The Survivor

Epilogue

One Hundred and One

Three weeks later, early in the morning, Striker pulled into the visitors’ parking lot of the G.F. Strong Rehab Centre and felt his BlackBerry vibrate on the side of his belt. The caller was Sergeant Ronald Stone from Internal. He didn’t answer, but punched the ignore button instead. There was enough on his plate today without having to deal with Professional Standards.

He locked the car and headed for the main building. The sun was out and the sky was blue, but the air was crisp and cold. Snow had fallen the previous morning, testament to the fact that winter had definitely arrived. The cedar bushes that flanked the walkway were clean and white, and decorated in Christmas lights.

Red and blue.

The snow from Striker’s boots turned the hard tiles of the hospital floor slippery, and he walked carefully as he made his way from the admitting area down to Rehab. Once in the wing, he stopped by the Christmas tree planted beside the nursing station and smelled the strong scent of pine in the air. He sca

‘Mr Striker,’ she said at the sight of him, and offered a wide smile.

‘Janeeta,’ he said. He took a long hard look down the hallway, in the direction of Courtney’s room. His nerves felt on fire. ‘How’s she coming?’

‘She’s coming well, Mr Striker.’

‘But will she walk normal again?’

Janeeta looked at the chart she was holding, flipped through the pages, then looked back at Striker and gave his arm a soft rub. ‘Why don’t you go talk to your daughter, Mr Striker?’

He nodded, then walked down the hall to Room 14.

‘Hey, Pumpkin,’ he said as he stepped through the door.

Courtney was seated on the bed, looking out the window. She wore a burgundy pair of track pants from Roots, complete with a matching sweat top. At the sound of his voice, she looked over her shoulder at him. Her expression was unreadable.

‘Snow,’ was all she said.

‘Yeah, first time in two years. Christmas is coming.’ He pointed to her tracksuit. ‘Got your colours ready, I see. Very festive.’

Courtney didn’t smile. ‘It hasn’t snowed like this since Mom died.’

The words punched through Striker, took his breath away. Mainly because she was right. The last time it had snowed was the night Amanda had taken off, when she’d driven for her friend’s house on the North Shore and never made it back. The memory seemed like yesterday. And Striker wished he could forget it all.

He approached the bed, crested it, and rubbed his hand over the top of Courtney’s upper back – away from her healing scar – in his best attempt to show support. He stared outside at the snowy roadway, thought about what his daughter didn’t yet know, then sat down in the bedside chair and faced Courtney.

‘You know, we’ve never really talked about that night,’ he said softly.

‘You’ve never wanted to.’

He nodded. ‘There are reasons, Pumpkin. Ones not too nice.’

He spoke the words reluctantly. When he looked up and saw the seriousness of her stare, he considered letting the subject go, once again burying it with the rest of the past. But this time, he could not. Everything was different now. It was time for a clean start. Time for honesty.

He closed his eyes, trying to think how best to word it. ‘Things between your mom and I weren’t as good as you remember them, Courtney. Our marriage wasn’t perfect. To be honest, it wasn’t working all that well.’

‘I know, Dad.’

He blinked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes. I know about the affair.’

He twitched in his seat. ‘Affair? What affair?’

‘With you and Felicia.’

Striker let out an exasperated sound. ‘You think that?’

‘Well, what am I supposed to think?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘No wonder you’ve been acting the way you have.’ He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed deeply. ‘It’s my fault. All my fault for not telling you.’ He leaned closer, took her hand and said, ‘Courtney, I never cheated on your mother. Me and Felicia never so much as dated until seven or eight months ago.’

Her face took on a confused look. ‘Then what—’

‘Your mother wasn’t well, Courtney. In fact she was quite sick. Clinically depressed. She wouldn’t even leave the house half the time. It was an issue – her bipolar diagnosis – and we always tried to hide that from you, but I guess . . . I guess it was wrong of us.’

‘Bipolar?’

‘She was on medication and seeing a specialist in Kerrisdale.’ He took in a deep breath, studied the shock on her face, then told her the worst of the truth. ‘The night she left home, I didn’t let her drink and drive, Courtney. In fact, she hadn’t drunk a drop.’

‘But then how . . .’

Striker said gently, ‘The Dinsmore Bridge . . . it’s straight and flat. And there was no traffic that night. When your mother drove off the bridge, Courtney, it wasn’t an accident. It was her own doing.’

The words made Courtney flinch, and she almost pulled her hand free from Striker’s grip. He watched her intently, expecting her to cry and crumble, or at least get angry and lash out. But she did neither. She just stared out the window, at the snowy hills outside, and her face took on a sad look.

‘You okay, Pumpkin?’

‘I think I always knew,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I just didn’t want to believe it.’

‘I’m sorry about your mother, Pumpkin. And about Raine.’

Courtney looked up at him and her expression was wretched. ‘It’s so strange. When Raine and I were in the back of that van, I thought we were going to die, I really did. And Raine was just out of it. Like in shock or something. So I stuck a bunch of frozen steaks down the front and back of her shirt. I thought that it would protect her if he started shooting, but now . . . now I wonder if that was what weighed her down. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t swim to shore. I killed her.’

Striker looked into her eyes. ‘The fall killed her. And the currents are strong. She never would’ve been able to swim out.’

‘I just feel—’

‘You did all you could. And thank God for those frozen steaks. They may have deflected the bullet a bit. The doctor says you’ll walk again.’

‘But how well?’

Striker held her hand. ‘I don’t know.’

Courtney didn’t reply. Moments later, a few tears slid down her cheeks.

Striker stood up and wrapped his arm around her, gave her a long hug, felt her warm breath under his chin, smelled the lemony scent of the laundry detergent on her clothes. She held him, too, and just as tight. When her arm finally relaxed a little, Striker pulled back and looked at her face.

‘What do you want for Christmas?’

‘Getting this bullet out of my spine would be a nice start.’

He laughed, genuinely and hard, and touched her face. ‘I love you, Pumpkin.’

‘I love you, too, Dad.’

He fetched her suitcase from under the bed, made sure it was locked and secure, then helped ease her off the bed into the wheelchair.

‘Come on,’ he said softly. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here. We’re going home.’

One Hundred and Two

Striker had just finished getting Courtney seated and buckled into his Honda CR-V when the sound of squealing tires filled the underground. He turned and spotted a small car speeding around the bend in the dark parkade. Instinctively, he swept his hand under his jacket flap and touched the butt of his pistol. As the car drove closer, Striker saw that it was a silver Volvo, a car he recognised well.