by Lee Goldberg
One.
Two.
. . . three!
Macklin kicked open the door and burst into the room, crouched low in a deadly firing stance. He froze. Mario Carrera was crumpled under the projection window in a pool of blood, holding a flashlight over his chest and staring with morbid fascination at the blood frothing up from his gurgling chest wound.
Carrera's right hand lay loosely on his blood-specked shotgun, which was propped on his thigh and pointed at the doorway where Macklin stood. He glanced at Macklin, an obscene smile on his face. "Come to finish me off, huh?" he wheezed.
Macklin saw Carrera's hand twitching on the shotgun.
"I know you." Carrera started nodding, breaking into a laugh that shook his body and spilled more blood onto the floor. "Yeah, yeah, I know you."
A finger slipped around the shotgun trigger.
"You're that cop's kid." Carrera dropped the flashlight. It rolled through the blood and stopped at Macklin's feet. Their eyes met.
"You shouldn't have killed him," Macklin whispered.
Carrera smiled again. Instinct tossed Macklin sideways into a stack of empty film reels as Carrera raised the shotgun and fired. The blast masked the explosion from Macklin's gun. Macklin saw the bullet tear through Carrera's skull and split it apart. The halves of Carrera's head splattered onto the floor.
Macklin rose to his feet slowly. He put the gun under his belt, zipped up his jacket, and walked out of the room.
# # # # # #
Macklin crept back into Cheshire's apartment just as the digital clock ticked to 4:32 a.m. He tiptoed to her bed and shed his clothes, slipping into the sheets beside her.
She rolled over instinctively, her arm falling across his chest, and buried her face against his neck.
He closed his eyes. In ten minutes, he was where dreams and heroes dwell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He woke three hours later near orgasm, Cheshire's head between his legs. She looked up, brushing her hair out of her eyes and smiling at him. "Rise and shine, Brett."
"It looks like I already have," he said, sitting up and kissing her. His hands cupped her breasts, brushing her nipples erect with his thumbs.
"Mmmm," she moaned.
Their lovemaking carried into the shower, where they lathered up and climaxed under jets of hot water. They dried each other off and dressed quickly, stumbling into the kitchen just after nine a.m.
"Oh shit." Cheshire glanced at the clock over the kitchen sink. "I'm late. I'm gonna get killed."
"Breakfast is out, then?" Macklin frowned. "And I was going to take you to eat on Rodeo Drive," he added teasingly.
She raised her hand as if to hit him. "Smart-ass."
There was a loud, insistent rapping at the door.
"Shit, who could that be?" Cheshire droned, dashing to the door and yanking it open.
Sliran stood in the hallway.
"Shit." Macklin, seeing Sliran over Cheshire's shoulder, sat down wearily on the arm of Cheshire's couch.
Sliran wordlessly shoved Cheshire aside, waving his LAPD identification in her face.
"You're pressing your luck, stud," Sliran sneered, approaching Macklin. "You should have waited until Jesse Ortega was cold before you went out killing again. What a fuckin' idiotic thing to do. Now you can't dance around the room singing coincidence."
"Sliran, what are you babbling about?"
"C'mon, Macky boy, save the innocent routine for the gay boys at Soledad. Last night you used Mario Carrera for target practice."
"I was here last night. You figured that out after talking to Mort or you wouldn't be here now."
Sliran glanced at Cheshire. She stood beside the open door, her arms crossed angrily over her chest. "Yeah, I can see you've got a tight little alibi. It doesn't wash, Macklin, not with me."
"What is this guy talking about?" Cheshire shrieked.
Macklin, ignoring Cheshire, stood up and faced Sliran. "You don't have a warrant and I don't recall Cheshire inviting you in. So either cuff me or get out."
"No cuffs, at least not today. I came here to give you a little news." Sliran adjusted his shades. "While you were pumping bullets into Mario Carrera, a couple of your daddy's friends bought it. That little Jew, what's his name?"
"Saul, Saul Rosencranz," Macklin replied tonelessly.
"Yeah, he and a guy named Moe Biddle got their heads bashed in and dunked in the French fryer. Sizzled the skin right off. They looked like a coupla pieces of fried pigskin. Couple of blue suits found 'em and are still puking."
Cheshire grabbed Sliran by the shoulder and spun him around. "Get out of my apartment. Now, or I'll call my lawyer."
Sliran straightened out his jacket. "Sure, sure, I'll go. See you soon, Macky boy." He winked at Cheshire and strolled casually out the door.
She slammed the door shut behind him and turned to Macklin, who sat back down on the couch arm, his hands on his knees. "Brett, are you okay?"
Macklin nodded. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just leave me alone for a second." A heavy guilt weighed down his shoulders. The past few days were a blur of bloodshed.
"Mort told me about your father. Does all this have something to do with that?"
Macklin didn't hear her. His thoughts were on Melody, Saul, and Moe. The three people he had sought out for help uncovering the reasons behind his father's murder were now dead. Macklin didn't believe in coincidences any more than Sliran did. Someone, he realized, was following his tracks. Anyone he had talked to might be next.
Cheshire stood awkwardly by the door. She wasn't going to get any explanations from Macklin. Not now anyway. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yes," he snapped. "Now, go. I'll lock up for you."
She considered the situation for a moment, started to say something, and then opened the door. "You'll give me a call tonight?"
"Yes, I will." He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. It's just . . . there's a lot coming down on me right now. One of the guys who killed my father was gunned down last night. Sliran thinks I did it."
"Anything I can do to help?"
"Nope, I just need a few minutes to get my thoughts together."
"Okay." She lingered a second or two and then walked out.
Sizzled the skin right off . . .
Macklin closed his eyes tightly and covered his face with his hands.
He saw Brooke and Cory, their heads being forced into the boiling oil, their bodies convulsing spasmodically. Macklin's head jerked up.
Macklin dashed to Cheshire's phone and dialed Brooke's number at the Westwood Art Gallery, where she worked.
"Hello, Gallery West," Brooke answered gaily.
"Hi, Brooke, this is Brett."
"Brett, it's good to hear from you," she said brightly, and then, more somberly, she added, "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Listen, how would you like to take a little vacation?"
She laughed. "I'd love to. Paris sounds nice."
"No, I'm serious. You and Cory, on me. You could go visit your father in Boston."
"C'mon, Mack, that's very grand of you, but there's just no way. Cory has summer school and I'm just swamped here. Besides, wouldn't it be better if you waited a few weeks and snuck away for a few days, just you and Cory? I think she'd like that."
"Brooke, listen to me," Macklin said, trying to keep the fearful edge out of his voice. "You've got to trust me. It's not safe for you two to stay in the city."
"Not safe? What do you mean?" she snapped. "Mack, why don't we discuss this later—"
"No," he interrupted, tightening his grip on the receiver. "You're in danger of being hurt by the same people who killed my father. " He told her about Melody, Saul, and Moe. "Please, go away for two weeks."
"Mack," she said cautiously, as if trying to diffuse a bomb with her words, "you're talking nonsense. Listen to yourself. I know your father's death hurt you very much, but—"
"Brooke, damn it, do this one thing for me. Take my Visa card and go awa
y. Please."
Brooke didn't reply. Macklin listened to her breathing.
"Mack, how do you know we're in danger? Aren't you being a little paranoid?"
"Please, Brooke. Don't ask me questions. Just trust me. Please. Go away, anywhere you want. Do it for me."
Brooke sighed.
"Brooke, all I'm asking is that you take a vacation. A week or two. Is that so bad? You'll enjoy it."
"Okay, I'll go. But not because I need the vacation or believe your paranoid fantasies. I'm doing this for you and Cory. I'm afraid if I don't do it you'll nag me for days and probably scare the hell out of Cory in the process."
"Thanks," Macklin said with relief.
"Save it. When I get back, you had better explain yourself. Don't ever think you can get away with a stunt like this again."
"Okay. I'll get you on the first plane out tonight."
"What? Mack—"
"Call your father. I'll swing by tonight and take you to the airport."
"Shit. All right, Mack. While we're gone, I hope you get your head straight." She hung up.
Macklin set down the receiver, picked it up again, and started to dial the number at the hangar to warn Mort about the possible danger he was in. Then he realized Mort was in the copter, flying for The Bloodmaster crew.
He left Cheshire's apartment and drove straight to the hangar, where he spent the day catching up on paperwork and canceling some of his charters. He managed to get Brooke and Cory on a seven o'clock flight out of LAX and picked them up and took them to the airport. They ate some of the rancid, pasty glop the airport coffee shop called food. Just because they had a captive clientele next to the departure gates was all the reason the food operators needed to overcharge people for food that, Macklin thought, probably violated the Geneva Conventions, or at least the constitutional strictures against cruel and inhuman punishment. Brooke sat silently, poking at a gray mass the restaurant billed as chopped steak. Cory tried to entertain Macklin with stories about her friends.
At the gate, Macklin kissed Cory and then hugged Brooke.
"Mack," she whispered angrily, "you're crazy."
Macklin pressed his lips against her ear. "I don't want you getting killed."
# # # # # #
The television screen captured the images of a score of uncomfortable people, some dressed in suits and squinting into bright television lights and flashbulbs, others pointing to the cameras and lights. The cramped press room at Parker Center seemed even more claustrophobic than usual. Faces flickered across the screen. Police Chief Jed Stocker, separated from the throng by an unbalanced podium, sweated under the blinding lights and tried to read casually from his prepared statement. It was hard to tell if the greenish cast to his complexion was caused by the television, or if it was something he ate.
". . . I assure you we are vigorously pursuing a number of leads we are certain will expose the identity of this savage vigilante."
"Chief, you're calling him a savage vigilante," Al Zimmer, of the Herald Examiner, yelled through a mouthful of Wrigley's gum. "There are some people who think he's a hero."
"Thanks to you the press, Mr. Zimmer. He's committing murder, and that's against the law."
"Hasn't the number of gang-related crimes decreased dramatically since Mr. Jury started his crusade?" asked a UPI reporter. Stocker, and even some of the reporters, found it hard to tell whether the reporter was a man or a woman. The reporter always wore a plaid shirt and jeans.
"True," Stocker replied, looking for breasts on the UPI reporter. "But that hardly justifies—"
"A Herald Examiner poll shows most of the people in this town would like to pin a medal on the guy," Zimmer interrupted. "You arrest Mr. Jury and you're liable to be lynched."
"The law is the law. Mr. Jury is breaking it."
"Can you be more specific about your investigation? Do you suspect a renegade cop? Perhaps more than one vigilante is at work," said Jessica Mordente, the slim, dark-eyed reporter from the Times.
"We are exploring all avenues of inquiry, Ms. Mordente." Stocker rocked against the podium. "To say more would compromise the investigation."
"Do you have any witnesses besides the rape victim?" Mordente continued.
"As I said, I can't say much more at this point."
"It sounds to me like you don't have anything, Chief," Mordente snapped. "Just how eager are you to apprehend Mr. Jury?"
"We are doing our best. Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, we want Mr. Jury behind bars."
Mayor Lucas Breen, sitting in his dark office in city hall, kicked off the television set with his bare foot and looked across his cluttered desk to Stocker.
The chief sat stoically in his chair in front of Breen's desk, his eyes on the now blank TV set.
"Good job, Jed," Breen sneered, leaning back in his high-backed leather chair. "You should know spewing bullshit like that to the press is like squirting blood into a shark's face."
"Give me a break, Lucas, what was I supposed to tell them?" Stocker sighed and closed his eyes. "'Ladies and gentlemen of the press, Mr. Jury is a political problem and we need more time to figure out the best way to handle it so our careers won't be ruined. He makes the LAPD look foolish, but the city seems to love him. So for now, we're making him an honorary police officer and issuing him a license to kill.'"
Stocker stood up and paced back and forth in front of Breen's desk. "Under the circumstances, sir, I think I did pretty damn good."
"Really? You think you have them fooled?" Breen stroked the thick hair on his chin. "You're no further along in the investigation than you were a week ago."
Breen sniffed, leaning forward and searching his desk for a container of nasal spray. "Damn allergy drives me fucking nuts." He found the container and squirted twice in each nostril, inhaling hard. "Jed, I want to be governor of this state. I'm moving up in the polls and giving Elliot Wells a real battle."
The mayor pulled imaginary lint off the American flag beside him. "I think I can win. Mr. Jury, whoever the hell he is, isn't helping me."
He glanced at Stocker. "Or you."
Stocker stopped pacing and turned to face Breen.
"Don't look so surprised, Jed. It's no secret you want this office when I go. If you don't catch Mr. Jury soon, we're both going to be serving fries at McDonald's."
"We're doing our best," Stocker said quietly. "We have a lead, a small one. Remember that cop that got torched?"
"Mackinaw or something, right?"
"Macklin, James Douglas Macklin. Some of Mr. Jury's victims were arrested for Macklin's murder and released on a technicality. The detective I've got heading the investigation, Neal Sliran, thinks Macklin's son, Brett, might be our man."
"So bring the son of a bitch in."
"We can't. We have nothing on him. In fact, we have nothing, period. No description to go on, no physical evidence except for the bullets we dug out of the victims. We're looking for a ghost."
Breen smiled. "He'll make a mistake and he'll fall." He looked at Stocker. "Just make sure you have someone there to catch him. Then bring this caped crusader to me."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The lights of Los Angeles gleamed and flickered below him. The night vistas always held an element of unreality, with their satisfying and startling visions. Some nights the lights were an endless field of precious jewels, glimmering and glistening, his for the taking. Other times the lights were torch-carrying enemies approaching ominously and whispering his name.
The lights were different tonight, slowly banding together into a new vision. He watched them carefully while absently tracing the gold-embossed book on his desk with his finger.
His polished white marble desk, eight feet long and four feet wide, dominated the room. The hand-rubbed teak paneling would have given the expansive office a hushed warmth if it were not in constant conflict with the unsettling sight of his desk. Adding to the contrast was a portrait of himself, behind his ornate leather desk chair, and flanked on eithe
r side by picture windows that afforded him a breathtaking view of the city. His blue eyes in the portrait blazed with power and confidence.
His eyes narrowed now as he stared at the city below him, watching the lights coalesce into a vision that was just beginning to become clear.
The phone rang.
The mood was broken and the lights became just lights.
He reached back and grabbed the receiver angrily. "Yes?"
"It's me." The voice was rough and resonant. Unmistakable. "We've got that shit on the run now. He's called in reinforcements."
"Big guns?" he asked wearily, turning and leaning on the desk with his elbows.
"Just one. A guy named Kirk Jeffries from New York. He's a wizard with statistics and can isolate a candidate's weak points with astonishing accuracy.
"He's one of those young computer geniuses and looks like one, too. A real sorry-looking asshole. But he's probably the nation's third or fourth best pollster.
"No one understands the guy's methods, but everyone knows they work. On your side he's an invaluable weapon."
"I take it he's with the enemy."
"Yeah, and it's a damn shame, too. He worked with me on my first campaign and made sure I said just the right crap to sway the iffy numbers my way. I'd love to have him on my side. But the guy is a loud-mouthed prick. Isn't a team player. He didn't know his place. I gave him the boot when it was clear I had the campaign won and I didn't need to put up with his shit."
"What sort of threat does he pose?"
"A big one. He knows a lot about me. Too much. We have to take him out of the picture. He arrives here in two days."
"Simple enough. We'll have him killed in the usual fashion."
"I don't think that's a good idea. Not with this Mr. Jury crap. Let's kill him simply." There was a pleading tone to his voice that, coming from him, was shockingly out of character.
"Macklin is harmless." He took a deep breath, forcing back his rage. He became enraged at the slightest hint of cowardice or lack of confidence. "We control him."
"This could explode in our face, you know, and ruin everything."
"Stop whining," he snapped, startling himself and the caller. He struggled to control his temper. With measured restraint, he spoke slowly and methodically, "You sound like a child. I'll handle this. I know what I'm doing." He sat up in his chair. "We're going to succeed. Have faith. After tonight's show, you'll have God on your side. I'm going to endorse you."
