Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (8 page)

Giving no hint of what he was about to do, Harry abruptly tore into the right lane, just barely avoiding a collision with a monstrous lumber truck, then shot down the off-ramp, still maintaining a speed of seventy miles per hour. The incessant wail of the siren behind him signaled that the cruiser was continuing its pursuit, though Harry’s maneuver had caused it to lose ground.

This was just what Harry had expected.

A narrow two-lane road ran perpendicular to the off-ramp. One direction led to the Marietta Vinyards, where free samples awaited the thirsty traveler. The other led back to Highway 101. Harry hadn’t much time to work with if he wanted to catch up with his quarry again.

He waited a few moments longer until he was certain the trooper had spotted him. Then he made a left turn, heading toward the on-ramp via an underpass.

The trooper naturally followed him, assuming that Harry meant to flee in the opposite direction on Highway 101, back toward Russian River.

Harry made a U-turn before he reached the on-ramp, forcing the trooper to slam on the brakes. Within moments, Harry was passing the cruiser, going the other way. He resisted the impulse to wave at his fuming pursuer.

He was heading back toward the off-ramp, but it made not the slightest difference. He started up it.

Three vehicles, including one log truck, were in the meantime starting down it. The drivers of these vehicles greeted the sight of Harry’s car with a furious din of honking and a few angry curses shouted out of open windows.

Harry kept going.

The off-ramp was just wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass side-by-side—but only with a great many scraped fenders as a result. There was practically no leeway on either side.

The sound of steel against steel, chrome against chrome, hubcap against hubcap was more grating than the persistence of two police sirens shrieking in unison. Harry’s car wobbled and listed as it fought the tide uphill. He kept having to balance it or risk overturning and plummeting oft the ramp.

The underside of the log truck was almost higher than the roof of Harry’s car. Almost but not quite. A fearsomely loud thunderstorm sounded very close. But it was no thunderstorm, only the roof of Harry’s car being sheared off with no more resistance than bandages stripped from a person’s skin.

Some of the roof remained intact, but it wasn’t enough to protect Harry in case of a genuine thunderstorm. It was a shadow of its former self, crumpled-in and torn half open, with flaps of it banging noisily with the car’s unsteady motion.

But Harry had broken through and was now back on the highway, headed in the direction he wanted.

The state trooper had attempted to follow Harry’s route, but by the time he was ready to speed up the off-ramp, three buffeted vehicles were stalled all over the ramp. One by one, the bewildered drivers were getting out to inspect the damage.

The trooper had no idea of what had happened and could not cut down his speed in time. He plowed directly into the Plymouth blocking his way. The driver of the Plymouth seemed to have realized what was going to happen as soon as he saw the cruiser’s approach, but there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about it. He shrugged at the damage to his car.

The state trooper was not quite so fatalistic. His nose was bleeding, his eyes were blackened, an unsightly bruise was embossed on his brow. But his humiliation was worse than the injuries. He stood in the midst of the wreckage and swore. That was all he could do.

Harry didn’t catch sight of Kilborn’s car again until after passing signs indicating the turn-off to Napa. It seemed more and more likely he was heading into the San Francisco metropolitan area.

Although there was no mistaking Harry’s car, given its devastated condition, no additional cruisers had turned out to give him chase. If Harry’s luck held, Kilborn might still be under the impression that he had successfully eluded him.

That appeared to be the case, for Kilborn was proceeding at a speed close to the legal limit and making no outward move to take evasive action.

Like an arrow, Kilborn remained true to Highway 101, taking it past the airport into the city proper. He ended his journey in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Wharf. He parked. Then, without troubling to lock the doors, he hastened down Beach Street. Harry, on foot now, was right behind him.

Harry followed Kilborn until he came at last to what looked like a residential building, one that had been designed to resemble an eighteenth-century Mexican villa, with white stucco walls and a colonnaded portico. Balconies on the upper floors were partially shrouded in intricate lattice-work, and the windows were arched. A set of stairs led up to a doorway where Harry found six doorbells, each with a name listed beside it.

Harry had seen Kilborn mount the stairs, but, from the distance he had necessarily had to maintain he hadn’t been able to tell which of these half-dozen bells Kilborn had pressed. There was no question he’d pressed one of them; Harry had watched him wait until someone had buzzed him in.

He scanned the names, thinking that this was not likely to be very illuminating. But one name was very familiar. Jud Harris.

Could be a coincidence, Harry thought, but hardly. From the documentation he’d studied pertaining to the murder victims in marijuana country, he remembered seeing a reference to Harris owning property in San Francisco. No mention of what had happened to it had been made, though it was natural to assume that the government or one of its agents had confiscated it. But which government? Which agent? And in any case, what involvement did Kilborn have with it?

While Harry didn’t think that answers to these questions would be forthcoming any time soon, his curiosity kept him where he was. The afternoon wore on. Harry waited.

Eventually, his patience was rewarded. The door at the head of the stairs opened. First Kilborn, then a companion appeared.

Kilborn’s friend was an older man with an air of importance about him. He was elegantly dressed and carrying an umbrella. There was no sign of rain, but maybe he knew something Harry didn’t. His hair, what little of it remained to him, was going gray at the temples. His eyes were a strange blue color, like the sky at twilight. His lips were tight, as though it was an effort for him to resist smiling.

At the foot of the stairs he stopped and looked up the block. Almost instantaneously a limousine drew up alongside him. Turning to Kilborn, the man with the umbrella said a few words, shook his hand, then got into the waiting car.

Kilborn watched it drive off with a certain hopelessness, probably resentful that he too hadn’t been invited for a ride in such a wonderful and expensive vehicle.

Harry was well out of sight, but Kilborn never once looked across the street. Instead, with a certain weariness to his step, he began to walk back to his car. He seemed to have all the time in the world, which led Harry to assume that his business in San Francisco was over.

Harry prepared to follow him mainly because there was no telling what trouble Kilborn could get himself in before the day was out.

Harry didn’t get very far though. Just ahead of him a man in a cashmere coat was approaching. Across the street was another man, in a London Fog, and he was approaching too. Aside from the difference in their coats, the two men could have been twins. Both were in their mid-thirties, and both wore earnest expressions that attested to the seriousness of their purpose.

Their purpose, Harry quickly deduced, was him.

Their pace increased. The man facing him addressed him now.

“Drug Enforcement Agency,” he said, holding up what Harry supposed must be his ID. It was difficult to know for certain at this distance. The other man in the London Fog didn’t bother to bring his credentials into view. He held a gun instead, very discreetly so as not to alarm the passers-by on Beach Street who were oblivious to the developing confrontation.

If these men truly were with the DEA, that meant big trouble. Extraordinary trouble even. This pair took their orders not from San Francisco, not from Sacramento, but Washington, D.C.

The two were drawing closer to him. They moved with some hesitancy, Harry noticed, probably because they knew Harry’s reputation and were unsure how he was going to react. That was the one thing Harry had in common with them; he wasn’t sure of them either.

Harry affected a nonchalant attitude at first. “I am afraid you’ve made some mistake. Far as I know I haven’t violated any drug laws.”

At the same time, he was thinking: This Kilborn character has unbelievable connections.

“That is not our determination to make,” the first one said.

“Then why the gun?”

“It’s just a precaution, Mr. Callahan. We want to be certain you will cooperate with us.”

“That translates how?”

“We would like you to accompany us.”

“You wouldn’t want to tell me where, would you?”

The DEA officer shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. Is there any charge against me? Specifically?”

“Obstructing a government investigation. Specifically.”

“Obstructing an investigation. Now which investigation would that be?”

The gentlemen from the DEA were not disposed to going into detail. Harry had not expected they would be.

Judging the situation, Harry reasoned that he still had the advantage in spite of the fact that a gun was trained on him. It was unlikely that the man in the London Fog would fire it without extreme provocation. If someone wanted him killed he would not have chosen to arrange the execution in so public a forum. The murderers might be identified by witnesses.

And there would be witnesses. An entire tour group, in fact, was beginning to march down the block in the direction of Fisherman’s Wharf. A garrulous pink-faced man in a brightly checkered jacket was leading the way, “Originally Fisherman’s Wharf was known as Meigg’s Wharf,” he was saying in a loud voice, “but it derives its present name from all those fishermen who made their living from the Pacific. First came the Genoese in their feluccas, then the Chinese shrimp catchers in their junks, next came the southern Italians and Sicilians . . .” And on he went.

It was obvious that the two dozen people trailing him were barely listening to his recitation. They were too busy conversing with one another.

“Our car is parked right across the street, Mr. Callahan,” the man in the cashmere coat said, his voice betraying not the slightest doubt that Harry would go along with them.

Harry waited several moments before responding. The two DEA officers were becoming restless. The man in the London Fog raised his .38 and extended it until it was nearly touching Harry’s chest.

“Time is awasting,” said his companion.

Harry was unconcerned about squandering their time. His eyes were focused on the advancing tourists. Most of them were in their twenties or thirties, he observed, flirtatious and excitable.

The two DEA men let their gazes shift in the direction Harry was looking so intently, maybe imagining that he was deliberately procrastinating until a confederate arrived to aid him. Little did they suspect that Harry looked upon the two dozen tourists as confederates.

Disregarding the gun thrust against his rib-cage, Harry strode forward. The man in the London Fog tried to grab him. Harry wheeled about so quickly that his hold, tentative to begin with, slipped altogether. His friend lunged forward, but Harry had already gotten past him. Neither of them had expected Harry might try to escape.

The man in cashmere brought out his weapon and sighted it on Harry who was only a few yards away. He commanded him to halt. Harry did not.

The tourist group seemed unaware of what was happening. But then one young man, more observant than his companions, caught a glimpse of the guns and was so incredulous that he just stopped where he was. He tapped the woman next to him on the shoulder to point out how bizarre things had gotten on Beach Street.

The tour guide was still talking a mile a minute, absolutely oblivious to the danger he and his group were about to walk into.

“These days the fishermen no longer go out looking for oysters and salmon and sardines. Basically, it’s crabs, but that’s still enough to keep approximately one hundred fishing boats in business.” He was turning back to see how engrossing he’d been when a woman screamed. Her scream ran through the crowd.

The tour guide’s jaw slackened. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong. Had his lecture been so provocative that it had caused this kind of hysterical reaction? Before he could discover an explanation a shot rang out, although he did not immediately identify it as such.

Harry was zigzagging into the street, thinking all the time that these men from the DEA were crazy for risking fire in the middle of a crowded block. The first shot had gone above his head.

The second came closer, passing him on the right side.

The tour group was scattering in disarray, people running every which way or ducking under the nearest parked car, uncertain as to where the shots were originating.

The two DEA officers were crouched down, trying to keep Harry in their sights, which was becoming increasingly hard as he rushed into the panicked mob.

The tour leader stood right in the middle of the street. Either he hadn’t caught on yet as to what was happening or he had become too immobilized with fear to get down. He was shouting directives to his group which went unheeded.

Harry slammed right into the man and knocked him down just as two more shots were fired.

“Stay there,” he ordered the bewildered guide, “don’t get up.”

Harry, however, did not take his own advice. Immediately, he was up and running again. A car window off to his side shattered with the impact of another round.

Harry threw himself over the hood of that car and sprawled awkwardly on the other side, out of harm’s way.

The two officers separated. One was headed directly for him, the other was circling around to his left, hoping to take him by surprise.

These men are goddamn desperate was Harry’s only thought.

Police sirens howled in the distance, but Harry took no comfort in them. It was more likely that the San Francisco police—his presumed colleagues—would only assist the DEA agents in placing him under arrest, not the other way around. It would do him no good to say that he had not been responsible for initiating this battle.