Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood by Dane Hartman Page B

but his height alone wasn’t the most distinguishing thing about him. He was massive, and this massiveness was not useless fat and sagging flesh but muscle, sinewy and probably made tougher by rigorous exercise. To be sure, he attracted attention even among a crowd that was partial to eccentric disguises. If his size and weight failed to gain people’s notice, the scythe he carried in his hand certainly did. You could believe that this was Death incarnate, coming to reap his grim harvest this Halloween eve.
    Wherever he walked people drew aside to let him pass. Quite reasonably, no one had any wish, no matter how intoxicated they may have been, to provoke him to a quarrel.
    On spotting him, Owen’s first thought was: Too obvious. This cannot be our man.
    But nonetheless, he proceeded to tail him, staying well behind, which presented no problem as this figure of Death was all too conspicuous.
    At a certain point, however, as the man proceeded at a slow but steady rate it became apparent to Owens that he was headed straight into the park. Golden Gate was just about empty of pedestrians and traffic at this time of night. Although Death never looked back—and Owens never expected him to—it was no longer so easy to shadow him. After awhile they were the only two walking in the same direction. Owens thought of how ridiculous it must look to an outsider; he imagined a painting entitled “Bum Chases Grim Reaper Who Won’t Have Him.”
    Nonetheless, he was still wary and a bit frightened. It might look ridiculous, but he was beginning to think that his instinct had been on target, that whether this was the Mission Street Knifer or not, he was up to some mischief. So that he would run no risk of alerting Death to his true identity Owens turned his radio off. It might be simple paranoia on his part. He didn’t know, but he hoped that Harry would understand his apprehension.
    As they approached the park—with Owens half a block behind his mark—the lights grew fewer. Death at times seemed to be swallowed up in the gloom, but just when Owens figured he’d lost him he reappeared. He was making more noise now as brambles and fallen leaves crumpled noisily under his feet.
    Owens was as quiet as he could be traversing the same terrain, but there was no way of avoiding making some noise. Still, the distance that separated them was such that Death did not notice, or noticing, care to investigate its origin.
    Owens lost track of how much time he had invested in this enterprise. All he knew was that he was being led on a tour of the park that took him, improbably, into the Japanese Tea Garden. The two passed over a hand-carved gateway into the garden proper. Below them Owens could make out the reflecting pools, which were dark. Occasionally, their placid water would be disturbed by a fish coming to the surface, but otherwise these smooth bodies of water were like perfect mirrors, waiting for Death, whose form, hideous and immense, extended across the entire length of one pool.
    Owens looked and saw that his image, too, was visible upon the water of the same pool. For an instant the two reflections collided and merged, but only for an instant. Then Death vanished, from the pool, from the other side of the graceful humpback bridge. All that Owens could make out on the other side were the dwarf trees and the moss-covered rocks but not Death. He could not see how he could have vanished like that, and so continued across the bridge himself, wondering whether he’d been spotted in spite of his precautions, wondering, too, whether Death wasn’t waiting in ambush for him, ready to put his intimidating instrument to use.
    But Owens plodded on, too committed to this venture to allow his fears to deter him. Nowhere was his man Death visible on the bamboo-railed paths, but he felt certain he must be close by. As he kept going, various statues intended to guard the Shinto shrines came into view. And for a moment Owens felt that their sightless