by Dane Hartman
“I believe the man who killed your son-in-law has infiltrated your estate.”
“You’re mad.”
Slowly, Gallant turned so he now faced Silk and Harry. Harry barely glanced at him. Gallant was thoroughly convinced his disguise was effective. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to Jonas Pine, quack that he was. The man could do wonders with cosmetic surgery.
Harry was attempting to explain why he believed James Gallant might well be a member of his staff. Gallant was shaking his head. “I think you have jumped to conclusions that are unwarranted by the facts. You are making suppositions, Callahan.”
The alarm was still going. It was getting on Silk’s nerves. He interrupted his discussion and told Gallant to shut it off. “And call the police, tell them it’s a mistake. You know the code, don’t you?”
Gallant allowed he did and hurried off to obey Silk. He was happy to keep the police out of this affair. It was messy enough already.
When he’d done as Silk had requested, and come back into the kitchen, he still found the two arguing. But they were no longer alone. Sheila, clad in a robe of red terrycloth, had joined them. She seemed utterly confused. Her eyes sought Gallant’s as though she expected he would be able to explain everything.
“I have heard you’ve been in grave difficulty with your own colleagues,” Silk said. “Look at you! You look like somebody’s just swept you up off the corner of Mission Street. I think you are deranged.” All his animosity toward police officers was coming out. “Haven’t you done enough to make my daughter’s life miserable?”
“Daddy!” Sheila protested. “Don’t!”
Silk wouldn’t even look at her. As far as he was concerned, this was no longer any of her business.
Harry realized he was making no headway.
Silk was growing impatient, he wanted to be through with this disagreeable encounter. “I will do you a favor, Callahan. If you will go on your way peacefully and promise never to come back here, I will let the matter rest. Otherwise, I will be obliged to notify your superiors and see to it you are placed under arrest.”
Harry gave Sheila an imploring look, but she seemed too stunned, too bemused, to intervene on his behalf. Maybe, Gallant thought, she wanted Harry to be on his way, just like Silk did. Just like he did.
It seemed Harry was about to capitulate. He shrugged, and forlornly started toward the door minutes before he’d broken through.
To get to the door, he had to pass by Gallant. The kitchen was too narrow to avoid him. Gallant couldn’t restrain a small smile of triumph as Harry came close to him. This was not the kind of revenge he’d imagined, but it was satisfying enough in any case.
Just then Harry looked into his face. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then continued on a few steps, only to stop again. Gallant observed the path Harry’s eyes were taking. He realized Harry was staring at the gun he held. A .44 Magnum just like Harry’s.
Harry stared hard at Gallant’s face. Their eyes met.
“You!” was all Harry said.
C H A P T E R
S i x t e e n
Just then they were distracted by the sight of six-year-old Louise. Clad in a nightgown, she wandered dazedly into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Mommy, what’s wrong?” she inquired, startled by the sight of three armed men surrounding her mother.
“Get back, sweetheart,” Sheila urged her. “Go back to bed.”
Before anyone could react, the woman responsible for the child’s welfare came into the kitchen. Evidently, she’d been chasing after Louise.
“Miss Travis, please take Louise back to bed.”
Miss Travis, sensing the danger without, however, being exactly sure of its nature, attempted to do just that.
Gallant sprang forward and wrested hold of the little girl, placing the gun to her head. Sheila screamed. Harry automatically turned his own weapon toward Gallant, but quickly realized that there was nothing to be done. He couldn’t fire without jeopardizing Louise’s life. Meanwhile, Silk remained motionless, confused to the point of paralysis. “What is happening here?” he demanded. No one answered him.
Miss Travis was the only one who refused to acknowledge Gallant had the upperhand. Without thinking, she pounded her fists against Gallant’s back, shouting, “Let her go! Let the child go!”
“Miss Travis, no!” Sheila took a step forward as though she meant to restrain the woman, but Harry stopped her.
“Both of you, drop your guns,” Gallant commanded. He was doing his utmost to ignore the feeble blows the spinster was raining down on him.
“We have no choice,” Harry told Silk. “Do as he says.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you?” He was addressing Gallant.
“James Gallant,” Harry said.
Although the man had put a gun to his granddaughter’s head, Silk couldn’t seem quite able to believe this was possible, that he had been taken in by such a grand deception. Harry had the feeling he wouldn’t mind so much if the man identified himself as someone other than Gallant, no matter how notorious or criminally inclined.
Gallant only confirmed Harry’s pronouncement. Silk looked aghast. The gun dropped from his hand.
Miss Travis refused to give up. On the contrary, she was growing more desperate. Paying no heed to Sheila’s cries, she reached her hands around and with her sharp nails began clawing Gallant’s face. This was something he could no longer ignore. He wheeled about to confront her, spinning the terrified little girl with him, and discharged his gun.
The woman was hurtled back into the other room, an enormous hole in her stomach. A small sound, like a sigh, escaped from her lips, and she promptly died. Blood continued to seep out of her in copious amounts. It was astonishing, a woman so slender and frail could have contained so much blood.
“My God, man!” Silk said incredulously.
Sheila ran to the woman, but nothing could be done for her.
“Look what you did!” she shrieked at Gallant. “You murdered her!”
“She’s not the first one,” Harry remarked.
“And won’t be the last.”
“Your quarrel’s with me,” Harry said, understanding too well Gallant’s intention. “Let the others go.”
Louise was staring at them with wide, moist eyes. Her small body kept trembling with sobs. But her terror was so pronounced she couldn’t cry anymore.
“Don’t tell me who my quarrel’s with. My quarrel’s with the world, my quarrel’s with God. Now, all of you, into the other room.”
As they prepared to obey his instruction, one of the other servants appeared. He regarded the scene with stupification and fear.
“Silk, tell him if anyone calls the police, I’ll kill her, and the rest of you too.”
His voice shaking, Silk communicated Gallant’s threat to the man.
“I’ll let the others know,” the servant replied, enormously grateful to be released from this chamber of horrors.
Harry recognized Gallant was facing a grave dilemma. He could not be absolutely certain the servant would keep his word or the police hadn’t already been summoned. If he was to have any hope of escape, he would have to act quickly. There was little time to savor his vengeance.
The chairs in which they were told to sit were white and old, dating back to the time of Louis XV. Gallant, still keeping Louise close to him, turned on the light of an impressive chandelier. He used the dimmer, apparently enjoying the incongruous romantic effect he was creating. Harry gazed into his eyes and saw only madness there. The man might do anything. It was possible the threat of police intervention and the prospect of dying did not matter to him. Reasoning with him was out of the question.
He stood there, at the far end of the room by the fireplace, looking from one of his hostages to the other. Sheila had her head down on the table, quietly weeping.
It was Harry’s impression Gallant really had no idea of what to do next. Simply killing them all was not quite diabolical enough.
&
nbsp; He might just as well have been reading the murderer’s mind.
“Silk!” he said. “Stand up and come over here.”
Silk stayed in his chair. It was likely he had not understood this simple directive. He was not used to being thrust into such a humiliating position.
“Stand up, asshole!”
“Dad,” Sheila said. It was enough of a jolt to mobilize him.
He lumbered over toward Gallant. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Where’s all your power now?” Gallant taunted him. “What good’s all your millions doing you, answer me, asshole?”
Silk had no answer for him.
“You know,” Gallant said, his voice strangely detached as though he wasn’t understanding the words issuing from his mouth, “you know, I’m told the IRA and the Red Brigades boast they’re able to kneecap people so precisely they can tell in advance whether you’ll be in the hospital one month or three months or six months. I read about that in prison. You learn a lot of interesting things in prison, am I right, Harry?”
“That’s right, Gallant.” Harry decided that there was no alternative but to try and humor the man.
Gallant lowered the .44 so it was trained on the back of Silk’s right knee.
Harry rose from the table, but Gallant quickly sighted the gun on Louise, forcing him to sit back down again.
“Now I want to ask you a question, Mr. Millionaire. Would you do anything for your granddaughter?”
Silk hesitated a moment. At last, he said, “Yes, yes, I would.”
“Would you give up the use of your legs for her?”
“For God’s sake, will you listen to me? I can make it worth your while if you will only go and leave us in peace.”
“Your problem, Silk, is you can’t deal with people on any level that doesn’t involve money. I don’t want your money, I just want your answer. Think of me as a kind of sociologist. I like to see how far people will go is all.”
“Yes, I told you, go ahead.”
“I am glad to have your permission.”
For an instant, he didn’t do anything, leading both Harry and Sheila to think he might not carry out his threat.
Silk was trembling so badly he could barely remain upright.
Gallant lowered the gun and fired twice. Silk flew into the air, blood spurting from both his knees. Howling in agony, he collapsed in a heap. Immediately, he began vomiting over the Persian rug, already saturated with his blood.
A scream was torn from Louise’s lungs. It was a furious, uncomprehending cry of protest.
Suddenly, Sheila reached out, taking hold of one of the Italian bronzes, and hurdled it at Gallant. “No!” she shouted. “No more, goddamnit!”
The bronze glanced off Gallant’s shoulder, but the blow was painful enough for him to stagger back, momentarily surrendering his grip on Louise.
Harry leapt out of the chair and grabbed the girl, pulling her down as Gallant fired at them. The bullet passed right overhead, penetrating one of the 19th Century Russian silk screens that Gallant had once praised to Silk with such admiration.
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 wa
s 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.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANE HARTMAN 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.
