Guilty Page 4

  "How are the others coming?"

  "Three proved unmalleable and had to be killed," Nebbins said. "The others are developing nicely. We may be slightly overstocked with men, though."

  "So we trim our inventory if necessary." Sabib pinched Mordente's lips.

  Nebbins shrugged. "Some of them I'll allocate as specimens for research and development. I hate to be wasteful. This one, though, looks like she'll reap us many rewards."

  Sabib studied her face and passionlessly fondled her breasts, examining them for workmanship. "So when can I begin reaping?"

  "Patience, Achmed, patience." Nebbins grinned. "You can christen her on Sunday."

  # # # # # #

  Brett Macklin tumbled weightlessly through time and space, through the wispy clouds of memories real and memories imagined. The rhythmic, electronic bleeps of his electrocardiograph echoed from the furthest edges of his consciousness and scored his tormenting descent . . .

  . . . he was in Mayor Jed Stocker's office. Shaw was there, too.

  The mayor sat at his desk. "I told you about the problem in Chinatown because I want Mr. Jury to take care of it."

  "Fuck off, Stocker," Macklin said. "I'm not doing anything for you."

  "You will. You're still angry. You want to keep fighting."

  Macklin glanced at Shaw. The black detective's eyes reflected an eerie, sad anger. Macklin turned, strode to the office door, and flung it open.

  He was in a MexAir plane. Everything looked murky, thick, as if submerged in water. He jerked his head over his shoulder and looked through the doorway. Stocker's office was gone. All he saw was the Puerto Vallarta airport terminal behind him.

  "May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess beside him asked. She spoke like a record played far too slow. Macklin looked down the long, endless aisle. Brooke and Cory sat in every seat. They sat, he knew, in judgment. A ghastly image of himself stood in the aisle laughing, his pasty lips twisted in unrestrained disgust around swollen, bleeding gums and silver-capped teeth.

  "May I have your boarding pass, please?" the stewardess repeated in that heavy half speed of dreams.

  Macklin grinned cockily at his alter image and, in that same, drowsy slowness, said, "Sure."

  He pulled out his .357, spun on his heel, and fired at the silver-toothed Macklin.

  The stewardess droned endlessly over the painful reverberations of the gunshot. "May I have your boarding pass, please?"

  Brooke and Cory joined the uninjured, silver-toothed image in sickly, malicious laughter. Macklin, confused, looked down at his chest. He was bleeding, gallons and gallons of blood, unreal, unthinkable, unbelievable streams of blood. The thick, frothing waves of red bubbled out of his body, splashed on the floor, and raged down the aisle.

  "Who are you?" Brooke, Cory, and the silver-toothed Macklin screeched, their voices like chalk skidding across a blackboard. Macklin's blood lapped at their ankles. "Who are you?"

  Macklin lifted his head from his wound and said, "The jury."

  He dropped to his knees, the life spilling out of him.

  "Who are you?" they wailed.

  "The jury," Macklin yelled and fell forward. He grabbed at the air, uselessly reaching for something to stop his fall. He splashed face-first into a hot, bottomless pool of his own blood. He opened his mouth to cry for help. Blood rushed up his nostrils and filled his lungs, and he knew he was dead.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Puerto Vallarta

  Friday, June 14, 6:12 p.m.

  The way Brett Macklin was feeling, he almost wished he actually was dead. He could feel the two hemispheres of his brain pulsing with a dull, swollen ache. His eyeballs floated in stinging oil, and the muscles in his body had been replaced with cement. So he just laid motionless in his bed, staring up at Jesus crucified on the wall above the iron headboard.

  Macklin made no effort to contact anyone when he awoke, nor did he try to look at his watch, which wasn't on his wrist anyway. He was still getting used to the idea that he was alive, when the door to his room cracked opened and Captain Jacob Ortiz edged in.

  "You're awake," Ortiz said, closing the door and disappearing again. The captain's sudden appearance prompted Macklin to focus his attention on his situation. Before he could do much thinking, the door opened again and Ortiz came in, accompanied by a doctor.

  "How are you feeling?" Ortiz asked.

  "I'll know in a minute," Macklin replied hoarsely as the doctor pulled back the bedsheets, exposing Macklin's wounds to them all.

  His chest was bruised and his midsection was wrapped tightly in bandages. Bruises blotched the length of his legs.

  "I'm better than I expected," Macklin said, raising his hands to his face, lightly brushing the swollen skin, and then over his head, which was covered with bandages.

  The doctor smiled, listened to Macklin's heart with a stethoscope, said something to Ortiz in Spanish, and then left the two men alone.

  "So?" Macklin asked. "What did he say?"

  "He says you're lucky to be alive." Ortiz sat on the edge of Macklin's bed.

  "How long have I been here?"

  "Couple days," Ortiz replied. "You don't have any serious injuries, a few broken ribs and a lot of bruising, but the concussion and the trauma put you in a coma."

  Macklin explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue. "What about my teeth? You didn't have to do anything to my teeth, did you?"

  "Nope."

  Macklin grinned. "Thank God. So who are you?"

  Ortiz chuckled. "Aren't I the one who is supposed to ask the questions?"

  "Yeah, but you won't get any answers unless I know who you are."

  "I'm Captain Jacob Ortiz, Puerto Vallarta police."

  "Great," Macklin said. "The last guy who told me that tossed me out of a moving car."

  "That's what puzzles me, Mr. Macklin," Ortiz said. "Why would someone want to do that to you?"

  Macklin would have shrugged if it wouldn't hurt like hell to do it. He just stared blankly at Ortiz instead.

  "Why would someone want to kill your friend?" Ortiz continued. "Why would someone beat you and leave you to be pissed on?"

  "Pissed on?"

  "At first I thought you were one very unlucky man," Ortiz said. "But I was wrong, very wrong."

  "What's this about being pissed on?"

  "You're lucky I'm actually an LA cop, you're lucky to have a friend like Sergeant Shaw to pull strings for you, and you're lucky to be alive."

  Macklin sat up slowly, gritting his teeth against the pain that squeezed his entire body with excruciating pressure.

  "Someone pissed on me?"

  Ortiz nodded. "Be glad. Otherwise, we might not have found you until there was nearly nothing left to find."

  "I'm going to kill the motherfuckers who did this to me." Macklin turned his head to the bedside table. He saw the jug of water and the empty glass beside it. While Macklin was still deciding whether he wanted to try and get the water for himself, Ortiz stood up and poured Macklin a glass, holding it to Macklin's lips.

  Macklin jerked his head away and took the glass from Ortiz's hand, spilling some of the water on himself in the process.

  "Thanks," Macklin said, taking a sip.

  "You're welcome." Ortiz sighed and sat down on the bed again.

  "Tell me about Mort." Macklin swallowed all the water, leaned his head back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  "Suderson was found in his hotel room by a maid," Ortiz said. "We think a woman broke his neck while he was performing oral sex on her."

  Macklin's eyes flew open. "What?"

  "His face was soaked with vaginal discharge and there's evidence that extreme pressure was applied to either side of his head, " Ortiz said. "The position of his body when we found him clearly shows that he was on his knees at the time of his death. In addition, the traces of vaginal fluid we've found on the bedsheets and the carpet support the scenario."

  Ortiz looked away so Macklin couldn't see t
he smile he could no longer hold back. "We don't think he was an accidental victim of unrestrained, overly enthusiastic orgasmic response. It was murder."

  "A grotesquely appropriate way to kill him," Macklin observed. "Too appropriate."

  Ortiz looked back at Macklin. "Who killed him?"

  "You tell me," Macklin said. "I came down here to identify the body."

  "And you almost became a corpse yourself." Ortiz stood up and paced. "C'mon, Mr. Macklin, let's not play games."

  "Ortiz, I don't know anything. I'm more confused than you are."

  Ortiz stopped and stared at Macklin as if the truth would suddenly appear in print on Macklin's forehead. "No, you aren't."

  Macklin toyed with saying "yes, I am," but thought better of it. There was nothing to be gained by needling the man and everything to lose. He knew Ortiz could make life even less pleasant than it was now. I did kill two men, he thought, and they could hold me forever on that. Or they could disclose to the press that I was the guy who did it.

  "What about the woman. Do you have any leads on her?" Macklin asked.

  "A description from people at the pool where Suderson met her," Ortiz said. "Unfortunately, it's difficult to identify someone only from descriptions of her buttocks and breasts. Suderson, however, they all remembered."

  Macklin couldn't help grinning. Mort never was very subtle, even in death.

  "We've got passenger lists for all the outgoing flights since Suderson's murder, including the flight you . . . ah . . . disrupted," Ortiz said. "You're going to go through them and see if any name jogs your memory."

  "Okay, go get them."

  Ortiz was surprised. He thought Macklin would claim to be too weak, or in too much pain, to be helpful. Ortiz walked to the door, opened it a crack, and stuck his head into the corridor.

  "Mendoza," he yelled, "bring me the lists."

  Ortiz returned to Macklin's bed holding a sheaf of computer printouts and laid them on Macklin's lap. Macklin lifted the scroll and began scanning the names.

  Alberts, Penelope . . . Ames, Trisha . . . Arness, Frances.Banks, Helen . . .

  "This whole thing makes no sense at all to me," Ortiz said. "What did these unknown assailants gain by abducting you?"

  . . . Bender, Karen . . . Biagas, Loraine . . . Boucher, Laura . . . Byrd, Betty . . . Cabrera, Lucy . . .

  "They went to a lot of trouble and risk to do it, too," Ortiz continued. "But to what end?"

  Carlson, Elisa . . . Copeland, Dorothy . . . Curran, Janice . . . .

  "They didn't take your wallet or your watch," Ortiz said, "and they didn't beat you badly enough to kill you. They left you where you could presumably be found. I mean, they could easily have killed you if that's what they wanted."

  Davenport, Katie . . . Davidson, Burl . . . Davis, Cheshire . . .

  Cheshire Davis.

  Macklin felt a shiver course his spine. The killer, whoever she was, had a cruel, acidic sense of humor. Cheshire had been Macklin's lover. A gang of psychopathic pedophiles had tried to kill him by planting a bomb in his car. They'd killed Cheshire instead.

  The killer chose the name knowing I'd see it, Macklin thought. The killer is having fun with me. The killer is going to pay.

  "Why didn't the kidnappers kill you?" Ortiz continued. "All they succeeded in doing was putting you in the hospital for a few days."

  Macklin looked up from the printout.

  "What did you say?"

  "I said, what were the guys after? All they managed to do was put you in bed for a while."

  And keep me out of Los Angeles, away from . . . away from Brooke, from Cory, from—

  "Get me a phone," Macklin snapped.

  "What?" Ortiz was startled.

  "Get me a phone, damn it." Macklin tossed the printout at him. "I want to call my family."

  # # # # # #

  "Cory is at a slumber party for the weekend," Brooke told Macklin over the phone. She was doing a poor job of hiding her exasperation. Mack had become so difficult lately. She could barely hear his barrage of questions because of static and the echo of her own voice on the line.

  "With who?" he demanded.

  "Her friends, Mack. Cory and a bunch of her friends are with the Hendersons at their cabin up at Big Bear Lake. Is that okay with you?"

  "What are you doing?"

  "None of your damn business, Mack," Brooke said, wincing as echoes of her words blared into her ear. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

  "Nothing, Brooke, nothing at all," Macklin replied somberly. "I just wanted to know both of you were all right."

  She stayed quiet for a moment, smiled at her dinner guest, and waited for the echoes to clear the line.

  "We're all right, okay? Give the interrogation routine a rest."

  "Be careful, Brooke, and keep a close eye on Cory," Macklin said. "You could be in some danger."

  Oh God, she thought, not this paranoid crap again. Last time she'd let him nag her into leaving town. "No one's out to get us, Mack," she said.

  "Don't be so sure," Macklin replied. "Mort's death wasn't an accident."

  Brooke paused to consider her reply. Mort was probably killed by some tramp's enraged husband. Unfortunately, Brett had faced two other deaths in the last year or so, and a smart-ass reply wouldn't do much good. After all, anybody in his shoes would start to get a little unhinged.

  "I'm sorry about Mort, I really am," Brooke said carefully. "But I haven't seen him in years and I never had much connection with the guy anyway. I doubt whoever wanted to hurt him would care about Cory and me."

  "Brooke—"

  "Look, Mack, I have to go," Brooke interrupted. "I have guests. Give Cory a call when she gets back Sunday night, okay?"

  "Take care, Brooke."

  "I will. Good-bye." Brooke hung up the phone and exhaled, sagging on her bar stool at the kitchen counter.

  Brooke carried her empty glass to the table, where the dirty dinner plates sat unattended, and poured herself some more of the chilled wine, which was now lukewarm.

  "That was my ex-husband, Brett." She filled her glass. "His father was murdered not long ago, and ever since then he's been behaving strangely."

  She walked to the couch and cleared a space for herself among the dozens of hand-knit pillows.

  "I just don't know how to deal with him anymore."

  "Tell me about him." Isadora Van Rijn smiled warmly and put her arm around Brooke. "Maybe I can help."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Where's the cat?" Laura asked, pushing open the cabin's screen door and stepping out onto the porch. She clasped her pink bathrobe tight around her neck against the cold night air and looked down at the hand-made clay cat dish, decorated with Garfield cartoons and glazed yellow. "She hasn't even touched her Tender Vittles. Rusty, have you seen the cat?"

  "No," Rusty replied from inside the cabin, "and if I do I'm gonna clean the toilet bowl with it. Why don't you come back in here and watch Johnny Carson with me?"

  She let the screen door slam behind her and stared into the wall of trees where the light cast from the porch melted into darkness. Crickets hummed and a gentle breeze wafted across the lake and ruffled through the tall trees.

  "I'm going to go look for the cat."

  "Lore-ahhhh," he drawled, "you don't want to be out there looking for the cat."

  "Yes, I do." She stomped off the porch into the trees, her yellow thongs slapping against her heels with every step.

  "For Christ's sake, Laura, have you forgotten about the escaped convict?" Rusty wailed. "Laura, did you hear me? Laura?"

  She didn't hear him. She had already stormed angrily into the thicket, just glad she was going to be away from Rusty's Schlitz-y breath and clammy hands when Loni Anderson came on the Carson show. Loni and her trampy hair and cow teats always made him horny.

  But her irritation soon cooled in the night air and she ran out of steam, stopping dead in her tracks. She stood still. The night closed in around her. She became aware of the c
rushing silence and the impenetrable darkness and realized she care didn't if Cuddles ate his Vittles or not.

  She heard a crunch, the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot. Her head jerked instinctively towards the sound. It was behind her.

  "Cuddles?" she ventured. Another crunch, then another. Something was moving towards her. She stayed planted to the ground, as immobile as the trees around her. "Cuddles?"

  Suddenly there was a loud shriek. She stumbled backwards, startled, as a half dozen loons burst out of the brush screaming, wings fluttering, and flew off in every direction. She clutched her robe at the chest and felt her heart thumping excitedly. Loons. She sighed gratefully. Just some loony loons.

  She was still looking at the trees where the birds took flight when she saw a familiar flash of blue terry cloth.

  "Rusty, what the hell were—," she began, but then stopped. Her husband emerged from the trees, moving slowly towards her, his arms flush against his sides, his eyes staring past her, his jaw hanging open.

  Then he stopped, just a few feet away from her, his lower lip twitching.

  "Rusty, what's the matter with you?" she said, planting her hands firmly on her sides. "Why are you acting like a zombie or something?"

  A sound, the beginnings of a word, growled in his throat, and then he tipped forward onto the ground. And she saw the ax buried deep in his back.

  Laura's terrified scream melded with the killer's banshee cry of manic glee as he came running out of the trees like a pole vaulter, holding a pitchfork. Cuddles the cat was speared on the end.

  She back-stepped into a run, clamoring wildly into the trees, yelling for help.

  "Cuddles wants to seeee you," he cried after her, his pea coat flaring out like wings as he ran.

  Laura scrambled through the brush, jerking her head around to see him gaining on her, his face alight with a wild, toothy grin. She screamed, stumbled, and went flailing into a tangle of bushes.

  He loomed over her and held the pitchfork poised over her head. The cat's blood streaked down the three muddy prongs and dripped onto her pale, anxious face.