Macgregor, p.5
MacGregor, page 5
As for the kid in the barn, the way it worked out was that he’d been despondent because a priest had seduced that good Catholic boy. Mac wrote that story, but the paper showed it to the bishop of Miami first and so the article never saw the light of day.
A good time for a career change.
Enter the CIA.
And more kids--children in other lands brutalized in terrible ways. War victims, tribal murder victims, rape victims, exploding mine victims--just about any atrocity a sick mind could imagine had been committed against children.
All those images ran though Mac’s mind as he returned he to the Jeep. Then he had the depressing thought that no matter what crimes he had witnessed against children before new ones could, and would, be not only imagined but put into practice.
The mental image of his daughter’s face hit him like a blow.
Barbara.
So pale.
So still.
Framed by golden hair.
She could be the fairy tale princess, waiting for the kiss of the prince to awaken her to a glad life, full of years and happiness.
But for Barbara there was only the rumbling and the groaning and the hissing of machines. Monitors showing the peaks and valleys of her life.
Dead…or not?
Suffering or…?
Barbara’s face was the one that usually started—but always ended—his personal slide show of horrors. This time it had been another kid’s face, streaked with blood and mud and hanging out of a body bag, that had begun the chain of mental images.
He shook himself. For Christ’s sake, get it together, Mac. What’ll Stormy think?
Stormy sat in the Jeep, her entire being focused on him, searching for some sign of what to expect. Before he could change his expression, he saw her mistake his haggard demeanor. A look of horror stole over her features. And pain—a terrible pain, as if a splintered stake had been driven through her heart.
He didn’t waste time cursing himself for being an unfeeling jerk; he quickly gave her the thumbs-up sign. Her face beamed gladness, and over the rumble of the old coroner’s wagon firing up, he heard her cry, “Oh, Jesus love me.”
Then he saw her happiness collapse, realizing the same thing he had--if it wasn’t Leslie, it was still some other woman’s child.
“Oh, Sweet Mother Mary forgive me,” she moaned. “One of your babies is bad dead.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE WHITE BUS with the red crosses and Angelside Clinic sign sat in its usual spot on Orinoco Street and Barney sang his bilingual songs over the loudspeaker as the kids climbed on board. Mac and Stormy pulled up, and she saw Williams standing at the door of the bus, directing kids and handing out vouchers to their mothers.
“That’s the son of a bitch,” she shouted.
Mac steered the Jeep over the curb and ran right up alongside the bus. He got out, Stormy coming in from the other side, and advanced on Williams.
The driver’s eyes widened when he saw them coming, but Mac could tell that what really freaked the guy out was the sight of Stormy, who was practically spitting in fury.
“The crazy broad,” he shouted. “Get away, get away.”
He shoved kids aside and jumped for the steps, but Mac grabbed him by the collar. Williams jerked around, swinging for all he was worth.
Mac brushed the blow aside and gave him two shots to the body, doubling him over. Williams wasn’t going easy – he snaked an arm around Mac’s knees and tried to throw him over. Mac clubbed him away, nearly breaking his arm.
Williams flopped over on his belly, got to his knees and scrambled up the steps of the bus. He reached under the dash.
“He’s got a gun,” Stormy yelled.
Williams came around, finger already tightening on the trigger. Mac grabbed his gun hand and jerked it upward. There was a loud explosion. Kids screamed, and a large hole appeared in the roof of the bus.
Mac got a better grip on the man’s wrist.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” he said, twisting hard.
There was an audible crack of bone breaking. Williams yelped, and Mac none too gently disarmed him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him squealing onto the pavement.
The kids cheered and swarmed back on the bus to play. The windshield wipers flapped into life, blinkers blinked, horns honked and the doors whapped open and shut.
Mac dragged Williams a few yards away so they could talk. Stormy stood by his side, quivering with rage. To encourage the conversational flow, he lifted the driver up and gave him a swat across the chops then let him fall back again.
“What the hell you want, man?” Williams sobbed.
“I told you yesterday,” Stormy growled. “I want my grandkid, Leslie.”
“I don’t know no Leslie, lady. I’m not even the regular driver.”
“But you picked the kids up here yesterday morning, right?” Mac said. “And took them to the clinic?”
As Williams appeared to consider this statement and slowly realize he had an alibi—and a by-God honest alibi, at that - a mass of teenagers was gathering around the bus. Graffiti soon filled all that white space while the kids inside the bus shouted for a turn at the spray cans.
“Wasn’t me yesterday morning,” Williams finally said. “I just brung ‘em back in the afternoon. Somebody else picked ‘em up.”
“Who?” Mac demanded.
Williams squirmed. “No skin off my nose, man,” he whined. “It was Tampa and Bonita. This is their regular roué, but they couldn’t work yesterday afternoon. And they couldn’t work today, neither. That’s why I’m here.”
“Where can we find them?” Mac asked.
Williams shook his head. “Beats the shit out of me, man,” he said. “You gotta ask Mr. Rollins at the clinic. He’s the boss.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.” Mac shoved the guy away. “Get.”
Williams got, holding his wrist in one hand as he stumbled back to the bus, which had been totally transformed by the teenagers into a work of art from gangland hell. As he neared the vehicle, one of the teenage boys on board fired up the engine. Williams stood in bewildered horror as the others cheered and rushed onto the bus. He staggered toward the folding doors, but the young driver laughed at him and jerked them shut.
With a belch of black smoke and a grinding of gears, the bus took off, lights blinking, horn sounding, kids shouting out the windows and having a grand old time. The Barney theme song was suddenly ironic.
Mac watched Williams try to chase after the bus, but he didn’t manage more than half-a-dozen paces before pain made him stop. He gripped his wrist, moaning and breathing hard, then he looked up at the heavens and cried, “What’d I do, man?”
Stormy had a good laugh at that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MEN WERE WORKING on the broken gates when Mac tooled up to the Angelside Clinic. The guard saw the Jeep and stepped out to pull them over, but when he spotted Stormy he backpedaled and grabbed for the phone.
Mac drove slowly and very deliberately through the opening between the busted metal uprights and pulled up in front of the admin building. He stopped, glanced curiously around at the boarded-up windows and glass doors then shook his head in admiration.
“You sure did a bang-up job, Stormy,” he said. “They’ve got to give you that.”
When they reached the front door, another guard was waiting. He had big arms, thick legs and a gravity defying beer belly hanging over his belt - all encased in a too-tight rent-a-cop uniform.
“We’re closed,” he snarled.
“Is that so?” Mac said mildly. He looked behind him at the busted gates. “You should post a sign.”
* * *
Rollins was at his desk, the phone to his ear and a worried expression on his face.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Just calm down and don’t let anybody else through the gate, understand?” He slammed down the phone. Then he thought it best to take his own advice and started doing breathing exercises. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Shake your arms and rock your head. Inhale. Exhale. Another shake…
Shouts and the sounds of scuffling interrupted his stress relief, and he snapped to, rising to his feet, abandoning the safety of his chair. Someone hollered in pain, his office door slammed open, and a guard sailed into the room, crashed against the desk and slumped to the floor. A burst of papers flew off the top, and Rollins grabbed at them, snatching one here, missing another there.
Just as he realized what a useless mission it was there was another yell - wilder and more painful than before — and a second guard stumbled into the office, tripped over his comatose buddy and sprawled on the floor.
Then a big man in a Hawaiian shirt and faded jeans came in, brushing himself off. To Rollins’ horror, he realized he was looking at none other than “Mac” MacGregor, well-known in South Florida circles for readjusting villainous attitudes and spines.
Worse still, he next spotted the little wild woman who had shot up his clinic the previous day and was apparently intent on repeating the destruction.
“You,” he shouted at Stormy.
Rollins reached for his desk drawer and started to pull out a gun, but Mac got there first and knocked him back into the chair. He lifted the gun out of the drawer and examined it with a jaundiced eye.
“For a children’s clinic,” Mac said, “you people sure have a lot of guns around.”
The second guard started to get up.
“Why don’t you take a little nap until we’re done here,” Mac advised.
The guard sagged back down. The other didn’t move at all.
Rollins tried to bluster. “I don’t know what you’re up to,” he said, “but the police will soon sort this out.”
He reached for the phone, but Mac grabbed his thumb. He squeezed slightly and Rollins felt a sharp pain race up arm. He settled down.
Mac fished a card from his shirt pocket and showed it to him.
“Try this number,” he said. “It’s a direct line to Lieutenant Snow of the Boca Raton PD. I think she’s on her way over here anyway, with a team of auditors from the state health authorities.”
Rollins’ heart tried to escape through his throat. He swallowed hard, then decided a little bluffing might be in order.
“Screw you,” he said with far more bravery than he possessed. “I’m no fool.”
“To hell with all this talk,” Stormy snapped. “Where’s my Leslie?”
Rollins gave it all he had. “Lady, I told you and the authorities yesterday that I don’t know of any Leslie. Nor do I have a record of any child by that name.”
“I understand that you’re a busy man,” Mac said. “Might miss the details. But what we are particularly interested in is two of your drivers. They go by the names of Tampa and Bonita.”
Rollins shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest—“
Mac’s grabbed him by the throat and suddenly Rollins couldn’t breathe. Blood hammered at his temples and he felt his face start to swell.
“A trick I learned in my salad days,” Mac said. “One good squeeze and goodbye voice box. You’ll be talking like Darth Vader for the rest of your life.”
Desperately, Rollins tried to speak – to plead for his life, but only a croak came out.
“Think you can help us?” Mac asked, squeezing harder.
Rollins nodded furiously, and Mac let go. Rollins sucked in huge quantities of air, feeling a lot like a beached fish.
“They’re… just…just…” He stopped, shook his head in frustration – he still couldn’t speak - and reached for the open desk drawer.
Mac got there first, knocking his hand aside. He grinned when he saw that Rollins was only after a half-pint of Jim Beam.
“Here, allow me,” he said, fishing it out of the drawer . He gave the bottle to Rollins, who cracked it open and swallowed a long, long draught.
“Better?”
Rollins nodded.
“We were discussing Tampa and Bonita,” Mac reminded him.
“Right,” Rollins said, his throat still on fire, but at least he could talk again. “They’re just contract labor, so we don’t have any records on file. But somebody told me they live at a motel near the lake. It’s a fisherman’s hangout called The Bait And Tackle.”
Mac nodded. “Thanks for your time,” he said. He popped the cylinder of Rollins’s weapon, let the bullets spill out on the floor then replaced it in the open drawer, sliding it smoothly shut.
“You should get a safety lock on that drawer,” he said.. “And another on your weapon. With all the kids about you never know what grubby little hands might be pawing in your desk.”
Stormy was glaring at Rollins so full of fury that he was afraid she was going to come over the desk and attack him. But to Rollins’ immense relief Mac took her calmly by the elbow and guided her out the door, stepping over the downed guards.
He watched them go, fingering his tender throat. One of the guards sat up. Rollins snorted in disgust. “Useless piece of shit,” he said.
He picked up the phone and punched numbers. Someone answered. “Mr. Novarro? Okay, I understand that he’s not available. But tell him that Mr. Rollins called from the clinic. And tell him that we’ve got a real bad problem. A problem that is way over our heads here.
“Tell him it’s MacGregor.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE ONLY LIGHT burning at the Bait and Tackle Motel when Mac pulled into the lot was a yellow bug light above the manager’s office. Frogs and crickets were out in force, filling the night with their noise. A few local dogs barked at the strange vehicle. Then somewhere far off a big bull gator bellowed for its mate and everything became very still especially the dogs, who scrambled under a pickup truck. A country dog does not bark when there are gators on the prowl.
He shut off the engine and looked around. A few boat trailers were drawn up in the lot alongside their accompanying pickups—two Chevys and a short-bed Ford with rounded rear fenders and indented step-ups. The trailers were empty, and he presumed the boats were among the half-dozen he saw moored just off the little dock that protruded into the lake.
Stormy looked the scene over.
“Ever notice how Ford’s been lookin’ so much better’n Chevy these days?” she asked.
Mac grunted-she was nervous and wasn’t really looking for an answer. He opened the door and got out. Stormy followed.
They looked like your average fishing-camp inhabitants. Mac wore one of the extra-large Hawaiian shirts he favored – this one was decorated with sharks and roses. His bare feet were shoved into a pair of well-worn deck shoes. Stormy wore tight levis that emphasized her skinny legs, leather sandals, and a sleeveless fisherman’s vest that showed off her tats. Mac glanced down and saw one of a bare-breasted biker chick brandishing a bloody dagger. He wondered what the story was behind it but didn’t ask.
They went to the manager’s office, where a small sign on the door read RING BELL. He found the bell and obeyed the sign. There was no reply or sign of movement within. He rang again. Still nothing. So he leaned on the bell and didn’t let go.
After awhile he heard footsteps approaching and somebody said, “Hang on. Hang on. Jesus H. Christ with the bell.”
He let up on the button. There were lock noises then the door came open, and a fat cracker in a dirty T-shirt and jockey shorts opened the door. Scratching his ass, he looked up at Mac. Before he could speak, Mac displayed several twenties, fanned out like a poker hand.
The manager gulped and quit scratching.
“Tampa and Bonita,” Mac said.
The manager eyed the bills, licked his lips then pointed across the court.
“Unit 12B,” he said.
Mac handed him the money. He counted the bills.
“Any blood,” he said without looking up, “you pay for the cleanup.”
He slammed the door. Mac and Stormy turned and headed across the court.
“Maybe you should wait in the Jeep,” Mac said.
Stormy snorted. “I busted in more doors durin’ my gang-bangin’ days,” she said, “than the mother-humpin’ DEA.”
He nodded. She probably wasn’t exaggerating.
“Fair enough.”
He slipped a neat little .32 automatic from beneath his shark-and-roses shirt and handed it to her. Then he got out his big Glock, sighed and fingered the tender spot at his belt line. It was the main drawback to his dislike of holsters.
Stormy grinned. “I thought your pants were kind of draggin’.”
He ran the slide back, chambering a round. “Here’s to an armed society.”
Stormy shrugged and got her own weapon ready. She wasn’t much into political humor.
As they neared the unit, Mac signaled, and they both slowed to a creep. There was the sound of a door opening somewhere behind them. Then of a baby crying. They glanced around in time to see the manager, now dressed, hastily exiting the office. Tailing him was a dumpy woman carrying a squalling baby, followed by four fat, dirty little kids. They all crowded into a battered Chevy pickup and sped away.
Mac grimaced. “Proverbial rats and all that,” he said.
When they reached 12B, Stormy got on one side of the door, Mac the other. He leaned forward and gently tested the doorknob. To his surprise, it turned.
He pushed, very slowly, very cautiously, and the door swung open without restriction.
Mac heard a small metallic “ping,” and his heart rapped against his chest.
“Bomb,” he yelled, grabbing Stormy’s arm and yanking her away.
They took off running, but there was no way they could outrun the laws of physics. An enormous explosion rocked the complex. Flame sheeted up and out. Glass and metal were catapulted across the courtyard like shrapnel.
The force of the blast caught them mid-stride. They were hurled to the ground like crash dummies in a factory test that had gone all wrong. Mac tried to shield Stormy with his body as debris rained on them. Something large thumped the ground beside him then hot sand and ashes seared exposed skin.
