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
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