by Buzz Harcus
The warning light was still off in the living room but other lights were still on throughout the house. He pulled into his driveway, stopped, opened the garage door, and then drove inside. The garage door was quickly closed behind him.
Easing the .22 out, holding it at the ready, he moved silently to the side door leading into the kitchen. He could tell by the splintered wood that the door had been jimmied. He cursed under his breath; he should have locked the garage door when he left. Pushing open the door, he listened. There was no sound except for his nervous breathing and the pounding in his chest from his rapidly beating heart. Slowly, methodically, he searched each room. Christ, he thought, is this the way Kojac would do it?
Satisfied that no one else was inside the house, he flicked on the kitchen light. Surprisingly, whoever had been inside hadn't disturbed the place, at least not that he could immediately determine. He examined the door lock. Although the door had been forced, the lock was still in working order. With a screwdriver and several toothpicks, he repaired the screw holes, and then forced the screws back into the lock holes. He tried the door. It closed perfectly, the lock holding. Good. Now, he had to pack and git. No sense hanging around running the risk of getting caught by Stan or the Chink.
From under his bed he hauled out his old weather-beaten suitcase, threw it open on the bed, then quickly started grabbing clothing from the dresser and stuffing it into the limited space. Socks, shorts, T-shirts, work shirts, a couple of dress shirts and even three ties, work pants and a couple of dress slacks, warm turtleneck sweaters and a pair of dress shoes suddenly filled the suitcase.
"Damn!" he muttered aloud. He stood scratching at the back of his head. What else could he carry clothes in? "Ahah!" he exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. Rummaging around in the back of his closet, he came up with his old Marine Corps seabag. It had served him well over the years for camping and for hauling dirty clothes to the laundromat. Just the ticket for his extra gear, he thought as he opened the bag and hastily began stuffing more clothes inside. Blue jeans, work shoes, his sewing kit, a blanket, sheets, pillow and pillowcases, two heavy wool sweaters, even his new bulky, alpaca- lined jacket, the warm one he should have worn tonight to ward off the cold. From the bathroom he grabbed his shaving kit, shaving gear, toothbrush and toothpaste and several other sundry items. Then, the seabag was full.
From his rolltop desk in the corner of the living room he picked up his checkbook and savings book. At least whoever was in the place wasn't after money, he thought. Reaching up under the top of the rolltop where it recessed, he extracted an envelope, his "mad money," and peeled off $500, enough to tide him over until he started receiving wages on board ship - and, somehow, he knew he would sail with Peter Selham when his ship headed outbound for China. Lastly, he picked up his sailing papers and passport. With a growing sense of urgency, he moved through the house, turning down the heat to 50 degrees, checking the lights, re-stringing the black string to the living room light and making sure all windows were closed and locked. In the basement, he shut off the water. Now, he could leave.
In the kitchen, he paused, and then shook his head. One more thing to do. Picking up the phone, he dialed. The phone rang for about a minute before a sleepy voice answered. "Jeff. This is dad," Harry said.
"Oh, hi, dad," the sleepy voice replied, then yawned, then reacted. "Dad! Do you know what time it is?"
"Yes, but it's important that I talk to you right now. Listen, and listen good."
"But it's three-thirty in the morning —" Jeff protested.
"Listen." It was a command. "I'm leaving town for a combination business and vacation trip. The deal just solidified last night. I'm packed, ready to leave right now. I want you to check my house daily. I left the timers on, shut off the water. Pay any bills that come due and I'll reimburse you when I get back, just as I have before. I'll probably be gone three or four months; just an ocean trip. I'll be in touch with you by mail."
"What the hell is this all about?" Jeff demanded coming fully awake. "It's not like you to take off on some kind of ocean trip, especially this sudden, and in the middle of the night. Where are you going? Where can I get in touch with you?"
"Don't worry about me, Jeff. I'll be all right. I'll write you with all the details. Just keep an eye on my place, pay any bills, and I'll settle with you when I get back. I got a deal of a lifetime and I can't turn it down. I love you, Jean, Tommy and Tammy - and Sissy and Bill. Take care. Must run. G'bye."
He hung up the phone, a big lump forming in his throat. He was committed now, all the way.
Jeff was a good son. Harry knew he'd watch the place as he had done on several previous occasions when he'd gone on vacation. He made good money at the bank, in line for a vice-presidency in the trust department. He could pay his bills just like before. Besides, this time he'd be paid back with interest.
No sense in calling Sissy. It was her first pregnancy and a call in the middle of the night would only upset her. Jeff would give her a call in the morning. They were close for brother and sister. They knew their dad wasn't one to go off half-cocked. Besides, he'd write them a letter in the next few days and explain what he was doing - well, almost everything.
Then, the thought suddenly struck him. The damned ship wasn't supposed to sail until Sunday! That meant he had to hole up somewhere for another twenty-four hours. Damn! He couldn't stay here. Stan and the Chink might come back. Damn! Sandy would be asking all kinds of questions if he stayed at her place. No. He had to find a way to board the ship early. He'd call Peter right after Sandy went to work. Peter would understand his eagerness to get on board ship, to get settled. It was his best hope.
His eyes fell on his stereo unit. Should he take it? No. They must have something comparable on board ship. Still, and suddenly he was kneeling by his record collection pulling out several albums, his favorites: Harry Reser, Johnny Ford, The Flint Banjo Club and a couple of other banjo favorites. He sandwiched the albums in the middle of the suitcase where they wouldn't get warped or broken. Gathering several pictures off the dresser, and his latest magazines off the nightstand, he stuffed them all into the suitcase, then closed and locked it. Lastly, he snugged it down with a thick leather strap. In his top drawer, he found his old combination lock. He snapped his seabag shut and locked it. Grabbing up the two pieces, he headed for the garage where he dumped them in the back of the Pinto.
Perspiring freely, urged on by a growing sense of danger, he moved quickly back inside the kitchen to the counter where he had left his .22 automatic, picked it up and stuffed it inside his belt. Then, he left, locking the door securely behind him.
The street appeared empty as he peered cautiously out the garage door window. He threw the door upwards, backed the car out, quickly slammed the garage door shut and locked it. This time he didn't look back.
Chapter 22
STAN'S PARTNER: THE CHINK
Sandy, lucky Sandy. He'd spend the rest of the night there and after she left for work in the morning, he'd call Peter, get permission to come on board, and he'd be on his way. He'd leave her a note explaining, letting her know it was for the two of them, that he loved her. She'd understand.
The parking lot of Sandy's apartment complex was just as he'd left it only a short time before. She probably hasn't missed me, he thought as he glanced up toward her apartment, and then grinned. The bathroom light was off. Nope. She'd noticed he was gone. More than likely, she got pissed off, flicked the light off and most likely threw the deadbolt.
She's reasonable, he told himself as he parked back by her car and then took an extra moment to throw a blanket over his gear to hide it from the prying eyes of strangers. He took the steps two at a time to the second floor. Charm her, he told himself, let her blow off steam, and then explain. She had to understand.
He stopped short of her door; it was ajar. He felt a prickly sensation coursing through his body. Something was wrong. He grabbed his pistol from inside his belt, slipped off the safety and curled hi
s finger around the trigger. He focused his mind on the interior layout of the room. If someone was in there he had to move fast to catch them off guard.
Taking a deep breath, body tensed, he suddenly threw himself forward bursting through the door knocking it wide open, dashing inside, diving and rolling across the room to the far corner. Two shots rang out thudding into the wall just above his head. "Sandy! Stop! It's me!" he yelled. "Sandy!"
A bullet shattered the top of the chair he was hiding behind. It was clear in that second that the shooter wasn't Sandy. Harry returned fire jerking off three quick shots. There was a startled scream, then the curse of a male voice in the darkness. A slug shattered the arm of the chair Harry had just scooted behind trying to get a better bead on his assailant. Harry fired two more shots in the direction of the last shot. A shadowy figure broke for the door Harry fired, the bullet splintering the doorframe as the person ran from the room down the hallway.
The room was suddenly deathly quiet. Harry listened, ears keenly tuned, alert to any sound beyond the pounding of his heart, and his gasping breath. Nothing.
After what seemed a lifetime, but was only seconds, he reached up and flicked on a lamp on the end table. The room filled with light. Cautiously, he rose up looking carefully around the room, gun ready. He began a methodical search of the apartment. The kitchen was empty as was the bathroom. He hadn't heard a sound from Sandy. The door to her bedroom was closed. He knocked on the door. "Sandy!" he called, but there was no answer. Was she being held by others in her bedroom? Gun at the ready, he viciously kicked open the door, flicked on the light, then nearly vomited.
Sandy lay naked across the bed, the brown nightie tightly knotted around her neck, open eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. Harry grabbed at the nightie, untied it, and then checked her carotid pulse. Nothing. She was dead.
Screaming, "Murderer! Murderer!" he rushed from the apartment taking the steps two at a time as he ran out into the parking lot. Whoever it was; he had to be here. He couldn't have escaped that fast. He had to find him, kill him!
The lights of a car suddenly blinded him as, with squealing tires, it hurtled toward him. Harry stood his ground, raised his gun and fired point blank into the car's windshield. At the last possible moment he dove to safety as the car roared past him, but not before he'd seen the passengers, the bearded man and the Oriental. Stan and the Chink. Tires squealing on the black macadam, the car swerved across the lot heading for the main street. Harry scrambled to his feet racing across the lot to intercept them, stopping to fire time and time again until his weapon clicked empty. The car disappeared into the night leaving him standing numbly in the darkness.
The wail of sirens filled the air; but it was too late to help Sandy. Harry stood sick at heart, cursing Joe, Stan and the damned Chink. A patrol car screeched to a halt by him, the red and blue lights painting an eerie scene across the apartment s brick walls and parked cars. An officer jumped out, gun in hand aimed at Harry. "Freeze!" he commanded. "Drop your weapon."
Harry turned toward the voice. Dazed, he looked from the officer down to his hand, at the gun still clutched tightly in his fist.
"Drop it now," the officer repeated, his voice stern.
Harry relaxed his hand and the gun slid away clattering to the icy pavement. The officer slipped the end of his pencil through the trigger guard picking up the weapon as another officer came around the police car holding a shotgun leveled at Harry.
"What's coming off?" the policeman asked. The shotgun never wavered. "We were informed shots were fired."
"Upstairs, she's dead," Harry choked. "They killed her." His body began shaking spasmodically as the full agony of what had happened hit him. He began sobbing, tears streaming down his cheeks. "The bastards killed her."
Lights had come on all over the apartment complex. People gawked out their windows. Several braver, more curious ones, even ventured out into the cold night in only pajamas and robes to see what the shooting was all about.
The first officer dropped the pistol into a plastic bag and placed it in the squad car. "Keep an eye on him. I'll check inside," he said heading for the apartment building entrance. The gawkers quickly made way for him as he moved past them into the building.
"You the only one involved in the shooting?" the second officer asked.
"No!" Harry replied. He raised his hand to wipe at the tears that refused to stop.
"No sudden moves!" the officer warned raising the shotgun higher toward Harry’s head.
"You guys just passed the killers car when you came down the street," Harry said. "I pumped it full of holes, shot out the windshield. You must have seen it. Get on the radio now! Tell 'em the car's a black '78 Ford sedan. It was headed toward town."
"If others are involved, we'll get em," the officer replied.
"Listen to me! They're getting away!" Harry snapped. "Call now!" He started toward the officer. "Call now!"
"Freeze! One more stupid move like that and I'll blow you away. That I know."
"There's a dead woman up there," the first officer said joining them, holstering his pistol. "Strangled to death. Bullet holes all over the place. I'll call homicide." He continued on to the patrol car.
"Tell 'em to look for a black '78 Ford sedan with two guys in it!" Harry called after him. "I pumped several rounds into the car. I know I shot one of the bastards up in the apartment. Call it in, a '78 Ford sedan with two guys in it."
Within minutes, two more police cars came screeching onto the lot. One was an unmarked car, the other a command car. The first officer directed detectives into the building. The Command Sergeant ambled over to where the second officer stood, shotgun still leveled at Harry, now handcuffed.
"What have we got here, Becker?" he asked the officer, and then stopped, a surprised look on his face. "Well, hello, Harry," he said moving toward the prisoner.
"Hi, Frank," Harry responded, relieved that it was Sergeant Frank Cavitch, someone he knew and trusted.
Frank turned toward Officer Becker and they talked in whispered tones for several seconds. Then, Frank turned back to Harry. "Ya want to tell me what happened here, Harry? Officer Becker says you were found out here in the parking lot with an empty pistol in your hand, and that there's a dead woman upstairs."
"It's Sandy," Harry replied in a choked voice.
"The hell you say!" Frank gasped. "What the hell happened?"
"I don't know. I'd been over earlier tonight. Everything seemed all right. I told her I was going on vacation for a couple of weeks. She'd already said she couldn't get away so I told her I'd go home and pack and be right back." Harry said, stretching the truth.
"When I got back here, I saw her bathroom light was off - you know how she always kept the light on, how we always kidded her about it -" Frank nodded, recalling Sandy's peculiar eccentricity.
"When I saw the light was off, I had a feeling she was pissed off at me because I was going on vacation and this was her way of letting me know I wasn't welcome. Anyways, when I got to the second floor and found her door open, I knew something was wrong. I got my gun out and charged in, and rolled to the far side of the room. Someone shot at me. I shot back. I know I hit him - it was a guy — 'cause he screamed, and then shot back at me. I know I got him good, but he escaped."
"How'd you happen to have your gun handy?" Frank questioned.
"Was out plinking rats at the county dump earlier today. Had it tucked under the seat of my car," Harry lied, immediately continuing his story. "Didn't want to leave it in the car. Someone might have broken in and stole it."
Frank nodded accepting the explanation.
"Anyways, when I was sure there was no one else in the apartment, I started checking. I found Sandy on the bed with her nightie twisted around her neck. I freaked out, came running down here to the parking lot looking for the bastard. They tried to run me down - two of them, a bearded white guy and an Oriental. I emptied my gun at them but they got away. That's when your men arrived. I tried to get t
hem to put out a dragnet. Shit! It was like talking to a brick wall."
"Sorry, Harry. They have a procedure to follow."
"Yeah, but they could have caught the bastards!" Harry retorted. "Now they got away. You'll have a hell of a time catching them."
"We'll catch 'em, Harry," Frank assured him. "We'll get 'em."
"Sergeant Cavitch, the lab boys and medical examiner are here," the second officer interrupted. "They'd like you and, uh, the suspect upstairs."
"Sure," Cavitch said turning back to Harry "It's cold out here, Harry. Do you think you could go back to Sandys apartment?"
Harry was suddenly aware that he was shivering violently.
Yet, return to Sandy's apartment? See her again, dead? He hesitated looking at the building, and then at the still staring face of Frank Cavitch.
"Yeah, I guess so," he mumbled, yet seemed unable to move.
Frank grasped Harry's arm and firmly, but gently, steered him toward the apartment building entrance. "Ya know, Harry, I can't figure out why Sandy didn't use that snub-nosed .38 she always keeps handy?"
"I can't either," Harry replied "Like I said, I stopped by earlier tonight to surprise her. She surprised me. When I let myself in, I found myself looking down the barrel of her gun. I can't figure out why she didn't use it. She keeps it under her pillow, ready."
"What time did you leave here?"
"About three. I had to get home and throw my stuff in my car. I wanted to get an early start. I told her I'd be back. I knew she was upset about my going alone. I told her I'd bring her back a souvenir. Know what she said?"
"What?"
"Yeah, probably syphilis."
Frank chuckled. "She was always the one with a quick comeback. Damn. We'll miss her. Damned fine woman."
They followed a trail of blood into the building and up the steps to Sandy's apartment. "At least I got the son-of-a-bitch!" Harry said through gritted teeth. Inside the apartment a team of officers were examining bullet holes in the walls, furniture and the shattered doorframe. The bedroom door was closed.
