Part IV
Chapter 38
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When Callahan returned from 'sighting' Stacy and Escobar he dropped to the floor, hitting his head on the side of the piano as he fell. Bullitt stumbled free of the effect and made it to his friend's side, found a thready pulse and went to the kitchen. He found a clean glass and filled it with tap water, then rushed back to Callahan's side.
He was white as a ghost again, but this time Harry's lips and fingernails were deep blue, almost obsidian, and his skin was very cold to the touch. Bullitt held him, coaxed him back and helped him sit up. "You're going to have a bruise on your forehead," Frank said when Harry felt around his face for the source of the sudden pain he felt. "I think you hit the piano when you fell."
"I've never felt like this before," Callahan grumbled as he took the glass of water from Frank. He drank and immediately regretted it; the water tasted foul, almost evil, and he put the glass down after the one sip.
"You've got to have more than that, Harry. Your skin is hard, dried out. If you don't get some water down you're going to get sick. Real sick."
"Tastes bad," Callahan said, his voice almost a whisper now, "almost like something's wrong with it."
Frank smelled the water, shook his head then took a sip. "Nothing wrong with it. Now, drink it or we're heading over to General for an IV."
Callahan drank the water but he almost retched as he finished it. "Tastes bitter," he groaned, "like bitter copper."
"I hate to say this, but we have a problem."
"No kidding."
"What do we do with what we know?"
"Call the Colonel, tell him we overheard the information while we were tracking a suspect. He'll know who to call, what to do with the information."
"You don't think we should...?"
"What? Set a trap for dozens of armed mercenaries trying to kill Reagan? You honestly think we're prepared for that? Two of us against four teams?"
"I see your point."
"This ain't the movies, Frank. No sheriff in a white hat is coming to the rescue."
"You want me to call him?"
"Go ahead. I can't see straight yet."
"See if you can stand up. Let's get you to the sack."
Bullitt helped Callahan slide under the covers, then turned off the lights and went back to the living room, but he didn't call Goodman, at least not right away. He called his sister, told her that Callahan was feeling under the weather and that, maybe, what Callahan really needed was someone to take care of him for a few days. "Think you can handle that?" he asked.
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She was sitting in the lone chair in his apartment, looking out the window down at a moving mass of people cruising between bars when she heard the door rattle. Someone was turning the doorknob, pushing on the door, and she sat bolt upright in the chair, suddenly frozen in fear. The door slid open slowly, she saw the barrel of a gun move into view, then a masked gunman was taking aim...at her...
Callahan jumped up, wiped icy sweat from his face, then he swung his legs out of bed and went to the living room. Evelyn was asleep on the sofa, the front door was closed, the chain on, both locks engaged. He went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, forced himself to drink it, then he went to the chair and sat, watched her sleep.
A moment later he felt her gently shake his shoulder and his head popped up.
"You were snoring," she said softly when he looked up at her. "Why'd you get out of bed?"
"Bad dream," he said, shaking the cobwebs loose. "Wanted a glass of water."
"You? Water? I'm stunned!" she said, grinning.
"It was so real..."
"What? Your dream?"
"Uh-huh. Someone coming in the front door, with a shotgun..."
"Here? In the apartment?"
"Yeah." He got out of his chair and walked over to the closet, got the Smith and Wesson out of his shoulder holster and checked the cylinder, made sure it was loaded, then he carried it back to his chair.
"What's that for?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Just a feeling."
"A feeling? Do you get feelings like this often?"
Again, he shook his head - this time more slowly - but he canted his head just so, turned his good ear toward the door. "Go to the bedroom," he whispered urgently, "now!"
She looked at him, wondered if he was indeed some kind of schizophrenic but thought better of arguing with a man holding a 44 Magnum in his lap, so she stood and moved quietly into the bedroom, almost closing the door as she disappeared inside.
He sat in the darkness, he ears following movements up the stairs, then he heard the scratching of metal on metal...someone picking his lock...first the knob, then the deadbolt - which slid open with a little thud - then the door slid open...bolt cutters cut the flimsy little chain and he saw the barrel of an 870 pump glide through the slit...
She heard it happening, of course. First the locks failing, then the little chain falling, and she remembered thinking this had to be some kind of nightmare just as Callahan's 44 barked once, then a second and a third time. She heard running and one more explosion, this time a different kind of gun firing, then Harry's 44 barking two more times...only this time far away, like down the stairs or out in the street. She realized she was holding her breath, that her eyes were tightly shut when she heard a last shot fired from Harry's 44...
Then she heard sirens, heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, Harry cursing as he turned on a light and she burst from the room and ran into his arms, holding him close and kissing his face a thousand times.
Then she felt his trembling, his icy skin, and she pulled back, saw he was bleeding from a wound on his face, two more on his chest and she helped him into the chair...
"Don't touch anything," he said calmly. "And call Frank, tell him what happened."
"Can I touch the phone?"
"Yeah. Call him right now."
She heard cop cars screeching to a stop outside, then men running up the stairs and pushing into the room, angry cops with their revolvers drawn, flashlights scanning...
"Inspector Callahan?" one of them said. "Is that you?"
"Collins? Yeah, it's me. Get an ambulance, would you? I think I've been shot..."
The room was spinning now, everything was turning white, a bright, shimmering white, and he felt the world falling away...like he was soaring free, breaking away and flying high above all his worldly cares.
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Then he was falling, flames everywhere, his world filled with the sounds of metal hitting the earth in a glancing blow, sliding metal on tree limbs and burning brush crushed underneath his wrecked Huey, wet mud giving way as his ship slid into the swamp a few hundred yards from C-Meds' perimeter walls. The smell of jet fuel everywhere, coating everything, and he saw huge white snakes sliding through the grass, their red eyes looking into his, and he pushed his way up through the wreckage, up onto the right side of the burning Huey. McCall? Where is McCall? He looked down, down into the grass and now the snakes were coming for him, their mouths up and open, white fangs glistening in the moonlight, pink forked tongues probing ahead, seeking release in his flesh...
"I've got a pulse," he heard someone far away say.
