Read Online Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dane Hartman
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didn’t believe it particularly likely, that Kilborn hadn’t observed he was being tailed.
Kilborn was beginning to accelerate, exceeding by ten, then fifteen, then twenty miles the fifty-five mile-per-hour posted speed limit. To keep up with him, Harry was compelled to do the same.
Suddenly, from off to the right, Harry heard the high-pitched whine of a police cruiser. A glance into his rearview mirror indicated that the cruiser was beginning to thread its way through the lanes of traffic. He had no doubt that he was the driver the trooper intended to stop, not Kilborn. He also had little doubt that he’d be stopped and delayed for several minutes while his credentials were checked, not because he had violated the speed limit—that part of it was incidental—but because it was necessary for Kilborn to escape him. Kilborn would have a police radio in his car, Harry surmised, and he’d obviously put it to good use.
The trooper was signaling Harry to pull over to the side. Harry had no intention and increased his acceleration.
So did the trooper.
The cruiser’s siren shrieked more violently. Harry retaliated by depositing a red revolving light atop his own vehicle and triggering his own siren. Not that this would deter the trooper, but it might confuse him. Of course, Harry didn’t want to go too fast or he might end up outdistancing Kilborn. That would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise.
That was his dilemma: to beat out the cruiser while remaining behind Kilborn. Harry had maybe three quarters of a mile, a mile at the most, in which to accomplish this.
Off to the right was a billboard proclaiming the turnoff to the Marietta Vinyards/Home of Claudio Finaud Wines and Meschino Champagnes.
Giving no hint of what he was about to do, Harry abruptly tore into the right lane, just barely avoiding a collision with a monstrous lumber truck, then shot down the off-ramp, still maintaining a speed of seventy miles per hour. The incessant wail of the siren behind him signaled that the cruiser was continuing its pursuit, though Harry’s maneuver had caused it to lose ground.
This was just what Harry had expected.
A narrow two-lane road ran perpendicular to the off-ramp. One direction led to the Marietta Vinyards, where free samples awaited the thirsty traveler. The other led back to Highway 101. Harry hadn’t much time to work with if he wanted to catch up with his quarry again.
He waited a few moments longer until he was certain the trooper had spotted him. Then he made a left turn, heading toward the on-ramp via an underpass.
The trooper naturally followed him, assuming that Harry meant to flee in the opposite direction on Highway 101, back toward Russian River.
Harry made a U-turn before he reached the on-ramp, forcing the trooper to slam on the brakes. Within moments, Harry was passing the cruiser, going the other way. He resisted the impulse to wave at his fuming pursuer.
He was heading back toward the off-ramp, but it made not the slightest difference. He started up it.
Three vehicles, including one log truck, were in the meantime starting down it. The drivers of these vehicles greeted the sight of Harry’s car with a furious din of honking and a few angry curses shouted out of open windows.
Harry kept going.
The off-ramp was just wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass side-by-side—but only with a great many scraped fenders as a result. There was practically no leeway on either side.
The sound of steel against steel, chrome against chrome, hubcap against hubcap was more grating than the persistence of two police sirens shrieking in unison. Harry’s car wobbled and listed as it fought the tide uphill. He kept having to balance it or risk overturning and plummeting oft the ramp.
The underside of the log truck was almost higher than the roof of Harry’s car. Almost but not quite. A fearsomely loud thunderstorm sounded very close. But it was no thunderstorm, only the roof of Harry’s car being
Kilborn was beginning to accelerate, exceeding by ten, then fifteen, then twenty miles the fifty-five mile-per-hour posted speed limit. To keep up with him, Harry was compelled to do the same.
Suddenly, from off to the right, Harry heard the high-pitched whine of a police cruiser. A glance into his rearview mirror indicated that the cruiser was beginning to thread its way through the lanes of traffic. He had no doubt that he was the driver the trooper intended to stop, not Kilborn. He also had little doubt that he’d be stopped and delayed for several minutes while his credentials were checked, not because he had violated the speed limit—that part of it was incidental—but because it was necessary for Kilborn to escape him. Kilborn would have a police radio in his car, Harry surmised, and he’d obviously put it to good use.
The trooper was signaling Harry to pull over to the side. Harry had no intention and increased his acceleration.
So did the trooper.
The cruiser’s siren shrieked more violently. Harry retaliated by depositing a red revolving light atop his own vehicle and triggering his own siren. Not that this would deter the trooper, but it might confuse him. Of course, Harry didn’t want to go too fast or he might end up outdistancing Kilborn. That would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise.
That was his dilemma: to beat out the cruiser while remaining behind Kilborn. Harry had maybe three quarters of a mile, a mile at the most, in which to accomplish this.
Off to the right was a billboard proclaiming the turnoff to the Marietta Vinyards/Home of Claudio Finaud Wines and Meschino Champagnes.
Giving no hint of what he was about to do, Harry abruptly tore into the right lane, just barely avoiding a collision with a monstrous lumber truck, then shot down the off-ramp, still maintaining a speed of seventy miles per hour. The incessant wail of the siren behind him signaled that the cruiser was continuing its pursuit, though Harry’s maneuver had caused it to lose ground.
This was just what Harry had expected.
A narrow two-lane road ran perpendicular to the off-ramp. One direction led to the Marietta Vinyards, where free samples awaited the thirsty traveler. The other led back to Highway 101. Harry hadn’t much time to work with if he wanted to catch up with his quarry again.
He waited a few moments longer until he was certain the trooper had spotted him. Then he made a left turn, heading toward the on-ramp via an underpass.
The trooper naturally followed him, assuming that Harry meant to flee in the opposite direction on Highway 101, back toward Russian River.
Harry made a U-turn before he reached the on-ramp, forcing the trooper to slam on the brakes. Within moments, Harry was passing the cruiser, going the other way. He resisted the impulse to wave at his fuming pursuer.
He was heading back toward the off-ramp, but it made not the slightest difference. He started up it.
Three vehicles, including one log truck, were in the meantime starting down it. The drivers of these vehicles greeted the sight of Harry’s car with a furious din of honking and a few angry curses shouted out of open windows.
Harry kept going.
The off-ramp was just wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass side-by-side—but only with a great many scraped fenders as a result. There was practically no leeway on either side.
The sound of steel against steel, chrome against chrome, hubcap against hubcap was more grating than the persistence of two police sirens shrieking in unison. Harry’s car wobbled and listed as it fought the tide uphill. He kept having to balance it or risk overturning and plummeting oft the ramp.
The underside of the log truck was almost higher than the roof of Harry’s car. Almost but not quite. A fearsomely loud thunderstorm sounded very close. But it was no thunderstorm, only the roof of Harry’s car being
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