Threshold

by G. M. Ford

  ALSO BY G.M. FORD

  Nameless Night

  LEO WATERMAN SERIES

  Who in Hell Is Wanda Fuca?

  Cast in Stone

  The Bum’s Rush

  Slow Burn

  Last Ditch

  The Deader the Better

  Thicker Than Water

  Chump Change

  FRANK CORSO SERIES

  Fury

  Black River

  A Blind Eye

  Red Tide

  No Man’s Land

  Blown Away

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 G.M. Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477822173

  ISBN-10: 1477822178

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014951149

  CONTENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  Her silver hair brushed against the young man’s cheek as she whispered into his ear and gently traced the outline of his body with her hand. “This is where the universe ends and where Joseph begins,” she said, in the smallest of voices. When her hand had found its way back to the top of his head, she began again. Whispering still.

  On the third time around his outline, Joseph’s right hand twitched. On the seventh, his eyelids began to flutter like the wings of small birds. He was close. She could feel his presence now. Feel his fear and confusion.

  A sudden change in air pressure pulled her attention toward the door. Joseph’s father, Paul Reeves, stood in the opening. “They want to move him,” he said.

  The young woman shook her head. “If we let him go now, we may lose him. I need more time.”

  “Is he . . . ?”

  “He’s coming,” she said.

  Reeves pointed a stiff finger. His hand was shaking. “Keep going,” he said. “You just keep doing what you’re doing.” He slipped back through the opening and disappeared.

  She made three more circuits of Joseph’s outline, whispering all the while, and then got to her feet and crossed to the door, where her jacket hung from a hook. From the inside pocket, she pulled a small package wrapped in tissue paper and then returned to Joseph’s bedside. Carefully, she unwrapped the bundle. Inside was a small leather-bound book, badly burned. Flames had devoured the corners and part of the binding, leaving only the soot-encrusted center. As she opened the book and carefully picked her way to the page she was looking for, her hands became soiled by the black ash, the residue of which was transferred to Joseph’s sheet as she began working her way around his body once again. “This is where the universe ends and where Joseph begins,” she whispered.

  Joseph coughed. She began to read aloud from the book.

  The police negotiator brought the bullhorn to his lips.

  “Unlock the door, Mr. Reeves. Drop your weapon and come out. Let us see your hands.” The amplified voice ricocheted off the hard surfaces like small-arms fire.

  Nothing.

  A SWAT officer duck-walked across the floor to the negotiator’s side. “How long’s he been barricaded in there?” he asked.

  “They’re not sure. At least two hours.”

  “We know who he is?”

  “Guy’s name is Paul Reeves. His son Joseph’s a patient here. Joseph’s in there with him.”

  “What sort of weapon?”

  “No idea. Last nurse in the room said she thought she saw a gun.”

  “Thought?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Long gun? Short gun? What?”

  “She wasn’t sure.”

  “That makes it tough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She was upset. They sent her home.”

  The officer shook his head in disgust.

  “What’s this guy’s beef?”

  The negotiator set the bullhorn on the floor, pulled an old-fashioned white handkerchief from his pants pocket, and mopped his brow. “The kid’s been in a coma for the better part of a year. Seventeen years old. His mother wants to pull the plug. Says all they’re doing is prolonging the boy’s agony.” He motioned with his head. “Mr. Reeves in there doesn’t want to hear about it.” He wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip. “They’ve been duking it out in court for the past year or so. As I understand it, an appeals court is supposed to render a final decision this Wednesday. The legal eagles seem to think Mom is going to get the nod.” He shrugged. “Apparently Mr. Reeves thinks so too.”

  The SWAT officer mulled it over. “How many ways in?” he asked after a long moment.

  “Two. These doors here and there’s an entrance on every floor that connects to the emergency stairwell. And, of course, the elevators, but they don’t count because Reeves shoved hospital beds into both doorways and shut everything down.”

  “I’ll send a team up the back stairs.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Why not?”

  “Joseph’s room . . . that’s the only room in that wing that’s still in use. The five others are all under construction. There’s construction material all over the place. He’s got some sort of steel I beam wedged through the door handles. Worse than that, the construction crew brought one of those little front-loader things . . .”

  “A Bobcat?”

  “Yes. They brought it up in the freight elevator. Reeves parked it in front of the stairway door.”

  SWAT took about five seconds to shuffle his options. “We’ll come down from the roof,” he said.

  At the nurses’ station, several voices rose simultaneously. While the speakers were too far away to make out the words, a sense of urgency suddenly spread through the air like smoke.

  A moment later, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes pulled their attention in that direction. A middle-aged nurse in green scrubs was coming their way at a lope.

  “Get down! Get down!” SWAT hissed, motioning toward the floor.

  The nurse ignored him. Just kept coming. The second she came within reach, the SWAT officer pulled her into the alcove where he and the negotiator were crouched.

  He opened his mouth to admonish her, but she beat him to the punch.

  “Joseph’s monitors have gone down,” she announced. “We think his ventilator has been unplugged.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Joseph doesn’t breathe on his own. Never has.”

  “How long have we got?”

  “Six minutes at most.”

  SWAT began shouting orders into his shoulder radio. Within thirty seconds, every doorway on the opposite side of the hall was filled with a black-visaged SWAT officer brandishing an automatic weapon.

  SWAT leaned back against the wall. “Team’s on its way to the roof,” he said.

  An eerie silence crept in. It was like nobody was breathing.

  Another minute passed. Somebody coughed. And then another forever minute.

  The doubl
e doors quivered. A scraping sound grated through the hallway.

  The SWAT team members shouldered their weapons.

  A loud clang sounded from inside F Wing.

  The right-hand door opened a foot.

  “I’m coming out,” a man’s voice said.

  “Throw the gun out,” roiled from the bullhorn. “Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  “There’s no gun,” the voice said.

  “Hands on top of your head,” the bullhorn blared.

  The door eased open wide enough for him to step through. Bald guy in a business suit. Oddly, he was smiling like he’d won the lottery.

  “Hands on top of your head.”

  Reeves complied. “There’s no gun,” he said again, shuffling forward.

  Four officers moved in his direction behind ballistic shields.

  Inexplicably, the smile got wider.

  Within five seconds the officers had him spread-eagled, face down on the floor, as they searched him for weapons. “Clear,” one of the officers said.

  And then it was as if everyone finally exhaled at once.

  In that moment of shared relief, a young woman appeared in the doorway. The overwhelming impression of her was of something tenuously held together, as if only the stillness of the air allowed her to remain intact, and even the slightest breeze could scatter her like windblown leaves. Her pure white hair hung to her shoulders. Her eyes seemed to have no color at all.

  The apparition settled a brown leather jacket around her shoulders.

  “Joseph’s awake,” she said. “He’s breathing on his own.”

  Chief of Detectives Marcus Nilsson had a sign on the wall behind his desk that read: YOU CAN ALWAYS TELL A SWEDE, BUT YOU CAN’T TELL HIM MUCH.

  “Ah . . . Mickey. Come in. Have a seat.” He gestured toward the red leather chair to the left of his desk. “Can I get you a bottle of water or something?”

  Detective Sergeant Mickey Dolan shook his head and then slid into the chair. Back in the ice age, Marcus Nilsson and Mickey’s father, Jack, had spent several years riding around in a patrol car together. As a result, in the decade since Jack’s death, Nilsson had taken a paternal interest in Mickey’s career, which was a good thing. Dolan had no illusions. Without Nilsson covertly covering his ass, he’d probably be working at a Taco Bell by now.

  Nilsson rocked back in his chair. “How you feeling?” he asked.

  Mickey Dolan mulled it over. It wasn’t something he asked himself much lately. Mostly he just got up, went to work, and then got up and did it again.

  “I’m here,” he said finally. “Everybody still looks at me like I’m growing an extra head. Other than that, things are peachy.”

  Nilsson heaved a Hollywood sigh. “This is a station house, Mickey. Man’s wife walking out on him is not exactly news. Happens all the time. Probably to cops more often than anybody else. Man’s wife leaves him for another woman. And the local news anchor, no less . . . and then goes on the television every fifteen minutes advocating same-sex marriage . . . that’s news most everywhere.” He gave a rueful shake of the head. “I don’t have to tell you, Mickey. The job lends itself to a certain kind of gallows humor. Kinda warped sometimes.”

  “Like the old, how do you make a lesbian? joke.”

  “Yeah . . . like that one.”

  Nilsson was meeting his gaze now. He sat forward and leaned his elbows on the desktop. “I’ve got a new assignment for you,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Series of assaults.”

  “Whose case was it originally?”

  “Terry Quinton’s.”

  Dolan rolled his eyes. Terry Quinton was the size of a rhinoceros and about six months from retirement. As far as Mickey was concerned, taking over a case from Quinton was akin to replacing Edward Smith at the helm of the Titanic.

  “Howsabout I just keep on chasing bicycle thieves,” Dolan said. That’s where Nilsson had assigned him, giving him a little break while he got his personal shit back together after the divorce and letting the stationhouse chatter subside to a dull roar.

  What everybody in the department knew, though, was that Dolan had picked up two excessive force complaints in a five-week span. Even his union rep was talking anger management classes. Without Nilsson’s intervention, he’d have ended up in front of the civilian review panel, several members of which favored a kinder, gentler police force and might well have insisted on Dolan’s dismissal.

  “This one comes from upstairs. The mayor’s office. I need to put an experienced man on this. I’ve gotta look like I’m giving it the old college try.”

  It pissed off Nilsson, too. Dolan could tell. The C of D wasn’t the kind of guy who liked being told what to do . . . especially by civilian pencil pushers. Dolan watched in silence as Nilsson walked across the room and closed the office door.

  “You know Edwin Royster?” Nilsson asked.

  “Used to be a big-time shyster, ambulance chaser. Graduated to bigmouth asshole on the City Council. What about him?”

  “He’s up the mayor’s tract over this thing. His family’s been missing for three days. He wants immediate action.”

  “I thought you said it was a series of assaults.”

  “The latest assault victim is some slimeball named Donnely Kimble. Sheet as long as your arm. Mostly petty shit.”

  “What’s he got to do with Royster?

  “He’s good for the probable cause.”

  “For what?”

  “For a search warrant on something called the Women’s Transitional Center, which is who these assholes are really looking to fuck with.”

  “How’s that work?”

  “This Kimble fella was following somebody come out of the Women’s Transitional Center when somebody kicked the living bejesus outta him and left him in an alley downtown.”

  “What’s the Women’s Transitional Center?” Dolan asked.

  “Their mission statement says they help women who might otherwise stay in abusive relationships, because they don’t feel like they have the resources to leave. You know—provide a safe haven, someplace where hubby can’t get at them. Get them started on a new life. That sort of thing.”

  “Sounds admirable enough,” Mickey said.

  “They seem to have taken things one step further, this time.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Family court ruled Royster’s wife to be an unfit mother. Said she was nuts. Awarded the kids—a couple of little girls—to Royster. Instead of handing over the kids, she packed up the tykes and disappeared into the ozone.”

  “And Royster thinks the Woman’s Transitional Center is responsible?”

  “Yep.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to handle the victim interview and then roust the broads hard.”

  “Why me?”

  Nilsson set his jaw like a largemouth bass. “Recess is over, Mickey. It’s about time we find out if you still got what it takes to be a good cop.” He clapped a big hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “I think you do.”

  Sure hope you’re right, Dolan thought as he got to his feet.

  He’d had a lot of time to think lately. Probably too much. Lots of time to wonder about what had happened to his life. About how he’d never actually decided to be a cop. His father was a cop. His father was a cop. It was what the men in his family did. He’d walked out of college, straight into the police academy, and the rest was history. Same thing with Jennifer. She’d sat behind him in the fifth grade. They were high school sweethearts and then one day it was like everybody in their little world just sort of assumed they’d get married. It was simply what came next. So they did it, and right from the beginning, something was missing. By the time it was over, Dolan felt as if he’d watched the whole thing from the bleachers.


  Nilsson slid back behind his desk. “See Joan on your way out. She’ll find you a desk,” he said. “Milton will have a search team ready for you at four thirty. Meet ’em in the garage. Report to me first thing Monday morning.”

  A pair of green-clad nurses came out of Joseph Reeves’s room with their arms looped around one another, as if for support.

  They stopped in the doorway and stared blankly at the room full of cops.

  Judging from her facial expression, the one who spoke first didn’t believe what she was about to say, but had decided to say it anyway.

  “Joseph’s conscious and breathing without a ventilator,” she said.

  “It’s a miracle,” the other nurse said. “I don’t know what else to say.”

  “We need the police to unseal the area,” the first nurse said to no one in particular.

  “So we can get his doctors in there,” added the second.

  Detective Sergeant Mickey Dolan straightened his tie and leaned as far back as the padded hospital chair would permit. The septic smell of the place brought back unpleasant memories of the nursing home where his mother had spent her final frantic days. The place had always smelled like everybody was breathing everybody else’s last breath.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he began. “What you’re telling me is it was a couple of nuns who kicked your ass.”

  The victim slowly nodded and then turned what was left of his face toward the window. A muffled groan escaped his chest.

  Dolan stifled a grin. Apparently, getting your clock cleaned by women of the cloth was considered poor form in low-rent loser circles. Kind of like wearing a balloon hat to a board meeting.

  This particular bottom-feeder’s name was Donnely Kimble. Unlicensed gumshoe to the poor and obscure, skip-tracer, bail agent, process server, and all-around dipshit for hire, he’d been on the outer rings of the police department’s rectum radar since he arrived in town from Toledo, Ohio, about ten years ago.

  Patrol officers had found him purblind, crawling on his hands and knees, searching for his front teeth in a cobblestoned alley off North Tremont Street. His face looked like he’d been threshed and baled. One crushed testicle, two missing teeth, assorted contusions, lacerations, and an upper lip the size of a pot roast.