Judgment (11 page)

From a dark office in a high-rise building east of the freeway, the slender man watched the accident through powerful binoculars. He was pleased.

Police cars and rescue vehicles surged around the snarled traffic, tearing up the freeway shoulder towards the wrecked cars. He watched the firemen extract Grace and Harold, their features obscured by blood, from the mesh of gnarled steel. Two officers guided a shaky, crying woman from a smashed blue sedan. A short, stocky truck driver paced beside his rig, casting nervous glances up at the police and television news helicopters that circled over the scene, bathing it in light. A black body bag lay next to the tiny Japanese car crumpled under the back of his truck.

The slender man adjusted the binoculars and pressed a tiny red button. The lens zoomed in on a huddle of firemen working around the blue sedan. The man could just make out the pale white skin of the crushed woman's leg jutting out from under the car's rear wheel. He smiled.

The man lowered his binoculars and admired the night vista.

"That takes care of little Melody," he whispered coolly to himself. The city lights burned brightly, casting an eerie glow on his narrow face. The light accentuated his sharp cheekbones and shadowed his deep-set blue eyes, making them seem even more intense.

He turned and sat down at his desk, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed. It rang twice before he reached the second party. "You did well. I congratulate you."

"We've still got a problem," the other man said, not bothering to mask his irritation.

"Really?" the caller replied whimsically. "What is it, pray tell?"

"Brett Macklin," he snapped.

"Brett Macklin," he repeated softly, letting the name hang in the air. "What do we know about him?"

"What do you mean? He was that cop's son."

"No, no backstory. What's this man's history?"

The caller sighed. "Went to UCLA, graduated with a degree in aeronautical engineering, and grabbed an entry-level job at Hughes helping to design helicopters. He got bored, locked horns with some of his bosses, and needed to get physically involved in his work."

"So he learned how to fly."

"Yeah. He got to like flying a hell of a lot more than talking about it in the office, you know? So, when his flight instructor put his cheap-shit airline up for sale, his star student borrowed and hocked and scraped up enough cash to make him an offer. The guy sold it to him and Macklin's been running the show ever since."

"I see. Macklin seems like an ordinary man. He'll pose no threat to us."

"Look, he's asking a lot of questions."

"Good," the slender man interrupted, admiring the skyline again. "I think we can expect Mr. Macklin to tie up some of our loose ends."

"Until he becomes a loose end," the other man said.

"Exactly. Now, you be a good boy, watch him closely, and keep cleaning up after him."

"Okay," he replied reluctantly, "if that's the way you want to play it."

"It is." The caller paused. "Don't worry. The moment Mr. Macklin becomes trouble is the moment Mr. Macklin dies."

They were still washing Melody off the freeway an hour later when Brett Macklin got out from under his latest acquisition, a rusty gray 1959 Cadillac four-door, and turned on his workbench radio.

". . . and Merlin the Talking Dog's trainer, Al Metzger, says that at least one network has approached him with the idea of featuring his canine chatterbox in a situation comedy . . ."

Macklin walked around the car, inspecting the dents and scratches for the umpteenth time since he found the car. It had been rotting on blocks in a forgotten corner of a used-car lot, an irresistible target for rocks, dirt clods, and pellet guns. He got the battered relic for $300.

"Things moved slowly on the gubernatorial campaign trail today with opponents Lieutenant Governor Elliot Wells and our own Mayor Lucas Breen the guests of honor at two separate dinners held to raise money for their campaigns.

"Neither Breen nor Wells, who is still slightly ahead of Breen by five percentage points in the polls, used their podium time to criticize one another. A change of pace or the lull before the storm?"
The newsman chuckled. Macklin groaned at the forced humor.

"Traffic is still tied up on the southbound Harbor Freeway tonight as CHP officers clean up the scene of a grisly four-car pileup that has left two people dead and two others seriously injured. Police say the accident occurred when Melody Caine, a thirty-four-year-old prostitute, fell to her death from the Third Street overpass in front of oncoming traffic. Witnesses said that two unidentified men threw Caine off the overpass into oncoming traffic and then fled."

Macklin froze.

"Caine was initially struck by a car driven by an unidentified Culver City woman who lost control of her vehicle and slammed into a center pider. The woman and her husband, both suffering serious injuries, were rushed to County USC medical center. One man was killed when—"

Macklin, trancelike, reached over slowly and turned off the radio. He rose, switched off the garage light, and walked out to the Batmobile, closing the garage door behind him.

Macklin opened the car door and sat down behind the wheel. He could see his father, aflame, screaming across the path of a bus. Macklin turned the ignition key and pumped the gas. The Batmobile roared, and he saw Melody, her energetic smile replaced by a grimace of sheer terror, being hefted over the side of the overpass into traffic.

"No more," he muttered, opening the glove compartment and pulling out his father's .357 Magnum. "No more."

Macklin stalked the neighborhood again. He parked his car in a dark alley and took to the streets on foot. He had no doubts this time about his intentions. Anger coursed through him like an electric charge, propelling him down the street with long, determined strides.

First his father. Now Melody. The bastards had gone too far. Macklin wouldn't abide any more of their killing. It was time to fight back. When he found the Bounty Hunters he was going to make them pay. In blood. It was the only kind of payment they seemed to understand.

People on the streets moved aside for him, sensing the violence in his walk. Macklin didn't even see them. The only faces he would register belonged to the Bounty Hunters.

Macklin rounded a corner and saw three figures under a streetlight. A hawk-nosed man, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sat on the hood of a red '68 Trans Am. The man, clad in a white undershirt, black baggie pants with exaggerated pleats, and shiny black shoes, gestured broadly with his hands as he spoke to two guys standing on the sidewalk.

One of the duo was Macklin's height, six feet tall, and thin, with a jet-black Mohawk that ran from the top of his forehead to the nape of his neck. He looked like a scrawny Chicano imitation of Mr. T. Tight Sassoon jeans hugged his lanky legs right down to high Converse high-top tennis shoes. Shirtless under a denim vest, his hairless chest was adorned with a dozen brassy-looking dime-store necklaces.

The other was a sparsely bearded youth in a red fleece sweatshirt, the hooded jacket unzipped to his sternum. A scar cut a jagged line across the bridge of his nose and down under his right eye.

They noticed Macklin before their friend did.

Macklin ignored them. It was the hawk-nosed man he wanted.

Jesse Ortega muttered. Cigarette smoke seeped out of his pointed nose and curled upwards. "It's
him
."

"Who?" the scarred man asked.

"The asshole from the courthouse, Julio, that's who." Ortega tossed away his cigarette and stood up.

"Shit," Mr. T. laughed.

Ortega, flanked by Julio and Mr. T., blocked Macklin's path. Macklin stopped just in front of them, perspiration beading between his shoulder blades forming an itchy wet spot.

"Hey, look, Faustino, it's Charles fuckin' Bronson." Ortega grinned at the man with the Mohawk. Julio circled Macklin, appraising him. Macklin eyed him warily.

The sound of something slicing the air drew Macklin's attention away from Julio. Faustino smiled menacingly at Macklin and twirled a crudely made nunchucks in his hand.

Macklin was familiar with the Okinawa weapon, made with two heavy sticks connected by a small chain. His father had brought home a few he took from kids on the street. It was a popular weapon among the gangs because it was easily made, concealed, and brandished.

Macklin took a deep breath. Sweat rolled down his back. He could sense the urgent tension in the air, the imminent violence, explosive needing only the igniting spark.

He heard the slap of flesh and glanced back at Julio, who stood tapping the palm of his hand with a small Dodgers' souvenir bat. Macklin arched an eyebrow in surprise. Where had
that
come from?

Smiling, Macklin faced Ortega and Faustino. "Aren't you boys out past your bedtime?" he asked casually.

"Maybe you wanna take a swan pe off an overpass, motherfucker," Ortega hissed with a tight grin.

Macklin sighed. "If you're looking for trouble, little man, you just bumped into the West Coast distributor." He shot a grin over his shoulder at Julio. "Why don't you all crawl back under your rock before you get hurt?" That was the spark.

Faustino moved first, swinging the nunchucks at Macklin's head. He ducked and hammered his fist into Faustino's stomach. Faustino buckled, the air escaping from his lungs with an audible, gagging cough. Macklin jabbed his elbow into Faustino's head, knocking him aside.

Macklin turned swiftly and saw the bat crashing down towards his head. He sidestepped Julio's blow, grabbing him by the shoulders, and rammed his knee into the man's groin, feeling the testicles flatten against the rigid pubic bone.

Julio screamed in agony and folded over against Macklin's chest.

Then Faustino threw the nunchucks around Macklin's neck and yanked back fiercely. Macklin choked for air and grabbed at the cold links, desperately trying to free himself before Faustino could snap his neck open like a walnut between the sticks.

Faustino grunted, wrenching Macklin around by the neck to face Ortega. Macklin's head pulsed from lack of air and felt as though it might burst.

Ortega's eyes were alight with fury. "You made a big mistake coming down here like you fucking own the place, Mr. Big Man."

Faustino tightened his grip. Macklin winced, pulling at the chain.

His chest ached under the vice-like pressure of his lungs straining for oxygen.

"I'm gonna slit you open, motherfucker." A switchblade flashed in Ortega's hand. Smiling, Ortega stepped towards him, knife held out.

Macklin reacted without thinking. He reached back and grabbed Faustino's neck, lifting himself up and lashing out at Ortega with both legs. Macklin's feet slammed into Ortega's chest and sent him reeling. Faustino fell backwards, bringing Macklin with him.

Their impact against the cement jarred Faustino's hold on the nunchucks, and Macklin rolled free, pulling the Magnum out from his belt in the same motion and firing at Julio and Faustino.

The powerful report of the .357 echoed twice from the graffiti-smeared walls around them. Gray, smeary blobs of brain tissue blended with a spray-can-painted message.

Crouched, he aimed the gun at Ortega and breathed in the air hungrily. To Macklin's surprise, he felt good. Light-headed, exhilarated.

Macklin stood slowly, the throbbing in his head waning, and stepped past the two bodies toward Ortega.

"If I were you, little man, I would run."

Ortega back-trotted nervously, uncertain if Macklin would shoot him in the back if he turned.

"I said run, boy."

Ortega turned and burst into a full, weaving run. Macklin shoved the gun back under his belt and watched Ortega flee. It was another concession to his anger. He wanted to play with Ortega a bit. Macklin wanted Ortega to taste the terror his father must have felt.

Ortega, just rounding the corner, looked over his shoulder and saw Macklin bolt towards him like a low-flying missile.

"Shit," Ortega hissed, spittle dampening the edges of his mouth. He ran, sucking in air in rhythmic huffs, hard and deep, like a locomotive, spewing spit and snot. Nearly tripping over himself, Ortega careened to his right into an alley and into the shadows. He could hear the steady, even clop of Macklin's feet in his wake.

The alley fed into a parking lot. The expanse was bathed in a yellowish light from bulbs dangling overhead from a crisscross of wires that stretched between two tired buildings. Ortega ran across the open lot, under the network of lights, weaving between parked cars to the next alley.

Ortega, his body quaking with his labored breaths, looked madly over his shoulder for Macklin, hoping he couldn't keep up.

Macklin sprinted smoothly into the parking lot, grinning, the gun held casually in his right hand.

Ortega turned, fear tightening his face, and stretched his legs forward into the alley. Each breath was a hot dagger thrust down his throat. His feet slapped a puddle and he stumbled forward, his arms flailing.

He recovered clumsily, looking back again as he fell into a run. The darkness ahead was split by a shaft of moonlight that shone on a cyclone fence cutting across the alley. Ortega leaped towards it. His hands twisted like claws. The fence rocked against his weight as he slammed high into it, grabbed hold, and crawled up. He straddled the fence between his legs and glanced back.

A man's shadow stretched on the alley floor towards the fence. Footfalls echoed in the darkness.

"Damn the motherfucker." Ortega jumped from the fence, turned, and saw Macklin break out of the shadows.

"You're mine," Macklin yelled as he scaled the fence.

"Fuck you!" Ortega flipped Macklin off and bolted out of the alley into the street, right in front of a taxi.

The car skidded and hit Ortega a glancing blow. The youth sprawled across the pavement.

"Hey!" The baseball-capped driver shoved his head out the window. "Watch it, dumb fuck!"

Macklin dropped off the fence and saw Ortega pick himself up and limp across the street to a decaying, boarded-up tenement. Ortega jumped up and pulled down the fire-escape ladder, climbing it furiously until he reached the third-floor landing.