by Lee Goldberg
CHAPTER EIGHT
While Moonface and his buddies whipped the Cadillac with their chains, Macklin scrounged around the inside of his car looking for a weapon.
The oppressive heat inside the car was squeezing the sweat out of him, soaking his clothes and bandages in perspiration. The temperature in the car was building up. He knew he'd be pressure-fried if he didn't get out of there soon.
It's a damn funny situation, Macklin thought. I'm inside a tank and yet, utterly defenseless.
The two air-cooled, .50-caliber machine guns mounted under the front headlights couldn't do him much good now, unless Moonface obediently lined up his men in front of the car. Or maybe they would be kind enough to stare into his taillights so he could blind them with the halogen burst lamps.
Some tank.
If he survived this, Macklin promised himself he'd add some lethal, and highly illegal, modifications to this 221-inch Batmobile.
Macklin popped open the glove compartment and found some road maps, some .357 shells, a Bic lighter, a Bruce Springsteen tape, and a first aid kit.
Great, Macklin thought. I'll flick my Bic at them, and while they stumble around blind, I'll hit them over the heads with the Springsteen tape and shove bullets down their throats.
Moonface opened his fly and urinated on Macklin's car.
Christ, Macklin thought, is there anyone who isn't pissing on me?
He climbed over the seat and searched through the clutter that had accumulated on his backseat. Old cartons of food, yellowed newspapers, unreturned videocassettes, flight plans, hangers, small grocery bags, and other assorted garbage covered the seat and the floors.
Under the front seat he found an old, eel-skin shaving bag that he had lost months ago. It was his overnighter kit. He'd had one in his car ever since college. After all, he never knew when he might get lucky.
He unzipped it and found a disposable razor, travel toothbrush, sampler can of aerosol deodorant spray, shaving gel, toothpaste, and wintergreen Binaca breath spray.
Macklin squirted the Binaca in his mouth and tossed the kit on the passenger seat. The Binaca tasted good and gave him a little extra moisture on his dry throat.
"Watch out, faggot's gonna kiss us," said Groove, a purple-Mohawked scumking.
Macklin sat still for a moment and thought. A Bloodhawk jumped on the hood like a monkey. Moonface ran a finger down his bloody arm and wrote the word "FUCKER" in blood on the driver's side window.
Macklin had a plan. He scrambled around the car again, tossing papers aside as if still searching for something useful. In the process, he hid the Bic lighter in his left hand and twisted the flame control with his thumb to its highest setting.
Macklin took the deodorant in his right hand and reached for the door handle.
Moonface stepped back, grinning, fanning his hands towards himself to beckon Macklin. "C'mon out, motherfucker."
He burst out of the car, flicking his Bic lighter and holding it up to the deodorant can as he depressed the spray button.
A tongue of flame lashed out of the spray can and ignited Moonface's blood-soaked shirt. Moonface became a blazing effigy, his horrified screech swallowed by hungry fire.
"You shouldn't play with fire," Macklin scolded Moonface. The three terrified Bloodhawks scattered.
Macklin whirled, spraying white-hot death against the backs of two fleeing Bloodhawks. The fire crawled up the screaming men's backs and turned their heads into flaming wicks. They ran until they were formless lumps of sizzling blackness. The purple-Mohawked scumking escaped around the corner unscathed.
The man who had been listening to Spanish music on the tenement's second-floor fire escape was standing up and applauding.
Macklin stared down at the burning logs of flesh, dropped the deodorant can, and picked the distributor cap off the hood.
It was time to go home.
# # # # # #
The dark, age-freckled skin was stretched tight over the eighty-three-year-old man's squat, gnarled frame. He leaned heavily on his pearl-handled cane and stared at Craven, his most trusted aide, through thick, tortoiseshell glasses.
The old man stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the sea. He owned every drop of it. He also owned every grain of sand within twenty-five miles of where he now stood. The gray skies and turbulent, heavy tides underscored the unbridled hate Craven saw burning in the old man's eyes.
"Tell me he's suffering," the old man wheezed. "Tell me he's bleeding to death inside."
The misty sea breeze blew into Craven's pale face and fanned his bright red hair. "Yeah, Macklin's hurting."
Vicious guard dogs prowled the property. One of them came up and licked the old man's age-spotted hand. Craven had a remote control in his pocket that, when activated, delivered an electric charge to the collar around each dog's neck. It was perfect for training and for keeping the dogs in line if they ever decided to turn on their masters.
The same collars worked just as effectively with some of Craven's lovers.
The old man turned towards Craven. "Do any of his family or friends still live?"
Craven nodded, staring into the old man's wise, scrutinizing eyes.
The old man faced the sea again. "Then he isn't suffering enough."
# # # # # #
4:30 p.m.
Macklin's bedside phone was ringing, but he didn't want to move. The bed was nice and warm, his body was relaxed, and the pain from his wounds was a tolerable ache. His head rested in a snug hollow in the pillow, and the sheets smelled fresh and clean.
He could stay here forever.
But the phone wouldn't let him. Its shrill rings rudely yanked him by the ears, nagging him into motion.
Macklin angrily reached for the phone. The movement raised the sheets. Air rushed under the sheets and destroyed the delicate warmth he had generated during his sleep.
"This better be good," Macklin snapped, lying on his back. His broken ribs, irritated by the sudden movement, throbbed painfully awake.
"Is this Brett Macklin?" a man asked.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes. Maybe he could keep that restful, sleepy feeling from vanishing. Maybe the pain would go back into remission.
"My name is Marc Prine. I'm Jessica Mordente's lawyer."
All vestiges of sleep disappeared and Macklin sat up against the headboard. His ribs complained in sharp bolts of pain. He hadn't noticed Jessica's absence until now. He had been back in LA for only a few hours.
"What is it?"
"Jessica told me if she didn't call me four days after entering the Transformational Awareness Life Church I was to call you," Prine said. "I'm supposed to tell you that she's in trouble. She said you'd know what to do."
Macklin felt the familiar coldness, the rage, wash over him, submerging his emotions and invoking the killer inside him.
Yeah, he knew what to do. "What happens after I get her out?"
"Jessica made plans in case this happened. She selected a deprogrammer and gave her full legal authority in this matter. Take Jessica to her immediately. Her name is Raven Vanowen and she'll be expecting you." Prine gave Macklin Vanowen's Santa Monica address and the location of the TALC compound. "Jessica made me promise not to call the police. You aren't bound by that promise. You can call them. I suggest you do. If you go in there alone, you'll get killed. These people aren't playing games."
"Neither am I." Macklin hung up the phone and slid open the nightstand drawer. He pulled out his father's .357 Magnum and a handful of shells.
# # # # # #
9:00 p.m.
Fraser Nebbins stood in front of the den's picture window, staring into the impenetrable desert night. The blackness had swallowed everything. All light, all shape, all motion, had been overcome by darkness. It made Fraser feel like the only life in the cosmos.
He liked the feeling.
That's why he'd moved to the desert. Here, he had a stronger sense of control over his destiny. Here, life was put into perspective. Her
e, screams were absorbed into the dry earth. Here, he could behead an uncooperative subordinate in broad daylight with impunity. Here, Fraser Nebbins was king.
Nebbins sighed, took a sip of sherry from the goblet cradled in his hands, and turned away from the window. Someone rapped insistently at the door.
"Come in," Nebbins said.
Jessica Mordente stood solemnly in the doorway in a gray T-shirt and sweats, the standard TALC uniform for new recruits. She looked healthy and aware, yet intellectually blank. Behind her, Achmed Sabib beamed enthusiastically, his face dominated by a leering grin. He gave her a slight push, and she obediently glided into the room.
Nebbins swallowed the remainder of his sherry and hit a tiny button on his desk. Two curtains moved across the picture window and collided in the center.
"You've done a remarkable job." Sabib closed the door and approached Mordente. "She's everything you promised she would be."
Nebbins bowed modestly. "I'm simply the best there is, Achmed."
Sabib snapped his fingers. Mordente's pliant body molded against his. She pinned his head in her hands and kissed him, probing his mouth with her tongue.
Nebbins laughed. "I see you've taken the liberty of teaching her a few commands."
Sabib freed himself from her hungry kisses. "I will take many more liberties with her tonight, and, as a token of my appreciation, you may enjoy her as well."
Nebbins smiled and settled into his leather armchair. Mordente's hands fervently groped Sabib's fleshy back.
"May I watch?" Nebbins asked.
"Of course." Sabib jammed his fingers between Mordente's buttocks and squeezed them in his hands. "You may want to raise your selling price once you see what she can do.
"Strip," Sabib ordered her, pushing her away from him.
Mordente peeled off her T-shirt, her unrestrained breasts bouncing free, flung the shirt aside, and quickly stepped out of her sweatpants. She stood before Sabib, naked and vulnerable.
"On your knees," Sabib pointed to the floor.
Mordente dropped to her knees, looking up at him with wet, puppy-dog eyes. Nebbins nodded approvingly. Sabib knew how to handle his women.
"Beg for it," Sabib yelled and winked at Nebbins.
"Fuck me, Master," she moaned, "please, please, take me."
"Master?" Nebbins grinned, arching an eyebrow. Sabib shrugged. "It has a nice ring to it."
Mordente fingered herself with one hand and fondled her breasts with the other. "I will do anything, just fuck me," she whimpered. "I can't live without you inside me. Fuck me now, Master, fuck me." Her eyes closed and her head lolled lazily on her shoulder. "I want you, oh God, how I want you."
Sabib folded his arms across his chest, winked conspiratorially at Nebbins, and gazed down at her reproachfully. "You must earn it."
"Anything, just fuck me," she cried.
He unbuckled his pants and unzipped his fly. "Blow me off."
A tremendous explosion rocked the compound, bathing the room in a flash of light. Nebbins scrambled out of his chair as another, unseen explosion erupted somewhere in the night. The house shook and the floor seemed to sway beneath the stunned, motionless Arab. Mordente, oblivious to the explosions, entwined herself around Sabib's legs and nuzzled his crotch.
Nebbins yanked out the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a Luger. Sabib was about to move when Mordente took him in her mouth. He braced his hands on her shoulders and smiled.
Another thunderous explosion quaked through the house, knocking paintings off the walls and toppling furniture. Outside, Nebbins could hear screams, the roar of an engine, and the clatter of gunfire.
Nebbins jerked his head towards Sabib, was about to suggest they get the hell out, but thought better of it. Sabib wasn't going anywhere. A light blazed through the curtains, illuminating Sabib and Mordente in an unearthly glow. Nebbins squinted through the curtains, trying to figure out what the light was coming from.
He back-stepped away from the window and aimed his Luger at it. The light was growing brighter. Closer. Nebbins heard the furious mechanical roar of it approaching. He fired into the curtains as if some giant monster hid behind them. The curtains billowed as the bullets tore through them.
He kept firing. A black shape hurled from hell tore through the window in a deafening explosion of glass, plaster, and ripped fabric. It splintered through Nebbins' desk and stopped just inches away from him. The settling debris filled the room with a smoky haze.
Sabib pushed Mordente away and confronted the fin-tailed 1959 Cadillac with an expression of astonished rage. Nebbins pumped bullet after bullet into the windshield, and the faceless driver behind it, until his gun jammed empty. The bullets didn't leave a scratch.
Brett Macklin, his .357 Magnum at his side, slowly emerged from the car and crippled Nebbins with a look of blistering hate. Then he saw Sabib, the Arab's penis jutting out obscenely between the Arab's legs. Mordente cowered at Sabib's feet.
"You will die for this," Sabib yelled, jabbing his finger towards Macklin. "I will suck the marrow from your bones."
"Suck on this." Macklin raised his .357 and fired.
The bullet blasted through Sabib's teeth and exploded out the back of his head. Sabib tottered, a glimmer of life still in his blood-splashed eyes. Nebbins scrambled fearfully away. Macklin fired again, bursting Sabib's belly open. The Arab crumpled to the floor and rolled onto his back, his erection sticking out of him like a harpoon.
Macklin whirled around to face Nebbins, but the TALC leader was gone. He lowered his gun and ran over to Mordente, who sat glassy eyed and empty.
"Jessie, you're safe now," Macklin said, jamming his gun in his pants and lifting her up. "I'm going to get you out of here."
He carried her to the car and positioned her in the front seat. Her face was blank. Macklin waved his hand in front of her eyes. Nothing.
"Jessie, what have they done to you?" he whispered sadly. The compound floodlights flashed on, shifting his attention away from Mordente. Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw dozens of armed TALC guards running towards them through the rubble that littered the compound.
He strapped her in with a seat belt and closed the door.
"We're going home," Macklin said, jerking the car into reverse and pressing the gas pedal. The Cadillac shot out of the room, smashing into two of the TALC guards.
Macklin felt the car lurch as it rolled over the bodies. He flipped the car into forward gear, heard the wet grinding sound as the wheels ground into the flesh, and then sped towards the perimeter wall.
The compound was awash in light and pandemonium. The grounds were swarming with frantic guards. The kids Nebbins had turned into walking zombies marched aimlessly amidst it all.
Macklin weaved through the rubble, swerving to avoid hitting the mindless wanderers, and headed for one of openings he had blasted in the stone wall with dynamite. Bullets bombarded the car like hailstones.
He drove through the rupture, the car bouncing violently over the chunks of rubble from the wall. Once clear of the wall, the Cadillac roared across the dark desert landscape, the bright headlights slicing a path in the mess.
Macklin saw a set of headlights dancing in the rearview mirror. A jeep was pursuing them. He grinned and slowed, letting the jeep gain ground. As the jeep closed, Macklin edged the Cadillac to the right, towards the base of a slate mountain.
Fraser Nebbins stood in the jeep, washing Macklin's car with machine-gun fire.
"Asshole," Macklin hissed, flicking a tiny dashboard switch. Two powerful halogen lamps burst from concealment from beneath the Cadillac's rear grill in a flash of blinding white light.
The driver lost control. The jeep veered wildly to the right and smashed into the mountainside. A sharp thunderclap of flame blew the jeep apart and spit a fireball of twisted metal and jagged slate into the sky. The Cadillac raced away into the night.
Macklin rested his hand on Mordente's knee.
"It's over, Jessie." He searched he
r eyes for some kind of life, for anything. "I made them pay."
CHAPTER NINE
Midnight
Brett Macklin steered north along the Pacific Coast Highway while unseen, decaying forces exerted themselves all around him. To his right, the sun-baked, wind-whipped Santa Monica cliffside crumbled onto the asphalt. To his left, the ocean chewed away the beach. Above him, a wino pressed himself against the cyclone cage that enclosed one of the concrete pedestrian overpasses.
And somewhere, in the darkness, a killer lurked.
Jessica Mordente was asleep wrapped up in a blanket, her head slumped forward. Her chin bounced against her collarbone from the motion of the car. She reminded him of Cory and the way his daughter fell asleep in the car after a late movie. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
Macklin veered the car to the right, off the highway and up Chautauqua Boulevard, which wound up into the Palisades. The homes were set back from the upward-sloping boulevard and nestled among trees that rose and formed a lush, green canopy of intertwining branches above the roadway. Just before Chautauqua melded into the meandering course of Sunset Boulevard, Macklin turned left onto a driveway.
He listened to the sound of twigs and pebbles snapping under his tires as the car slowly approached Raven Vanowen's one-story home. She was still awake. Macklin saw a trail of smoke spiraling out of the brick chimney and light spilling out behind the shuttered living room windows. A sporty red Ferrari was parked in front of the house and gleamed under the glow cast by the porch light.
Macklin parked beside the Ferrari, got out, and walked around to the passenger side of his car. He opened the door and lifted Mordente out.
His ribs cried out in a scream of agony that echoed throughout his weary body. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he nudged the car door shut with his hip and carried Mordente to Vanowen's front door.
Vanowen must have heard Macklin drive up. She opened the door just before he reached it. Her blue eyes were covered by large round glasses and she had curly brown hair that spilled onto her shoulders. She looked snug and warm in her oversize wool sweater.
