Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River by Dane Hartman Read Free Book Online Page A

would like her. He could even see why he would like her if he allowed himself to.
    He was walking. The town of Russian River could be traversed in half an hour. His car was parked back in front of the county courthouse.
    In fact, walking, at least on the narrow side-streets, was the primary form of locomotion. A car, particularly one going in excess of fifty miles an hour, could excite some attention in these parts.
    A dented pale green Chrysler that had one side window missing and fitted with cardboard to keep out the elements sputtered as it passed Harry, at the same time stirring up dust and pebbles from the potted roadbed.
    It drew to a sudden stop directly in front of Elsie Cranston’s house. Harry turned and watched. The driver of the Chrysler shortly emerged. Without looking in either direction, he advanced up the stairs to the porch and went right in.
    Now what was he doing there? Harry wondered. Because Elsie Cranston’s guest was none other than Mike Kilborn.
    Kilborn wasn’t at home. Home for Kilborn was a trailer van situated in a park designed expressly for such homes. His was a white bulbous-shaped thing crowned by a domelike formation with two symmetrical triangular windows up front; from a distance they looked like the eyes of some prehistoric creature that, had it wings, would long ago have taken to the air.
    It was night, past ten but still prime time, and Harry could hear coming from the nearly two dozen vans sequestered in this place the sound of televisions in operation. What light there was originated mostly from various van windows. In providing this park, the town of Russian River seemed to have skimped on expenses for public illumination.
    Kilborn had left the door open. Either he was coming right back or else he was a more trusting person than Harry had any reason to expect. Lights blazed in the interior. A Clash record was revolving endlessly on the turntable, stuck somewhere in the last cut. The sound system Kilborn possessed, Harry noted, was expensive. He even had a machine that measured the quality of the sound. He should take better care of his records, Harry thought, with all that good equipment.
    The television was on too, although the audio was off. The screen projected a faltering image, one that kept going out of focus. The mountains interferred with the signal, Harry guessed. Hundreds of dollars for a good set and there were still the mountains to deal with.
    By Kilborn’s bedside was a clutter of porn magazines, as sleazy as the man who’d purchased them. There was nothing socially redeeming about any of them. The bed was unmade. An uncorked half-gallon jug of Gallo was on the floor within reach of the bed. To complete the impression of disarray, ashes and cigarette butts had been strewn about and then trampled on.
    But the one thing that Harry would have expected was missing. There was no evidence of dope. No pipes, no bongs, no roach clips. If there was a stash somewhere, Kilborn kept it well hidden. Not that Harry would necessarily do anything should he discover a stash, it was just that it might go far to substantiate Davenport’s allegations. And he was hoping not for half an ounce of grass but something sizable and more felonious: cocaine or heroin, something that would indicate Kilborn was deeply involved in the business.
    What Harry wanted was solid proof. It wasn’t important that that proof implicate Kilborn or Davenport or Elsie Cranston or Turk. But it was important that it implicate someone. Up until now all he had to go on were contradictory stories with nothing to back them up.
    The bullet came through the square window over Harry’s right shoulder. It left nothing more than a few jagged fragments sitting in the frame; the rest of the glass was scattered about the room. The bullet created a hole over the bed and deposited a certain amount of chalklike debris on the unmade sheets.
    Harry dropped down to the floor and waited. He heard nothing more. Very quickly,