Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (17 page)

If only . . . if only . . . he kept thinking. He had let down his guard to comfort Elsie. He should never have assumed that the Reardons had left the house. He should have been more vigilant. All these things continued to run through his head, but the regret and pain they brought—pain far worse than the bullet had caused—would have to be fought off for as long as possible. He had to move. He had to drive himself forward.

He resolved that no one, who was responsible for Elsie’s death, however indirectly, would escape. All the other deaths were bad enough—Turk’s and the growers, identified and nameless, who had met their end in the mountains above Russian River—but it was only Elsie’s that affected him. Only Elsie.

She hadn’t any idea what she was getting into by inviting Harry into her house and into her bed. The truth was, no one did.

Outside, Harry heard the slam of a car door. Then another and another. Through one of the shattered windows, he saw four squad cars just pulling up in front of the house. There’d been no sirens to herald their approach. They wouldn’t have wanted to alert him.

Christ, Harry thought, this is all I need.

There must have been a dozen men, many of them he assumed fresh from combat on Rain Mountain. Some began to deploy themselves along the front lawn, while others were scrambling about back. All looked heavily armed.

A cream-colored Chevy was slowly making its way down the street. It came to a stop and two men emerged. Both of them Harry recognized.

The first was predictable. It was his old friend Ham Kelso.

The second was Frank Davenport. Here was a man who would kiss ass for anyone, Harry thought.

Davenport had been assigned the role of spokesman. Maybe it was felt that since he had been, more or less, on friendly terms with Harry, Harry would listen to him. Though if he hadn’t been able to persuade him that afternoon, there were no grounds for him to believe that Harry would be any more responsive now.

Nonetheless, he took hold of his bullhorn and called to Harry.

“Callahan! Callahan! Can you hear me, Callahan?”

Davenport’s voice carried well. Harry had no problem hearing him but he was more interested in the strategy the police were instituting to effect his capture. Or was it his death?

Two men were busy adjusting a floodlight which focused a savage beam on one of the second floor windows. Harry wasn’t there. They moved the floodlight, trying the next window, and the next. The windows remained conspicuously empty.

It was perhaps the result of being plunged into so much violence and carnage in so short a span of time, maybe it was only his overheated imagination at work, but what Harry did first was to hoist up Lou’s body and prop it in the window.

When the floodlight illuminated him, nobody knew quite what to think. Davenport ceased his harangue. The police raised their AR15’s to open fire and riddle the deceased Lou Reardon with still more bullets.

When Harry put Tom Jr. on display, it was apparent that the men assembled below thought that he’d simply gone around the bend.

“Harry, what the hell do you think you’re doing? What kind of a stunt is this?” Davenport’s voice betrayed his confusion.

Harry wasn’t quite sure himself. All he knew was that he was making a whole lot of people very nervous. They had no idea what they were dealing with.

“Harry,” Davenport continued, growing hoarse from all the shouting he was doing. “Harry, be reasonable. This thing can be settled without any further violence.”

Before it had been Callahan. Now it was Harry. That was about as intimate as Davenport got with anyone.

Harry, however, wasn’t responding. Instead, keeping low so that he could not be spotted, he raised one window up high and with a shove, propelled Lou’s corpse straight down to the lawn. Everyone backed away, strangely apprehensive. They weren’t certain what would come next.

What came next was Tom Jr., who landed in an unceremonious heap several yards from his uncle.

“Callahan! If you don’t come out within three minutes we’ll have to come in and get you.”

The man’s lost all patience, Harry thought, it was back to Callahan. No further friendly approaches could be expected.

Across the front lawn, Harry noticed two men with what looked like smoke bombs. They were going to a great deal of expense simply to dispose of one man. But this did make sense. Harry was the only person who threatened McPheeters’ empire and that empire was worth, potentially, millions of dollars. You could buy and sell Russian River a hundred times over with the money he stood to gain. It was no wonder they wanted Harry expunged.

Actually, with his allotted three minutes clicking away, Harry had very little idea as to what he was going to do. But he had one final show for them. He hated to do this, but he was determined to force Davenport to acknowledge the consequence of his eager collaboration with McPheeters.

Gently, he lifted Elsie and set her into the frame of the bedroom window where she would be most easily visible. Predictably, the floodlight swept up the length of the house, coming to rest on her. She looked somehow unreal in that intense and dramatic light. Her face was whiter than wax, the great stain of blood drying beneath her breasts. Her arms were fixed, in rigor mortis, in a last embrace.

Davenport had put the bullhorn to his lips to say something more but he said not a word. He was paralyzed with shock.

“The Reardons did this, Davenport! Under orders from McPheeters!” Harry shouted to him. These were the first words he’d addressed to him the whole time. “These are the men you’re working for, Davenport! You can see their handiwork for yourself.”

Now that Harry had established his location in the house, Ham decided to waste no time. “Hell, it was Callahan who killed her, everyone knows that.” He fired at the window where Elsie’s body was positioned. Glass sprinkled down over the men on the lawn and punctured a hole in the dead woman’s forehead.

This so infuriated Davenport, that he hit Ham squarely in the jaw, breaking it, and sending the obese cop pitching backwards to the ground.

Ham scowled, determinedly rubbing his swollen jaw. He didn’t seem to comprehend what he’d done wrong.

Davenport didn’t care what Ham Kelso thought. He had lost interest in the proceedings. He was going home to mourn.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ham asked. When he spoke, blood and a chipped tooth flew out of his mouth.

Davenport ignored him, opened the door of the Chevy and got in.

Ham shakily rose to his feet. He refused to allow Davenport to close the door. “We haven’t finished with him,” he said.

“It’s your goddamn show now,” Davenport said, struggling to shut the door so that he could drive off. But Ham wouldn’t permit him to.

Across from them, several officers were viewing this confrontation, their attention drawn away from the house where Harry awaited their attack.

“I’m through, Ham, don’t you understand? It’s over. I’m out of it.”

He started the ignition. If Ham wasn’t going to let him close the door he’d drive away with it open.

“You can’t drop out of it,” Ham said, spitting out still more chipped teeth and blood. “Too late.” He thrust his gun into Davenport’s face.

“Bullshit, too late. I’ve had it with all of you.”

Davenport put the car into gear, but before he could press his foot to the gas, Ham shot at pointblank range.

The top of Davenport’s head seemed to come off with an enormous spurt of blood. His foot went down on the gas pedal anyway, the momentum carrying through the motion even though the life was gone from him. The car shot forward. It was all Ham could do to get out of the way.

The Chevy increased speed for a few moments and then it veered sharply to the left, careened into a rickety porch and came to a stop.

This unexpected turn of events was so startling that, at first, no one knew what to do. They gaped at Ham, fearful of exciting him further as long as he had a weapon in his hand.

Gradually, as though they were all imprisoned in a slow motion film, they mobilized. Three men raced up to where Davenport’s car had ground to a halt. A woman lived in the house whose porch had just been demolished. She, with her children, was perched on the threshold, staring at the spectacle with wonder and fright. An ambulance had been summoned, but Davenport, like Lou and Tom Jr. and Elsie before him, was past all medical attention.

Wardell Marsh had hoped to remain detached from this whole affair. In his eyes, it wasn’t his business. It was McPheeters’. He wanted nothing to do with it. But obviously, things had gotten out of hand. He now appeared to supervise the officers and see if the situation could be salvaged. After Ham’s impulsive act this did not seem possible.

Harry had watched what had happened with much the same incredulity as everyone else. He was aware that Ham was psychotic, but he had not believed Kelso would have committed a murder so blatantly. Either he was blindly stupid, and this certainly was a strong possibility, or else he was confident that he could get away with even an act of this magnitude because of McPheeters’ protection.

Wardell Marsh, from a distance, looked very old and tired. He seemed to be suffering from a gimp leg, dragging it behind him.

He approached Ham and spoke to him quietly. Whatever he was saying must have made some impression on the cop because he simply nodded. He turned over his gun to the sheriff.

A pair of his fellow officers escorted him to one of the squad cars and stayed with him there.

Then Marsh turned to the next order of business. He picked up the bullhorn that Davenport had been using and called to Harry.

“Harry, this is the sheriff. I’d like to come in and talk to you. I want to reason this thing out peacefully if that’s at all possible. I am coming in unarmed. I’ll have my arms up so you can be sure of that. I promise you there won’t be any more shooting unless you provoke it. Do you agree?”

Harry shouted back to him that his terms were agreeable and the sheriff began his march toward the house.

Harry wondered how things had been allowed to get this way. Here he was being made to feel as though he were a major felon, one of the ten most wanted men on the FBI roster. In fact, the criminals were running loose in Russian River, undeterred by the forces of law or morality.

Whether Wardell Marsh was personally honest was almost immaterial. Anyone in his position would be subject to the very same influences and pressures that had been Davenport’s undoing. That Marsh had proven himself adept at the game, that he had survived for twelve years in the same position—winning biannual elections with monotonous regularity—meant only that he was either corrupt or a willing team player. Whichever it was, Harry certainly had grounds for suspicion.

But he recognized the necessity of dealing with Marsh. Having explored every inch of the house, he had come to the conclusion that there was no way he could escape it without running straight into formidable opposition. Not for one moment did he doubt that the men dug in around the house would throw as much firepower as they could at him. In short, his chances of escape were dismal.

Marsh stood at the entrance to the house. Harry told him that the door was open. He certainly wasn’t prepared to greet the sheriff and expose himself to the line of fire. Ham had shown dramatically that Russian River’s police force did not necessarily respect the lives of its own.

Marsh studied Harry for awhile, he didn’t seem to know what to make of him. “You got feathers in your hair,” was what he finally said.

He slumped down on a stair and gazed balefully down at the oblong patch of Lou Reardon’s blood that was drying on the floor.

“I have a feeling I’m going to have to speed up my retirement,” he muttered. “Between you and Turk, I don’t know which one is worse. You both fucked everything up.”

It was clear that he was like Davenport in this respect, if you kept to yourself and tried not to make any waves, life could be enjoyed to an advanced age. Then Harry came along and disrupted everything.

“You’ve got to break eggs if you want to get an omlette,” Harry reminded him, borrowing some revolutionary rhetoric for the occasion. The sheriff didn’t seem to understand.

“I suppose there’s no sense trying to work this out now, is there? You got your view, I got mine, the people out there, they got theirs. To tell you the truth, I don’t hold you in high esteem, but I’d rather not have another body to explain. There’ve been more than enough bodies since Turk lit out for Rain Mountain. Lost too many good men.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say that.”

“Yes, indeed it must. What I would like to propose is this. You come along with me now, of your own free will. We’ll get into my car and drive to the courthouse. There we can put you in protective custody.”

“Protective custody? I don’t like it. My sense is that the people you have to protect me might decide to lynch me at sunrise if they got in the mood.”

The sheriff nodded. He could see Harry’s point. “Well, there’s either that or I order my men to come in and get you. You can be the judge of which appeals to you more.”

He stood up to go. “Well?”

“It looks like you have a guest for the night, Sheriff.”

C H A P T E R
F o u r t e e n

P
rotective custody so much resembled imprisonment that Harry was hard-pressed to figure out what the difference could be. He’d been placed in a cell that duplicated in every respect the one that he’d been housed in only a few nights before. Only this time, he had the cell to himself.

He fell into a restless sleep from which he would wake every hour or so. Each time he returned to consciousness, he would have to take stock all over again. In the first few moments of coming to, he would remember Elsie. He then would remember she was dead. It was not easy falling back to sleep.

The corridor outside the holding cell was eerily silent particularly in view of the commotion that had dominated it two days ago when dozens of officials were scrambling around in preparation for the march up Rain and Lunar mountains. Two overhead fluorescent lights flickered noisily down the corridor, but other than that there was no illumination. The 60-watt bulb in Harry’s cell was black and dead. It stood to reason that there were other prisoners. Perhaps they were just sleeping. In any event, they were loath to signal their presence. Not even a loud snore could be heard.