Striker wrote down the last two numbers of the licence plate, which now gave them three out of a possible six letters and numbers. J for the first three letters; 79 for the last two out of three numbers. It made Striker smile.

They now had enough for a motor vehicle search.

He handed the written statement to Felicia and asked her to do the Q and A with Gibson. When she took it and sat down in one of the office chairs, Striker left the room and hung out in the warehouse, where he could be alone.

He got on his cell and called up Brian Greene, a contact of his at the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia. Striker knew the man well from a previous motor vehicle accident in which Brian’s sixteen-year-old son had gotten critically injured. Striker had located Brian, picked him up, and driven him Code 3 to Burnaby General Hospital to see his son before the emergency surgery. Driving lights and siren with citizens in the car was a departmental no-no, regardless of the son’s injuries, and it could’ve gotten Striker into hot water. But that became a moment that Brian Greene would never forget. Ever since then the man had been a reliable and useful contact.

The call was answered on the third ring.

‘Brian Greene,’ the man said.

‘Brian, it’s Jacob Striker.’

‘Detective! Long time no talk.’

‘I’m surprised you’re still there. It’s late.’

‘Yeah, well, we had another after-hours meeting. The tenth one this month, I think. Everything’s always a crisis around here, right? I was just about to leave.’

‘Well, lucky me for catching you.’

‘That depends on what you need. How’s life with the Vancouver Police Department?’

‘I’m just one lotto ticket away from retirement.’ Brian Greene laughed, and Striker continued: ‘How is Jonathan doing?’

‘He’s walking. He’s walking and he’s doing well. Finishing his degree at UBC. Philosophy. Which means he’s never leaving home, I guess.’

‘You got a professional student on your hands.’

Brian laughed. ‘Yeah, I think he’s gonna live at home till he’s thirty!’

Striker smiled at that. It was good to hear the boy was doing well. Back then, at the accident scene, he didn’t think Jonathan Greene was going to make it. And the memory of that moment stirred up some hard emotions.

Striker changed the subject. ‘I’m calling because I’m in need here, Brian. Can you do a search for me – completely off the record?’

‘Any time. You just give me the plate number.’

The words were music to Striker’s ears. Normally, the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia was sticky when it came to the private information of their clients, and unless the circumstance was labelled Life or Death, any help from the corporation required a warrant.

No exceptions ever.

Having a contact like Brian Greene made all the difference in the world.

‘Juliet for the first letter,’ Striker said. ‘Next two letters unknown. First number is unknown. Last two are seven and nine.’

‘In that order?’

‘I think so.’

Striker heard the clicking sounds of Brian’s keyboard, then a moment of silence before the man responded with a whistle.

‘That’s never good,’ Striker said.

‘Ten thousand hits, man. Got any other details to narrow it down a bit?’

‘You bet. It’s a Beamer. An X5.’

A few more clicks.

Brian said, ‘Okay. One hundred and thirteen hits.’

Striker thought it over. ‘Try Beamers that are less than three years old.’

A few more clicks, then: ‘Good one. You’re down to twenty.’

‘Black in colour.’

Brian punched the detail into his keyboard, then let out a laugh. ‘Okay, now we have five.’

‘Put the location of the registered owner as Vancouver only.’

‘Now you got three.’

Striker smiled. ‘Give them to me.’

Brian did.

Striker wrote the plate numbers down in his notebook, then asked for the details of each one – the name of the registered owner, the address listed, and so forth. When Brian Greene gave him the details of the third and last plate, one detail in particular caught Striker’s attention and a smile broke the corners of his mouth.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

Sixteen

At first the water of the well stung his skin like a cold fire. But soon the sting went away and was replaced by a swelling numbness that started in his fingers and toes. It then inched its way slowly throughout the rest of his body like long probing tendrils.

The Adder swam in place, desperately trying to keep his lips above the water. It was a difficult task. The Doctor had laid planks across the top of the well and, as a result, there was less than a few inches of space between the top of the splashing water and wet hard planks above.

The darkness made everything worse. All the Adder could see was a mass of blackness; it was everywhere he looked. And when he reached out for the sides of the well in an effort to hold himself above the water, the only thing his fingers touched was slime-coated stone.

Cold and hard and slippery.

Many times already, he had fatigued. Taken in a quick deep breath. And let his body sink beneath the top of the water into the depths below. Never once had his naked feet touched the bottom. No matter how far down he dropped – so low he feared he would never reach the top again – he never touched the bottom.

In some ways that was good. After all, what was down there? An end? Or would currents suck him away to other underground chasms? And was there something down there? Something alive?

That thought terrified him. More than once, something had brushed his leg – a fast and fleeting sensation. But one he was certain of.

Something was in the well with him; he just didn’t know what. After that first touch, the Adder had struggled to stay near the top, swimming so hard the flesh of his lips tore as they raked against the rough wooden surface of the planks above.

A whimper escaped him, for he knew he was failing now. His body was too numb. His limbs too tired. They were giving out on him. And despite the fear he felt, despite the anxiety of what lay below, a part of him rejoiced in the suffering.

For this was how William must have felt.

The Doctor was right about that; this was what he deserved. A fated and fitting punishment. For he had failed. And all because of the cop. The big homicide detective who had slipped out of the shadow like a snake through water – a demon from out of the darkness – and tried to suck him down with him.

The memory was still fresh, and it made the Adder’s heart race.

The next time things would end differently.

Seventeen

Felicia and Striker sat in their unmarked car, which today was an old Ford Taurus. John Gibson had finished the question-and-answer session with Felicia, and she was now in the process of folding and tucking the statement into a file folder. She slid the whole thing into her briefcase in the back seat, then turned to look at Striker.

Her pretty face looked tired. Her dark Spanish eyes were underscored with sleep lines, and the way she hunched forward made her body look deflated.

Striker couldn’t blame her for being exhausted. The last two days had been hell. Before tonight’s incident, over Monday and Tuesday, they’d each put in over thirty hours. And even this morning, they’d started their shift at four a.m. in order to investigate a lead on a different case. The expectation had been to leave early this afternoon, at maybe at two or three, and go home for a good night’s rest.