by Lee Goldberg
"And you're on borrowed time." Saputo motioned to Tice. "Take this man to the dungeon."
Macklin shot a sideways glance at Tice. "He's a little heavy on the melodrama, don't you think?"
Tice shoved Macklin ahead to the next set, which was designed to look like a medieval torture chamber. Macklin arched his eyebrows in surprise. A makeshift wooden rack rested beside a backdrop painted to look like it was made of stone. Cuffed chains dangled from the wall. Macklin saw a mace, the weapon consisting of a spiked iron ball and chain, and a branding iron lying on the floor.
"You guys have got to be kidding," Macklin remarked with a cynical grin.
Tice whipped the wrench out of his pocket and slapped Macklin viciously across the face with it. As Macklin fell to the floor, the warehouse swirling around him in a painful blur, he realized they weren't.
# # # # # #
"I thought Mr. Jury was a fat Asian midget." Jackie Laylor scratched her cleavage and fingered the cursor controls on her computer terminal, the story on the screen reflecting off her sunglasses.
She didn't like computers. She remembered her mother telling her that sitting too close to the TV would make her uterus shrivel up and her father's warning that invisible rays coming off the screen would make her blind. A computer was just a TV with a keyboard to her. So she wore sunglasses to protect her eyes. And while other writers put the keyboard on their lap, she kept hers on the desk, far away from her uterus.
Jessica Mordente stood behind Laylor, looking over her shoulder as the city editor scanned Mordente's lengthy Mr. Jury article. She was certain Laylor had scratched her cleavage to draw attention to those big breasts, as if to say to Mordente, "I've got it and you don't, baby."
"Jackie, forget that description of Mr. Jury," Mordente said wearily. "The kid at the 7-Eleven or whatever is lying."
"What are you now, Jessie? Psychic?" Laylor sighed, scrolling through the story, the lighted characters rapidly passing across the screen. "Look, I can't print this."
"What do you mean? What's wrong?" Mordente tried to keep her voice even, keep her anger in check. She had spent the last two hours cleaning up her rough draft and inserting Shaw's vague remarks. She wanted the story to make the Sunday Metro section, maybe even the front page. "It's great stuff. We're telling the city who their mysterious vigilante is."
"We are, huh?" Laylor stored the article with few quick keystrokes. The eighty-five column inches blinked off the screen. She took off her sunglasses and rubbed her tired, bloodshot brown eyes. "This story is no story."
Mordente stepped back, stunned and outraged. "I don't follow. I've tracked down Mr. Jury, exposed him, and you're telling me there is no story."
Laylor sighed. "You got the last part right. There may be a story later, but not now. What you've got here, if we were irresponsible enough to publish it, is the grounds for a multimillion-dollar libel suit. Brett Macklin would own the Los Angeles Times after he got through with us."
"Brett Macklin is Mr. Jury. It's all there. His father was killed by the Bounty Hunters gang and"—Mordente snapped her fingers—"bang, they were all killed by Mr. Jury."
"Coincidence, Jessie," Laylor responded. "C'mon, you're a better reporter than that. You have no facts, just a lot of iffy circumstantial evidence."
"Okay, here's a fact. Two detectives are assigned to the Mr. Jury case. One disappears and the other, surprise of surprises, is Sergeant Ronald Shaw, Macklin's oldest friend."
"So? Maybe putting Shaw on the case wasn't the wisest decision the LAPD ever made, but it still doesn't prove anything." Laylor shrugged. "You're reaching."
"Jackie! Don't you see?" Mordente yelled. "Can't you smell it? This guy Macklin has blood on his hands. One cop realized that and arrested Macklin for murder. Don't you find it odd that Macklin was released the next day?"
"He was innocent—how's that for an explanation?"
Mordente went on, undaunted. "Then the arresting officer disappears. Now someone plants a bomb in Macklin's car and kills his girlfriend. Mystery, coincidence, and crime sure seem attracted to Macklin."
"You said it. Maybe he's just had his share of rotten luck. Maybe he is a shaky character. That doesn't make him Mr. Jury." The city editor rose from her seat, noticing for the first time that their argument had caught the attention of the newsroom staff. A half dozen heads were turned in their direction. "Face it, there isn't anything to the story yet. If you can dig up something more, something solid, I'll run with it. Not yet."
"This man can't be the innocent bystander he says he is!"
"He sure can, Jessie," she replied evenly, quietly, hoping Mordente would follow her cue and settle down. "Until someone proves otherwise."
"I have! The story is there," Mordente roared. "Or have you been sitting behind a desk too long to know a story when it bites you in the ass?"
Laylor stiffened. Anyone who hadn't been watching them before certainly was now. "I'm going to write that remark off as exhaustion. I've been working you real hard. That had better be why you've suddenly reverted to a cub reporter with dreams of front-page, banner headlines, because I'm giving you three days off and you had better come back the reliable reporter you used to be."
Mordente's face reddened with anger and, as she felt the stares of her coworkers, a trace of embarrassment as well. "Jackie, listen to me. I'm convinced Brett Macklin, alias Mr. Jury, walked into the bank robbery yesterday afternoon. If we run with the story, that will pressure the police into comparing the bullets in the bank robbers' bodies with those from Mr. Jury's other victims."
"Don't make me get any harsher, Jessie. The answer is no."
"I'm working an FBI source now," Mordente said sharply. "If Macklin is in the photos the bank camera took, then we've got Mr. Jury."
Laylor walked away. "No."
Mordente wanted to scream furiously at the top of her lungs. Instead, her body seemed to tremble for a moment before she willed herself to turn away and walk back to her desk. She picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hello, Chet? This is Jessie." She tapped her pencil against the VDT screen. "Why don't we get together for dinner? Yeah, Sunday is fine for me. See you then."
# # # # # #
The mental disarray of returning consciousness was becoming a familiar state to Brett Macklin. Before his father's murder, his only experience with unconsciousness had been a fast ball to the head in high school. Nowadays it seemed like everyone was trying to pitch something against his head. The whirling kaleidoscope of sensory perceptions, like a blurry television picture that defies adjustment, didn't make Macklin as insecure as it used to. He no longer grasped for solid bits of perception, but rather waited for the storm to abate.
After a few minutes, things inside his head began to settle and Macklin tried to blink open his eyes, which felt weighed down with cement blocks. Mucus gave his throat a sticky, acidic feel, and swallowing burned. His heartbeat pounded in his head and his appendages tingled as if they were asleep.
Macklin focused his eyes on the rafters on the ceiling above him and realized he was lying flat on his back. His arms were stretched out behind him. He tried to lower them to his sides and felt a bolt of pain race through his body.
What the fuck?
Macklin peered down at his feet and saw his ankles were tied with rope. He guessed the rest. He was on the rack, ropes tied around his wrists and ankles, pulling them taut. Macklin knew all it would take was a crank or two on the pulleys at his feet and behind his head and rip!—his guts would slop onto the floor like a plate of spaghetti absently knocked off the dinner table. Macklin closed his eyes and tried to think.
This is one film Macky boy won't be able to stomach. Stomach—HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! teased a devilish voice inside him. Hey, Macky, Gene Shalit says you'll bust a gut laughing at this madcap comedy—HA-HA-HA-HA!
I'm going to get out of this, Macklin told himself.
"How are you doing, Mr. Smith?" Macklin heard Wesley Saputo say, smelling the nicotine breath before
Saputo appeared over him. "Are you ready to become a star?"
"You're a real tough guy, Saputo, a real specimen of manhood. You tie me down and then slither around molesting defenseless children," Macklin said. "You're some kind of stud, all right. Next you're gonna start fucking corpses."
Saputo's face flushed with anger. "As an actor, Mr. Macklin, you'll need to stretch a bit for this role." Saputo leaned forward and turned the crank clockwise.
The pain clawed its way up Macklin's throat as a scream. He gritted his teeth and forced it back.
"Relax, Macklin, you won't have long to wait." Saputo walked away. "Your screen debut is imminent."
Macklin lay panting, his body drenched with sweat, the pain ebbing into an intense ache. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the painkilling, cool darkness. Time slipped past him until he heard a voice.
"What are you doing, mister?" a meek voice inquired.
He turned his head and saw the little girl bashfully standing a safe two feet away. Macklin blinked his eyes clear, not knowing how long he had been blacked out. The girl had chocolate cake smeared around her face.
"Come here, honey," Macklin whispered gently.
She stepped back. Macklin realized his tactic was all wrong. Everyone was probably talking sweetly and quietly to her, gaining her reluctant trust and then doing her harm.
"What's your name?" Macklin asked in his normal voice.
"Erica Tandy. I'm ten."
"Really? Is it your birthday today?" Macklin wanted to order her to untie his bonds, but his rational side realized the necessity of moving slowly. Painfully slowly.
"No." She stepped toward him. "They're making me pretend."
"Where's your mom and dad?"
She shrugged. "I want to go home."
Macklin felt her sadness and wanted to reach out and comfort her. He imagined Cory, his daughter, the loss and fear she would feel if she were in Erica's place. "I do, too. If you come here and help me untie these ropes, we can leave here. Would you like that?"
"Uh-huh," she mumbled.
"Come here." He jerked his head back, motioning her. So took a step forward.
"Erica!" Saputo yelled from behind the set. Erica froze. "Beautiful? Come here!"
Erica shot Macklin one frightened glance and then dashed back behind the wall to the dining room set. Macklin dropped his head and closed his eyes. Damn!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Cadillac exploded again and again in Macklin's mind. It was a relentless pounding that rocked his body and sent shock waves of pain rolling through him.
Macklin squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the torturous images. A giant tombstone loomed up in his psyche. Six names were carved into it.
JD Macklin. Melody. Saul. Moe. Cheshire. Mort.
There was no way back now. There had been an irrevocable, jarring turn in the course of Macklin's life, and the bodies of his loved ones lined the curve.
Dad, Melody, Saul, Moe, Cheshire . . . Mort.
The only name missing was his own.
"Help me, mister," Macklin heard Erica whimper. He flashed open his eyes and saw her standing beside him again, naked, tears rolling down her puffy cheeks.
"Erica," Macklin whispered, "I want you to turn that handle behind me counterclockwise. Do you know what that means?"
She nodded.
"Okay, go ahead. Do it slowly." She reached out to the handle and pushed it down. Immediately, Macklin felt the muscles in his arms recoiling painfully. "A little more, Erica."
She pulled the crank around to an upright position. That gave Macklin enough slack to sit up. He felt a hot flush burn his skin as blood surged through his body, revitalizing his traumatized limbs. Macklin quickly began to untie the knots around his wrists.
"Where's Erica?" Saputo yelled from behind the set. Macklin saw Erica tremble. Erica wasn't going to go back to that set. Which meant, Macklin knew, that Saputo would come looking for her. Macklin freed one wrist and struggled with the rope on the other.
"Damn it! Who let her wander away?" Saputo growled. "Earl, go find her. She's got to get back here. We've still got to do the come shot."
Macklin leaned forward and frantically pulled on the rope around his ankles, trying to loosen it enough to get free. Erica whimpered.
"Shhhhh," Macklin hissed at her. He heard heavy footsteps approaching.
Macklin freed one ankle. The footsteps were close, a yard or two away.
"Run!" Macklin whispered to Erica and fell back on the rack, extending his arms as if he were bound. With his left hand, he felt around for the mace.
Erica froze.
"Run, Erica!" Macklin's hand found the mace. He hid his hand behind the pulley as Earl, one of Saputo's gorillas, emerged to Macklin's right.
"Hey, kid, get away from him!" Earl roared. With both hands he pushed Erica aside. She shrieked and fell to the floor, scrambling away like a frightened animal.
Earl laughed, watching her bare rear end disappear behind the wall. "The little runt," he mumbled, turning his head and looking down at Macklin. In the instant it took Earl to comprehend the meaning of Macklin's loosened bonds, Macklin swung the mace, the thorny iron ball whipping into Earl's startled face.
The mace audibly smacked into Earl's skull, the spikes plunging deep into his eyeball, temple, and cheek. Earl screamed and blindly stumbled back, the mace stuck in his head, blood gushing out of his face. Macklin yanked the rope off his ankle, leaped off the rack, and pulled the gun out of Earl's shoulder holster.
Macklin shoved the gun barrel into Earl's fleshy stomach and squeezed the trigger. The blast of the .38 shook the warehouse. Earl burst apart like a piñata, splashing blood against the dungeon wall.
"Get the kids out of the way. Lock 'em in the van," Macklin heard Saputo shout. Macklin scrambled through a maze of sets toward the opposite end of the warehouse.
Saputo called out after him. "Forget it, Macklin! There are no windows and no other doors. There's only one way out of here for you, asshole!"
Macklin crouched behind the last set and peered around the edge. He saw a stack of tires against the wall to his left, by the breaker box. Ahead and to his right were the film and the painting supplies he had seen when he came in. He glanced at the multiple arms of electrical cord that stretched out from the junction box on the slick cement floor. Scanning the ceiling, he saw only sprinkler heads. Not a single skylight. Saputo was right. He was trapped.
Macklin sprinted across the open floor toward the paint supplies, hoping there might be something there that could help him escape. The sound of a footfall behind him made him jerk around midstep. He saw a man and muzzle flash when the floor suddenly slipped out from under him, the gun's report cracking in his ear. As he hit the floor on his right shoulder, he sensed the bullet streaking above his head and realized he had tripped over the junction box.
Macklin bolted upright and fired. The slug slammed into the gunman's chest and kicked him back into a set wall. The line of sets tumbled down like a row of dominoes.
Macklin scrambled to his feet and, glancing over his shoulder, saw paint thinner spilling out of a jug that had apparently been pierced by the gunman's bullet.
There is a way out, Macklin thought. Quickly, Macklin searched through the gunman's bloody clothes, turning out the pockets. C'mon, let it be there . . . The gunman shook spasmodically as death tightened its grip on him. Macklin looked into the gunman's open, blank eyes and felt the pack of matches in the man's inside jacket pocket. Bingo!
"There he is!" the father cried out, appearing around the edge of the fallen sets, waving his finger at Macklin.
Macklin struck a match and lit the matchbook. Saputo and Franken, brandishing snub-nosed revolvers, and two of Saputo's crewmen emerged behind Macklin, who tossed the flaming matchbook into the stream of paint thinner and ped away.
"Hit the deck!" Saputo screamed, throwing himself forward.
The fire chased the fluid back into the jug. The jug exploded, splattering flame out in al
l directions.
Macklin crawled toward the opposite wall. The blaze spread in an instant, feeding on the nearby packs of film.
Glancing back, Macklin saw the flames climb the wall, licking the ceiling and prompting the sprinklers to life. Macklin tipped over the stack of tires and threw himself on them just as the water rained down.
Macklin aimed his gun at the junction box on the watery floor and saw Saputo and his men rise to their feet.
Saputo grinned at Macklin and pointed his gun at him. "You're mine, Macklin," he yelled over the roaring blaze and cool shower.
Macklin fired, splitting open the junction box and exposing it to the water. He heard the whiplike snap of electric current. The movie lights fluttered.
Saputo's eyes flashed open wide in an instant of terror and surprise. His body twitched and convulsed, hundreds of volts riding through him and bouncing him up and down like a human pogo stick.
Macklin, insulated by the tires, stared transfixed as Saputo and his men jerked obscenely across the floor in a last dance of death. He reached up to the breaker box and switched off the electricity. The warehouse, lit by the flickering of the dying flames, smelled like ammonia and spoiled meat.
He stood up and ran along the wall to the van. The mother's corpse lay twisted in a puddle beside the movie camera, her red tongue lolling out of her open mouth. Macklin stepped over her body and splashed through the water to the van. He put his gun into his waistband and pounded a fist against the side of the van.
"Are you okay in there?" he shouted, hoping the van's tires had kept them safe from the electric current.
"Uh-huh," Erica and Jimmy mumbled in unison from inside the van.
"Stay put. Help is on the way." Macklin, soaking wet, flung open the warehouse door.
Tice stood outside in the alleyway in front of him, a laconic grin on his face and Macklin's .357 Magnum in his hand.
"Help is here," Tice whispered. Macklin saw Tice's finger tighten on the trigger and braced himself for the bullet that would rip through his stomach. Macklin winced, the handgun's deafening report ringing out twice in his ears. Macklin stiffened. And felt nothing.
