Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death (20 page)

Sheila threw herself on top of her child. But Gallant held his fire. “Get the fuck up, all of you, up.”

By now Silk had lost consciousness and lay where he’d fallen, the blood trailing from his legs in twin streams.

Instead of returning to her chair, Sheila turned her attention to her father. “I can’t let him bleed to death,” she declared, and without seeking permission, strode over to the draperies and ripped a portion of them from the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing, bitch?”

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding.”

Gallant seemed more amused than angry at this. “He’s going to die anyway, it’s a waste.” He regarded Harry who was holding tightly onto Louise. “An hour ago, the bitch was fucking me. If you hadn’t come along, we’d still be in bed together.”

Harry thought this was an obvious ploy on Gallant’s part to provoke him, but when he looked at Sheila, he realized the man wasn’t lying. He realized also this was what Gallant had wanted from the start, having gotten his full measure of revenge, he was really sated. Killing them would be almost an afterthought, an epilogue to a story which had already reached its conclusion.

There was bile in his throat. Whatever Sheila’s motivation had been when she’d gone to bed with him, however ingenious his deception, such things didn’t matter to him very much. But the act itself was all that was important. Just the act itself.

Sheila knelt down by her father’s side and began to knit the bandages she’d improvised from the torn draperies around her father’s legs. As far as Harry could see, they weren’t doing much good. The wounds were too serious and the blood flow too heavy.

Gallant was facing away from Sheila, the .44 directed at Harry and the child. While Harry kept his gaze fixed on Gallant, he could still see Sheila out of the corner of his eye. He saw she was no longer tending to her father, but was rather running her hands along the edge of the material she’d pulled from the wall.

At first, Harry could not figure out what in the world she was doing. But then he saw something glimmer in the low light from the chandelier. It was one of the hooks used to hold the drapes in place.

Quietly, she drew herself up and approached Gallant. Barefooted, she scarcely produced a sound. Nonetheless, Harry started talking to Gallant, hoping to distract him.

“Has it all been worth it?” he asked.

“Worth it? Sure it has. But I am not interested in philosophizing. I want to ask you a question.”

“Like the question you asked Silk?”

“That’s right. My question is do you want to die first or do you want to see the little girl’s head blown clear off her body?”

Sheila was a couple of steps away. She had to move very slowly. Now she raised her arm. The hook flashed as she plunged it into Gallant’s neck as hard as she could.

With one hand, Harry pushed over the coffee table, gathering Louise in his arms and dragging her down with him. The table would provide an uncertain and temporary shelter, but it was all that was available at the moment.

Gallant let out a wrenching scream and lurched backwards. With his free hand, he attempted to pry the hook out of his neck while at the same time firing his gun.

The table protecting Harry and Louise splintered in all directions, but neither one was hurt.

“You bitch!” Gallant cried, now concentrating his entire attention on his assailant, and while Sheila had run to the other end of the room, she was completely exposed.

Gallant managed finally to pluck the hook from out of his flesh, releasing a torrent of blood in the process. He stared at the hook with disdain and then brought up his gun, sighting it on Sheila.

Harry rushed into him, knocking him to the floor just as the gun went off.

The mirror four feet from where Sheila was standing seemed to vanish with a clattering din.

As Gallant struggled against Harry, Harry took one finger and with as much strength as he could summon, dug it into the wound that the hook had just produced. The pain must have been terrible for it caused Gallant to thrash about wildly.

But Gallant was strong and vicious. By sheer willpower, he was able to force Harry off him. Still with the gun gripped in his hand, he turned it in Harry’s direction, muttering, “This is it, you shit . . .”

Sheila raised the same Italian bronze piece she’d used earlier and smashed it down on his head.

Blood coursed out of his scalp, leaking onto his face. He fired. The shot went awry. But Gallant refused to give up. How he was able to maintain consciousness was beyond Harry.

Sheila was shocked by what she’d done and could do no more. She ran to her daughter.

Gallant’s movements were terribly slow and clumsy. He could barely see. He was trying his best to get Harry in focus.

Harry approached him. Seizing his gunhand, he twisted it hard so the .44 was no longer facing him, but was now pressing into Gallant’s stomach. Harry squeezed his finger against Gallant’s until the trigger was depressed entirely.

The blast was partially muffled. The trajectory of the bullet took it up into his stomach, higher into his lungs. Opening his mouth, blood erupted. He pitched back onto the rug, away from Harry, the gun still in his grasp. Miraculously, he did not die, but managed to pull himself upright and aim the gun once more at Harry.

There was no way Harry could escape.

“You lose, sucker,” Gallant mumbled, the blood cresting over his chin.

He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked.

“No, you’re wrong, Gallant. You’re the one who loses.”

Gallant’s whole body shuddered, as he dropped back and moved no more.

Once he’d assured himself Sheila and Louise were all right, Harry put a call into his department. An ambulance would be needed for Silk certainly, and it was likely that the others might have to be treated for shock.

To his astonishment, he got Bressler on the phone. It was very late and there was no reason for Bressler to be on duty.

Bressler listened impatiently to what Harry had to say.

“We’ll have people there shortly, but I want you down here right now.”

“Why, for Chrissakes?”

“Because some son of a bitch has just hijacked an Amtrak train headed here from L.A.”

“An Amtrak train?” This was beyond belief.

“That’s right. I need somebody who can handle it. You’re it.”

“I’m on suspension, remember.”

“Not anymore. You’re back,” Bressler said and hung up.

Back to what? Harry wondered and went into the kitchen to get his gun.

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.