The thin man turned and walked casually to a coal black BMW, parked in the shadows across from the warehouse. In what seemed like one fluid, choreographed motion, he opened the door, sat down, and reached for the telephone between the seats.
"Mr. Orlock?" The man's words slithered out snakelikeâsoft and smooth. "This is Tice."
"Good evening, Tice," Orlock replied lightly.
"The stranger followed Wesley to the warehouse and just broke into our trash."
"Really?" Orlock laughed. "Our trash, huh? We can't have that, Tice, now, can we?"
"No, sir," Tice whispered.
"A man's trash is sacred."
"Yes, sir." Tice smiled thinly.
"You'd better kill the fiend."
"As you wish." Tice clicked off the phone.
Cheshire was curled up in the corner of the couch in her yellow terry-cloth bathrobe watching
Late Night with David Letterman
when Macklin came in the front door carrying a small grocery bag.
"Mack, I thought you'd never get back," Cheshire said as he rushed past her into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry, there was more office work at the hangar than I thought." Macklin set the bag down on the kitchen table. "But I got you a little surprise to make up for it."
Cheshire rose from the couch, turned off the television, and trudged barefoot into the kitchen. "What?"
Macklin melodramatically yanked a quart of chocolate ice cream from the grocery bag. "Ta-da!"
Cheshire laughed. "I appreciate it, honey, but it's too fattening."
Macklin frowned. "Fattening? Cheshire, are you going to deny yourself one of life's greatest pleasures?"
"Yep."
"Okay." Macklin shrugged, turning his back to Cheshire and reaching toward the kitchen cabinets above the sink for a bowl.
"Forget the bowls, Brett," Cheshire said. He turned around and saw her holding two spoons in one hand and yanking open the quart with the other. "Half the fun is just digging in. It doesn't give you time to think about the calories."
He grinned, shaking his head disbelievingly, and took a spoon from her, plunged it into the ice cream, dug out a huge portion, and eagerly stuffed it into his mouth.
"Good?" she asked with an expectant smile.
"
Great.
" He pointed to the ice cream with his spoon as if she needed urging on.
"I'm going to savor this," she said, wagging her spoon at him.
"Okay already, so eat."
Cheshire stabbed the ice cream with her spoon, carved out a thick wedge, and sucked the end of it into her mouth. She closed her eyes and rolled the ice cream between her cheeks. "Mmmmmmmm," she purred.
"Good?" Macklin asked.
She opened her eyes and nodded, the motion tipping her spoon. The remaining ice cream in her spoon spilled off inside her bathrobe.
Cheshire shrieked, dropping the spoon on the table.
"Shit!" she snapped, quickly untying her bathrobe.
Macklin saw the ice cream roll between her breasts, the chill raising goose bumps on her tan flesh and drawing her nipples into sharp points. He took her hand as she reached back for a towel.
He looked into her hazel eyes, stuck his free hand into the ice cream container, and clawed out a handful of chocolate. She tilted her head to one side and regarded him quizzically. Smiling, he smeared it deliberately over her left breast. She tossed her head back and gritted her teeth, drawing in a fast, deep breath.
Macklin's heart raced as he massaged a handful of ice cream over her other breast. Rivers of chocolate ran down her stomach and onto her panties. Leaning over, Macklin began to lick the ice cream off her breasts while one chocolate-covered hand massaged the warmth between her legs.
Cheshire moaned deeply, her nipples hard, pulsating points of chilly pleasure. Her icy ecstasy was invigorating, overpowering. She tore open his shirt, reached behind him, and plunged her hands into the carton, grabbing two handfuls of ice cream and rubbing it onto his back.
Macklin arched his back in reaction to the cold, pressing his wet, sticky lips into her neck and his hips against hers. She took his face into her hands and kissed him, her fingers entwined in his hair. Macklin eased down her panties, filled his hands with ice cream, and pressed the chocolate between her legs. She gasped in shock and pleasure, her mouth open in a wide smile.
"Goddamn, Brett Macklin!" she cried, her breaths coming hard and fast. She growled playfully, unbuckled his belt, and yanked down his pants. His erection strained against his bikini briefs. She took a handful of ice cream with one hand and pulled down the briefs with the other.
Macklin laughed. "Cheshire . . ."
"Yes?" She giggled mischievously and then wrapped her ice creamâfilled hand around his stiff penis. Macklin choked back a scream. Cheshire laughed, dropped to her knees, and ran her tongue slowly up the shaft of his penis.
Macklin moaned and finger-painted her back with chocolate fingers. He'd never felt so hard.
She reached for more ice cream, knocking over the empty container. Macklin clasped Cheshire by the shoulders, pulled her up, and kissed her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her tight against him. Pushing her back against the kitchen counter, he entered her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands grabbing his ass.
They moved against each other slowly at first, but their eagerness took over and soon they were undulating quickly, sharply, streams of melting chocolate ice cream streaming down their heaving bodies.
They let out surprised, muffled shrieks as they came, shivering with chills of cold and pleasure.
Macklin tried to catch his breath, his cheek against Cheshire's breast. He could feel her heart pulsing. "Now, that's what I call a chocolate sundae." He grinned.
Cheshire threw back her head in a wild, satisfied laugh. "I love you, Brett, you sneaky little shit, I really do."
Macklin closed his eyes and felt something stiffen defensively inside him. He had the momentary impulse to walk away from her. Defying the urge, he suddenly lifted her up into his arms. She shrieked playfully. Laughing with more gaiety than he felt, he carried her upstairs to his bedroom, where they showered, dried each other off, and made love again under the heavy comforter. They drifted off to sleep, snug in the warmth afforded by each other's arms.
# # # # # #
Cheshire woke up at 6 a.m., ravenously hungry, yearning for a big country breakfast. She slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to wake up Brett, and crept naked down the stairs into the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway to the kitchen and surveyed the mess, hugging herself and feeling goose bumps on her shoulders. The empty ice cream container lay on its side on the kitchen table. Dried rivers of melted ice cream ran down the wood cabinets and settled on the floor in brownish puddles. It looked like the aftermath of a precocious child's fun or a wild raccoon's scavenging.
She frowned, knowing Brett would find a way around helping to clean up the mess, and stepped toward the refrigerator. The cold floor shattered whatever remnants of sleep remained. She tiptoed hurriedly across the floor as if she were walking barefoot on an ice rink.
Shivering, she hunched in front of the refrigerator and pulled it open. A wave of cold air splashed against her and the bright light from inside stung her eyes.
Oh, so cold!
Being cold didn't feel so bad last night, did it?
Cheshire grinned nastily.
No, it didn't.
She peered into the refrigerator. She frowned again. The refrigerator looked like some kind of icy mausoleum. There were dozens of tiny aluminum- and plastic-wrapped bundles of indiscernible food lining the shelves like so many corpses. No eggs. No milk. No margarine.
If she wanted a country breakfast, she realized, it would have to be frozen pizza, leftover chicken, Schlitz beer, and some stale Grape-Nuts cereal. Damn! She wanted to surprise Brett with a big, rousing breakfast.
No, be honest. You just want to be a pig!
She closed the refrigerator and bounced on her feet, trying to stay warm while she considered her options. Cheshire wasn't about to let the sorry selection in the refrigerator ruin her plans.
Nope, she was going to have her country breakfast. At home. In bed.
Maybe,
she thought,
we can even play around a bit before I have to get my butt in gear and head to the hospital.
Safeway is just three blocks away,
she reminded herself.
Throw something on. Brett's sleeping like a baby. It will take a few sticks of dynamite to wake Brett up. Hurry. You can still have your country breakfast.
Cheshire dashed up the stairs, slipped into a pair of faded jeans and a loose-fitting white sweatshirt, tucked her feet into a pair of sandals, and stole Brett's car keys and a few bucks off the dresser. She was down the stairs and out the door in twenty seconds.
The crisp, cold air slapped her as she dashed across the porch and through the front lawn, soaking her feet on the wet grass as she ran to the driveway between the rusted, decrepit Cadillacs that languished in the yard until Brett found the spare time to restore them.
Half-frozen beads of dew gave the black Cadillac in the driveway the icy look of an Eskimo Pie. Cheshire, anxious to get warm, quickly unlocked the door and got in. She slid the heater control to high. Cheshire wanted a warm blast as soon as possible.
She pumped the gas pedal, slipped the key into the ignition, and turned it.
The fiery explosion sent a hot wind crashing through Brett Macklin's bedroom window. Instinct tossed Macklin off the bed in the turbulent split second when the hellish roar rocked the house and blew a windstorm of glass shards sweeping through the room. Macklin, confused and twisted amidst the sheets on the floor, thought it was an earthquake.
He blinked open his eyes and sat up, still groggy from sleep and dazed by the sudden shudder that had tossed him out of bed. His thoughts, like the bedroom, were in utter disarray. Macklin propped himself up on the bed and, facing the window, saw the heavy brown smoke spiraling upwards outside and smelled something burning.
What the fuck happened?
Macklin ran to the window, oblivious to the broken glass slicing his feet, and looked down.
He saw a car door, charred and smoldering on the steaming lawn.
Cheshire . . .
Macklin whipped his head around. Cheshire wasn't in the room. Naked, he frantically bolted out of the room and raced down the stairs, flinging open the front door and jumping off the porch onto the grass. Rounding the corner of the house, he felt the burning heat of the blaze before he saw the bright yellow flames eating out the inside of the Batmobile.
Macklin ran toward the car but was pushed back by the searing heat. He could see the ravenous flames chewing into the vague, smoky outline of a person in the front seat.
He tried to scream her name, but his overwhelming feeling of hopeless frustration stole his breath. His lungs were being strangled by something strong and cold, something he had felt before only months ago.
Macklin closed his eyes and fell to his knees.
Forgive me, Cheshire, forgive me . . .
Shaw had a sickly feeling of déjà vu as he stood watching the firefighters douse the smoking, gnarled remains of the Cadillac.
He relived a warm, still night in a poverty-stricken South Central Los Angeles neighborhood. The black detective remembered the gutted, smoldering remains of the RTD bus, the body bags in the street, the unrecognizable charred lump of sizzling flesh that had once been LAPD Officer JD Macklin.
The RTD bus had wound around the corner when Brett's father ran, aflame, across its path. The bus driver swerved to miss him. The bus roared into oncoming traffic, smashing into cars and bursting into flames that nearly reduced an entire city block to smoldering ash.
Brett Macklin had seen those flames, too. And from them, Mr. Jury was born.
Shaw, grimacing, turned away from the firefighters and approached Macklin, who sat on the porch steps in his maroon cotton bathrobe. Macklin stared coldly with glazed eyes at the wall of pajama-clad neighbors gawking at him on the sidewalk and listened to the steady streams of soot-blackened water rushing down the driveway and splashing into the gutter.
"Mack?" Shaw ventured softly. Macklin showed no sign of having heard him.
"Mack?" He repeated, shaking Macklin's shoulder. "Are you okay?"
Macklin's head shot up. "Am I okay? What kind of goddamn question is that?" His anger flared, lighting his eyes with rage and shattering his shocked lethargy. "Sure, Ronny, I'm just great. My lover was blown to bits in my driveway this morning. Am I okay? Sure, I've never felt better."
Macklin stood up, pushed Shaw roughly aside, and stormed toward the front door of the house.
Shaw made a move to follow him and Macklin whirled around, lashing out and striking Shaw in the chest with the palm of his hand.
"A year ago my life was ripped apart by a bunch of savages," Macklin yelled. "They set my father on fire, they poured gasoline on him and watched him burn. When they tossed that match on my father, they also set fire to my life." Macklin nodded toward the driveway. "I was beginning to think maybe, just maybe, I could become a normal human being again. Fuck, those savages won't let me."
Macklin, his face flushed with anger, poked Shaw hard in the chest with an accusing finger. "You won't let me."
Macklin yanked open the front door and slammed it shut behind him. Shaw sighed and stared at the closed door, torn between leaving and going inside. An old feeling, one of friendship and need, drew him toward the door, while a strong, new feeling of distance and repulsion pulled him away.
"Shit," Shaw muttered to himself. "I hate this job."
Shaw cautiously eased open the door and peered into the house. Macklin, pacing back and forth in the living room, froze for an instant when he saw Shaw and leveled a gaze ripe with violence at the black detective.
Shaw entered the house anyway, eyeing Macklin with the wary attention of a man who accidentally crosses a lion's path in the jungle. Shaw closed the door softly behind him and took a tentative step into the entry hall.