Ded Reckoning (3 page)

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 ambulance 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.

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."  

Hunter says, "Joe.  Hello.  Listen, let me speak.  We, I, have an event on my hands here.  Just happened."

"An event?"

"Yeah, an event.  A friggin' disaster.  Listen.  Let me finish.  Samantha is dead. A guy from the IRA just killed her.  Car bomb.  I got..."

"Sam," blurts Zachary.  For ..."

"Joe, listen.  Yeah, Sam is dead."  He adds the grim details, then, "I got to him, consequently I have some information, but he didn't survive our conversation."

"My God.  How can that be? She's hardly involved."

Hunter reminds Joe, "Well, she is, was involved.  She got all my credentials, cards, cover and stuff for me.  All set up when I arrived here."  He pauses. "As I said, it was an ugly scene.  The bomb was...it was...shit, it blew the damn car in half...and her.  Damn it was...was like a first-over A4 dropped a thousand pounder then the next one made a napalm drop."  Hunter sucks in some air, then back in his icy PRC-10 Company Commander's voice,   "Joe.  The IRA?  That's out of the loop."

Joe interrupts.  "Well, not exactly. The IRA is not in 'this' loop.  However, this is something entirely different, I suspect.  But the prime target, not your termination project, we suspect is using a rogue from PIRA.  Samantha McGee was only a trusted contact for us.  Plus she's ..." he pauses uncomfortably, "or was, family.  But not an agent.   Well," he takes another breath, then coldly asks, "Are the police there?"

"Of course.  This must be San Diego's Hiroshima.  Fortunately, one is an old buddy, friend of mine."

"You have no friends, remember.  Have you spoken to him yet?"

"Not really.  He's coming in the house, shortly."

"Well, don't speak to him, or anyone.  And hang on a minute, don't go away.  I've got to make a call or two.  Take care of business."

Hunter waits.  Opens the closet door and peeks out.  Doesn't see Dee.  Looks out the window, or what was the window, and sees the activity still going on.  The remains have been removed.  More cars and more people than before, and he notices Bradovich in a group talking and pointing.  Hunter continues to survey the scene until he hears Joe say, "I'm back." Joe informs him that he's sending an asset from the area. "The Feds will be on this like ducks on a June bug.  The FBI's SAC from the San Diego office is on the way.   Ours will be there; as a result we'll have an Agency representation.  The teamwork stuff we all talk about."