Read Online Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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sheared off with no more resistance than bandages stripped from a person’s skin.
Some of the roof remained intact, but it wasn’t enough to protect Harry in case of a genuine thunderstorm. It was a shadow of its former self, crumpled-in and torn half open, with flaps of it banging noisily with the car’s unsteady motion.
But Harry had broken through and was now back on the highway, headed in the direction he wanted.
The state trooper had attempted to follow Harry’s route, but by the time he was ready to speed up the off-ramp, three buffeted vehicles were stalled all over the ramp. One by one, the bewildered drivers were getting out to inspect the damage.
The trooper had no idea of what had happened and could not cut down his speed in time. He plowed directly into the Plymouth blocking his way. The driver of the Plymouth seemed to have realized what was going to happen as soon as he saw the cruiser’s approach, but there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about it. He shrugged at the damage to his car.
The state trooper was not quite so fatalistic. His nose was bleeding, his eyes were blackened, an unsightly bruise was embossed on his brow. But his humiliation was worse than the injuries. He stood in the midst of the wreckage and swore. That was all he could do.
Harry didn’t catch sight of Kilborn’s car again until after passing signs indicating the turn-off to Napa. It seemed more and more likely he was heading into the San Francisco metropolitan area.
Although there was no mistaking Harry’s car, given its devastated condition, no additional cruisers had turned out to give him chase. If Harry’s luck held, Kilborn might still be under the impression that he had successfully eluded him.
That appeared to be the case, for Kilborn was proceeding at a speed close to the legal limit and making no outward move to take evasive action.
Like an arrow, Kilborn remained true to Highway 101, taking it past the airport into the city proper. He ended his journey in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Wharf. He parked. Then, without troubling to lock the doors, he hastened down Beach Street. Harry, on foot now, was right behind him.
Harry followed Kilborn until he came at last to what looked like a residential building, one that had been designed to resemble an eighteenth-century Mexican villa, with white stucco walls and a colonnaded portico. Balconies on the upper floors were partially shrouded in intricate lattice-work, and the windows were arched. A set of stairs led up to a doorway where Harry found six doorbells, each with a name listed beside it.
Harry had seen Kilborn mount the stairs, but, from the distance he had necessarily had to maintain he hadn’t been able to tell which of these half-dozen bells Kilborn had pressed. There was no question he’d pressed one of them; Harry had watched him wait until someone had buzzed him in.
He scanned the names, thinking that this was not likely to be very illuminating. But one name was very familiar. Jud Harris.
Could be a coincidence, Harry thought, but hardly. From the documentation he’d studied pertaining to the murder victims in marijuana country, he remembered seeing a reference to Harris owning property in San Francisco. No mention of what had happened to it had been made, though it was natural to assume that the government or one of its agents had confiscated it. But which government? Which agent? And in any case, what involvement did Kilborn have with it?
While Harry didn’t think that answers to these questions would be forthcoming any time soon, his curiosity kept him where he was. The afternoon wore on. Harry waited.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded. The door at the head of the stairs opened. First Kilborn, then a companion appeared.
Kilborn’s friend was an older man with an air of importance about him. He was elegantly dressed and carrying an umbrella. There was no sign of rain, but maybe he knew something Harry didn’t. His hair, what
Some of the roof remained intact, but it wasn’t enough to protect Harry in case of a genuine thunderstorm. It was a shadow of its former self, crumpled-in and torn half open, with flaps of it banging noisily with the car’s unsteady motion.
But Harry had broken through and was now back on the highway, headed in the direction he wanted.
The state trooper had attempted to follow Harry’s route, but by the time he was ready to speed up the off-ramp, three buffeted vehicles were stalled all over the ramp. One by one, the bewildered drivers were getting out to inspect the damage.
The trooper had no idea of what had happened and could not cut down his speed in time. He plowed directly into the Plymouth blocking his way. The driver of the Plymouth seemed to have realized what was going to happen as soon as he saw the cruiser’s approach, but there was nothing he, or anyone else, could do about it. He shrugged at the damage to his car.
The state trooper was not quite so fatalistic. His nose was bleeding, his eyes were blackened, an unsightly bruise was embossed on his brow. But his humiliation was worse than the injuries. He stood in the midst of the wreckage and swore. That was all he could do.
Harry didn’t catch sight of Kilborn’s car again until after passing signs indicating the turn-off to Napa. It seemed more and more likely he was heading into the San Francisco metropolitan area.
Although there was no mistaking Harry’s car, given its devastated condition, no additional cruisers had turned out to give him chase. If Harry’s luck held, Kilborn might still be under the impression that he had successfully eluded him.
That appeared to be the case, for Kilborn was proceeding at a speed close to the legal limit and making no outward move to take evasive action.
Like an arrow, Kilborn remained true to Highway 101, taking it past the airport into the city proper. He ended his journey in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Wharf. He parked. Then, without troubling to lock the doors, he hastened down Beach Street. Harry, on foot now, was right behind him.
Harry followed Kilborn until he came at last to what looked like a residential building, one that had been designed to resemble an eighteenth-century Mexican villa, with white stucco walls and a colonnaded portico. Balconies on the upper floors were partially shrouded in intricate lattice-work, and the windows were arched. A set of stairs led up to a doorway where Harry found six doorbells, each with a name listed beside it.
Harry had seen Kilborn mount the stairs, but, from the distance he had necessarily had to maintain he hadn’t been able to tell which of these half-dozen bells Kilborn had pressed. There was no question he’d pressed one of them; Harry had watched him wait until someone had buzzed him in.
He scanned the names, thinking that this was not likely to be very illuminating. But one name was very familiar. Jud Harris.
Could be a coincidence, Harry thought, but hardly. From the documentation he’d studied pertaining to the murder victims in marijuana country, he remembered seeing a reference to Harris owning property in San Francisco. No mention of what had happened to it had been made, though it was natural to assume that the government or one of its agents had confiscated it. But which government? Which agent? And in any case, what involvement did Kilborn have with it?
While Harry didn’t think that answers to these questions would be forthcoming any time soon, his curiosity kept him where he was. The afternoon wore on. Harry waited.
Eventually, his patience was rewarded. The door at the head of the stairs opened. First Kilborn, then a companion appeared.
Kilborn’s friend was an older man with an air of importance about him. He was elegantly dressed and carrying an umbrella. There was no sign of rain, but maybe he knew something Harry didn’t. His hair, what
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