With the sounds of sirens closing, Hunter picks up Shanahan's weapon, wallet, credit cards, license and hurls them down the slope. The electric detonator device follows. He turns and starts picking his way toward his house and the stench of the still smoldering and smoking vehicle.
It's sunrise now. A slight breeze from the northwest isn't cooling these canyons. The humidity already over eighty percent. Hunter is shiny in perspiration. Visibility is easily five or more miles. To the south he can clearly see awakening lights in Mission Bay.
He mutters, "Goin' to be a pretty day for most people." He pauses. Then, as if an oath, "But coyote ugly days coming for some others."
He's more careful in his footfall now than during the chase. However, still in jockey shorts he doesn't allow his bare feet to inhibit some haste. After re-crossing the mesa he starts the seven foot climb up the embankment to Arcola Street as marked SDPD patrol cars, unmarked faded and dented detectives' cars, two fire engines, and an ambulance skid to a halt. Sirens whine down, red and blue lights still flashing as first responders leap forth into a controlled frenzy of methodical action. Distant sirens herald the arrival of others. Only the beach at Tarawa could have been more chaotic, noisy and cluttered.
Hunter mutters, "I'm gonna look just a little suspect here." He pleads to the lightening sky, "Abba, let Bradovich be here."
Hunter climbs over the cul-de-sac barricade and is met by two on-edge uniformed police officers, weapons out and pointing center mass at Hunter. They shout in unison, "HALT. HANDS UP AND OUT FRONT." Followed by one officer, circling to one side and calling out, "GET ON THE GROUND. NOW. GET DOWN, NOW."
With a sigh and frown, Hunter, in bare feet, gingerly halts. Hands go out and up, palms open and forward. He's about to lower himself to the ground in a prone position when he hears, "WHOA. WAIT ONE. HANG ON." A slight pause, then, "What the hell are you doing here...looking like this, Kerrigan?" It's Detective Eugene Bradovich. A former Marine Criminal Investigation Department (CID) agent and friend of Hunter's, now with the San Diego Police Department. Bradovich still has his high and tight Marine haircut but has added a few inches to his once-trim waistline. He's Hunter's height, but softer probably caused from too many fast-food cheeseburgers and as a result of his reputation as a ladies' man.
The two patrolmen remain poised. Arms extended, weapons held with two hands, still pointed center mass. At the ready, until Bradovich steps over, pushes their arms down to their sides. First one, then the other, saying, "Guys, easy. I know this man...damn well." The officers step back, weapons down but still held by both hands, arms forming a triangle in front of them. Tense. Still ready.
Bradovich continues, "Hunter, what the hell is going on?" He half turns and looks at the still burning car. Then the car door and torso hanging on the split rail fence. Turns back to Hunter, "Jesus, Kerrigan, what the hell happened here?"
Hunter says, "Car bombing," pointing at wires leading away. Then, "Brad, let me get inside and put some clothes on. In the meantime, the guy that did this ran down the mesa and jumped over the edge trying to escape. I believe he's dead. He's lying at the bottom by the metal building. He blew the car...wires strung down the barricade here and out onto the mesa." Hunter again pointing to the various spots he's mentioned. He looks to the fence, grimaces and mutters, "Jesus, I was out saying goodbye to her. My date," his eyes flashing watery anger. Then asks, "Let me get dressed? Okay? Then come inside. I rent here now. In that house with all the friggin' shattered windows ... and shrapnel and crap on the roof. Looks like my command bunker."
Before Bradovich can respond, Dee dashes up, sandals flopping, and hugs Hunter. While sobbing, yet still in her contralto, raspy voice and mixed languages, "Mamma mia! Che macello. My God." Head turning taking in the terrifying scene continues, "Oh sweet Jesus. Oh, Lord." Then pushes herself a few inches back from Hunter, nonetheless clutching his face with her hands, pleads, "Stai bene? Are you okay?"
She holds Hunter, hands cupping his face looking at his forehead and whimpers, "You're bleeding." She stops. Glares at Bradovich who is staring at her in disbelief. Actually, he's ogling. Dee's raven dark hair is unbrushed, touching wildly on her shoulders. She looks as if she has had a euphoric tussle in bed, or got up from a dead sleep with no time to primp. The latter is more the case except for the earlier morning cat-fight routine. She's replaced her sheer robe worn earlier with a halter top, no bra. Her breasts are barely restricted by the halter and are still pressed hard against Hunter's chest. His body unintentionally aides the containment of her own self-contained-underwater-breathing-apparatus. The SCUBA gear occupies all Bradovich's attention. She's also wearing "hot pants" made famous by PSA "stews" which hide little and accentuate her soccer ball butt and slender, shapely legs. In sandals the shape is distinct, let alone what they might look like in heels. Her dark flashing eyes are set in a perfectly sculptured roman-like face. Her complexion is clear, tanned, and Italian. She is to anyone that goes to the movies, a Sophia Loren or Elizabeth Taylor clone.
Dee snaps at Bradovich, "What are you staring at, and who the hell are you?"
"Well, ma'am, in order of the questions, one helluva beautiful woman. Do you have any sisters?" He takes in a breath, "And I'm Detective Bradovich, San Diego PD...at your service, ma'am."
"You wish." Pauses, settles, and in a more raspy tone, "It's about time you got here. I called hours ago. I'm ... and yes I do. Neither of us would waste our ... you took ..."
"Five minutes, ma'am. That's flyin' on a Saturday morning."
"Well, it seems like hours," she snaps. Then in a more civil tone, "Anyway, I made the call. I reported all this." Then cooing to Hunter, "You're not dressed. And you're hurt."
Hunter says, "I'm fine. This is Detective Bradovich."
Dee responds, "I know. We introduced ourselves."
Bradovich injects, "No, I introduced myself. You ..."
"I'm Teresa Columbo. Mrs. Columbo. His neighbor," hugging Hunter again. "And the Property Manager for that...that house," pointing to Hunter's shambles, "and his landlord. In a manner I suppose." She pauses, knowing she is starting to ramble. Bradovich continues to stare. Hunter shrugs. Dee looks at Hunter, then glares at the detective and snaps, "And don't you get any funny ideas. If my husband, Angelo, were alive and here, he'd set you straight. I'm just the Property Manager here, mister." She pauses again, "And neighbor...and a concerned citizen." She takes a deep breath as if to continue.
Bradovich says, "I believe you, ma'am."
Hunter says, "Look, Mrs. Columbo, he's got a lot of work to do." Then looks to Bradovich and says, "Brad, let me get inside, get cleaned up, dressed and assess the damage to the house. Then you come in after getting things moving and resolved here, and we'll talk. Okay?"
Bradovich nods in agreement. Looks at Dee, shakes his head, then holds up his hand, palm out to prevent a comment from her. Says, "You're right. I've got a lot of work to do."
Hunter says, "Great," turns to go and stumbles over Magpie, sitting alertly at Dee's side. The fawn-colored boxer leaps aside but not without a low protective growl.
Dee grabs Hunter's arm, says to Magpie, "Come. Heel." and leads Hunter toward the house, the dog alongside.
Bradovich mutters under his breath, "Wonder which one she's talkin' to," then hollers, "Hunter, I'll be in shortly. Don't go anywhere and don't touch anything out here." Then adds, "That goes for you too, Mrs. Columbo."
Both raise their arms indicating they heard the directive.
Dee whispers to Hunter, "Did you hear what he muttered first?"
"No."
"Good. I don't like him."
"I do. Good man. Saved my life, twice."
"I like that man. Did I tell you that?"
Hunter enters his house, shaking his head, with Dee grasping his hand. Magpie follows making herself at home.
While the jousting between Bradovich, Hunter and Dee has been transpiring, others have gone about their duties. The firemen have extinguished the flames. They and ambu
lance responders are working gingerly to free Samantha's torso hung on the car door and in the split-rail fence. Others do the same with her remains in the car. Firemen still lay on foam in spots. Police officers are taping off the crime scene and controlling the neighborhood onlookers. Some of the latter are already dressed for the beach; some are in their golf outfits; some in shorts and sloganeer T-shirts; and some housewives in robes with an assortment of peanut butter, jelly and egg stains. This group has been joined by the usual school of piranha, the press. Noisy and nosy and gaining volume.
As Bradovich turns away from Hunter and Dee and surveys the scene on the street, he's confronted by one of his cohorts from the detective department. The plainclothesman announces, "Found him. Or it. Dead. Messed up real bad. Must of been a helluva fall. Seen less damage from jumpers."
"What'd ya mean?"
"The guy is banged up real bad. Neck's more or less pruned. Face is smashed up...like someone that's been in the ring with Rocky Marciano. Got a wallet. Empty." Using his fingers to tick off each item, he recounts the items found strewn along the slope. He adds, "And a new Walther and lot of cash for a guy wearin' a cheap suit. Worse than mine." He laughs at his humor. Pointing to his partner he adds, "Steve's lookin' for the car down in one of the parking lots below." He pauses again, head tilted to one side.
Bradovich mumbles, "And?"
"The ME needs to see this guy, Brad. Here. Where he lays. Somethin's not right."
"Okay. Got it. Get some cops down there to help and get it marked off. And get some people scouring this mesa area. Follow those wires," as he points to them lying on the pavement, near the barricade. This is at the least a car bombing. Possibly a helluva lot more." Bradovich shuffles and kicks the air, "Ah, shit. Nam was easier. Just the guys in black pajamas." Then shrugs, mutters, "And pith-helmets later. Tough little bastards."
The detective stares motionless. Waits. Then gives a "thumbs up" and responds, "On it. And, oh yeah, we found an electric detonator on the slope. A little further down."
"Electric detonator? Sure, why the fuck not. Shit." Shakes his head. "I thought I left this crap behind." Bradovich, shakes his head, shouts, "I'll be up here for a while, then in the house. That one," he points to Hunter's white stucco house with the pale yellow trim. All the houses in this neighborhood are stucco. Different pastels, different colored trim, and all have a red brick fireplace on one side. All the backyards have six-foot wooden fences. He turns, walks over to the coroner who is working with the firemen on the torso on the split-rail fence. It and the remainder in the car are burned beyond recognition. Bradovich can tell the car was a two-door and the remains, a woman. Nothing pretty or sleek about either now. He tells the coroner about the "perp" at the bottom of the hill, adding, "That body is more important than this one." He adds soulfully, "That one at the bottom is the doer. This one is the...the...the done one... or the do-ee." He takes in a breath, gags a bit. The stench from the burned body is catching up with everyone. Bradovich mutters, "Oh cheez-it, what a Saturday morning." Pauses, takes a handkerchief and wipes his brow, then hands. "And hot too."
The coroner looks up, says, "Could be worse. Could be a Santa Ana. Then this stench could carry all the way to the beach. Possibly La Jolla. Damn, what a way to end a month."
The other detective, Steve, is now up top. Bradovich directs him to get some help and start working the crowd and neighborhood for witnesses. Then asks, "Did you find the car?"
"Yep. Pretty easy. Not many cars parked in that place this time of day on a weekend. It's a rental out of Lindbergh. Couple of weeks."
"Okay, call in and impound the car. Get forensics on it." He sighs and begins walking the immediate area.
Dee shuts the door behind them letting go of Hunter's arm. She starts to speak. Hunter puts his hand up, says, "I've got a call to make."
Dee nods, "Good. First, however, you ought to take a quick shower and get the blood off your head, hands, chest, and toss the jockey shorts. Then get dressed." She pauses, "Although if it weren't for the circumstances, I'd prefer you not."
"What?" He frowns. "Jesus, Columbo."
"DeLuca. Never mind. Forget it. Look at yourself. Go get cleaned up and put something on. Then make your call. I have some calls to make as well. Get some window people over here and some industrial-like cleaners in here."
Hunter barks, "Use the one in the kitchen, okay? I'll go get cleaned up."
"Okay." She lets out a breath, then adds in a soft husky tone, "I'll be back in a jiffy to take a look at that gash on your forehead. Go." She mumbles softly as he turns to leave, "John's right. He's clueless."
Hunter strides down the hallway, looking at his hands, arms and chest for the first time. Blood, and not his. Only his on his brow from whatever piece of shrapnel creased him. He mutters, "I've got to talk to Joe. It's goin' to hit the fan real soon and it won't be evenly distributed."
He whispers, "Good Lord. Poor, beautiful, Samantha." Pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."
Then a tad louder, "What the hell is the IRA doin' here?"
CHAPTER 2
"In the midst of this chopping sea of civilized life,
such are the clouds and storms and quicksands and thousand-and-one items to be allowed for,
that a man has to live,
if he would not founder and go to the bottom
and not make his port at all, by (ded) reckoning,
and he must be a great calculator indeed who succeeds."
Henry David Thoreau
Showered, Hunter stands in front of his bathroom mirror, towel wrapped around his waist. He leans over and wipes away the steam mist with a few swipes of his forearm. He straightens, stares at his image and thinks of what Thoreau suggested as an approach to life in Walden. He also remembers the two hard, miserable years of training he just finished at The Farm in Virginia. Plus the eleven years in the Corps. Some of those in combat, certainly more than enough. Also the hours in the CIA classrooms and labs and the long lonely nights studying. Especially the hour upon hour reviews in those labs of the language tapes in Italian, French, Spanish, German and some Farsi, God only knows why. He spoke most of these fluently while growing up in Europe. No time was spent on his other language fluencies in Mandarin Chinese and Vietnamese. They shouldn't come into play for this assignment. And certainly no time was spent on the little Comanche he learned from his mother although the value of this attribute would have phenomenal code value, as the native Americans "Code Talkers" did in World War Two. And finally, all the soul-searching in the pre-dawn hours at the end brought him to accept this is his life now. As before him the life of his father, a CIA Section Chief, killed in service. His mother, part of that same assassination, like Samantha and her parents. All a different storm cloud, but perhaps from the same eye.
He mutters softly, "First, my mission. Pisces, or Robert Camack, or Bobby Camack or whatever. It's no different now." He drops the towel, says aloud. "It's the same as it was before. Seek out the enemy and destroy him, and his will to fight. If the IRA-men get in the way during the process, they will die as well." And as he turns to get his clothes he'd laid out on the bed, he bumps into Dee standing in the bathroom doorway.
"Damn, Mrs. Columbo. What the hell are you doing in here? This is my ..."
"Room. Yes, I know. And it's Dee, and I was going to take a look at that ... that, whoa big fella," her coy grin widens. "Ahhh, look at that gash you have on your forehead."
"Well, it's nothing. Stopped bleeding." He quickly steps around her. "Anyway, it's up on my forehead, not down there." She shrugs her shoulders, grins, says nothing and sits on the bed. Then shakes off her sandals with suggestive wiggles of her feet. Standing in front of her he snatches a clean pair of jockey shorts and leaps into them, and hastily follows with a pair of slacks and a T-shirt with the phrase, "Swift, silent, and deadly" stenciled across the chest. Then sits on the end of the bed and pulls on a pair of socks and loafers. Dee slides next to him.
&n
bsp; She says, "I'm sorry. I just...never mind. The cut is okay. Looked worse than it is, but I was truly worried about it. I should care for it. Put something on it. Iodine, a bandage." She takes a breath. "Oh, I'm doing it again...going on so. It's a habit that started after my husband, Angelo, went missing, and then ..." She inhales deeply and in her raspy tone says, "I called a handyman friend. He's on the way. He and his buddy will clean up the mess, but they can't fix the windows today. Those will have to wait until Monday. They'll cover them with plastic and tarps in the meantime. I hope that's okay?" She pauses again and allows a coy grin to capture her lips and says, "If the window thing bothers you, you can stay at my place."
"Okay. Thanks...No. No, I mean the windows will be fine. I can stay here. Need to stay here. Now I..."
"Whatever. Go make your call. I have to call my children and let them know I'm okay in case the news has managed to spread across the planet."
"Your kids. Yeah, I should have thought to ask." He pauses. "Oh yeah, I knew that." His eyebrows crinkle, "Geez. Right. They're not home?"
"Children. Kids are baby goats. And no, they're not home. They are visiting their grandparents and great-grandparents in Napa Valley. My folks own a winery there. Nice." She sighs. "It's beautiful there...and great wine. Somehow it always tastes better in that place than when I have a glass or two at home. Oh well, the children will be there for the summer. I hope to be going also, at some point. Darn, I'm doin' it again. Sorry."
"Yeah, you are. Okay, now then, I guess that's good. Their being gone I mean. Well, I gotta call. Now." He gets up from the bed and hustles out of the room, down the hall and carefully steps into his office. Glass shards lay everywhere. He closes the door behind him. Pauses, and smiles. Mutters, "What the hell, the windows are open. Shoot, there are no windows." Goes to the closet, unlocks the door and closes it behind him. The Agency has rigged the closet into a small communication center with a phone, tape machine, recorder, and a small fold-out writing board, and a fold-down seat. Both of the latter fold back up into the wall. He dials the number for Joe Zachary. Joe answers on the first ring. He's at the office, or asylum, however one prefers to think of the CIA complex at Langley. Ruth, Joe's vivacious wife prefers asylum, or on occasion worse. Her pastimes, have been and still are, raising their family, looking beautiful, loving Joe, and arranging dates for Hunter at every opportunity. She's not been successful at the latter. She keeps choosing "nice girls."
Ded Reckoning Page 2