Memorial Day: A Mick Callahan Novel (The Mick Callahan Novels)

by Harry Shannon

  "No shit," Jerry grunted. "Bobby Sewell is probably out there looking for us. At least we helped poor Mary get away. And admit it, Mick. It sure looks like I was right about that son of a bitch, doesn't it?"

  "Not much doubt about it," I said. "The boy's been dealing drugs with the Palmers, and he may be guilty of a murder or two. Now, you try and rest. Nobody knows you're hurt, so I don't think anyone will come looking for you here. I'll try to get us some outside help."

  "Mick?"

  I was moving fast, but stopped in the doorway. "Yeah?"

  "Do you think I'll ever see her again?"

  "Mary? I think so."

  "Good," Jerry said. "You sure you don't want me to go with you? Maybe we can make it to where I have my gear stashed. I could get the word out over the Internet."

  "By now they've either trashed all of your stuff, or they're waiting there for someone to try and use it."

  "Mick?" Jerry said, theatrically. "This is where I'm supposed to tell you to be careful, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, screw you. I'm thinking about me. Don't get killed, get back here with some dope."

  I was outside again and slipping behind the wheel of the Fairlane. I drove it back towards the sheriff's office and parked it down the road from the Saddleback Motel, hoping to throw any pursuer off Jerry's trail. Now all I had to do was move through the virtually empty town without being spotted and find a way to get some help.

  The first house was dark. The second had a radio playing in the kitchen, and the porch light was on. I could hear Loner McDowell's voice, describing the holiday fireworks. I knocked softly, but no one answered. I tried the knob, but the door was locked. There was no car in the small driveway.

  "What a beautiful sight this is," Loner said over the radio. "Bright colors that just plain light up the night sky. All you folks should be here to see this for yourselves."

  The radio station. Of course . . .

  I was moving before my consciousness fully registered the sound, a millisecond before I actually heard the sudden, loud buzzing; like some angry hornet flying too close to my ear. The air contracted and then expanded again, as the metal hunting arrow split the wooden doorjamb with a dull thwack. I threw myself over the porch railing and down onto the lawn. I landed awkwardly, rolled away and sprinted towards the next house. I feinted, as if going for the front door, then vaulted the waist-high chain link fence and ran in a jagged pattern through the back yard.

  A man, whispering: "Callahan? Come out and play."

  I stopped by an overflowing trashcan to catch my breath. I had to disguise each destination until the last possible moment. If I went in and out of the various yards there was always the slim chance someone might be home and in a position to offer assistance. I decided that I'd cut back and forth across First Street, and if I failed to lose the pursuer I would run down the alley behind the abandoned garage, up Caldwell Street and then over to the radio station. It had an emergency backup system. They could cut the central telephone lines, but they couldn't stop the broadcast without shutting down power to the entire area. Besides, I'd be leading the hunter blocks away from Jerry.

  I heard footsteps cross the porch next door, grunting, and the sound of the metal arrow being retrieved from the doorjamb. I waited for the man to step down onto the grass on either end of the porch, so I could set the location in my mind. The hunter traced my steps, coming closer. When he stepped off the right side of the porch and began moving towards the back yard, I bolted again; heading across the street at an angle for the next well-lit home.

  The man, the hoarse whisper still disguising his identity: "Come out and play with me."

  Boots make a racket in gravel. I slipped in the driveway and tore out the knee of my blue jeans. I swore softly and rolled behind an old Chevy that was up on blocks in the middle of a blotchy front lawn. I could see the man following me, but only from the waist down; camouflaged hunting pants on big, muscular legs. The man started to cross the street, the metal crossbow loaded and hanging low at his side. I looked around frantically. I grabbed a sizeable stone and threw it into the kitchen window of the home. Glass shattered. I waited for a voice, for an alarm, but nothing happened.

  As I'd hoped, the man assumed that I was trying to enter the house, perhaps get to a telephone. His big legs turned towards the kitchen of the house and he broke into a trot. I inched around behind the Chevy, smelling the sweat and motor oil on the scattered rags. My fingers touched a screwdriver; large, flat-headed, handle wrapped in duct tape. I slipped it into my belt and duck-walked behind the car, wincing at the noise my boots made in the gravel.

  This guy was formidable. He was wearing a sleeveless hunting shirt, camouflaged in brown and green, and in the shadowy light his arms seemed abnormally muscular. The wicked looking black metal crossbow was up at his shoulder now, as he stalked the front of the house and closed in on the kitchen window. Discretion seemed the better part of valor. I planted the toes of my boots in the gravel for traction and shifted my weight up onto my fingertips, like a fullback. When the man arrived at the broken window, his back to the old car, I took off again.

  The hunter tried to lead me as I ran broken-field across the road, back where I had started, but two houses closer to Caldwell Street. I came to a vacant lot surrounded by a tall, piecemeal wooden slat fence. I kicked in a board and pushed through to the other side, but trailed my left leg for a moment too long. An arrow caught the fabric of my jeans and tore some flesh from my calf. The pain was blinding, especially when I yanked the barbs free of my skin. I bellowed.

  The man whooped with excitement and charged across the street, notching another arrow.

  Leg throbbing, with sweat pouring down my face from the stress and the pain, I limped across the lot. I found an open spot on the other side of the fence and broke through it. I was vaguely aware that the pursuer had once again stopped to pick up the expended arrow. I had planned on making a foot race out of the last hundred yards, but with a wounded leg the odds were against me. I needed an advantage. I made another broken-field run towards the abandoned garage.

  A missile raced past my ear and smacked into the lower end of the corrugated tin roof, missing my head by a few inches. It buried itself in a wooden beam. In the few seconds it would take to load another arrow I cut through the long-dead gas pumps, aiming for the empty, shuttered hotel next to Margie's Diner.

  "Take your time," the hunter whispered hoarsely. He was right behind me. "As far as I'm concerned, you can drag this out all night."

  I kicked at the boarded-up window of the old hotel. Nothing gave. I looked over my shoulder, peering back into the gloom, and in the faint glow of the stars and a porch light I saw the man coming. He was taking it easy, swinging the crossbow and whistling, as if he had all the time in the world. A huge ball of red, white, and blue soared up into the sky behind him and then blew apart into gigantic sparklers. A crowd cheered faintly, the sound carrying from far away in Starr Valley.

  I planted the better leg, kicked, and felt the shock burn the wound in my calf. The boards gave way and I stumbled inside the old hotel. Inside, I sneezed. Dust flew everywhere. I had to feel my way across the darkened lobby. Some furniture had been covered with tarps and left behind, clumped like terminally wounded patients in a battle zone. I tripped over a cardboard box and heard glass shattering. I moaned, clutched the injured calf and scrambled behind a sofa. I looked back, chest heaving and mind racing.

  The large hole I'd left in the wooden barrier was now sprinkled with starlight and the rainbow traces of fireworks from the southern sky. I saw no sign of the man.

  I weighed my chances. If he flanked me and moved further up towards Caldwell Street, I'd be pinned down, or turned back towards the center of town. I remembered the screwdriver and felt for it. It was still hanging from my belt. I was lucky it hadn't been driven it into my own flesh.

  My eyes began to adjust. A row of abandoned, long-empty slot machines saluted silently. I used them for
cover and moved as quietly as possible; duck-walked back the way I had come, closer to the makeshift entryway. Come on fella, I thought, be macho. When I reached the end of the row of slots, I was only a couple of yards from where I'd broken in. I paused, awaiting his decision. I had to sneeze again and pinched the end of my nose. My fingers stank of fresh blood.

  The hunter appeared in the open space, weaving like a black hole among the stars. More colors burst high in the desert sky behind him. The man was playing it safe, standing back a few feet with the crossbow raised to his shoulder. He held it pointed at the opening in the boards. He edged closer.

  I slipped the screwdriver into my hand and held it low, point forward, to drive it up into the guts. I steeled myself.

  The man was still. He took his time, gauging the distance and the risks involved. He came forward boldly, right into the opening, with the crossbow upright. He moved into the lobby, momentarily blocking out all light, and then stood still. He waited for what seemed like hours before sliding away to search for me.

  I let him get several yards into the room, waited for the sounds of boots crunching through the broken glass I'd left behind. I waited until there was no way the man could spin around and aim the crossbow in time. I waited until I couldn't stand the waiting any longer, and then I launched myself at the patch of starlight as though I were trying to tackle the next burst of fireworks.

  "Shit."

  And I was through the opening and out into the night, slamming down onto the cement. I gathered myself and sprinted as best I could, racing down the sidewalk past the dead or dying businesses, and there it was at the end of the block and just a little beyond: the phallic tower of the dilapidated radio station. I heard the pursuer cursing and fumbling his way back through the boards behind me, and knew I had a lead of at least fifteen or twenty yards. My leg hurt.

  I darted to the left and then the right. The radio station loomed closer. Suddenly another series of white bursts lit up the night sky behind us. I was exposed, like a soldier crossing no man's land under flares. I zigged again, and then zagged back the other way. The station was only yards away. I had a bad stitch in my side and my calf muscle was cramping; it had started to stiffen the whole leg.

  An arrow thumped into the dirt perhaps two feet to one side of me, right where I'd been just a second before, and I reached deep inside for one last burst of power.

  I slammed up onto the porch. The door was locked. I had given Loner back the keys. A huge rocket went off in the night sky a few miles off and the echo of the faraway crowd went oohh and ahhh behind us. I used the screwdriver to smash a small hole in the huge plate glass window, dropped it. I covered my face with crossed arms and slammed my shoulder into the window. I stepped away and flattened against the wall as the huge shards of glass crumbled and fell.

  The hunter was standing tall in the middle of the street surrounded by red, white, and blue fire, calmly notching another arrow; drawing a bead on me. His face was still obscured. I started back towards the door, then spun and threw myself sideways through the window, hoping to clear the glass on the lower side. I took some of the sharp fragments with me and knew I'd cut up my lower back. I slammed into Loner's big office desk and heard the old rotary telephone go flying. I narrowly missed the large fish tank, crashed into the side of the staircase and slid to my knees. I'd made a huge amount of noise. Would McDowell hear?

  I sat there in the darkness, thinking, looking up at the large and consummately ugly tropical fish in the lighted tank. I was hurt. I was tired. I was running out of time. Most of the pieces had finally come together, but I only had a few seconds to plan a way out. My mind went into over-drive. And then suddenly I knew what to do.

  Footsteps crunching through the broken glass again.

  I went charging up the stairs. I skipped the step that groaned, almost without realizing it, and just as I turned the corner I heard the hunter coming into the lobby behind me. The speaker above the door was playing some John Phillip Sousa. I opened the studio and stepped in.

  There was no sign of McDowell.

  "Loner? Loner, goddamn it, are you here?"

  I sagged in total exhaustion. Had Loner taped all this in advance and left town? He wasn't on the air live at all. But how could I be so wrong? Just then a commercial kicked in. The final piece came to me.

  I limped over to the console. I lowered myself behind it and down into the engineering chair with a loud groan. One way or another, it was nearly over. There was only one way in or out; I was right, or I wasn't, there was nothing else to be done. Someone large bounded confidently up the stairs. I ran my practiced hands along the console and then looked up.

  Bobby Sewell stepped into the tiny booth. He was panting and shaking his head in grudging admiration. He wore a large white bandage over his flattened nose. "Christ, Callahan," he said. "You would have been one hell of a football player. You're not real fast, but you sure got some moves."

  "Bobby Sewell, it is you," I said, as mildly as possible. "Well I'll be damned. I thought that was just too obvious."

  "Too obvious? The fuck you talking about?"

  "Jerry thought it was you from the start. I didn't think so."

  "Callahan," Sewell said with a shake of his head, "you are too fucking weird."

  "Most folks around here seem to agree with you."

  Sewell raised the crossbow. "You fucked up my nose, man," he said. "You owe me."

  "Maybe I do at that, Bobby Sewell." The room got bright and clear. The hair on my arms and neck stood tall and my mouth went dry with fear. I swallowed. "What are you going to do?"

  "I feel like being nice tonight," Sewell said. "Tell me where you want it. In the head or in the heart?"

  Then Bobby stiffened. Loner McDowell stepped out of the closet behind the smaller fish tank. He held a large .357 Taurus revolver in his big paw. The gun was aimed right at Bobby Sewell's forehead.

  "What the hell?"

  "Easy, Bobby," Loner said. "Lower that bow and set it down there on the carpet. We wouldn't want it going off on us, now would we?"

  "What are you doing, Loner? I thought you left town." Bobby did as he was told.

  "I did," Loner said. "I got to thinking, and then I came back."

  "Thinking about what?"

  "About how my partner Manuel never showed up here in Dry Wells like we planned. See, Doc Langdon had a few beers tonight. He let slip how Bass found some stranger's body Friday night, all trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey with the fingerprints sliced off."

  Bobby flinched. "Loner, listen . . ."

  "I figure you did Manuel to try and run me off, Bobby. You made him strip, tied him up, and then shot him in the back of the head with this here crossbow."

  The guy in the alley had a name, now. Manuel. For some reason that felt satisfying. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. My lips were almost touching the mike. "God, I'm wiped out," I said. "Loner McDowell, if you weren't so ugly I would kiss you."

  There was a blur of motion from just out of the corner of my eye. I flinched and ducked my head.

  "Don't," Bobby cried.

  The gunshot was deafening, and the room instantly reeked of cordite. I looked up as Bobby sank down the wall and disappeared from view. Sewell's bandaged face was a now a blotchy red, white, and gray mess.

  "God damn it," Loner growled. "Why did he go make me do that?"

  I fingered my ears. They wouldn't stop ringing. McDowell moved slowly, the handgun loose in his fingers. He stepped around Bobby, his back to the doorway, and picked up the crossbow with his other hand. He looked down at Sewell's body, shaking his head.

  "Dumb bastard," Loner said. "You okay, Mick?"

  "I guess so," I said, stupidly. "You all right?"

  McDowell looked back and forth between the weapons in his large hands, from the crossbow to the pistol. "What a mess. I don't know how the hell all this got so out of control," he said.

  "It's like eating peanuts." Suddenly I felt lightheaded. I leaned b
ack and almost giggled.

  "What?"

  "Once you get started, it's hard to stop."

  "Mick, I'm worried about you," Loner said.

  "You know, I think I've pretty much figured it out."

  "Figured what out?"

  I sighed. "Oh, come on. Don't play me for a fool any longer."

  Loner nodded solemnly. "It was beautiful while it lasted," he said. "Poor Bobby here, he and I used to party together. He was the one that first hit on me about putting up some money. Palmer just gave us a safe place to work. Pretty soon we were all raking in the green, you know? People just can't seem to get enough of drugs, Mick."

  "So I've heard."

  "But lately, me and Bobby been kind of at each other's throats. You know, like two big dogs in the same back yard. One of us had to go." I stared at him. "Don't look at me that way, man. I'm not proud of hustling drugs, but I owe people."

  "Mob people, Loner? Like the ones who had Bobby Sewell hit your partner, Manuel, and leave him in the alley without any teeth?"

  "Damn, boy," Loner said. He whistled. "You're pretty smart. Yeah, I have me some serious tabs in Vegas. I guess they wanted to send me a warning."

  "That's why you're trying to run."

  "I needed dough. So I put up some money to make the crystal, I set it up with Palmer, and I took a nice cut for myself. That's all there was to it, Mick."

  I cleared my throat. "Don't."

  "Don't what?" McDowell said, innocently. He turned his body slightly to the left without breaking eye contact.

  "Listen to me, Loner. Don't do it. Kill me too. It won't save you."

  "What are you talking about?" Loner said. He had a puzzled look on his face, but the crossbow was now up and pointed at my chest. "I don't mean to kill you, old buddy."

  "You only made one mistake."

  Loner grimaced. "And just what was that, Mick?"

  "The suicide note for Will Palmer. He would never have said 'forgive me, Pop.' He always called Lowell 'Father.' I'd have thought you would have noticed that, close as you were to the two of them."