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

keeping low and well out of range of the windows, he proceeded toward the front of the van, which Kilborn had given over to functional purposes, situating the closets, head, and kitchen there.
    It was possible that Kilborn himself had fired, preferring to take the intruder by surprise even if it meant destroying his own property. But it was equally possible that it was someone else who mistook Harry for the van’s owner.
    Maybe, Harry reasoned, this will all come clear if I open the front door and step out.
    On the other hand, doing that could get him killed.
    First, he doused all the lights in the front part of the van so that they wouldn’t put him into relief when he stepped into the darkness outside. Then, extending his leg, he applied enough pressure on the door to get it open.
    That was the easy part. What came next he wasn’t particularly looking forward to.

C H A P T E R

F i v e
    F ive small steps led up to the entrance of the van. Harry took those steps, going in the opposite direction, rolling down them. Then he stretched himself out, his Magnum gripped in both hands as he awaited an attack that, for the moment, failed to materialize.
    He maneuvered himself to his knees, then drew fully erect. He listened but all he could hear were a dozen T.V. sets going and a restless chorus of crickets entertaining in the thicket.
    Suddenly he was bathed in light. It was so intense that for an instant he could scarcely see.
    “Raise your hands, mister!” someone cried. “This is the police.”
    The police, Harry was thinking, what a time for the police!
    He hesitated, not altogether convinced that it was in fact the police. From his experience so far in Russian River, they were never so prompt to respond to an emergency call.
    But within moments two uniformed men appeared, .38s drawn, their flashlights converging on Harry. Once again the order: “Drop it, mister, and raise those hands.”
    Harry saw no other choice but to comply.
    The two cops approached Harry cautiously. One was young and obviously new to the job. Harry could tell just from the way he held his weapon. He didn’t seem to know exactly what to do with it and might very well run in the opposite direction rather than have to fire at anybody.
    His older companion, however, showed none of his insecurity. He was his opposite, big and corpulent. His walk was a swagger. He looked very much like a farmboy who’d grown up with animals he’d screw first before slaughtering. Harry guessed that he might transfer this behavioral pattern to human beings.
    The older cop raised his flashlight so that the beam was directly in Harry’s eyes. He scratched his double-chin and asked Harry what he was doing inside of Mike Kilborn’s trailor.
    “I am a police officer,” said Harry patiently, knowing that this would not make the slightest impression on the man facing him. “Brought up from San Francisco to investigate the killings of Jud Harris and Bonnie Nutting. You can ask your sheriff, Wardell Marsh, he’ll verify that for you.”
    The fat cop slowly shook his head. “You haven’t answered my question.”
    Harry tried to accommodate the man. “I was in the van conducting a search that was part of that investigation. If I may say so, I think you’d be better off trying to find out who took a shot at me in there.”
    His interrogator didn’t appear interested in that aspect of the case. “You have a warrant?”
    Harry owned that he did not.
    “You should have had a warrant. This is the U.S. of A. You can’t go breaking into people’s homes with no warrant. We’re going to have to take you in.”
    He said it as though that were something he deeply regretted, but Harry was not convinced.
    The cop stooped over to recover Harry’s Magnum. He groaned. His vast weight made such movement a strain.
    He liked the looks of the Magnum. “Some piece you’ve got here,” he said. He showed it to his nervous colleague. “Some piece, isn’t it? You grow up, son, you