The Guilty

‘And yet they were fine,’ Striker pointed out. ‘Safe and sound – heck, they were eating sandwiches and doughnuts in the back of a police cruiser a half-mile away.’ When Rothschild said nothing, Striker joined him at the window. ‘They don’t even know anything was wrong, Mike.’

He nodded absently. ‘And God keep it that way.’

Striker nodded his agreement.

He sipped his coffee and turned away from the window. He studied Rothschild’s prized Cougar, and for a while the two men talked about life’s smaller issues – when Mike had bought the car, how the unpacking was going inside the house, and of the possible trip to Disneyland Mike was pla

‘So what’s going on with Harry?’ Rothschild asked. He stopped polishing the manifold and looked over. ‘Lots of rumours going round – he go

Striker just shrugged. ‘Who knows for sure? I gave what I had to Internal. It’s up to them now. But from what I hear, there’s already talk of a forced early retirement.’

‘Retirement?’ Rothschild laughed with scorn.

‘They may not have much of a choice. All the evidence is either old, linked directly to Koda, or circumstantial. We’re talking about something that happened ten years ago, and most of the witnesses are dead. Laroche assigned the case to John Reyes. And you know what a pit-bull that guy is – the file will go on for years.’

Rothschild said nothing. He just stood there with a rag in one hand and a shiny chrome exhaust pipe in the other. The talk of Harry had rankled him. ‘Goddam Harry – he could have killed us when he shot Oliver like that. I hope he gets whatever’s coming to him.’

A troubled look spread across Striker’s face.

Rothschild saw it.

‘What?’ he asked.

Striker shrugged. ‘Just Harry. The man’s confusing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When Oliver dropped the detonator, Harry had two options – he could have run away and saved his own ass, or he could have stayed behind and helped me try to save you and the kids . . . He stayed, Mike. Helped me drag and tip that steel table in front of us. It was what made the difference.’

Rothschild let out a humourless laugh. ‘So what are you talking about here, Shipwreck – redemption?’

‘I’m just saying it should count for something.’

‘So you’re glad he’s getting off?’

‘No. I think he should be charged to the full extent of the law . . . but I don’t have to be happy about it.’

Rothschild snorted but said nothing.

Striker sighed. He’d had enough of the dark conversation. He gestured out the garage window to Cody and Shana, who were playing in the yard. Giggling. Frolicking in the sun. It was a wonderful sight.

‘There are better things to focus on,’ he said.

The dark look on Rothschild’s face stubbornly remained for a moment, but then the lines there lessened, and he nodded. The two friends talked and drank their coffees and polished the chrome engine parts together until Cody sheepishly poked his head back into the garage and begged for another doughnut.

Striker gave the boy one, plus another for his sister. Then he threw the box on the work bench. Soon there would only be muffins left. Bran.

‘You still going over there?’ Rothschild suddenly asked.

‘Ireland?’ Striker nodded. ‘Yeah. Courtney’s going to be there three more weeks yet. I know she’s safe with Tate and his parents, and they’re probably having a wonderful time . . . but I kind of want to see her.’

Rothschild stopped polishing and looked at him. ‘What about Felicia?’

‘She’s coming too.’

He gri

Striker shrugged. ‘Wasn’t hard. Felicia’s never been there either. It will be a nice break for both of us. And you know what? We need it after all that’s gone on this last week.’

Rothschild finished the last of his coffee, then looked at the empty cup. ‘Want me to put on a pot?’

Striker shook his head. ‘I got to be going. Got a dozen things to do before we leave and I haven’t even packed yet. Besides, you know what they say’ – he gave Rothschild a wry grin – ‘it’s a long, long way to Tipperary.’

Rothschild laughed softly and kept on polishing the manifold.

‘Keep your day job,’ he said.

Two

Striker picked up Felicia at her home and they made the drive to White Rock in less than forty minutes. Not that they were rushing it. The drive out there was nice. Traffic was sparse, the sky was clear, and the weather was balmy. It gave both of them some time to relax a little as they passed by the ebbing tide of Crescent Beach and, kilometres later, the forested hills of South Surrey.

Their first stop was the Davies house.

Striker pulled up to the small rancher and stared at the place. Everything was falling to pieces, and it made him feel better about what he had accomplished. Felicia climbed out, and Striker joined her. As he fiddled with the paperwork, Felicia hiked up the stairs and knocked on the door.

No one answered.

‘We should have called,’ Felicia said.

Striker just smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

He stuffed the thick, legal-size envelope into the mailbox and closed the lid. Inside it were two bundles of paperwork: some legal documents, and some forms. The legal documents were from the Royal Logistics Corps. With Archer having passed away, the family was qualified to obtain assistance from the regimental fund of the British Army.

Enough to pay a good-sized monthly mortgage.

As for the forms, they were from the Police Mutual Benevolent Association. The cops-for-cops charity had put forward enough funds to cover one year of a sports programme for each child – hockey for Logan and figure-skating for Rachel. Striker even added a cheque of his own to cover the required equipment expenses.

When they got back into the car and started driving again, Felicia reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘That was really nice of you,’ she said.

‘The kids are both in high school now. But better late than never.’

‘They’ll remember this.’

Striker shrugged. ‘I was eighteen when my parents died. I had to take care of my siblings and it was all we could do to get by. It hurt to see other kids playing sports when Tommy wanted to and couldn’t.’ He let out a long breath and found it odd how the memory still upset him. ‘You know, playing hockey was the only thing Tommy ever asked me for, and I couldn’t give it to him.’

‘You did more for them than any other brother would, Jacob – you raised them.’

He shrugged. ‘Same thing when Courtney was little . . . I think of all the time and money we spent on Amanda’s sickness, and all the things Courtney sacrificed. I can never get those times back for her again . . . but I can do something good for someone else. I can do this.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself.’

Striker said nothing back, and Felicia tightened her grip on his hand as they drove down 16th Avenue towards Highway 99 in the noon-day sun. They headed back for Vancouver. For the subsidized apartment complexes of Creekside Drive. Where the Williams children lived.

Striker had a little package for them too.

Three

It was three o’clock when Striker parked his vehicle in the long-term parking at Vancouver International Airport. He and Felicia removed their bags from the trunk and took the skywalk from the second level into the main terminal of international departures.