The crowd booed and began a loud chant. “No ho-mos. No ho-mos. No ho-mos.” The candidate smiled at the effect of his words, at the measure of his influence on them.
“Next thing you know, they’re gonna want to get married!” he yelled. The crowd went even more insane.
Tommy found himself enraged, thinking about his son and all he must have endured throughout his entire life. He considered his own former, regretful position on the issue. He remembered himself arguing in bars, drunk, that it was a chosen lifestyle. He considered his son, now with a clear and unprejudiced mind. He was always that way. Born that way. His mom and I refused to accept it, blinded ourselves to it, and he worked to hide it his entire life. The hell he must have put up with in school, and nobody was there for him at home.
The thought saddened him. He turned his attention back to what the candidate was saying. Anger overtook him once more, watching the ignorant, hateful people and the pompous narcissist manipulating them.
He didn’t realize he had balled his fist and cocked it back, ready to take out the screen, until Molletier’s hand flew out to grab his wrist. “Television costs money. Breaking it helps nothing,” he said.
“Makes me feel better, though,” Tommy responded, relaxing and dropping his arm back by his side. He switched the set off. “I’d feel better putting a bullet through that guy’s head.”
“Not to worry. He’s not going to go far. Not in this country. Many naive people, but also many, many people smarter than that.”
“We better hope so. I’m gonna get some sleep, Sensei, okay?”
“Sleep. Body heals during sleep. Wake, and I will be here.”
Tommy closed his eyes. He thought of when Moses had gotten much worse, and he was in remission himself—how he’d come by for Moses’ treatment for moral support. Now the roles had been reversed, with him in Moses’ unfortunate place, and Molletier in his. Not good for me.
24 Stakeout
Carson swept the floor of the abandoned warehouse with his flashlight. When the beam hit what he was looking for, he walked over to the spot. “You sure this will hold, Jackson? He’s got to weigh at least two-fifty.”
“It’s an old queen-size mattress I found at the dump, and a queen blow-up camping mattress I had in the garage. Should do the trick.” Jackson leaped onto the stack for emphasis.
“Queen-size, how appropriate,” Carson commented. He looked at the ceiling, shining his light on the old beams and plywood. The sheet of plywood directly above the mattresses had a freshly cut groove running end to end through the center.
“You sure about this? If anything goes wrong and the chief finds out he’s going to go fucking crazy. What if he gets hurt?”
“Nobody is going to get hurt. He’ll be geared up. After he shits his pants and we get done laughing, we’ll just say that it’s a rite of initiation and everyone’s done it.” He put his boot on the mattresses and pushed down. “This is more than enough. Just make sure you’re rolling with the video camera.
“I just want to put a little scare in him. We don’t need any flaming queers in the station. It’s a risk to our safety. We’ll tell him he needs to respect the blue wall of silence, or else. The video is going to be hilarious. I can’t wait to see the look on his face. Make sure you get him coming through the ceiling.”
“Where’s he at?” Jackson asked.
“He’s down the block, in the unmarked car. I told him to sit tight while I scope things out here.”
“Alright. Let’s do this and get the hell out of here.”
Carson switched off his flashlight and headed back to the car. As he approached, he saw Borata sitting nervously in the passenger seat, a tactical helmet cocked awkwardly on his head. What a pathetic homo.
He reached the car and rapped twice on the hood, startling the occupant. “Let’s do this, Bobby-boy.” He watched as Borata struggled from the vehicle in the bulky gear, sweat already pouring from his face. “It’s time. With me,” he commanded.
Carson moved quickly down the street in a crouch, knowing that Bobby would have trouble keeping up. He could hear the out-of-shape man behind him begin to struggle with his breathing, and his poorly secured and ill-fitting gear jangled. Thank God this isn’t real. We’d be dead already. Moron.
They reached the warehouse, and he led Bobby up a narrow side staircase to the second floor of the building. He twisted to check on his partner’s progress and saw him struggling, well behind. “Let’s fucking go, fat-ass,” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“I’m trying,” came the reply from below.
They gained entrance to the darkened upper floor. Carson shone his flashlight as Bobby tried to catch his breath. He whispered again, “Okay, Borata. Here’s the deal. Head over to the other side, quietly. Take up the position over there, so we have both ends of this floor covered. When you get to the other side, you’ll find a hole in the floor where you can watch what’s going on. We’ll wait for the bad guys to show up. Watch for my signal.”
Carson became aggravated as Bobby silently listened, nodding his sweaty face up and down the entire time, clearly terrified, still out of breath. “You need to get in better shape, Borata. Jesus.”
He felt a tingle of anticipation and excitement in his groin as Bobby started to make his way to the other side of the floor. It was a feeling he’d known as far back as he could remember: heading into the woods to check his traps, sighting a deer through his scope and getting ready to pull the trigger, cornering some loser in the boy’s bathroom of his elementary school for lunch money, about to blindside someone on the football field.
The wood began to creak as the heavy man duck-walked across it, stopping to steady himself and fumbling with his own flashlight. Carson suppressed a laugh at the sight. I should be filming this part too. The sounds became louder as Bobby made it almost halfway, just short of where the compromised sheet of plywood waited.
Bobby stopped and turned back to Carson. “I don’t know. I’m not sure about this. I want to go back. This isn’t for me.”
“Move it, fatso, before you blow our cover!” Carson hissed at him. So close, don’t chicken out now.
Bobby took another couple of steps forward, and there was an almost inaudible squeak of dry wood. He took another step, and the same sound came forth—a bit louder this time. He was almost to the center of the sheet. He took a third step, and the wood began to groan. Bobby stood, and realizing the danger, took a half-step back toward safety, but it was too late.
“Carson, help me...” was all he was able to say before the compromised plywood gave way. He stepped to the side to try to reach firmer footing and reached out for the crossbeam, and in the instant the board snapped in half, he looked at Carson, terrified.
Carson looked on, smiling in the moment it took for Bobby to disappear through the floor. In his struggle to get to safety, Bobby had lost his balance, swinging his body in an arc, and on the way down his head struck the beam with a sickening sound, the tactical helmet flying off. He disappeared. There was a loud pop and a sickening thud, and Jackson’s laughter from below suddenly stopped.
Carson rushed over to the new hole and looked down. Bobby was sprawled on the floor, his lower half laying on the deflated air mattress and his upper half on the concrete. Blood was starting to pool around his head. The half-sheets of plywood lay on either side of him. Jackson stood in shock, the camera at his feet. “We got to call an ambulance,” he said. He then bent down and started to work through the emergency medical protocol, checking for breathing and a pulse.
“Fuck that. He’ll be okay. Let me come down and check him out.”
“He’s breathing, for now. Fuck you, Carson. I’m calling it in. Start thinking about how we’re going to explain this.”
“I’m going with a training exercise gone wrong. Call it in. I’ll start working the scene to match our story.”
25 The Wolf
The last chemo session hit Tommy harder than any other—far harder. He wondered if r
ecent events had contributed to that. His spirits were lower than he could remember.
For the first time, he found himself unable to drive himself home. Molletier took the wheel, and Tommy offered to pay for his taxi home. As they reached the car, Molletier helped him in, and once they were both inside had to help him fasten his seatbelt. They exited the hospital, rounding a curve at high speed and tossing Tommy against his door.
“Jesus, Sensei. Take it easy or I’ll be spewing puke all over us.”
“Sorry,” Molletier responded.
They continued to the main road, with Molletier still driving at a speed uncomfortable to Tommy. Watching the street signs whiz by increased his nausea, so he closed his eyes and tried to relax. He’s a good friend, doing this for me.
He drifted away in what felt like seconds, and dreams took him over. He welcomed them, welcomed the escape from his reality.
The woods were dense, and he and Bobby pushed through thickets together. Tommy was wearing standard hunting camo, but Bobby had his rumpled police uniform on. They both carried shotguns and tried to move with stealth. They whispered things to each other, but strangely Tommy couldn’t understand Bobby’s words.
“It’s like the old days, right, son?” he asked.
“A man’s son is his best friend. You’re everything to me, Bobby. You’re a good man, that’s what makes me proud. It’s all a man can ask, right? For his kids to become responsible adults.”
Bobby was saying something, trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t hear it. Tommy sensed some urgency to what Bobby was trying to communicate. His conscious mind fought with the dream representation of himself to ask his son to speak louder, but the dream-self either wasn’t listening or couldn’t act.
Bobby grabbed his shoulder and motioned for him to wait, then moved ahead on his own, silently, slowly. He scanned the woods ahead as if he had heard something.
Danger. Something bad’s about to happen. He tried to call Bobby back, but this time he found himself muted: he was trying to scream to his son, but no sound would come from his open mouth.
He looked beyond his son’s position and saw the brush parting—something unknown was coming at Bobby at a fast pace. He heard a growing snarl. He tried to rush to his son, still trying to warn him, but his feet were cemented in place. He pulled at them, tugging at his pants leg to release himself as a massive wolf appeared just ahead, on a beeline for Bobby. He raised his shotgun and sighted.
“Bobby, Bobby!” he dream-shouted, but the words wouldn’t come out, even as he sighted down the barrel of the long gun. Bobby stood still, seeming to hear the wolf but looking in the wrong direction for it. Tommy tracked the wolf through his sights and as it bore down on his son, white teeth bared and eyes blazing.
His eyes were clouding now, and he felt hot tears making rivers down his cheeks. He pulled both triggers to unload the dual barrels of shot, hoping his son was still too far to the side to get hit. There was nothing—the gun wasn’t loaded. He screamed and continued pulling the triggers as he watched the wolf launch itself upward at his son’s neck and then take him down to the leaf-strewn forest bed.
Car horns blared, startling him out of the dream. He woke screaming and looked up to see them flying through a red light, with cars entering the intersection from both sides and screeching to tread-burning halts. Aggravated drivers in those cars were yelling silently and giving them the middle finger.
He looked over at Molletier, who was driving with his hands at the ten and two position on the wheel, relaxed as if nothing were happening.
“What the fuck was that? You went through a red light, Sensei. I’d like to die from the cancer, sometime in the future, not getting t-boned by a pickup truck.” He grabbed his stomach and fought to hold down the bile that was trying to escape, gulping to stave it off.
Molletier turned sideways to look at him. “Sorry. Out of practice. Lost license years ago. Just trying to help.”
“Lord have mercy,” Tommy answered. He was about to ask to switch but recognized that they were only a few blocks away. “Okay, slow it down, we’re almost there.”
They pulled up in front of the apartment, and he was disappointed when he realized that the Eagles were all at work. He’d lost track of weekends and weekdays. At least this guy doesn’t have to try to parallel park.
Molletier helped him upstairs and into the bathroom, and when Tommy had finished the sensei sat him on the bed. He removed Tommy’s shoes and turned the bed down, then helped him in. “You want me to prepare herbal soup?” he asked Tommy.
“Thanks, Sensei, but I can’t eat anything. I’d toss it right up. I just gotta get some sleep. I really appreciate your help. Sorry I got a little cranky about the driving. The phone’s in the living room; you can call a cab.” Molletier refused his offer of cash and closed the bedroom door as he left.
Tommy slept through the afternoon and into the evening. He woke, stirring in the darkness, and heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, and then the door slamming. He rushed to the window, hoping that Carmen had returned, his heart beating quickly.
In his rush, he stubbed his big toe on the coffee table and cursed. Reaching the window, his hopes were dashed. There was a squad car on the street below.
He waited as the heavy footsteps came up the stairs toward his door. This can’t be good. Better not be that asshole Carson coming to hassle me. He opened the door as soon as the knock sounded, and found Chief Patterson standing there.
“Roger, come in, come in. What’s up? Kind of late for...”
Patterson interrupted. “Tommy, we’ve been trying to figure out how to reach you. Margie said she had no idea where you were. It’s Bobby—he’s had an accident. Let’s get to the hospital.”
26 Comatose
The beeping and the glow of the medical equipment was all too familiar to Tommy, but not from this perspective. He sat next to his son’s hospital bed, holding his unresponsive hand. Bobby was almost unrecognizable—what was visible of his head between the bandages was swollen, discolored, and bloated.
Tommy made no attempt to wipe away the tears that streamed down his face. Guiltily, he ran through the scenes and events of his son’s life again, damning himself for many of them. When he got to the present, he allowed himself a small reprieve due to his acceptance of who his son really was, and their new bond.
He turned his thoughts to hope for the future, that Bobby might have a future, and how he would make sure that his son would do what made him happy and never have to wear a badge again. Then he changed his thoughts to what really made him feel better—how to make Carson pay.
The door opened. Chief Patterson entered and took a seat. “How’s he doing? Any change?” he asked.
“No. They’ve stabilized him for now. Traumatic brain injury; lots of swelling. They may have to operate to take the pressure off if they can’t stop the swelling.
“Roger, I want to know what the fuck happened to my kid. In your squad. On your watch.”
“Tommy, we’ve been friends a long time. I’ve known Bobby since he was a little kid. I’m shook up seeing him like this, too. Trust me, I’ll get to the bottom of this, I’m on it. I love that kid. Investigating this is the highest priority I have, believe me. Carson is suspended without pay. I have my best people on this, and they’re no fans of that asshole.”
“I’m a sick guy, Roger. I got nothing to lose, not a lot of time left...”
“Exactly what I thought you’d say, and what I was hoping you wouldn’t say. Tommy, please don’t take the law into your own hands. You can’t help Bobby if you get locked up. You’ll have no future with your son, other than on a phone between a very thick piece of glass in the joint. Let me handle this. Trust me, he’ll pay.”
Tommy shifted in his seat and looked out the window, past the rain streaming down the panes of glass, to the bleak sky and landscape beyond it. “I’m gonna try to stay out of it, Roger. But I’ll tell you this, I ain’t gonna wait long. Look at my boy h
ere. Look at my beautiful baby boy. We were just getting to know each other, finally.”
“Give me time. You staying here tonight? Margie’s been in?”
“I’m staying. She was here, she’s a mess. I sent her home to sleep in her own bed. She’s probably sitting at the kitchen table right now with a bottle of scotch. Or somewhere else.”
Patterson rose and gripped Tommy by the shoulder. “Hang in there. I have work to do.”
“Turn off the light on your way out, please,” Tommy asked.
He left, and Tommy positioned an extra chair to face his, forming a makeshift bed. He fluffed the pillow he’d been given by the nursing staff and threw the blanket over himself. He lay on his side, facing Bobby, alternating in the dark between grief and rage.
His cop’s instinct alerted him to the presence of another person, bringing him immediately out of his slumber. He sat up and tried to focus on the shadow that stood over Bobby. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”
The man came closer and put out his hand. “It’s Mike, Mr. Borata.”
Tommy saw that he was crying. He pushed the extra chair away and sat up. Mike leaned in to embrace him.
“Here, sit down, please,” Tommy said. He brought Mike up to date on Bobby’s status and what he knew about what had happened, which was little more than that there’d been an accident on the job.
“Listen, they’re keeping me in the dark about the details on this, afraid I’ll do something,” Tommy said. “Is there anything you might know?” He didn’t want to prejudice the man with his own suspicions.
He sensed Mike’s discomfort, and added, “Look, you two were together. I get it. I’m okay with that. We had a nice dinner...well, sort of. I just want to get him better, and to figure out what happened. Work with me and tell me anything you might know. Anything Bobby might not have shared with me.”
Mike thought for a minute and began slowly. “We were in a club not long ago. It was a gay club. We were having a fun night, but then some big guy came in dressed like a cowboy. Bobby saw him, said he knew the guy and that he was trouble. Said the guy was a cop, from the precinct.
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 25
