Guilty

by Lee Goldberg

  Macklin put the .357 under his waistband and walked away.

  # # # # # #

  Macklin flew the chopper down the California coast to La Jolla and the heavily fortified cliffside compound belonging to the man who'd hired the Bitch.

  There was only one man who had the money and the motive to curse him with Demetria Davila. After leaving Shaw, Macklin's subconscious had whispered the name to him with sickening clarity . . . Justin Threllkiss.

  It was Threllkiss who'd covertly financed White Wash, a racist, white supremacist organization. It was White Wash that had convinced Threllkiss' coked-out, sadistic grandson to masquerade as Macklin and massacre blacks as a way to spark a race war. Macklin had destroyed White Wash—and the grandson with it.

  But he'd left Threllkiss alive.

  Threllkiss had to be the one.

  But if Macklin was wrong, it was no loss. Threllkiss was racist scum who deserved to die, a loose end Macklin should have tied up long ago.

  The security system at the Threllkiss compound had been built on the concept that if any threat ever came, it would be on foot or on wheels. Nobody expected an air assault.

  Who would?

  So the high walls, the razor wire, the security cameras, and everything else were rendered laughably pointless if the threat arrived in a helicopter.

  And Macklin had arrived.

  He buzzed the property, shooting two guards on the rooftop and three more that were walking the grounds, before he landed the chopper on the lawn. Macklin jumped out brandishing two Uzis, one in his right hand, the other slung by a strap over his left shoulder.

  Three slavering guard dogs immediately charged towards him. He calmly took a remote control out of his pocket with his left hand and pressed its single button.

  The dogs jerked spasmodically in midstride as their collars zapped them into submission.

  Macklin knew about Craven's kinky love of electricity as a way to tame man and beast.

  It wasn't hard for Macklin, before embarking on his assault, to discover the frequency of the dog collars and adjust his own garage door opener to match it. He didn't want to have to kill a dog . . . but he had no qualms about shooting the men on his list.

  He released the button and the dogs whimpered away, perhaps assuming that Macklin was one of their masters by virtue of having the God-like power to zap the shit out of them.

  A bullet tore into the grass at Macklin's feet. Another grazed his cheek. Macklin kept walking. He felt no fear. He felt no pain. Only hate. He pocketed the remote and gripped an Uzi in each hand.

  He fired to his left at a guard crouched behind a bush. The guard's head burst like a piñata. He fired to his right. A guard screamed and tumbled out a second-floor window, splattering like a raindrop on the pavement below and splashing Macklin with warm blood.

  He walked on. He was a man with nothing left to lose.

  Craven ran out of the house with a shotgun. Macklin shot him in the leg, took the shotgun from him, and batted him across the face with it before tossing it into the bushes. Craven lay whimpering on the ground.

  Macklin kicked open the back door and cleared his trail with blazing bullets. The scorching slugs propelled four guards along the shag carpet in a bloody living room ballet. Macklin squinted into the settling debris for any movement. Bullet holes had turned classic oil paintings into confetti. Priceless sculptures were reduced to piles of marble shards.

  Macklin sloshed through the gore-soaked carpet and tracked blood, sweat, and brains across the marble entry hall and up the steps of the spiral staircase.

  Bullets suddenly tore into the walls, handrails, and steps around him. Macklin quickly dropped down to a squat. His Uzis spat death. Three bodies tumbled down the stairs towards him. He flattened himself against the wall. The bodies rolled past, splattering a red carpet of welcome to the second floor.

  He stalked down the hallway to a pair of tall oak doors. A guard whirled out of an adjoining doorway, brandishing a shotgun. Macklin fired his Uzis before the guard squeezed his trigger down. The lead spray spun the guard around. The guard's shotgun blasted wildly into the oak doors. The doors splintered open.

  Justin Threllkiss stood in the dissipating cloud of wood shavings and smoke. Several hundred-dollar bills wafted in the air, propelled by the residual force of the shotgun blast. The rosewood desk beside Threllkiss was piled high with stacks of money.

  Macklin moved slowly into the room, his Uzis trained on the freckle-skinned magnate. Threllkiss leaned shakily on his pearl-handled cane, his eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses.

  "All this"—Threllkiss motioned to pile of cash with his wavering cane—"and more is yours if you let me live."

  Macklin shook his head. A hundred-dollar bill floated into the crystal chandelier above him. He walked up to the desk and stabbed at the stacks of money with the muzzle of his Uzi. Hundreds of hundred-dollar bills spilled onto the floor.

  "You killed my family," Macklin said.

  Threllkiss raised his cane and pointed it at Macklin. "And you killed mine."

  A spear shot out of Threllkiss' cane. Macklin jerked out of the way as the spear sliced across his cheek and stabbed into the wall behind his head.

  Macklin regained his balance and felt the blood dribbling down his cheek. The spear shaft quivered.

  He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and glanced down at it. Blood dripped between his fingers.

  He looked up at Threllkiss.

  "Almost," Macklin said. He bashed Threllkiss across the face with the back of his blood-smeared hand.

  Threllkiss flew backwards into the pile of money. Thousands of dollars fluttered in the air. Macklin grabbed a handful of money and smothered Threllkiss with it.

  The old man jerked and convulsed, trying to free himself from Macklin's suffocating grasp. Gritting his teeth, Macklin pressed down harder, crushing Threllkiss' face under the cold cash. Threllkiss thrashed, kicked, and grabbed, and Macklin felt none of it. His death hold wouldn't budge. The old man flopped like a fish.

  Threllkiss' struggles gave way to the convulsing rattle of death. Macklin felt Threllkiss' life shuddering under him. The body jerked once, arched up, and then fell hard into the money.

  Macklin released his hold, tossed aside the money in his hand, and stepped back. Threllkiss lay upon the cash, his eyes bulging and his mouth agape, crumbled hundred-dollar bills clogging his throat.

  Justin Threllkiss was dead.

  But in the blinding hate of revenge, Macklin had forgotten what mattered most—the Bitch was still alive.

  Again, Macklin had failed. He had let Threllkiss die before getting something on the cunt who had killed Mort and Brooke, who had plowed over more than sixty innocent people.

  Macklin backed out of the room and then dashed down the stairway, leaping over the corpses in his path. He emerged from the house and squinted into black smoke. On the lawn, several yards away, Macklin saw the way to find the Bitch.

  Craven lay on the ground, his bloody leg twisted at a grotesque angle underneath him. The snarling dog snapped ferociously at Craven's face. In panic, Craven pressed his remote control. The electric charge coursed through the dog, jolting him, keeping him at bay. Barely.

  Macklin came up beside the jerking, howling dog and pointed his Uzi at Craven. "Turn it off."

  "He'll kill me!" Craven whined. Macklin squeezed the trigger. The slugs tore pots in the grass around Craven's head.

  "Off," Macklin said.

  Craven dropped the remote. Macklin crushed it under his boot. The dog lunged for Craven's throat. Craven bashed his fists against the dog's snout. The dog bellowed. Claws dug into Craven's chest. Craven screamed in terror and despair.

  Macklin grabbed Sam's collar. The dog's moist fangs hung over Craven's ripe neck. Craven could feel the dog's hot breath on his skin. Sam strained against Macklin's hold, snarling viciously.

  "Where's Davila?" Macklin demanded.

  "I don't know," Craven whined, trying to
slide away from the growling beast, from the wide, inhuman eyes, from the sharp, white fangs.

  "You're Alpo." Macklin released the dog and it went for Craven, who screamed again, his arms flailing in a pathetic attempt to grab the dog's snout and keep the snapping jaws away from his neck.

  Suddenly the dog reared back and hung suspended over Craven's face. Macklin again held Sam by the collar. Saliva dribbled from the dog's wet mouth onto Craven's wide forehead. Scratches oozed blood on Craven's face and between the tatters that remained of his clothes.

  "Demetria Davila." Macklin said.

  Craven shook with terror, his eyes locked on Sam's gaping mouth.

  "She's going to kill your daughter," Craven huffed. Macklin's face tightened with rage.

  The dog growled. Or maybe it was Macklin.

  "No," Craven sputtered, reading Macklin's eyes.

  Macklin let go of the dog's collar and sprinted back to the chopper. Behind him, Craven's guts flew like pillow stuffing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "She's at your house. She's going to kill them all." Brett Macklin's words crackled over the radio in Sergeant Ronald Shaw's car.

  Shaw called for backup. And, without looking, made a sudden U-turn across Lincoln Boulevard. Cars moving in both directions came to wild, screeching stops. His Plymouth tore down the street, the siren screaming.

  He steered madly through the Venice streets, screeching around corners, jumping curbs, charging against oncoming traffic. Cars spun out all around him, clogging up the traffic in his destructive wake.

  How could he have left them alone? How could he have been so stupid?

  He skidded to a stop outside his house and burst out of his car, gun drawn. He aimed at his front door across the hood of his car. The engine rattled and the car felt hot. The house was still.

  Somebody should have peered out the window. Someone should have come running out the front door. Officer Barron should have come out.

  It felt bad. Real bad.

  Shaw ran in a crouch from the cover of his car and cut a zigzagging path to his front door. He flattened his back against the wall and held his gun up high.

  Across the street, Jess and Gladys Furnow pulled back their blinds and waved at Shaw. There was always something interesting happening at the Shaw house.

  He took a deep breath and let his free hand drop to the doorknob. His hand twisted the knob open. The door creaked as it swung a few inches into the dark entry hall.

  Shaw saw the Furnows looking curiously at him. Up the street, Dave McDonnell, a heavyset magazine editor, proudly waxed his black Porsche and, seeing Shaw, crinkled his face in confusion. If they only knew what evil thrived in their midst. Death, dark and sinister, was now their neighbor.

  The detective held out his gun and spun into the door frame, ready to face Davila, in whatever guise. Instead, he faced a living room full of defenseless Levitz furniture.

  And Officer Barron.

  Her corpse lay sprawled like a lion-skin rug, head propped up on its chin, mouth taped open in a mock growl.

  A fireplace poker sticking out of her back nailed her to the floor. Blood seeped into the cracks between the floor tiles.

  The sadistic bitch was McKimmon.

  Shaw swallowed back the bile and edged around the body. Barron was a fresh kill. Maybe Sunshine and Cory were alive. Maybe. His eyes searched the shadows for the slightest movement; his ears strained for the slightest sound.

  Where the fuck is my backup?

  He heard a glass break in the kitchen. In the silence of the house, the sound was like a sonic boom. Shaw inched his way across the living room toward the kitchen door. His shirt clung to his damp back and his jacket suddenly felt constricting.

  The kitchen door parted a crack.

  Inviting.

  Shaw narrowed his eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The broken glass, the open door. Bait to a trap.

  But Shaw had no choice. He had to take action. The lives of Sunshine and Cory were at stake. The door loomed up, huge and menacing.

  Behind it, he knew, hell waited.

  He braced himself against the wall near the door hinge. Using his gun barrel, he eased open the door. The slowly widening crack revealed Cory, curled in a corner beside the kitchen table, her shocked eyes locked onto something across the room.

  She's alive!

  Shaw slowly slipped into the kitchen, his back hugging the door. Cory didn't seem to notice him. He followed her eyes to the opposite wall and straightened up.

  Sunshine.

  He stopped breathing. The room rolled under his feet and the door silently swung closed.

  Sunshine was stabbed to the kitchen wall. Table knives. Forks. Steak knives. Skewers. Butcher knives. They all held her corpse in place.

  Demetria Davila leaped out from behind the kitchen door, a gleaming butcher knife held over her head. Shaw spun and fired, blasting a hole in the wall where she had stood. She screamed with devilish glee, her eyes wild, her mouth wide in a delirious grin. He fired again as she buried her butcher knife deep in his chest. The errant slug blasted harmlessly into the ceiling.

  Shaw fell backward, the shiny metal blurring in his eyes as she thrust again and again into his chest.

  Demetria Davila stood up, her arms covered in Shaw's blood up to her elbows. She tossed back her head in a wild laugh. Cory gripped her face with her hands and screamed until she fainted, her t body falling to one side.

  Davila planted her foot on Shaw's quivering stomach and yanked the butcher knife from his chest. It made a moist, sucking sound as it slid out of his convulsing body. Grinning, she stepped through the puddles of blood towards the child.

  The house shuddered. Davila froze and heard the unmistakable rumble of helicopter blades churning the air. She dropped the knife, picked up Shaw's gun, and walked into the living room. Through the drapes of the living room window, she could see the dark outline of the chopper landing on the lawn. She smiled and fired. The slugs tore through the drapes and shattered the glass.

  Brett Macklin dove out of the chopper, the bullets whizzing dangerously close to him. He rolled across the lawn, popped up in firing stance, and riddled the draped window with gunfire from his Uzi.

  Macklin ran forward and leaped through the window. He landed, rolled, and came up in a crouch. Officer Barron stared lifelessly at him.

  Outside, the wail of police sirens grew close.

  "Killing is an art, Macklin," he heard Davila yell, "an art I've perfected."

  He kicked the kitchen door open and burst inside. To his left, Sunshine's corpse stuck to the wall. Shaw twitched in blood at her feet. Macklin turned and saw Cory—covered in blood and crumpled in a heap.

  Macklin rushed to her and gently turned her over. There were no wounds. The blood belonged to the others.

  She was alive.

  Davila was gone.

  He left Cory for the police and ran back to his chopper. Neighbors were coming out of their houses. Police cars screeched around the corner. Macklin lifted the chopper into the air as the squad cars converged on Shaw's house.

  From the sky, the neighborhood looked like a giant model. Everything was clear—nothing was hidden. Macklin peered down, searching for any sign of the murderous Bitch.

  A few doors down from Shaw's house, Macklin saw Dave McDonnell lying facedown on his driveway, tread marks on his back. A mile ahead, Macklin could see McDonnell's black Porsche weaving between cars.

  The Bitch.

  Macklin ped for her speeding car. She turned sharply, careening into the maze of narrow streets that led to the famed Venice canals. The network of seedy backwaters was all that was left of the tidal flats a turn-of-the-century developer tried to transform into Renaissance Italy.

  Macklin could see squad cars closing off the streets in Davila's wake. She was trapped between the cops and the canals.

  Or so he thought.

  She burst through a picket fence and, to Macklin's sheer horror, charged
for the family picnicking on the lawn. The family ran in all directions. He watched helplessly as she plowed over the family and then veered to strike a fleeing child. The kid bounced off her hood, sailed into the canal, and sunk into the morass of sewage.

  The Porsche crashed through the fence again and skidded onto the street. Macklin stuck the barrel of his Uzi out the window. Bullets skitted on the asphalt around her car. She whipped around a corner and up onto a sidewalk. Macklin, in impotent rage, saw the carnage that was to come.

  She cut a swath of blood through a crowd of beachgoers. Severed limbs spun into the air. The Porsche roared off the sidewalk and into the street. A huge Bekins moving truck suddenly pulled out of a side street. The truck grumbled into her path.

  She veered sharply. The car spun. She regained control of the car and barreled across a vacant lot toward the narrow canal. Macklin charged over her, banked, and came around facing her as she picked up speed.

  She was racing for the water.

  She was going to jump it.

  Macklin's eyes burned with fury. A victorious yell escaped from his lips as he bore down on the murderous Bitch.

  The Porsche launched into the air above the canal. Macklin flew straight at her.

  They smashed together head-on. The sky erupted with a monstrous thunderclap of flame. The helicopter and the Porsche meshed into a pulsating fire cloud that filled the sky and rained jagged, white-hot metal onto the grimy waters.

  A helicopter blade spun through air and sliced into the side of the Bekins truck trailer. Trees and bushes along the bank erupted in flames. Windows shattered up and down the canal.

  And amidst the steaming debris on the water, a blackened body floated facedown towards the shore.

  EPILOGUE

  December. Dawn.

  The fog rolled in over the water and across the Pacific Coast Highway, slapping against the dry cliff like a wave and washing thickly over the Santa Monica high-rises.

  Sergeant Ronald Shaw felt strange being outside. The world didn't seem the same. It probably never would.