‘In the bath, I would think. She was drawing one when I heard the doorbell.’ Dr Ostermann gave Striker a long look before sighing. ‘If you insist, I can get her out of the tub to come down here and talk to you.’
Striker ignored the comment and focused the conversation back on other matters. ‘How long were you treating Mandy for?’
Dr Ostermann raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re changing subjects, I see. How long did I treat Mandy Gill for? I’m not sure. A couple of years, I would think.’
‘And Sarah Rose?’
‘About the same.’
‘What about Billy?’
‘I’ve been treating Billy ever since he came back from Afghanistan and was recommended to my programme, which would be about three years ago – is there a point to all this, Detective?’
‘What about Larisa Logan? How long were you treating her?’
Dr Ostermann’s face took on a look of understanding, and he nodded. ‘I see now. Larisa. I’m afraid I can say little about her.’
‘I know you were treating her.’
‘I will neither confirm nor deny that.’
‘You don’t have to,’ Striker said. ‘I already have confirmation. I know that you were seeing all four patients – Mandy, Sarah, Billy
and
Larisa. Now three of them are dead and Larisa is missing. Does that not seem odd to you?’
Dr Ostermann gingerly sat down in one of the library chairs, letting out a tender sound as he did. ‘Unfortunately, Detective, it does not. All it tells me is that I should have seen how dangerous Billy was in the first place. It tells me that I failed at being his doctor and it cost two innocent people – maybe even three – their lives.’
Striker was unmoved. ‘It tells me something else – that maybe I’ve been looking at the wrong person.’
Dr Ostermann’s face had a lost expression; then it tightened and turned pink. ‘I understand your insinuation, Detective, and it is
not
appreciated.’
‘I wouldn’t think so.’
Dr Ostermann stood up from the chair. ‘I think it’s time you took your leave, sir. And when you return next time I should hope you have a warrant, for I will surely have spoken to my own counsel – criminal
and
civil. It would appear our friendly conversations are over.’
Striker nodded. ‘That choice is entirely yours.’
When Dr Ostermann gestured towards the library exit, Striker took a long look around the room, purposely taking his time, then walked down the hall towards the front door. When he reached the foyer, he ran right into Lexa Ostermann.
‘Detective Striker?’ she said, surprised.
‘Mrs Ostermann.’
She looked down at herself – at the revealing kimono she wore – and her cheeks blushed. She gestured upstairs, to the west side of the house. ‘I’m sorry . . . I was getting into the bath . . . I thought you were Dalia coming back . . .’
‘Do not speak to him,’ Dr Ostermann said, coming up behind them.
Lexa’s face took on a confused look.
Striker ignored the man. He nodded to Lexa, then moved to the front door. Once there, he turned around and looked at them. Dr Ostermann stood in the forefront, his face hard as rock, his fingers curled into fists. Behind him, on the first step, stood Lexa. Her cheeks were rosy with blush and her deep brown eyes looked uncertain beneath the long, blonde curls of hair that fell across her brow.
Shingles?
Striker thought.
He thought of how he and Felicia had almost burned up in that fire. And he remembered the camera set up outside the window, facing in through the iron-barred panes of glass, capturing their demise. It angered him, and he felt like grabbing the doctor right there. Snapping him in two. Instead, he gave the man a long, hard look and smiled. ‘One last thing you might be interested in, Dr Ostermann . . . I know all about your videos.’
The angry, smug look fell from Dr Ostermann’s face and was replaced by a pale sick expression.
Lexa looked at her husband. ‘What videos? What is he talking about?’
Dr Ostermann said nothing. He reached out, and with a trembling hand opened the front door. ‘Goodnight, Detective.’
‘Not for you, it won’t be.’
Striker walked through the front door and never looked back.
The Adder was sitting on the cold concrete floor, in his Place of Solace, thinking of nothing when he heard the loud angry
shrenk!
of the hatch being opened. Had he not locked it? He turned around oddly from his seated position, surprised by the familiar sound, and slowly slid the DVD – his most precious of all the precious videos – into the inner pocket of his coat. Then he looked back up towards the hatch.
Clambering down the ladder was the Doctor.
This surprised the Adder, for no one ever came down here.
No one
. Not in ten years. This room had always been his, and his alone. Having the hatch opened at all was an intrusion.
He climbed to his feet and turned around.
The Doctor reached the bottom of the ladder. ‘You taped it? You taped it, didn’t you? You stupid, stupid
fool
!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t lie
to me
!’
SMACK!
The Adder felt his head jolt to the left and he reeled backwards, his cheek hot and stinging. For a moment, he did nothing. He just stood there in the centre of the room and felt the air hum about him. Felt that feeling wash over him once more. And suddenly he was fading again. Melting away into that other place. And the sounds started to come back, starting with the high-pitched laughter.
‘I need some space,’ he found himself saying. ‘I’m losing control.’
The Doctor paid him no attention and instead found the box of DVDs on the floor. With one quick swoop, they were taken away.
And just like that the Adder couldn’t breathe.
‘No,’ he managed to get out.
‘You can’t have these.’
‘They’re mine.’
‘I’m destroying them.’
‘No, they’re mine! They’re
mine
!’
The Adder felt his entire body begin to shake, so hard the room wobbled and vibrated all around him.
As always, the Doctor paid him no heed. Just ignored him. Climbed back up the ladder. And took away the videos of everything the Adder held precious in life. Everything the Adder loved. Everything the Adder needed to calm the frantic voices in his head and keep himself rooted in the reality of this cold and horrible world.
The hatch slammed shut.
And then he was alone again.
Just him and the voices.
‘No,’ he said softly, and then there was a desperation in his voice even he could hear. ‘NO!’
The voices came at him in waves. Thunderous, overpowering waves. And the Adder did the only thing he could do. He gave in and let the voices take him away. And after that he remembered nothing.
Striker exited the front walkway of the lot, rounded the corner on to the sidewalk and continued east until he was out of view. He then ran back down the side of the neighbour’s lot, climbed the wall and dropped down next to Felicia under the dark shadows of the plum trees.
‘I could kill you,’ she said.
‘I had to go in, we were getting nowhere.’
‘You should have waited for me!’ she whispered angrily. ‘You always do this.’
‘It wasn’t planned.’
‘Bullshit. Are we a partnership here, or not?’
Before Striker could respond, loud yelling noises came from within the residence. The words were impossible to make out, but the voices were definitely male and female. And Striker knew he had done his job well.
Dr Ostermann and his wife were fighting.
‘What did you do in there?’ Felicia asked.
He shrugged. ‘I just cornered a dog.’
Felicia gave him a hard look. ‘What else?’
Striker shrugged. ‘I bluffed him. Told him we knew about the videos.’
‘You
what
?’
‘Let him think we have more than we have,’ Striker said. ‘It worked, Feleesh. It connected. Like a friggin’ home run. You should’ve seen the look on his face. He damn near had a coronary right there in the foyer.’
‘But at what cost? Now he might destroy the evidence.’
Striker shook his head. ‘Never. If he’s making videos, then you know as well as I do what they are – his goddam trophies. He’ll keep them forever, even at the expense of being caught. But he will try to hide them.’
‘Probably immediately.’
‘Exactly, so get ready to motor.’
Striker focused back on the house. He’d barely lifted the binoculars to his eyes when a table lamp smashed out through a front-room window. Shards of glass littered the front lawn and driveway, and the lamp came crashing down on top of Dr Ostermann’s X5, denting the hood and cracking the windshield. Almost immediately, the car alarm went off and the street was filled with long, undulating wails.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Felicia said.
They both got up. Striker got on his phone and called Central Dispatch. Sue Rhaemer told him they were already getting a call from a frantic neighbour.
‘We’re already on scene,’ Striker told her. ‘And we’re going in.’
He hung up the phone and they headed for the house.
Felicia ran beside him. They crossed the lawn, reached the roundabout, and were just nearing the front door when Striker’s cell went off again. Thinking Sue Rhaemer was calling back, he snatched it up. But instead of hearing Sue’s scratchy voice, he heard the hardened tone of Jim Banner.
‘Noodles, I’m going into a domestic here.’
‘The Ostermann house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then be careful. We got the prints back on the can of varnish. And we got a perfect hit on them.’
‘Who do they come back to?’
‘Who do you think?’ Noodles replied. ‘None other than the doctor himself. Erich Reinhold Ostermann.’
When Striker and Felicia reached the front alcove of the Ostermann mansion, they each took sides. Striker glanced at the broken shards of glass that covered the front lawn and driveway, then at the table lamp that had broken apart when smashing into the BMW. Lastly, he looked at the room above, where curtains now hung out of the window.
‘Watch our backs,’ he told Felicia and gestured towards the window.
‘Copy. You take the door.’
Striker did. He moved up to the front door and knocked hard.
‘Vancouver Police!’ he yelled. ‘Dr Ostermann, it’s Detectives Striker and Santos – come to the door!’
No response.
He pressed the doorbell and heard the chimes go off inside the house.
‘Dr Ostermann! Lexa!’ he called, then added, ‘Dalia? Gabriel?’
But again there was no response.
‘Fuck this,’ he said.
He stepped back from the door and gave it a quick once-over. The door was made from solid oak with steel hinges, and the surrounding frame looked strong. It was going to be a bitch to kick in, but what other option did they have?
Striker turned around and gave the door three heavy donkey kicks, placing the heel of his shoe between the lock and frame each time. On the third kick, the frame cracked. On the fourth, it splintered. And on the fifth, the entire structure broke apart and the front door went crashing inwards.
Striker pulled out his pistol and used the broken frame as cover. ‘Chunk out,’ he told Felicia. ‘
Chunk out!
’
She nodded and drew her pistol.
And they headed into the house.
They swept into the foyer and quickly took sides; Felicia got the east, Striker took west. Striker strained his ears to detect anything besides the blaring car alarm out front, but heard nothing.
The house was dead silent.
‘It’s too quiet in here,’ Felicia said.
‘Just be ready,’ Striker told her.
Together they cleared the bottom of the house, starting with the living room and den area, then carrying on into the kitchen, a sitting room and the library.
At the far end of the hallway was the last room, the office. Striker reached it, tried the doorknob, and found it locked. He didn’t so much as hesitate. He simply took a step back, then swung his leg forward and kicked the door in with one try.
The lock snapped and the door broke inwards, revealing a small secluded office. There were no windows in the room. No closets. And no other doors. Just a huge old wooden desk with a computer on it, a pair of chairs on one side, and the doctor’s chair on the other.
A place for private sessions? Striker wondered. The emptiness of the room seemed odd.
‘It’s clear,’ Felicia said.
Striker nodded. ‘Upstairs then.’
They spun about and made their way back down the hall. When they reached the foyer, they turned and started up the stairs.
Felicia spoke. ‘We should have a second unit for this. Patrol cops will be here soon.’
‘Not soon enough,’ Striker replied.
He pressed on, up the stairs.
When they reached the landing, they stepped into a hallway that led in both directions. Striker paused. A strong smell filled the hall – clean, floral, earthy. After a moment, he figured it to be herbal additives from the bath Lexa had been taking. Lavender. Or juniper, maybe.
‘Hold west,’ he said. ‘Make sure no one comes up behind us. I’ll clear the east end first.’
‘Got it,’ Felicia said.
Striker made his way down the hall. He came to a bathroom, complete with shower and tub, but this was not where the smell was coming from. Once cleared, he made his way down the hallway, clearing two more bedrooms along the way. The smaller one belonged to Dalia, Striker presumed, for the clothes on the chair were almost Goth in style, dark and drab, and all the same. The pictures on the wall were equally morbid. Posters of Marilyn Manson and the like.
The second bedroom was the exact opposite. A guest bedroom of sorts that looked made for a queen. The bed was immense, a king-sized, four-poster number, covered with a thick burgundy quilt that matched the colour of the drapes, which now hung out of the broken window. In the far corner of the room was a pair of high-backed floral Victorian-style chairs, and opposite them was a small bar, complete with fridge and an ice-cube machine.
Striker cleared the room then made his way down the hall, and came up beside Felicia. She still had her pistol aimed down the other side of the landing.