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  "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."

  CHAPTER TWO

  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 a
nd 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?"

  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."

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.