Dirty Harry 05 - Family Skeletons (6 page)

Finally, Shanna looked down again, her index fingers making little circles atop a pamphlet. “I heard about your wife,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” said Harry simply.

“I mean I’m sorry we didn’t come to the funeral.”

“You were too young. You lived too far away. It was ten years ago. It’s over. Don’t worry about it.”

“A lot has changed since then,” Shanna continued, building up assurance. “I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“Obviously,” Harry commented.

Shanna looked down at herself. She saw the solid musculature, the wide, strong breasts, and the long legs. She looked at Harry with a smile. She wasn’t insulted. He had said it in a non-sexual manner. “I’m pretty together,” she said with a combination of humor and conviction.

Harry figured it was a good time to introduce a more delicate subject matter. He wanted to find out more about her blackouts and bloodstains. “Linda says you’re pretty popular, all right.”

The chill returned between them. “What does she know?” Shanna said vindictively. “I don’t even live there anymore.” The redhead started busying herself with the envelopes and stamps.

Harry didn’t let up. “But you visit occasionally. And you talk.”

“What is this? The third degree?” Shanna wondered, trying to make it sound funny, but her voice cracked just a bit.

“Come on, Shanna, you know better than that. I’m just concerned, that’s all. I want to know how you are.”

“No, I don’t know!” Shanna flared, the Irish temper coming into evidence. “It was ten years ago; Harry. We don’t play anymore. I’m not that little girl anymore. I’ve changed. I’ve changed inside.”

“So have I,” Harry interjected softly.

“Hey,” Shanna went on, unabated, “if anybody should know better, it’s you! Where do you come off coming in here and trying to question me? It may look the same, Harry, but this isn’t San Francisco. You’ve got no jurisdiction here. So back off, copper. You wanted to see how I was? So you saw me. I’m fine. I’m taking care of my own life. You can go back to Mom and tell her that. Then you can go back west!”

Harry bore the tirade out in silence. Questions weren’t answered, but under the tongue-lashing Harry was ready to tell himself that Shanna was right. It was none of his business. Linda could’ve been wrong. The supposed bloodstains could’ve been ink, they could’ve been chocolate, they could’ve been anything. Shanna could’ve just been exhausted and uncommunicative after a long night. Harry was ready to accept all of it as a mother’s imagination when he glimpsed something over Shanna’s shoulder.

As she yelled at him, he saw Tom and Christine running across the Common. Even in the twilight and even from that distance, Harry could see it wasn’t the playful run of laughing friends. Christine was running from Tom. As Harry watched, Tom caught up with her and slapped her across the back. The girl fell down, and Tom fell on top of her. They became a fuzzy jumble, but Harry could tell that an arm was rising and falling quickly, curtly, violently.

By the time he reconcentrated on Shanna, she was a bit remorseful over her outburst. “Look, Harry,” she said miserably. “It is good to see you. Why don’t we start again? Look, I’m not doing anything after I finish here. Why don’t we go to eat someplace? Just talk and patch up with what is going on with each other?”

Harry pulled her face into focus after trying to make out the two others’ struggling forms again. “I’ll be right back,” he said, not really hearing her offer. “Hang on,” he said more to Christine than to Shanna. “I’ll be right there.” With that he was out the door and running down the stairs.

Callahan barreled through the office’s front door and out into the four lanes of Beacon Street. Cars coming around the corners braked madly to avoid the tall man who raced right out into the street. Harry dodged behind one swerving car. The other braked right in front of him. He leaped without slowing down and ran across its still bucking hood. He outran two other cars and went through an ornate entrance gate on the side of the park. He ran down a long, multileveled stone stairway flanked by lion sculptures into the park. He watched the faraway forms of Christine and Tom as he went. The boy had sat up. The girl was cowering flat out beneath him. He was yelling something at her while punching her across the body.

As Harry neared, he saw Tom pull something out of his waistband. He saw what it was and heard what he was shouting at the same time.

It was a hunting knife. A long, sharp, carved-handle hunting knife. Tom swept back and forth viciously in front of Christine’s terrified face.

“You want it?” he shouted. “You want it? I’ll give it to you, by God! You’re asking for it!”

The Magnum was out and in his hand almost before Harry knew it. He pointed it up in the air and pulled the trigger. The resounding boom turned heads across the length of eight city blocks. All the birds resting in trees nearby took off, darkening the night sky even more. Harry didn’t care. He had fired the gun to serve one purpose. It worked. He got Tom’s attention.

Both the young man and Christine had stiffened at the loud report. Tom whirled to see Harry running at him. He leaped off the girl’s body and charged in the opposite direction. Harry slowed when he neared the brunette. She was slightly bruised and her clothes were scuffed, but other than that she looked all right. Harry had to make sure before he continued.

“Are you all right?” he called as he neared.

She gulped a few times, sat up with her hands flat on the ground, and replied, “Yes, I think so.”

“Go back to the church,” Harry said, picking up speed. “Stay there. I’ll be back.” Then he sped by, going right after Tom.

The young man tore across the way, passing the gazebo and sending another squadron of birds into the air. They rose lazily and drifted back down just as Harry charged through the same location, scattering them again.

Callahan could see some brightly lit stores through the trees. He could see a parking garage, a clothes store, a Dunkin’ Donuts, and the Muffin House Christine had mentioned before. Next to that was a large movie-theater marquee. Tom was heading right for it.

Atop the marquee it said “A Sack Theater,” and below that the legend, “The Savoy I & II.” Tom charged across the street, narrowly missing a few screeching cars himself, and right inside the place. Harry took the moment the cars had stopped to shift into fourth and followed in Tom’s wake before the traffic started moving again.

As he ran past, Harry saw that the box office out front was closed. Pulling open the glass door he charged into a long hallway lined with movie posters, which ended in another set of doors. Surprisingly, they didn’t lead to the theater, they emptied out into an alleyway.

Harry stopped in that street for a second. Across the narrow way was another set of doors and another box office. He looked down both sides of the alley for any sign of Tom. He was nowhere to be seen. Harry ran to the second set of doors. He saw Tom trying to elbow through two burly ushers to get in a side door along the hall.

The cop ripped open the door in front of him and roared down the red-carpeted hall, his gun still out. The ushers leaped into the theater and ran into the men’s room. Tom had wanted to go through the theater and out the exit doors, but that plan was ruined by Harry’s appearance. Instead he ran farther down the wide, well-lit hall.

The movie posters were getting bigger and bigger as Harry went farther and farther. Suddenly to his left a much larger theater appeared, its lobby rising two stories and a big chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. It was one of Boston’s classic old theaters turned into one of the last of the movie palaces. Tom seemed unconcerned. He raced right by it and out the rear doors to another street. Harry saw him go right and quickly followed.

The cop raced out and stopped dead in the middle of a thin, heavily traveled back street. Dozens of shoppers scattered when they saw his gun still clutched in his right hand. But look as he might, Harry could no longer spot the young man.

Cautiously, Harry put his gun away and went right. Next door to the Savoy was another theater, the Paramount. But it had fallen on harder times. It was locked up tight, its last attraction being a porno flick, the posters of which were still gathering dirt along the wall. The only thing between the theaters was a snack bar. Its doors were open. Harry looked inside.

The room was large and long, stretching back hundreds of feet. Beyond the relatively small soda fountain was what Harry used to call a penny arcade, but what they now were calling a “family amusement center.” Inside he could see the flashing lights and hear weird sounds of pinball and video machines. He also heard the raucous noise of disco music, badly amplified.

Slowly, Harry entered. There was a three-step stairway to his right, leading up to a platform lined with pinball machines. Harry stepped up, moving down the line while keeping an eye out along the path he had just left. Everytime he passed another machine he’d glance at the back of the person playing it. No one fit Tom’s description.

He stepped down at the end of the line. It, in turn, led into a larger room filled with machines. Along each wall was another line of pinball devices. Taking up every available space in the middle of the floor were video machines, air-hockey games, and pool tables. Harry began to scan the area closely for any sign of Tom. He was about to back out and check somewhere else when his eyes settled on a face and form he recognized.

The form was of another radio-tape recorder. The face was that of the music man’s big friend. As he watched, the big black dude elbowed another man lining up a billiard shot next to him.

“Hey, what the fuck you doin’, my man,” the shooter complained, turning. “Can’t you see I’m setting up a shot?” The shooter was the music man. He stopped wailing when he saw Harry.

“Well, well, well!” he said, exhaling mightily. “Look who we have here! Hey, boys,” he called. A bunch of big black dudes made themselves seen all around the pool table. Harry counted five in all, counting the gloating music man.

“Remember the honkie I told you about on the plane?” the music man asked rhetorically.

“Yeah, Jack,” said the big friend. “The one who smashed your ghetto blaster.”

“One and the same,” the music man smiled, motioning at Harry with his cue stick.

The other men started picking up cue sticks and billiard balls. “Well,” said one. “We got to teach the whitey that it’s not nice to break other people’s property.”

“Yeah, Jack,” said another. “A honkey could get hurt that way.”

They all started to move in on him. Harry faced them without concern. When he figured that they had gone far enough, he pulled out the Magnum and leveled it at them.

The group of stalking blacks became a shocked tableau. Everyone froze in place. Even without its hammer cocked, the .44 Magnum was a marvelous weapon for intimidation. One could look down the barrel and see his life go past in Cinerama.

“I see you haven’t learned
your
lesson yet,” Harry said to the music man. “Still buying and playing those things in public places.”

“You want me to turn it off?” the black man said politely. “I will. I really will.” He turned to switch the machine off.

“Hold it!” Harry ordered. “Any of you see a white kid come in here? About six-one, brown hair, wearing . . . !”

That was as far as Callahan got. Tom came tearing out from behind the air-hockey machine to Harry’s side. Harry was pacing him by turning with the Magnum pointed even before the boy had gone three steps. The boy had almost made it to the fountain when Harry opened his mouth to shout “Halt!”

He didn’t get that far. He had made a simple mistake. He had turned his back on the black gang. A cue stick was smashed across his shoulders from behind.

Harry fell forward, the gun clattering out of his grip. He saw it fall under a fountain chair as he slid past on the tile floor. He ignored the pain in his back as he threw himself even harder at Tom. The boy had tried to run again when Harry was hit, but he had only made it to the door when Callahan grabbed his leg. Harry threw him down as he got up.

The cop looked back at the fountain. The music man was running toward his gun while the rest of the guys bore down on Harry. Callahan reacted immediately. He gripped Tom by the back of the collar and waistband. He anchored his feet and heaved. The groggy kid catapulted up and into the quartet of blacks.

Harry was right behind the young honkie. As two Negroes were knocked over and the other pair pushed back, Harry swung at the man nearest the fountain. His fist connected soldly, and the black dropped, his head bouncing off the edge of the counter. While the other standing man tried to get around the three struggling bodies on the floor, Harry went after the music man.

The black had just gotten his fingers around the Magnum grip when Harry kicked him in the jaw. Since the black’s head was below the lip of the counter, he rose fast, smashed the back of his head into it hard, and dropped like a cement block.

The Magnum wasn’t so lucky. It fell backward out of the music man’s hand, arched through the air, and landed on the pool table behind the still blaring radio. The other black finally reached Harry, trying to get him in a full nelson. Harry jerked him backward into the counter lip, effectively smashing the man’s kidneys with the Formica slab. That broke the grip. Harry spun and kneed him between the legs.

The man doubled over. Harry grabbed his belt and threw him into the two other Negroes who were trying to get up. They all went down again, but Tom managed to slither out from underneath. The young man stumbled to his feet and dove toward the gun on the pool table. Harry followed right behind.

Just as Tom got his hands on the Magnum, Harry grabbed the ghetto blaster. Tom turned around, pointing the weapon as Harry brought the radio resoundingly down on top of the kid’s head.

Tom dove forward like Mark Spitz on a good day. He fell face first on the tile, the Magnum clattering next to him. The machine in Harry’s hand sputtered and died.

The music man’s friend came roaring up and out of the black pile while the other men just struggled to stand. Harry met the big black halfway, pulling the broken radio around in a wide arc. The big black practically stuck his face right into it. The radio split apart in tens of tiny spinning pieces. The man’s face seemed to vibrate in flesh waves from the shock, then his eyes closed and he flew sideways right on top of a pinball machine. He crashed through the glass top, and the scoring mechanism went crazy.