Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (9 page)

Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the man in the London Fog coming his way. It was no surprise. Harry fired his Magnum, careful not to hit him. Just keep him on his toes, force him back. Harry succeeded.

But by doing this he’d had to withdraw his attention from the agent in cashmere, who was nearly upon him. Harry had no opportunity to aim, only to fire in his general direction.

He’d not meant to hit him. The man had just been unlucky enough to get in the way. All at once the upper right shoulder of the cashmere glimmered bright red, and the man was reeling back. Then he fell and lay on the street, thrashing in pain.

The man in the London Fog seemed momentarily at a loss. From the shelter of a doorway he fired twice more, but the only thing he hit was the car Harry had concealed himself behind.

This section of Beach Street now resembled a battlefield on which large numbers lay dead. In fact, only one man had been wounded. The others—members of the tour group and hapless pedestrians caught in the crossfire—were prostrate and motionless only because they were afraid of drawing attention to themselves.

It was not until the police arrived that they dared to stand erect. The shooting was over. And Harry was gone.

C H A P T E R
S e v e n

“S
id?”

“Who is this? Harry? How are you?”

“Getting along. Look, have you got a car you could lend me?”

Sid Kleinman was accustomed to getting requests from Harry, but usually they were calls for wire taps, antibugging equipment, warning systems, and ingenious two-wave radios. Those made sense; Sid was in the electronics business, after all. But a car? This was Harry’s most pedestrian request but also the most surprising.

“I don’t think that should be any problem. Any particular model?”

“Just something that runs and is liable to continue doing so in the near future.”

“All right.” Sid sounded a bit dubious. “Can I ask you what’s wrong with the department that you can’t get a car?”

“No, Sid, you can’t ask. And I’d rather you wouldn’t mention this to anybody.”

“I understand. Well, stop by my store in an hour, and I’ll have something ready for you.”

A two-door 78 Olds, a Super 98, was waiting for Harry in front of Sid’s store. It was painted bright blue, came with air conditioning and all sorts of nice optionals and ate up enough gasoline to keep Kuwait’s oil industry going for another year.

Harry had been of two minds about returning to Russian River. Now, ironically, Russian River loomed as more of a sanctuary than his home base. The wounding of an officer of the Drug Enforcement Agency, an event that was announced every hour on the news Harry had tuned in on the car radio, was a crime serious enough to make him subject to arrest wherever he went in San Francisco. The only positive development that he could see was the omission of his name from those reports. The commentator said only “that the gunman is still being sought.” Evidently, Harry’s enemies preferred to find him on their own rather than instituting a general alarm.

Not that he was likely to be safe in Russian River. Safety wasn’t what he was driving back up Highway 101 at eight in the evening for. No, what he intended to find were some answers—answers that would vindicate him.

By the light trickling from under the door, Harry could tell that Turk’s office was occupied. He hesitated before knocking. It was conceivable that Turk and Davenport had been alerted that he was to be apprehended should he show himself. He was prepared to resist these narks just as he had the DEA agents if that should prove necessary.

It did not. Both Turk and Davenport were working late—it was nearly eleven by this time—plotting strategy. Maps had been unrolled and were dangling over desktops and hanging from the walls. What looked like hundreds of multicolored pins were scattered over this lavish display of regional geography. Some of the maps were from gas stations when gas stations still gave them away. Others were intricate topographical maps, compiled from satellite reconnaissance photos. Besides the pins, the maps were run through with crayoned lines and punctuated by numbers and letters that appeared to represent targets and strike zones. It all looked very impressive—on paper.

“Burning the midnight oil,” said Turk, taking some liberty with the hour. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. The woman at your motel told us you’d gone out and hadn’t come back.”

“I went for a sightseeing tour,” Harry replied.

Turk frowned. He knew when something was being kept from him, but he continued on regardless. “Frank explained what your problem was. I’ve spoken with Wardell and it’s all cleared up. It was just a little misunderstanding. You can stay on in an observational role.” Gesturing to the topographical map directly in front of him, he said, “In fact, when we go up into the mountains I’ll want you along. I figure you were good at getting out of them so it shouldn’t be much problem getting back into them again.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Turk. But I seem to have encountered another small problem in the last few hours.”

Turk resumed his dubious look. Davenport regarded him with some consternation.

“You got some knack for trouble, Callahan,” noted Turk.

“It seems that way sometimes, I’ve got to admit.”

“What is it this time?”

“I’m accused of shooting a DEA agent in San Francisco this afternoon.” Harry saw no point in lying. One way or the other Turk would find out. And probably sooner than later.

“Oh shit.”

“Yes, that’s about how I look at it.”

“Did you do it?” Davenport asked, hoping, but not anticipating, a denial.

“The man sort of provoked me.”

“I don’t understand. Why the hell are you shooting at Feds?”

Turk was genuinely perplexed and undoubtedly was reconsidering the support he’d lent Harry.

“They were shooting at me. It was not by choice, I assure you.”

When neither man said anything, Harry took it one step further: “I believe they were put on my case for one reason.”

“You want to tell us what that was?” Turk was growing impatient.

“Mike Kilborn’s ass. They seem to hold a high regard for it.”

Harry decided to say nothing about Jud Harris’ apartment. He was saving that intriguing shred of information for himself.

“What did I tell you, Harry?” Davenport grumbled with disgust. “Stay away from that scumbag.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Harry said, though without much conviction. “But my main concern is finding a place where I can hole up for a while. I expect that Danton’s Motel Inn is not the most secure place I could be spending my nights from here on in.”

“You have a point there,” Turk said. “Let me think.”

He dug three fingers into his beard. It was his way of thinking Harry guessed.

“All right,” he announced after half a minute, “I’ve got it.” He didn’t say what “it” was. Instead he asked himself aloud why he was going to so much trouble for Harry.

Harry didn’t remind him. Turk knew very well why he was doing this. He owed Harry his life.

Turning to Davenport, Turk told him to hold the fort which, given the nature of the operation he was planning, sounded like an appropriate phrase, and then he and Harry left the windowless office with the incongruously uptempo strains of Buck Washington doing “Save The Roach For Me” on the turntable.

Only when they were outside the courthouse did Turk consent to inform Harry the place he’d chosen for him to lay low for however long he had to. “It’s not far from here, home of a good friend of mine, you won’t have any trouble at all. Just do me a favor and don’t say a word about it to Frank. He and my friend don’t get along so awfully well.”

“Who is this friend of yours?” Harry thought he already knew the answer but wanted to be sure.

“Her name’s Elsie Cranston. Her house is huge, and she lives by herself. There shouldn’t be any problem finding a spare bedroom for you.”

Maybe Turk wasn’t as jealous as she’d made him sound. Maybe it was that he just didn’t view Harry as a threat.

Harry did not know how far Turk’s proffered hospitality would last once Elsie acknowledged that she’d made his acquaintance already. He might find himself sleeping in his Super 98 tonight.

“Maybe you ought to call her and clear it with her first. She ought to know what she’s in for. Not everyone takes kindly to harboring a fugitive from justice, which is what my classification seems to be at the moment.”

Turk scoffed at this. “I know her. There’ll be no problem. All this mess will straighten itself out in a couple of days. I’ll make some calls, you’ll see . . .”

That was how Turk was. With his inflated notions of how much power he actually wielded, he believed that he could solve any problem, no matter how messy and dangerous, with a few phone calls, just as he had with the sheriff’s office earlier that day.

“No, I wouldn’t do that, Turk. Don’t make any calls. You don’t know who might be listening in. You can’t be sure who is calling in whose debt. I’d appreciate it if you let me handle this.”

Turk dimly perceived Harry’s point. “As you wish. But trust me about Elsie. You’ll never meet a woman more discreet.”

Recalling Kilborn’s visit to her the other afternoon, Harry wished he could be more convinced of that.

To his great relief, Elsie pretended to be meeting Harry for the first time. There’d been the vaguest hint of surprise when she’d seen Turk walk in with him, but it had quickly vanished and Turk had been none the wiser.

“To what do I owe this late-night visit?”

She was wearing a loose USC sweatshirt and slacks, and nothing on her feet. Her hair, auburn with a touch of blonde in it, draped her shoulders. The last time Harry had seen her, her hair had been hidden in the folds of a kerchief. She looked different with it down, younger somehow, and Harry realized he might not have recognized her like this on the street.

Turk gave her the most perfunctory of kisses, maybe because he wished to maintain the fiction in front of Harry that they were only friends. Then he proceeded to explain Harry’s predicament, careful to omit nearly all the particulars.

By the time he was through, he had told her only that Harry was a fellow police officer from San Francisco and that he was in “some difficulty” and required a place to stay for “a few days.”

Elsie took no time to make her decision. “Third floor, first door on your right. I’ll bring you up some blankets and fresh linen. You’ll have to make your own bed though.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“And if you want breakfast you have to be up at seven. That’s when I eat. Otherwise, you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“If I can contribute something to the upkeep . . .” Harry began.

Turk refused for Elsie. “This is by way of a friendly gesture, Harry.”

“On the other hand,” Elsie said, qualifying this, “if a few days should stretch on . . .”

Turk dismissed this possibility. “No problem, honey, no problem. He’ll be out of here as early as this Thursday night.”

Why Thursday night? Harry wondered. Then he understood. Thursday night Turk expected him to be up in the mountains. The invasion must be scheduled for that morning.

“Well, we can work it out,” Elsie said with a smile, rising from the table and putting an end to the discussion.

Turk took a look at his watch and announced that it was time he headed back to the office. “Not a minute to waste,” he said as though to justify the need for a hasty departure.

Once he had left, Elsie did nothing but laugh for the next five minutes. Then she managed to compose herself.

“You gave a pretty good performance there,” Harry remarked.

“You weren’t so bad yourself.”

She advanced to the cupboards above the sink. “Care for some Thunderbird tea?” she asked. “I was just going to have some myself.”

The pot emitted a shrill whistle in confirmation.

“I thought you said it has a lot of caffeine in it”

“It does.” There was a mischievous look in her eyes.

“Well then, that would make sleep very difficult.”

“Who said anything about sleep?”

One leg rose high into the air until it was nearly perpendicular to the bed and there it remained until in a leisurely motion she brought it back down again. Then she repeated the movement with her right leg, extending and flexing it, then returning it to the flatness of the bed.

For a time, in the darkness of the room, that was all that Harry could see, just this monotonous hypnotic exercise of her legs.

Her legs were a dancer’s legs, sinuous and muscular. Her breasts were smaller than he would have imagined from the loose shirts he’d see her in, but they were perfectly formed. Her flesh was tawny, suggestive of an Indian heritage which she neither denied nor verified. Her brown eyes were especially lustrous in the absence of light, and they were fixed with unsettling intensity on him.

“I don’t think this is what Turk had in mind when he brought me over here.”

“I think you’re right.”

She was half-leaning over him, her breasts just touching his bruised flesh. With a finger she was tracing the scars that he’d amassed over the years, some quite recently. “You live a hard life,” she pronounced.

“It seems like it, doesn’t it?”

“To what purpose?”

“It passes the time.”

“Too glib. I don’t want easy answers.”

“Believe me, lady, one thing I don’t have is easy answers.”

He turned toward her, propping himself up with his elbow. “And what about you, do you have easy answers?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“The questions.”

“Here’s a question.”

“OK.” She didn’t sound so very happy about the way the conversation was proceeding.

“Mike Kilborn.”

“Is that a question?”

“That is the granddaddy of questions.”

She was turning sullen, unwilling to be subject to an interrogation, and here in her bedroom of all places.

Rain was beginning to hammer down on the roof. For several moments as she considered her answer, considered
whether
to answer, that steady noisy tattoo was the only sound in the room.