by Lee Goldberg
"Don't," he pleaded.
She didn't hear him. She aimed at his head. Macklin shot her twice, once in each leg. Mordente dropped to her knees, her gunshot going astray and slapping into a ceiling beam.
Tears of pain and sorrow rolled down Macklin's cheeks. He slumped against a bookcase, fighting the dizziness. His whole body felt warm from the blood oozing from his wound.
"Please, Jessie, put down your gun."
He watched her stand up. She seemed oblivious to the bullets in her legs and held her gun steady with both hands. She wasn't human anymore. She was a puppet.
Her finger gently squeezed the trigger.
"No!" Macklin screamed to himself as well as to her.
His .357 spat fire. Mordente shuddered. Her chest burst open, spurting blood and pink flesh. The blood-drenched gun dropped from her lifeless hands.
"Jessie," he cried.
She fell forward like a toppled toy soldier. Maniacal laughter wafted in from outside the house.
"I'm not easy, Macklin!"
He whirled around and saw Vanowen's red Ferrari tearing across the gravel. Macklin stared down at his lover, her body lying in an expanding pool of blood.
Jessie . . .
He had killed her. Just as he had killed Cheshire, Mort, and Brooke.
Now it was the Bitch's turn to die.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Macklin's Cadillac skidded onto the street and rushed after Vanowen's speeding Ferrari as it charged down Chautauqua Drive.
A row of cars lined up in the left-hand turn lane. Vanowen sped around them, into oncoming traffic. A station wagon swerved out of her path and smashed into the line of waiting cars. Macklin floored it, tearing left across the highway in the Ferrari's smoky wake.
Vanowen weaved in and out of the southbound traffic. Macklin threaded through the traffic behind her. He blinked his eyes into focus. The warm blood from his gunshot wound was seeping down his stomach and soaking his waistband. His eyes blurred, and Macklin accidentally sideswiped a Toyota. The tiny car veered off the road and skidded safely across a parking lot.
Ahead, the Pacific Coast Highway split apart into Ocean Avenue and the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway. Vanowen roared under the Santa Monica Pier and up onto Ocean Avenue. The Ferrari vaulted into traffic with an ear-splitting left turn in front of the Holiday Inn.
A motor home skidded to a stop, smashing into a Nova and launching it into the air. The car burst through the Holiday Inn's cyclone fence and dropped thirty feet into the swimming pool below. People scattered in blind panic.
Vanowen screeched up Ocean Avenue, Macklin close behind. She made a sharp right-hand turn onto Broadway, straight into the face of oncoming traffic.
The cars on the one-way street veered crazily out of her path. One flew off the street and sailed through the plate-glass entrance to the Santa Monica Place mall. Tables, chow mein, people, shopping bags, potted plants, and Styrofoam shreds bounced off the walls. Another car spun out, coming to rest lengthwise across the street. One, two, then three cars smashed into it.
Macklin stayed with her. He wrenched the wheel around. The Cadillac skidded sideways across the asphalt before the tires grabbed hold. He shot up Broadway just as Vanowen's car, to Macklin's horror, turned left again onto what had once been Third Street.
The street was now a shopping center promenade, closed to traffic. The Ferrari barreled through the crowds of shoppers. Bodies rolled across her hood, glanced off her bumper, and flew into the air. People were screaming and scrambling out of her path in absolute terror.
Vanowen didn't avoid them. She aimed for them.
Macklin weaved madly in her wake, dodging the panicked shoppers and the twisted bodies writhing on the pavement. She crashed through the people like a bowling ball into pins. The Bitch was enjoying the carnage.
Twenty yards up, the Spanish-language cinema was spilling out moviegoers. She closed in on them like a shark.
Macklin leaned on his horn, trying to warn them. It was no use. She plowed through them in an explosion of blood, severed limbs, and tattered clothing. He wrenched his wheel to the right to avoid the fleeing crowd. The Cadillac blasted into the display window of a women's clothing store in a splash of glittering glass shards.
He came speeding out, dresses dragging from the edges of his car. Vanowen bounced onto Santa Monica Boulevard and charged to the left. The people crossing the street never had a chance to flee. She smashed into the wall of pedestrians, crushing them under her tires. Macklin couldn't follow her without running over them, too.
Macklin turned right and raced east on Santa Monica. Ahead, he could see three police cars, sirens wailing, speeding towards him. Vanowen was lost. He'd have to save himself now. He twisted the wheel right again and screeched down Fourth Street, made a sharp left onto Arizona, and then skidded into an alley on his left.
He steered the car into a Santa Monica municipal parking structure and spiraled up onto the fifth floor. No one was parked there. The car jerked to a stop facing the glimmering blue ocean. He could hear the police sirens wailing along the streets below him and sagged against the wheel. Unconsciousness was threatening to overtake him. A liquid sense of nausea and dizziness rode over him in waves.
He had to get help. Macklin opened the car door and weakly draped his leg out. He doubted he'd be able to stand. Grabbing the door for support, Macklin rose from the car. His legs were wobbly and the structure moved under his feet. Walls tilted in his eyes. Leaning on the car, he made his way to the railing overlooking Second Street.
Macklin slid along the rail to the stairwell. There was a pay phone on the wall. He fell back against the wall, found two dimes in his pocket, and slipped them into the phone. Squinting to clear his vision, he punched out Shaw's office number and prayed his friend was there.
Shaw answered. Thank God.
"I'm in a Santa Monica parking structure," Macklin sputtered. "I've been shot."
"Don't move," Shaw said.
"Don't worry," Macklin mumbled, sliding down the wall. "I won't."
# # # # # #
6:00 p.m.
Patients were stacked like cordwood in the corridors of County-USC Medical Center. The hospital had just gotten its share of the sixty-five people injured in the wild Santa Monica car chase. Doctors and police, grieving families and concerned friends, story-hungry reporters and camera men, were all elbowing each other for space.
Brett Macklin was conveniently lost amid the chaos he had helped to create. Shaw wheeled his unconscious friend on a gurney down a maze of corridors and into the doctors' lounge.
Dr. Ralph "Cheeks" Beddicker stood in the center of the room, holding X-rays up to the ceiling light. "I'm risking my neck for you, Shaw."
"I know," Shaw said, glancing down at his unconscious friend. "Just give me the news, okay?"
Beddicker dropped the X-rays on a dinette table and sighed, patting his swelled stomach nervously. "He'll live. The bullet went clean through. It smacked his collarbone on the way out and took a hunk of flesh out with it. An itsy bit lower and it would have sliced open his subclavian artery and probably collapsed his lung."
"Can you fix him up?" Shaw asked.
Beddicker shrugged. "Sure, I'll just pump him full of antibiotics and sew him up."
"Great, can we do it now, right here?"
"This guy should be checked in," Beddicker said. "He's been shot, for Christ's sake. I already risked a lot just doing the X-rays. You don't expect me to just slap on something in the goddamn lounge, do you?"
Shaw nodded and locked the lounge door. "You owe me, Ralph."
"But this guy's gotta be tucked into a bed for a week or so," Beddicker protested. "His body is a fucking disaster area. You can't just run him through here."
"Just do it," Shaw said. "It's important."
"Shit, Ronny, what is this guy to you?"
Shaw pulled out a plastic chair and slumped into it. "A friend in a lot of trouble."
# # # # # #
&nb
sp; 10:00 p.m.
Brett Macklin had to be stopped, Shaw thought as he drove away from Macklin's home, where he had left his semiconscious friend to sleep things off. Shaw knew it wouldn't be long before Macklin got himself killed. And, if today was any measure, maybe hundreds of others along with him.
If Macklin had called Shaw, told him about Vanowen, maybe she'd be behind bars and there wouldn't be anybody scrubbing the blood off the Santa Monica streets tonight.
But Macklin couldn't think rationally anymore.
Perhaps exposing the whole Mr. Jury lunacy was the only thing left to do. It could save lives, and it was a hell of a lot easier than coming up with more lies. He couldn't cover Macklin's trail, and the corpses that lined it, for much longer. The lies were getting weaker and harder to live with.
Shaw turned right on Rose Street and charged towards the ocean. Macklin isn't thinking. He isn't in control. He isn't obeying any law but his own.
He isn't Brett Macklin anymore. He's a killer.
I'm going to do my job. I'm going to stop them both. I'm going to end this.
Shaw turned left a few blocks shy of the trendy galleries and cafes of Main Street and wound through the narrow neighborhood streets, which were lined with tiny, boxy homes. Shaw neared his home and came to a grim realization. It was time to reclaim his self-respect. It was time to be a cop again, to enforce the laws Macklin had turned into a joke.
He eased the car to a stop in front of his darkened house and slowly emerged from the car. The ache in his joints reminded him how tired he really was. When he closed the door behind him, he saw a shadow dart into the shrubs surrounding the house.
His right hand reached under his jacket for the reassuring weight of his Smith and Wesson. Clutching his gun, he cautiously walked around his car and up the front walk of his house. His heart thumped and he felt an anxious tingle in his throat. Adrenaline fed his muscles and primed them for quick response. All it would take was the muffled phump of a silenced gunshot from one of those bushes and his brains would be fertilizing the lawn.
Stay cool. That's the edge. Be cool.
The crackly sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot came from the darkness to his left, beside the garage. He stopped, cocked his gun, and crept towards the sound. The woman was a professional. He had only one chance. Her first shot, he knew, wouldn't miss.
The chilly night air raised goose bumps on his flesh and heightened the uncomfortable tension he felt as he inched around the edge of the garage and into the black shadows.
He couldn't be seen from the street. She could slice his throat and no one would find him until the stench of his rotting corpse was picked up by the wind.
The bush beside him shook. He whirled. Something moved behind him. He turned again, spinning into a crouch and firing. He heard an agonized screech and saw the gun flash spark in a pair of eyes.
"Drop the gun," the woman said behind him.
Shaw heard the sharp click of a gun being cocked behind him. He hesitated.
"Drop it now."
He let the gun slip from his fingers and fall gently onto the grass. The Bitch had won.
"Turn around," she said.
Dogs barked up and down the street. He could hear the angry sounds of awakened neighbors. He turned slowly to face her and the bullets.
The policewoman stood with her legs spread, her LAPD-issue Smith and Wesson braced in both hands and held confidently in front of her. With her curly brown hair and freckled pale face, and her starched blue uniform, she looked ridiculously like a schoolgirl arriving for a costume party.
Shaw exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with relief.
She used one hand to pull a flashlight off her belt and shined it at him. "Sergeant Shaw?"
He winced into the light. He felt stupid.
"I'm Officer Barron. I was assigned to watch the house."
She lowered her gun and smiled sheepishly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He looked over his shoulder. A lump of bloody fur twitched on the grass under the white light. A dead cat.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A fucking cat.
# # # # # #
Monday, June 17, 7:00 a.m.
The house was completely still. The light from the morning sun spilled in through Brett Macklin's bedroom window—along with the last surviving member of the Bloodhawks gang.
Groove slipped into the shadowy room quietly, his eyes glued on Macklin, who slept braced against his backboard, a blanket bunched up over his legs. Macklin's left arm hung limply in a sling. Blood-soaked gauze wound around his chest and a rib brace hugged his midsection.
But Macklin wasn't hurting enough for Groove. When Groove was through, there wouldn't be anything left of Macklin to bandage.
Groove slid a satchel off his shoulder, his tiny eyes never leaving Macklin's impassive face. It was time to scrag this asshole for good. Twice Groove had seen Macklin. Twice Macklin had looked like easy prey. Twice Groove had watched his friends endure agonizing deaths.
He lifted a Molotov cocktail from the satchel and hefted it in his hand. The gasoline sloshed inside the Coke bottle. Groove grinned and ran his forearm across his sweaty brow.
Groove dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it. The light from the flame danced on the damp skin of Macklin's face. He touched the flame to the rag sticking out of the bottle and grinned again.
"Burn, you fucker," he hissed, tossing the Molotov cocktail. In that same instant, Macklin's eyes flashed open and he squeezed the trigger of the .357 he held under the blanket.
The bullet tore through the blanket and blasted apart the Molotov cocktail. It exploded in midair, igniting Macklin's blanket and splashing a wave of fire over Groove. The Bloodhawk fell screaming against the wall, his body melting into a ball of flame.
Macklin shook his head at Groove's flailing, fire-consumed body. "You never learn."
He casually tossed the burning blanket over him and pulled himself to his feet, his face knotted in pain. Macklin hobbled towards the door, glanced back once at the bedroom, now a chamber of pulsating fire, and then stumbled out, his singed legs smoking.
# # # # # #
Wednesday, June 19, noon
Brett Macklin's name was chiseled in the marble tombstone. The fresh dirt underneath it was strewn with cut flowers. The grass surrounding the grave was flat and torn from the dozens of people who had stood mournfully an hour ago and listened to Father Harriman's standard eulogy.
He shifted his gaze from the distant tombstone, squinted up at the blazing afternoon sun and then down at his wristwatch. The crystal was cracked, but he could still see that only an hour had passed since the funeral, since he had crept behind this tree, lifted the binoculars to his bloodshot eyes, and watched his daughter, a hundred yards away, shake with sobs.
Not many men get to see their own funerals.
"This won't work, Mack," said a voice behind him. Macklin turned and saw Shaw approaching quietly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his black slacks. Right on time. Macklin had called Shaw after escaping from the fire. Shaw made sure Groove's corpse was identified as Brett Macklin.
"If I'm dead, the Bitch will stop," Macklin said. "She'll let down her guard, get careless."
"She's sharp. She won't buy the ruse that you died in that fire." Shaw leaned against the tree and studied Macklin's face. "Even if this works, you aren't going to see Cory again, are you?"
Macklin shook his head. "Everyone I love dies. I want to spare my daughter. The money from our life insurance policies should guarantee her security."
Using the arm that had been in the sling, he put the tiny pair of folding binoculars in his pocket and walked away. The motion hurt bad. The pain was so strong, Macklin had a hard time remembering what life had been like without it. The pain wasn't only physical. His heart had been torn out and buried with the corpses of his loved ones. Mordente's body, jerking against the impact of his gunshots, danced in front of his
eyes.
"What can you tell me about the Bitch?" Macklin asked.
Shaw shook his head. It had gone too far already. Giving Macklin any information now was like giving a lunatic a loaded gun.
"Nothing," Shaw said.
Macklin grabbed Shaw roughly by the shoulders, spun him around, slammed him forward against the tree, and jammed his .357 Magnum into Shaw's back. "I've lost everything now. My family. My friends. My daughter. My life. I want the Bitch who did this to me."
The jagged bark tore into Shaw's cheek. Tiny rivulets of blood dripped off his chin. "Go ahead, Mack. Pull the trigger. Go over the edge. You're no better than she is."
Macklin kept Shaw pinned against the tree, removed the detective's gun, and tossed it away. He searched him with his free hand, turning out the pockets and letting Shaw's badge, wallet, and assorted papers fall to the ground.
"C'mon, Mack, admit it. You don't think anymore. You just kill. You've lost yourself to the violence," Shaw said. "You're dead now. Walk away before your bloodlust kills more innocent people."
Macklin found the computer printout in Shaw's inside coat pocket. He shook it to unfold it.
"You ran my description of Vanowen and Cory's description of Van Rijn through Interpol," Macklin said, reading. "You got a match."
Macklin's eyes narrowed and he stepped back from Shaw, though he kept his gun trained on him.
"Demetria Davila," Macklin read slowly. "International assassin. Wanted for murders all over the world. Expert at disguise."
Shaw pushed himself away from the tree, picked up a Kleenex off the lawn, and wiped his bloodied cheek. Macklin eyed Shaw warily.
"She's a sadist. Big surprise," Macklin scanned the printout. "Delights in torture. Loves to kill. Murders are orgasms. Eighty-three gruesome killings have been tied to her. She's paid well. Governments are about the only ones who can afford her."
Macklin rolled up the printout and tossed it at Shaw. "She's a real Girl Scout."
"She's out of your league, Mack. You'll die and take innocent people with you," Shaw said. "I can't let you do that."
"Too bad," Macklin pistol-whipped Shaw across the face, knocking him to the ground, where he lay groaning in semiconsciousness. "You and Cory are all I have left. I'm doing this for you."
