by Lee Goldberg
Macklin's heart thumped furiously, like machine-gun fire in his chest. Anger and disgust bubbled acidly in his throat. Mordente eased down the stairs, sat beside Sunshine, and tentatively placed a reassuring arm around her shoulder.
"Did you call the police?" Macklin asked hoarsely.
Sunshine shook her head no. "This is outside the law. It's part of whatever you and Ronny have been doing."
"Are you all right?" He squatted in front of her and wiped a tear from her cheek.
She shook her head no again.
"One of 'em," she began, but her voice cracked and she started sobbing, her body heaving and tears streaming down her face. Mordente pulled her close.
"Th-the one in red," she choked out in a weak voice. "He raped me."
Macklin stood up slowly, clenching his teeth in grim resolve. Sunshine fell against Mordente and shuddered with deep, woeful sobs. Mordente looked up at him with teary eyes and held Sunshine tightly against her.
"I'll get him back," Macklin said, his hands knotting into fists. "And I'll make those bastards pay."
# # # # # #
Noon
Brett Macklin's Cadillac charged down the gravel road towards the White Wash compound gate like a vicious Doberman, it's engine growling, it's shiny grillwork gleaming like bared, moist fangs.
The guards in the towers that flanked the entranceway began firing at Macklin before his car was even in range. He turned up the stereo. Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" boomed from the car's four interior speakers.
The bullets skipped off the Cadillac like hailstones as he closed in on the gate. He wore Levi's, a gray sweatshirt, a Kevlar vest, and .44 Magnum automatic in a shoulder holster. An Ingram lay on the passenger seat.
A guard planted himself in the center of the roadway behind the gate, spread his legs to brace himself, and fired his machine gun at Macklin's approaching car. Macklin pressed the accelerator flat against the floorboards.
The Cadillac burst through the gate, splintering it into a hundred jagged chunks, and plowed into the guard, tossing his body into the air. The body rolled up Macklin's hood, glanced off the windshield, and tumbled into the car's wake.
Macklin leaned forward, squinting through the blood-splashed windshield, and saw a dozen guards spill out of the house and scramble towards him. One of them tossed a grenade. Macklin wrenched the wheel and felt the ground heave under the right side of the car, the explosion spitting dirt into the air. Another grenade erupted in front of him. A wave of dirt splattered against his windshield.
Spinning the car in a donut shape, Macklin pushed in the lighter and faced the guards again. The twin .50-caliber machine guns emerged from the front of his car spitting slugs. The guards were cut down in one short, staccato burst. Their bodies were chewed up into fertilizer under the car's tires as Macklin blazed a trail to Damon's front door.
Grabbing the Ingram, Macklin threw open the driver's door and fell out of the car in a crouch, facing the demolished gate and firing.
Three approaching guards did a jerky death dance as a breeze of bullets blew against them. "Ride of the Valkyries" blared from the car and echoed on the lake. An invasion led by Francis Ford Coppola seemed imminent. A bullet pinged off the driver's side window behind Macklin's head. He spun, dropped to his side, and rolled, firing at the porch as bullets chipped at the ground where he had been.
Macklin saw Dalander framed in the doorway and squeezed the trigger. A slug carved out Dalander's Adam's apple and painted the front door with it. Flesh Face stiffened and fell forward. Macklin almost yelled "Timber!" and scrambled across the porch to the door. He kicked it open and flattened his back to the wall. Someone inside sprayed the porch with bullets, pumping several fresh holes into Dalander's corpse. The gunfire stopped and he heard the clattering of footsteps.
He abruptly pivoted low and fired into the doorway. There was no one. He had riddled the staircase with bullets. Macklin crept into the entry hall and peered to his left into the living room where he had photographed Damon yesterday. He cautiously stepped in, his finger tensed on the Ingram's trigger, the .44 Magnum automatic comfortably snug under his left arm.
Macklin sensed a motion to his right and ducked down as a beam of flame streaked across the living room towards his head. It singed his hair as it flashed over his head, bursting through the window behind him and igniting the curtains. Macklin patted down his hair and squatted behind the couch, ready to spring. Anton Damon, he knew, stood in kitchen doorway with three tanks of napalm on his back and a flame-throwing nozzle in his hands.
He heard Damon's wild laugh. "You shouldn't have fucked with me, Mr. Jury."
A burst of fire splashed against the couch, setting it aflame. Macklin tossed himself forward into the entry hall. Damon swept the room with flame, trying to torch him.
Macklin turned to face the archway he had just jumped through, heard Damon's approaching footsteps, and showered the fire-engulfed room with bullets. The Ingram jammed, empty. He threw the machine gun aside, whipped out his Magnum, and scrambled through the front door just as Damon appeared in the entry hall, scorching the ground where Macklin had stood.
An arm of crackling flame reached for Macklin, who flung himself off the porch, rolled across the hood of his car, and fell behind it. The fire skipped across the black hood.
Macklin peered over the hood at Damon. Flame lashed out and smashed into the car. Wisps of fire refracted off the armored steel and dissipated. Macklin hunched down, unsure of what to do. A footstep behind Macklin broke his thoughts. He whirled, firing. Two bullets rammed into Macklin's chest, knocking him breathlessly backward. The guard curled forward, the flurry of Macklin's .44 Magnum punches pounding into his stomach.
Macklin braced himself against the Cadillac's fender, tiny sparkles of light dancing in front of his eyes. The vest had stopped the bullets from piercing his skin but hadn't blunted the impact. His lungs were empty and his chest was a plate of pain. He crawled into the car and slammed the door shut.
Damon laughed and sprayed the car with fire. Macklin heard a familiar rumble and saw a helicopter rise over the house. The copter circled low over the compound, kicking up the dirt and whipping the black smoke from the burning house, and then hovered in front of the car.
Macklin straightened up in the driver's seat and stared up into Wes Craven's angry eyes. Macklin jerked the gearshift into reverse. The Cadillac wheels tore into the gravel and the car shot backward. Craven veered off and streaked away over the lake. The White Wash leader stood on the edge of the porch, chasing the car with flame. Macklin spun the wheel around and turned the car towards the porch, shifted into drive, and pressed the gas pedal flat.
Damon back-stepped and turned, saw the burning doorway behind him, and faced the oncoming car as it plowed into the porch, chewing through the planks. The porch crumbled and Damon was swallowed by a gaping hole of splintered, upended planks.
Macklin burst out of the car and climbed over the rubble to Damon, who lay bloody and twisted amidst the broken planks. Macklin grabbed the flamethrower's nozzle, put his finger on the trigger, and pressed it against Damon's mouth.
"Where's Shaw?" Macklin demanded.
Damon glared at him defiantly. "Fuck you, Macklin. Your nigger friend is going to die."
"That's not what I want to hear, Damon." Macklin grimaced. "You're going to have a very sore throat in about two seconds unless you start talking."
Damon laughed. "Kiss my ass, Macklin."
Macklin swung the nozzle away from Damon's face, aimed it at the White Wash leader's feet, and squeezed the trigger. Damon wailed in agony, his feet aflame.
"Talk," Macklin yelled over Damon's screams, planting his foot on Damon's chest so he couldn't rise.
"Shaw is buried alive—I don't know where!" he screeched. "Put out the fire!"
Macklin held the nozzle over Damon's face. "Who knows where, Damon?"
"Our Mr. Jury!" Damon cried, the fire creeping up his legs.
"Where is
he?"
"A-At the Arrow," Damon wet his pants and his voice began to wither. The fire licked at Damon's belt buckle and the tanks on his back. Macklin removed his foot from Damon's chest and stepped away.
"Who is he, Damon?"
Damon raised his flaming hand over his face and stared at it in grisly fascination. "I'm dead."
Macklin dropped the nozzle and scrambled back to the car. He jumped in, slammed the door closed, and ducked under the dashboard.
The tanks ignited and Damon exploded in a fireball that burst through the flaming walls of the house and brought it crashing down on Macklin's car with a volcanic roar. The house collapsed with a fiery sigh into a towering pile of burning wood. The few surviving guards fled down the gravel road, flames licking at their heels.
A grinding sound caught their attention. They turned back and stared at the fire. Something rumbled at its core. Macklin's Cadillac blasted through the mountain of flame in a shower of cinders. The guards jumped into the brush along the roadway as the black, smoking specter tore past them, the engine growling furiously.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Friday, May 25, 7:45 p.m.
The doorman at the New Horizons Hotel stood aghast, his mouth gaping in shock, as Macklin's charred Cadillac rolled to a stop at the lobby doors. Macklin emerged wearing a tuxedo that nicely hid the bulge of his .44 Magnum automatic under his shoulder.
"My God, sir, what happened to your beautiful car?" the doorman asked, genuinely concerned.
Macklin dropped the keys into the doorman's open hand. "Acid rain," he mumbled, striding into the lobby and onto the express elevator to the Arrow.
A young couple, giggling and affectionate, shared the elevator with him. The couple kissed and nibbled at one another while the elevator shot upwards. Macklin peered out at the glittering Los Angeles skyline and noticed the rush of the other two glass elevators that flanked his as they passed during his ascent.
The couple nuzzled their way of out the elevator when it hit the restaurant level, and Macklin rode up alone past the observation deck and office level and finally to the ballroom that topped the structure.
The doors slid open and Macklin slipped into the ballroom. The bustle of activity added a tangible charge that crackled through the room. Dinner was being served, and waiters scurried between the tables delivering prime rib to the Southern California democrats who paid $100 a plate to fete Cecil Parks. The Arrow symbolized progress, and it was no accident that Jeffries had many of the Parks events staged here.
Macklin wound through the tables, searching faces. Somewhere was a killer waiting to strike. In the front of the room, Parks sat at a long, white-draped table chatting with powerful area democrats. Kirk Jeffries, seated at the end of the table, spotted Macklin and shot a surprised glance at him. Macklin wandered slowly up to his friend.
"I don't want to sound unfriendly, Brett, old chum, but what the hell are you doing here?" Jeffries asked in hushed tones. He narrowed his eyes on Macklin's hair. "And why does your hair look burned?"
"Someone is going to make an attempt on Cecil's life tonight," Macklin whispered, hunching over and resting his hand on Jeffries' shoulder.
"What!" Jeffries exclaimed. Several heads turned along the table. Parks didn't notice. Jeffries smiled awkwardly and glanced up at Macklin. "How do you know?"
"Just trust me. We have to get Cecil out of here."
"We can't," Jeffries protested. "He still has to make his speech. These people paid a hundred dollars to see their candidate."
"They are going to see a corpse if we don't get him out of here."
"We'll call the police." Jeffries began to rise. Macklin held Jeffries down by the shoulder with a little friendly pressure.
"No," Macklin said, looking out over the crowd in front of them. "They can't be involved. Ronny's life depends on it."
"Christ, Brett, what is it with you two? Violence stalks you around," he said. "Am I gonna get blown to bits every time I see you?"
The elevator on the left opened, and a waiter emerged carrying a tray of empty wineglasses. Macklin squinted at him and straightened up, pulling the .44 Magnum from under his jacket.
"Don't move, scumbag!" Macklin shouted across the ballroom.
The waiter simultaneously dropped the glasses with a crash and blasted off a shot at Macklin with a .357 Magnum. The bullet burst a vase of flowers to Macklin's left and someone screamed. Macklin aimed and panic erupted in the room. People, clamoring and running about, obscured his line of fire. Cursing, Macklin dashed through the crowd, his gun held high. Jeffries sat still at the table in stunned disbelief as pandemonium swept the room.
The elevator opened behind the killer and people spilled out. He scrambled through them into the elevator. Macklin burst through the frantic dinner crowd just as the elevator doors were closing in front of the killer. The far right elevator door opened.
"Get out!" Macklin yelled, barreling through the departing elevator crowd like a linebacker. He hammered the "down" button with his fist, braced his back against the cold glass to his left, and felt the elevator drop. It fell through the dark overhang of the Arrow into the twinkling night sky.
Macklin saw the flash erupt on his right and flattened himself against the door. The glass to his right shattered. The cool night wind blew into the elevator. The killer's elevator, which had stopped at one of the upper hotel floors, now disappeared as Macklin's dropped below it.
A bell clanged and Macklin's elevator stopped. The doors parted and a elderly couple wearing cowboy hats began to step in.
Macklin shoved the man in the chest with his elbow and braced himself for a shot at the killer's descending elevator. "Stand clear!" he said to them and jammed his foot between the doors to keep it from closing and the elevator from descending.
The killer's elevator dropped into line and Macklin fired. The glass face of the other elevator crumbled and he saw the killer stumble. Perhaps a hit. The other elevator descended past him. He removed his foot and the doors slid closed. His elevator dropped. Macklin clasped a railing and hung out of the hole left by the shattered window.
Wind whipped his face. Aiming down at the killer's elevator two floors below, he squeezed the trigger. The bullets cast sparks as they glanced off the elevator's top. Macklin couldn't get a clear shot at him.
The killer's elevator stopped and Macklin closed on it. Macklin squared off for another shot. The killer fired first, the slug tearing the fabric from Macklin's left shoulder and spinning him. Macklin was about to squeeze off a shot when the express elevator, full of people, whizzed upwards between the two elevators, which were now descending at an equal rate.
Macklin fired the moment the express elevator was past. The bullet kicked the killer back into the railing, draping him over it like a damp towel. He was about to shoot again when the killer's elevator stopped and Macklin's continued downward to the lobby.
He holstered his .44 Magnum and dashed out of the elevator a moment later when it stopped in the lobby. He didn't want to be arrested for murder. As Macklin strode out of the lobby towards his car, he heard a woman's shrill scream and knew the killer's elevator had come to rest.
# # # # # #
Saturday, May 26, 11:47 a.m.
"I don't think you killed enough people yesterday," Mordente said between clenched teeth and paced back and forth across Macklin's kitchen. "Maybe the raging forest fire you left behind you can bring the body count up a bit."
Macklin sat on the countertop in jeans and a sweatshirt, sipping a cup of coffee from a brown ceramic mug that Corinne had made him. It said "DAD" on it in childish scrawl.
"Go to hell, Jessie."
Mordente froze, arched her eyebrows, and let her arms dangle limply at her sides. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," Macklin said. "And stop yelling. Sunshine is finally asleep upstairs. Or have you forgotten that those White Wash sadists raped her and kidnapped her boyfriend?"
"Fuck you, Brett. What you did yesterday was
unnecessary slaughter. There were other ways to handle the situation."
"No, there wasn't," Macklin said. "Damon had to be stopped."
"Yeah, but are you any better off than before? You killed two dozen people, left a fire burning out of control, and shot up the New Horizons Hotel. We still don't know where Shaw is, and that psycho may still be on the loose. The cops didn't find his body."
Mordente pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down wearily. "Bravo, Mr. Jury, bravo." She clapped her hands.
"You know, I'm getting damn sick and tired of these confrontations with you. Make up your mind about me, Jessie, and try to stick to it for a day or so, okay?
"How can I make up my mind? With you, I'm not dealing with one person—I'm dealing with two. There's the caring father, the sensitive man, and then there's the merciless vigilante who takes lives without remorse. And you want me to deal with that?"
"I've got the same problem," Macklin said. "Part of you wants to love me—the other wants to hang me. Let me tell you something, Jessie: the only difference between you and me is that you carry a notepad and I carry a gun."
Her head fell and she wiped imaginary dirt from the table. "I'm not sure I can live with what you are." She looked up at him. "I'm not sure you can, either."
"Neither one of us can deal with this right now," Macklin said, slipping off the counter and standing in front of her. "My closest friend is buried alive somewhere, slowly dying if he isn't dead already. I've got to find him."
"What about the psycho?"
"Maybe some of his White Wash friends carried his corpse away," Macklin said, "and maybe he's alive. It doesn't matter right now. Cecil Parks is under heavy guard, and now my only concern is finding my friend."
"So where are we going to start?" she asked, the attacking tone ebbing from her voice and letting fatigue creep in.
