Threshold

by G. M. Ford

  Mickey walked over to the cupboards and looked inside. “Peanut butter, jelly, and a couple of full boxes of Ritz crackers,” he announced. “Fit for a king.”

  “Queen,” Grace corrected.

  Mickey laughed, closed the cabinet and walked over to her side.

  “I’m going to have to go,” he said. “I’m on call.”

  She nodded.

  “Worst-case scenario, I’ll be back before noon tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” Grace said.

  “Yeah,” Mickey said. “I did.”

  “What about Gus?” she asked.

  “Gus is a pro,” Mickey said. “This isn’t his first rodeo. He knows how to handle himself. He’ll make his one phone call and be back on the street before noon tomorrow, I guarantee it.”

  Her eyes swept over his face. “You won’t leave us here.”

  “No way,” he said.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  She answered on the first ring. The fact that she couldn’t tell who was calling told him she hadn’t had the same difficulty deleting his picture that he’d had with hers.

  “Jen here,” she said.

  “I need your help,” Mickey said.

  “With what?”

  “The Roysters.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re at the cabin.”

  Pregnant pause. “How so?”

  He gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of everything that had happened. Everything she needed to know, anyway.

  “Where are you?”

  “Tellers,” Mickey said.

  Tellers Oasis was a miniscule gas station-truck stop combination about halfway back to Hardwig from the cabin. It was also the first place you could stop where your cell phone was going to show any bars at all.

  “Joanna has a show tonight,” she said.

  “They’ll be alright for a while, but they’re going to need food, and company. And someplace to go, while everything gets sorted out.”

  “Can’t you take care of it?”

  “I’m on call,” he said. “I’ve got thirty-five messages on my phone, none of which I’ve answered, and most of which are from my boss.”

  “I don’t know what I can do,” she said, as if that was supposed to be the end of it.

  “You can put your feminist money where your feminist mouth is,” Mickey snapped. “This is the real world here, Jen. The one I live in. This isn’t ungendering the toys from McDonald’s, or protecting spousal benefits. These are real people. Exactly the kind you’re always running your mouth about being exploited by society. What say you, just for the hell of it, actually do something other than talk for a change?”

  “I . . . you . . .” she sputtered and then caught herself.

  “The cops find them, the kids are going back to daddy, and Cassie’s going to meet some interesting new friends down at the county lockup.”

  A trio of log trucks came roaring by on the road, filling the air with debris as they rumbled toward town in the gathering darkness.

  “I’ll take care of it,” she said. Mickey could picture the look on her face from thirty miles away. The tightness around the eyes and the way anger made her lips all but disappear. For some reason, the prospect of her being angry with him bothered him less than it ever had bothered him before. Go figure.

  “I’ll check with you later,” he said, and broke the connection.

  Mickey was all the way back to the city, running down Bozeman Avenue, about six blocks from the precinct, when his phone began to jingle. He hadn’t answered or returned a call all day long and couldn’t think of any reason to start now. Way he figured it, everybody was already as pissed off at him as they were going to get. Then Jen’s picture flashed onto the screen and all that crap flew out the window.

  “Dolan,” he said.

  “We’ve got it covered,” she announced. “Short-term, anyway.”

  No way he was telling her about Vince Keenan. She didn’t keep her mouth shut well enough for that. She’d tell you she did, swear up and down, but, as far as Mickey was concerned, it was Dial M for Motormouth.

  In all likelihood, Gus Bradley had by now used his one phone call, which meant his homeboys already knew things had gone to shit, and were working on getting him out. Only thing none of them knew was where to find the family, and Grace would take care of that for them.

  “When you get there, talk to Grace,” he said. “She can put you together with people who can help them out in the long term.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “You will,” he said. He jerked to a stop behind a bakery truck. “Got to go,” he said and hung up.

  Took the better part of fifteen minutes to return the unmarked cruiser to the police garage. And then another ten checking in with the Duty Sergeant. It doesn’t generally take that long, but when you’ve got to make up where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing for most of a day, it’s a little more time-consuming. So it was just after six when Mickey moseyed into the office, figuring he’d have a quick look at his desk and then pack it in for the evening.

  The place was deserted. Even Joan had gone. Only light coming from inside Nilsson’s office. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but the muffled clash of angry voices was audible from across the room.

  He threw a glance down at his desk. Message light blinking like a prison break. An inch and a half of handwritten notes impaled on the old-fashioned spindle. What caught his eye, however, was a single sheet of copier paper, propped up against the desk lamp. Big magic marker arrow pointing across the room. YOU, was all it said.

  Mickey was tempted to turn around, walk out the door, and drive home. Maybe get a pizza on the way home. Turn off the phone and then finish off that bottle of Bushmills. Sounded like a natural, as far as Mickey was concerned. Across the room, an angry adenoidal whine rose above the others.

  Mickey sighed. Took his time crossing the office and then knocked on Nilsson’s door. “Yeah,” came filtering out from inside the room.

  Mickey stepped inside. Marcus Nilsson was dug in behind his desk, red-faced and rearing for a fight. Mayor Bagley was, as always, looking composed in the red leather chair. Edwin Royster had dragged the guest chair six feet closer to Nilsson’s desk and was hovering over the C of D like a cobra. The air was thick with contention.

  It was, however, the two other guys sitting in the wooden chairs along the back wall that got Mickey’s attention. One was Gary Warner, the City Attorney. Worked across the street in the City Administration Building and was not seen in this neck of the woods very often. The other was a lieutenant from the East Precinct, Bobby Thomson, like the old Giants infielder. Thomson was Mickey’s union rep, and none of the possible reasons for his presence boded well for Mickey Dolan. This was an official close ranks and cover your ass crew, if ever a wiz there was.

  Mickey checked the upper corners of the room. The cameras were on. Probably the audio recorders too. All of which said there was some serious shit going down here.

  Nilsson glowered at Mickey. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded.

  “Keeping the world safe for democracy.”

  Edwin Royster came out of the seat like a missile. “Don’t you dare . . . you son-of-a-bitch . . . don’t you . . .” He started waving a finger in Mickey’s face. Mickey thought about breaking the thing off and sticking it up his ass. Saner heads prevailed, however.

  “Councilman,” the mayor intoned. Mickey could feel Nilsson’s gaze boring a hole in the side of his head. They had a freeze-tag moment, before everybody settled uneasily back into their seats.

  “Did you report to the Duty Sergeant?” Nilsson growled.

  Mickey nodded. “About five minutes ago,” he said.

  Nilsson grabbed the green pho
ne, spun his chair so his back was to Mickey, and pushed a couple of buttons. Waited and then pushed a few more, before swinging his chair back around.

  “You get anywhere near Hardwig in your travels today, Sergeant?” Nilsson asked.

  “Hardwig?”

  Nilsson didn’t bother repeating himself.

  “Why do you ask?” Mickey countered.

  Royster was starting to rise again. The mayor reached over and put a restraining hand on his arm. “Edwin,” he said softly.

  Mickey turned his attention to the union rep. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Thomson thought it over. “Might be a good idea,” he said.

  “On the advice of my union representative, I’m afraid I’m going to have to exercise my right to council before we go any further with this.”

  “I want him fired,” Royster shouted. “Right here. Right now.”

  “It’s a process,” the mayor said.

  “Fuck the process,” Royster snapped. “I want him fired.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” Thomson said.

  Mickey had no illusions. If they’d managed to put him in Hardwig this afternoon, and could connect him to the missing family, his ass was grass, union lawyer or no union lawyer, and, worst of all, that greaseball Royster would get his daughters back. That was the part that bothered Mickey the most.

  “What’s with Hardwig?” Mickey Dolan tried.

  Instead of an answer, Marcus Nilsson picked up the remote control from his desk, pointed it at the video player, and thumbed the power button. “Little something the Hardwig PD sent over to us.”

  Mickey kept his face together, but the rest of him felt like it was about to melt into something the janitor would have to mop up later. The screen blinked to life. Closed- circuit view along the front facade of the Northhaven Mall. Mickey and the unmarked cruiser coming right at the camera, bouncing over speed bumps, stopping to let shoppers pass, just the way he remembered it. Big oh shit factor here.

  Any hope of deniability went out the window the second Mickey stepped out of the cruiser and stood there waiting for Grace and the girls to show up. That was either Detective Sergeant Michael Dolan or . . . or . . . there was no or.

  That’s when, just for a little icing on the cake, Grace and the Royster family came stumbling into the frame, got in the car, and were last seen riding away in a northerly direction, with Mickey at the wheel.

  “You include that incident in your report?” Nilsson asked.

  “No sir,” Mickey said.

  Nilsson pitched a piece of paper across the desk at Mickey. Standard cop stuff. Somebody’s phone logs. One of the numbers circled in yellow highlighter.

  “Call bounced off a tower seven miles north of Hardwig,” the C of D said. “Connected with a city number assigned to The Coalition for Equal Rights.”

  “Where that dyke wife of yours works,” Royster sneered.

  “Dyke ex-wife,” Mickey corrected.

  “Where’s my fucking family?” Royster demanded. He began to rise from the chair, but Mickey stepped in close, making it so Royster would have to bump him out of the way in order to stand all the way up.

  “Mickey,” Nilsson growled.

  Royster lowered his ass back into the seat.

  Nilsson grabbed the initiative. “Motor pool says the squad car had”—he read a number, thirty-two thousand and something—“and had”—another number—“when you brought it back this afternoon.”

  Mickey kept his mouth shut.

  “Even accounting for a trip to Hardwig, there’s an extra forty miles or so in there. You want to enlighten us, Sergeant Dolan?”

  “No sir.”

  “According to the Hardwig PD, they responded to a series of assaults this afternoon. Seems they’ve got several private security guys and one Augustus Bradley in custody at this time. You know anything about that?”

  “No sir.”

  “You know Gus Bradley, Sergeant?”

  “Not personally sir. I know who he is, but I’ve never met him.”

  “From what I’m told,” Nilsson said, “those rent-a-cops wish they’d never met him either.”

  Mickey hid a smirk. As far as Nilsson was concerned, a lifetime criminal like Gus Bradley was still to be considered several notches above private security agents on the evolutionary ladder.

  “Where’s the Royster family?” Nilsson asked.

  Mickey didn’t say anything.

  “Last time, Sergeant Dolan. Where are they?”

  Mickey swallowed hard. “On the advice of my union representative, I respectfully decline to answer, without an attorney being present.”

  Marcus Nilsson rose to his feet and held out his big hand. “Your gun and badge, Sergeant Dolan,” he said. “You don’t get to make the rules, you just get to enforce them.”

  Mickey pulled out his service piece, checked the safety, and put it in the Chief’s outstretched hand, then found his badge and set it on top of the gun. Nilsson set them on the corner of his desk. He had the speech memorized. “Detective Sergeant Dolan, in accordance with the terms of collective bargaining agreement and in the presence of your union representative, you are hereby suspended from duty, without pay, for an indefinite period, pending possible charges and/or other disciplinary action regarding dereliction of duty.” His glare threatened to melt Mickey’s forehead. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’ll be notified about the hearing.”

  Grace sat on the old handmade sofa and watched the darkness gather around the cabin. To her senses, darkness seemed to close in more quickly out here in the woods. The forest on the far side of the clearing, green and vibrant what seemed like just a minute ago, had suddenly been reduced to a jagged, black silhouette against the darkening sky. She scrunched down into the cushions and stared out into the gloaming.

  “It’s cold, Mama.” Tessa danced in a circle, hugging herself.

  That was the first time Grace remembered that they’d left everything behind in the van, and that, like the old song said: Everything they had was hanging on their backs.

  “You suppose there’s any firewood?” Cassie asked nobody in particular.

  “There’s a woodshed out back,” Grace offered. “Lots of wood, too.”

  Cassie jumped to her feet. “Come on girls, let’s make a fire,” she said gaily.

  The girls followed her out the door and down the porch stairs. Grace pushed herself up from the couch and wandered into the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched out the window as Cassie and the girls found some dry wood. Watched as Cassie expertly used the hatchet to split off some kindling. Then had the girls hold out their arms while she loaded them with the fruits of their labors.

  They came back inside the cabin, staggering under the weight of the wood, giggling and grunting with exaggerated exertion, as they dumped everything into the wood box next to the stove. Cassie knelt down and opened the wrought-iron door.

  “Now girls, when you make a fire in a woodstove, the first thing you’ve got to do is make sure the flue is wide open, because if it’s not, the whole room is going to fill up with smoke.” She made an expansive move with her arms. The girls were suitably impressed. More giggles filled the room.

  Grace was thinking how nice it was to see Cassie Royster feeling in charge. To see her dispensing wisdom and taking the lead in something. She could tell, the girls liked it too. She went through the whole process with them. Newspaper, then kindling, then skinny sticks and, only when those were fully ablaze, the split firewood.

  Took maybe forty minutes for the warmth to reach the far corners of the cabin. By that time, they’d devoured most of the peanut butter and jelly and were about to open the second box of Ritz crackers when the unearthly halogen headlights swept over the cabin like a death ray and ever
ybody’s blood froze solid in their veins.

  The flickering glow of the kerosene lamps reflected off the logs, making it seem as if the room was lit from everywhere at once.

  Grace glanced back over her shoulder. Cassie and the girls were huddled in a corner, wide-eyed with terror. Grace took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

  Expecting a face full of cops, she drew in a great breath and pulled open the door. No cops. Two women holding Safeway shopping bags.

  “Oh,” escaped her lips.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you,” the nearest woman said with a tentative smile. She was maybe five foot nine. Thirty or so. Good-looking, in a girl-next-door kind of way. The other woman was older and taller and sharper. Thick, medium-length hair streaked with gray.

  “I’m Jennifer McCade,” the younger woman said. “Mickey sent us. You must be Grace.” She gestured with her shoulder to the other woman. “This is Teresa Hollander. Teresa’s an attorney with the Women’s Legal Coalition.”

  Grace exhaled for what seemed like the first time in half an hour and then looked back over her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said.

  Cassie and the girls slowly unwound from one another and wandered out toward the center of the room. Scared and hopeful, at the same time.

  “Oh,” Grace said. “Excuse me. Come in. Come in,” as she threw open the door and got out of the way, so the women could enter.

  “We thought you might be able to use a few provisions,” Jennifer said as she crossed the rough plank floor, set the grocery bags on the counter, and began to put things away in the cupboards. Teresa put her bags on the kitchen table and stepped back. “No need to go hungry while we figure out what we’re going to do next,” she said.

  Grace stopped in her tracks. Wasn’t until that moment, when her fear-addled brain cleared up sufficiently, that she realized who this was, and why Jennifer seemed to know where everything went in the kitchen.

  “You’re Sergeant Dolan’s ex. Aren’t you?” she said.

  Mickey was drinking Bushmills Malt and attempting to channel his mother. Emma Dolan had been one of those people who, regardless of the magnitude of the disaster, could always find something positive to say about it afterward.