Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons (16 page)

He returned to the door and switched on the lights. Then he saw the envelope under his foot. It was a letter. From Jeff Browne.

The pale white light globes that dotted the Boston Common were the only illumination that streaked the front of the Unitarian Headquarters building. The gray clouds that had been threatening the ground with moisture all day had covered the moon, as well as finally releasing patches of intermittent drizzle.

All of Beacon Hill had a slick, glossy, wet-down look. Harry looked back up Joy Street. The road seemed to end at the top of the hill, then all there was was sky, framed by the townhouses at the very apex. Harry looked back toward Beacon Street. The Common was empty as far as he could see. He poked his head around the left corner. The sidewalk in front of the Church offices was clear.

He checked his watch. It was three
A.M.
, the exact time the letter had said Jeff would meet him. It was a hastily scrawled ink letter on plain lined paper. It looked like it had been torn from a school composition book.

“The police are on a vendetta against the Orenda. If they catch me, they will kill me. I want to stop. I have to stop. If you meet me, I will give myself up. But no police. I still have Christine. If there are cops there, I will take her with me.”

It was all very clever. At no time did Browne admit to killing anyone. He did not openly threaten Christine. He only professed to having a paranoia complex and a desire to stop. Once they got him in a station house, he might very well say that he had been referring to the heartbreak of psoriasis all along. Perverted mass murderers were getting very crafty in this age of plea bargaining and cushy insane asylums.

Harry moved cautiously out onto Beacon Street. The large block letters, “T-R-A-P,” kept flashing across his consciousness like the light-bulb signs on the bottom of the Goodyear Blimp. He acknowledged to himself that if there was an ambush, Shanna might be in on it. He slowly reached into his jacket to grip the handle of the Magnum. He prepared himself to shoot her if he had to.

He got as far as the Unitarian entranceway without being mowed down. He felt a drop of rain on his forehead. He was wound so tight, he nearly jerked his head to the side because of it. Then more raindrops fell. He could still see no one approaching the door from any direction, so he moved up the steps out of the drizzle.

He looked at the door and did a double take. There was a thin line of light coming from the space at the bottom of the portal. Harry jumped lightly over the rest of the steps. He tried the knob. It was open.

Harry jumped back to the street and raced around the corner as fast as he could. He ran to the back of the building, leaped onto a stone wall with a high metal fence attached to it, vaulted over the top of the steel-poled obstruction, and charged at the first window he saw.

As he ran, he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around one arm, as if he were going to face an attack dog. Harry threw himself sideways at the window. He held his jacket-wrapped arm in front of his face. The glass and wooden framing gave way like rice paper under his speeding bulk. He saw the wooden slats of the floor seemingly moving under his feet. He felt himself begin to drop just as the glass shards started smashing all around him. He pushed his bent knees straight. He landed flat, balanced, and kept on going.

He threw the jacket off his arm as he reached for the darkened room’s doorknob. With his other hand, he got the gun loose. When he pulled open the portal and charged into the foyer the Magnum was cocked and ready.

Browne was caught by surprise. As Harry had thought, the bearded man was just inside the front door, waiting for him to walk right into a knife. Browne instantly whirled about as Harry came through the back way. Then the bearded man crouched behind another figure that was kneeling on the ground in front of him.

It was Christine Sherman. Although the lower half of her face was almost completely covered by a Western kerchief, Harry had no trouble recognizing her. Her eyes were half-closed and her head sagged as if she were drugged. Her arms had been cruelly bound behind her with thin rope. A coarse wooden pole had been placed against her back and the ropes that were wrapped around her wrists, elbows, and upper arms had been tied to that as well, effectively keeping her back straight.

Her kneeling form was covered with Indian clothing. Animal skins covered her shoulders and bent legs. A mantle was covering her back. Around her neck and down her chest she was wearing thick circles of beads and several silver brooches. A bead wampum belt was tied around her waist. Other than that, she was naked.

Harry moved forward toward them.

“Hold,” he heard Browne hiss. He had a long ceremonial knife pressed against her neck. It had a two-sided copper blade and a wooden wolf’s head carved in the handle. “You come any closer and she shall meet the wolf,” the bearded man said slowly, almost torturedly.

Harry could have pegged him if any bit of vulnerable skin was above Christine’s kneeling form. But the pole attached to her wrists and again to her neck by one thin leather thong was making her an effective shield.

“I thought you said you were giving up,” Harry said.

“No,” came the slow, precise voice again. “You are like the rest. You killed all the Indians and stole all their land. You broke every treaty with the red man. You will lie and kill me, too.”

“Come on, Browne,” Harry said in astonishment. “Why would I kill you now? Just come out without the knives.”

The bearded man didn’t answer. Instead, Christine began to rise. Browne was lifting her up. A single blanket was knotted around her waist. Harry could see where the two ends overlapped that her legs were not tied. The bearded man pulled her backward toward the door.

“Don’t follow or I’ll kill you.” Browne edged out the open door, keeping Christine fully in front of him at all times. She followed him like a sleepwalker.

As soon as they were completely out the door, Harry raced forward, spun around at the last minute, and ran up the staircase. He kept going until he reached the top floor. He raced from room to room until he found the door to the roof. It was locked shut. He kicked it open. Only thirty seconds had passed since Browne had escaped. Harry hoped he wasn’t too late.

He ran to the Beacon Street side first. If Browne had a car, he could spot it, report it, and join Collins on the hunt. He looked down. No parked car had moved. They all sat in the same line they had when Harry had first appeared that evening.

He ran to the Joy Street side. It was the second most logical escape route. The other direction simply held the business district near Government Center. Deeper into Beacon Hill there were alleys and cellars and empty apartments and many other places to hide. Callahan spotted them right away. Browne was dragging the bound-and-gagged girl up the street.

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?”