Judgment (12 page)

Macklin waited until the taxi drove away before emerging from the dark cover of the alley. He saw Ortega force open the double-sashed window and pe inside the building. No thoughts burdened Macklin as he slowly crossed the street to the age-beaten, colorless structure, long ago abandoned and left for dead.

Macklin scaled the ladder carefully, paused on the landing, and cocked his head towards the dark hallway beyond the window. All he could hear was the creaking of the door swaying in the night breeze. He stepped to the right edge of the window, pressed his back to the wall, and peered with a sideways glance down the length of the hallway. Moonlight spilled through a cracked window at the far end. The rest was blackness.

Macklin crossed quickly to the opposite side of the window, holding the gun up beside his head, and looked inside again. All he saw was more darkness. He sighed and looked down through the iron grating at the alleyway below. It was now or never.

He turned. A face stared back at him through the window. It was his reflection in the glass. The face didn't seem like his own: humorless, rigid, a disquieting smile playing on the lips.

Macklin closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tightened his grip on the gun. A second later he swung his leg over the sill, paused, and pulled himself through, ready to shoot anything that upset the darkness. Nothing did.

He moved slowly towards the cracked window at the end of the hallway, both hands around the gun, muzzle tip up and held out confidently in front of him. His eyes darted from side to side, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound.

Ortega lashed out of the darkness, slashing Macklin's gun hand with a switchblade. Macklin's hand tightened reflexively, the loud crack of gunfire splitting the night as the blade sliced open his hand.

Macklin stumbled backwards, startled, the Magnum slipping out of his injured hand and clattering to the floor. Suddenly Ortega was an inch away from his face, ready to plunge the knife into his neck. Macklin sidestepped and felt the blade sliding smoothly into the flesh of his upper right shoulder.

They tumbled backwards towards the cracked window. Ortega drove his knee into Macklin's chest, knocked him straight up, and then hit him across the face with a hard right punch.

Macklin slammed back against the wall. The impact jarred the air out of his lungs. He fell forward and took a feeble right swing at Ortega's head.

Ortega, grinning, dodged the blow and drove his fist into Macklin's stomach.

Macklin doubled over, gagging for air. Ortega whipped his knee into Macklin's chin. A blinding white pain erupted in Macklin's head. He no longer sensed his body. He was just a weightless pain sailing through the air.

A second later he could feel his limbs again and knew he was lying on the floor. He could hear Ortega panting for breath. Macklin's vision was a blur.

Ortega's shape leaned over him in slow motion, though Macklin knew it was all passing in an instant. Macklin was aware of the searing pain in his shoulder.

He could vaguely sense Ortega crouching over him, raising the knife, savoring the brief moment before plunging it again and again into Macklin's chest.

He's going to kill me.

The realization slapped him. For a split second, his head cleared. Macklin twisted to the left and dodged Ortega's savage knife thrust.

Macklin kicked Ortega's knees and heard a crack. Ortega cried out, reeling backwards and dropping the knife.

Macklin stood up quickly. He was overwhelmed by a wave of nausea and dizziness and nearly fell again. Swaying, Macklin saw Ortega crawling for the switchblade. Rage took Macklin over, consuming his pain and momentarily revitalizing him.

He kicked Ortega in the side with a loud grunt. Ortega rolled into the wall and scrambled to his feet. Macklin faced Ortega and smiled.

"C'mon, little man," Macklin hissed.

Ortega swung wildly with his right hand. Macklin ducked and grabbed Ortega's arm, pinned it behind Ortega's back, and pushed Ortega headfirst through one of the few window panes to escape vandals' rocks.

Ortega's scream mingled with the sound of shattering glass. Macklin pulled him out quickly. Jagged glass stuck up from the sill like teeth.

Macklin twisted Ortega's arm with one hand, gripped the man's head with the other, and thrust him slowly through the window again. He stopped when Ortega's neck nearly rested on the pointed glass shard sticking up from the sill. Blood streamed down Ortega's cheeks and dripped onto the glass bits.

"Who killed the cop?" Macklin stared into the back of Ortega's head and forced the words out through deep, raspy breaths. "Who? Who killed him?"

"Go fuck yourself, asshole," Ortega groaned.

Macklin twisted Ortega's arm up and forced his neck down against the shard. Ortega's body thrashed under him as the glass touched his skin, drawing blood.

"Are you getting the point? Huh? I want answers. Who killed the cop?"

Ortega stiffened, afraid the slightest movement would drive the sharp glass deeper into his neck.

"Talk to me," Macklin said, "or the next time you make a sound it will be out of both sides of your throat."

"I-it was Primo. P-Primo torched the pig."

"Where can I find him?"

Ortega hesitated. Macklin pushed Ortega's head down against the shard.

Ortega whimpered. "Okay, okay," he whined, "the scrap yard two blocks o-over, h-his old man owns it. Y-you can find Primo there."

"How about the others, where can I find them?"

"Shit, I-I can't tell you that . . ."

"Talk or I'll impale you right now."

Ortega spilled out the information in one long, agonized breath.

Macklin lifted Ortega off the shard and tossed him against the wall.

Ortega grunted painfully and slid to the floor. Macklin walked down the hallway, picking up his gun and the crimson switchblade. His bloody shirt clung to his chest and his shoulder pulsed with pain.

"You're crazy, man, a goddamned crazy motherfuckin' lunatic," Ortega yelled. Macklin kept walking, his back to Ortega.

Macklin turned slowly.

His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "You're a tombstone, buddy."

He raised the Magnum slowly, saw Ortega's eyes widen in fear, and then pulled the trigger.

Ortega's head exploded, splashing blood and brain against the wall.

Macklin stood locked in place. The gunshot echoed off the walls. His stomach contorted, and bile bubbled inside him, struggling to get out. He had just killed a man, not in self-defense, but in cold blood.

Macklin winced, fighting back the urge to vomit.

When he opened his eyes again he could only stare at what was left of Ortega—the splintered head and the greenish goo dripping off the wall onto the bloodstained torso.

The shakes started in Macklin's knees and spread up his body. He shivered like a naked man in a snow flurry.

What have I done?
he asked himself meekly.

Only gave the scum what he deserved.
The reply was strong, self-assured, as if coming from a different man hiding behind his conscious mind.

The shakes disappeared and Macklin was in control again. His body was bathed in sweat and the pain was coming back. Soon it would be too strong . . . Macklin turned away and walked weakly down the hallway into the night.

His body spiraled through a tunnel of thick fog. Wisps of mist whirled in front of his eyes. The fog suddenly split and a black wall closed in on him. The impact, rather than smashing him, left him floating motionless in darkness. Light began to seep into his dark world and he became aware of the coldness underneath him.

He began to sense the contours of his body. A flame burned deep inside his left shoulder. His head pounded in time with his heart. The light cut the darkness into indistinct gray shapes.

"Brett? Can you hear me?"

The gray melted and gave way to dimension and color. Macklin stretched his hands and felt wood underneath him. A table.

Macklin blinked hard, concentrating on tuning in his vision as if it were a television picture.

When he opened his eyes he saw Mort Suderson leaning over him.

"Good morning." Mort smiled grimly.

"Hi." The reply scratched Macklin's dry throat.

"You look like hell." Mort's breath looked like smoke in the cold air.

"I always do in the morning." Macklin leaned upwards, and Mort, seeing Macklin wanted to sit up, wrapped his arm around Macklin's shoulders and guided him.

Macklin closed his eyes, feeling nauseous. The nausea subsided and he opened his eyes again. He sat on the edge of the table, facing Mort. Behind Mort he saw his Cessna and realized he was in his hangar at the Santa Monica Airport. The hangar was always freezing in the morning.

Macklin fingered his shirt. It wasn't damp with blood. He wore fresh clothes.

"How did you get here? Where did these clothes come from?"

Mort dragged over a stool and sat down in front of Macklin. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" Macklin mumbled, running his tongue over a loose tooth on the upper right side of his mouth.

Mort frowned. "I found you about an hour ago, just after six a.m., lying against your car. You were bloody and beat to hell. You were mumbling all sorts of unintelligible shit. When I mentioned taking you to a hospital you started screaming 'no' and passed out."

Macklin lightly poked his cheeks. They were sore to the touch and were slightly swollen.

"So I carried you in here, cleaned you up as best I could, and put you in some clothes I found in your office." Mort sniffled. "You've got to see a doctor. Those knife wounds are nasty and my spit 'n' glue patchwork isn't going to be enough."

"No doctors, not yet."

"Sure, sure." Mort waved Macklin away and started pacing in front of him. "Guess you had a rough night."

"Uh-huh," Macklin groaned.

"Uh-huh," Mort mimicked. "That's it? Just uh-huh? Listen, pal, I think you owe me more of an explanation than that. What the fuck is going on?"

Macklin looked into his friend's eyes. "Mort, let's forget it. I—"

"No," Mort interrupted, staring into Macklin's eyes. Macklin had never seen such angry determination in his friend before. "Tell me now or I'll walk to that phone and call you an ambulance."

"Have you heard about Mr. Jury?" Macklin asked wearily.

"Yeah, so?"

"You're looking at him."

Mort pursed his lips and exhaled his breath in a dull whistle.

A loud screech outside caused them both to turn their heads towards the hangar door. Macklin heard a car door slam shut and the clap of feet on the pavement. He glanced at Mort just as Sergeant Sliran, a cigarette dangling from his lips, yanked open the hangar door.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Macklin chirped, pushing himself off the table. The nausea rose in him again. "What are you doing here?"

Sliran tossed his cigarette away and stormed up to within inches of Macklin's face. "Make it easy on me, Macklin. Gimme the gun and assume the position against your plane."

"Watch out, it's supercop." Mort grinned.

Sliran glared at Mort. "Don't push it, Suderson. I'll serve you your teeth for breakfast."

"C'mon, Sliran, we get the point. You're a real tough asshole. We're petrified. Get to the point or get the hell out."

"Last night you went downtown and blew Jesse Ortega's brains out."

"Really?" Macklin stared into Sliran's eyes. "Gee, and I thought I was here last night with Mort, working on the plane." Macklin maintained eye contact with Sliran, overcoming the urge to glance at Mort. His heartbeat quickened.

How far would his friend go to cover for him? One contradictory word or expression from Mort, and Macklin was ruined.

"Jesse Ortega was acquitted, you know, for torching your daddy," Sliran said.

"I know," Macklin said evenly.

"That's motive."

"Sure is. Only problem is I didn't do it."

"Coincidence, huh?" Sliran sneered.

"Sounds like it to me. I know it's hard to accept, Ortega being such a saint and all. Who would want to hurt him?"

"Mr. Jury. The bullet that blasted open Ortega's head came from the same gun used on Hector Gomez and Teobaldo Villanueva. Funny, so far Mr. Jury has only killed people on your shitlist. Quite a coincidence."

"So call
That's Incredible!
Arrest me or get the hell out of my hangar."

Sliran scratched his neck. "Look over your shoulder, Macklin. You so much as spit and I'll haul your ass behind bars."

"Out." Macklin smiled. "Now."

Sliran stomped out, slamming the door behind him. Macklin turned slowly towards Mort and then fell back against the table.

Mort licked his lips. "Did you kill Ortega?"

"Yes." Macklin sighed. He didn't know what more to say. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep. Macklin moved away from the table and stumbled toward his office.

"I'm gonna sleep for a few hours in my office, okay?"

"Sure," Mort mumbled.

Macklin shuffled into the office and sat down carefully on the torn reclining chair behind his desk. His whole body sagged, aching everywhere all at once.

He leaned forward, pulled open his desk drawer, and rummaged around the pencils and paper clips and folders until he found a small plastic bottle of Tylenol. He emptied the pills out in the drawer. Three open Tab cans lay amidst the clutter on his desk. He reached for one, shook it, and heard some liquid swirl inside. Macklin placed two pills in his mouth and swallowed them with a mouthful of flat, sweet soda.

Macklin sat back in the seat, rested his feet on the desk, and closed his eyes. Sleep caught up with him quickly.

His dream took him back to the tenement. To Ortega. Again there was the fight, the shattered glass, the blood. Again the .357 Magnum spit fire. But this time it was Macklin's head that burst, a stream of blood shooting out of his neck like a geyser. The blood became a shape. The shape became a name. The man was Brett Macklin's twin.

The scum got what he deserved.

The scum . . . the scum . . . the scum . . . deserved . . . deserved.