This is one film Macky boy won't be able to stomach. StomachâHA-HA-HA-HA-HA!
teased a devilish voice inside him.
Hey, Macky, Gene Shalit says you'll bust a gut laughing at this madcap comedyâHA-HA-HA-HA!
I'm going to get out of this,
Macklin told himself.
"How are you doing, Mr. Smith?" Macklin heard Wesley Saputo say, smelling the nicotine breath before Saputo appeared over him. "Are you ready to become a star?"
"You're a real tough guy, Saputo, a real specimen of manhood. You tie me down and then slither around molesting defenseless children," Macklin said. "You're some kind of stud, all right. Next you're gonna start fucking corpses."
Saputo's face flushed with anger. "As an actor, Mr. Macklin, you'll need to stretch a bit for this role." Saputo leaned forward and turned the crank clockwise.
The pain clawed its way up Macklin's throat as a scream. He gritted his teeth and forced it back.
"Relax, Macklin, you won't have long to wait." Saputo walked away. "Your screen debut is imminent."
Macklin lay panting, his body drenched with sweat, the pain ebbing into an intense ache. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the painkilling, cool darkness. Time slipped past him until he heard a voice.
"What are you doing, mister?" a meek voice inquired.
He turned his head and saw the little girl bashfully standing a safe two feet away. Macklin blinked his eyes clear, not knowing how long he had been blacked out. The girl had chocolate cake smeared around her face.
"Come here, honey," Macklin whispered gently.
She stepped back. Macklin realized his tactic was all wrong. Everyone was probably talking sweetly and quietly to her, gaining her reluctant trust and then doing her harm.
"What's your name?" Macklin asked in his normal voice.
"Erica Tandy. I'm ten."
"Really? Is it your birthday today?" Macklin wanted to order her to untie his bonds, but his rational side realized the necessity of moving slowly. Painfully slowly.
"No." She stepped toward him. "They're making me pretend."
"Where's your mom and dad?"
She shrugged. "I want to go home."
Macklin felt her sadness and wanted to reach out and comfort her. He imagined Cory, his daughter, the loss and fear she would feel if she were in Erica's place. "I do, too. If you come here and help me untie these ropes, we can leave here. Would you like that?"
"Uh-huh," she mumbled.
"Come here." He jerked his head back, motioning her. So took a step forward.
"
Erica!
" Saputo yelled from behind the set. Erica froze. "Beautiful? Come here!"
Erica shot Macklin one frightened glance and then dashed back behind the wall to the dining room set. Macklin dropped his head and closed his eyes.
Damn!
The Cadillac exploded again and again in Macklin's mind. It was a relentless pounding that rocked his body and sent shock waves of pain rolling through him.
Macklin squeezed his eyes shut, willing away the torturous images. A giant tombstone loomed up in his psyche. Six names were carved into it.
JD Macklin. Melody. Saul. Moe. Cheshire. Mort.
There was no way back now. There had been an irrevocable, jarring turn in the course of Macklin's life, and the bodies of his loved ones lined the curve.
Dad, Melody, Saul, Moe, Cheshire . . . Mort.
The only name missing was his own.
"Help me, mister," Macklin heard Erica whimper. He flashed open his eyes and saw her standing beside him again, naked, tears rolling down her puffy cheeks.
"Erica," Macklin whispered, "I want you to turn that handle behind me counterclockwise. Do you know what that means?"
She nodded.
"Okay, go ahead. Do it slowly." She reached out to the handle and pushed it down. Immediately, Macklin felt the muscles in his arms recoiling painfully. "A little more, Erica."
She pulled the crank around to an upright position. That gave Macklin enough slack to sit up. He felt a hot flush burn his skin as blood surged through his body, revitalizing his traumatized limbs. Macklin quickly began to untie the knots around his wrists.
"Where's Erica?" Saputo yelled from behind the set. Macklin saw Erica tremble. Erica wasn't going to go back to that set. Which meant, Macklin knew, that Saputo would come looking for her. Macklin freed one wrist and struggled with the rope on the other.
"Damn it! Who let her wander away?" Saputo growled. "Earl, go find her. She's got to get back here. We've still got to do the come shot."
Macklin leaned forward and frantically pulled on the rope around his ankles, trying to loosen it enough to get free. Erica whimpered.
"Shhhhh," Macklin hissed at her. He heard heavy footsteps approaching.
Macklin freed one ankle. The footsteps were close, a yard or two away.
"Run!" Macklin whispered to Erica and fell back on the rack, extending his arms as if he were bound. With his left hand, he felt around for the mace.
Erica froze.
"Run, Erica!" Macklin's hand found the mace. He hid his hand behind the pulley as Earl, one of Saputo's gorillas, emerged to Macklin's right.
"Hey, kid, get away from him!" Earl roared. With both hands he pushed Erica aside. She shrieked and fell to the floor, scrambling away like a frightened animal.
Earl laughed, watching her bare rear end disappear behind the wall. "The little runt," he mumbled, turning his head and looking down at Macklin. In the instant it took Earl to comprehend the meaning of Macklin's loosened bonds, Macklin swung the mace, the thorny iron ball whipping into Earl's startled face.
The mace audibly smacked into Earl's skull, the spikes plunging deep into his eyeball, temple, and cheek. Earl screamed and blindly stumbled back, the mace stuck in his head, blood gushing out of his face. Macklin yanked the rope off his ankle, leaped off the rack, and pulled the gun out of Earl's shoulder holster.
Macklin shoved the gun barrel into Earl's fleshy stomach and squeezed the trigger. The blast of the .38 shook the warehouse. Earl burst apart like a piñata, splashing blood against the dungeon wall.
"Get the kids out of the way. Lock 'em in the van," Macklin heard Saputo shout. Macklin scrambled through a maze of sets toward the opposite end of the warehouse.
Saputo called out after him. "Forget it, Macklin! There are no windows and no other doors. There's only one way out of here for you, asshole!"
Macklin crouched behind the last set and peered around the edge. He saw a stack of tires against the wall to his left, by the breaker box. Ahead and to his right were the film and the painting supplies he had seen when he came in. He glanced at the multiple arms of electrical cord that stretched out from the junction box on the slick cement floor. Scanning the ceiling, he saw only sprinkler heads. Not a single skylight. Saputo was right. He was trapped.
Macklin sprinted across the open floor toward the paint supplies, hoping there might be something there that could help him escape. The sound of a footfall behind him made him jerk around midstep. He saw a man and muzzle flash when the floor suddenly slipped out from under him, the gun's report cracking in his ear. As he hit the floor on his right shoulder, he sensed the bullet streaking above his head and realized he had tripped over the junction box.
Macklin bolted upright and fired. The slug slammed into the gunman's chest and kicked him back into a set wall. The line of sets tumbled down like a row of dominoes.
Macklin scrambled to his feet and, glancing over his shoulder, saw paint thinner spilling out of a jug that had apparently been pierced by the gunman's bullet.
There is a way out,
Macklin thought. Quickly, Macklin searched through the gunman's bloody clothes, turning out the pockets.
C'mon, let it be there
. . . The gunman shook spasmodically as death tightened its grip on him. Macklin looked into the gunman's open, blank eyes and felt the pack of matches in the man's inside jacket pocket.
Bingo
!
"There he is!" the father cried out, appearing around the edge of the fallen sets, waving his finger at Macklin.
Macklin struck a match and lit the matchbook. Saputo and Franken, brandishing snub-nosed revolvers, and two of Saputo's crewmen emerged behind Macklin, who tossed the flaming matchbook into the stream of paint thinner and ped away.
"Hit the deck!" Saputo screamed, throwing himself forward.
The fire chased the fluid back into the jug. The jug exploded, splattering flame out in all directions.
Macklin crawled toward the opposite wall. The blaze spread in an instant, feeding on the nearby packs of film.
Glancing back, Macklin saw the flames climb the wall, licking the ceiling and prompting the sprinklers to life. Macklin tipped over the stack of tires and threw himself on them just as the water rained down.
Macklin aimed his gun at the junction box on the watery floor and saw Saputo and his men rise to their feet.
Saputo grinned at Macklin and pointed his gun at him. "You're mine, Macklin," he yelled over the roaring blaze and cool shower.
Macklin fired, splitting open the junction box and exposing it to the water. He heard the whiplike snap of electric current. The movie lights fluttered.
Saputo's eyes flashed open wide in an instant of terror and surprise. His body twitched and convulsed, hundreds of volts riding through him and bouncing him up and down like a human pogo stick.
Macklin, insulated by the tires, stared transfixed as Saputo and his men jerked obscenely across the floor in a last dance of death. He reached up to the breaker box and switched off the electricity. The warehouse, lit by the flickering of the dying flames, smelled like ammonia and spoiled meat.
He stood up and ran along the wall to the van. The mother's corpse lay twisted in a puddle beside the movie camera, her red tongue lolling out of her open mouth. Macklin stepped over her body and splashed through the water to the van. He put his gun into his waistband and pounded a fist against the side of the van.
"Are you okay in there?" he shouted, hoping the van's tires had kept them safe from the electric current.
"Uh-huh," Erica and Jimmy mumbled in unison from inside the van.
"Stay put. Help is on the way." Macklin, soaking wet, flung open the warehouse door.
Tice stood outside in the alleyway in front of him, a laconic grin on his face and Macklin's .357 Magnum in his hand.
"Help is here," Tice whispered. Macklin saw Tice's finger tighten on the trigger and braced himself for the bullet that would rip through his stomach. Macklin winced, the handgun's deafening report ringing out twice in his ears. Macklin stiffened. And felt nothing.
He tentatively opened his eyes and saw Tice sprawled on the ground, blood frothing out of a ragged crater in his head. Chunks of blood-soaked gray-beige brain matter and jagged slivers of bone dripped onto the pavement. Macklin took in a deep breath and looked up and down the street, confused. There was no one in sight.
Then he heard the sound of someone gagging in the alley beside the warehouse across the street. Macklin sprinted to the other side of the street and moved cautiously into the alley.
He stopped short, stunned. Mort leaned over the side of the trash bin, vomiting into the street.
"Mort, you're alive!" Macklin said with astonishment.
"I sure as hell don't feel like it," Mort groaned, holding the gun limply in his right hand. Mort steadied himself with his left hand and lifted a leg over the rim. Macklin wrapped his arms around Mort's waist and helped him out.
"You saved my life, Mort. Thanks."
"No problem. Anytime." Mort heaved for breath, dizzy, the sour taste of vomit in his mouth and nose.
"Take it easy." Macklin put his arm around Mort and held him tightly. He noticed the matted hair and dried blood on the side of Mort's head. "What happened to you?"
Mort swallowed and glanced up. The white oval moon shone down on him and he could see the side of the warehouse he had been atop. The pieces fell together for him.
"That asshole I shot must've sidelined me with a crowbar or something, I dunno." Mort shivered. "I guess he tossed me off the building. That garbage bin must be the only thing that saved me from being a nasty smudge on the pavement. The way my head and stomach feel, I think I would rather have died. Damn concussion."
Mort stiffened. Bile shot up his throat, spurting out and onto the ground in one quick convulsion. "Fuck . . ."
Macklin could hear the sound of police sirens drawing near. "Are you okay? Can you walk?" Mort nodded. "Yeah, let's go."
As Macklin led Mort to his car, he realized his anger would never die. It wasn't the Bounty Hunters gang or Wesley Saputo or Crocker Orlock. They were just germs, part of a bigger disease that was growing and infecting the vital organs of society. He hadn't stopped it when he avenged his father's death. And, Macklin knew, it wouldn't stop if Orlock's operation was crushed, either.
No more of my friends will die. I won't let the disease spread.
The voice inside Macklin that cried for retribution was now his own.
Mr. Jury and Brett Macklin were one.
"Mister Jury is dead."
Mayor Jed Stocker solemnly faced the two dozen reporters in the press room and reveled in the absolute attention his statement engendered.
Stocker stood crisp and clean in a dark blue pinstriped suit under the city's seal, doing his best to exude leadership and stature. This was the first time he had ever shut the reporters up, and on a slow news day like Saturday, Stocker was sure this press conference would dominate the local media, just as he had planned.
Jessica Mordente's perplexed expression didn't escape Stocker's notice. First of all, as his pick as the best-looking of the LA press corps, he was always looking at her. Second, that was the reaction he had intended to invoke. She was, no surprise to him, the first to break the stunned silence.
"Who is he?" she asked.
Stocker shrugged. "We don't know. He was found with a bullet in his head outside a Culver City warehouse."