Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (10 page)

“Don’t you ever quit?” she asked.

“No.”

“Mike Kilborn is a casual acquaintance of mine.”

“It seems that in this town Mike Kilborn is a casual acquaintance of just about everybody.”

“Turk wanted me to befriend him.”

“Turk? From what you told me, I thought Turk was a jealous maniac when it came to you.”

She leaned back. Now she was prone, her hands behind her head. Her eyes were directed at the ceiling though her mind seemed to be farther away than that.

“You don’t understand Turk. Actually, I don’t think you understand anyone here.”

That sounds about right, Harry thought.

She continued, “The most important thing for Turk, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, is cleaning out the marijuana business in this area. I told you before he’ll never do it. It’s an impossibility, though he’s not going to let that stop him. But he’s so obsessed about it that nothing else really matters to him. Not me, not Davenport, not anyone. He never thinks he’s using people, he does it so naturally. The way he brought you over here tonight, that was what he did with Mike.”

“Is this how Kilborn spent his nights?” Harry asked, his interest not entirely professional.

She looked hurt and angry. “I don’t have to answer that. I am not a whore. I do not like Mike. I put up with him as a favor to Turk. He believes that Mike is working both sides, using the police as a cover while he deals.”

“Is there any truth to that?”

“I don’t see where that’s any business of yours.”

“Let me rephrase the question. Are you getting the sort of information Turk wants from him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows what Turk finds useful and what’s just bullshit. Do we have to continue this discussion?”

The rain was coming down harder. Harry had a picture of the wooded terrain that Turk’s army would have to traverse and how muddy and impassable it was probably turning.

“One more question, then I’ll let it go. Is there a possibility that it’s been working the other way?”

“What do you mean?” Her voice was sharp.

“Let me finish. I mean could you have been taking information received from Turk and passing it on to Kilborn?”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Her eyes were inflamed. It had been bad enough before: a simmering fire had been building in her. The signs were all there—the tensed muscles, the shallow breathing. But now he had triggered her off. He hadn’t wanted to, but he needed to get this out in the open. “Oh no, you don’t,” she repeated, suddenly springing out of bed, oblivious of her nudity.

She reached for the USC sweatshirt that she’d flung over a chair and gathered it over her. “Get out!” she commanded.

Harry did not instantly respond.

“Get the hell out of here! I am not going to be taken for a goddamn whore and then accused of betraying a friend. No way.”

“It’s kind of wet out there,” Harry remarked, knowing that this would only make her more enraged.

She threw the sheets off the bed to encourage his speedy departure. “I don’t give a shit if you drown out there. You have abused my hospitality. You have abused me.”

Harry didn’t move. He remained very calm, which was not easy under the circumstances. “You haven’t answered my question. You answer my question, I’ll leave.”

“No!” She virtually screamed the reply. “No! No! No! I did not compromise Turk. I don’t know what Turk’s up to, I don’t give a good goddamn. If there are any leaks, those leaks aren’t coming from me. Those leaks are headed in the other direction.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What do I mean? I mean that the only people Turk completely trusts, the only people he will ever confide in, are his superiors.”

“In Washington?”

“Sacramento, Washington, wherever, I don’t know.”

“Kilborn tell you that?”

“Kilborn doesn’t tell me shit. But he implied as much. Now will you leave?” She was still flushed and trembling, but most of her anger had been spent. She was tired, just tired.

Harry was beginning to perceive the connection: Turk was undermining himself every time he called Washington to let his office know what he was planning. Harry suspected that Washington then in turn alerted Kilborn and set him in motion. The question was why.

“Are you leaving?” Her voice intruded on his thoughts.

Yes, he said, yes, he was leaving. He pulled himself out of bed and dressed, conscious the whole time of her vigilant eyes. Though her rage had abated, she still looked like she might pounce on him, given the slightest provocation.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he said, reassuring her.

She wore a doubtful look until he was all the way downstairs and at the door.

Not knowing what else to say he bade her good night.

“Good night,” she said. It was like a retort. She tried slamming the door. The door didn’t cooperate. It wasn’t a door made for slamming. Too heavy.

Harry had left his borrowed Olds a block away. It was an ingrained habit never to park exactly in front of the place he was visiting. It appeared that the car was where he was going to spend his night after all.

He had made himself as comfortable as possible, squeezed into the back seat, his jacket doubling as his pillow, when he heard a rapping at the side window.

The problem in this town, he thought, was that no one lets you get a decent night’s sleep.

Opening his eyes, he gazed blurrily at the window, which was so obscured by the rainwater collected on it that he could make out only the form of a person, not the features.

Pressing his face against the pane, he saw who it was.

It was Elsie, standing there, still wearing only the sweatshirt, getting very wet.

He unlocked the door to let her in. Her hair was so drenched that it was practically matted to her face. She brushed away enough strands so that her face was visible. “Come back.”

Harry shook his head. “I was just getting comfortable in here,” he said.

“You don’t understand. I blew up. There wasn’t any reason to fly off the handle like that. I apologize.”

“I don’t want your apologies.”

“What do you want?”

He grabbed hold of her and pulled her wet chilled body down onto the seat with him, shutting the door at the same time.

“I want you,” he answered her. “I want you.”

The exact timing of the invasion might have been a secret, but the preparations for it certainly weren’t. Russian River was a small place and there was simply no way to conceal from view the small army of police officers, deputized volunteers, and federal agents that was assembling both in front of the county-seat courthouse and inside state police headquarters located fifteen miles south of town. Nor could even the most unobservant individual fail to note the growing armada of half-tracks, four-wheel-drives, jeeps, and logging trucks reconditioned to serve as troop transport. In addition, two new Sikorskys had been brought in to replace the one shot down over Rain Mountain. Throughout Wednesday afternoon they sat under guard on the grounds of a public park ordinarily used by children on sunnier days.

Arms from all over the state, mainly M161As and AR15s, were being collected in the armory belonging to the state police. They were to be distributed to the men just prior to the launching of the invasion.

Overhead, as the afternoon went on, it was possible to hear the faint drone of the spotter plane as the pilot made his final reconnaissance flights over the region.

In the town’s two restaurants and two bars, agents and detectives and people who’d been deputized twenty-four hours before traded stories and speculations about the day and hour of the invasion strike. Everyone reckoned that it would have to be soon. If there was any delay, they’d move into the mountains and find all the growers had split—along with their harvests.

Rut there were others who pointed out that the weather was so dismal, with intermittent rain and overcast skies, that the strike would have to be postponed. Otherwise, the entire force would simply get bogged down.

In the courthouse, the federal circuit court judge was approving successive John Doe warrants as fast as he could. Periodically, he would take a break and go for meditative walks in the rain.

The preparations for such an enterprise were so enormous that the work had spilled out of the windowless office Turk and Davenport were accustomed to. Tables with more maps and enlarged photographs lined the corridors, and offices that were regularly given over to routine civic functions had been appropriated by a variety of federal, state, and local authorities.

It was difficult for Harry to tell whether Turk was really in charge of this or that he thus far had just not run up against anyone to countermand his instructions because of the general confusion.

In any event, he was more exhilarated than Harry could ever recall seeing him. That he’d barely slept made no difference; the adrenalin flowed in his veins and his eyes were alight with the anticipation of finally having his dream fulfilled.

He was constantly briefing people, handing out orders and advice, always with enthusiasm. He sounded giddy when he spoke, like a child who has been set loose in a candy store a little too long.

Spotting Harry, he rushed over to him. “I’m glad you could join us.”

“Oh, I’m just keeping to the shadows and watching.”

In this chaos, it was not hard to maintain a low profile.

“Good enough. I hope you’ll be joining us up in the mountains. Even if you are no longer acting in an official capacity.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Turk offered Harry a broad, meaningless smile.

“But there’s one thing that concerns me.”

“What’s that?” Clearly Turk did not want to hear anything that would disrupt the inexorable progress of his invasion plans.

“The whole goddamn town knows you’re going tomorrow morning.”

Turk’s smile wasn’t so meaningless this time. “Is that so?”

“That’s what they’re saying in the gin mills. It’s a good bet that’s what they’re saying up in the mountains.”

“Ah, that is exactly how I want it. That is perfect.” He lowered his voice, glanced around to see if anyone was nearby. “You see I made sure that that rumor was spread.” He paused, then clarified his purpose: “Confuse the enemy.”

“Confuse the friend too?”

“That’s the only way. The truth is we’re moving out tonight. Six o’clock sharp.”

“Weather report says it’s supposed to rain hard tonight. Might make it kind of messy, if you know what I mean.”

“If I worried about the weather, I’d have to wait till spring. The hell with the weather.”

Then Turk turned and went back to his beloved topographical maps.

The weather might be easy for him to dismiss now, Harry thought, but it would prove more difficult to ignore once they all got out into it.

Harry wandered about town for the next hour and a half, watching the action with more than a little amusement. In spite of all the commotion, it did not appear as though very much was actually being accomplished.

Towards three-thirty in the afternoon a chauffeur-driven Mercedes sped up Van Buren and double-parked in front of the courthouse. Harry stopped where he was and waited.

Suddenly, two local police officers emerged from the courthouse, followed by Turk.

The passenger in the Mercedes got out and waited until Turk approached him. The two greeted each other and shook hands.

Harry was familiar with the visitor. It was the same man he had seen yesterday in San Francisco with Kilborn. He had on the same coat, and he was still carrying his umbrella. This time the umbrella made sense.

Harry found Davenport a few minutes later and asked him who this distinguished arrival was.

“Howard McPheeters.”

“Am I supposed to know the name?”

“He’s top brass from Washington. Our superior officer. He’s come to take charge of the operation. I thought you knew that.”

“No,” said Harry, wondering at the connection. “Nobody tells me anything.”

C H A P T E R
E i g h t

B
y the time the invasion force pulled out—forty-five minutes late—the weather was even worse than it had been that afternoon. When there wasn’t a drizzle, there was a downpour. The helicopters and the spotter plane would have to remain grounded at least until the next day.

Turk was undaunted. He rode in one of the four-wheel-drive pickups that contained several transmitters. He used them to communicate with the other units that composed this unlikely caravan. Turk wanted Harry to ride with him. He seemed anxious to demonstrate to his guest that he was not the blundering ass he might have been mistaken for originally. “Besides,” he said, “I’d thought you’d like another chance at Charlie Mountain. Maybe we can get those cocksuckers who shot us down.”

Harry wasn’t certain that another chance at Charlie—Rain Mountain in the geography books—was exactly what he had in mind. But he knew this exercise couldn’t fail to be interesting, whatever the result. He had learned that McPheeters was far away, back at the courthouse where he was supposed to be, coordinating the movements of the strike force.

“What do you know about this McPheeters?” Harry asked.

“Howard? He’s reliable, very efficient, a formidable personality,” Turk said, sounding very sure of himself. “Why do you ask?”

“I wouldn’t trust the man.”

Turk was brought up short. One of the transmitters had come to life. It was Davenport, who was in command of the units moving in the direction of Alpha Mountain.

“Excuse me,” he said to Harry, then lifted up the speaker. “This is Xanadu One. What is it, Frank?”

“We have a stall. A truck is trapped in the mud.”

“Well, get it untrapped.”

“We’re doing our best, Turk. There’s a man coming up from town to free it.”

“Can you go around it meanwhile?”

“That’s the thing, Turk. It was one of the lead trucks. And you know how the road is, especially with this goddamn rain coming down. We’re just going to have to wait here for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“As soon as the guy from Maxie’s Garage gets here. Half an hour, I don’t know. Maybe forty-five minutes.”