baboneau at Simon & Schuster UK for taking a chance on me.

And last – and definitely not least – my superb agent, Camilla Bolton, whose tireless work helped perfect this novel, and who was the first person to see promise in my career as a novelist.

I thank you all.

If there’s anyone I have overlooked, please forgive me. It is a crazy time.

Sincerely,

Sean

The

Survivor

Wednesday

One

Dying is easy; living is the hard part.

Homicide Detective Jacob Striker knew this too well. Although ‘surviving’ seemed a better word than ‘living’. How could it not? The past two years had been cruel. His wife was dead. His daughter was an emotional void. And now, just an hour into his first shift back from a six-month stress leave, the day was turning to shit. God, it was barely midmorning, just ten minutes to nine, and already Principal Myers had called about his daughter. The last thing Striker wanted to do was pull himself and his partner, Felicia Santos, from the road, but Principal Myers had been adamant. Striker had no idea what Courtney had done this time. Or what punishments her actions would merit.

But whatever the outcome, it wasn’t going to be good.

Striker steeled himself for more bad news as he marched down the mahogany-walled corridor to Caroline’s office – yes, they were on a first-name basis now, he and Principal Myers – passing under the fighting gold gryphons of the St Patrick’s High School banners.

All around him roamed ghosts and goblins and Jokers and Batmen – a sea of eerie spooks getting ready for the festivities. Most of the students were taking the opportunity to dress up for the occasion, though a few still wore their school uniforms. The kids, ranging from thirteen to seventeen, were loud and boisterous. Their overlapping conversations mutated into one loud din in the high-ceilinged antechamber of the walkway.

Excitement was in the air. Striker could feel it.

Halloween was coming.

He stopped and looked back at his partner, who followed a few steps behind. Despite his annoyance at being summoned here again, he tried to keep things light.

‘That guy over there with the hockey mask,’ he said. ‘Looks a lot like your last boyfriend.’

Felicia brushed back a few wayward strands of her long brown hair, and smirked. ‘Technically, you were my last boyfriend.’

‘Like I said, good-lookin’ dude.’

Felicia let out a soft laugh, and Striker felt an uncomfortable moment envelop them. It had been this way since their breakup a few months back. He looked away from her stare and led her on through the mob of Grade Eight to Twelve students.