It doesn’t get much worse, Striker thought.

He thought wrong. A white unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up on scene and a short man in a pristine white dress shirt climbed out. It was Car 10. The Road Boss.

Inspector Laroche had arrived.

By the time Striker made his way back down the slope of lawn to street level, an ambulance and two patrol cars had arrived on scene. So had two news crews – a van from British Columbia TV News and one from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. It was standard practice in the City of Vancouver. Word spread fast among the media. Nothing was sacred and no story was too small – so long as human lives were in jeopardy.

Striker watched them with disdain. One of the reporters was a short blonde woman he recognized from a previous nightmare call. She’d distorted every fact of the case and ended up jeopardizing his investigation. The memory of it was still raw. She stepped out of the van and began raking a brush through her long blonde hair in preparation for the shoot.

‘I want tape up now,’ Striker said to one of the patrol cops.

‘Don’t anyone say one word to them,’ a deep voice ordered.

Striker turned around and spotted the Road Boss. Inspector Laroche stood with his hands on his hips, assessing the carnage all around them. His deep voice seemed wrong for his diminutive body. As always, his uniform was impeccable. His pants were as black as his hair and pressed to equal perfection, and his white dress shirt was without wrinkle.

It was hard to believe he’d been sitting in the car.

The inspector saw Striker and marched over. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he demanded.

‘It was the Adder,’ Striker said.

Felicia came over and joined the conversation. ‘Billy Mercury,’ she clarified.

Striker nodded. ‘It would appear so. We have to check his place right now. Get him on CPIC. Broadcast it on every channel.’ He made a fist as he thought this over and winced.

Felicia took notice. ‘You’re hurt.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Your hand . . . Jacob, it’s burned.’

Striker gave her an irritated glance. ‘It’s fine.’

Laroche shook his head. ‘An on-the-job injury? No, you need to go to the hospital for that. And make sure you fill out the Workers’ Compensation Board forms.’

‘It’s nothing. A light burn. First degree at best.’

‘Department liability,’ Laroche said. He spoke the words like a speech he had memorized. ‘According to Workers’ Compensation Board rules, you have to attend the hospital and be assessed by a physician. Either you go, or I remove you from the road, effective immediately.’

Striker felt his hands balling into fists again. This time he ignored the pain.

‘Someone needs to go after Billy Mercury,’ he said.

‘Someone already has,’ Laroche said. ‘Your All Points Bulletin worked well. Billy Mercury just got taken down by a pair of patrol cops, not ten minutes ago. He’s in custody as we speak.’

Striker thought of the timeline. ‘Ten minutes ago? Where did this happen?’

Laroche looked north. ‘Not five miles up the road. Hastings and Kootenay. Just outside his residence. He was screaming about demons and hellfire. Cops took him down right there in the bus loop.’

Striker said nothing as he thought this over. The timeline fit. As did the proximity of the location. As did the man’s crazed actions.

‘He had his laptop with him when they took him down,’ Laroche continued. ‘And they hit the mother lode. Everything was on it. All his MyShrine pages were up and running, along with a million other chat rooms and blogs – Twitter, MySpace and LinkedIn.’

‘And?’ Striker asked.

Laroche nodded. ‘Pretty much what you’d expect – talk of demons. Rants about the Middle East and the war. Accusations about the validity of the medications he’s on. And, of course, the threats. They were all in there – even the email he sent you. The man is clearly delusional, and highly volatile. He’s being taken back to Riverglen as we speak.’

‘Riverglen?’ Striker asked. ‘You mean he’s being sectioned?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about charges?’

‘Can’t charge him. He’s being pinked,’ Laroche explained – a term used in lieu of institutionalized, due to the bright pink colour of the medical health warrant. ‘By order of his very own doctor.’

Striker gave Felicia a dark glance. ‘And which doctor would that be?’

‘Why, Dr Ostermann, of course.’

Striker swore. ‘This is bullshit. We should charge Mercury with attempted murder, then hold him for a Psych Doc.’

Laroche glanced back at the various camera crews that were setting up at the top of Hermon Drive. There were more of them now. As many as six. It was quickly becoming a media nightmare. They were here because of the fire, no doubt. But eventually the whole story would leak. It always did. Soon enough they would know about Billy, and then the real blitz would begin.

Laroche shook his head. ‘Billy can’t be charged criminally with anything – he’s been pinked.’

‘But—’

‘It’s not gonna happen, Striker.’

‘Why? Because of how it will look on the news? The man tried to kill us!’

Laroche was unmoved. ‘Mental illness supersedes criminal charges.’

Striker just glared at the man; the medical-versus-criminal debate had been going on for decades in Canada, and he knew it would never end. It was a black hole in the system, an area where bad people slipped through and criminal charges were lost.

‘This is wrong, and you know it.’

‘It’s reality,’ Laroche replied. ‘Don’t make it personal.’

Striker almost laughed. The man had just tried to kill them – how could he not make it personal?

He looked all around the area. He found it hard to breathe. His lungs still felt burned from the hot ash of the smoke, and the flesh of his fingers throbbed. He placed his good hand against the passenger-side door of Laroche’s unmarked cruiser and stabilized himself.

The world was spinning.

Laroche took notice, and his voice took on a softer tone. ‘It’s over, Striker,’ he said. ‘You can relax now.’

‘It’s not over – Larisa is still out there somewhere. She was connected to Dr Richter and the Mapleview Clinic, and so were Billy, Mandy and Sarah. Now Mandy and Sarah are dead, and I can’t find Larisa . . .’

The inspector nodded slowly, taking it all in. ‘I understand all that. But with Mercury institutionalized, the woman is out of immediate danger. We’ll find her. In time.’

‘In time ?’

Laroche turned and they met face to face. ‘Yes. When you’re in a better frame of mind. And in the meantime, I expect you to lay off Dr Ostermann.’

‘What?’

‘Are you even aware he is a yearly contributor to the Police Mutual Benevolent Association?’

‘I’m well aware.’

‘And that he is good friends with the mayor?’

Striker felt his jaw stiffen. ‘Again, your point’s lost on me.’

‘I’m just saying be careful with the man. Dr Ostermann has a good reputation in this city and he has powerful friends in all three levels of government. The last thing this department needs is more melodrama.’

Striker said nothing for a moment as he sized up the man. Then he realized: ‘You’re worried about a law suit.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘I need to interview Mercury.’

He started to turn away; Laroche stopped him.

‘You can interview him later, Striker.’

‘Now. Before—’

‘Do I have to put you on mandatory leave?’ Laroche asked, and now there was a hardness in his tone.

‘Mandatory leave?’ Striker repeated. ‘Why? Because of the injury to my hand – or because of Dr Ostermann’s prized reputation?’

Laroche’s face darkened and his voice deepened. ‘You need a breather, Detective. Your way, or mine.’

Striker looked back at the man, saw the seriousness in his stare, and knew that this was one battle he was in no position to win. He took in a deep breath, shrugged, and gave in.