Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill (25 page)

He was going about this operation with a military flourish. Obviously, the consequences of what he was doing were of little significance to him; he had probably not thought this through. Once he got Wendy back, if he got Wendy back, he would worry about everything else.

Harry quietly slid out of his car and darted to the other side of the street, keeping as low as possible for fear of being spied from the house.

Keepnews was less cautious. He slipped up to the door so silently that the man there was caught by surprise. “What do you want?” he managed to say before Keepnews fired his .45 into his face. The guard crumpled against the door and flopped down on the doormat, blotting out the
WELCOME
printed on it with the blood and brain tissue that rushed out of the jagged wound where his nose had been.

But though he made very little noise in his dying it was still enough to alert the man’s colleague, who appeared from around back. Keepnews as soon as he glimpsed him shot him. This guard, however, did not relinquish his hold on life so easily. He shrieked in torment and gripping the wound that lay just under his heart, ran around to the side, seeking another door into the house where he might find help.

His cries drew two more men who materialized out of the high bushes, both carrying automatics. Keepnews crouched and brought the first down, sending him tumbling back into the bushes where he struggled for several moments against the entangling branches, an activity that hastened the flow of arterial blood out of his body that much faster.

The second, with no time to aim, lay down a barrage of automatic fire that carved out an ugly trail in the oaken door over Keepnews’ head. Before he could lower his sight, Harry appeared and fired his Magnum into the man’s arm, forcing the automatic from his hands. Keepnews unconcernedly put another bullet in him, which eliminated his opposition—and life—immediately.

At that point the door flew open and a burst of fire spewed forth. Whoever was doing the shooting had not taken the trouble to determine where it was he was directing his fire. Harold was just about underfoot, a location he was quick to take advantage of by wheeling about and discharging his .45 into the defender’s chest.

Very suddenly there was silence. Keepnews drew himself up and, in a gesture that seemed completely incongruous, dusted off his pants. He raised his eyes toward Harry. He smiled but said nothing. To Harry he looked hypnotized, only marginally conscious of his circumstances. The man had become so obsessed, so exhilarated by the momentum of the battle that he seemed incapable of reacting in any normal manner. Harry wanted to stop him, but no sooner had he uttered Keepnews’ name than he’d vanished, rushing up a set of stairs into the darkness. Harry was in no hurry, having no idea what was waiting for him in the dark. It was just possible that Father Nick and Wendy were not at home, that only the security guards were present—or had been until their untimely ends. The problem was that from the exterior you could not tell whether any lights were on inside.

Ahead of him, as he ascended the stairs, Harry heard the rattle of gunfire. There was a cry, then more fire. Harry clung to the walls and reaching the summit, dropped to his knees. A light flashed on, momentarily blinding him. When he could see again, he saw Keepnews sprawled out on the carpeted floor.

He moved, then picked himself up slowly. Beyond him were two additional bodies, both in plainclothes; no telling who they were. Keepnews, inattentive to the possibility of further gunfire, drew fully erect. Seeing Harry, he shrugged apologetically. Blood soaked his shirtfront. When he moved, he moved with difficulty. Harry realized he’d been badly injured, but this evidently wasn’t sufficient to stop him.

“All right,” he mumbled, “I’m all right, don’t you worry.” He gestured into what might have been the dining room, which was only partially visible in the dimness. “Must find Wendy, must find her.”

Harry thought of a new tack. He clasped Keepnews by the shoulders and urged him to be seated on the couch. “I’ll find her for you,” he said.

Keepnews shook his head vehemently and got up again, brushing Harry aside. “My business, my business,” he kept saying as he lurched forward into the next room.

Then another light came on—from a chandelier, which provided. for elegant illumination as its crystals shimmered with a thousand irridescent colors that glimmered in turn on the smooth rosewood surface of the diningroom table below it. The table was laid out for a dinner of twelve. Where the other eleven diners had gone to, whether they would appear at all for what was obviously supposed to be a late-night supper, was a question Harry would never know the answer to. But the twelfth diner wasn’t afraid of showing himself.

It was Father Nick himself, a Baretta 7 in his hand: an ironic touch as Baretta 7s were favored by off-duty police officers.

Harry hung well in back, out of Father Nick’s sight. Keepnews demonstrated no such compunction. He must have believed he was already dying because he didn’t do anything to protect himself.

Father Nick, however, was somewhat more wary. He had not moved from behind the partition that separated the dining room from what lay beyond it. Only part of his face could be discerned. And the protrusion of the Baretta.

Keepnews seemed unaware of the risk he was taking as he walked—tottered was more like it—in Father Nick’s direction. Father Nick, not being one for wasting words, raised his gun to better sight it on Keepnews.

At that moment Harry made his presence known. “Harold!” he shouted. Keepnews turned, but so did Father Nick who fired at Harry. Keepnews in turn fired at Father Nick.

He did not succeed in hitting him, but he did cause him to expose himself just enough for Harry to risk his final round.

The .44 bullet entered Father Nick’s skull at a point just above his left eyebrow. When it exited, it flung against the back wall a thick spattering of his brains to which bone chips adhered tenaciously.

Father Nick’s left eye filled up with blood, but his right still seemed to apprehend his situation with clarity. He collapsed at Harold Keepnews’ feet, his arms outstretched like a supplicant.

Keepnews regarded him with a disdainful eye. He then turned to Harry, scowling. “You should have saved him for me,” he said in a low voice.

“You couldn’t have gotten him, Harold, he would have killed you.”

Keepnews wasn’t listening. “Water under the bridge,” he mumbled, his breathing becoming more difficult now; he was nearly in shock.

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No, no, must find Wendy,” he said. This objective mobilized him so much that he was already racing away from Harry, leaving a sad trail of blood in his wake.

Harry caught up with him without much problem. If he wasn’t going to quit this madness, he thought, he’d just have to help him. Taking his arm he guided Keepnews up the stairs. Keepnews seemed to know where he was going; Harry certainly didn’t.

Where he was going, it appeared, was the bedroom. Father Nick’s bedroom. A nicely appointed place. A fine blue bedspread over the large double bed with a canopy overhead and a mirror on the underside of the canopy so that you could see how you were progressing with your lady or gentleman friend, depending on your sex and your proclivities. And on the bed, clad in a nightgown that precisely matched the bedspread and that had been hiked up almost to her waist to exhibit those beautiful tan legs of hers, was Wendy Keepnews. She was crying and that, more than anything else this night, astounded Harry, who had never thought he would see her like this. She was crying softly into a crumpled Kleenex. Her eyes were red, when you could see them—mostly she kept her face hidden by the damp strands of her hair. Her whole body shook with sobbing.

“Wendy, Wendy, Wendy,” Keepnews said, throwing himself on the bed, reaching out his hands for hers. “Forgive me, sweetheart, forgive.me!” he pleaded though Harry wasn’t sure it shouldn’t have been the other way around. She didn’t look at him.

He repeated her name twice, three times more, like a litany. Then he couldn’t any longer. He ran out of strength for words. He took her hand in his. She didn’t resist and clutched it fervently. But not so fervently. He’d run out of strength, he’d run out of life. His life was in the blood and it was all over the blue bedspread. Wendy didn’t react, might not have realized he was gone, she couldn’t stop her crying.

Harry found the phone. It was blue too, matching precisely as well.

He dialed his department and asked for Bob Togan.

Togan was at his desk. “Harry? Is that you? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days. What happened to you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, rushing headlong into the next sentence. “I’ve got good news. The Internal Affairs committee met on your case, and the word is it looks good for you. Pending your personal testimony, they felt you should be restored to the department with no problem. Maybe collect all your back pay. This Father Nick business seems to be all over and done with.”

Harry smiled painfully. “This Father Nick business is all over and done with, Bob, but not in quite the way you mean.”

“Don’t tell me . . . not again?”

“You know where Cimentini lives?”

Togan said that he did. “Is that where you are now?”

“You call up the boys in Sausalito, tell them to get over here. You might want to join them. I don’t think they’re up to this sort of thing.”

“Shit, Harry. Why the hell are you always getting into these messes? Can you tell me that?”

“See you shortly, Bob,” Harry said, ignoring the question. He put down the phone and turned to the woman crying on the bed. “Now, Mrs. Keepnews, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

D
ANE
H
ARTMAN
was a Warner Books imprint pseudonym used by two American novelists, Ric Meyers and Leslie Alan Horvitz. "Hartman" was credited as the author of the Dirty Harry action series based on the “Dirty” Harry Callahan character of the popular 1970’s and 1980’s films starring Clint Eastwood.

Following the release of the third Dirty Harry movie, The Enforcer, in 1976, Clint Eastwood made it clear that he did not intend to make any more Dirty Harry movies. In 1981, Warner Books (the publishing arm of Warner Bros., which made the films) began publishing a number of men’s adventure series under its now-defunct "Men of Action" line. One such series features the further adventures of Inspector Harry Callahan. The series was brought to an end when Eastwood decided to direct, produce, and star in a fourth Dirty Harry movie, Sudden Impact, which was released in December 1983.