Back from the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  There was a flicker of light at the top of the hill, and then headlights appeared coming down the road. He assumed it was the Peugeot, pulled back the twin hammers on the shotgun. The car, a Citroen, paused at the stop sign and continued on. Now another light appeared at the top of the hill. Hess held the shotgun across his body and walked down avenue du Dauphine about twenty meters. The Peugeot stopped at the stop sign. He was in the middle of the road when it turned left and came toward him.

  Hess brought the stock to his shoulder, aimed between the headlights, squeezed the first trigger and the shotgun kicked and boomed, blowing out the radiator. Now he aimed just above the headlights, fired at the windshield and stepped out of the way as the car came at him, rolling to a stop down the road. He cracked open the shotgun, ejected the spent casings, reloaded and snapped the gun closed.

  The punctured radiator made a high-pitched whine, and smoke was coming from the engine compartment, swirling over the headlights. The second blast had blown a hole through the center of the windshield, spraying the interior with pieces of glass. Colette seemed dazed but was otherwise okay. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He looked in the backseat.

  Cordell was leaning against the door behind her. There was blood spatter on the seat and on the rear window, which was pocked with holes.

  “Cordell, you all right?”

  “I’m hit, man.”

  Harry said, “How bad?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Harry looked through the side window and saw Hess with the shotgun, moving toward the car. He reached in his coat pocket and drew the revolver. “Get down, he’s coming back.”

  Colette glanced at him and turned her body, knees on the floor, face flat on the seat bottom. Cordell slid off the rear seat onto the floor. Through the side window Harry saw Hess approaching, getting close. He opened the door and went down on his knees. Heard the blast and felt the concussion, glass from the driver’s-side window spraying over him. When he looked again Hess was coming around the front of the car, visible for a second in the headlight beam.

  Harry raised the Colt and fired but Hess kept coming, firing the shotgun, blowing out the right side of the windshield. Harry, on his knees, fired another round, but Hess had disappeared. Harry got up and saw him limping along the side of the road.

  Harry went after him, got to Hess as he was pulling away, aimed for the left rear tire and squeezed the trigger. The Fiat fishtailed, went off the road and rolled a couple times down the hill into a thicket, headlight beams angled out of the shrubs. Harry climbed down, crouched and pointed his gun. The front passenger door was open, dome light illuminating the interior. He could see blood on the seats. Hess was gone, but he was hurt.

  Harry stood behind the Fiat and listened, heard the wind and the rustling of branches. He had one round left in the .38. He looked over the car into the darkness and started down the hill.

  Hess had been shot in the soft tissue just above his right hip. The bullet had gone through him. He could feel blood leaking out of the exit wound, his shirt and trousers wet with it. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and had gripped the steering wheel when the Fiat started to roll, and when he couldn’t hold on any longer, let go and bounced around the interior till the car got tangled in dense shrubs and came to a stop.

  He had moved down the hill about seventy meters below the car, leaning against a tree trunk, holding the Walther, waiting for Harry Levin. Shoot him when he had the chance. He could see the headlights above him, and feel a breeze come up from the valley. He was looking down at the lights in houses scattered through the hills, the city of Nice to his right hidden from view.

  Harry took his time, zigzagging down the hill using trees and overgrown shrubs for cover, feet in loafers sliding on the steep terrain. Visibility was better now, the heavy clouds had moved out and there was a three-quarter moon lighting up the landscape. He stopped and listened, heard twigs snap just below him, and crouched behind a broadleaf evergreen. He saw a figure move down the hill, then disappear behind a tree.

  Hess appeared again maybe fifteen feet away, limping, looking unsteady. Harry closed in, raised the .38 and aimed the barrel between Hess’ shoulders. “Take another step, you’re dead.” He couldn’t tell if Hess was holding a gun but had to assume he was.

  “That’s what you said to me the last time. In the kitchen in Palm Beach, remember?” Hess paused. “You shot me again. That’s twice I owe you.”

  “I’ll try to do better next time. Toss the gun away from you, and put your hands up where I can see them.”

  “I’m not armed.”

  Harry didn’t believe him.

  Hess glanced over his shoulder at him. “Are you going to shoot me in the back?”

  “Back or front, it doesn’t matter.”

  Hess lowered his arms and turned, lost his footing and slid to the bottom of the hill. Harry watched him all the way and went after him, aiming the revolver, trying to keep his balance, telling himself again he had one round in the gun and to make it count.

  When he got to the bottom of the hill, Hess was moving toward him, aiming a pistol. Hess fired and missed, fired again, the shots echoing around the hills. And now Harry, holding the .38 in two hands, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Hess went down on his knees, dropped the pistol and fell back.

  Harry picked up the gun and stood over him, Hess’ hands pressing on the wound in his chest, trying to stop the blood that was running between his fingers.

  “You put another hole in me.”

  “That one’s for my daughter.”

  “You think it’s over? I’ll be coming for you, Harry, but you won’t know when or where.”

  “Not this time.” He aimed Hess’ gun at him, finger feeling the weight of the trigger. Hess tried to sit up and Harry pushed him back on the ground with his foot. Hess’ eyes were open, staring up at him, but he wasn’t moving. Harry crouched at his side, touched his neck and felt for a pulse.

  Colette was waiting for Harry when he got to the top of the hill. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “I heard the gunshots. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s over. How’s Cordell?”

  “He needs a doctor.”

  They walked back to the Peugeot at the side of the road, headlights still on. Harry opened the rear door. Cordell was sitting up in the backseat.

  “You got him, huh, Harry?”

  “I got him.”

  “You sure?”

  “You can go down there and see for yourself.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “How’re you feeling?”

  “Not bad for being blasted with a shotgun.”

  “You’re talking – that’s a good sign.”

  “Got a lot more to say.”

  “I’ll bet you do.” Harry paused. “There’s a restaurant down the road about a mile. I’m going to walk there, call a taxi and come back for you.”

  The concierge called a doctor, who came to the suite with his black bag. Cordell told him a hunter had shot him accidentally while he was taking a walk up in the hills. “Man huntin’ birds or somethin’.”

  The doctor looked at him quizzically. “What time was this?”

  “Earlier this evenin’, didn’t know if I’d need medical attention.”

  “By the look of your wounds I think you make the right decision.”

  The doc led Cordell into the bathroom, cleaned him up, administered an anesthetic, and removed eight pellets from his right shoulder and arm, a couple requiring stitches, but he was okay.

  When the doctor walked out of the suite Harry said, “I think we should leave, and the sooner the better. In the morning someone is going to see the Peugeot with the blown-out windshield and blood in the backseat and call the police. Then they’re going to find the Fiat and the murdered body of Vincent Chartier. They’ll go to the villa and talk to the housekeeper. She’ll tell them what happened last night and describe Cordell and me.” Harry paused. “I think it’s a good
time to go to Detroit.”

  More from Peter Leonard

  We hope you enjoyed Back from the Dead. The Story Plant has published two other Peter Leonard novels, and we thought you might like a taste of each.

  The year is 1971. The place is Detroit. Harry Levin, a scrap metal dealer and Holocaust survivor, has just learned that his daughter was killed in a car accident. Traveling to Washington, DC to claim the body, he learns that the accident was caused by a German diplomat who was driving drunk. This is only the beginning of the horror for Harry, though, as he discovers that the diplomat will never face charges – he has already been released and granted immunity. Enraged and aggrieved, Harry discovers the identity of his daughter’s killer, follows him to Munich, and hunts him down. What Harry finds out about the diplomat and his plans will explode his life and the lives of everyone around him. Brimming with action and dark humor, Voices of the Dead, firmly positions Peter Leonard as a writer every suspense fan needs to read.

  Turn the page for an excerpt:

  Voices of the Dead

  Sara cashed out her last table, tipped Kenny the bartender, and the busers, and walked outside. It was just past midnight, still hot and muggy. It felt good after being in an air-conditioned restaurant for six hours. It had been a great night. She had made $180 in tips alone. Life was good. She’d been lucky enough to get the job at Bistro 675, a trendy new restaurant on 15th Street, not far from the White House. But it had been a lucky year. She was on the Dean’s List at George Washington, and a month before the semester ended, her English professor, Dr. Lund, had asked if she’d be interested in house-sitting for the summer. Two months, anyway. He’d rented a country home in the south of France, three kilometers from Aix-en-Provence, and needed someone to water the plants and bring in the mail.

  A chance to stay in Washington for the summer, she’d said to herself. Are you kidding? How cool was that? She’d called her father and told him the good news.

  He said, “That’s great. I want your life. Things always seem to fall into place.”

  She hadn’t told him about Richard yet, this cute boy in her psych class. They had been hanging out for a few months and Sara liked him a lot, maybe even loved him. Next time her dad came to DC she was going to introduce them.

  She found her car in the lot, a baby blue ’68 Ford Falcon her father had bought for her, cruising north on 15th, windows down, listening to Joni Mitchell do Blue. Passed the statue of Alexander Hamilton and the Treasury building and New York Avenue, approaching Pennsylvania, green light, heading into the intersection, singing with Joni, really belting it out:

  Hey blue, here is a song for you …

  Hess had no idea where he was. He had been driving west on Pennsylvania Avenue, and now was somehow on K Street. He regretted stopping at the gentlemen’s club but he’d needed several drinks to calm him down, he had been so charged up, so high on adrenalin.

  To the right was a sign for Lafayette Park, and he realized he was traveling in the wrong direction. The White House was somewhere south through the trees. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lighted it with a match, steering the big Mercedes-Benz with his knees. He was drunk, the white line dividing the road, blurring into two. He closed one eye to correct his vision.

  Hess brought the cigarette to his mouth, but it slipped through his fingers. He fumbled, tried to catch it with dulled reflexes, cigarette dropping in his lap, falling to the floor. He glanced down, saw it and reached to pick it up, but it rolled toward the accelerator pedal. He looked up now, approaching an intersection, red traffic light sending an alarm to his brain, foot going for the brake pedal, but too late.

  He slammed into an automobile, hitting it broadside with serious impact, crushing it, pushing it through the intersection. Hess was conscious of his head striking the steering wheel, the Mercedes spinning, crashing into a storefront. He heard voices and the high-pitched whine of a radiator under pressure, the sound of a siren some distance away, and saw faces staring at him through the windows.

  Harry was in his office at the scrap yard, writing a check to the IRS, he couldn’t see the amount, but it was enough to put him out of business. He was signing his name when he heard the phone ring, sounding like it was far away. He woke up, opened his eyes, the phone on the table next to his bed, ringing. Slid over, glanced at the clock. 3:17 a.m. Answered it, barely awake. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Levin, this is the Huntington Woods Police Department.”

  “Yeah? You know what time it is?” Harry said.

  “Sir, your daughter has been in an automobile accident. There is a police officer at your house. Will you please answer the door?”

  No way it was Sara. “My daughter’s in Washington DC. What’s going on?” He heard the doorbell.

  “The officer will tell you.”

  He hung up the phone. It had to be a misunderstanding. Heard the doorbell ring again as he was putting on his robe. He went downstairs, opened the front door. A Huntington Woods cop in a blue uniform was standing on the porch.

  “Mr. Levin, may I come in?”

  Harry swung the door open further. The cop stepped into the foyer and took off his hat. He looked young, thirty maybe. Blond hair parted on the side, creased where the hat rested, ruddy complexion. Seemed nervous.

  “Mr. Levin, your daughter, Sara, was killed in a car accident this morning in Washington DC.”

  Harry felt like he’d been punched in the chest. Stepped back and tried to take a breath. It couldn’t be. He’d talked to her just before she went to work.

  But the cop assured him it wasn’t a mistake. His department had been contacted by the DC police. Sara was at Washington Hospital. He gave Harry the name and number of a Washington DC detective named Taggart and a woman named Judy Katz at the hospital. The cop told him how sorry he was, and let himself out and closed the door.

  Harry went back upstairs, sat on the bed, holding it in, and called Eastern Airlines, booked a seat on the 6:31 a.m. flight to National Airport.

  Rome:

  McCabe and Chip, two American exchange students, are about to become embroiled with a violent street gang, a beautiful Italian girl, and a flawed kidnapping plan.

  Detroit:

  Sharon Vanelli’s affair with Joey Palermo, a Mafia enforcer, is about to be discovered by her husband, Ray, a secret service agent.

  Brilliantly plotted and shot through with wry humor, All He Saw Was The Girl sees these two narratives collide in the backstreets of Italy’s oldest city.

  Turn the page for an excerpt:

  All He Saw Was The Girl

  They were taken to a room and interrogated by a no-nonsense cop, a detective in a black sport coat. He was built like a soccer player, stocky and still muscular in middle age, thinning salt-and-pepper hair combed back. He introduced himself as Captain Ferrara. McCabe told him their names and told him they were students at Loyola University.

  Chip said, “We weren’t actually stealing the taxi.”

  Ferrara said, “No? What were you doing?”

  Chip said, “We were drunk. It was a joke. Scherzo.”

  Captain Ferrara said, “Scherzo? This is how a man makes his living and you dismiss it as something trivial, unimportant. You have too much to drink and use this as an excuse? The man’s automobile is damaged. Now he has no way to earn a living, support his family.”

  Chip said, “I’ll buy him a new one.”

  He held Chip in his laser gaze, eyes locked on him. Chip said, “You know who Senator Charles Tallenger is, right?”

  He sounded drunk.

  Captain Ferrara stared at him, studying him.

  Chip said, “Well I’m his son, Charles Tallenger III.” Captain Ferrara didn’t say anything, didn’t seem impressed, gave him a stern look.

  Chip was a smartass, but McCabe had never seen him turn on this arrogant superiority. Based on the captain’s expression it didn’t seem to be going over very well.

  Chip said, “I have to make a phone call.”

/>   He said it like a spoiled Greenwich rich kid, which McCabe decided was redundant, maybe even tri-dundant if there was such a word.

  “It’s my right as an American citizen,” Chip said.

  Captain Ferrara said, “You are a prisoner, you have no rights. In Italy, you are guilty until proven innocent.”

  Chip said, “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.”

  The captain’s face tightened, like he wanted to go over and knock Chip on his ass. He said, “No, I think you are the one who does not understand, but you will.”

  He turned and walked out of the room and closed the door. McCabe said, “Do me a favor, don’t say anything else, okay?”

  Chip said, “What’s your problem?”

  “You’re being an asshole. Every time you open your mouth the situation gets worse.” He’d never seen Chip act like this before. Jesus.

  “You want to get out of here?” Chip said. “We’ve got to tell these idiots who they’re dealing with.”

  “All you’re doing is pissing him off,” McCabe said, “making things worse. I’m in this thanks to you, and I don’t want you talking for me.”

  Captain Ferrara never came back, and a few minutes later a cop in a uniform came in and cuffed McCabe’s hands behind his back and took him to the garage and pushed him in the rear seat of a Fiat. Two heavyset cops squeezed in on both sides, flanking him like he was a hardened criminal, a flight risk.

  The cops sitting next to him had breadcrumbs on their jackets and there was a comic-opera quality about them, big men in fancy, over-the-top uniforms with red stripes running down the sides of the pants and white leather sashes worn diagonally across their jackets, and matching white leather holsters. They held their brimmed blue hats in their

  laps. McCabe thought they looked like cops from some made-up Disney dictatorship.

  They pulled out of the garage and turned right and drove down Via del Corso past Victor Emmanuel, the Wedding Cake, also known as the Typewriter, past the Colosseum and the Forum and Campidoglio, the cops talking about Italy playing in the World Cup.