by Lee Goldberg
"Are you all right?" Mort blared from the helicopter.
Macklin waved and then pointed frantically in the direction of the speeding launch. Go after him! After a second or two of hovering, Mort got the message and veered away in pursuit of Orlock.
Orlock mustn't make it to Catalina and contact the authorities, Macklin thought, suddenly remembering the wet bike he had spied in his rifle sights earlier.
Macklin leaned over the stern and saw the wet bike, an ocean-faring version of a motorcycle, secured to the fantail. Glancing over his shoulder as he leaped onto the platform, he could see the launch swerving as the helicopter snaked in and out of Orlock's path.
I hope Mort can slow him down, Macklin thought, untying the wet bike. If Orlock made it to the island, Macklin knew the authorities would place Orlock in protective custody. Orlock would relax safely in the taxpayers' care while sympathetic publicity casting him as a victim raged in the media and muted the city's chances of putting Orlock behind bars on kiddie-porn charges.
Macklin's back screamed with pain as he bent down and lifted the wet bike, bracing his legs to take most of the weight. What if Orlock saw the call letters on the chopper? The thought teased Macklin as he lowered the wet bike onto the water and straddled it. Orlock could end up remaining free while Macklin faced a lifetime in prison for murder.
The wet bike jerked forward and skipped across the swells toward the launch, which sped in a curving path under the bright searchlight of the low-flying helicopter.
That's it, Mort, pin him down. Macklin twisted the throttle, urging the wet bike forward. Cool mist splashed his face and his hair.
The helicopter swooped down on Orlock, who frantically twisted the wheel and brought the launch around, crossing Macklin's path. Orlock noticed his pursuer for the first time. Macklin could see Orlock's wild, enraged face in the white light, his teeth gritted and his eyes wide.
Macklin closed in on Orlock's boat, his wet bike bouncing violently in the choppy water kicked up by the spinning helicopter blades and the converging wakes from the circuitous path cut by Orlock's outboard motor. A loud mechanical grind, the cacophony of engines, grated against Macklin's ears.
Macklin's one chance to stop Orlock came in an instant. Orlock swerved to avoid the chopper and momentarily came alongside the wet bike. Macklin threw himself into the boat. The Magnum slipped out of Macklin's harness into the ocean as he bashed painfully against the edge of the boat and tumbled inside.
Orlock abandoned the wheel and pounced on Macklin. The boat spun out of control. Orlock fell forward onto Macklin and they rolled toward the stern. Macklin, dazed and disoriented, felt Orlock's chilly hands squeeze his neck, cutting off his air.
Lifting Macklin by the neck, Orlock draped him over the back of the boat beside the growling outboard and forced his head down to the water. Macklin reached out, scratching and pulling at Orlock's face. But it was no good. The cold water rushed up Macklin's nostrils as Orlock pushed his head under. Macklin's head pounded, deprived of air, and he could feel the deadly motion of the rotor blades buzzing an inch from his left ear.
Macklin grabbed the boat with his right hand and pressed the palm of his left hand under Orlock's chin, trying to push him back. Time was working against Macklin. The lack of air was weakening him, and Orlock was edging Macklin's head to the rotor, now so close Macklin could feel the blade skimming past his ear.
Frantic, his chest swelled with agony, Macklin slapped the outboard with his left hand. He felt the rotor blade slice at strands of his hair. His fingers fell on the gear shift and he yanked it down.
The boat jolted into reverse, the momentum jerking Macklin forward. Macklin used the split-second advantage, ramming his knee into Orlock's groin. The momentum, combined with the blow, knocked Orlock off balance.
Orlock tumbled over Macklin and splashed into the water beside the back-circling boat. Macklin pulled himself up, heaving, each breath a razor-sharp dagger plunged down his throat. Water streamed down Macklin's icy blue face.
Looking back, Macklin saw Orlock bobbing in turbulent waters, and he flipped the gear shift up. The boat kicked forward and Macklin scrambled to the wheel.
He pushed the throttle lever forward and gunned the boat, bringing it around in a wide circle and bearing down on Orlock, who bobbed like a buoy ahead.
"No!" Orlock screamed, trying to pe, the vest keeping him afloat.
Macklin kept coming, seeing only the murdered children and Orlock's grand estate.
Make them pay!
The launch ripped through Orlock, tearing his body apart in a crimson splash of water.
EPILOGUE
Jessica Mordente felt edgy and uncomfortable when she emerged from Cock'n Bull, an English-style buffet fronting the west edge of the Sunset Strip. The feeling had begun when Chet picked her up at her apartment and continued unabated through their empty dinner conversation and her forced lighthearted repartee.
Navarro came up behind her, chewing on a toothpick, and put his arm around her shoulder. "What happened to the old Jessica Mordente?"
"Why? What does she have that I don't?" she asked, walking with Navarro away from the restaurant. She shouldn't be mad at him, she knew. After all, she had been the one to ask him out on Friday and he'd been affable all evening. But with each moment spent with him, her uneasiness intensified.
"An appetite, for one," He removed his arm and shoved his hands into his pockets. "You used to eat everything in there except the table. Tonight you barely were able to stomach your crumpet."
Mordente shrugged. "I dunno, I just wasn't hungry. I've been working pretty hard and snacking all day." She knew that wasn't it, though. It was that sense of impending doom that had been hanging over her like a dark storm cloud.
"And item two," he continued, stopping beside his sleek, white Pontiac Fiero. "I usually have to dodge ten zillion questions from you. That would irritate most sane people, but not me. I like that about you, that mix of a sharklike predatory instinct coupled with a dash of good-natured inquisitiveness. It's fun in a masochistic sort of way."
He flashed a playful grin at her. "Now you're a sissy. I don't get it."
"C'mon, Chet, take it easy on me," she sighed. "I'm sorry. You've tried very hard and it's been a pleasant evening. I guess you're right. I'm not myself tonight."
Navarro unlocked the car and opened the door. "Maybe this will bring you back to your senses." He reached behind the seat and pulled out a manila envelope, then turned and held it out to her.
"Here's one of the photographs taken by the bank camera," he said, looking at her sternly. "This is strictly off the record, understand? You can look at it, but that's it."
Mordente nodded expressionlessly and took the envelope.
"To be honest," he continued, "we see no reason to go after the guy, you know?"
She lifted the flap and pulled out the photo.
"Not a bad picture, huh?" he asked.
"Crystal clear," she muttered, her throat dry. Brett Macklin's piercing gaze was unmistakable.
THE END
Brett Macklin will return in
PAYBACK
AFTERWORD
The creation of Brett Macklin—and "Ian Ludlow"—is explained in this essay, published as a "My Turn" column in Newsweek magazine in 1985. Pinnacle Books went out of business before this novel—originally entitled .357 Vigilante #4: Killstorm—could be published. The fifth book, Designated Hitler, never got beyond the outline stage.
HOT SEX, GORY VIOLENCE
How One Student Earns Course Credit and Pays Tuition
My name is Ian Ludlow. Well, not really. But that's the name on my four .357 Vigilante adventures that Pinnacle Books will publish this spring. Most of the time I'm Lee Goldberg, a mild-mannered UCLA senior majoring in mass communications and trying to spark a writing career at the same time. It's hard work. I haven't quite achieved a balance between my dual identities of college student and hack novelist.
The adventures of Mr. Ju
ry, a vigilante into doing the LAPD's dirty work, are often created in the wee hours of the night, when I should be studying, meeting my freelance-article deadlines, or, better yet, sleeping. More often than not, my nocturnal writing spills over into my classes the next morning. Brutal fistfights, hot sexual encounters, and gory violence are frequently scrawled across my anthropology notes or written amid my professor's insights on Whorf's hypothesis. Students sitting next to me who glance at my lecture notes are shocked to see notations like "Don't move, scumbag, or I'll wallpaper the room with your brains."
I once wrote a pivotal rape scene during one of my legal-communications classes, and I'm sure the girl who sat next to me thought I was a psychopath. During the first half of the lecture, she kept looking with wide eyes from my notes to my face as if my nose were melting onto my binder or something. At the break she disappeared, and I didn't see her again the rest of the quarter. My professors, though, seem pleased to see me sitting in the back of the classroom writing furiously. I guess they think I'm hanging on their every word. They're wrong.
I've tried to lessen the strain between my conflicting identities by marrying the two. Through the English department, I'm getting academic credit for the books. That amazes my grandpa Cy, who can't believe there's a university crazy enough to reward me for writing "lots of filth." The truth is, it's writing and it's learning, and it's getting me somewhere. Just where, I'm not sure. My grandpa Cy thinks it's going to get me the realization I should join him in the furniture business.
I don't admit to many people that I'm writing books. It sounds so pompous, arrogant, and phony when you say that in Los Angeles. See, everybody in Los Angeles is writing a book or screenplay. Walk into any 7-Eleven, tell the clerk you're an agent or a producer, and he'll whip out a handwritten, 630-page epic he's been keeping under the register for a chance like this.
I do involve my closest friends in the secret world of Ian Ludlow. When I finished writing my first sex scene, I made six copies and passed them around for a critique. I felt like I was distributing pornography. "How do you compliment a sex scene?" a girl I know complained. "It's embarrassing." Another friend rewrote the scene so it sounded like a cross between a beating and extensive surgery.
Among my family and even my friends, I find myself constantly apologizing for what I'm doing. Maybe I wouldn't if I were writing a Larry McMurtry or John Updike book. But I know what this is. This is a black cover with a rugged hero in the forefront, shoving a massive gun into the reader's face. I feign disgust, mutter something about "a guy's got to break in somehow," and quickly change the subject.
But the truth is, it's fun. And since Ian Ludlow is the guy who will take the heat for it, I can let myself relax and enjoy it. I'm building on those childhood hours spent in front of my mom's ancient Smith Corona, banging out hokey tales about superspies and supervillains. My work is still hokey, except now someone is paying me for it. And paying me not badly, either. I can pay for a whole year of college from the advances for the four novels.
The opportunity came my way thanks to Lewis Perdue, a journalism professor who writes those bulky conspiracy thrillers and harbors dreams of being the next Robert Ludlum. I used to read his manuscripts and debate the merits of Lawrence Sanders and Ken Follett. Then, when Pinnacle asked him to do an "urban man's action-adventure series," he passed it on to me. Pretty soon I was buying books like The Butcher, The Executioner, The Penetrator, The Destroyer, and The Terminator by the armful and flipping through the latest issues of Soldier of Fortune and Gung-Ho. After a week or two of wading through this, I was ready to spill blood across my home computer screen.
There's a part of me that doesn't like what I'm doing. It lectures me while I'm making some bad guy eat hot lead. It tells me I should be writing a novel about relationships and feelings, about the problems my peers are facing. I will, I say to myself, later. There's plenty of time.
