Read Online The Pearl Harbor Murders by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Max Allan Collins
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, Mystery & Detective, History, Mystery Fiction, World War II, Military, Attack on, Pearl Harbor (Hawaii), 1941, Pearl Harbor (Hawaii); Attack On; 1941, Burroughs; Edgar Rice, Edgar Rice, Burroughs
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he would routinely rise from a bizarre nightmare and, as calmly professional as a secretary, jot down notes.
He'd had these useful nightmares for many years, ever since receiving a blow on the head during his stint as a cop in Salt Lake City. At first there had been torturous headaches, as well, but these had faded, and the dreams remained. He was quite accustomed to them, but neither of his wives nor his children had ever got used to his nocturnal thrashing and bellowing, his moans and screams frequently awakening them.
Both of his wives had insisted that he sleep in a separate bedroom.
He was right up to where the scimitar-wielding man-beast had entered the dream when another scream echoed across the night—not his own.
A woman's scream, a scream of terror, cut off abruptly!
The cry came from outside, had found its way through an open window, and seemed to be coming from the dkection of the beach. He threw on the maroon robe, not even bothering to sash it, and ran barefoot into the night, finding his way through the palm trees in his backyard, toward where the purple ocean blended with the purple sky, with only the stars to show the difference, padding down onto the white sand, which looked gold in the moonlight, like the sequins on the emerald woman in his dream.
This nightmare had a woman in it, too, but Burroughs was not, unfortunately, sleeping: she lay sprawled ten or fifteen yards down the sandy expanse, lying near the surf, which rolled gently but insistently onto the shore. A man was kneeling over her, touching her shoulder with one hand, blood glistening on the other.
Burroughs could already see who the woman was: Pearl Harada, still in her blue gown, askew on her side on the sand, her skull crushed, blood turning the beach black around her rained head. Nearby lay a blood-spattered stone, one of the thick, roundish rocks used in the luau imu —an impromptu weapon anyone might have picked up.
The man bending over the obviously dead girl was a handsome if pockmarked Hawaiian from her band—the trombone-playing leader, Harry Kamana.
All of this the writer took in, in a heartbeat, and then he was running toward the kneeling man and the dead girl, yelling, "You! Don't move!"
The musician looked up sharply, his eyes wild, but he did not obey Burroughs, rather he scrambled to his feet and ran, heading down the beach.
Though Burroughs was in his sixties and his quarry in his thirties, the writer was bigger than the slight, slender Hawaiian, still in his dance-band aloha shirt, and—as it turned out—faster.
He threw himself at the fleeing musician, tackling him, bringing him down onto the sand, rolling with him until they were both in the water, where the surf licked the shore. The writer had the younger man around the knees, but Kamana squirmed out of his grasp, pulling Burroughs forward, and the writer lost his robe, was climbing to his feet in the surf in just his pajama bottoms, chest as bare as Tarzan, and Kamana tried to ran again, but he was running in wet sand and didn't get very far before Burroughs slammed a fist into the man's back, nailing a kidney.
Kamana blurted a cry of pain, fell facedown, splashing into the shallow water, then flipped around and, making a shrill whining war cry, came up at Burroughs, small sharp fists flying.
The older man ducked and weaved, and threw a hard right hand into the musician's belly, doubling him over, then finished him with a left to the chin that didn't have much power, but was enough to drop the man.
"You want more, you son of a bitch?" Burroughs, looming over him, asked, breathing hard, but not as hard as the younger man.
"No ... no... " Kamana's voice was high-pitched, hoarse; he was on his hands and knees in the shallow surf.
Burroughs grabbed the man by the arm and hauled him to his feet, dragging him down the beach, heading to the bungalow.
The writer paused at the girl's body. He didn't bother to take her pulse—her skull had been caved in by
He'd had these useful nightmares for many years, ever since receiving a blow on the head during his stint as a cop in Salt Lake City. At first there had been torturous headaches, as well, but these had faded, and the dreams remained. He was quite accustomed to them, but neither of his wives nor his children had ever got used to his nocturnal thrashing and bellowing, his moans and screams frequently awakening them.
Both of his wives had insisted that he sleep in a separate bedroom.
He was right up to where the scimitar-wielding man-beast had entered the dream when another scream echoed across the night—not his own.
A woman's scream, a scream of terror, cut off abruptly!
The cry came from outside, had found its way through an open window, and seemed to be coming from the dkection of the beach. He threw on the maroon robe, not even bothering to sash it, and ran barefoot into the night, finding his way through the palm trees in his backyard, toward where the purple ocean blended with the purple sky, with only the stars to show the difference, padding down onto the white sand, which looked gold in the moonlight, like the sequins on the emerald woman in his dream.
This nightmare had a woman in it, too, but Burroughs was not, unfortunately, sleeping: she lay sprawled ten or fifteen yards down the sandy expanse, lying near the surf, which rolled gently but insistently onto the shore. A man was kneeling over her, touching her shoulder with one hand, blood glistening on the other.
Burroughs could already see who the woman was: Pearl Harada, still in her blue gown, askew on her side on the sand, her skull crushed, blood turning the beach black around her rained head. Nearby lay a blood-spattered stone, one of the thick, roundish rocks used in the luau imu —an impromptu weapon anyone might have picked up.
The man bending over the obviously dead girl was a handsome if pockmarked Hawaiian from her band—the trombone-playing leader, Harry Kamana.
All of this the writer took in, in a heartbeat, and then he was running toward the kneeling man and the dead girl, yelling, "You! Don't move!"
The musician looked up sharply, his eyes wild, but he did not obey Burroughs, rather he scrambled to his feet and ran, heading down the beach.
Though Burroughs was in his sixties and his quarry in his thirties, the writer was bigger than the slight, slender Hawaiian, still in his dance-band aloha shirt, and—as it turned out—faster.
He threw himself at the fleeing musician, tackling him, bringing him down onto the sand, rolling with him until they were both in the water, where the surf licked the shore. The writer had the younger man around the knees, but Kamana squirmed out of his grasp, pulling Burroughs forward, and the writer lost his robe, was climbing to his feet in the surf in just his pajama bottoms, chest as bare as Tarzan, and Kamana tried to ran again, but he was running in wet sand and didn't get very far before Burroughs slammed a fist into the man's back, nailing a kidney.
Kamana blurted a cry of pain, fell facedown, splashing into the shallow water, then flipped around and, making a shrill whining war cry, came up at Burroughs, small sharp fists flying.
The older man ducked and weaved, and threw a hard right hand into the musician's belly, doubling him over, then finished him with a left to the chin that didn't have much power, but was enough to drop the man.
"You want more, you son of a bitch?" Burroughs, looming over him, asked, breathing hard, but not as hard as the younger man.
"No ... no... " Kamana's voice was high-pitched, hoarse; he was on his hands and knees in the shallow surf.
Burroughs grabbed the man by the arm and hauled him to his feet, dragging him down the beach, heading to the bungalow.
The writer paused at the girl's body. He didn't bother to take her pulse—her skull had been caved in by
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