Dirty Harry 12 - The Dealer of Death (16 page)

Turner’s arm was sopping wet with blood that poured out of the three successive wounds. He started to run, hoping that he could outdistance his attacker, but his foot caught on the Matisse, and he tripped. In tripping, his foot went through the canvas. He flopped to the floor with a wrenching groan, attempted to get himself back up again.

“I hate to do this,” Gallant said, seizing him by the hair so that his face would present a better target, “but don’t you worry none because I don’t aim to kill you. You’re a friend, you are.”

Taking no assurance from his words, Turner raised his one good arm to fend him off, but to no avail.

Gallant then dug the ice pick into Turner’s brain, targeting the very same spot, between the bridge of the nose and the corner of the eye, he had with Roy Streeter. But this time he was careful not to drive it in all the way to the hilt.

Turner flailed like a fish drawn up on land, but in the end ceased moving. He wasn’t dead, though his breathing was shallow and his pulse alarmingly low. His eyes betrayed a certain consciousness as Gallant removed the ice pick and carefully cleaned it with a handkerchief.

The injury Turner had sustained was not necessarily going to be fatal. If Gallant had managed to aim the ice pick correctly and pierce the brain to the exact depth he’d hoped to, then the worst that Turner had received was a lobotomy performed without Dr. Jonas Pine’s anesthesia. On the other hand, if his estimation had been off, there was no telling what kind of damage his brain might have suffered. It was possible Turner would be left a vegetable for the remainder of his life.

No matter. Gallant had kept his promise and not killed him. It was just as he’d told Jay Silk. He always kept his word—as a gentleman.

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

H
arry never could quite accustom himself to fleabag hotels and out-of-the-way boarding houses run by women who resembled his sixth grade teacher: all gray hair, weathered skin, and glasses. But so long as he cared to remain in the Bay area, he felt he had little choice. A more respectable hotel or even a friend’s apartment was to risk being spotted by someone he knew. As it was, that risk was never entirely eliminated.

It was ironic, he thought, that Gallant had forced him to live the same sort of life he was, a life of a fugitive, a life spent underground.

More than once, especially late at night, while he sat in lonely rooms, staring out windows which overlooked bars and all-night fast food joints, he was tempted to pick up the phone and call Sheila. It had been seven weeks, three days, since he’d left her at her father’s. He’d rigorously adhered to his promise and made no attempt to contact her. Still he’d held out hope she would change her mind and call him. It never happened. The phone had remained obstinately silent. And now he was on the run, and even if she did want to get hold of him, she’d have no way of ascertaining his whereabouts.

His sole hope, it seemed to him, was to find Gallant and this time make sure that he did not escape. Only then would it be possible for him to return to the force and resume his normal life. That done, he could start thinking about a reconciliation with Sheila. The enormity of the challenge weighed upon him. For days, he scarcely moved from these dreary rooms he’d rented at seventy-five dollars a week, relying on beers and stale sandwiches for sustenance.

But he could not endure this state of affairs any longer. One morning he awoke, determined to take decisive action even though he had little notion as to just what action was possible or likely to do any good.

He would begin, he decided, where he’d begun before, with Grant Turner. He checked with his office and was told by the same vacant-headed secretary that Turner was still vacationing in Hawaii. Had she, or anyone else in the office, been in direct contact with him? Harry asked. No, the secretary admitted, a friend of Turner’s had telephoned at his behest.

“How can Mr. Turner keep extending his vacation? He’s been gone over two months. I didn’t know the city permitted its employees that much time off.”

The secretary sounded as though this had her a little confused too. “I am not sure I can answer you, sir. But Mr. Turner has been with this office for many years and he does enjoy certain privileges.”

“You mean he can get away with anything he likes.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, sir.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would.”

After Harry hung up, he realized he was left with no other choice than to return to the compound off Route 12. Whether Turner had sequestered himself in his fallout shelter, while only pretending to be in Hawaii, or whether he was, in fact, still on vacation was no longer a critical factor in his decision. Turner’s apartment on Jackson Street might have supplied him with no clues to link The Saving Remnant with Gallant, but perhaps among the clutter of antiques and papers crammed into the shelter, he might find the lead that thus far had eluded him.

The car he drove was a coconut-brown Matador he’d secured from a rental agency under a false name. He could not take the chance of using his own car.

This time, Harry anticipated the presence of security patrols in the woods surrounding the headquarters of The Saving Remnant. As he did on his first visit, Harry left his car off the road, well out of sight. But rather than proceeding along the same route he’d taken previously, he elected to circle around on foot, in hope of coming out in back of the house and the adjoining shelter. He assumed no matter how many armed men there might be, there wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover such a large terrain. He further assumed the majority of them would be deployed in close proximity to the front of the compound and astride the narrow roadway leading to it.

As he expected, the area he was proceeding through now was far more tangled and treacherous than the thickets he’d had to contend with before. There was a mat of tendrils and brambles that caught against his feet ensnaring them, causing him to repeatedly stop and free himself. A great many trees had fallen and they too made Harry’s progress difficult.

While there were no sounds aside from the birds calling to each other, and the occasional squirrel scampering along the side of a bough, Harry retained hold of his .44 the entire time. Fortunately, his hands had healed sufficiently so there was no longer any pain in them, just a welter of paling scars to remind him of his experience on Jackson Street.

By the time the sun was near to setting, late this winter afternoon, Harry began to make out a sound that could not be accounted to any natural cause—gunshots.

First, he’d hear a succession of shots, followed by a sudden stillness, which in turn was followed by another fusillade. The timing of the shots convinced Harry he was approaching the practice range which he’d not gotten a look at the last time he was here.

He crept forward until he came at last to the perimeter of the woods. Peeking through the undergrowth, he could see the backs of the targets. There were a half-dozen of them, mounted on wooden platforms. At several yards further distant, he could make out five figures, each with a handgun, taking aim.

The sun was down and the light remaining in the west was hardly enough for them to see what they were shooting at. As a result, they switched on two big klieg lights that bathed the entire range in a harsh white glow. It also threw the very brush where Harry had taken cover into stark relief.

Someone shouted out a command, but he was too far away for Harry to understand what he’d said. Suddenly the tree to his right was punctured by a gunshot, and all about him shots peppered the ground. Either these five men were very bad marksmen since it appeared that none of them had hit the targets or else, and more likely, they’d spotted Harry. Harry decided he wasn’t about to linger to see which one it was.

He plunged into the brush, heading back toward the woods from which he’d come.

So much for surprise, he thought.

He glanced back and saw the men fanning out behind him. As he was beyond the swath of ground lit up by the klieg lights, he believed he was relatively safe. This turned out not to be the case for long. Phosphorous flares began to be launched, turning the gray sky to a luminous white.

Still, even if they could see him, Harry had the advantage provided by the natural cover. Besides which he had a superb view of the men as they rushed across the open space of the practice range. The only reason he didn’t shoot was because he wasn’t ready to give away his precise location to bring down just one man.

When they’d gotten to the point where the range ended and the woods began, they seemed not to know just what they should do. In spite of the flares, they hadn’t determined exactly where Harry was.

One of the men, who’d assumed the role of leader, gave orders they should divide themselves up, with two to enter the woods at one point, and the three others at another, approximately twenty-five yards away, in the hope of either surrounding the intruder or else of forcing him from his cover onto the field where he’d be exposed.

It wasn’t difficult to figure out their strategy, even though Harry failed to overhear their deliberations. He was close enough to the edge of the woods to see very clearly what they intended on doing.

If he’d had any sense, he would have gone back the way he’d come, for there was no question he could lose himself very easily among the brush and the felled trees, but that would mean he’d lost his opportunity forever of getting inside the shelter. Little doubt existed in his mind that after this incident, reinforcements would only be added to those already on patrol, making it that much harder to penetrate the compound’s defenses.

So instead Harry decided to stay put. To his astonishment, no one else had come out of the shelter to assist these five men. Maybe it was thought that they were merely practicing war-games, maybe no one wanted to be bothered.

Of course, the men hunting him down were very noisy. There was no way they could avoid it, with the brush and twigs and stones that lay underfoot. Nor did they make any effort to subdue their voices. Harry could hear them very distinctly now. After the passage of a few minutes, the men were almost on top of him.

Harry had only to raise his eyes, and push aside a couple of drooping leaves, in order to see one of his pursuers, his chest and waist covered in the drab khaki Turner favored as the uniform of members of The Saving Remnant.

“Wait, I think, there . . .” Harry heard the man say to his companion whom he had yet to spot.

A succession of rounds blasted the foliage encircling him. Harry dropped closer to the ground, but managed to get off a shot. Aiming at the patch of khaki that was visible to him, it immediately turned a muddy crimson. There was a sustained yell, then the man vanished from sight.

A further barrage from the man’s companion followed, and again they tore up a great deal of the vegetation and bits and pieces of a tree trunk, but they failed to find Harry who kept plunging deeper into the brush. He could not see his attacker to return the fire and so he desisted, hunkering down behind a rock formation sparkling with crystals.

The three men who’d gone looking for him elsewhere were now stumbling hurriedly in his direction, alerted by the outbreak of gunfire. “Over here! He’s over here someplacel He’s gotten Hank, he’s gotten Hank bad.”

“Where the fuck is he?” one of the newcomers asked impatiently.

“Over there somewhere, I told you. Would you look at Hank, please. He’s in bad shape.”

There was an interval of silence during which Harry guessed Hank’s condition was being examined.

Then he heard an angry shout. “What are you talking about, you shithead? Hank’s in bad shape? Hank’s not in bad shape. Hank’s fucking dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead, what did you think he was, sleeping? Where is this fucker?”

Harry had an urge to move forward, because he still could only hear them, and he wanted a view as well. But it was an urge he suppressed, moving would only disclose his position.

In any case, soon enough they were mobilized sufficiently to resume their search for him. But they were a lot more cautious now, keeping low, spreading out so that no one was too close to his companion.

Of the four, one was emboldened to advance faster than the others. Maybe he was under the impression he’d be awarded with a medal of some kind if he personally vanquished Harry.

Harry let him get close. He was hopeful he could lure his friends within range too. Taking them out one at a time was going to be a tedious, and potentially more dangerous business.

The lead man, however, stopped abruptly as though he sensed he was in jeopardy. He waited until the other three had caught up with him. “What is it?” one of them asked.

The lead man held up his hand, indicating silence. He motioned two men forward and directed them to form a circle. Because he was completely vulnerable from the rear, this was exactly what Harry feared.

He had to stop them, and he did this by the simple expedient of firing in their path.

“Get the fuck back here!” the lead man ordered. “Don’t fire, it’s no use firing, you can’t hit him, get back here!”

But the others weren’t listening. They opened up with a furious assault that accomplished nothing. The rounds continued to be deflected by the rock.

Though it meant briefly exposing his head to view, Harry took aim and fired back.

One man spun around, clutching his leg, and tumbled into the undergrowth. A second did some kind of a dance and threw down his gun. Harry had to duck down too quickly to be able to puzzle out whether the man was hit or whether he’d suddenly lost his nerve.

There was a great deal of shouting and confusion, but no more firing. Harry risked raising his head again. What he saw surprised him. Two men were lying prostrate, moaning with pain, while the other two were tearing back through the woods, either to obtain help, or else just to get to somewhere safe.

Seeing his opportunity, Harry broke cover and headed across the practice range, zigzagging as he did so simply as a precaution, but he drew no fire.