by Lee Goldberg
Macklin sighed and slid into the chair beside her. "I don't know."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sunday, May 27, 2:47 p.m.
Brett Macklin's stomach ached with tension, as it had since Saturday morning. Over and over again he racked his brain searching for an answer to Shaw's whereabouts. He lay on the living room couch with his head propped on an armrest and a half-empty beer can balanced on his chest.
If Shaw was buried anywhere near Damon's stronghold, he was dead now. The surrounding lands were scorched by hungry flames that had already devoured hundreds of acres. Ruling out the compound, that left the entire state of California as a possible burial ground.
All of Macklin's musings, he knew, could be useless. Shaw, in all likelihood, had been killed shortly after his abduction. They never intended him to live—that was for sure.
Macklin sat up, stretched, and swallowed the rest of his beer. The house felt larger than it was because of its emptiness. Mordente had taken Sunshine to a rape victim counseling center, where Shaw's girlfriend would spend the next few days under their care. So now, after having two guests, the house seemed huge and hollow. It had felt that way only twice before, when his marriage collapsed and when Cheshire was murdered.
Perhaps Damon had lied. Perhaps he did know where Shaw was hidden. Macklin paced in front of the couch, crushing the beer can in his hand. If I were Anton Damon, where would I bury Shaw? he thought. I wouldn't bury him. I'd kill him.
Macklin shook his head. Don't think like that, Macky boy. Have some hope. Now, where would you bury Shaw? In the cop's own front yard.
No, Macklin had already checked that.
He tossed the beer can into the fireplace and pulled the folded, smeared clipping of Mordente's interview with Damon out of his back pocket and reread it for the twentieth time. Nothing.
Sighing, Macklin shuffled into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and scrounged around for something to eat as he thought about what Damon had said during the second interview. Macklin always munched down food when he felt the pressure of nervous tension. Finding an apple, he pulled it out and bit into it. The apple snapped with freshness. He yanked a Dixie cup from the dispenser over the sink and turned on the faucet to get a drink. He had already had too many beers.
He filled the tiny cup and let it overflow, staring at the water spilling out of the faucet. The water felt cool on his hands. A tingle of apprehension traveled up his spine. The bottom of the paper cup ripped and the water splashed on the porcelain sink.
Macklin knew where Shaw was.
Leaving the faucet running, Macklin grabbed the phone off the hook and hurriedly dialed Mordente's number at the Times.
"Jessie," Macklin said, "Shaw's buried in the dry riverbed where the Kallahans were killed."
"How do you know?"
"I just know," Macklin snapped. "Tell me how to get there." She quickly rattled off the directions to the canal construction area.
"All right," he said, "I'm on my way. Meet me at the construction site with food, water, and some first aid supplies."
"Do you really think he's still alive, Brett?" she asked cautiously.
"I don't know," Macklin said. "I don't know if I can take losing another person I care about."
He hung up the phone, grabbed his .44 Magnum automatic from the kitchen table, and dashed into the garage, where he loaded a shovel and pickax into the Cadillac and drove off.
# # # # # #
The construction site was a barren swath cut into a gentle expanse of flat land dotted with gnarly trees and knee-high weeds. Macklin drove slowly past the dirt-caked bulldozers and tractors, the white construction office trailer, and the scattered stacks of lumber, piping, and iron bars. To his surprise, he didn't see any security guards.
He parked his car at the edge of the unfinished canal and got out. The unearthed dirt was rich, healthy brown and lay in tiny mounds along the edge of the wide, deep gorge carved out of the soil where a river once ran. The sides of the canal were flat, blunt drops of about thirty feet and were reinforced with cement pillars with wooden planks stretched between them.
A few yards away, a huge cement pipe with a six-foot-wide mouth poked out of the dirt and pointed into the canal. Macklin's eyes followed the pipe and saw that it climbed the side of a hill and disappeared, probably into the canal system that he knew lay beyond it.
Macklin walked beside the canal towards the massive pipe, scanning the land, not sure what he was looking for. Shaw could be anywhere here, and he had no idea where to begin looking. He was certain Shaw was here. It fit in with Damon's twisted sense of this place. The White Wash leader wanted a monument to his bloodshed here, and burying Shaw here must have seemed to Damon like a good first step.
Something about the stack of scrap wood and garbage to Macklin right caught his eye. He didn't know what, but he wasn't going to argue with instinct. Macklin walked to it and looked into the pile.
The gold wristwatch on a black-skinned arm glinted at him from the center of the pile. Macklin quickly dug through the scraps, tossing aside empty bags of cement mix and planks of wood to get to the body underneath.
He saw the bloodstained sky blue uniform and slowed his efforts. Lifting a triangular sheet of soiled plywood, he looked into the dead eyes of the black security guard.
Macklin heard the gunshot before he felt it. Dumb fuck forgot to wear his vest, he thought to himself in the split second before the white-hot slug tore into the flesh under the right side of his rib cage. The impact lifted Macklin off his feet and tossed him backwards onto the hard soil.
Bile bubbled up his throat, and his mind was spinning, a kaleidoscope of pain and confusion, but he was aware of a person standing over his paralyzed body. He forced open his eyes and stared up the barrel of a .357 Magnum at the killer, clad in his red leather jumpsuit, a streak of black makeup over his eyes. The impostor is still alive!
Perspiration dotted the killer's face and Macklin knew the man was in pain. Macklin had shot him at least once at the Arrow. The impostor idly tossed Macklin's .44 Magnum away.
"Now we're both carrying lead," the man wheezed. "I could've killed you just now, you know."
Insistent waves of nausea, coupled with minor spasms in his stomach, urged Macklin to vomit. He willed it back and felt the searing pain in his side intensify twofold. Sensation, though, was beginning to return to his immovable limbs.
"You've got something to see before you die," the killer said, walking around Macklin and wrapping his free arm in a pincer grip around Macklin's neck. He dragged Macklin by the neck, painting a crimson trail in the dirt.
Each bump in the dirt sent daggers of pain cutting through Macklin's body. The warm blood seeping out of Macklin's wound felt oddly comforting as it coated the skin over his trembling stomach muscles.
The killer released Macklin beside a network of metal piping and stepped over to a large valve jutting from the pipe work three feet away.
Wincing, Macklin propped himself up into a half-standing position against the pipes. A tremendous bolt of agony made him buckle. The killer leaned against the valve and trained his gun on Macklin.
Macklin saw the blood soaking through the leather jumpsuit over the killer's right shoulder and lower left side and felt a little better about his situation. The only edge the killer had on him was the gun and, judging from the wild look in his eyes and his nervous shaking, perhaps PCP pumping in his veins.
The killer motioned to the canal with a jerk of his gun. "Your nigger friend is down there." He grinned.
Macklin glanced down at the canal, then back at the killer, who began to giggle.
"Watch this, Mr. Jury. You're gonna like it," he said, twisting the valve wheel with his free hand.
Macklin watched helplessly as an incredible, ground-shaking rush of water spilled out of the massive pipe twenty yards away and raged down the canal, washing away the support planks and eating away at the loose dirt.
Shaw was dead.
"Being bloated and green is better than being a nigger." The killer smirked. "I just did your buddy a favor."
Macklin flung himself at the killer, grabbing for the gun. The killer shrieked and drove his fist into Macklin's wound. Macklin screamed and fell away, hitting the ground and rolling onto his back, squirming with pain.
"Shitface, ass-sucking, nigger-loving son of a bitch," the killer whispered hoarsely and jabbed the gun barrel at Macklin's damp forehead. "Death to your kind."
Macklin heard the explosion of a gunshot to his right. The bullet slammed into the killer's chest and stood him straight up, his mouth gaping open and his eyes wide. The eyes stared down at Macklin, and he leveled his gun at Macklin's face again.
Another gunshot rang out. The killer's forehead split open and blood dribbled out in a thick, globby stream. Macklin propped himself up on his elbows and watched the killer fall to his knees. A huff of sour air hissed out of the killer's mouth like escaping helium from a balloon, and then he toppled face forward and slapped into the dirt beside Macklin.
Gravel crunched behind Macklin and Jessica Mordente appeared beside him, his .44 Magnum held firmly in her hand. They looked at each other and he saw a familiar cold emptiness in her eyes. He had seen it before, what seemed like a long time ago, in his own eyes. Now she, too, was a vigilante.
She kicked the killer over on his back with her foot and stared down at him with disgust.
"It's Justin Threllkiss," she muttered.
"Threllkiss?" Macklin said, glancing at the bloody face. "Threllkiss is an old man."
She nodded weakly. "This is his grandson, Justin Threllkiss III, his only living heir."
Macklin frowned and tried to stand. Mordente shoved the gun into the waistband of her slacks and helped Macklin to his feet.
"Can you stand?" she asked.
Macklin nodded and looked over his shoulder at the water rushing down the canal. He had failed. Another loved one was claimed by the disease. Leaning against the pipes, he examined his wound for the first time. It looked as though the bullet had passed right through him.
"What about Shaw?" She stood at the canal's edge, looking down at the torrent of water. Her voice was flat and emotionless.
Macklin hobbled to the valve. "He's down there." Together, Macklin and Mordente turned the valve and shut off the flow of water. It was a hopeless gesture, but somehow it seemed like the right thing to do. The water thinned out and they could see the ravaged soil peeking through.
"You need to see a doctor, Brett. You're bleeding awfully bad."
Macklin slipped his arm around her shoulder. "Yeah, let's go."
Slowly, they made their way to Macklin's car. He fell against the hood, breathing heavily, his face flushed and wet from the exertion and pain.
"I'll follow your car out of here," he said.
"You can't drive—you can barely stand," she protested. "You're liable to pass out on the road."
"We've got no choice," he said hoarsely, his throat dry and feeling raw. "We can't leave a car here. We can't be connected with this."
Mordente knew he was right. "Okay, I'll go to my car and be back here in a sec."
He felt as if he was on fire, the flames from his bullet wound scorching the rest of his skin. Macklin crawled into his car and sagged in the driver's seat. Drowsiness fogged his eyes. Macklin blinked hard and twisted the ignition. The engine grumbled to life.
Mordente's Mazda RX-7 pulled out in front of him and Macklin jerked the gear into drive and followed her down the tree-lined dirt roadway. He held on to the wheel tightly and gritted against the pain each jostling bump of the roadway caused.
They had driven less than half a mile when Macklin saw Mordente's brake lights flash on and her car stop. Mordente got out and walked back to Macklin's car. He rolled down the window.
"The road is washed out," she said, grimacing. "We're going to have to walk from here."
"Shit," Macklin groaned, throwing open the door. He got out and stomped past Mordente and into the trees. Anger, he discovered, blunted the pain. The water had settled into a huge pond where the current had washed out the roadway. She fell into step beside him. Silently, they walked around the water-torn roadway and the followed the watery landscape.
She reached her left arm across his back and held him firmly under the left shoulder. Macklin smiled at her and put his right arm around her shoulder, using her for support. He felt as if they were the last two people on earth, and he wouldn't have been surprised if the ground suddenly opened under their feet and swallowed them up.
Mordente slowed.
"What's the matter?" Macklin asked, concerned but thankful for the rest.
"Listen," she whispered.
Macklin concentrated. At first he noticed only the stillness of the valley and the trickle of water in the muddy dirt beside them. Then he noticed the thumping. It sounded distant and muted, like someone punching a pillow.
The sound was ahead of them and across the muddy pide. Mordente and Macklin, without discussing it, plodded through the mud and water downstream towards the sound.
The closer they got, the more distinct the pounding became. It was frantic and insistent. Macklin squinted into the trees and bushes ahead but saw nothing. His curiosity made him forget the pain just a bit. It was still there, but it wasn't immobilizing him.
Mordente stumbled and Macklin pressed ahead a few feet, looking back to make sure she was okay. He rounded an outcropping of brush and then stopped, frozen with surprise.
"What is it, Brett?" Mordente said, coming up behind him.
Macklin begin to smile. A plywood casket with a narrow pipe jutting out of it stood upright in the mud like a signpost, water spilling out of its seams.
"Ronny," Macklin shouted. "Are you all right?"
"Just get me out of here," Shaw replied weakly.
Macklin scrambled to the casket, his pain overwhelmed by his relief that his friend was alive. He and Mordente pried the plywood with their fingers while Shaw kicked and pushed at it from inside. They heard the screech of nails being forced from their holes and yanked the plywood face loose.
Shaw, bruised and soaking wet, fell stiffly forward into their outstretched arms. They gently held him up in a standing position. His eyes were closed and his chest heaved as he hungrily breathed in the air.
"How the hell did you survive that?" Macklin asked incredulously. Mordente was looking at Shaw as if he was a ghost.
Shaw blinked open his eyes and stretched his parched lips into a smile. "How?" He chuckled dryly and held up the index finger of his right hand. "I just jammed this in the pipe."
"The water must have washed away the loose dirt, the casket rose to the surface, and the current carried it away," Mordente explained. "Someone must be on our side. You should have drowned."
"I almost did." Shaw pulled away from them and tried standing on his own. His legs were wobbly, so he wrapped his arm around Mordente's shoulder to steady himself. "But I held my breath, something happened, I stopped moving, and suddenly the water seeped out of my little box."
Macklin, the forgotten pain from his gunshot wound suddenly reasserting itself, also slipped his arm around her shoulder. With Shaw and Macklin hanging on either side of her, Mordente put her arms across their backs and led them away.
"Is it over?" Shaw asked, looking over at his injured friend.
"Yeah," Macklin said. "It's over."
EPILOGUE
The rays of the noonday sun beamed down from a cloudless sky on the lush green grass that blanketed the golf course. A fountain in the center of a pond near the ninth hole sprayed white water high into the air against a backdrop of shrubless, rocky hills. Palm trees ringed the course and provided a natural pision between the healthy landscape and the barren desert beyond it.
A single, metallic red golf cart that looked like a cartoonist's caricature of a Rolls-Royce scooted down one of the tiny slopes and stopped beside a sand trap. The rake trails could still be seen in the smooth sand
, not a grain of which spilled onto the putting green or the surrounding grass.
The squat, freckle-skinned old man in yellow slacks and a red long-sleeve shirt emerged from the cart and waddled up to the golf ball lying on the rim of the putting green, uphill from the hole. He adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses, firmly grasped his putter, and hunched over the ball. Staring at the ball, he saw it shake.
He straightened up and saw a plain white golf cart bouncing along the grass towards him. The man leaned on his golf club and watched the cart approach.
The cart glided to a stop with an electric whine beside his customized model. The driver wore a wrinkled flannel suit, and his large brow was crinkled with emotion.
"I know who killed your grandson," Wes Craven said. Justin Threllkiss frowned. "Who?
"Brett Macklin, a Los Angeles charter airline pilot. He's also Mr. Jury."
Craven thought he saw Threllkiss nod, or perhaps it was just the old man's palsy shake. Threllkiss hunched over the ball, then glanced at the hole, then down at the ball again.
Threllkiss tapped the ball gently with his putter. The ball rolled slowly down the green, circled the hole once, then fell in with a clunk.
"Brett Macklin will come to know tremendous suffering," Justin Threllkiss said, "and then he will die."
THE END
Brett Macklin will return in
GUILTY
