Guilty (3 page)

Van Rijn shrugged. "I've kept to myself."

"Isadora, I'll be honest with you. People don't just walk in here out of nowhere and expect me to give them a show," Brooke said.

"I understand," Van Rijn said, approaching Brooke's desk. "I appreciate your time and patience."

Van Rijn reached for her portfolio.

Brooke put her hand over Van Rijn's. "Wait," she said, self-consciously removing her tingling hand. "That isn't what I meant. It's just that your work is so good, I can't believe you haven't been heard from before. I'd like to do a show with you."

The phone rang.

"Excuse me," Brooke said, swiveling her chair around so she faced the back of the store. "Cory? Could you get that?"

"Okay," replied a tiny voice in the back room.

"That's my daughter," Brooke explained, smiling. "She's teaching me and my staff how to use the computer I just bought."

"How old is she?" Van Rijn asked.

"Ten. And she's the only one who understands the damn thing."

Van Rijn laughed, a gentle sound that Brooke could feel tickling her sternum.

"Mom?" Cory walked out of the backroom and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing her arms under her chest. She had the stature of an adult and curious, intelligent eyes offset by a tiny pug nose crossed by a light sprinkle of freckles.

Brooke turned around and Cory continued: "It's Jessica. She wants to talk with you. She says it's important."

"Ask her if I can call her right back," Brooke said.

"Wait," Van Rijn interrupted. "I have to go now anyway. Is there another time I can see you?"

"How about this time tomorrow?"

"My days are complicated."

"Mom," Cory whined impatiently.

"Hold on," Brooke said sternly. She rolled her eyes at Isadora, as if to say, You know how it is . . . "Why don't we get together for dinner? I'll have some contracts drawn up and we can get to know each other."

"All right."

Brooke scrawled something on the back of a business card and handed it to Van Rijn. "This is my home address. Why don't you come by Friday evening, about eight?"

Van Rijn nodded shyly, said, "Thank you," in a light, husky voice, turned, and walked out. Brooke sat in her chair for a long moment until Cory's insistent "Mahhhhm" jarred her from her inaction and freed her from the lingering scent of Van Rijn's subtle perfume.

# # # # # #

Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, 3:00 p.m.

The palm trees were bent back against the hot, wet wind, their leaves fluttering. The frothing, bruised clouds crackled with quivering bolts of fire and crushed the morning's blue sky in resonant quakes. The afternoon storm seemed alive, a creature daring Brett Macklin to step out of his Cessna and face its wrath.

Macklin emerged from the plane braced for the worst, clutching his jacket collar tight around his neck. But, to his surprise, it was sweltering outside, the humid air hugging his face like a steaming towel. The contrast between the amiable air and the furious sky made Macklin uneasy. He wasn't quite sure how to react to it. He wasn't quite sure how to react to anything anymore.

Except violence. Ever since his father was set aflame by a street gang, death stalked Macklin. It was there, lurking in the shadows, wherever Macklin turned.

It was here, too, in this strange land. It had taken Mort as it had JD Macklin and Cheshire Davis . . . as it would someday take him.

Violence had become the only constant in Brett Macklin's life.

He pulled the hatch shut behind him and strode across the tarmac towards the small terminal building. Ahead and to his left, three passengers and two MexAir stewards filed up the mobile stairway into a 727.

The wind whipped Macklin's hair and the drizzle stung his face as he passed beside the plane. He imagined row after row of American tourists, wearing their ridiculous sombreros, waiting to be whisked back to their sedate world.

God, how he wished he could return to a time when violence to him was something that William Shatner did between commercials for Hamburger Helper and Fruit of the Loom. He had lived with the naive faith that he was safe from the savage dark side of humanity. He'd never thought about the fragile nature of his very existence; he'd wondered why nobody could make a frozen pizza that didn't taste like dry rot.

He glanced wistfully up into the cabin. A steward pulled a gun from inside his red blazer and motioned a stewardess down the aisle.

Macklin heard Fate giving him the Bronx cheer.

The other steward disappeared into the cockpit while a nervous stewardess began closing the plane's hatch. The familiar coldness washed over Brett Macklin and carried him forward. He dashed up the stairs like a flustered, rushed tourist.

"Wait, wait," he yelled, waving his duffel bag in the air, "don't go home without me!"

He came huffing into the plane and glanced apologetically to his right at the steward standing in the aisle. The man was breathing through his mouth, exposing his silver-capped incisors. Macklin couldn't see his gun, but he knew it was there by the expression on the stewardess's face. She stood behind the steward and looked like she might vomit.

"May I have your boarding pass, please?" asked the stewardess to Macklin's left. Behind her, the other steward stood in the cockpit doorway and, Macklin assumed, had a gun pointed at the woman's back.

"Sure," Macklin said, dropping his duffel bag and reaching into his jacket with his right hand.

In one quick motion, he yanked out his .357, shoved the stewardess aside, and shot the steward standing in the cockpit doorway. The slug burst open the steward's stomach, blasting out entrails and blood.

The seam between the passengers' world and Macklin's split open. They peeked in and recoiled in panic and revulsion. Some ped under their seats, others squirmed uncontrollably, a few just covered their ears and wailed. The cacophony of fear was lost in the deafening roar of gunfire.

Macklin spun into a crouch as the other steward's gun bucked. Macklin felt the searing trail of a bullet skimming over his head and pumped off two shots. The first bullet slammed into the steward's chest and spun him on his heels. The second bullet tore into his cheek, spraying the cabin with silver-capped teeth and bloody cartilage.

The blood-splashed stewardess in the aisle screamed, her horrified eyes locked on the convulsing, faceless corpse at her feet. Her scream became part of the echo of terror and gunfire that shuddered through the plane.

Macklin grimaced. Puerto Vallarta was just another battleground.

He stood up and twirled the gun around his finger so that he held it by the barrel. Avoiding the other stewardess's empty eyes, he bent over and snatched up his duffel bag. He let his gun arm hang limply against his side and calmly walked through the hatchway.

It was pouring rain. A lightning bolt flashed overhead and thunder rolled through the dark clouds. A half dozen soldiers scrambled out of the airport and aimed their rifles at him. One man, in a water-soaked khaki shirt and slacks, stood at the base of the stairway with his gun pointed at Macklin's gut. The man seemed oblivious to the drenching downpour.

Macklin slowly moved down the stairs and studied the man's face. It looked as though someone had run a steamroller over it a few times. The man's head was large, the skin puffy, the nose flat and wide.

The man regarded Macklin quizzically. "Are you Brett Macklin?"

Macklin nodded. Water streamed down his face, but he felt the death clinging to his skin, refusing to be washed away.

"We saw you leave your little plane and run into the jet." The man motioned to the .357 at Macklin's side. "You carry some interesting luggage, Mr. Macklin."

Macklin shrugged, offering the man the butt of his .357. "With this, I don't have to carry traveler's checks."

The man snorted, his lips twisted into a half-assed grin. He, too, had a couple of silver-capped teeth. Macklin hoped he'd never need a cavity filled in Mexico. The man holstered his gun and waved at the soldiers to lower their rifles.

"I'm Captain Jacob Ortiz of the Puerto Vallarta police." He took Macklin's .357, slipped it under his waistband, and led him towards the terminal. "I sincerely hope your stay will be short."

The downpour turned Puerto Vallarta's cobblestone streets into rivers of mud. The Chrysler sedan lumbered through like a barge.

Ortiz sat in the backseat beside Macklin, who squinted through the mud-smeared windshield at the thatched huts and chalky white buildings ahead.

"How long has the weather been like this?" Macklin asked. "It must be killing the tourist trade."

He felt the cold barrel of his .357 poke him in the side. Macklin glanced down at it in surprise and then up into Ortiz's impassive face.

"I guess you don't like small talk," Macklin said.

Ortiz nudged him with the gun. "Open your door."

Macklin pushed open the door. Muddy water splashed into the moving car. "If you wanted fresh air, you could have just asked me nicely."

"Jump out," Ortiz said.

Macklin sighed and looked glumly at the man. "You aren't Captain Ortiz."

"Brilliant deduction," the man said, "now jump."

Macklin hesitated. He knew it had been too good to be true. No one can step off a plane, kill a couple men two minutes later, and then expect to be politely escorted past customs into a waiting car without any hassles.

How could I be so goddamn stupid? I
deserve
to be tossed out of a moving car.

The man cocked the gun. "You either jump out or I blow you out."

"Shit," Macklin hissed, and tumbled out of the car. His body slammed into the cobblestone, knocking the breath out of him. He rolled off the embankment in a waterfall of sludge and dropped facefirst into a pool of mud.

He flopped over onto his back and lay there stunned for a moment, his eyes closed and face caked with mud. He could feel the coarse, dirty water riding over his skin like sandpaper. The raindrops felt like stones pummeling his body.

Welcome to Mexico, Macky boy.

He was starting to rise when a crushing weight on his neck forced him back down with a splash. His eyes flew open, and through the haze of rain, mud, and dizziness, he saw himself surrounded by trees. But no, they weren't trees, he realized—they were men. Macklin, barely able to breathe under the boot mashing his throat, to make out the dark human shape towering over him, grabbed the man's ankle and futilely tried to lift the boot off his throat. His lungs ached for air. Raindrops and dizziness clouded his vision. He couldn't get his arms to operate properly.

The men drew in close around him and simultaneously began kicking him. His body jerked between the men and he lost his grasp on the man's ankle. His arms fell like broken tree limbs to the ground. He was utterly helpless, a sack of flesh for them to stomp into bloody mush.

They're killing me
.
.
.

His consciousness drowned in the inky blackness of agony.

# # # # # #

Southern California

Wednesday, June 12 / Thursday, June 13

The old yellow school bus pulled off the eerily empty highway and bumped along through the black desert night on an unlit private road. Despite the jostling, of the two dozen people aboard, only Jessica Mordente and one teenage boy were awake. He was in the back, puking up his dinner into a plastic Ralph's grocery bag.

All Mordente could see out of her window was darkness. Her head was tilted against the glass, her cheek pressed to the cold, smooth surface. She could feel the vibration of the engine trembling in her larynx.

She'd lost track of time. How many hours ago was she wandering down Hollywood Boulevard, a lost look on her face? How long since they had found her, embraced her, cajoled her into coming to their white house on stilts that faced the beach?

She ate their dinner, drank their wine, soaked up their reassuring words. She filed onto the bus with the rest of the lonely people they had found, the people who had never heard of the TALC before but were ready to join it if it would just end their desperation.

How long until they arrived at the Talcon Colony? Hours? Days? No, she knew it couldn't be days. She knew where it was. It was in the desert somewhere . . . right? Mordente reminded herself that she was different from the others on the bus. She wasn't a lonely waif. She was a reporter.

Mordente tried to feel the immensity of the
Los Angeles Times
, the power of journalistic responsibility, lifting her up. It didn't work. The newsprint, the presses, and the green, luminescent letters on her VDT screen seemed far away.

Her eyes stung with fatigue, her butt ached from sitting so long, and her head felt heavy; they all were signals for her to let her body switch off. She knew she should be sleeping, but something kept her awake—curiosity, perhaps, and the desire not to give in to sleep as the others had. After all, she reminded herself again, she was different.

The bus turned, the motion swaying her body and lifting her cheek away from the glass. The gray wall of the Talcon Colony was revealed in the arc of the bus's headlights.

The driver honked twice. A simple iron gate, the only break in a sandblasted stone wall, swung open, and it became daylight in the desert. Dozens of hidden floodlights burst on atop the ten-foot stone wall and from their mountings in surrounding rocks and foliage.

An austere, pastel-colored hacienda with a faded, red-tile roof seemed to rise out of the night as the bus turned into the compound. Two unimaginative, barrack-style wings jutted from the main house. Mordente guessed they were built later, judging by the incongruence they created when matched with the hacienda.

The bus stopped with a lurch that made everyone on board jerk forward and wake up. Gears screeched, the engine coughed to death, and the doors folded back, letting the chilly desert suck the warmth out of the bus.

Mike, one of the TALC guys who had befriended Mordente on Hollywood Boulevard, popped into the aisle from one of the front seats. He looked about twenty-five and exuded so much energy, it looked to Mordente like a spotlight was on him. He was the sort of clean-cut type you find all over Provo, Utah, and wore a beige button-down oxford and a maroon sweater. His hands were half-buried in the pockets of his faded blue jeans, so his arms were crooked at the elbows, giving his upper body a sheepish, golly-gee-whiz hunch. His rubber-tipped, blue canvas tennis shoes added to the impression.