Ded Reckoning (2 page)

His quarry snaps backward as if his feet are swept from beneath him, landing on his shoulder blades and butt.  His slender shoulder line at the edge of the mesa with  a forty foot drop to a metal storage building hidden in the canyon's shadow at this July 31st Blue Hour.  Hunter straddles his unconscious prey; the man's head drapes backward over the edge of the mini-mesa.  He searches through the man's coat and trouser pockets and finds a Walther in a shoulder holster, one electric detonator, a rent-a-car document, and a wallet.  Hunter rifles through the billfold, thumb flips through fifteen hundred dollars in hundreds, American.  A few extra twenties, and a driver's license.  Hunter mumbles, "John Smith.  Yeah, right."   The rummaging also produces a few credit cards, each with different names.  S
tolen
.  
Or provided
.

John Smith stirs as he regains consciousness.  Hunter reaches down, grasps him by the knot of his tie, pulls his head up and slaps him several times to hasten his awareness.  

The man's eyes open, and he begins to stammer.  Hunter growls, "Let's talk, asshole.  Who are you?"

Still groggy and gasping for breath, the man begins to reach inside his suit coat with his left hand.  Hunter delivers a crushing karate chop to the man's left shoulder, shattering his collar bone and causing the arm to drop to the side.  Hunter's blow is the concentrated visualization of the hand, as a blade, going through the target.  In this case the fragile collar bone.  

Hunter barks in the well-known Drill Instructor lingo. "Speak, maggot."  Slaps him twice, the last a back hand.  Then snarls,   "Who are you and why this shit?  Why her?  And don't give me any John Smith crap."

The man sucks in some civil twilight humidity, eyes watering with pain, and with a heavy Irish accent, spits, "Fook you."

Hunter growls again, "Wrong answer."

He grabs the man's arm in his hand, lifts it up and lays it on a rock beside John Smith.    Smith slowly rolls his head to his right.  A look of fearful wonderment drapes across his face.  Hunter smashes another chopping blow through the man's forearm.  It splinters like balsa wood, and the man's anguished scream can be heard for hundreds of meters.  It's a picture compound fracture, bone splitting the skin.  The man screeches in pain, writhing on the ground but only from the hips down, unable to move his arms and shoulders.

Smith is not a big man, five-six, seven at best.  Dirty blond hair, left long and straight.   He is shaven but his suit, tie and shoes cry cheap.  He stares at Hunter.  Angry eyes reflecting pain, surprise and anticipation in puke-greenish hue.  By comparison, Hunter is huge.  Six-three with an in-top-condition powerful frame formed like two wedges placed on top of one another.  Wide shoulders, tiny waist.  Thick hips and thighs, sleek muscular legs.  Black, well-trimmed hair and dark eyes, now flashing rage.

Hunter snaps again, "It's goin' to get worse.  Who are you and why this?  Why her?”  He pauses,   "Or was it supposed to be me?"

The man sneers in pain.  His twisted face scarlet in Shanty-Irish anger.  He clinches his teeth in anguish, shakes his head in refusal.

Hunter snarls, "For Samantha," and smashes a driving blow with his fist into the man's nose, splaying and splintering it across the face.  Two upper front teeth shatter.  Blood gushes from the man's nose and mouth.  Just the one painful utterance.  Followed now with only loud, anguished whimpering.  The blood flow, among other factors, interferes with meaningful conversation.

Hunter, in a deliberate, calm tone, says, "Last chance, Mick.  Tell me."

The man, his eyes now registering veritable fear, responds in his thick Irish accent, "Me name is Patrick Shanahan. Paddy.  Paid to kill the girl."

"Who paid and why?"

The man hesitates.  Hunter snaps, "For Sam again," and takes his right fist with the middle finger knuckle gnarled outward, posturing it as a blunt spike, smashes it into the  left eye crushing the man's eyeball.  The scream this time is through the gaps where his front teeth were moments ago, blood still spewing from his gums and nose.  He cries out, "The Army.  The RA."

"The RA?"

The man blinks and with anguished pride, says, "PIRA.  Provisional Irish ..."

Hunter finishes, "Republican Army.  The friggin' IRA by any name."

"No.  It be the PIRA now."

Hunter grits his teeth, "The Army, the RA, PIRA, it's all the same fuckin' thing.  The IRA.  What the hell are you doing over here?  Why my woman?  Here with me?  You useless piece of shit!"

"Payback for years ago.  The lass's father.  First 'er mum, then 'im and now 'er."

"Her father?  Why?  Who ordered it?  Who paid you?"

"Don't know.  Am a soldier...doin' it for the cause."

Hunter aims his left fist, middle finger knuckle gnarled, at the man's right eye.  Shanahan screeches, "Please.  'Ave mercy."  His accent more pronounced now.  "I don't know names.  I just come, follow me orders.  Do me job.  'Tis for the cause.  Nothing personal."  He continues to twist on the sun-baked soil, loose stones and fire-prone grass in the canyons north of Mission Bay.  Tears run from the one good eye of the confessor, Paddy Shanahan.

Hunter snarls, "The cause?  The Army?"  Then slightly louder, "Nothing PERSONAL?"  Still louder, "NO NAMES?"  Then with a hissing tone more deadly than the sidewinders that dwell in these canyons, "Well, I believe you."  Hunter lets out a breath, then says blandly, "But you see, lad, it's personal now.  Patrick or Paddy Shanahan, John or Johnny Smith or whatever your name is, you made it personal.  You murdered my friend.  My woman." Hunter pauses, looks at the lightening sky, growls, "And I can't let you go back, or get word to anyone about me...or talk to your Irish asshole buddies.  You've gotta die, lad.  But I will recommend a closed casket."

The Irishman, the PIRA soldier is virtually comatose.  

Mindful of the mesa's drop-off, Hunter steps over the man, says, "But if someone does come after me, Paddy me lad, they're goin' to die hard."  He lifts the smallish man by the neck, with its protruding Adams-apple, and with a violent wrench snaps Shanahan's neck like a dry twig.  The Irishman's body goes limp.  One heave and he's over the edge of the mesa.  Hunter watches him tumble, roll, and bounce to the bottom, arms flailing like loose wires in a hurricane.  Patrick Shanahan is but a muffled thud on the concrete slab below, minus one shoe and followed by a stream of loose rocks and floe-like sand.  And a few up-rooted weeds.  The cheap suit is ruined, not much of a loss.  The Shanahan clan, if there is one, is one less.   A loss to them but not to Hunter.  To the PIRA, a KIA, per chance more.

With the sounds of sirens closing, Hunter picks up Shanahan's weapon, wallet, credit cards, license and hurls them down the slope.  The electric detonator device follows.  He turns and starts picking his way toward his house and the stench of the still smoldering and smoking vehicle.

It's sunrise now.  A slight breeze from the northwest isn't cooling these canyons.  The humidity already over eighty percent.  Hunter is shiny in perspiration.  Visibility is easily five or more miles.  To the south he can clearly see awakening lights in Mission Bay.

He mutters, "Goin' to be a pretty day for most people."  He pauses.  Then, as if an oath, "But coyote ugly days coming for some others."

He's more careful in his footfall now than during the chase.  However, still in jockey shorts he doesn't allow his bare feet to inhibit some haste. After re-crossing the mesa he starts the seven foot climb up the embankment to Arcola Street as marked SDPD patrol cars, unmarked faded and dented detectives' cars, two fire engines, and an ambulance skid to a halt. Sirens whine down, red and blue lights still flashing as first responders leap forth into a controlled frenzy of methodical action.  Distant sirens herald the arrival of others. Only the beach at Tarawa could have been more chaotic, noisy and cluttered.

Hunter mutters, "I'm gonna look just a little suspect here."  He pleads to the lightening sky, "Abba, let Bradovich be here."

Hunter climbs over the cul-de-sac barricade and is met by two on-edge uniformed police officers, weapons out and pointing center mass at Hunter.  They shout in unison, "HALT. HANDS UP AND OUT FRONT."  Followed by one officer, circling to one side and calling out, "GET ON THE GROUND.  NOW.  GET DOWN, NOW."

With a sigh and frown, Hunter, in bare feet, gingerly halts.  Hands go out and up, palms open and forward.  He's about to lower himself to the ground in a prone position when he hears, "WHOA.  WAIT ONE.  HANG ON."  A slight pause, then, "What the hell are you doing here...looking like this, Kerrigan?"  It's Detective Eugene Bradovich.  A former Marine Criminal Investigation Department (CID) agent and friend of Hunter's, now with the San Diego Police Department.  Bradovich still has his high and tight Marine haircut but has added a few inches to his once-trim waistline.  He's Hunter's height, but softer probably caused from too many fast-food  cheeseburgers and as a result of his reputation as a ladies' man.

The two patrolmen remain poised.  Arms extended, weapons held with two hands, still pointed center mass.  At the ready, until Bradovich steps over, pushes their arms down to their sides.  First one, then the other, saying, "Guys, easy.  I know this man...damn well."  The officers step back, weapons down but still held by both hands, arms forming a triangle in front of them.  Tense.   Still ready.

Bradovich continues, "Hunter, what the hell is going on?"  He half turns and looks at the still burning car. Then the car door and torso hanging on the split rail fence.  Turns back to Hunter, "Jesus, Kerrigan, what the hell happened here?"

Hunter says, "Car bombing," pointing at wires leading away.  Then, "Brad, let me get inside and put some clothes on.  In the meantime, the guy that did this ran down the mesa and jumped over the edge trying to escape.  I believe he's dead.  He's lying at the bottom by the metal building.  He blew the car...wires strung down the barricade here and out onto the mesa."  Hunter again pointing to the various spots he's mentioned.  He looks to the fence, grimaces and mutters, "Jesus, I was out saying goodbye to her.  My date," his eyes flashing watery anger.  Then asks, "Let me get dressed?  Okay?  Then come inside.  I rent here now. In that house with all the friggin' shattered windows ... and shrapnel and crap on the roof.  Looks like my command bunker."

Before Bradovich can respond, Dee dashes up, sandals flopping, and hugs Hunter.  While sobbing, yet still in her contralto, raspy voice and mixed languages, "
Mamma mia!  Che macello
. My God."  Head turning taking in the terrifying scene continues, "Oh sweet Jesus.  Oh, Lord."  Then pushes herself a few inches back from Hunter, nonetheless clutching his face with her hands, pleads,   "
Stai bene
?   Are you okay?"

She holds Hunter, hands cupping his face looking at his forehead and whimpers, "You're bleeding."  She stops.  Glares at Bradovich who is staring at her in disbelief.  Actually, he's ogling.  Dee's raven dark hair is unbrushed, touching wildly on her shoulders.  She looks as if she has had a euphoric tussle in bed, or got up from a dead sleep with no time to primp.  The latter is more the case except for the earlier morning cat-fight routine.  She's replaced her sheer robe worn earlier with a halter top, no bra.  Her breasts are barely restricted by the halter and are still pressed hard against Hunter's chest.  His body unintentionally aides the containment of her own self-contained-underwater-breathing-apparatus. The SCUBA gear occupies all Bradovich's attention.  She's also wearing "hot pants" made famous by PSA "stews" which hide little and accentuate her soccer ball butt and slender, shapely legs.  In sandals the shape is distinct, let alone what they might look like in heels.  Her dark flashing eyes are set in a perfectly sculptured roman-like face.  Her complexion is clear, tanned, and Italian.  She is to anyone that goes to the movies, a Sophia Loren or Elizabeth Taylor clone.

Dee snaps at Bradovich, "What are you staring at, and who the hell are you?"

"Well, ma'am, in order of the questions, one helluva beautiful woman.  Do you have any sisters?"  He takes in a breath, "And I'm Detective Bradovich, San Diego PD...at your service, ma'am."

"You wish."  Pauses, settles, and in a more raspy tone, "It's about time you got here.  I called hours ago.  I'm ... and yes I do.  Neither of us would waste our ... you  took  ..."

"Five minutes, ma'am.  That's flyin' on a Saturday morning."

"Well, it seems like hours," she snaps.  Then in a more civil tone, "Anyway, I made the call.  I reported all this."  Then cooing to Hunter, "You're not dressed.  And you're hurt."

Hunter says, "I'm fine.  This is Detective Bradovich."

Dee responds, "I know.  We introduced ourselves."

Bradovich injects, "No, I introduced myself.  You ..."

"I'm Teresa Columbo.  Mrs. Columbo.  His neighbor," hugging Hunter again.  "And the Property Manager for that...that house," pointing to Hunter's shambles, "and his landlord.  In a manner I suppose."  She pauses, knowing she is starting to ramble.  Bradovich continues to stare.  Hunter shrugs.  Dee looks at Hunter, then glares at the detective and snaps, "And don't you get any funny ideas.  If my husband, Angelo, were alive and here, he'd set you straight.  I'm just the Property Manager here, mister."  She pauses again, "And neighbor...and a concerned citizen."  She takes a deep breath as if to continue.

Bradovich says, "I believe you, ma'am."

Hunter says, "Look, Mrs. Columbo, he's got a lot of work to do."  Then looks to Bradovich and says, "Brad, let me get inside, get cleaned up, dressed and assess the damage to the house.  Then you come in after getting things moving and resolved here, and we'll talk.  Okay?"

Bradovich nods in agreement.  Looks at Dee, shakes his head, then holds up his hand, palm out to prevent a comment from her.  Says, "You're right.  I've got a lot of work to do."