Ded Reckoning Read Free

his house and the stench of the still smoldering and smoking vehicle.
    It's sunrise now.  A slight breeze from the northwest isn't cooling these canyons.  The humidity already over eighty percent.  Hunter is shiny in perspiration.  Visibility is easily five or more miles.  To the south he can clearly see awakening lights in Mission Bay.
    He mutters, "Goin' to be a pretty day for most people."  He pauses.  Then, as if an oath, "But coyote ugly days coming for some others."
    He's more careful in his footfall now than during the chase.  However, still in jockey shorts he doesn't allow his bare feet to inhibit some haste. After re-crossing the mesa he starts the seven foot climb up the embankment to Arcola Street as marked SDPD patrol cars, unmarked faded and dented detectives' cars, two fire engines, and an ambulance skid to a halt. Sirens whine down, red and blue lights still flashing as first responders leap forth into a controlled frenzy of methodical action.  Distant sirens herald the arrival of others. Only the beach at Tarawa could have been more chaotic, noisy and cluttered.
    Hunter mutters, "I'm gonna look just a little suspect here."  He pleads to the lightening sky, "Abba, let Bradovich be here."
    Hunter climbs over the cul-de-sac barricade and is met by two on-edge uniformed police officers, weapons out and pointing center mass at Hunter.  They shout in unison, "HALT. HANDS UP AND OUT FRONT."  Followed by one officer, circling to one side and calling out, "GET ON THE GROUND.  NOW.  GET DOWN, NOW."
    With a sigh and frown, Hunter, in bare feet, gingerly halts.  Hands go out and up, palms open and forward.  He's about to lower himself to the ground in a prone position when he hears, "WHOA.  WAIT ONE.  HANG ON."  A slight pause, then, "What the hell are you doing here...looking like this, Kerrigan?"  It's Detective Eugene Bradovich.  A former Marine Criminal Investigation Department (CID) agent and friend of Hunter's, now with the San Diego Police Department.  Bradovich still has his high and tight Marine haircut but has added a few inches to his once-trim waistline.  He's Hunter's height, but softer probably caused from too many fast-food  cheeseburgers and as a result of his reputation as a ladies' man.
    The two patrolmen remain poised.  Arms extended, weapons held with two hands, still pointed center mass.  At the ready, until Bradovich steps over, pushes their arms down to their sides.  First one, then the other, saying, "Guys, easy.  I know this man...damn well."  The officers step back, weapons down but still held by both hands, arms forming a triangle in front of them.  Tense.   Still ready.
    Bradovich continues, "Hunter, what the hell is going on?"  He half turns and looks at the still burning car. Then the car door and torso hanging on the split rail fence.  Turns back to Hunter, "Jesus, Kerrigan, what the hell happened here?"
    Hunter says, "Car bombing," pointing at wires leading away.  Then, "Brad, let me get inside and put some clothes on.  In the meantime, the guy that did this ran down the mesa and jumped over the edge trying to escape.  I believe he's dead.  He's lying at the bottom by the metal building.  He blew the car...wires strung down the barricade here and out onto the mesa."  Hunter again pointing to the various spots he's mentioned.  He looks to the fence, grimaces and mutters, "Jesus, I was out saying goodbye to her.  My date," his eyes flashing watery anger.  Then asks, "Let me get dressed?  Okay?  Then come inside.  I rent here now. In that house with all the friggin' shattered windows ... and shrapnel and crap on the roof.  Looks like my command bunker."
    Before Bradovich can respond, Dee dashes up, sandals flopping, and hugs Hunter.  While sobbing, yet still in her contralto, raspy voice and mixed languages, " Mamma mia!  Che macello . My God."