by Dane Hartman
Harry considered trying to nail him at that distance but thought better of it. In the rainy night and with both killer and victim so far gone, it would be too risky. Harry couldn’t afford to let Browne know he was still on the trail until he had him at point-blank range. He couldn’t give Browne a chance to slice the girl in retaliation.
There was a fire escape on the same side of the building. Harry hopped over the edge and dashed down the metal stairway as quickly and quietly as he could. By the time he landed on Joy Street again, his shirt was stuck to his skin, and the rest of his clothes were sodden. The escaping pair had disappeared over the top of the hill.
Harry trotted after, pulling the Magnum again from its berth. Even in this situation, even though Browne was obviously out of his mind and was still recovering from a bullet wound, Harry didn’t trust him not to get away. Both Callahan and Collins had been sure they had him at one time or another, and in both instances Browne had eluded them. The Orenda head had the strength and the cunning of the homicidally insane.
Harry got to the top of the hill. The two had effectively vanished. Stretched out in front of Callahan was the rest of Beacon Hill, a half-dozen different streets running in every direction. The cop was about to curse and start a fast reconnaissance when he saw a blanket resting across the sidewalk of an intersection.
Browne had made a mistake. He was crazy enough and possessed enough to dress Christine in ceremonial gear, but she was conscious enough and aware enough to use the various pieces like bread crumbs to lead Harry on. Callahan ran to the fallen mantle. It stretched from the curb of Joy Street to the curb of a bisecting road.
Harry looked down the new way. Like all the other streets on Beacon Hill, it was sloping steeply, lined with rustic brownstones and dotted with old-fashioned street lamps. Harry peered through the rain, seeing the river and Cambridge in the misty distance. He ran in that direction until he saw another animal skin lying in the middle of another road to the right.
A final skin was lying against the curb alongside a fence. The fence was covered with graffitti. Harry studied all the streets in every direction. There was not a sign of any other Indian equipment in any direction. He studied the fence. It seemed solid. He began to move cautiously along its slats, looking for some kind of opening.
His toe had just touched the skin lying against the end of the fence when he heard the scream. It was a gurgling, choked cry, but it was loud enough for Harry to realize that it was coming from the other side of the fence.
Callahan moved back quickly. He didn’t shoot through the slats in case Christine was still in the way. He prepared himself to break through or climb over the obstruction. Just as he hunched, a small metallic clatter followed the shriek, and then there was an easily recognizable boom. Harry didn’t have to see a chunk of the fence spin away to know Browne had gotten his hands on another gun.
In his condition, Harry couldn’t allow Browne to go any further. Harry had seen others like him. They would kill their hostages, then, if they couldn’t get the cops, they would kill themselves. He had to risk jumping the fence blind.
The fence was too high to vault. He’d have to handle it like a gymnast’s horse. He slid the gun into the holster, ran, jumped, and grabbed the top edge with both hands. He hauled his torso up until his waist slapped against the top. In this position, for this split second, he was a sitting duck.
In that split second he saw why he wasn’t dead. Christine seemed fully awake and was fighting Browne with all her might. She had worked the kerchief off her face to reveal a thick cloth knotted between her teeth, holding a sponge in her mouth. The rain had dampened it so much that she had been able to condense it enough to cry out. Her legs were kicking out at the bearded man, who clutched at his shoulder and seemed confused. Christine’s hair was plastered to her head in dripping wet corkscrews. Her nose was bleeding down into the sponge. Her arms were still held fast behind her back with the rope. Other than that hemp and the Indian necklaces, she was naked in the cold rain.
Harry pulled his legs up and to the side. They passed over the fence, and he dropped to his feet. He noticed a carefully constructed latch and two hinges on the inside of the fence. It was a concealed door.
Browne and Christine were struggling in the middle of a small playground. As Harry was able to point his gun again, Christine was able to break away from the bearded man. He swung at her with his knife, but she was too fast. The tip of the blade just missed her head as she fell forward at Harry’s feet.
Callahan finally had him. Browne’s chest was practically filling his vision. His Magnum was aimed right at the bearded man’s heart with nothing in the way.
Harry didn’t shoot. Not because he pitied Browne. Not because he was beneath contempt. Not because it wouldn’t be worth it. Something was wrong.
Browne just stood there, a knife in one hand, a snubnosed revolver in the other. He held them both out away from his body. They weren’t pointing at anyone.
The bearded face looked bewildered. There wasn’t just rain pouring down his face. There was sweat. Harry could see him shivering. And it was from more than the cold somehow.
“All right, Browne,” Harry said. “That’s it.” He reached back behind him and swung open the playground door. Keeping his Magnum steady on the bearded man’s chest, he leaned down to help Christine up. He moved her toward the exit, watching Browne every second.
The bearded man didn’t move. He didn’t try to kill either of them. His face still seemed disconcertingly muddled, as if he were listening to an argument in his head.
“No more sacrifices, Jeff,” Harry coaxed. “Put the stuff down and let’s get out of the rain.”
The eyes that had been looking through Harry suddenly focused on him. Then they grew wild, hysterical. Browne’s whole body began to shake with violent spasms. The knife fell out of his hand. He grabbed the snub-nose in both and started screeching in short, sharp pants.
Harry kept the Magnum centered on his chest with both his hands. He pursed his lips, waiting for the first sign that Browne was going to shoot. He didn’t have long to wait.
The bearded man fell to one knee and pointed the pistol straight out in front of him. Even at the last, Harry couldn’t bring himself to shoot him again. He fell and rolled to the side, fully prepared to peg him if it was the only way to stay alive. He heard a gun go off, but it was a distant, muffled sound. He came up in a crouch in time to see Browne fall back.
The bearded man hit the sodden playground dirt with a tiny splash, the gun still clutched in his hand.
Harry turned. Christine was rubbing her back against the side of the wooden door, desperately trying to push the sponge out from behind the knotted cloth so she could tell him what had happened. In a few seconds, she didn’t have to. Detective Christopher Collins walked through the playground door, his Smith and Wesson .38 Model 10 clutched in his right hand.
Callahan glared at him in angry amazement.
“You were acting strange,” Collins told him before either of them made a move toward the bound girl or the motionless body. “I, uh, was worried about you, you know? Thought you might be able to use a back up, a guardian angel.” He looked pointedly at Browne’s body. “Looks like I was just in time, huh?”
Harry just kept glaring. The black detective finally looked away and went to make sure Browne was really dead.
The press conference was a huge success. In other words it was another in a long line of First Amendment fiascos. The reporters poured into the Justice Building, which was just down the street from the Prudential and Hancock buildings, to watch a police promotion and see the beautiful survivor of the “Beacon Hill Murders.”
Hot lights, cameras, and microphones were shoved in Christine’s face. But rather than shrink behind Harry, she just shone back. She smiled radiantly, answered questions with breathy sincerity and generally did her best to be a noble, brave, honest little trooper.
Collins was used to the scene but his policemanese wa
s even sharper since he was the center of attraction. “Alleged perpetrators,” “stake-outs,” and other famous cop phrases were littering the air like pages of a Jack Webb script. It was just what the members of the press wanted. They lapped it up like starving dogs.
Harry scowled throughout the whole ceremony. But on his face a scowl looked fairly natural—even attractive. Not that many of the reporters noticed it. Their concentration was on the “beautiful brunette who survived the terrifying ordeal,” and the “brave black detective from the slums of the Roxbury section who came to the Big City Police Department to make good.” Harry was merely a “visiting Frisco Inspector who assisted in the arrest.”
Even if they had filmed his dour expression, they could not have possibly captured the taste of ashes in his mouth. Christine had gotten a lot of attention, and Collins had gotten a lot of glory, but the case still stunk. The whole thing was still a jumbled mess in Callahan’s mind. It just served to cap his feelings about the Boston “vacation.” It was Thursday morning and Harry figured he’d head back to San Fran a day early.
It made no difference, he thought. The killer was dead. Shanna didn’t have anything to do with it. It was time to kiss everybody off and hope they never wrote him again. Harry left the room as soon as the last decoration was pinned to Collins’ chest and the last close-up of Christine’s serenely gorgeous face was taken.
Collins broke away from the many clutching, congratulating hands to catch up with him in the hall.
“Hey, Inspector,” he called, “aren’t you sticking around? I figure I owe you at least a celebration dinner. Hell, I’ll take you, Christine, and Shanna to Pier Four, the most popular restaurant in the world.”
Harry spun toward him as if the black man had tapped him with a cattle prod. “You used me,” Callahan seethed. “You used me from moment one.”
“Hey, hey, Harry,” Collins backed off, his hands up. “I only did what I had to to solve the case.”
“You knew I had family here,” Harry snarled. “But you played dumb. Why?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out,” Collins shrugged. “We checked all the Unitarian volunteers thoroughly in the first place. Shanna Donovan, daughter of Peter and Linda Donovan, mother’s maiden name Callahan. Then you just happen to show up right outside the offices at an opportune moment? Come on, now. Really.”
“So why not level with me? Why have me stumbling around in the dark?”
“I did level with you, Harry,” the black man maintained. “I didn’t lie to you once. Everything I said about the chiefs taking me off the case was true. But I looked you up. I found out your rep. ‘Dirty Harry.’ I figured you’d be more capable of cutting through all the bullshit than I would. Especially considering your personal stake in the matter.”
Harry pushed him against the wall. Once. Hard. Then he just looked at him.
“Give me a break, will you, Callahan?” Collins complained, straightening his dress uniform. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing in my position.”
Harry didn’t bother. The black man was so starry-eyed from his moment of glory he wouldn’t have been able to understand that he had stepped on Harry to get ahead. That he had not only used Callahan but the deaths of everyone along the way to climb the police ranks. He didn’t care about the victims. He didn’t care about the murderer. All he cared about was himself.
Harry wished he could spit out all the bile he felt inside him into Collins’ face. Instead he turned silently and headed for the exit. He felt a tug on his sleeve just as he got to the door. He nearly whirled around and lashed out. Instead he turned slowly. Christine Sherman had run after him this time. She hugged him before he could do or say anything more. Then she kissed him.
“Aren’t you staying?” she asked brightly, holding onto his arms while leaning back.
He held her up by the hips. “It’s been a long few days,” he said apologetically. “I’ve still got a job in San Francisco.”
“You mean you’re going back tonight?” Christine asked incredulously.
Harry was sorely tempted to say no. The girl was wearing a wraparound dress that did even more for her than the designer jeans. But in her eyes, Harry could see parts of the last week. Parts he would sooner forget. “I’m afraid so,” he finally answered.
Christine’s full lips turned down into a practiced pout. “Are you sure?” she asked, fully aware of her effect on men.
Harry sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and grinned. His only answer was a helpless shrug.
Christine knew she had made progress. “Well,” she drawled. “Just in case your plane is leaving a little late, here’s my address.” She handed him an already made-out scrap of paper.
Harry put it in his jacket pocket. “Just in case the plane’s late,” he agreed.
Then she gave him something to remember her by as well as a promise of things to come. The kiss, this time, was long and serious. She broke away, moving back down the hall way slowly, luxuriously. “See you later,” she said with complete assurance.
On the way to the hotel, Callahan marveled at her rapid recovery from the “terrifying ordeal.” Well, why not, he told himself. She was unconscious half the time. As far as he could tell and as far as she had said in her statement, Browne had kept her so high on peyote all the time she hadn’t known whether she was asleep or awake.
The sun was out on this Thursday morning. Boston seemed to be moving again after the announcement that the “Beacon Hill Murderer” was no more. Ah, what the hell, Harry figured, shaking off the remnants of the case. It was lousy, it was uncomfortable, it was tragic, but it was over. He couldn’t bring back the dead any more than he could fly like Superman. At least he didn’t feel responsible for the wasted deaths.
He had avenged the dead cops at the Star Market. The bartender had shot Tim Marchelli. Collins had finally killed Browne. None of it was his fault, it was just that he had never been in control. Somebody had been pulling his strings and punching his buttons all along. That frustrated him. That made him angry.
Harry stalked into the Holiday Inn without asking for messages. He went upstairs and packed, his mind preoccupied with things Californian. He was about to close his bag when he noticed something was missing.
It was a pair of slacks, some pants he had bought a few months ago in San Antonio while on a work trip. Harry looked in the closet and in the drawers until he realized what must have happened. Linda had had his cases overnight while he was getting beaten and had to go to the hospital. Being the domestic woman she was, she must have hung them up neatly in Shanna’s old room until Peter had convinced her that Harry had to go.
Well, Harry reasoned, might as well kill two birds with one stone as Collins might say. He could say good-bye in person while getting the slacks. Harry locked up his luggage, checked out, and got a taxi.
The Donovans lived in the bigotry capital of the Northeast, namely, South Boston. Harry mused about how Collins had described it. He must have known full well that Harry’s cousins lived there while he was condemning the place.
Looking out the taxi window, Callahan had to admit the visual prospects weren’t promising. The first thing he saw after the “South Boston” sign was factories. Grim, gray factories belching smoke into the blue ocean sky. Beyond that was a city that reminded him of Baltimore or Pittsburgh. Rundown, lower-middle-class houses riffling right against each other like a worn pack of cards.
On every block in downtown Boston, there was at least one little bistro and a decent place to eat. In Southie all there was were Donut Shops and fast-food joints for as far as the eye could see. Then the cab was beyond that section and entering the waterfront part of town.
It looked like the real estate developers had tried but failed. It looked like they had built the best condominiums they could on the loot they had and had hoped for the best. The best never came. The developers ran out, the money ran dry, and the buildings were running down.
The Donovans’ place was on
the beach. It was a square apartment building that looked like a couple of giant, prefabricated shoeboxes placed one on top of the other. There were no swimmers or sunbathers on the beach. There were just empty beer bottles and cans to mark where they had been. It was the most dismal beach front Callahan had ever seen. He began to think he should’ve called to say so long and kissed the slacks good-bye.
The taxi stopped in front of the cracked walk. Harry paid, got out, and walked between all the retirees rocking in the beach chairs on the lawn to the apartment house foyer. An old lady was coming out so Harry didn’t have to go through the buzzer routine to get in. He held the door open so the old woman with the walker could move slowly past him.
“Thank you, young man,” she said.
The day wasn’t a total loss, Harry figured. It had been quite some time since anyone had considered him a “young man.” He rode up in an elevator, which was about as slow as the lady with the walker. It lurched from floor to floor, most of the bulbs behind the floor-marking numbers not lighting. It bounced to a tentative stop on the eighth floor. As the doors opened with a jolt, Harry saw faded numbers and arrows on the wall opposite him. According to them, the Donovans’ apartment was all the way down the hall to the left.
The walls were thin, and the doors were of cheap wood. It would’ve been a cat burgler’s paradise if there had been anything to steal. As it was, Harry could hear conversations in each dwelling as he passed them.
He stopped at the end of the hall in front of the Donovans’ door. He was about to knock when he heard the unmistakable sounds of a barely controlled argument.
“We should have told him,” Linda whined. “She’s our daughter.”
“She’s not my daughter!” Peter roared, the sound of falling cutlery following his shout. “That miserable prick-sucking cunt. She’s no daughter of mine!”
