Guilty (2 page)

"A real nice night," Macklin muttered wearily.

He slowly turned to his right. Four more men peeled off from the darkness carrying crowbars and chains, led by a Michael Jackson clone. The gang leader wore reflective sunglasses, a white sequined glove, and a broad-shouldered red jacket Macklin guessed had been stolen off the doorman at the Westwood Marquis.

Earl followed Macklin's gaze and his eyes bulged with fear. "Th-The Bloodhawks," he stammered. The seven Bloodhawks formed a loose circle around the property.

Macklin kept pumping his gas.

Michael Jackson, bobbing to the beat of a private song, grinned and dismissed the station with his gloved hand. "Trash it," he said.

The three gang members behind Michael Jackson strolled up to the building, appraised it for a moment, and then smashed the windows out with their crowbars. The Bloodhawks spilled into the office. They bashed the shelves off the wall, whacked apart the candy machine, and tossed the desk into the street.

A black GI Joe wearing a beret and army fatigues strutted to the Sparkletts water cooler and swung his crowbar at the glass bottle. It exploded aqua blue, splashing the walls with water and glass.

At that moment, the teenager in shorts emerged from the bathroom. Before Macklin could react, GI Joe whirled, swinging at the teenager's head like it was another Sparkletts bottle. His skull broke like pottery and his body slapped against the wet wall, splattering it red.

"You're next, motherfucker." The Michael Jackson clone pointed a sequined finger at Macklin. "I've seen your fucking hearse before. You're the dogshit that's been coming onto our turf and kicking ass."

Macklin shrugged.

Michael Jackson whipped a switchblade from his back pocket and waved it in front of Macklin's impassive face. "Motherfucker, you're dead."

Macklin yanked the gas nozzle from his car and swung it in front Michael Jackson, spraying him with fuel. The man recoiled, spat, and charged blindly towards Macklin, who grabbed the cigar from Earl's mouth and tossed it at him.

Michael Jackson burst into flame. Shrieking with agony, he did a skittish moonwalk and tripped over his burning feet. He hit the ground rolling, screaming as he tried to smother the fire that consumed his body.

The gang members let out angry cries and ran at Macklin with their weapons raised. Macklin casually pulled the .357 Magnum from under his jacket and cocked it. Killing was becoming a reflex.

"Would anyone here like some .357 dental work?" he asked.

The men closing in on either side of him froze. The acrid stench of burned flesh filled the air. The only sound was the gang leader, crackling and bubbling.

"You can't kill us all," a gang member said defiantly.

Macklin shrugged. "Maybe it's my lucky day."

There was a long moment of indecision. Macklin could hear Earl's labored, anxious breaths.

"This isn't over, asshole," GI Joe hissed, holding his bloody crowbar out like a sword.

"It is for you." Macklin shot him. The bullet punched GI Joe in the chest and tossed him back onto the flaming corpse. GI Joe's crowbar clattered on the pavement.

Macklin sighed. "Who's next?"

The gang members looked at one another. They reached an unspoken agreement and suddenly scattered, leaving their two friends smoldering on the pavement.

Macklin holstered his gun, stuffed a crumpled $20 bill in Earl's breast pocket, and got into his car.

He started the engine and smiled through the open window at Earl's pale face.

"I like to live on the edge."

# # # # # #

2:00 a.m
.

"Being a vigilante is costing me a fortune," Brett Macklin said, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls. He sat on his toilet eating his double bacon chili cheeseburger and watching Jessica Mordente's naked body through the shower's frosted glass door.

"While I'm out on the streets, my airline business is going to hell. Things are even worse now that Mort, my only pilot, is down in Mexico." He slurped on his chocolate shake and set it on the toilet tank behind him. "Christ, do you know how much bullets cost?"

"So quit." Jessica scrubbed her shoulders with her Buf-Puf. "Go back to being a normal human being again." Steam spilled out of the shower stall and fogged the bathroom mirrors.

It's too late, Macky boy. It's a part of you now.

Macklin held the burger tightly in his hands and took a big bite. A glob of chili spurted out between the buns and dribbled down his shirt.

You can never go back, never . . .

Mordente pressed herself against the door and peered over the top at Macklin. "I didn't hear your clever retort."

He shrugged. His mouth was full.

She groaned melodramatically and turned away, letting the hot water beat against her chest. She luxuriated in the warm water, and Macklin, staring blankly at the floor, ate his Fatburger. The only sounds were the rushing water and the whirring fan.

"Have you heard of the Transformational Awareness Life Church?" she asked.

"That isn't the answer. I won't join." He swallowed his mouthful of food. "I don't want to become one of those EST-holes."

"I don't want you to join, and it isn't EST," she said. "I'm doing a story on them. It's one of those self-awareness, self-realization programs. A guy named Fraser Nebbins runs it. They have their own little community out in the desert."

"Yeah, so what's the story? There's dozens of weirdo groups like that in Los Angeles. They franchise them like McDonald's. I hear it's quite chic."

"The kids who join TALC go in but never come out."

"Uh-huh." Macklin finished the shake and dumped the paper cup amidst the pizza crust, Kleenex, and yogurt containers in the thin wicker basket beside the toilet.

"I'm joining them."

Macklin stared at her through the frosted glass. Her body was straight, and she was looking at him in an aloof, distant way.

"I want to find out exactly what's happening to those kids," she said.

"Yeah, that sounds great," he said. "But in practice it's pretty stupid. They are going to play around with your head. They're probably experts at it. You'll go in there as Ms. Gung-ho Journalist and come out as their publicity director."

"I know that, Brett," she said in a patronizing tone. "I'm taking precautions."

"There are other ways to tell the story. You don't need to go undercover."

"That's the way I want to do it."

The phone rang on the nightstand by the bed. Macklin glared at the phone as if that would shut it up. He glanced at Mordente, set his burger on the toilet tank, and reluctantly trudged out to the bedroom.

"Hello," he snapped.

"It's me," replied LAPD Sergeant Ronald Shaw, "the guy who should be home sleeping but is cleaning up your mess at the Chevron station instead."

The black homicide detective and Macklin had grown up together. It was Shaw, with Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker's approval, who kept the LAPD from probing too deeply into Mr. Jury—the vigilante who had crushed a homicidal street gang, destroyed a ring of psychopathic pedophiles, and decimated a racist cult of deranged killers. The vigilante Brett Macklin had become.

Macklin turned and saw Mordente standing naked in front of the toilet, holding his hamburger with disdain over the toilet bowl.

"The attendant says the guys you toasted knew you," Shaw said.

She smiled at Macklin, dropped the burger in the toilet, and flushed it. Macklin grinned and turned his back to her.

"Yeah, they did."

"Shit, Mack, if the gangs know you're Mr. Jury, they're not going to rest until they've chopped you into little pieces," Shaw said. "You need protection."

Macklin glanced at his shoulder holster draped over a chair across the room. "Ronny, I've got all the protection I need."

"Give me a break, Mack. You aren't an invincible superhero. Tonight you were lucky. Tomorrow you may not be."

Macklin felt Mordente press her damp body against his back. She let her hands glide down his broad chest and over his flat stomach to his waist.

"It's time for you to give up this vigilante lunacy," Shaw said. "It's over. Move to another city or something and start again."

There were four dull pops as Mordente split open the buttons of his Levi's 501 jeans.

"Ronny, I've got to go." Her warm hands slipped under his bikini briefs. "Something just came up."

Wednesday, June 12, 8:30 a.m.

Their chests were heaving, their lungs clawing for air, as their bodies climbed the heights of their passion. Macklin felt the urgency in her hot breaths, in the trembling hands holding his neck.

Macklin sat at the bed's edge, his hands on Mordente's sides. She faced him, her eyes half-closed with pleasure, as she bobbed on his lap. The morning sun seeped through the shutters and sliced their sweaty bodies with beams of light.

He licked her lips with the tip of his tongue and brushed her erect nipples with his thumbs. She sucked in her stomach and involuntarily arched her back, offering her pleasure-hungry breasts to his hands.

"I can't hold out much longer," she gasped. "My hair will turn gray."

Macklin chuckled and kissed her, kneading her aching breasts. "Then I win."

She shook her head. "No way, damn it, you'll come first." She swallowed, trying to control her feverish breathing. "I can't afford to buy you dinner."

Her pelvic muscles squeezed tight around his penis. A bolt of pleasure shot up Macklin's spine. Her body rode him, pumping the pleasure in them both to an unbearable intensity. Macklin clutched her breasts and she saw his face become rigid.

"Having some problems?" she huffed, her face wrinkling as if she were about to sneeze.

Macklin shook his head and gritted his teeth, his upper lip quivering.

Their fingers dug into each other and a tremor rocked their bodies. Suddenly Mordente cried out, bouncing franticly and breathing in staccato bursts. Macklin stiffened, his face shaking, a low moan escaping from his lips. Their bodies shook with ecstasy, riding the orgasmic waves of pleasure.

Her movements gradually slowed and Macklin's body relaxed, a flush coloring his skin. She leaned forward and nuzzled her face against his neck.

"I think it's a draw," Macklin whispered, his eyes still closed.

Mordente laughed and hugged him tightly. She could feel his heart pounding against her. "So who buys dinner?"

The phone jangled.

"Shit." Macklin reached for it.

"It's me," Shaw said.

"Oh, for God's sake, Ronny, will you leave me alone?" Mordente laughed again and kissed his neck.

"I've got bad news, Mack."

Macklin kissed the top of her head. "Yeah, yeah, go on."

"Mort's been killed."

Every muscle in Macklin's body stiffened defensively. Mordente felt it and pulled back, staring into Macklin's cold eyes. For a second, she felt like she was the only person in the room.

"The Mexican police need you to come down and claim the body," Shaw said. "You're his only family."

"Tell me what happened." Macklin said in a monotone. Mordente slid off of him and sat on the bed, uncomfortably aware of her nakedness.

"I'm not sure. He was found in his hotel room with his neck broken," Shaw replied, pausing awkwardly for a moment before continuing to speak. "A cop named Ortiz will meet you at the airport. I'm sorry, Mack, I—"

"It's all right," Macklin interrupted. "I'll let you know if I find out anything."

"I'd go with you if I could."

"I know. I'll call you." Macklin slammed down the phone and pulled on his pants, which were lying in a clump beside the bed.

"What is it?" Mordente asked.

He picked up his chili-stained shirt and put it on. "Mort has been killed."

"Oh, Brett . . ." As she reached to touch him, he went to the closet.

He found a duffel bag and started shoving clothes into it. She watched him in silence and drew the sheets up over herself.

"Where are you going?"

"To Mexico. Someone's got to claim the body and someone has to find the killer." He dropped the duffel bag on the chair and strapped on his gun. "And make him pay."

He leaned over Mordente and gave her a light kiss on the lips. "Call my ex-wife. Tell her I can't take Cory to the movies tomorrow."

She nodded, put her hand behind his neck, and drew him to her lips again. He pulled back, looked into her moist eyes, and almost stayed.

He turned abruptly and walked out.

# # # # # #

Noon

Brooke Macklin closed Isadora Van Rijn's portfolio and laid it gently on her desk. Van Rijn's paintings, depicted in the photographs in the portfolio, were among the most haunting works Brooke had ever seen. Yet, she could barely keep her attention on them. Van Rijn herself was the most haunting thing Brooke had ever seen. Brooke's eyes kept drifting over the edge of the portfolio and locking on the slim, black-haired woman who had just breezed in and, in a voice that had the intimacy of a whisper and the jarring effect of a shout, asked if she could show the owner her work.

Ordinarily, Brooke would have stifled an incredulous laugh and shown the obnoxious stranger to the door. Instead, with trancelike submission, Brooke had taken it.

Van Rijn was browsing through Brooke's gallery, studying the paintings with her soft amber eyes.

The pull, which Brooke couldn't quite define, didn't wane as time passed. It only grew stronger.

Van Rijn's coal black hair was styled in a blunt bob cut that accented her cheekbones and gave her eyes a sharp, mean quality. She wore a black wool jacket over a baggy V-neck T-shirt. Brooke noticed the large, dark nipples poking against the white fabric as it brushed over the smooth swell of Van Rijn's unrestrained breasts. Her jacket had narrow lapels and hung past her hips. The sleeves were bunched up over her elbows, and her hands were buried in the pockets of her black leather pants.

"Your work is captivating, unusual," Brooke began.
And so are you.
She had trouble summoning her voice. Van Rijn cocked her head towards Brooke and smiled, a sort of half-amused expression that gave Brooke a chill and a charge at the same time. "How come I've never heard of you?"