Dirty Harry 11 - Death in the Air (18 page)

“I didn’t know,” Lee begged.

“Strip,” Harry said again, his tone flat, the .44 Magnum a huge addition on the end of his hand. The old man started taking off his smoking jacket, Izod sweater, and wool slacks.

“If I had known,” he blubbered, taking off his Gant shirt, “I never would have told Carr where the girl was.”

“Get on the table,” Harry directed.

“I swear,” Lee promised, pulling his haunches up on the cold table top as Harry approached.

“Lie down.”

“Please,” the Colonel said, as he drifted back. “Please. I didn’t know.”

Harry produced straps from under the table with which he quickly secured the retired officer. Following that, he switched on a large diffused examining light, which just barely illuminated his face. From where Lee lay, the Inspector looked satanic.

“I’m not interested in what you don’t know,” Harry said reasonably. “I want to know what you do.” He placed one palm on either side of Lee’s body and leaned in. “Where’s Dr. Carr’s lab?” he asked.

The Colonel stammered. “I—I can’t tell you that.”

“Where’s Dr. Carr’s lab?”

“Please understand,” Lee immediately pleaded, as Harry’s face disappeared from under the light. “It’s not me. I would tell you if I could. It’s a matter of national secrecy. That information is vital to the security of this entire—”

Lee’s words were cut off when the lights went on. He blinked, and the fuzz left his vision.

He was strapped to a table in front of a wall-sized generator to which was connected a tube-like pointer on a movable crane and pulley system.

“This is the laser operating room of the San Francisco General Hospital,” Harry identified. “Four men died here after your Doctor Carr had a junkie go crazy.”

“I had no idea,” Lee swore, shaking his head from side to side fervently.

Harry didn’t know whether to throw up, laugh, or both. This was going to be easier than he thought.

“This surgical laser can only cut as deep as a single scalpel, but it can slice even thinner than the width of a hair. It can make a loaf out of the head of a pin.” Harry had been reading the hospital literature. “It can almost cut the air. Feel that?” Harry had pressed a button and moved the crane tip forward.

Lee looked at his arm. He had felt, and now saw, nothing. Harry pressed down on the side of the man’s forearm with his thumb. A fine thinner than a paper cut appeared. Blood began to color the line red.

“When you have something to say to me, nod,” Harry told him, producing a rubber prod gag he had taken from the electroshock therapy unit and ramming it into Lee’s mouth.

Then he started peeling the Colonel’s skin from his body, square-inch by square-inch.

C H A P T E R
F i f t e e n

I
t came down to this. One man against one building.

It was a pathetically simple affair. A shoe box turned on its side. There were four windows—two each on the first two floors; none on the third. One window each on the side walls. None on the back.

It sat alone on a street otherwise deserted—a block set for a wrecking ball that never came. A demolition crew put on paid hold until the Program was finished.

Since it was on a blocked street in a condemned block, no one important was around to wonder why it was surrounded by a chain-Iink fence topped with barbed wire. Or why, when the first slum kids managed to climb to the top, the ones who had touched the wire had their hair straightened for two weeks.

Besides, there was never anybody around to ask. Nobody ever came out of the single front door. From what Callahan could see, they didn’t need to leave.

Harry stood across the street, the Magnum under his arm, the Browning on his hip, and the Mac loosely held in one hand. He didn’t exactly know what he would find inside, but he knew he’d have to find out alone.

If he won, then another blow was struck for his idea of justice. If he lost, well, life went on as before, with no one the wiser.

Everybody was happy. The department had recovered the two-and-a-half million dollars’ worth of diamonds, Bressler had closed the file on the BART pusher, DiGeorgio had his family and the holidays, and Colonel Lee had his life.

Lee was less a patch or two of skin, but he would recover. He would recover, locked in the room Ted Huxley had vacated for Patterson, until either Callahan or fate released him.

That took care of almost everything, then, Harry decided. Only one thing left to do.

He pulled the trigger on the Mac the same moment he brought the barrel up across the top of the telephone pole. The electric wires leading to the townhouse were ripped apart with a bright white ball of light, a resounding boom and a display of sparks.

The metal shutters didn’t open so that someone could examine the damage. It wouldn’t do any good. All the lights were out on the street, and now all the lights were out inside.

One of Dr. Carr’s last two men picked his way past the first-floor furniture to the basement door. He pulled it open and ran down the steps quickly. He felt his way to the emergency generator and switched it on. He heard the power surge above him, and watched the lights flicker on in the cellar.

He turned around and almost bumped into Harry Callahan. The Inspector slammed the back of the Mac across the man’s head.

As the man crumpled, the cop concerned himself with other things. Once he had surmounted the fence and its electrified topping, it was easy to get inside. The cellar windows weren’t barred or shuttered, so he just dropped in. Everything was up from there.

He stuck his head out into the kitchen. It was a gigantic affair, covering almost half of the first floor. There were two huge overhead fans, and a wall covered with gas-operated ovens and stoves. Along the opposite wall was shelving which contained five-pound cans of food stuffs and fifty-pound bags of basics, like sugar and flour.

The entire area was devoid of life, but Callahan scanned all the corners and the ceiling for any signs of surveillance equipment. But, just as outside, he could see nothing of the kind.

Next door was a dining area, set up to feed at least two dozen people. It, too, was empty. Between the two rooms was a simple stairway and a small elevator. Harry looked up the steps, but saw no one. He moved up quickly, stopping at the doorway at the top.

He paused at the obstruction for several minutes, listening for any hint of activity on the other side. There was none. He turned the knob and pushed. The portal swung open on a finely appointed reception area.

It was as if he had stepped into the office of any “Fortune 500” company in the financial district. There was a secretary’s desk littered with a typewriter, phone, blotter, and all the accoutrements. Opposite the desk were a comfortable sofa and a coffee table complete with copies of
Time, Newsweek, U.S. News and World Report, Forbes, Byte Magazine,
and
McCall’s.

Harry visually examined the area minutely. There were still no cameras or bugs that he could see. From there, he went into the adjoining rooms. Each was a professionally furnished office with absolutely no individuality. Each contained the same things: someone’s idea of a stripped-down, basic businessman’s environment.

Only there were no papers in the racks, no files in the cabinets and nothing in the drawers. Harry was beginning to think Lee had lied to him until he remembered the man in the cellar.

That was not a custodian he had knocked out. He had neither the look nor the build. He was dressed and groomed too well, and he moved too smoothly. He may have missed the boat, but he was barking up the right tree.

There was only one story left. The one without windows. He went to the door leading up to the third floor, but it was locked. He considered blasting it open, but thought better of it.

Stairs or elevator—if anyone was up there, they’d be warned of his coming. Either way, he’d have to go through a small opening to get in. Either way, he wasn’t going to retreat no matter what happened.

Harry went to the elevator and pressed the button. The doors immediately opened. He stepped inside and touched the square which read 3. It was one of those sensor buttons, the kind that pick up something about the skin’s heat to make things work. Harry saw that there was nothing inside the box but the sensor board.

He didn’t feel the elevator rising. One moment the plain doors closed on the bureaucratic second floor. A few seconds later, the doors opened on Dr. Carr’s lab.

It took up the entire story. The ceiling was ten feet above the plain tile flooring. The entire right wall was taken up with a computer. A keyboard stood in the middle like a church organ console.

The far wall was covered with racks of microfilm and memory disks. That was where all the information that only the computer could read was stored. Harry was sure that only Dr. Carr knew the language the computer worked in.

The left wall was lined with lab stations—counter space where more than a dozen scientists could work. Each station was outfitted with a small computer terminal—no bigger than an IBM Selectric typewriter—a phone, a calculator with paper readout, and a gas hookup for the burners.

These burners were also spaced along the two rows of marble-topped tables which were littered with every scientific apparatus imaginable.

It was every mad scientist’s laboratory in every movie ever made, but with a sharp nineteen-eighties edge. Unlike the cinematic labs, this one was believable. The beakers and test tubes were backed up by technology—machines that calibrated and tested results to degrees never before possible.

Three more things made the lab all too realistic. In the middle of the room stood the man Harry had hit in the cellar. Next to him was a medium-sized man with gray hair. And in front of him was Denise Patterson.

Harry’s fingers tensed on the Mac. His free hand instinctively moved toward the Magnum. He stopped when he noticed that five of the six hands in front of him were empty. Only the gray-haired man’s right hand was full. In it was a pistol syringe.

That’s all it was. The small injection system that eliminated the need for needles.

That one little piece of equipment was more powerful than all of Harry’s guns and Harry’s bullets. Because Callahan didn’t know what the syringe was loaded with. All he knew was that the man with the injector was right behind Denise Patterson.

“Come in, Inspector,” the gray-haired man called.

“Took you long enough to get here,” the younger man laughed.

Callahan wondered about his own sanity. Maybe the whole thing was a trap, but that didn’t affect how hard he had punched the guard downstairs. He had punched a lot of men in his time, and he knew his own strength. There was no possible way the man could be standing there, short of cloning.

Harry had come close with that assumption. “Otto,” the gray-haired man said. “Go get your brother.” He looked at the cop with a slight smile. “I’m sure Mr. Callahan and I will get along fine.”

When the man had left the room, opening the exit door behind them with a key, the gray-haired man explained. “The Klein twins; Otto and Cliff. They are the last ones you left me.”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone,” Harry said, his voice echoing in the cavernous workshop.

“Didn’t you?” the man said. “I’ve dedicated my life to studying how humans kill one another. I think you did, Inspector. I think you did.”

Harry shrugged away the accusation. “Are you all right?” he asked Patterson. There was a suspenseful pause before she answered. “Yes,” she finally said with tired, sad inflections. “I’m fine,” she stressed, unable to keep from chastising him with her tone—as if she had added an inaudible “of course.”

“You see?” gray-hair said. “Now why don’t you put down your weapons?”

Harry stood where he was, the Mac still held up. “You’re Doctor Carr?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s in the syringe?”

Carr looked to Patterson. “Tell him. It is your achievement as much as mine.”

She didn’t look back at him. “We call it ‘Cellulene,’ Harry. It’s the next evolutionary step up in the advance.”

“What does that mean?” Callahan asked, with annoyance.

“It means it can do more than constrict blood vessels,” the doctor replied. “It can crush cells.” He let that information sink in before continuing. “Put down your weapons, Inspector.” This time it was a command.

Callahan didn’t budge. He was beginning to wonder whether a world without Patterson would be that bad.

“Do what he says,” the young woman said tightly, just a touch of pleading in her voice. “If he even releases it into the air, it could affect us all.”

Harry slowly put down the Mac on the table next to him. He pulled out the Browning and laid it next to the Mac. Finally, out came the .44. It felt good in his hand.

“Remember,” Carr warned. “All I have to do is touch this button . . .” Callahan saw the trigger stub on the syringe clearly. His Magnum joined the other guns on the table.

“Everything pales in the face of this, doesn’t it?” Carr said, proudly. Just then, the Kleins came back in—Cliff rubbing a long purple bruise across his face. Harry wouldn’t mistake the two again. Otto was the one without the ugly swelling.

“Take his weapons,” Carr instructed. “But take no chances.” The twins pulled out their matching Walthers and approached from opposite sides of the room. They collected Harry’s armory without incident. Carr kept Callahan entertained while they did.

“All your accomplishments, all your successes, all your victories amount to nothing, Inspector. You’ve fought for nothing.”

“I fight for justice,” Harry corrected, without passion.

Carr didn’t laugh. He took the statement seriously. In fact, he was challenged by it. “You’re not Superman, Inspector,” he reminded him. “You don’t have super powers to support your fight for truth and the American way. Although,” Carr mused, tongue in cheek, “at times you seem to.”

Harry had been right about the scientist. He didn’t give a shit about people. All the men who had died for the Program were so many comic book characters to Carr.

“Besides,” the man concluded, holding up the syringe. “This is now the American way.” The Kleins returned to his side. The doctor took the Magnum in his free hand. “You two split up the rest,” he suggested. Cliff grabbed the Mac. He wanted the firepower. Otto hefted the Browning. Both put their lesser-powered peashooters away.