Threshold

by G. M. Ford

  “No,” Roberto shouted. “She doan breathe so good. She needs her—”

  Grace didn’t wait to hear the rest. She crunched through the debris, kicking things aside, as she threw herself across the bottom of the bed and began to turn the wheel on the top of the oxygen tank as fast as she could.

  Outside, somebody let loose a drunken rebel yell. Grace looked up to see the motel manager grappling with two of them. She winced as the one in the filthy John Deere hat swung the chain like a medieval mace. The sound of the impact was sickening. The manager dropped to his hands and knees on the pavement. They began kicking him as he crawled along the blacktop, trying to escape. The one in the cap kicked him hard in the ass, sending him sprawling forward onto his face, breaking his glasses and bloodying his nose. Fueled by terror, he ignored the pain and kept crawling forward, scratching across the asphalt till he managed to throw himself inside the office door.

  When they got through whooping it up, they turned Grace’s way. Three of them, shitfaced drunk, their faces etched with the kind of blind anger that self-haters can’t help but spread around. The one with the chain twirled it as he moved her way. “Comin’ to get you, bitch,” he shouted. “Gonna get your skinny little ass.”

  Despite the jagged six-foot hole decorating the front wall, the three stooges opted to kick in the cabin door and come in that way, stumbling over the rubble as they made their way through the shattered doorway.

  Grace rushed to meet them, screaming now. “Get the hell out of here,” she shrieked and launched herself at the one in the green hat. The force of the impact drove him backward into the old TV. They went down in a heap. She was trying to remove his eyes with her thumbs when an arm slipped around her throat and lifted her from the carpet. She kicked her legs, catching the first guy under the chin, sending him pinwheeling back to the floor. Her head felt as if it might explode. She was gasping for breath, clawing at the arm, flailing haplessly against the brute force crushing her throat.

  Grace threw her head back with all the muscle she could muster. Her attacker grunted and reached for his face, and the pressure on her throat lessened just enough for her to slip beneath the arm. She wrenched herself free with enough force to send her staggering, banging into the cabin wall, trying to catch her breath.

  “Bitch,” one of them shouted.

  Roberto was down in the doorway, with the guy with the broken arm trying to stomp him through the shag carpet. His face was a mess, but he wouldn’t stay down. No matter how many times the guy kicked him, he still tried to struggle to his feet.

  The other two were on her now, smelling of new sweat and old piss. Green Hat grabbed her in a bear hug and lifted her from the floor. They were face to face. Two inches apart. He opened his mouth to speak. Grace spit in it. He roared like an animal and swung her heaving body toward the doorway. That’s when the guy with the chain grabbed her legs and they went lurching across the room.

  She felt the cold air wash over her face and knew they were outside. And then she was down on her hands and knees in the parking lot. They were tearing at her clothes. The buttons on the front of her blouse exploded like a machine-gun burst. A hand reached over her head, grabbed the back of her brassiere, and tried to pull it over her head, but the angle was wrong and it wouldn’t go.

  Somebody was clawing at her waist now. Dragging her jeans down around her ankles. “Get her on the ground,” somebody shouted. “Get her down!”

  And then . . . the screeching of tires rose above sounds of struggle and the rumble of traffic. A hand tore her underwear, just as a new voice began to shout.

  She heard the tinkle of the chain followed by a collision of bodies as she tried to gather the remnants of her clothes around herself. When she looked up, the chain was whirling in the air. She watched open-mouthed as Mickey Dolan stepped inside the arc, avoiding the lethal hook, allowing the chain to wrap around his body, pistoning his knee upward at the guy’s crotch as he hurtled forward. She heard Mickey gasp as the hook finished its wrap and made contact with his back. He brought the knee up again and this time made solid contact. Green Hat dropped the chain and staggered backward, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth a black hole.

  Over by the cabin’s door Gus had polished off the guy who had been kicking Roberto and was now running in their direction. When Grace turned back, Mickey had dropped to his knees on the asphalt, hugging himself and gasping for breath.

  She turned again toward Gus. And then . . . the shot went off. The God-almighty roar of a rifle tore the air to pieces. Grace watched in horror as the force of the slug not only stopped Gus in his tracks, but actually lifted him from the ground and threw him backward, like a cardboard cutout.

  Grace began to crawl in his direction. “Gus,” she screamed. “Gus.”

  “Kill the motherfuckers,” Green Hat shouted.

  The driver lifted a scoped rifle up to his shoulder. Grace watched as he worked the bolt, sliding another round into the chamber. On her left, Mickey Dolan had managed to push himself to his feet.

  The driver swung the rifle in Mickey’s direction. Sighted down the barrel.

  Grace held her breath.

  Somewhere in the distance several sirens could suddenly be heard.

  “Kill ’em, Coy,” Green Hat shouted again.

  Grace opened her mouth to scream, and, just like in the movies, the world seemed to go into slow motion. Green Hat arched his back and crumpled to the ground in a loose heap. The one with the rifle frowned and straightened up. He took his right hand off the weapon and tried to reach behind himself, like he wanted to scratch the middle of his back. The rifle clattered to the ground. He wobbled for a second, took an awkward step forward and fell onto his face.

  Mickey Dolan staggered across the pavement and dropped to his knees beside Gus. A moment passed before his chin dropped onto his chest.

  Movement in her peripheral vision brought Grace’s eyes back toward the parking lot, where a pair of dark shadows stepped from between cabins. She stifled a moan, as they bent at the waist and shot each of her attackers behind the ear.

  The one on the left turned and melted back into the shadows. The other took a step forward. He looked over at Dolan and Gus. Motioned with the gun.

  Dolan gazed down at the massive hole in Gus’s chest and shook his head. Somewhere in the darkness, an engine started.

  The remaining shadow made the sign of the cross, and then turned and walked away. Grace began to cry.

  They took Mickey’s cellmate away just before nine in the morning. Crazy bastard hadn’t eaten a bite or said a word in fourteen hours, just sat there staring at the wall and rocking back and forth on his tailbone. Then when they came and told him he was being moved to another cell, he went completely apeshit. Before it was over, it took four burly COs and a spit mask to get him strapped into a restraint chair and wheeled off.

  They left Mickey standing in the hallway with the cell door open, so he had a pretty good idea what the score was. He went inside the cell and sat on the steel bench, running his hands through his hair, combing out pieces of debris with his fingers, feeling the various cuts and craters in his scalp, when he heard the sound of shoes and looked up.

  Marcus Nilsson stood in the cell doorway. Mickey started to rise, but Nilsson waved him back down. “Forchristsakes siddown,” he growled.

  The Chief of Detectives stalked over and sat down on the bench next to Mickey. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen the morning papers,” he asked.

  “Delivery’s spotty down this end of the cell block,” Mickey said.

  “It’s a hell of a mess out there.”

  Mickey kept running his hands through his hair and staring at the growing pile of hairborne debris on the floor between his feet.

  “Always is . . . isn’t it?” he said.

  “Not like this,” the C of D said. He sighed, as if he didn’t know where to begin. �
��Gus Bradley’s dead,” he said. “But of course, you know that.”

  “Dumbass redneck shot him with a deer rifle.”

  “Got one of them with a broken neck. Somebody turned the guy’s head all the way around backward. Docs say he probably isn’t going to make it, and if he does he’s gonna do it sitting down, with somebody spooning his porridge for him.”

  “Gus was defending himself,” Mickey said.

  “That’s what I figured,” Nilsson said. “It’s the other two stiffs I was hoping you could help me with.”

  Mickey kept his eyes on the floor. “What other two?” he asked.

  “What they say was the rifle shooter and another guy.” When Mickey didn’t say anything, he went on. “A double tap. Both with one in the torso and then another in the back of the head.” He looked over at Mickey. “Small caliber . . . looks like professional work.”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody,” Mickey said. “Last time I saw my piece, you had it.”

  “I know. We ran your hands and jacket for gunpowder residue. They came up clean. Likewise with Gus Bradley and the Pressman woman.”

  “Sounds like a real mystery,” Mickey said.

  “The skell who can still talk says it was a couple guys came out from between the cabins and capped both his buddies and then just walked off.” He leaned over close to Mickey. “Sound familiar?”

  Mickey kept his mouth clamped shut.

  “And you didn’t see a thing.”

  “No sir,” Mickey said.

  “A seasoned police detective, and you didn’t see a damn thing?”

  Mickey looked away.

  Marcus Nilsson snorted and folded his arms over his chest. The air was thick as tapioca. “Where’s everybody else?” Mickey asked finally.

  “Bradley’s in the morgue. Last I heard they’re gonna ship him back to his sister in Florida someplace. Pressman . . . that woman’s got a way of disappearing. Soon as we took her statement and swabbed her for gunshot residue, she just sort of evaporated.”

  “The woman in the coma?”

  “She’s over at Memorial. Still comatose, but otherwise okay.”

  They sat in silence for a time. Then Nilsson got to his feet and looked down at Mickey. “Then there’s still the matter regarding theft of public property and violation of a court order.”

  “What property is that?” Mickey asked.

  “The Royster Family Court file,” he said.

  “It’s missing?”

  Marcus Nilsson sat back down and cocked his head. “Now that’s the funny part of this whole thing, Mickey. It’s not missing. It’s right where it’s supposed to be. Locked up in the CPS offices.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Mickey asked, with as much faux wonder as he dared to run by Nilsson.

  “The problem is that the Morning Standard printed the entire contents of the Royster file in this morning’s edition.”

  “No kidding.”

  He looked up at the ceiling. “Some of the worst shit I ever read.” He choked up. Rubbed the bridge of his nose as a diversion. “Terrible stuff. Heartbreaking. You read that stuff and . . . I mean . . . how does anybody justify giving those kids back to an animal like that?” He threw a hand in the air. “Hell, the Standard excised the worst parts of their testimony and put a warning on every page, and I still damn near puked.” He pinned Mickey with his fiercest glare. “Heads are already rolling over this. This is the biggest shake-up in seventy-five years. City Council’s meeting at six tonight for the purpose of expelling Edwin Royster from their ranks. The DA’s office is preparing indictments for enough sexually related charges to keep Royster in prison for the rest of his stinking life.”

  “And how they do love their baby rapers in the joint,” Mickey mused.

  “The forensic accounting guys started running Judge Nalbandian’s finances first thing, and as you well know, Sergeant . . . first thing the number crunchers do is slap a hold on everything. I mean . . . you can’t buy a bean burrito, when they get through freezing your assets.”

  The C of D had a gleam in his eye. He leaned closer to Mickey.

  “Except . . . they can’t find any assets. Every dime the Nalbandians own was moved offshore yesterday. The Caymans they think. The house was signed over to the oldest daughter. The cars were donated to their church.”

  “Busy day yesterday.”

  Nilsson waggled a thick finger, as if to say wait there’s more. “Just so happens that Dorothy and Charlie Nalbandian left for an extended trip around the world. Yesterday! Their attorney assures us it’s been planned for quite some time. Their travel agent says they made the reservations yesterday. The mouthpiece swears he’s as stupefied as we are, and has no idea when to expect them back.”

  “Rats abandoning ship,” Mickey said.

  “Royster’s attorney went on TV this morning denying everything. Threatening to sue everybody in town, especially Natalie and the paper.”

  “Depends on how Natalie came into possession, doesn’t it?” Mickey asked.

  “She says she found the file on the front seat of her car.”

  Mickey sat up and rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel where every link of that rusted chain had made impact with his spine. He stifled a groan.

  “You think she’s telling the truth?” Mickey asked.

  “Standard ran her by their own polygraph expert before they printed it. She passed. So we ran her by ours . . . and she passed again.”

  “That changes everything,” Mickey said.

  “Yeah,” the Chief said. “Turns her into the champion of the people’s right to know. She’ll probably win a Pulitzer. Better yet, it makes her eligible for whistleblower protection. Nobody’s suing her or the paper for anything.”

  “Amazing how that worked out,” Mickey commented.

  Nilsson pinned him with an iron stare. “That where you want to leave it, Mickey?”

  Mickey thought it over. “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’m gonna walk over to city hall, sign some paperwork, and then come back over here, pack up my stuff and hit the road,” he said.

  Roberto looked like he’d been to war. One side of his face was the color of an eggplant. He’d lost a front tooth and had a bandage the size of a waffle covering the dent in the back of his head. He struggled into the upright position as Grace walked his way.

  “They won’t let me see her,” he said as she arrived at his side.

  “They’re stabilizing her condition,” Grace told him. “From what I hear, she’s doing fine.”

  “I gotta see her . . . I gotta . . .”

  Grace heard the hiss of the elevator door. She looked back in time to see her mother and a junior attorney from the firm of Spearbeck, Scott and Reynolds emerge from the elevator and begin moving in their direction.

  “Roberto . . .” She turned halfway around. “That gentleman is going to be acting as your attorney.”

  “What? I—”

  “Don’t worry about Sophia. She’s in good hands. The Women’s Transitional Center is going to be covering her hospital costs, until we get everything figured out, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

  “Why do I need a lawyer?”

  “Because there’s a couple of LA detectives downstairs who want to talk to you about some missing medical equipment, and what is apparently a stolen food truck.”

  “It used to belong to my brother-in-law.”

  “They don’t seem to feel that constitutes ownership,” Grace said.

  Eve turned the wheelchair left, over toward the nurses’ station. Probably delivering the financial responsibility paperwork, Grace figured.

  The young man in the good suit arrived a second later.

  “Roberto . . . this is Mister . . .”

  “Fain,” the attorn
ey said. “Robert Fain.”

  “Mr. Fain is going to represent you. See to your rights and if necessary post bond for you, so you don’t have to worry. I don’t know how long any of this is going to take, but by the time you’re finished, and back here, they’ll probably let you see Sophia.”

  “I don’t . . . are you . . .”

  “I’ve got to go,” Grace said. “A friend is waiting for me.”

  Mickey knocked softly on the office door.

  “Yeah.”

  Mickey poked his head inside. “Wanted to say goodbye,” he said.

  “I wish you luck, Mickey,” Marcus Nilsson said. “I really do.”

  “And I want you to know I appreciate the kindness and understanding you’ve always thrown my way, Chief. Without that, I sure as hell wouldn’t have gotten this far.”

  “You’re a good cop, Mickey. Lately . . . seems like things had gotten a little out of hand for you. Maybe it’s for the best you take a little time and regroup.”

  “Been feeling like the job is doing me lately, instead of the other way around.”

  “It’s a tough job,” Marcus Nilsson said. “Lots of ambiguity. Kind of thing wears on a person. You get to feeling you gotta make things turn out the way they should, which, unfortunately, ain’t what we get paid to do.” He got to his feet, walked around his desk and extended his hand. “Take care,” he said. “You need a reference, gimme a call.”

  Mickey got the message. Nilsson still thought he was cop material, but not in his department. That wasn’t possible anymore. Not after all of this.

  He clapped his hand onto Mickey’s shoulder and walked over to the door with him. “One last thing, Mickey.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’ll bet over the years I’ve known thirty, forty guys who could have figured out how to get the Royster file out of the CPS office.” He leaned closer. “But I’ve only known a couple guys smart enough to put the damn thing back.”

  Nilsson’s pale blue eyes were drilling holes in the side of his head.