Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River (15 page)

“What about McPheeters?”

“What about him? He’s a necessary evil.”

“Like Kilborn?”

“Like Kilborn. I don’t like either of them, but there’s no sense trying to buck them. The main thing I’m concerned with is ensuring peace in Russian River. Life was fairly peaceful before Turk. I want to make sure it gets that way again. And whoever I have to do business with to maintain that peace . . .” He shrugged, leaving the sentence dangling. Evidently, he didn’t feel that he had quite made himself clear. “I am not corrupt. I am not on the take, I want you to know that. I am not profiting off the marijuana or anything else.”

“I never said that you were.”

“But I could tell that was what you were thinking. You assume that because everyone else in this damn town is on the take, I must be too. I’m not. I couldn’t get to sleep at night if I was.”

“Your sins are more in the venal class rather than the mortal one is what you’re saying?”

“Possibly. So I had those trucks sabotaged, so what? What good would it have done to charge into those mountains? How many men did Turk lose? Half a dozen? More? Including himself. Everyone survived under my command.”

“I think that’s just fine. I’m not criticizing you.”

Davenport sighed. The world was hard on him. He wasn’t a saint, nor a fanatic, nor firebrand, nor prophet. He wasn’t a very good man, but there were a great many far worse than him. He just had the ill fortune to be stuck somewhere in the middle. He couldn’t necessarily be condemned for what he was doing—or wasn’t doing.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “But nobody said that I had to like it.”

“What about Elsie?” Harry asked.

Elsie rested her eyes on Davenport. She looked as interested as Harry was in what his answer might be.

“She wants what I want. We’ve talked. We agree basically on terms. Isn’t that right, Elsie?”

“I suppose so.”

“What is that supposed to mean, that you agree on terms?”

“Peace in Russian River. An end to this politicking.”

Davenport was being more than circumspect, he was being downright evasive. Harry guessed he was saying that from here on in Elsie would no longer have to act as go-between for the local narcotics office. That meant no more Kilborns. That probably also meant no more Callahans.

This assumption was borne out a moment later when Davenport said, “That brings me to you, Callahan.”

“I had a feeling you’d get to me eventually.”

“You can see now why your presence in Russian River would not contribute to the general welfare of its population? You are something like a walking catastrophe, frankly. You’re wanted in San Francisco on charges of injuring a DEA agent. And I think you know how our local police force feels about you.”

“They’ve made it pretty clear.”

“But I am not a malicious man. I don’t want to throw you to the dogs.”

“Kind of you.”

“I’ve spoken to McPheeters about your case. If you leave town today, I guarantee you that charges against you will be dropped. You can return to San Francisco, rejoin the force, there’ll be no problem. It’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

Davenport seemed so convinced of the generosity of this offer that he could not conceive of Harry rebuffing him.

“Sounds like a fine idea, Frank.”

Davenports eyes lit up. For the first time since Harry had entered the room, he looked happy. “So you’ll accept my proposition?”

“I just would like to get a few things straight that I don’t think we’ve covered yet.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Now, basically what is happening here is a systematic campaign to murder the growers and strip their property of the harvests and then sell them on the market.” Davenport was about to interrupt, but Harry stopped him. “Let me finish. Never mind that murders are being carried out but they also have the sanction of Howard McPheeters, who is using his office as a conduit for the marijuana. It’s very easy to account for all that weed by calling it state’s evidence. Maybe you adjust the weight periodically so no one knows just how much comes in and how much goes out. But what the hell? It’s only a little weed between friends.”

Davenport was becoming angry. He was about to rise from the table, his fists clenched and ready to pound the wood—or Harry, depending on how violent his emotions were. “You don’t understand the first thing about this,” he was saying.

Harry shook his head. “Sit down, Frank. I think your conscience is bothering you. It’s those murders, isn’t it? Fuck the drugs, it’s those killings. What do you know about Tom Reardon? Father and son?”

Davenport hadn’t been expecting the question.

“I don’t know what you mean. They’re farmers. They get into brawls, they get shitfaced every weekend, the kid hot wires cars. What of it? That’s the sheriff’s department.”

“No, that’s your department. Reardon is busy bringing bales of shit down from the mountains, That would imply that he and some of his family members are responsible for those murders. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were the ones who started the battle up there last night. We didn’t fire first. Neither did the growers. But somebody with an interest in seeing a lot of blood spilled and Turk gotten out of the way did. I suspect it was the Reardon clan that did the honors.”

“You have proof? You go to the D.A.’s office. I don’t want to know about it.”

“The bales of grass are on their way, south I would imagine, right now. I saw them myself, being taken from Reardon’s truck and put into a DEA van. You’re looking at an eyewitness, friend.”

Davenport wasn’t anxious to hear any more. “This is all irrelevant to the issue at hand. That issue is you.”

Harry continued, ignoring him. “But it’s a wonderful scheme, the way it’s set up. They have you installed in Turk’s place with your great love of keeping the peace and upsetting no applecarts. They’ve got the Reardons doing the heavy work. Worse comes to worse, anyone nails them, they’ll be no problem setting them up, letting them take the fall for it. Between McPheeters and the Reardons you are blessed with Mike Kilborn, world’s foremost sleaze. A beautiful equation, Frank. Very ingenious. You’ve got to give McPheeters credit. And you being so incorruptible, you aren’t making a dime off of it. All you’ve got is a promise that some day you’ll be given a cushy job far away from Russian River. And maybe, just maybe, they’ve given Elsie here to you as an inducement.”

Harry knew this would provoke her, and it did all right.

She stood up and said in a voice she could barely keep under control, “Nobody controls me. Nobody tells me what to do.”

“Turk did,” Harry reminded her.

“I did what I wanted. Turk asked as a friend.”

“Problem is you’ve been keeping the wrong company.”

“Enough of this!” Davenport was clearly losing patience. “Whether or not what you say is true makes no difference to me at this point. Right now, the only thing that interests me is what your decision is. Are you going to leave Russian River? That’s the only thing we are considering here. Not McPheeters, not the Reardons, not Kilborn. Are you suffering from the illusion that you can change any of it? It’s all firmed up, no one’s going to stop it. If you understand that, then you will be out of here this afternoon.”

He fell silent and waited for an answer. He still seemed confident that Harry would not refuse him.

Harry let him bide his time for several moments while he pretended to reflect seriously on his decision. At last he said, “You know I’ve been thinking, Frank, and I’ve concluded that you really have a quaint little town here. Very picturesque. I wouldn’t want to leave feeling that I’ve left without getting the most out of it. So I suppose I’ll stick around a few more days.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this.” Davenport stood up. “You must be out of your goddamn mind.”

“Some people seem to think so,” Harry replied cheerily.

“That’s it then. You do what you want. But I’ve done all I can. From now on you’re on your own. I am not responsible.”

“I wouldn’t want you to be, Frank. You got enough on your mind already.”

Davenport didn’t say good-bye. He just stormed right out the door.

Elsie had her back to him. Harry wondered whether she was crying, but when he addressed her and she turned, there were no tears in her eyes. But she looked very somber and vulnerable.

“Well now, I think I’ll be on my way too. I want to thank you for the use of your bath.”

“Where will you go?”

“Back to Danton’s Motel Inn, where else?”

“They’ll find you there.”

“They’ll find me anywhere I go. I’m not hiding this time around.”

There was a protracted silence. “Don’t go,” she said.

“Don’t go?”

“What am I going to do with all these empty rooms if you go?”

“Elsie, are you sure of what you’re saying? You put me up, and you’ll be risking your life. There’s no reason for that.”

“I know what I’m doing, Harry Callahan. I know exactly what I’m doing. You were right about me. What you said. I was under their control. Turk, Kilborn, Davenport. I’ve gone far enough. Have I made myself clear?”

“Very,” said Harry.

C H A P T E R
T w e l v e

T
he dream was muddled, the kind of dream that would never be recollected once consciousness returned in the sober light of day. At the very end of it, glass shattered, loud and abrasive.

Harry woke from the dream at that instant and peered into the darkness. It was then that he realized that the glass shattering was no dream. It was something very real that had just occurred downstairs.

Next to him, Elsie slept on. The disturbance had scarcely registered, for she’d merely rolled over and snuggled farther under the blankets as though this were sufficient protection against the intruders Harry was sure he’d shortly discover.

He had expected something like this, maybe not quite this soon, but it was no big surprise. Failure to heed Davenport’s warning at seven in the evening clearly was intended to result in death by midnight.

Actually, it was beyond midnight, though Harry did not consult his digital watch, which was resting on the table beside the bed. All his concentration was directed at the Magnum, which lay there too. Elsie had told him she wanted it out of her sight, but Harry wouldn’t hear of it. It was vitally necessary, he’d said, and he’d won his point.

The difficulty was that he was so dead tired from the events of the last forty-eight hours that he could hardly get himself mobilized. His mind was adrift in a thick haze, his body was a clumsy instrument with wobbly limbs. His weariness was so pervasive that if he wasn’t careful, he could fall back asleep. Even now, sitting up in bed, all he had to do was close his eyes and consciousness would be annihilated. He was getting too old for this.

Taking hold of his gun, he rose from the bed. Elsie stirred and her eyes opened. “What?” she asked.

“Trouble, I think.”

He hadn’t heard anything since the glass had come apart, but far from taking solace in the subsequent silence, he was edgier than before.

She immediately jerked up, clutching the sheet to her neck. It had been one thing to offer Harry the hospitality of her home, her bed, and her body. It had been an act of courage, to be sure, but she hadn’t any idea as to what she was getting into. The danger was something hypothetical, something that would never actually happen. And now it seemed that it was happening, and she was afraid, as she had every right to be.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to stay put. But if something should happen . . .” Harry reached into the top drawer of the night table. There he’d placed a .22 handgun that he often wore strapped to his ankle as an additional precaution. “Have you ever fired a gun?”

“Hunting rifles.”

“Do you think you can use this?”

She looked from him to the weapon. “If I have to, yes.”

“Good.” He took her hand and knitted her fingers around the grips of the gun.

He then got into his trousers and, barefoot, padded to the door.

There was no way he could keep it from creaking when he drew it open. He only hoped that the intruders were too far away to hear. It was a big house, after all. It would go better for him if they suspected that the occupants hadn’t caught onto the break-in.

The staircase wasn’t much more cooperative than the door had been. Being as old and in need of renovation as it was, the house creaked and whistled and knocked a great deal, sometimes with human intervention, sometimes not.

Conservation-minded as Elsie was, no lights had been left burning anywhere in the house, and it was very dark throughout the rooms and hallways. Once Harry stubbed his toe against a wall he hadn’t known was there. He resisted the impulse to cry aloud, confining his oath to a whisper.

When he got down to the second landing he stopped, listening carefully for any sound that would indicate the presence of his antagonists. The silence mocked him. Well now, he thought, maybe they’re trying to be as stealthy as I am. It was likely that they did not know in which room their victims might be found. It must be frustrating for them, undertaking this exploration in the dark.

Then, just as he was about to descend farther to the first floor, he heard a voice. And though he couldn’t quite make out what was said, he heard the response it elicited clearly enough: “Shut the fuck up, they’ll hear us.”

That was the truth all right, Harry said to himself.

Yet while the intruders had now signaled their whereabouts on the ground floor, Harry still needed to know where on the ground floor they were. Moreover, he would have liked to find out how many men he faced.

At the bottom of this staircase was a switch that would ignite the overhead light in the hallway. It was possible to turn it on without exposing himself unnecessarily, Harry reasoned. At the same time, how could it fail to provoke a reaction from the intruders? It would force them to initiate some action, and that in turn would give Harry the guidance he hoped to have before he formulated his strategy.

Slowly, with a concentration that was remarkable for the tedium it entailed, Harry descended the stairs: one foot, then the next, testing the weight of each individual stair so as not to cause any more noise than was unavoidable.