Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill by Dane Hartman Page A

we’re not about to take you to the hospital, Max.”
    Max glowered at her. He’d expected better. Maybe he’d had vision of walking off into the sunset with Wendy, leaving a spoor of blood behind him. Could be he’d provoked this fight just to attract her attention. Whatever his motive it wasn’t working.
    He grunted and walked away from them. Harry wondered when he was going to start registering the pain.
    “He’ll be all right,” Wendy said as though this was the sort of assurance Harry was seeking. “He’s always doing shit like this.”
    “It seems I’m already getting into practice saving his life. The way it looks to me it could become a full-time occupation.”
    “I do appreciate this, Harry.”
    He stopped her. “Wendy, I haven’t said yes yet. You’re not paying attention.”
    She shrugged, no longer interested in discussing the subject. “You hungry?”
    Harry wasn’t. In fact, he’d just about run clear out of energy. Intervening on Max’s behalf had done him in. He felt shaky, his legs might just as well have turned into jelly for all the support they gave him.
    “You’re looking very pale,” Wendy remarked. “Maybe you should’ve stayed in the hospital.”
    “I’m not going back there. The food they serve you is shit. Doesn’t just taste bad, it’s positively unhealthy. Griddlecakes and bacon for breakfast? Make you sick all over again. Though I suppose it’s good for repeat business. No, all I need is just a good night’s sleep.”
    “Where do you live?”
    “I brought my car, no problem.”
    “You’re in no condition to drive. I’ll take you home.” She held up her hand, unwilling to listen to any protests. “My car’s right here.” She gestured to the cocoa-colored BMW, which sparkled brilliantly in the dying sunlight.
    Since she seemed so determined, and since he felt so drained, he did not offer any further resistence. He got in the BMW, settled back against the welcoming upholstery, and promptly fell asleep.
    Day or night? No telling, not with the shades down and the curtains drawn. And hardly a noise from the street to indicate the hour: a car passing, a dog’s plaintive bark, that was it. Any other sounds were blotted out by the monotonous whirring of the fan that was planted in one of the far windows.
    Though Harry had no recollection of getting out of Wendy’s BMW and mounting the stairs to his apartment and crawling into bed, it was obvious that he had done all these things. Because he was in bed, caught between oblivion and half-wakefulness. A weird pain was moving up his leg and settling into his thigh. The more awake he became the more of it there’d be.
    Gradually, through the haze, he became aware that he was not alone in the room, and as soon as that thought impressed itself upon him, he reacted instinctively and groped for his gun. It was where he usually placed it—no matter how enfeebled he got he always knew enough to keep a weapon within reach of his bed.
    His action only produced a fit of giggles. Standing at the door to the bathroom was Wendy, a disarming smile on her face and nothing on her body. In the partial darkness she was more shadow than flesh, a triumph of the human body. “Are you going to shoot me?”
    Harry didn’t answer. Feeling foolish, he put the gun down.
    Approaching the bed, she moved quietly, almost stealthily, as though she expected her husband or one of her husband’s spies to ambush her. Suddenly recalling Harold’s vendetta against Max, and all those who would steal Wendy away from him, Harry wondered if he hadn’t been right to grab hold of the gun before determining who there was available to use it on.
    It was, however, enormously difficult keeping Harold or his vendetta in mind as he looked at Wendy. Truth was he didn’t just look at her, he studied her. Her skin, he saw now that she was closer to him, was dusky, tanned everywhere from her long afternoons of sunbathing. A trickle of perspiration was visible