Judgment (23 page)

"So am I." Mort looked at Macklin with obvious concern. "I just wrapped up shooting downtown with the
Bloodmaster
crew when I saw the Silver Tabernacle blow." His questions spilled out in a rush. "What the hell were you doing there? Why are you handcuffed? What the fuck is going on?"

"Mort, I can't explain it all now. We have to get to Ronny. He's in danger."

Mort sighed. "Then your job isn't finished yet."

"Not yet."

Mort motioned to the back of the copter. "You'll find your gun in the utility box. You left it in my car. I brought it up here with me so I could keep my eye on it."

Macklin leaned back in his chair. He hoped he wasn't too late to save Shaw. Losing his closest friend to a bullet would be too much. Simon and Breen had already taken too much from him.

The Silver Tabernacle, receding as the copter streaked westward, stood against the night like a giant torch, glowing orange and yellow. Suddenly its base was rocked by a massive explosion. The silver obelisk, its shattered windows staring at the night through flaming eyes, rocked unsteadily like a drunk full of too much muscatel, and then toppled toward the earth.

Everything was pissing Shaw off as he drove home. The lunatic drivers on the street, the feel of his smoke-stained clothes against his sticky skin, the noise masquerading as music on his radio, and most of all, the gutless, rubber-band-powered engine of the Ford Fairmont he had just rented from Hertz.

Why in hell don't they put engines in cars anymore?
Shaw wondered.

He was afraid he might have to get out and push the car home. All he wanted to do was put the day behind him, crawl into bed, and slip into one of those deep, dreamless sleeps that leave you looking like hell when you wake up but feeling great.

If Guess was locked outside, and if he disconnected the phone, and if he put a muzzle on Sunshine, he figured he could sleep until late that afternoon, take a good shit and sneak a Camel, make himself a thick corned-beef sandwich, and
then
worry about getting a new car, untangling the Elliot Wells murders, and finding Brett Macklin.

Shaw steered his car onto the driveway behind Sunshine's Bug and felt his body sag with relief. A warm bed was just beyond the busted porch light.

With a tired grunt, he got out of the car and started towards the house. Sliran stepped out of the shadows beside the garage, blocking Shaw's way.

"Sliran, what the hell?" Shaw groaned.

"Just cool it,
boy
."

"
Boy?
" Shaw took a step towards Sliran, who drew his gun with a smile.

"Yeah, you heard me. It's time to pay the piper."

"Sliran, you're certifiable," Shaw whispered, looking at the gun with disbelief.

Sliran advanced slowly, towards Shaw, who stepped backwards towards the street. "I'm going to enjoy killing you, Shaw. I never liked the idea of niggers on the force to begin with."

Sliran raised his gun level with Shaw's chest. "Say good-bye, nigger."

Shaw winced as a thunderous burst shattered the night. Shaw, realizing he wasn't hit, the gunshot still ringing in his ears, looked at Sliran.

Sliran's wide eyes regarded Shaw questioningly. With stunned horror, Sliran lowered his head and saw the blood spilling out of his chest. Sliran raised his head, his lower lip twitching, his gun shaking in his hand. Someone whistled from the darkness behind Sliran.

Sliran whirled around, holding his gun arm out.

"MAAAACCCCKKKKLLLLIIIINNNN!"

The angry cry had barely left Sliran's mouth when the bullet smashed into his head, splattering Shaw with bits of hair and brain. Sliran's body hit the ground as the last syllable of Macklin's name passed his lips.

Shaw wiped his face, smearing the blood and brain matter. He looked up from Sliran's twitching body and saw Macklin emerge from the shadows, the Magnum held loosely in his handcuffed hands. Macklin's face was hard and guiltless. Their eyes met, Macklin's unflinching gaze showing Shaw a violent resolve and not a shred of remorse. Shaw didn't expect any.

"Are you okay, Ron?" Macklin whispered.

"Yeah." Shaw could barely get the sound out of his throat. Sliran's blood ran down his cheeks. Shaw could feel his own expression on his face. A mask of sad acceptance, of reluctant and painful surrender. Brett Macklin was Mr. Jury. A murderer. A killer who had just saved his life.

Shaw broke his gaze at the sound of blades slicing the air. The helicopter suddenly descended from the sky behind Macklin, coming in over their heads and kicking up a whirlwind of leaves and dirt as it landed behind Shaw in the street.

With one final, quick glance at Shaw, Macklin dashed to the chopper and climbed in. The helicopter rose and veered away, disappearing into the night sky as suddenly as it had appeared.

Shaw sat down on the curb and watched lights flick on behind drawn curtains, listened to dogs barking excitedly and sirens drawing near. It seemed to him that tomorrow would never come.

# # # # # #

Just after dawn. It was Lucas Breen's favorite time of day. The air was still. The sky was deep blue, undershadowed with warm pinks and bright yellows. The city sleeps quietly. He usually had the park's tree-lined paths to himself and could jog in peace.

Then there were mornings like this. The smog layer was a thick green blanket over the city. Smelly, ratty-looking bums seemed to be everywhere, crossing his path and asking for change.

The quiet was broken by the city workers cutting foliage under the pedestrian bridge, feeding branches into a loud, incessantly whirring shredder.

Breen carried a Walkman loaded with a classical music cassette for just such an occasion. He slipped the earphones on his head and kept the bums at bay with an angry growl and a glare that promised mutilation.

He jogged casually across the bridge, barely hearing the shredder over the pleasant sounds of the Beaux Arts Trio. Another scruffy transient emerged from the shrubbery ahead of him and stood in his path.

Breen narrowed his eyes and put on a little extra juice. He wanted the bum to know he'd tackle him if he didn't slither right back into his bush.

But the ragged-looking man didn't cower or scamper away like the rest. As Breen neared him, he noticed the blood caked on the man's arms, the malice in his blue eyes.

Breen slowed, studying the man's face.

"Oh my God," Breen whispered, abruptly turning and running back the way he had come.

Brett Macklin.

Breen scrambled to the pedestrian bridge. Macklin, no longer bound by handcuffs, ran close behind.

His breath coming in ragged gasps, Breen heard Macklin's steps grow louder, closer. Then he felt steely arms around his legs and he went down hard. Breen rose quickly, shrugging Macklin off him like an old jacket.

He whirled around and slammed his fist across Macklin's chin. Macklin flew back against the bridge railing. Before Macklin could recover, Breen drove his fist into Macklin's stomach. Macklin felt a burst of pain and doubled over, pushing himself forward and ramming his head hard into Breen's midsection.

Breen backed into the opposite rail. Macklin straightened up, gathering breath into his lungs, and heard the crash of shattering glass. Breen held a broken beer bottle in his hand. Macklin leaped back as Breen swung the jagged bottle towards his face. Breen stepped forward and swung again. Macklin grabbed Breen's wrist, stopping the swing, and they tumbled backwards.

Macklin felt his back slam into the railing again. He bashed Breen's wrist into the railing, trying to force the mayor to release his hold on the bottle.

Breen's knee shot up into Macklin's balls. Macklin doubled over against the excruciating pain and drove his knee into Breen's groin. Breen lurched forward, his head hitting the rail. The bottle dropped out of Breen's hand and into the shredder. Macklin heard a crunch and then tinkling as the bits of glass were spit out into the bed of a truck.

Macklin ducked out from under Breen, moved behind him, and wrapped his arms around Breen's hips. With Breen's crotch over his neck, Macklin lifted Breen up over the rail. Breen grabbed the rail in a desperate attempt to stop the fall. Macklin grunted, pushing as hard as he could. Breen flipped over backwards, losing his grip. Screaming, Breen fell onto the foliage shredder. It sucked him in by the legs and spit him out the chute as a fine red mist.

The city workers, busy chopping branches from a nearby tree, didn't even notice.

Macklin turned away and picked up Breen's fallen Walkman as the music hit its final crescendo.

Los Angeles mayor Jed Stocker sat behind his desk and let the two men in his office digest what he had just said.

He thought he had put it rather succinctly.

It had been a turbulent few months for the city since Breen's disappearance. The unsolved murder of Elias Simon. Jed Stocker's landslide victory against city councilman Derby Locke in the mayoral campaign. Crime had risen dramatically. Worst of all in Chinatown, where rival gangs battled for territorial rights. Each day the newspapers reported a new massacre or rape or bombing or random killing and the inability of the police to do anything about it. Few gang members were arrested. Those who were didn't stay behind bars long. Witnesses were killed or intimidated into changing their stories, and the new mayor, Jed Stocker, needed a solution.

"So you've got problems in Chinatown," Brett Macklin said wearily, standing in front of Stocker's desk, his hands in his pockets. "Big fucking deal. I still don't understand why you had Ron drag me down here."

Shaw, who sat on the couch against the wall to Stocker's right, wondered the same thing. He didn't like the idea of hauling Macklin downtown. It hurt. An upholder of the law, Shaw had docilely watched while Stocker covered up the Sliran killing and let Macklin go free. The only way Shaw could live with himself was to consider Macklin dead. Yet Stocker wouldn't let him do that. Stocker wanted Macklin watched and put Shaw in charge of the surveillance. Shaw hadn't personally seen Macklin since Sliran's death, but he had read the reports.

Macklin had become a virtual recluse, seeing his ex-wife and daughter only once, Cheshire three or four times, and spending most of his time flying, often sleeping at the hangar.

Then came Stocker's call early this morning. He wanted Macklin in his office at nine a.m. sharp. Whether Macklin wanted to come or not. Shaw faced the assignment with dread. Seeing Macklin would stir Shaw's inner turmoil once again, and Stocker's unexplained desire to see Macklin worried him.

Shaw knocked on Macklin's door and saw a friendliness in Macklin's eyes when his door opened. Shaw expected Macklin to bluntly refuse to come along.

Macklin didn't. It was almost as if Macklin knew he had no choice. Or had been expecting it.

They rode downtown in claustrophobic silence, not even looking at each other.

Stocker smiled at Macklin. "I told you about the problem in Chinatown because I want Mr. Jury to take care of it."

Shaw stiffened.
No! This can't be happening.

Macklin chuckled and turned towards the door.

"I can nail you right now for a dozen murders," Stocker snapped, staring at Macklin's back. "With ease. Sergeant Shaw, tell Mr. Macklin how easy it would be to put him behind bars." Stocker picked up a thick manila file. "It's all in here. We've got enough evidence here to convict you half a dozen times. Airtight."

Macklin turned slowly, glancing at Shaw. The detective couldn't bring himself to speak. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The mayor wanted Macklin to kill for him. And he wanted Shaw to help.

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

"Wrong," Stocker said flatly. "The scum on the street are scared shitless of you, and we're gonna use that fear."

Macklin met Stocker's gaze. "One man can't stop them."

Shaw's mouth was dry. The mayor and Macklin were talking about murder.

"C'mon, Macklin. These guys are no different than the men who killed your father. Go after them the same way. I'll make sure you get no heat from the police." Stocker glared at Shaw as if the glare would suffice as an order. Shaw felt sick.

"No," Macklin said. "I'm through. I'm not killing anymore."

"You will." Stocker stood up and came around the desk to face him. "You're mine, Macklin. For better or worse, I own you. Besides, I think you're still angry. You want to keep fighting."

"I'll think about it," Macklin said evenly. "But when I'm done, I want that file."

"No deals," Stocker said quickly.

"We'll see about that," Macklin said as he turned towards the door. "We'll just see about that."

(UPI) LOS ANGELES—Police believe the mysterious vigilante "Mr. Jury" came to the rescue of a Chinatown pharmacist Wednesday night, killing three gang members who allegedly forced their way into his drugstore and began assaulting him when he refused to pay them protection money.

Lee Kwon, fifty-one, said he was closing the doors at about nine p.m. when the three men pushed their way in past him and started to break merchandise.

When Kwon tried to stop them, the men allegedly pinned him against the wall and began punching him, demanding "protection money" as they threw their blows.

"Then this man walked in the store," Kwon said, "came up behind them and whistled. I had already turned the lights out, so I couldn't see his face." The men released Kwon and sprung on the stranger, "who pulled out this big gun and just shot 'em down, bam, bam, bam, just like that. Then he picked up a Snickers bar, handed me thirty-five cents, and just strolled out . . ."