Crossing the Line

by Hugh Macnab

  ‘Sure would, Jerry. When do we start?’

  ‘We’re meeting there just before sunrise, around six.’

  ‘See you there.’

  With my cousin firmly back in mind, MASH no longer has the same appeal. I switch off and get ready for bed.

  21

  Alexa doesn’t complain when I change the alarm time from six to five. Good girl. As a reward, I let her choose a random selection to wake me with. That’s a mistake.

  Apparently, she learns my music preferences, so that her playlist will become more tailored to me. What she hasn’t yet learned is that I prefer either quiet or happy music first thing - not Agalloch. The tune she chose starts loud and gets louder - much louder. Into the Painted Grey.

  I nearly hit the ceiling at the opening bars. As I say, I love the song, but not at five am. I shout over the noise to tell Alexa to shut up. It takes three goes. I only hope my neighbors enjoy Heavy Metal as much as me.

  Everything is an effort from there on, but by five-forty I’m clipping on the badge and Glock, ready for action.

  Bang on six, I arrive at the agreed congregation point and look for Jerry. I find him in one of our remote-headquarter command vehicles. I’m impressed. It isn’t easy to get one of these. There again, looking around, he has some size of an operation going.

  There are at least a dozen patrol cars, numerous unmarked’s, three fire tenders and an endless line of ambulances. There are others milling around, which I guess would be from Social Services, or Child Welfare. I guess only a few people from inside the Project are going to be walking out unassisted.

  I manage to get his attention, and he invites me in to the climate controlled environment. It’s still chilly at this time of the morning, so I’m glad to get inside.

  He explains the plan quickly. Sheriff’s department goes into the first-floor and either brings people out if they’re capable, flags them as needing assistance or cuffs them if they cause trouble. The paramedics follow, and the fire service are there to deal with any structural problems with the building because of the increased number of people inside. I’m right about there being folks from Child Services and Welfare. Given the body of the ten-year-old we found on the previous visit, that’s probably a good call.

  A wing at NCH has been prepared in advance and staffed with people who understood how to best treat the various drug-related problems they’ll face.

  He has really thought this through.

  He’s leading the first wave; I ‘m going with him.

  Outside the sun is just coming up into the pale blue cloudless sky, and it’s time. The forward party teams up in twos and enters the building, quickly spreading out along the main corridor, stopping at each person sprawled on the floor, or wedged in a doorway.

  It takes nearly two hours to clear the first-floor. The count is thirty-eight homeless and helpless souls on their way to NCH, and two dead bodies for the County morgue.

  We repeat the whole thing on the second-floor, with a further forty-five, and three bodies.

  On the third floor, Jerry and I are reaching for a huddled shape in the corner of one room when suddenly the floor gives way underneath Jerry and he almost falls straight through, but just manages to wedge himself with his hands.

  I shout out for help, but before anyone can arrive, a huddled figure in a nearby corner rises and grabs me round the waist and squeezes tight. Caught unawares, I can hardly breathe. I can’t kick, so I do the only thing I can think of and poke over my shoulder at his eyes. I must have hit the target as my attacker yelps and lets me go.

  I gasp air into my lungs and turn to see The Joker, rubbing one eye/

  I go for my gun, but in the struggle it’s fallen out and I can see him eyeing it. It’s slightly closer to him than me. We’re both rooted to the spot, trying to decide what to do.

  Unseen, Jerry reaches out and tugs at the leg of The Joker’s pants. Not enough to trouble him, but enough to give me the time I need to get to my gun.

  I dive and gather it up in one quick motion, allowing the momentum of my slide to take me away from The Joker, so that by the time I turn and aim, he’s six feet away, glowering at me.

  Behind him, I see Jerry slip a little further through the floor and wonder where the hell everyone is. Surely they must have heard my shout.

  The Joker takes a step in my direction; I hold out my Glock and issue a warning. I will shoot if I have to. I tell him to get down on his knees. He doesn’t. He takes another slow step towards me. Taunting me.

  I warn him a second time. He’s now only four paces away. I should shoot. But I can’t. All I can see is the surprised expression on the face of the two-year-old girl I shot dead last year.

  The Joker steps again and before I can do anything, smacks the back of my hand with his giant paw, spinning my Glock off into a distant corner of the room.

  I’m his. I can see it in his eyes.

  He’s just about to grab me when Jerry pulls his amazing bluff by shouting for The Joker to stop where he is and raise his hands - with as much authority as he can manage.

  I see indecision on The Joker’s face for the first time.

  Then he does what Jerry intended. He turns to see who is challenging him. As soon as he does, I bend and pick up a charred six-by-four that’s laying at my feet and hit him on the back of his head as hard as I can.

  The wood snaps and flies out of my hand. The Joker turns back my way and actually snarls. If it were under different circumstances, I would laugh. But this isn’t funny. I shuffle back to the wall, pushing as far away from him as possible. He starts towards me, but then without warning he suffers the same fate as Jerry. The fire-weakened floorboards give way under his two-hundred-fifty pounds and he disappears in a cloud of dust and splintered wood. The sound of his landing down below is sickening.

  I maneuver round the new hole in the floor until I reach Jerry. There’s nothing I can do to help. He’s tightly wedged between floorboards. But at least it doesn’t look like there’s any risk of him falling further. I’m just going for help when two deputies appear in the doorway. It seems like my shout hadn’t been loud enough. No-one heard me, but they sure as hell heard The Joker falling through the floorboards.

  We quickly agree that we need one of the fire-rescue teams to get Jerry out, so one of them disappears to get them, while two of us stay with Jerry.

  It’s surreal sitting beside half a man. I crouch as low as I can to make it feel less unnatural, but it’s still weird. I ask him if he feels seriously injured in any way. He replies saying there are probably a few cuts and bruises, but that he doesn’t think there’s anything seriously wrong. He can still wiggle his toes, although not being able to see them, I have to take his word for that.

  Anyway, I thank him for his quick thinking. By distracting The Joker, he had saved my life, and I want him to know I’m grateful. If he had been able to move his shoulders, he would have shrugged my comments off, but he can’t. So, he accepts my thanks graciously.

  The deputy who has stayed with us gives an update on how the overall operation is going. Seemingly there are only two rooms still left to clear, and deputies are already there. By the time they have Jerry out, it will all be over.

  It takes the fire-rescue team the best part of an hour to free Jerry, and his cuts and bruises are a little more serious than he had let on. They stretcher him out and into a waiting ambulance, then down to NCH.

  I make my way down to the command centre where one of Jerry’s guys seems to have taken control of the mopping up process. He has a couple of joinery firms already on site, boarding the whole place up. They’re bolting metal frames over every door and window on the ground level. No-one will shelter in there anytime soon.

  He tells me that a hundred-twenty-three people are down in NCH, and eleven dead bodies, including The Joker who had not survived the fall, are heading for the city morgue.

  If Arnie finds out I’m involved in sending this lot to him, I worry he’ll never speak to me
again.

  It’s a job well done, and I’m pleased to have been a part of it. But it leaves me wondering what’s likely to happen to the hundred-twenty-three people after they’re released from NCH. They’ll undoubtedly soon be back on the streets, but now, with nowhere to call home, and that worries me.

  22

  Later that morning, I’m in my favorite back-booth in EJ’s when Dan Weissman finds me. I’ve been pushing an all-day cooked breakfast round my plate for the past twenty minutes. I’m just passing time, and not paying the food any attention.

  He asks if he can join me for coffee?

  He doesn’t explain how he has tracked me down. Nor does he mess around getting to the point.

  ‘You could have died, Sammy.’

  I guess he’s been to see Jerry at NCH and found out about my run in with The Joker.

  I laugh him off with some inane joke about it all being in a day’s work. But he isn’t having it.

  ‘Jerry told me what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, it was a close call for him. Lucky he didn’t fall straight through like The Joker.’

  ‘I’m not talking about him, Sammy. I’m talking about you.’

  This confuses me.

  ‘When you had your gun pointed at him, you froze.’

  I remember that all I could think about right then was the little girl’s face. The surprise, the shock. She never had a chance. My bullet went straight through her. She didn’t have time to be angry with me, or to hate me for killing her. She just died in front of me.

  It takes a nudge from Dan to bring me back.

  ‘Sammy!’

  I feel disoriented. Like I’m there with Dan, but I not really.

  ‘Sammy!’

  I shake my head and try to focus. What the hell’s happening?

  ‘Sammy, are you with me?’

  ‘Eh, yeah. Sure, Dan. Just lost a moment there.’

  ‘You need to go back to the shrink. You know that don’t you?’

  ‘Whatever, Dan.’

  ‘Sammy. This isn’t a request. I’m serious. You could have gotten yourself killed today.’

  I stare at him, tears forming in my eyes. Not for me. For the young girl I shot almost a year ago. She haunts me and won’t go away. Maybe she will never go away.

  Dan’s still talking.

  ‘Today, Sammy. As soon as we leave here. I’ll take you up there. I’ver already called ahead and made you an emergency appointment.’

  The tears are now running freely down my cheeks. I don’t care. Somehow, Bossy-boots is also in there. I don’t understand how. But she is. I’m only dimly aware of Dan now. He’s saying something, but I can’t make him out. He’s spinning round and round, and I can’t figure out how he’s doing that…..

  When I come round, I’m on the ground, laying face down with one leg curled up and my face to the side. Either I’ve been plain lucky in how I fell, or someone has positioned me in the recovery position, where I can breathe and not swallow my tongue.

  I hear someone groan. It’s probably me.

  I slowly sit up and lean on the padded seat of the booth, with Dan helping me. The first thing I notice is the ache in my butt. Then, after a moment or two, I feel the familiar headache and realize I’ve just been out cold.

  Looking at Dan, I can see how genuinely worried he is. That makes me feel even worse.

  I get back into the seat with further help from Dan, aware everyone in EJ’s is watching me. I cringe and try what I hope is a reassuring smile. Probably scare the customers away completely.

  Dan passes me a glass of iced water, and I gulp greedily.

  ‘How do you feel, Sammy?’

  ‘Great, Dan. Sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. Did I pass out?’

  ‘Like a first-rate drama queen,’ he smiles.

  ‘Haven’t done that before.’

  ‘Do you feel you can make it to my car? It’s right outside?’

  ‘Sure.’ I tell him, with false bravado.

  We make it. He helps me in, then goes round to the driver’s side and joins me inside.

  ‘Do you remember where I said I’m taking you, Sammy?’

  I do. I groan, but realize I’m not on a very strong footing to argue. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.

  ‘This will be a treat for you. You’re going to see someone you haven’t seen before. She’s fantastic and will help you. Luisa del Roy. Do you remember her?’

  ‘Your on-off-almost girlfriend?’

  ‘That’s her, other than it’s definitely off. I could never get over her having been my best friend’s girlfriend before he was killed. It kept coming between us. But we’re still friends, and she’s agreed to see you.’

  We sit quietly for the rest of the journey until Dan pulls up outside a two-storey building in a small strip mall. We get out and Dan leads the way upstairs to del Roy’s office on the second floor.

  As we enter, there’s the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the receptionist asks if I would like some. I accept. Dan introduces her as Maggie. She has an Irish accent and a cheerful manner about her. A good attribute for a psychiatrist’s receptionist, I suppose.

  Once I’m settled, Dan backs out, saying that I should call when I’m ready and he’ll come back for me. I have no intentions of calling, and I suspect he already knows that. But he offered, and I appreciate that.

  I sit chatting casually with Maggie until Luisa del Roy appears out of her office and welcomes me with a smile. We remember each other, although only having briefly met once before.

  She invites me to take my coffee and go into her office with her.

  Her office is more like a comfortable lounge, decorated in pastel colors, nice and light. She has the mandatory writing desk and high-backed swivel chair, but there are also two soft sofas with a coffee table for more informal discussions. She indicates that’s where I should sit.

  I had months of this stuff after the Critical Shooting Investigation last year. I’m not a big fan. But here I am. Back at the starting post.

  I think she’s reading my mind.

  ‘So, Sammy. I bet you would rather be almost anywhere other than here. Am I right?’

  I nod my agreement.

  ‘Tell me what you need my help with?’

  I don’t know where to start. I don’t know if I want to start. I sure as hell don’t know the answer to question number one.

  Seeing my confusion, she tries again.

  ‘Let’s try a different question?’

  Like I said, reading my mind.

  ‘You’ve been through a tough year, and think you’re back to one hundred percent, but Dan doesn’t. That sound about right?’

  Another nod from me. I’m worried that if I started talking, I might never stop. I can feel the anxiety building up inside me, threatening to overcome me completely.

  ‘You’re probably reluctant to talk about everything that’s happened. You might let the cat out of the bag.’

  Now I’m convinced the woman is a witch.

  ‘Now you probably think I’m some kind of mind-reader? Am I right?’

  Scary.

  ‘Well, let me assure you I’m not. But I have something you don’t. It’s years of experience, of talking with people who have been through difficult periods in their life. And you know what, detective?’

  I stare at her like a moron.

  ‘Although the precise details of your own difficulties will be different, the overall effect is the same. You’re battling to deal with whatever has happened to you in the past, while struggling to appear normal. You’re fighting on two fronts, and that’s a losing strategy.’

  ‘I’m not losing,’ I tell her stubbornly.

  ‘So, let me ask you again. Why has your boss brought you here?’

  At that point, she might as well run up the victory flag and start the celebrations. I’ve lost, but strangely, I don’t feel bad about it.

  Our session lasted a good bit longer than the scheduled hour. It
’s already four in the afternoon as I grab a cab and head back downtown. To say I’ve enjoyed the discussion would be over the top, but it hasn’t been as difficult as I expected.

  She even had me laughing a few times, and it’s only now looking back I realize how seldom I’ve done that in the past year. In fact if I hadn’t found MASH, I don’t think I would have laughed at all. I feel like there’s no room for laughter and happiness in my life. Like I don’t deserve them. I’ve taken two lives back then, and now I’ve managed to get my cousin killed. What is there to laugh about?

  Just before the session wraps up, she says something to me that is both confusing, yet encouraging at the same time. She says she doesn’t think there’s very much wrong with me, and that another two or maximum of three sessions will be enough. From the way I’ve been feeling, I was expecting once a week for the rest of my life.

  I agree to a date the following week for a second session.

  Back in the office, as I am passing the duty sergeant, he asks where his SUV is. I have to stop and think for a moment. Have I left it at the Project? I can’t remember. I’m considering another little white-lie when he laughs and holds up a set of keys.

  ‘Dan told us you had a spot of trouble down at EJ’s and asked us to go pick it up.’

  Now, I do something else I don’t ever remember doing before. At least, not since I was a little kid. I blush. Not a little flush. I’m talking beetroot red. All this achieves is to get a bigger laugh.

  I virtually run all the way up the stairs.