Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “How’d Draper look?”

  “Terrible. He was dressed in some kind of a Japanese bathrobe, and even from thirty feet I could see that he must’ve felt rocky as hell.”

  “Hung over, you mean?”

  “Maybe. He just looked—out of it. He had a heavy beard, and he seemed to be walking unsteadily. He wasn’t staggering, though. He just seemed out of it.”

  “If he felt that way, I wonder what he was doing taking a stroll in the garden at eight-thirty in the morning?”

  “I wondered that myself. He didn’t seem to be enjoying himself.”

  “Where are you, exactly?”

  “I’m in the yard right next to Draper’s, on the south side. We’ve got it all fixed with the owners of the house. You can come right through the garage; it’s unlocked. You’ll see a lath house; that’s where I am. It’s a good setup.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  I told Sigler to stay put. Locking my car, I went through the next-door neighbor’s garage and out into their backyard. I paused for a moment just beyond the house, surveying the scene. Having been built originally as a tract, all the backyards adjoined, separated by fences that averaged five or six feet. Without exception, each yard was twenty-five feet wide, most of them about fifty feet deep. In the Drapers’ yard were two sizable pine trees, several dramatically flowering bushes and large banks of lush ivy planted as ground cover. A flagstone walkway led from the house to a rear garden plot, doubtless the area where Susan Draper had grown her organic vegetables.

  I walked to the lath house, fully aware that I could be clearly seen by dozens of residents peering down from windows fifteen feet above the ground. In a dark business suit, raincoat and hat, I felt uncomfortably conspicuous prowling the soggy neighborhood.

  Slipping into the lath house, shaking hands with Williams, I looked out through the redwood slats.

  “This is fine,” I said. “Perfect.”

  “Except that I couldn’t see more than his head and shoulders, because of the fence. I tried to stand on a box, but it didn’t help much.”

  “What’d he do, exactly?”

  Williams shrugged. “He just walked to the back where that vegetable garden’s planted. He stood there for a minute. Then he turned and went into the house. Period.”

  “Was it raining?”

  “Just sprinkling.”

  I surveyed the redwood fence, at least five feet high. Technically, I had no more right in Draper’s yard than I had in his house, uninvited. Still, trespassing was a lesser charge than breaking and entering.

  “I’m going to have a look. You stay here.” I picked up Williams’ walkie-talkie, checking with Sigler. Responding, Sigler’s voice was garbled. Frowning, I turned up the volume, rotating the radio.

  “That stupid thing takes spells,” Williams said. “I could hear you fine, but I can’t hear Sigler worth a damn. It just came out of the shop, too.”

  I asked Sigler to repeat, finally deciding that he was saying everything was normal at his post.

  I unlatched the door and walked to the fence, unbuttoning my raincoat, deliberately keeping my eyes straight ahead, avoiding the stares of curious householders. A child’s tricycle gave me a precarious foot up, and I awkwardly vaulted the fence, landing in an ivy bed. My feet sank deep into mud; the wet ivy clung unpleasantly to my ankles. Swearing, I stepped out of the ivy onto the flagstone walkway. Over the top of the opposite fence a German shepherd’s head suddenly appeared. The dog’s snarl was low, incredibly menacing. His yellow eyes looked more like a tiger’s than a dog’s. I unbuttoned my jacket, loosening my gun in its spring holster. I stood perfectly still, staring at the shepherd. To get his head above the fence, he must be standing on something. Therefore, he could probably clear the fence in a single leap.

  If he came for me, my chances of shooting him were small. And if I shot him, the investigation would fuel a fire already too hot. Williams, fifteen feet to the rear, behind a fence, couldn’t help.

  For a full minute I stood motionless. The sound of the dog’s snarling was lower, rumbling malevolently in his throat. His yellow eyes didn’t waver.

  Then, deliberately, I half-turned away from him, walking with slow, stiff-kneed steps toward the small vegetable garden. It was a tactic that had often worked for me: facing big, sure trouble, the best solution is sometimes to simply walk away, very slowly, without looking back.

  As I walked, I listened for the sound of the dog’s rush. If he came for me, I’d turn to face him, using my revolver as a club, shouting for Williams, certainly already poised.

  But the rush didn’t come.

  I was standing beside the vegetable garden, staring sightlessly down at the shrunken brown stalks. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the shepherd. His stance seemed less taut. I turned my back on him, unconcerned now. Williams could guard my rear.

  As I squatted beside the garden, I suddenly realized that my shoes were caked with mud. Hastily I straightened, craning my neck to see the back of my raincoat. It was a muddy mess from my shoes. The rain was coming harder now; water was dripping from the end of my nose. My feet were damp. I’d have to go home immediately, change my clothes.

  I moved beneath the sparse shelter of a twenty-foot pine tree, using the palm of my hand to wipe my face. The dog, I saw, had gone, probably to his own dry doghouse.

  Very slowly I scanned the thickly planted backyard. If the weapon was a steel pipe, it could be hidden anywhere. He could have walked to the rear of the yard simply as a blind. He—

  I was staring at an eight-foot square of green tarpaulin drawn over a sizable mound and firmly staked down. The mound was close beside the rear fence, screened from the house by laurel.

  He’d talked about the compost pile. Drunkenly repeating himself, he’d talked about his wife’s pile of horseshit, blearily urging me to inspect it with him. Often, I knew, a criminal’s offhand bravado actually masks an inexorable subconscious urge to confess.

  I glanced around the backyard, checking Draper’s rear windows. Nothing stirred. I stepped toward the tarpaulin, drawing back a corner. The compost pile was a sticky, oozing mass of dank brown slime. I loosened another corner. The pile was about five feet in diameter, probably three feet high. A half-hour’s work with a slim metal probe would—

  “Frank.” It was an urgent, hissing stage whisper from the lath house. Turning toward the sound, crouching, my eyes flicked first toward the Draper house.

  Still dressed in his raincoat, Draper stood in a rear window. He held the drapes clutched crazily in each hand, pulled wide apart. Even at fifty feet, I could sense his surrender to madness. He was staring down at me like a wild-eyed Wagnerian fury. Then, abruptly, he released the drapes, blanking out the window. I stood for a moment, irresolutely. Draper was now dangerous. But I had no warrant, no legal means of getting to him if he refused me entrance. I couldn’t—

  The drapes flicked aside, revealing his head and shoulders. He was crouching down, probably kneeling on the floor. He—

  Suddenly the large window shattered. A rifle barrel materialized among the sparkling shards. I dove for the pine tree, rolling up to my knees. A shot cracked; the tree trembled. He was using a big gun—a deer rifle. Another shot exploded in the mud just to my right. As I drew my gun, two quick revolver shots came from the lath house. A third rifle shot crashed into the tree less than a foot above my head. Quickly I risked a hand and an eye, snapping a shot at the shattered window.

  “Frank.”

  “Yeah. I’m all right. Sit tight. Tell Sigler the situation.”

  “I have.”

  “All right. Cool it.”

  “Right.”

  My pine tree was hardly a foot in diameter; protecting my head and vital organs, nothing more. I sat very still, my back to the tree, listening to the ragged thumping of my heart. I tried to gauge my chances of scaling the fence, ten feet away. With covering fire, I could do it. Without protection, my chances were small. Yet, now, I was hopeles
sly pinned down. At fifty feet, our pistols could hardly hit the window, much less the man.

  I drew a deep, unsteady breath. “Kent?”

  “What?”

  “I’m stuck. Tell Sigler to send two men with rifles and tear-gas guns over in your yard, using the fence. They can cover me while I get out of here.”

  “Right.”

  “See anything moving?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” I stretched out full length on my stomach behind the tree trunk. Immediately I felt the wetness penetrate through my suit. Automatically glancing at my watch, I tried to estimate the time elapsed since Draper’s first shot. Two minutes? Five? I couldn’t be—

  “Frank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here they come. They both have rifles. M-16s. Tear gas, too.”

  “All right. Tell them to start working on that window. Both windows. Keep firing until I’m clear.”

  “Roger.”

  I drew up my knees, crouching close behind the tree, holstering my pistol. I was thinking, a little wildly, that whoever had planted that pine tree, years before, had probably saved my life. Because Draper could shoot. He—

  The high, savage crack of the M-16s shattered the silence. I hesitated only a fraction of a minute. Then, throwing myself forward, I was racing for the fence, still crouching. I gripped the flimsy redwood, throwing up a leg. Something splintered as I rolled over the top, flat and low, combat style. I fell heavily, my knee striking a trash can. Through the fury of the gunfire, I clearly heard my pants leg ripping. Rolling to my knees, I lurched back to the fence, crouching between two patrolmen. Both men wore flack vests.

  “You got any more of those?” I asked, panting.

  “No, sir. Sorry.”

  “They aren’t much good against a rifle anyhow,” Williams observed. “Not at this range. You all right, Frank?”

  “A little scared, that’s all.” Automatically I was pinning my shield on my mud-stained lapel.

  “He’s a good shot,” Williams said.

  “I know.”

  “Hey,” one of the patrolmen said quietly. “I thought I saw that curtain move.”

  “Has he shown since you started shooting?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Keep your eye on that back door. I don’t want him getting out of the house.”

  “Yessir.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Williams was saying. “It’s that goddamn walkie-talkie. By the time I finally figured out what Sigler was saying, Draper was already at the window.”

  “I wonder what happened to the rest of them—the little girl?”

  “What little girl?”

  “Never mind. Christ, I’ve never felt so miserable in my—”

  Markham and Canelli were coming along the fence, crouched low. Markham carried a shotgun; Canelli, a tear-gas gun. Both men wore heavy rubber raincoats, flack vests and riot helmets. Each man carried two gas mask containers, shoulder-slung.

  “Jeez, Lieutenant,” Canelli panted. “You look terrible.”

  Snorting, I drew my revolver. “I feel wet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Muddy, too, I’ll bet.”

  Not replying, I turned to the two uniformed men. “Have we got a good walkie-talkie?”

  “I have,” said one of them.

  I took the radio, talking to Friedman, who’d just arrived. After two minutes of cryptic haggling, we agreed that his men, using their cars as cover, would drop four canisters of tear gas into both the basement and the main floor, two canisters on each floor. If the suspect didn’t come out, Markham and I would go inside.

  As I was talking, Canelli had worked his way down the fence until he was crouched next to me. He looked faintly ridiculous in the flack jacket and helmet—like an overweight, dark-jowled Italian cupid caught in someone else’s war, staring with round-eyed, disapproving innocence at the surrounding carnage.

  When I’d finished talking to Friedman, Canelli touched my arm. As I turned to him, he said hesitantly, “I hate to bother you, Lieutenant, but I think you should know. You remember that white Volks—”

  Two quick shots, then three more suddenly spat out a vicious, staccato quick-fire from the house next door. Splinters flew from the redwood fence; someone gasped close by, hit.

  “He’s at the kitchen window now,” a voice was shouting.

  “Nail him,” I screamed. “Kill the bastard.”

  Three M-16s opened up, all on semi-automatic fire. Markham’s shotgun thundered twice. The sharp, acrid smell of cordite was stifling in the wet, heavy air.

  “All right,” I shouted. “That’s enough. Save it.” I shoved the walkie-talkie at Markham. “Tell Friedman to get that tear gas in there.” On my knees now, I turned toward Williams, lying on his back, staring straight up. Swearing softly, he was clutching at his left arm, just above the elbow. Between his fingers I saw a bright red stain spreading on his white raincoat.

  “There’s the gas,” Canelli said. “Lots of it.”

  “Jesus,” came another voice. “Williams got hit.”

  Other men, all uniformed, heavily armed, were lining the fence, crouching like soldiers along a hedgerow. I heard Markham calling for an ambulance. His voice was low, controlled. Williams was trying to sit up, still swearing. His lips were very vivid against his pale face. His eyes were large, his beard dark. I put my hand on his chest, with my other hand drawing Canelli close to me.

  “Cut that sleeve away. Apply pressure. Keep him flat and warm.”

  And to Markham, I said, “What about the goddamn ambulance? Have we got one?”

  “It’s coming,” he said shortly, his dark eyes steady, flat.

  A rifle suddenly opened up—an M-16.

  “What’s that?” I called.

  “Nothing,” Markham said coolly. “An itchy finger.” He handed me the walkie-talkie. Listening, I heard Friedman say, “Jesus, it sounds like a war back there. How bad is Williams?”

  “Not bad, except for shock.”

  “You’d better be careful about bystanders.”

  Irritated, not answering that one, I asked, “How many canisters have you—”

  A single shot sounded from the other side of the fence. A ragged spurt of M-16 fire answered, until I shouted it to silence.

  “Anybody hit?” I called.

  No answer.

  Cautiously I raised my head above the fence. Tear gas eddied from the shattered windows. Inside that house, there was no way Draper could see—no way in the world.

  “Here’s the ambulance guys,” Canelli said.

  “Good. Give me your helmet and vest,” I ordered. And to Markham: “Let’s go in and get him.”

  Nodding calmly, his eyes still opaque, Markham slipped on his gas mask, testing it. He put the shotgun aside. As I was testing my own mask, clearing it, someone propped a trash can against the fence, steadying the can. Nodding my thanks, I looked at Markham, moving my head inquiringly toward the fence. He raised his thumb, indicating it was okay.

  I paused a moment, drawing a deep breath. A gas mask, constricting both vision and breathing, always caused me a momentary spasm of claustrophobic panic. I was beginning to perspire. The world outside was tunneled into the plastic face plate of the mask. The sound of my own breathing rumbled through my head.

  I stepped up on the trash can, cleared the fence cleanly. Dropping on all fours, I drew my revolver. Then I realized that I’d forgotten to reload. I’d fired twice. I had only four live rounds in my gun.

  Markham dropped beside me, gathering himself. I was on my feet, head down, running—sprinting for the back door. Reaching it, I hopped on my left foot, crashing my right heel into the door, just below the knob. The door splintered. I was inside, stumbling, recovering myself. The CS gas was thick, stinging my neck and hands, damp with rain and salty sweat. Afterwards—immediately afterwards—I must go home, shower, change clothes.

  We were standing close together on a narrow, cluttered landing. To our left w
as a short flight of stairs leading up to the kitchen. I put a forefinger to my face piece, gesturing for silence. We stood motionless. There was no scrape of furtive movement—no sound of coughing.

  Two years before, a berserk veteran of World War II had barricaded himself in a downtown apartment, holed up with a gas mask, an M-1 and hundreds of rounds of ammunition. He’d waited coolly for someone to come and take him.

  He hadn’t coughed, either.

  Slowly, placing my feet carefully, I moved up the stairs, hugging the wall. Behind me, Markham hugged the other side, so that I wouldn’t crash into him, retreating. The thick, eddying gas clouds cast familiar household objects into eerie phantasms, fugitives from Inferno.

  The kitchen door stood a foot ajar. I pushed against it with the muzzle of my revolver. An inch at a time, the door swung open, sucking slow swirls of the yellowish-white gas across the bright-patterned kitchen linoleum.

  Draper sat flat on the floor, propped like a limp rag doll in an angle between a coppertone refrigerator and a gleaming white wall. His hands hung limp and lifeless between widespread legs. His eyes were open; his head was flung flat against one shoulder, as if his neck had been snapped. From his gaping mouth blood still oozed, staining his shirt front like a garish Christmas tie. A yard above his head, the immaculate white wall was splotched with irregular, surrealistic smears of bright red blood and pale, pinkish brain-bits. White fragments of skull bone dappled the still-dripping mess.

  Beside him, on the glass-jeweled floor, lay the rifle. A bit of blood stained the muzzle. Beside the gun lay a single tooth, richly inlaid with gold, bloody at the roots. Recoiling, the rifle must have knocked out the tooth.

  Swallowing hard, I motioned Markham to signal the others. For us, everything was now safe.

  21

  FRIEDMAN OPENED MY CAR’S right-hand door and slid in beside me, exhaling as he pushed back his hat. Across the street, press photographers were stoically hunched inside their raincoats, waiting for their first glimpse of Draper’s blanket-covered body. The rain was only a light, dreary sprinkle now.