Magnum Force: Harry

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If you’re new to Harry and Johnny fandom, you might want to read Introducing Harry and Johnny first.

The prequel to this novel is Magnum Force: Davis.

Harry and Johnny fandom (known as H/J) was a beloved offshoot of the Starsky and Hutch fandom that was powered by Ruth Kurz‘ love for David Soul and Clint Eastwood. Ruth, with Teri White, invented the Harry and Johnny universe because she couldn’t bear to see David Soul’s character, John Davis, die at the end of the movie.  Harry and Johnny grew from this small idea into a shared universe of over 40 zines that were still being published in 1991. Ruth wrote much of the fiction and created a shared universe with canon, such as a timeline, for that ship, and recruited other fans to join. You can find out more about H/J’s origins on Fanlore and Ruth’s philosophy about her fandom. You can also read a more detailed introduction to H/J fandom here.

Special thanks must go to Evil Lynn, Strohller27, and Lisa A for their help with image searches, drawing Johnny’s glasses, and proofreading.

Magnum Force: Harry begins near the start of the movie, Magnum Force, just before Harry Callahan (played by Clint Eastwood) meets John Davis (played by David Soul) and his three friends at the San Francisco Police Department firing range. While the continuing story takes us through the actions of the movie–and behind the scenes as well, it does so from a slash fan’s point of view.

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MAGNUM FORCE: HARRY

Between the Lines

by Ruth Kurz

 

Seeing Harry, instead of
The Callahan Image.

(1973)

Special thanks to Teri White
for the original
“first time” scene.

Further thanks
JL MW AW DMc

A production of
AD NAUSEUM PRESS

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MAGNUM FORCE: HARRY
Between the Lines

by Ruth Kurz

“I remember when I saw you the first time,
And that bashful little smile you gave to me.
And you were so embarrassed when
I asked your name and told you mine.
I remember when I saw you the first time.

I remember when I kissed you the first time,
And the thrill of your soft sweet lips on mine.
Baby you were so inviting,
Loving you was so exciting,
I remember when I kissed you the first time.

I remember when I touched you the first time,
And held your tender body so close to mine.
The moment when we came together,
I knew our love would last forever.
I remember when I touched you the first time.”
—Hart

 

Harry Callahan shook his head as Charlie McCoy tore out of the police parking lot after nearly running him down, his frustrated words still echoing. “A hood can kill a cop, but let a cop kill a hood…. Am I right?”

There goes one fucked-up cop. The thought bothered him, as the Ricca killing rose unbidden in his mind again. Callahan pushed it aside and went down the ramp to the underground range, equipment bag in his hand. The muffled sound of gunfire brought a frown. Who the hell’s down here this late? He wondered, resenting the intrusion on what he considered his private time for practice.

Harry pushed open the door and walked in. A tall blond in the uniform of a motorcycle cop was watching three others reload. Still annoyed, Callahan barely registered the introductions, as the traffic rookies stepped back to let him fire. With the added incentive of an audience, he placed six shots well, enjoying the admiring comments.

Callahan smugly offered his .44 Magnum to the closest rookie, amused when Davis said, “Don’t drop it.”

Davis, he remembered, glancing at the young face, the shadowed eyes; then Harry’s attention was riveted on the target, as the other kid placed a set of rapid-fire shots neatly into the silhouette with a skill obviously not acquired at the academy. Callahan’s surprise grew as the youngster explained that they had all learned to shoot in the army—Special Forces—and the others were even better shots, especially the baby-faced blond.

“Davis is just dog nuts. He’s a lot better,” Sweet said, looking proudly toward his friend—who actually blushed at the praise like a 12-year-old at summer camp.

Christ.

Harry found it hard to keep his attention on the conversation, as his eyes continually returned to the embarrassed Davis. When the four rookies left, Callahan stood at the rail shaking his head, wondering why the meeting had affected him so much.

Callahan had little time to contemplate the welcome addition of four such skilled shooters to the department. The gangland murders of a swimming pool full of people—just when Carol McCoy was telling him his old friend Charlie was ready for a straitjacket—claimed his attention. Unofficially.

Having made Lt. Briggs’ shit list, Callahan was no longer in Homicide. Nevertheless, he involved himself in investigating the killings, spending his spare time following up on his growing suspicion that a flipped-out Charlie McCoy was trying to administer his own brand of justice to the underworld.

On duty, he had to attend to his stakeout assignment. At the drugstore where his new partner, Early Smith, was working undercover, Callahan watched through the one-way window. A group of men entered, pulled guns, and held them on the storekeepers and Harry’s partner, demanding money. Waiting for a clear shot, Callahan finally fired, and with Early’s help, eliminated them quickly.

The two detectives returned to headquarters for the inevitable reports.

“You handled yourself real well tonight,” Callahan complimented his partner.

“You work close. Man, do you work close,” Smith said, shaking his head.

They nearly bumped into the four traffic rookies Harry had met at the range, exiting the building with bowling bags.

“Hey, where’re you guys off to?” Early asked, earning a smartass answer from Davis, who held up his bowling bag.

“You know those guys?” Harry asked, his eyes following the shining hair until it was lost in the darkness. He almost missed Early’s remark.

“…the academy after me. They stick together like flypaper, ya know? Everybody thought they were queer for each other.”

“I’ll tell you something,” Harry said evenly. “If the rest of you could shoot like them, I wouldn’t care if the whole damned department was queer.”

Queer. Gay.

He wondered about that, trying to picture Davis with one of the other rookies. Or maybe they liked four-way tangles. He realized suddenly that his knowledge of the gay world was limited, never having worked vice. Oh, he’d been in gay bars, but was usually too busy with his investigations to pay much attention to the men dancing together, holding hands, kissing. The thought of Davis kissing a man caused a strange twinge in his stomach. Hell, what business was it of his, anyway? As long as he kept it off duty.

Callahan shrugged it off and followed Early into the squadroom, where they settled down to write the fucking reports.

The Asian girl was pretty, but if she hadn’t knocked at his door, Harry probably wouldn’t have looked at her twice. He’d been feeling vaguely horny lately, so invited her in. They were sharing beer and warm glances when the telephone rang. It was like a cold shower.

Briggs’ voice did nothing to cheer him, nor the order to come immediately to the morgue, but he was glad to hear that he and Early were back in Homicide.

At the morgue it became apparent that their reprieve had been Captain Avery’s idea. The lieutenant barely suppressed his hostility as the captain told Harry to work with Briggs on the recent murders, explaining that although an officer had been at the scene immediately after each one, none had seen anything.

“Who was the officer on this one?” Harry asked, looking at the body of the pimp beside that of the prostitute who had worked for him.

“A patrolman. Sweet. Wasn’t it, Briggs?”

Briggs nodded.

“Sweet seems like a good man,” Harry said, acknowledging the kid’s shooting skill, then said he’d check ballistics in the morning.

“You’re wasting your time,” Briggs snorted.

“Well, it takes me time, Briggs,” Harry told him. “A man has to know his limitations.”

Harry returned to his little apartment and found it still occupied by the girl. What the hell, he decided, crossing the room.

“You’re my first cop,” she said, sliding into his arms.

“Guess that’ll be two firsts tonight, won’t it?” he whispered in return, wondering why he felt mildly dissatisfied when he ought to be grateful for the rare opportunity.

***

In spite of Callahan’s instincts and evidence that indicated the killer was posing as a cop, Briggs kept him stuck on a useless stakeout, watching a supposed suspect. On his own time, Callahan discovered that Charlie McCoy was indeed acting like a crazy man, threatening others as well as playing Russian Roulette himself.

Frustrated by the stakeout, Callahan left cover and followed his quarry, unable to resist harassing him. The inspector soon found himself in Briggs’ office being chewed out for blowing the stakeout.

“What’ll I tell Avery?” Briggs shouted at him.

With a resigned grimace Callahan said, “Tell him it’s a traffic cop.”

Briggs looked startled, then his look changed to scorn. “D’you expect me to believe that a traffic cop is killing off all the top criminals in the city?” His eyes darted toward the closed door of his private bathroom.

Harry wondered if the idea sickened him.

“Who?” Early asked.

“It’s Charlie McCoy,” Callahan said reluctantly, noticing the way Briggs’ face relaxed at the name. “He’s ready for the rubber gun squad, and even tried to kill himself.”

“Harry,” Briggs said, his voice softer, less hostile. “Guzman was hit today. A cop was killed. It was Charlie McCoy.”

Callahan was stunned. “McCoy?”

“Yes,” Briggs insisted. “Charlie McCoy. I was just about to call his wife, or you can if you want to. I know he had kids.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, still not quite believing it. “Who reported it?” he asked after a moment.

“Davis.”

The name hit him hard. “Davis? What happened to the DiGeorgio stakeout team?”

“Davis just happened to be going by. McCoy was already dead when he got there.”

“Any witnesses?”

“None.”

Harry took a deep breath. “I’ll make that call.” He left in a daze as Briggs escorted Early out of his office, and down the hall in the opposite direction.

***

Carol hadn’t sounded surprised when he told her.

I guess she’s been expecting something for a long time, he decided, hanging up the phone and heading for the elevators.

Lost in thought, Callahan didn’t notice for a moment that he was no longer alone. He turned and saw Davis, whose face flamed with embarrassment the moment Harry’s eyes met his.

Probably because he’s the one who found McCoy. Knows he was my friend.

“Hello, Davis,” he ventured. “I understand you reported McCoy’s killing.”

The kid walked over. “Yes, sir. If only I had been a few minutes earlier.” He looked genuinely regretful.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. The elevator arrived and they rode down in uncomfortable silence. Callahan studied the obviously embarrassed young face until Davis escaped his scrutiny on the main floor. Harry continued to the garage and over to the scene of Charlie’s murder.

***

Callahan took Carol to the airport with Charlie’s coffin. Davis accompanied them, taking charge of the children for the grieving widow. Hell, the kid had barely known Charlie, but looked as grief-stricken as the rest of them. Like Carol said, he was a nice young man. As the car drove away to the passenger terminal, Harry turned to the somber blond, whose eyes were miserable behind dark glasses

“Well, it was nice of you to come out. You didn’t have to do that.”

“If I’d been there sooner, he might still be alive,” the kid repeated with obvious discomfort. “He didn’t deserve to get it that way.” The boy sighed and looked away. “If there’s anything I can do… I feel responsible somehow.” He seemed almost to choke on the words.

As they walked back to the car together, Davis lit another cigarette. Christ, the kid had been chain-smoking except while they were with Carol. Callahan watched him crumple the empty pack and toss it into a refuse can for a perfect two points. Sure enough, half-way to town Davis was patting his pockets again, searching.

“I… I need some cigarettes, sir,” he said apologetically.

Callahan pulled off the freeway and stopped in front of a bowling alley he’d occasionally frequented—with Charlie McCoy. He sighed, and glanced at the young man beside him, suddenly glad of his company.

“What the hell, Davis. Let’s have a quick beer.”

The kid’s face broke into a huge smile, and Harry noticed how blue his eyes were, now that the sunglasses were replaced by the thick lenses he’d worn the first time they’d met. “That’s a fine idea, sir,” the kid said, and Harry felt good for the first time in too long. He almost smiled.

The couples they’d passed on their way inside suddenly started yelling, a girl screaming for help. Callahan raced out, gratified to see Davis had responded just as quickly, and together they mopped up the would-be muggers attacking the couples whose defense had been ineffectual.

To Harry’s surprise Davis angrily began to shout at the passive bystanders.

“…How much longer do you intend to put up with these two-bit criminals? How much longer will you be indifferent? How much longer?”

Callahan stared at him, and the kid flushed.

Jesus. It sure doesn’t take much to embarrass him, he thought, pleased that his reputation and standing could do that to the rookie. You’d think I was the chief he’d just spouted off in front of.

The arrival of a squad car cut off his line of thinking, as he ordered an ambulance. “Read ’em their rights, Paterson,” he told one officer as both prisoners were cuffed where they lay.

Callahan moved over to the victims, one of whom was resting against Davis, trying to catch his breath.

“He took a bad beating, sir,” the rookie explained, looking up at Harry through those thick glasses that made his eyes seem larger than life.

Callahan glanced at the man’s girlfriend who was holding his hand and sobbing. Useless. A man needs strength when he’s down, not a whimpering liability. He clapped Davis lightly on the shoulder, proud of the job he’d done. The kid had potential.

Paterson walked over. “Hey, Harry, how about the reports on these guys?”

“I’ll be down to handle it,” he promised.

The officer looked skeptical, but left with the prisoners as the ambulance loaded the victims, one attendant carefully writing down names.

Everything was under control for the moment, Callahan decided. He turned to Davis. Steering him by one elbow, he said, “Let’s get that beer.”

It felt good sitting in the bar with the quiet young man beside him—a cop like Charlie used to be in the old days. He sighed, aware that Davis was watching him. The kid had done well in the fray. He deserved a better conversationalist, but all Harry could think of was his late, spaced-out friend. Finally, he spoke. “The guy who shot Charlie did him a favor.”

Davis choked on his beer, gasping.

Callahan apologized, realizing that was hardly the thing to say after the man’s funeral. The kid must think he was insensitive, or something. He tried to explain how Charlie was towards the end, how he wanted to go down fighting, to die with his boots on. But lately all he could do was get angry with the system, shouting at people, like the kid had just done outside.

Oh, shit. I made him blush again.

“I… I just get frustrated when they won’t fight back,” Davis stammered.

Callahan tried to make him feel better, telling him his suspicions that Charlie was the one killing off the hoods. “I could almost understand why he would. It’s a darned sight less futile than the legal way.” He sighed. “Come on, kid, we’ve got to get back. The typewriter’s waiting.” He stood, watching as the tall blond finished his beer hurriedly and rose gracefully to follow him. Harry smiled and headed for the door, feeling like a member of the human race again.

This kid has potential—hell, with a little supervision, he could be another Dirty Harry.

***

Callahan had plenty of time to think about the kid as he and Early sat on yet another stupid stakeout. Damn Briggs anyhow. The guy they were watching was far more likely to be the next victim than the one doing the killings. So maybe they’d catch the killer. If it wasn’t McCoy, who else looked like a cop and shot that well?

He frowned as a vision of four rookies rose in his mind. Traffic cops. And it had to be someone dressed like one, at least in the case of the executed pimp. Hell, the hundred-dollar bill around the license indicated that. The man had died trying to bribe somebody—and he hadn’t even had a chance to fire his hidden gun. That somebody was fast and accurate.

He didn’t like the way his thoughts were going, but Sweet had been the first on the scene, reporting the dead pimp. And Davis had reported McCoy. “Damn.”

“S’matter?” Early asked.

Callahan sighed. “Nothing. Just that sometimes being a fucking detective stinks. You start suspecting friends.”

“Hey, Harry. Don’t sweat it, man. It’s gotta be somebody dressed like a cop. Hell, the way McCoy was acting anybody coulda come to the same conclusion eventually.”

Harry didn’t bother to correct the assumption that he’d been thinking about McCoy. He just went back to brooding.

***

The day of the outdoor pistol championship match was beautiful, but the sunshine did nothing to dispel the gloom spreading through Callahan as he grimly went through his paces on the line, ignoring the compliments he was receiving. All he could think about was his unwelcome suspicions regarding Davis and his friends. DiGeorgio did nothing to calm them with his “the kid came out of nowhere.”

He was distracted by the arrival of Phil Sweet, who congratulated him on what was probably going to be the winning score, but Harry saw the barely disguised pride when the kid went on to say, “The only person now that has a chance is Davis.” It was a warning not to be too cocky, and Harry turned to watch the man he’d been keeping an eye on all afternoon.

Davis stood ready, his hair gold like the sunshine, and the blue shirt matched the sky.

Harry shook off such thoughts and watched as the kid went smoothly through the course, flawlessly. Like a stalking lion bearing down on his prey. Breathtaking.

DiGeorgio looked surprised. “I think the kid beat you, Harry.”

“It happens,” Callahan said, clenching his teeth as the range­master announced the tie and coming shoot-off. He was a cop on a case, and it was his job to gather evidence whether he wanted to or not. He called for the combat course, and Davis fired a perfect score.

On his way past Callahan, he whispered, “Good luck, sir.”

Harry could see the already familiar flush on the fair skin, but put all thoughts of friendship out of his mind as he stepped up to the line. He shot through the course perfectly, but when the target of a policeman rose, he decided to make his point once and for all. He drilled it neatly through the head.

The expected chorus of shocked disbelief hit his ears. “Good guy. The last one was a good guy.”

Was it? Harry hoped fervently that it was, and that his gut feeling for once was wrong. Heart heavy, he walked over to Davis to complete his charade.

The kid seemed embarrassed at winning in spite of the “Good going, Johnny,” and “Great job, Johnny,” his friends were pounding into him.

“Mind if I try it?” Callahan asked, indicating the winning revolver.

Davis politely, even eagerly obliged, and Harry fired six shots, carefully aiming one for the soft wood of the target frame.

Callahan walked back and handed the gun to Davis, aware of the warmth of the hand as he spoke. “Not bad. I seem to have lost the last one,” he said, his eyes on the bowed head, as the kid holstered it.

Davis answered abstractedly, “You get used to it.”

“Yeah, I can see how you would at that,” Callahan agreed, not seeing at all, as he thought of the repeated killings done by Special Forces soldiers, that seemed to tally all too well with the current rash of bloodshed. He turned away.

Not Johnny, he told himself. It can’t be this soft-eyed kid who flushes at the drop of a word. Not Johnny.

***

Later that night with flashlight in hand, Callahan dug the bullet out of the wooden frame, and with steps just as wooden went to ballistics to compare it with the slugs from Charlie McCoy’s body. The results turned his stomach.

Early came into the darkened ballistics room, complaining that Harry’s five minutes was already half an hour. It hadn’t seemed so long. He stared at the incriminating bullet in his hand, trying to believe that because all the lines didn’t match perfectly, he could be wrong, knowing he wasn’t. He barely heard Early’s invitation to dinner.

“Uh, no thanks. Just saw something that killed my appetite.” He sighed, put back the McCoy evidence, and pocketed the bullet. Walking out with Early, he asked, “Did you ever like somebody you hardly even know?”

Early grinned. “You,” he said. Callahan snorted off the compliment as Early continued. “You mean that young kid Davis?”

Harry was startled. “What makes you think I meant him?”

“No mystery, Harry. I was watching you this afternoon when he was shooting. You looked like a proud father, or something.” Early smiled. “He remind you of when you were a rookie?”

Callahan tipped his head thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess maybe he does at that, except I don’t think I ever looked that naïve, innocent.” He frowned at the incongruity as the bullet felt heavy in his pocket.

Early laughed. “Yeah. For a protégé of Dirty Harry, he sure looks wet behind the ears.”

Protégé. Yes. That would explain the way he’d been feeling ever since he’d met the kid. Damn. Why the hell couldn’t he be the innocent he seemed? What a fucked-up world. It hadda be the friggin’ war. Special Forces. Shit. Assassin squad for the government, taking babies out of high school and turning them into killers. He stopped suddenly.

“Uh, you go ahead home, Early. I wanta check something.”

“What about our stakeout for Briggs?”

“Forget it. I’ll talk to Briggs.” He clenched his teeth. “I’ve got an idea that might convince him how useless it is.” He turned, leaving Early staring at him, and walked to R&I, pulling the files on four rookie policemen.

***

Tom “Red” Astrachan, age 23, from Houston had nothing but commendations from his army superiors who found him a conscientious, obedient soldier, competent to carry out even the most delicate assignments.

Yeah. Eliminating subversives, Callahan thought grimly.

Mike Grimes, 27, from Pennsylvania, an unexceptional soldier, but apparently brave. He’d worked for army intelligence, including sensitive infiltration work regarding traitors and saboteurs.

Like sneaking up on a private estate and bombing the swimming pool, Callahan speculated when he noticed in the file that Grimes had been the one to report that. Surprise, surprise.

Philip Sweet, 25, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. His father, had been mayor of Oakdale, and his mother was extremely active in community and church affairs. One notation indicated he had a stringent Catholic upbringing, which led to seeking psychiatric counseling while at LSU because of a guilt trauma following his first sexual relations with a student from Sweden.

There was no mention of the sex of this student, Harry noticed.

Sweet’s service record was unblemished except for one drunken brawl, for which he received six months’ probation, and was balanced by a long string of citations. As with the other records, the details on what he did for military intelligence were sparse. A newspaper clipping showed Sweet to be active politically both for the war in Indochina and against the hard-core criminal elements destroying America through permissiveness in the judicial system.

Finally, Harry picked up the file of John Davis. It was pretty sketchy. He grew up in Michigan as an orphan and enlisted in the army at eighteen. After his second hitch he came to San Francisco, where his Special Forces buddies were already on the department. He applied, was accepted, and graduated highest in his academy class.

Harry noted his birthdate. In August he’d be 27, and already he was a killer several times over. They all were.

“Babies,” Callahan muttered in disgust, not quite sure where his anger lay. Mostly with the army, he thought.

Just before closing Davis’ file, Harry’s eye caught a commendation describing the rookie as “the most outstanding young officer to join the department in years, and one from whom we can expect great things.” It was written by, of all people, Detective Lieutenant Inspector Neil Briggs.

Harry didn’t know which hurt worse, that the accurate words came from that mealy-mouthed son-of-a-bitch—or that Johnny had let him down.

***

On his way home, Callahan drove by the address listed for Davis. The light was on upstairs, so he pulled the car to the curb and turned it off, wondering if he expected the kid to hang a sign in his window. “I killed McCoy. Come and get me.” Harry snorted at his own illogic, but it hurt so damned bad. No matter how much he didn’t want the kid to be a killer, there was no changing the markings on the bullet burning a hole in his pocket.

A shadow caught his eye and Callahan looked up to see Sweet standing by the window, shirt unbuttoned. Taking a deep drag on his cigarette, the young man stared thoughtfully out into the night. Callahan wondered what he was thinking about. His next hit?

A second figure moved up next to Sweet and Harry caught his breath. Davis, wrapped in a bathrobe, reached out and touched Sweet’s arm. As the pensive man turned, Davis smiled, a soft smile, inviting. Sweet let himself be led out of sight, and in moments the light went out.

Callahan sat there a few minutes, staring at the darkened window, trying to analyze the crazy mixture of feelings in his belly. He finally chalked it up to anger, righteous indignation that these two queer killers could enjoy themselves while he, the beleaguered knight, sat outside. Alone.

It wasn’t fair.

He sighed deeply and started the car.

Briggs seemed only mildly interested in the ballistics comparison, so Callahan decided not to tell where he’d got the bullet just yet. Besides, the man was hot to raid the Palancio warehouse in the morning, certain this would wrap up the killings. Harry hoped he was right. Hell, it didn’t hurt to hope.

“By the way, I’d like to have Davis and Sweet as my back-ups tomorrow,” Callahan said, wanting to keep an eye on them. He wasn’t sure what it would prove.

“Davis and Sweet. They’re just rookies.”

“Well, you drum up somebody in the department who can shoot as well and I’ll use them,” he said by way of explanation.

“Damnit, there isn’t supposed to be any shooting. Besides, they don’t have the experience yet for a job like this.”

Callahan doubted that, but insisted, “How the hell’s a man supposed to get experience if nobody gives him a chance?” Then he added wryly, “And Davis is the new pistol champion.” He hoped to learn more about those two, not liking to be wrong in his judgment of character, grasping at straws.

***

The pre-dawn Sunday morning found Callahan and the entire raid assembled in the police garage, alert, ready. Having warned a puzzled Early to watch Davis and Sweet, Harry listened to Brigg’s orders. Then he turned to the rookies.

“You boys ready?”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused.

“Thank you for requesting us.”

“We won’t let you down.”

“I’m counting on that,” Callahan said, giving Early a look before walking to his car.

Callahan, stationed at the rear of the building, wasn’t sure what he’d expected to learn about the two suspected assassins, but he hadn’t planned to set them up. Someone had already done that. The sneak attack was no secret, and shooting started immediately as the two young rookies tried to serve their warrants.

For long minutes Harry couldn’t breathe, wondering, fearing that the blond killer was dead. He should be relieved, he reminded himself, moving angrily toward the building, determined to avenge the kid’s death. Shotguns and revolvers pounded away out front, with answering machinegun fire from the warehouse. Callahan silenced a couple of the snipers who were firing out the back of the building, and worked his way around.

The gunfire stopped, and in the eerie silence that followed, Callahan heard a car start up. In moments it bashed through the garage door, right at him. Harry lunged for the hood and clung desperately to the windshield wipers for a wild ride, falling off just before the car crashed into a bunch of horizontal steel pipes, and a supporting beam punched through the windshield.

Callahan struggled wearily to his feet and walked over. The driver, Palancio, had been decapitated. Harry reached in and turned off the engine, then turned around.

Oblivious to the chaos around him, John Davis sat in the middle of the street holding the obviously dead body of Sweet in his arms.

Harry felt his heart lift to see the kid alive, and watched as he rocked back and forth, tears streaming down his face. Medics pried the body out of Davis’ arms and put it into an ambulance, the kid following. Only after the vehicle was out of sight did Callahan realize someone was tugging at his arm, trying to guide him into an emergency wagon. He angrily pulled free and walked over to Early.

“I don’t need a fucking ambulance,” he growled.

“Then I’ll drive you,” Early insisted, practically shoving Harry into the car.

Callahan didn’t protest. Besides, he needed the time to think.

Smith wisely let him alone, but when they pulled up to the emergency entrance, he made the mistake of grabbing a wheelchair and suggesting Harry ride in it.

“Fuck the wheelchair.” He stormed into the E.R., knowing his anger was directed not at Early, but at the nameless manipulator who had set them up, probably hoping they’d all be killed instead of just Sweet. It was now obvious that the ringleader wasn’t Sweet or Davis, but he didn’t know who it could be.

Briggs charged into the room, chewing Callahan out royally for causing the shooting gallery, ignoring Harry’s response that he’d merely shot back, and his theory that they’d been set up.

Briggs bought none of it. “If I have my way, Callahan, you won’t make another arrest as long as you live.” He then demanded the bullet Harry had shown him the previous day.

“I ran that through ballistics. It’s nothing,” Harry told him, wondering why he was lying. Just because the guy’s a bastard, he decided. “The rifling’s totally different.”

Besides, he wanted to check it out his own way. There had to be another explanation. He’d seen Davis sitting in the waiting room. Grief stricken. No cold-blooded killer could care so much about life, could he?

Briggs was still insisting on the bullet.

Expecting this, Callahan dug into his pocket, pulled out a different one and tossed it at Briggs. “Eat it,” he said coldly.

The man stormed out.

Callahan let the doctor finish his stitching, then left.

Early was waiting for him. As they walked past the ER waiting room, Harry noticed the rookie had gone.

Damnit, there’s no room in this business for sentiment. He wondered whose he meant.

Regardless, he owed it to his partner to warn him what was going down. Regretfully he filled Early in on all his suspicions, giving him the slug from Davis’ gun, explaining that it matched the ones that killed Charlie.

“Davis?” Early said with shock. “But that’s insane.”

Harry only wished it were. He warned Early that Sweet had been sacrificed and they were next if he was right. “If I’m sacrificed, take that bullet to Briggs.”

“Okay.” Early frowned. “What happens if they get both of us?”

“Then they win.” But he wondered who ‘they’ were. It wasn’t Davis. It couldn’t be Johnny. “Take care of yourself, understand?” Callahan said at last, and drove home.

Just outside his apartment Callahan was hailed by Sunny, the Asian girl, who offered to bring up some beer. He wasn’t really in the mood, but agreed, then drove down the ramp into his underground garage. As he got out of his car, a familiar voice spoke quietly.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to prosecute a cop?”

Callahan turned and saw Davis, blond hair curling out from under his white helmet, eyes hidden behind the sunglasses again. He looked like some avenging angel, seated on his motorcycle with his two buddies beside him—a trio of terrorists, more terrible because they believed what they were doing was righteous, just, for the good of the city. What was worse, Harry couldn’t quite blame them for feeling that way. He didn’t believe in it, but he could understand how they felt.

He listened to Davis mouth the persuasive words as if reciting some CIA propaganda.

“You’re either for us or against us,” Grimes said bluntly.

No in-between. “I’m afraid you badly misjudged me,” he said, watching the flicker of disappointment, regret on Davis’ face. Did he really think I’d go along with them? Did he want me to?

For one irrational moment Harry wanted to say yes, but Grimes impatiently pulled on Johnny’s sleeve, and with a roar of engines, the three motorcycles left him there with his gloomy thoughts. He shook them off.

It’s time to tell Briggs, he told himself grimly. He’ll believe me now.

Slowly he headed upstairs and looked into his mailbox. A nightmare began.

The bomb in the mailbox. Briggs. A mad attempt to stay alive against four armed assassins. Eliminating them one by one, until only Davis was left. Knowing the kid had him in his sights, he spun out on the carrier deck, but the shots never came. For some reason Davis didn’t fire.

Callahan watched the man, who rode a cycle for a living, drive off the end of the carrier as if he didn’t want to stop, and plunge into the bay. Harry’s stomach knotted with frustration over the waste of what could have been “the most outstanding young officer… from whom we can expect great things.”

Callahan stared down at the floating body with an anger he couldn’t explain. “Briggs was right. You guys don’t have enough experience,” he said, kicking the helmet after him, blaming the dead boy for stealing something he hadn’t even known was there, something he couldn’t name, but that hurt like crazy to lose.

He turned away from the water and walked, shoulders slumped, back along the deck. Spotting something glinting in the sun, he leaned down to retrieve Davis’ gun. He stared at it for a long while, knowing it held all the proof he needed that Davis had killed Guzman—and McCoy. But the boy was dead. Justice was done. Why destroy his memory? Slowly Harry stuck the gun into the back of his belt where no one would see it, and continued walking.

As he reached the mangled car and started to climb in, Callahan found one problem hadn’t been eliminated.

Briggs.

The battered lieutenant held a gun on Callahan, ordering him out of the wreck. Harry couldn’t reach Davis’ gun, but he managed to activate the bomb from the mailbox still on the seat. He backed away from the car as Briggs climbed in, taunting Harry with his plans to prosecute him for murdering the vigilantes.

Callahan watched as the car drove away. He waited. When it finally exploded in flames he murmured quietly, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

Walking dejectedly away from the burning car, Callahan was met by a squad car. His terse explanation was accepted, and the clean-up crews were called. The news of Early’s death from a bomb in his mailbox adding to his growing depression, he hitched a ride back to headquarters with the next team on the scene.

Callahan got out in the parking lot and stopped by his car before facing Captain Avery and whoever else would be after him. He sat looking at Davis’ gun again for long moments before sliding it under the seat, then went to the building. Instead of going upstairs right away, he walked down the ramp to the underground range. Slowly he opened the door, almost seeing the four promising young rookies again as he had that first night. With a sigh of deepest regret, he walked past the firing lines and into the office beyond.

Payson looked up from his ledger. “Hi, Harry. You look like hell. I suppose you were involved in that.” He indicated the radio, which was calling for the coroner and dragging equipment to be brought to the scene.

“Yeah.” He paused. “Pappy, I need a gun. Mine blew up with Briggs.”

The solemn, older eyes took in his expression, then without a question turned to unlock the armory and emerged with a new S&W .44 Magnum identical to the one Harry had lost. “It’s been bench-sighted, but maybe you’d better try it out anyhow,” he suggested.

He followed Callahan back to the range, finally asking, “Who are all the other bodies they’re talking about?”

Harry clenched his teeth, then sighed. “Grimes, Astrachan, and…” his voice was almost a whisper, “Davis.”

The range director looked suddenly older. “Sweet and Early, too. Not one of our better days. How…?” He stopped his question, replacing it with a soft, “What a waste.”

Callahan loaded the gun and fired six angry shots at the first target. They wouldn’t have won him any championships. He turned to Pappy as he reloaded. “I’ve got to see the chief before I talk about it,” he decided grimly, then turned to fire another six rounds, scoring better as his anger subsided. “Can you give me some speed loaders? Briggs tossed mine.”

They walked back to the office to get them and heard the chief announcing his arrival at the scene, and the request for more squad cars to keep back the sightseers and press.

Harry looked at Pappy. “Guess I’ve gotta go back there if I want to see him.”

His old friend gripped his arm. “You’ve been through worse, Harry. It’ll be all right.”

Callahan didn’t agree on either count, but trudged wearily out to his car and drove back to the scene. He walked onto the dock and watched the dragging operation, pain increasing in his gut.

The Chief spotted him and called him over. “Callahan, what the hell happened here?”

He told him.

The chief looked stunned. “I’ll let you know what to write in your report. By the way, what are you sticking around for? You look beat.”

“I guess I was just waiting for Davis, sir.” He sighed. “I think I’ll head home now.” But he didn’t. He waited and watched.

***

They searched the bay until night had covered the city, but there was no sign of John Davis’ body. His motorcycle was pulled from the water in early evening, but not a trace was found of the slender cop. Nobody else cared much, except that the lack of a body was just an untidy loose end.

Harry Callahan watched the search, his face stony. When a halt was finally called to the dragging operation, he went straight home, tired to the very core of his being.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. He turned on every light in the place, opened a couple of windows, and got a beer from the refrigerator. It seemed that most of his evenings lately were spent in solitary contemplation. This tendency to brood was, he knew, an occupational hazard. He felt as if by this time he should have become reconciled to the human condition, to the despair of knowing what people could do to one another. Even in the name of duty or love or good. But it still bothered him. So, he withdrew more than ever from others, drawing his despair and disgust around him like a cloak.

As sometimes happened, the beer turned warm and flat before he finished it. Callahan dumped the rest of it down the kitchen sink, turned off the lights and went into his bare, almost monastic bedroom. Ritualistically, he stripped to his shorts, did one hundred pushups, one hundred sit-ups, and then went to bed. In only minutes he was sound asleep, too weary even to dream.

***

It was some unknown time later when he heard the tapping at the front door. The noise was so faint that he thought at first that he must have imagined it. But it went on, soft and insistent. He got out of bed and crossed noiselessly to the door, picking up the Magnum as he went.

“Who’s there?” he said softly.

“Callahan? Please, lemme in….”

He eased the door open a crack and peered out into the hallway. “Jesus,” he said, surprise turning to relief at the apparition he saw.

John Davis, apparently back from his watery grave, stood there. His face was bruised and swollen, and one arm lay twisted weirdly against his chest, but he was very much alive. “Help me….” The words were a low moan and then he toppled forward.

Callahan caught the falling man reflexively and dragged him inside. Davis’ clothes were muddy and damp and smeared with blood. For an instant, with the enemy clutched to him in a macabre embrace, Callahan’s finger tightened on the trigger of his gun.

Davis, only half-conscious, gave a whimper; whether the sound was inspired by fear or pain wasn’t clear.

Callahan eased his finger off the trigger and set the gun aside. “Damnit,” he whispered viciously. “Why did you come here?”

There was no answer.

He half-carried, half-dragged Davis over to the couch and dropped him, not gently. “Davis?” he said sharply. “Davis, wake up.”

Two clouded blue eyes peered up at him vaguely. “I… lost my glasses,” Davis said helplessly. “I lost my glasses and everybody’s dead. I was so scared, you know?” He trembled like a man with a dreadful chill. “I don’t want to die. Not yet. Please.”

Callahan stared at him for a moment. “Shut up,” he said finally. “Nobody’s going to kill you here.”

An almost-smile flickered across the younger man’s lips and then his eyes closed again.

“Well, Harry,” Callahan said, “what the hell is going on here?” Having no answer to his own question, he only shrugged, and went to get a pan of hot water, some clean towels, and a bottle of antiseptic. Good old Harry Callahan. Well-known nurse.

Awkwardly, he pulled the sticky clothes off Davis and shoved them into the trash. The slender body was a mass of bruises and cuts. He washed the wounds carefully and applied the antiseptic. With a towel and two safety pins, he made a makeshift sling for Davis’ arm. Despite the way it looked, he didn’t think the bone was broken. Only a doctor could tell for sure. Miraculously, Davis seemed to have come out of the plunge from the carrier relatively undamaged.

Davis was out like a light. He didn’t stir as Callahan washed the battered face, and cleaned the worst of the mud and grime from his hair. Finally, he yanked the blanket from his bed to cover Davis. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do then, except wait and listen to the raspy sound of Davis’ breathing.

It was nearly an hour before he stirred and woke abruptly, both eyes snapping open, panic filling his face.

“Relax,” Callahan said. He lit two cigarettes and leaned forward to hand Davis one. “All right, Sleeping Beauty, maybe now you can tell me what’s going on. Why the hell are you here?”

Davis took a long drag and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Where else could I go? The whole San Francisco Police Department is looking for me. So they can blow me away. Everybody wants to be a fucking hero like Harry Callahan. Fastest way to do that would be to rid the world of John Davis.” His unfocused gaze flickered toward Callahan. “I figured the best thing for me to do was find you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re an honorable man,” Davis said flatly. Surprisingly, it didn’t sound phony.

Callahan needed a drink. He got up and poured whiskey into a tumbler that had once held grape jelly. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” he asked, sitting down again.

Davis shrugged. “I don’t know. Can I have some of that?” Callahan handed him the glass. Davis took a mouthful and gave the drink back. He was quiet, appearing to let the stinging warmth of the liquor flow through him. “Thanks,” he said in a moment.

Callahan shrugged. They were quiet for a few minutes. He studied the adventures of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble on the sides of the glass. “Will you tell me something, Davis?”

“Why not?”

“How’d you ever get mixed up with that bunch of creeps?” Callahan was surprised at the savagery in his own voice. He gulped whiskey. “I thought you were….”

“Different?” Davis smiled faintly. “That’s what I wanted to think, too. But I guess the joke’s on both of us, right?” He pushed himself into a sitting position, grimacing a little, letting the blanket fall to his waist. Wryly, he studied the sling. “You want to know why I joined them, really? Or do you care?”

“Yeah, I’d like to know.”

“Because they asked me to.”

Callahan paused, the glass halfway to his lips. “What?”

Davis nodded. “Great, huh?” His eyes darkened. “But nobody ever liked me before. Not the way they did.”

“Jesus, Davis. You don’t kill people so you can be one of the boys.”

“You do if you’re dying of loneliness,” Davis said hoarsely. “Maybe you do if you grew up in an orphanage. A place where everybody wanted to test their newfound puberty, and skinny little Johnny Davis was very available.”

The harsh words called up an unpleasant picture of a helpless child, and Callahan had seen too many of them.

Davis rubbed a hand over his face, flinching a little as he touched bruised flesh. “It wouldn’t have been so bad if anybody had really liked me. But nobody did. Except when I grew up and met the guys, Red and Grimes, and… Sweet.” Pain flashed across the battered face. “I belonged there. They wanted me to be a part of them.”

Callahan shook his head helplessly. “They were using you.”

“No!” It was a shout. “No. Everybody else used me, my whole life, but not them. Not them. They really liked me.” He took a deep breath. “I always thought that once you understood what we were doing, maybe you’d like me, too.”

Callahan finished the drink slowly. “I still don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I don’t know either. But I couldn’t think of anyplace else to go. I guess the next move is up to you.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He got to his feet. “Tomorrow. Now we better get some sleep.”

“Okay.” Davis stretched out again, pulling the blanket up.

Callahan switched off the lamp and went to bed, wondering why he trusted the man not to kill him in his sleep. Knowing he wouldn’t.

***

It was almost dawn when he woke, aware that someone else was in the room, hovering in the grey half-light of his bedroom.

“Huh?” he said in a sleep-fogged voice.

“Callahan?” Davis moved closer, crouching by the bed.

“What?”

“I wanted you to like me.” His voice was fuzzy. “I thought if we could be friends everything would work out okay.”

“Go back to bed, Davis.”

But he didn’t go. Instead, he reached out with one hand and touched Callahan’s chest. The contact went through him like an electric shock, hot and cold at the same time. “Don’t make me go. I don’t like sleeping alone. That’s why I went along with them. So there would always be somebody with me in the night. Somebody. They took turns and I didn’t mind, really, because they liked me.” His fingers clenched. “But you killed them all. So, what happens to me now?”

Callahan stared at Davis’ face. “I don’t know.”

“If I go to prison, I won’t last a week.”

Looking at him, at the fragility dwelling beneath the mask of a cold-blooded killer, Callahan knew that what Davis said was true. Behind bars, a man like him would be fair game and this time his abusers wouldn’t be boys pretending at being men. They’d be animals. He wouldn’t last long. His body would be…. Callahan stopped thinking about it, shifting slightly under the sheet as an unexpected warmth surged through him.

“Davis,” he began.

“I’d rather be dead than go to jail.” Davis lifted his hand and touched Harry on the cheek. He found himself wanting to press back against it. “All I ever wanted was for somebody to like me,” he whispered. “Is that so bad? Please. I’m scared.”

Callahan didn’t know what to do.

Davis blinked. “I wish I could see your face better.”

“I’ll buy you some new glasses,” Callahan said absently, absurdly.

“Thanks.” His voice was scarcely audible. “Can I get into bed with you?”

Without answering, Callahan scooted over and Davis crawled in under the sheet. Their bodies didn’t touch; lying a scant inch apart, each could feel the heat radiating from the other. Davis’ eyes bored into his, the blue vagueness at once questioning and affirming.

Callahan knew instinctively that the first move would have to be his. Davis, already ravaged and shattered beyond human endurance, would not be able to risk rejection now. But what would he, Callahan, be risking? All he knew was that he didn’t want this to stop.

“Remember that day on the outdoor range?” Davis said softly.

And Callahan did remember. He could see Davis as he had been that day, amber-golden, childlike, casting the challenging half-smiles toward Callahan. Now he realized that the moment, the entire afternoon, had burned itself deeply into his consciousness. It was as if everything that had happened since then was somehow meant to lead them to this place and this time. As if reading his mind, Davis voiced the same thought.

Callahan’s eyes closed for just a fleeting moment. “Johnny,” he said for the first time aloud. “Oh, god.” He put both hands on Davis’ shoulders and pulled him closer.

Davis gave a stifled whimper.

The heat between them exploded and both men were dizzy for a moment, clutching frantically at one another to keep from falling into the abyss. Callahan lifted himself onto one elbow, staring down at Davis. The sheet and Callahan’s shorts fell aside unnoticed. “Your arm,” he whispered.

‘”S okay,” Davis mumbled, pulling off the towel. “Harry? Oh, Christ, Harry.” He touched Callahan’s face, ran his fingers through his hair, touching him hungrily.

Their tongues met, entangling wetly as Callahan slid both hands along the sweaty nakedness of Davis’ trembling body. Then he pulled back a little. “I never… I never did this… with another man,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, Johnny… Johnny.”

Davis answered wordlessly, wrapping his arms around Callahan tightly. Callahan felt as if his whole being was going to explode. He raked Davis’ flesh with his fingernails, delighting in the reaction from this strange manchild he was making love with. At this moment he knew that all the power was his. He could do whatever he wanted with John Davis.

At the height of his passion he paused, frozen in midair over Davis’ willing form. That instant in time seemed to be the most important in his life. What he did now would determine the course of two lives, his and Johnny’s. He could go on as he always had, Callahan the user, the ruthless. Davis, he knew, was willing to be used. After all, wasn’t he used to it?

But suddenly Callahan didn’t want that.

He lowered himself and faced Davis, who looked at him, bewildered, as he tried to explain. “I don’t want to be like all the others.”

“Harry?”

“Shhh…” He dropped kisses over Davis’ neck and face, then took his face between both hands, looking deeply into the unsure blue eyes. “I’m a little scared, Johnny. This is… new. But I want you.”

Davis sighed. “I want you, too.”

“Good. Good.” Callahan stretched out next to him, giving the only thing he felt would reassure this shattered boy. Knowing he wanted to give it. Needing to with all his soul. “Please, Johnny,” he said nudging him on top.

Davis sighed, his warm moist breath caressing Callahan’s neck. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Oh, yeah.” He was gentle, teasing, sensual all at one time. And loving. Callahan thought fleetingly that he would die from the unbearable sweetness of the moment. And he was aware, too, that it was all crashing toward the ending. It would all be over. He closed his eyes tightly to hide the tears that came to him at the thought.

When Davis entered him, slowly and agonizingly, it hurt, god it hurt, but Callahan cherished even the pain, wringing sweet anguish from every touch of Davis on his burning flesh.

Davis froze. “Harry?” he murmured.

Callahan shook his head. “Don’t stop,” he said.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t stop, please,” Callahan repeated.

So Davis began again, slow thrusting movements inside him. Davis exploded in climax, bathing Callahan in wet heat, triggering his own release. He moaned once and then fell from Davis’ embrace. Again, they lay apart, not touching.

“I think,” Callahan said finally, slowly, “I think I knew this would happen. Ever since that day in the basement shooting range.”

“Yeah,” Davis agreed.

Callahan reached down with one hand and pulled the sheet up over them both, still not touching Davis. He smiled gently, almost shyly.

Davis seemed to realize that the next move was his. He lifted his hand to wipe sweat and tears from Callahan’s face. “Thank you,” he said.

Callahan felt his face redden. “Shit,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “What the hell are we going to do?” he muttered, absently caressing Davis’ face, toying with strands of blond silk.

“I don’t know,” Davis replied. “It’s up to you. Probably you should turn me in. I did a lot of terrible things.”

“Yes,” Callahan said.

Davis didn’t speak.

Callahan held Davis’ face in both hands, studying each line, each bruise, every pore. Then, still silent, he pulled Davis closer, wrapping him in his arms, holding tightly, inhaling Davis’ smell.

Slowly, hesitantly, Davis relaxed in the embrace.

***

It was mid-morning when Callahan woke again. The bed felt strangely, bitterly empty, cold as it had not been since just after his wife’s death. He sat up quickly.

John Davis sat across the room, wearing one of Callahan’s shirts and a pair of jeans that didn’t quite fit. He was drinking a beer.

Callahan felt the panic slowly drain from his body. “You’re here,” he said, relaxing back against the pillows.

Davis seemed more himself this morning, less vulnerable, showing a trace of his old arrogance. “Where else would I be?” he said, squinting at Callahan.

Callahan shrugged.

Davis tipped his head back and took a long swallow of beer. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Let’s face it, buddy, there aren’t very many places in the world where John Davis would be welcome.” A muscle in his neck jerked spasmodically. “Maybe I’m not even welcome here in the cold light of day.” It was a question the way he said it.

Callahan realized suddenly that John Davis, killer-cop-tough guy, was scared, and that realization vanquished his own fear and doubt. The memories of last night, fragile gold in the daylight, took shape, became real. Callahan took hold of the memory and gave it a place in his life.

He got out of the bed, a little sore, and walked without speaking into the bathroom. It smelled damp, used—bringing back warm memories of when he hadn’t lived alone. The hot water of the shower crashed against his body, cleansing and healing. He shaved carefully, taking his time, and pulled on his robe.

Davis was still sitting in the chair, working on another beer when Callahan came out. Harry walked over, took the can from him, and swallowed a gulp of the cold brew. Then he gave it back. “How’s your arm?”

“Hurts. Hurts like hell.”

“All right. I have a friend who’s a doctor. He knows how to keep his mouth shut. I’ll call him.”

“Okay.” Davis waited, apparently expecting Callahan to say something more. When he didn’t, Davis set the can down with a crash. “What the hell is going to happen?”

“I don’t know.” Callahan reached down and pulled Davis up. Slowly, deliberately, he kissed him, working his tongue into Davis’ mouth, tasting beer and the already familiar flavor of Johnny Davis. After a few moments, he pulled back. “When I woke up,” he said very softly, “I was afraid. I thought maybe you were gone. Or that last night never happened.” He remembered the cold panic that had gripped him. “I was really scared.”

“Me, too,” Davis said.

“Yeah?” Callahan stared at the floor trying to think of a way to explain how he felt. “I’m not very good with words, Johnny.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, I do, because it won’t seem real until I do.” He flexed his powerful fingers ruefully, still afraid this was just some dream. “I don’t want it all to fall apart. What happened last night is important to me.” God, yes. And he wanted it to be just as important to Johnny. It had to be. “It matters, maybe more than anything has ever mattered before.” He raised his eyes and looked into a blue he’d never forget, then put into words his earlier discovery. “You have a place in my life, Johnny.”

“Thank you.”

“I really don’t know what’s going to happen now.” Determination filled him. “But whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Understand?”

Davis looked at him, curious, hopeful, and still a little scared. “Harry?” This time he initiated the kiss, exploring Callahan’s mouth. When the kiss finally ended, he was a little breathless. “Yeah, I understand.”

“Good. Good, Johnny. I gotta get dressed.”

“Right now?” It was the same challenging half-smile Davis had worn during the shooting competition.

A slow grin creased Callahan’s leathery face. “Well, soon.”

Davis undressed, moving awkwardly because of his arm, and followed Callahan to the bed. They stretched out on the rumpled, sweaty sheets, pressing their bodies together, in no hurry now, letting the passion rise naturally.

“Johnny?”

“Hmm?”

“I like you.”

Davis blinked. “I’m damned glad. I like you, too.”

They grinned at one another.

The phone began to ring. “Shit,” Callahan said. “That’s the office.” He reached with one hand to answer it.

Davis, still smiling, slid down Callahan’s body, kissing, licking, nibbling.

Callahan squirmed. “No,” he said into the phone. “Forget it. Like the P.C. said last night, Davis’ body will float in one of these days. No sense wasting any more time looking for it.”

Suddenly Davis took Callahan’s throbbing cock into his mouth and began a slow, hot-wet sucking. “Oh, god,” Callahan sighed. “What? Oh, nothing. Look, I’ll be in later. Later.” He managed to hang the phone up. “Oh, Johnny… Johnny…” He tangled his fingers in soft golden hair, holding on for dear life, the world threatening to crumble beneath him.

He came too quickly, exploding inside Davis’ mouth.

An instant later Davis moved up next to him. He took a gulp of beer, then pressed his lips to Callahan’s cheek. “You taste good,” he said simply.

A sudden dampness sprang up in Callahan’s eyes. “Thanks.”

In a little while they would have to get out of the bed that was suddenly a haven, get out and face the problems. But not quite yet. For now, the day still belonged to them. They curled together and watched the sun make its way into the room.

In the distance they could hear the mournful wail of a police car’s siren. Callahan shivered a little and pulled Johnny Davis closer, making the embrace into a supplication to the fates.

***

Callahan woke from his pleasant doze, knowing he couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. Pressed against him like an injured child lay the killer of five people, one of whom had been his friend. He fingered a strand of sweaty silk and wondered why it didn’t matter to him. All that mattered was getting the kid out of trouble so he could keep him. God, that sounded like the time he’d brought home MacArthur and hid him in his room until his mother found out about it. By then he’d cleaned him up and doctored his sores so he looked pretty good. One soulful look from those puppy eyes and his mother had melted.

Harry rubbed the strong arm draped across his chest, stopping immediately as Johnny grimaced from the pain. Gotta get hold of Ben. He frowned. So I fix his sores and clean him up. That won’t be enough this time. He sighed, and Johnny stirred against him.

“Wh’zamatter?” he asked sleepily.

“Nothing, kid. Go back to sleep.” Nothing except that hiding a murder change isn’t as easy as hiding a puppy. Even the puppy was found out.

Callahan didn’t know the whole story of the Guzman killing, but from the bits and pieces Johnny had mentioned during their loving conversation that morning, he gathered Briggs had ordered it, and Davis had been trained to obey orders. All his life, Harry figured, thinking of the orphanage. There was probably more to it. Peer pressure for one thing, especially if they were lovers. Users, he corrected himself, not liking to think of that part of Johnny’s life.

Reluctantly he extricated himself from Johnny’s grasp, torn by the look of loss that crossed the sleepy features. “Gotta go to work, kid,” he whispered with a soft kiss. “It’ll be all right. I’ll fix everything.”

Davis smiled in complete assurance, as his eyes closed again.

Glad you’ve got such faith in me, kid, Callahan thought ruefully. Just hope I can convince the rest of the world. He showered again quickly, missing the smell of sweat and sex that had reminded him of the pleasure they’d shared. Pleasure unmatched in his lonely life. Even with Louise, he realized with some surprise.

Maybe it’s just the novelty of making love with a man, he thought, knowing that wouldn’t explain it all. Loving a man. That was more accurate. He didn’t know how or why, but at least he wasn’t kidding himself anymore. He didn’t want Johnny to be his protégé. He wanted him in his bed, and not just today.

Pulling on his other sock, then slipping into his shoes, Callahan straightened. One last look in the mirror to be sure his tie was perfect before facing the chief, then he turned to the bed. If he needed anything more to convince him that what he was about to do was right, it was the sight of that child-man, curled in innocent sleep, blond hair haloing his head against the pillow. He wanted to kiss him again, but was afraid of waking him—and that he’d crawl back in beside him. Taking a deep breath, Callahan turned around and walked out the door.

The Chief didn’t keep him waiting, was eager in fact to see him. “I need that report as soon as possible to back up the statement I’ve made to the press.” He tossed the morning paper onto the desk by Harry, so he could read the headlines.

COPS NAMED IN KILLINGS. Police Lieutenant Neil Briggs, cracking under pressure, ordered rookie traffic cops to eliminate gangland figures constantly released by courts. The inexperienced men, recently returned from Viet Nam where they had been involved in similar work for the government, had not yet adjusted to peacetime and non-military laws. With the deaths of Briggs, Sweet, Grimes, and Astrachan, the entire vigilante squad has been eliminated. They died trying to murder Inspector Harry Callahan, the homicide detective who discovered their operation and put a stop to it, but not before they killed his partner, Early Smith.

Harry put down the paper. “Damn,” he muttered.

“I didn’t mention Davis because we haven’t found his body yet,” the chief went on. “Besides, you didn’t say he was involved last night.” He looked hard at Harry. “Whose side was he on, Inspector?”

Callahan returned the look. “Both, sir.” The chief frowned. “He was their friend, and they asked him to join them.” Harry took a deep breath. “But he was new, and hadn’t been sent on an assignment yet.”

“He was present at the Guzman killing,” the chief said quietly.

“Yes, sir. Afterwards. He had to accompany the others. Sort of an initiation.” Harry hoped to god at least one of the others couldn’t be accounted for at the time.

The chief sighed. “Well, it’s academic now. He’s dead.”

Harry looked at his hands. “No, sir. He’s not.”

There was a brief silence before the chief spoke. “What did you say?”

“Davis is alive. He turned himself in to me.” Callahan looked up. “He’ll do whatever you want him to, to help this blow over as quickly as possible.” Harry almost choked, but continued, “Stand trial, go to jail, or…” his look matched the stressed words, “…resign and never be an embarrassment to the department. After all, you’ve already said the entire squad has been eliminated. To charge him now would stir it all up again.”

“Christ, Callahan, the man failed to report a dozen murders. Probably witnessed McCoy’s, and you want me to let him go scot free?”

Harry spoke evenly in spite of the turmoil inside. “I want you to do what’s best for the department.” And me.

The chief sat there for long minutes, toying with his pen as if it were a masterpiece of engineering. Finally, he spoke. “If I charge him, the public will wonder how many more might still be infiltrating the department.” He looked at Harry. “What guarantee do I have that if I let him resign, he’ll never go to the press and make us look bad?”

Harry wondered how to answer that. Instincts could be wrong, but he felt Johnny’s guilt would keep him more than studiously quiet about this for the rest of his life. Rest of his life. He barely knew the kid, yet he felt he wanted him around that long.

“I plan to keep an eye on him personally.” Permanently.

The chief smiled. “That could be a deterrent,” he agreed, then sighed. “Damn Briggs, and damn the army, and damn that whole fucking war.”

Harry held his breath, waiting.

Finally, the chief spoke. “All right. Bring him in tomorrow morning. I’ll keep it out of the press and let the rumor circulate that he feels responsible because he failed to report his suspicions. That’s probably best for everybody.”

For Johnny and me. That’s what counts. “I’ll have him here. Do I mention him in my report?”

“No. Let the rumor handle it.” He paused. “Uh, Callahan, what the hell was he doing on that carrier yesterday? How’d he get into the bay?”

“Off the record, sir?”

“Definitely.”

Harry thought back to yesterday’s horror. Johnny hadn’t said anything about it since, but his actions were all too clear. “He tried to kill himself.”

The chief nodded slowly. “Yeah, it fits. The commissioner’ll go for that.”

***

Callahan finished his report to the chief’s satisfaction, doing his own part to spread the rumor that Davis wasn’t involved with the vigilantes. He wanted to break DiGeorgio’s head when he suggested that there was more than one way to be involved with them, but restrained himself to an icy glare. Avery seemed satisfied, but then he was the chief’s yes-man, and would have accepted anything he was told to, a perfect dupe for the Briggses of this world. Thank god for Al Bressler, who still thought more like a cop than a lieutenant. He read over Callahan’s report, then offered his friend a drink, saying better than words that he understood what he’d been through.

“No thanks,” Harry said, sipping his coffee.

“Where’s Davis now?” Bressler asked.

Callahan looked at him levelly. “At my place. He’s hurt, Al. Mind if I leave early and get him a doctor, now that everything’s settled?”

“Another stray puppy, huh, Harry?” Bressler smiled. “Yeah, go ahead. Maybe you can get him on the right track. He seemed like a good kid.”

“Thanks.” Al was one of the few people Harry let see his softer side. It was kind of hard to hide it when they’d worked together off and on over the years, and Al had seen him salvage everything from stray animals to broken-down old winos. He’d called him a sucker more than once for slipping them money.

Callahan left the department and headed for General Hospital, where Ben Klein worked. His hours, like Harry’s, always seemed to extend over the prescribed forty a week, and he could usually be found in or near the emergency room there. Callahan found him, kneeling in blood, treating a jagged cut on a young boy’s leg.

“Broken glass. At the end of a sliding board,” Ben explained, washing the kid and himself as a young Asian intern took over the job of stitching. Klein herded Callahan out of the cubicle and down to his cubby-hole of an office. “Next time you flash that badge and walk in on me like that, I’m going to put you to work,” Ben growled.

Callahan smiled. Ben had been threatening him with that for years. “How soon can you get free?” he asked. “I’ve got a patient for you at my place.”

“Emergency? Or can it wait until quitting time?”

Harry was torn between Johnny’s pain and Ben’s responsibilities. “He took a fall into the bay. Hit the water hard and hurt his arm.” He remembered just how active Johnny had managed to be in spite of his injuries and reluctantly added, “I guess he could wait awhile longer. Happened yesterday.”

Ben gave him a long look. “Does this by any chance have to do with that ruckus in the papers?”

Callahan nodded. “But I don’t want it advertised, okay?”

“Sheee-it,” Ben drawled, and Harry knew his warning had been unnecessary. The doctor checked his watch. “I should be done in about an hour. I’ll come over then.”

“Uh, I’ve got a couple of errands to run, then I’ll come back for you,” Callahan said. “We’ll go over together. Wouldn’t want you to get there first and spook him.”

“Thanks, pal,” Ben said with a grimace. “What am I, Frankenstein?” His face softened. “He’s scared, huh?”

“Yeah.” Callahan was relieved that Ben never asked many questions. “See you.”

He walked out to the parking lot, digging for the car keys. His hand closed around the ones he’d salvaged from Johnny’s muddy clothes before incinerating them. Later, he decided, stopping first at a grocery store to get milk and other real food, something he rarely bothered to do for just himself. “Hell, the kid’s got to eat,” he muttered, adding a couple of steaks to the growing pile.

As Harry walked back to the car, he spotted a key machine in the dime store. He went in.

Almost hesitantly Callahan drove to Davis’ apartment, remembering his impulsive vigil the other night. An eternity ago. They were using you. His words mocked him as he remembered the inviting smile Johnny had given Sweet before leading him into the bedroom and…

Harry closed his mind to that line of thinking. Johnny wasn’t his then. He had no right to be jealous, yet he was. Had been that night, too, he now realized. God, how long have I been hooked on the kid? An answering vision of four uniformed rookies in earmuffs rose in his mind—especially one of them. Yeah, he admitted to himself. That long.

Opening the door on Johnny’s past gave him a strange sensation, as if he were prying, yet he wanted to know everything there was to know about his kid. His. He rolled the word around in his mind, knowing it was true.

The apartment furnishings were sparse. There was little in the living room to show anybody lived there, as if Johnny were a gypsy, transitory, belonging nowhere. Overflowing ashtrays and books were all that told him anything about Johnny. Everything else seemed to belong to the management. Callahan automatically catalogued the contents of the ashtray. Marlboro, Winston, Benson & Hedges menthol. He frowned, unable to remember which kind was Johnny’s, unable to forget what the presence of the other brands indicated.

Spotting a nearly full pack of Benson & Hedges, Harry pocketed them, remembering there were only a couple left in the stale pack at home. Hell, the kid must be having a nicotine fit by now, he thought, hoping they didn’t belong to Sweet. He’d seen the pain every time Johnny mentioned him.

Callahan picked up the Lew Archer mystery lying on the coffee table, a bookmark standing guard about half-way through. More books stacked beside the couch reminded him of the piles in his own apartment. The kid’s as bad as me, he thought, noticing familiar authors on the spines. Ed McBain, Mickey Spillane, Ross MacDonald. He grinned, glad they had something else in common.

Other authors in the pile were less known to the busy cop, who had little enough time for reading. Baldwin, Updike, Steinbeck, Hemingway. Always wanted to read those, Callahan mused. Maybe now…. He envisioned quiet evenings reading together. Christ, the idea alone satisfied something deep inside, and he slipped the mystery into his pocket.

Walking into Johnny’s bedroom bothered Callahan more than he’d expected it to. He found it difficult to look at the rumpled, stained bed, but his eyes took in the details involuntarily, including the half-used tube of K-Y gel on the nightstand.

Turning to the closet, he pulled out a suitcase and opened it. A bunch of pictures fell to the floor. He stooped to retrieve them and froze. Shock and pain warred within him as he saw Johnny handcuffed to the bed, his face distorted as fingers tangled in his hair pulled his head back. Red Astrachan, obviously deep inside him, leered his pleasure.

Numbly Harry looked at the next picture. Johnny, on his knees in front of a grinning Red, had the smaller man’s cock in his mouth. The belt in Red’s hand drew Callahan’s attention to the welts all over Johnny’s back, visible even in the black and white, poorly processed print. The rest of the pictures were only different in position and paraphernalia, subjugation and humiliation the pervading theme.

Harry wanted to throw up. He stared at the prints for a long time, considered burning them, never telling Johnny. Finally, he stood, slipping the things into his pocket, and turned to his task of packing some clothes for the kid. Carefully he included the suit Johnny had worn to McCoy’s funeral, knowing he’d need it for his visit to the chief. I feel responsible somehow. The remembered words hurt, especially when the chief had used the same ones.

Callahan picked up a pair of glasses from the dresser, hoping they were Johnny’s and glanced around for anything else he might need. Shoes, underwear, socks, he ticked off mentally before closing the suitcase. He patted the pocket where the pictures lay, took a deep breath, and left the apartment.

Ben was ready and followed him home, holding some of the groceries while Harry unlocked the door. “Guy must be a giant t’eat all that,” he muttered.

Harry glared at him and pushed the door in. Johnny squinted up at him from the armchair, his face changing from a welcoming smile to a look of fear, as Ben entered the room.

“So, this is the patient?” Ben said in that reassuring tone of his.

Johnny visibly relaxed as Harry introduced them, and the kid submitted to an examination. Ben okayed the shoulder as nothing serious, then insisted on further probing. Johnny lay back and Ben opened the robe, exposing the long body.

Harry drank in the sight, remembering how it felt under his hands, remembering…. He caught Johnny’s amused glance and felt the heat rise in his face. Johnny laughed.

“You ticklish?” Ben asked straight-faced, but Harry was sure his old friend knew exactly why Johnny was laughing.

Damnit.

“Yes, sir. Some,” Johnny answered, all too obviously enjoying Harry’s discomfiture.

When Ben was through with Davis, he insisted on checking Callahan, who bore the examination with his usual resignation. Harry could see his friend glancing from him to Johnny, a thoughtful look on his face, but he didn’t pry, and Harry was grateful. He wasn’t ready yet to explain this relationship—to himself, let alone Ben. Too soon.

Ben accepted a beer and lit a cigarette, which reminded Harry to toss Johnny the ones he’d brought. The kid pounced on them and lit up gratefully. As they settled down to some friendly bullshit, Callahan noticed at last that something smelled good. Christ, he couldn’t remember ever walking into this apartment and smelling hot food cooking. It felt damned good, and he said so. Johnny smiled, shooting sunlight through the suddenly contented cop.

“So, you seem to have survived in spite of being Harry’s friend,” Ben said, taking a swig of beer.

“Because of it,” Johnny stated, eyes gratefully on Harry, who felt the look to his toes.

“The old fart has his good points,” Ben conceded. “But if he wouldn’t keep trying to save the world single-handed—”

“You’d be out of work,” Harry finished for him.

“Hardly,” Ben said sourly. “You’re not the only asshole out there getting himself banged up.”

“And you keep trying to cure them all—single-handed,” Harry said with a half-smile.

Ben shrugged. “Somebody has to.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, glancing at Johnny. “A lot of it is worth the effort.”

Ben looked from one to the other and smiled. “Right.” He sipped his beer, looking totally relaxed.

“Dr. Klein,” Davis started.

“Ben, please.”

“Uh, Ben, have you known Harry a long time?”

Harry and Ben grinned at one another. “Oh, a year or two,” Ben said.

“More like fifteen,” Harry explained. “He patched me up after some guy ran me down with his car. He kept telling rotten jokes, like ‘Lucky you’re from Frisco. You’re no Dodger.’ Stuff like that.”

Klein looked pleased. “You remembered.”

“Like a bad dream.” Callahan snorted. “I remember I called you Big Ben because of that mouth of yours.”

The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “Funny, Miriam has a different reason.”

Davis mumbled something, then looked embarrassed, as if he’d interrupted.

“What’d you say?” Harry asked gently.

The kid smiled hesitantly. “I said, my name’s Benjamin too, but nobody ever called me that at the orphanage. In school sometimes….” His voice trailed off.

Ben smiled. “It’s a heck of a moniker for a kid. You were better off with John.”

Harry watched his kid smile. Ben’s famous bedside manner gets ’em all, he decided, pleased that his friend seemed to like Johnny. After he left, Callahan turned to the robed figure.

“You got quite a laugh at my expense a while ago, didn’t you?” he said, untying the belt and slipping his arms around the warm body.

Davis grinned, and Callahan kissed him hungrily for a few moments before remembering how much they had to talk over. Reluctantly he broke the kiss and pulled Johnny over to the packages. As they put away the groceries, he told about his visit to the chief.

“But Harry… McCoy… I’m the one who—”

Harry cut him off. “We’re the only ones who know that,” he said, pledging his loyalty never to reveal it.

Johnny sounded miserable, looked as though the world weighed him down.

Harry gripped his arms and spoke firmly. “McCoy is dead. It was wrong,” he conceded, “and you’ll have to live with that, but I won’t remind you of it ever again.” It was a solemn vow, designed to reassure the kid that he was forgiven. “Understand?”

Davis nodded, and Callahan went on to tell him the official stand. “That’s your story. Can you keep it straight?”

Miserably Davis agreed.

Callahan could understand the guilt Johnny must be suffering, and tried to make him feel better. “I told you we’d face it together,” he said solemnly. “I may lie to the P.C., but not to you, okay?”

Johnny clouded up, and Harry kissed away the rain. “Let’s eat,” he suggested, hoping the routine would calm his emotion-drained kid.

The make-shift casserole was good, and everything went well until Johnny asked, “What’d you bring me from my apartment?”

Callahan frowned, remembering the humiliating pictures. He laid his fork down and slowly reached into his pocket, withdrawing the photos and placing them in front of Davis.

The kid picked one up, and a flush rose immediately from his neck into his face. He stared at Callahan, his face just as rapidly draining of all color, then stood shakily and walked into the bedroom. Harry followed, watching him yank a pair of pants out of his suitcase and pull them on. Suddenly afraid the kid would leave, Callahan grabbed his arm. Davis flinched as though expecting to be punched.

Jesus. Carefully Harry enfolded the miserable man in his arms.

Davis started to cry and slid down, out of the embrace, bemoaning his life. “Why the hell didn’t I just die in the water?”

Staring at the crying man, Callahan felt an anger rise in him. How dare he want to throw away a life so painfully renegotiated? Harry stalked to his dresser and found Johnny’s gun, which he thrust under the sniveling nose.

“Take it,” he growled. “Blow your fucking brains out.” He waited, as the kid stared at him in shock. “Go on, kill yourself. Never mind that I love you.”

And even in his anger he knew it was true. He’d sold his soul for this kid, something he’d never done in all his life. Callahan stared out the window, aware that he was willingly committing a felony for his own purposes. Playing god. Taking the law into his own hands, not so justice would be served, but so Harry Callahan would be. He knew it, faced it, accepted it. What would be gained by sacrificing this misguided kid on the altar of justice? Nothing. And there was everything to be gained for one Harold Francis Callahan if he protected him. Anything that logical couldn’t be wrong.

His anger cooling, Harry talked to the kid, finally walking over to the dejected figure, slumped over the apparently forgotten gun in his hand. Callahan set it aside, then held out his hand.

“You gettin’ up, or shall I come down?”

The tear-stained face turned up, and Davis took his hand. Callahan pulled him to his feet.

“Why’d you bring the pictures, Harry?”

Brushing away tears, Callahan told him. “To let you know you don’t need to hide anything from me, Johnny. There are plenty of things I’ve done that aren’t very pretty either.” God, yes. A kaleidoscope of messy deaths and brutal questioning of punks crossed his mind. Years of bloody knighthood had not often been shining.

They walked to the kitchen and held an almost ritualistic bonfire, burning Johnny’s past along with the pictures, cleaning the slate for a new start. Together.

“Do you think I ought to move back into my apartment?”

The words hit Callahan hard. Didn’t the kid want to stay with him? He looked around. No wonder. This place is a dump. Maybe Johnny didn’t want to live with him. A little afraid he’d assumed too much, Harry asked.

He stopped worrying when Johnny slid eagerly into his arms and answered, “I don’t want to be anyplace but here, Harry.”

The kiss that followed turned him on faster than he’d thought possible. God, the kid’s magic. He felt fire in the circling hands, heat in the thrusting hips, and he wanted Davis more than he’d ever wanted anyone in his life. In no time he found himself naked on the bed, a possessive animal trapping him beneath an excited body, hands caressing, fondling, owning him as he’d never been owned. It was a new feeling, and he wasn’t sure he should be enjoying it so much.

With a quick movement Harry rolled the kid over, trapping him in much the same position. It became a game, until they landed on the floor laughing. The heat took over then, and Harry found himself wanting to explore his new toy. Tasting, licking, loving, he moved down the almost familiar territory of white and amber until he faced for the first time that rigid, straining cock he’d felt inside, against his belly, in his hand. He held it almost reverently, then leaned closer, touching the stretched and shining skin with lips and tongue, not understanding why it should feel so right, so natural. Not caring. Opening his mouth, he slid his lips over the rosy crown and slowly began to suck.

Johnny arched with a moan of pleasure, and Harry felt hands pulling at his legs until he was turned around and stretched out beside his new love. A hot mouth closed over his own cock, and Harry gasped, then renewed his assault. They rocked in passionate rhythm, each sucking diligently until both skyrocketed to a pair of blazing explosions.

Callahan stared at the ceiling for long, appreciative minutes before noticing how exhausted the kid was. Hell, he’d been through too much for this kind of play right now. Getting slowly to his knees, Harry lifted the long body to the bed, then gazed into the now reviving blue eyes. Johnny reached up like a small boy needing a hug, and Callahan gladly obliged. Drawing the covers around them, he wrapped the child-man safely in his arms, holding him until his breathing quieted and Harry knew he was asleep.

So much had happened in such a short time, Callahan could scarcely believe it was true. He held his miracle and felt the love he now recognized, welcomed. It was growing stronger by the minute, filling the disillusioned cop with new hope, new dreams. He was in no hurry, wanting to savor every moment of the awakening he felt inside from this wonder in his arms. Visions of everything good he’d ever felt in his life swam through his senses as he drifted into hopeful, promising dreams of elusive happiness. At last.

***

Callahan floated into consciousness, confused for a moment to find himself not alone, then smiling as he remembered. He tightened his arms around the warm body almost as tall as his own, enjoying the unusual sensation. Sensations. Just waking up with someone was unusual enough. Since Lou had died, he couldn’t recall ever sleeping with anyone, never trusting the casual fucks enough to doze off. Hadn’t wanted to.

Funny he should trust this boy, this known killer, yet even that first night he had. He’d gone to sleep, waking to find Davis sitting by the bed. With every opportunity to kill him the kid hadn’t fired a shot on the carrier, and sat shivering on the floor watching him, ignoring the Magnum on the night stand.

Johnny wasn’t a killer. He was a frightened little boy. Harry smirked and corrected himself. Big boy. And not just his height, either, he thought, reaching down to cup the flaccid cock, large even when relaxed. Johnny murmured in his sleep and Harry felt a tremor through his hand as the cock responded to his touch. He found it awesome to have such power over a lover.

His lover.

Never before had he used the word in his mind. Lou was his wife. He’d never thought of her as anything else. Hell, they hadn’t made love until she was. Any others were nothing more than a convenient lay. Johnny was his first lover. Somehow the word held more meaning than he could explain even to himself.

The cock stirred again and Harry enjoyed the new feeling. No woman had ever shown such obvious signs of arousal. Not that Harry hadn’t usually tried to please them, especially Lou, but there was nothing so rewarding as the evidence of a rock-hard shaft to prove your efforts were successful. It was little more than twenty-four hours since Harry had first held Johnny in his arms, and already the kid had proved time after time the power of Harry’s touch.

Callahan sighed with satisfaction, and the arm across his chest tightened. Reluctantly he pulled his hand away from the hardening cock, not wanting Johnny to wake aroused when they had to leave in such a short time.

To see the chief.

Harry felt a knot of fear, worrying that Johnny’s guilt would make him tell the man the whole truth, and undo all Callahan’s efforts to cover for him.

Turning a little, Callahan began to kiss the angelic face, so innocent in sleep. His lips brushed reverently from eye to eye to nose to mouth, around and around until the lashes fluttered and the face broke into sunshine. Johnny reached for him, his mouth and tongue setting Harry afire before he could pull away.

“Uh-uh, not now, Johnny,” he said reluctantly. “Now comes the hard part. We have to face the world head on today.”

He hated to leave the suddenly frightened eyes, and toyed a moment with blond tendrils before sighing in resignation. He pushed himself off the bed and trudged into the bathroom.

Harry set the shower a little cooler than normal, wanting to be alert and ready for the confrontation. God, he would have liked to bring Johnny in to shower with him. His body responded to the pictures in his mind, and he turned the cold a little higher.

Toweling briskly until his skin tingled, Harry shaved, then hurried out to give the kid a chance. Davis didn’t take long, and soon emerged looking all too desirable, his eyes worried and vulnerable as he silently dressed in his suit.

Callahan made coffee and encouraged Johnny to drink some. The kid’s nervousness was understandable, and Harry tried to put him at ease, to assure him no one would guess the real reason for it.

“You’re entitled to look upset,” he said. “You’ve just lost your best friends.”

The eyes darkened with guilt. “That’s not what’s bothering me, Harry.”

“I know that, but they don’t.” Wanting to protect him, Callahan volunteered to do the talking.

Davis straightened, determination in his voice as he refused the offer, then added softly, “I don’t want you to have to lie any more, Harry.”

Callahan was proud of him. The kid had guts and didn’t need mollycoddling. As they walked through the garage Harry remembered suddenly the three white-helmeted vigilantes. A glance at Davis showed he remembered, too. He had stopped in his tracks, staring in distress at the empty spot where the motorcycles had stood.

“Johnny,” Harry said, but the kid didn’t respond, and Harry could see a slight tremor in the hands hanging helplessly, as he stared at nothing. Callahan grabbed his arms and shook him. “Johnny!”

At last, the stricken eyes focused and Callahan led him to the car. “The memories won’t always hit you that hard, kid,” he promised, hoping he was right.

By the time they reached the station Davis seemed to be in control again.

Tough kid, Harry thought, as they walked side by side to the chief’s office, waiting outside until the harried man could see them.

Callahan was called in first. “I just wanted you to know the rumor’s being accepted on all levels,” the chief said, eyeing his homicide inspector sharply. “Now it’s up to you to control Davis’ mouth.”

Harry had to fight the smile off his face. “No problem, sir,” he said, thinking how he’d controlled that warm mouth only a short time before, more than willing to do it again, and again, and…

“…and it’s a goddamned shame,” the chief said, waving four personnel files Callahan recognized as Johnny’s and the others.

He wasn’t sure what the chief had said, but agreed solemnly. “Yes, sir.”

With a sigh the suddenly old-looking man punched his intercom. “Send Davis in.”

The door opened and Johnny walked through. He seemed in total control of himself, but Callahan noticed the slight tremor in the kid’s hands and knew he was close to panic. He sent a reassuring glance, but Johnny’s eyes were riveted to the chief, who was staring glumly at the four files.

“Goddamn you misguided, fanatical fools. Can your army have changed so much from mine?”

Callahan saw the surprise on Johnny’s face as he stammered, “I… I don’t know, sir.”

Frowning, the chief dropped the folders, muttering about waste. “Those four men should have been the finest officers… How the hell am I supposed to choose candidates?” Deep in thought he stared at the wall.

Harry could see how nervous Johnny was and frowned at his own clasped hands, hoping fervently the kid wouldn’t spill the beans. Finally, the chief ordered Johnny to sign his resignation, then turned to Callahan.

“Inspector, your file looks rotten, and you drive me to drink, but by god you’re the best I’ve got. Maybe I should put you in charge of personnel.”

Like hell, Callahan thought. “No thank you, sir. I don’t think I’d like that very much.” Jesus. Personnel is for assholes.

After they were dismissed, Callahan steered Davis out of the office, past the secretary, and into the hall. He dug out the kid’s I.D. and badge. “I forgot to give you these this morning,” he said, glancing around the deserted hall, then holding Johnny’s shaking hands. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry could feel the trembling subside as Davis told him he wanted to check the arrangements for his dead friends.

Callahan hated to leave him, but he had to go to work. Fishing in his pocket for the apartment key he’d had made, Harry pressed it into the warm hand. “Can you get home okay, Johnny?” And it really is a home, now, he realized suddenly, as he looked into the misting blue eyes.

“Yes, Harry, I can find my way home.”

Without bothering to check the hall again, Harry kissed him. Pushing reluctantly away from the happily astonished face, Callahan walked toward the elevators. Just before he turned the corner, he looked back and waved to Johnny, who hadn’t moved.

Christ, I hope. he’s gonna be all right, Harry thought, worried a little.

Getting off the elevator, Callahan ran into Frank DiGeorgio, his partner again since Early’s death. Thank god Johnny hadn’t been a part of that.

“Hi, Harry,” DiGeorgio said, pulling the knob for a Hershey bar. “How’s the little fag today?”

Callahan had heard his long-time friend talk like this for years, but suddenly it annoyed the shit out of him. “Fine,” he answered shortly, stalking past Frank and into the squadroom. He sat at his desk and tried to work, but his thoughts were all centered around Johnny and their startling new relationship.

Fag. Gay. Queen. Queer.

The names kept popping into his head, but they didn’t seem to fit. Dirty Harry Callahan gay? He shook his head. He wasn’t like those guys down on Castro, cruising for a fast fuck. What he felt for Johnny was different. He loved Johnny. Woman or man, what was so different about loving? You just learned how to cope with the plumbing. He grinned. And what plumbing.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Bressler growled, tossing a folder onto Callahan’s desk.

Harry ignored the question. “What’s this?” he asked.

“Case closed,” Bressler said, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Just thought you might want to read the official verdict.”

Harry opened it, realizing it was the vigilante case, and read what he essentially already knew.

“So, how’s the stray puppy?” Bressler asked, sounding entirely different from Frank.

Harry smiled a little. “Doctor says he’s okay. Just be kinda sore for a few days.” Harry remembered his own pleasant ache from new experiences with his “stray puppy.”

“Helluva fall.” Bressler was quiet a moment. “The chief said to keep Davis’ name out of the reports, but damnit, Harry, why was he there? I got some double-talk rumor about suicide.”

Callahan leaned back and looked straight at his old friend. “It’s not just a rumor, Al. Knowing what his friends were doin got too heavy for the kid.” Not to mention Johnny’s own complicity. Definitely not to mention it.

“Must be tough for him to live with that,” Bressler agreed.

You don’t know the half of it. “He’ll be okay.” Callahan hesitated, then voiced the thought that had been running through his brain since yesterday. “I’m thinking of moving to a bigger place.” He ignored the surprise on Bressler’s face. “I’ll try to stay in the Russian Hill area.”

“Davis is going to stick around for a while?” Bressler failed in his obvious attempt to sound casual. Harry knew why. Men over thirty didn’t usually live with roommates unless they were sleeping together.

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “I think I can get him back on his feet.”

Bressler’s face showed only concern. “If that’s what you want.”

He’s what I want. “Yeah, I do, Al.” It was a vow.

His friend spoke softly. “It’s a big step, Harry.” Callahan didn’t think Bressler was talking about moving. “Maybe you’re just feeling, uh, paternal.”

Callahan grimaced at being reminded of the age difference. Maybe his protective instincts were part of it. Bressler knew him, but could he understand the magical way Johnny set an old cop on fire with a look, a touch? “Maybe,” he muttered, not yet ready to explain any more.

Bressler stood. “I’ll be around,” he said, giving Callahan’s shoulder a pat before walking back to his office.

“Thanks.” Now who’s being paternal, Callahan thought, knowing their conversation would go no farther, grateful for the understanding, so different from Frank. Hell, he couldn’t blame Frank too much. “Queer” had come pretty easily from his own mouth just a short time ago.

And if putting his mouth on Johnny made him queer…. Hell, he wasn’t going to worry about it. He had better things to think about than labels and name-calling. Calling. He reached for the phone and dialed, but Johnny wasn’t home yet.

Callahan turned back to his work and managed to type up a couple of old reports between glancing at the clock and wondering what Johnny was doing. Maybe he was still at his old apartment packing up. Harry dug the card out of his wallet, remembering the unhappy day he’d jotted down Johnny’s address and phone number. Not needing the number, but writing it anyway. Knowing why now. If things had been different, would he ever have called the kid? He smiled. Probably. On one trumped up excuse or other, like a schoolkid. Just to hear his voice. He wanted to hear his voice. Harry dialed the number.

“Hello?” The voice filled Harry in places he hadn’t even known were empty.

“Johnny, I’m glad I caught you there.”

“Hi, Harry.” Davis sounded sad.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Callahan wasn’t convinced, “I’m finishing here in a few minutes. Wait for me and I’ll pick you up, okay?”

“Okay.”

Harry put down the receiver, suddenly filled with an aching desire to be over there. He slipped on his jacket over the Magnum and damned near ran out of the office, cursing the elevator, stop lights, and traffic standing in his way. Callahan parked by the apartment and looked up, but the window was empty. Mildly disappointed, he climbed the stairs and pushed open the door. Two cardboard boxes looked lonely in the middle of the living room.

Harry glanced toward the bedroom and saw Johnny sitting on the back windowsill staring out, his face sorrowful. Probably haunted by memories. He needs a little distraction.

Carefully chaining the door, Harry walked all the way into the room and stood by the bed, but the kid still hadn’t noticed anyone was there. He looked lost and as lonely as the two boxes.

“I’ll help you forget, Johnny.”

Davis jumped, but when he turned, the smile he sent warmed Callahan. “I don’t want to forget, Harry,” he said, walking over to sit on the bed. He tried to explain his friends as he held and rubbed Callahan’s hand, causing tenderly erotic feelings. “Besides, if it hadn’t been for them, I’d never have found you.”

“I wonder,” Harry said, caressing the silky gold tenderly. “Do you believe in Fate?”

The face turned up and Harry looked into those already familiar, hypnotic blue eyes as Johnny whispered, “I never did before.”

The hug he got then with Johnny’s face so close to his aching groin filled Callahan with a remarkable fire, different from any turn-on he’d ever felt in his life. Before Johnny. And when the hot mouth and hands closed over his suddenly free cock, Callahan gave himself up to the feeling. Total surrender as he’d never wanted to do with anyone else. His explosion was ecstasy.

After a moment of lazy recovery, Harry began to return the favor, his hands unbuttoning eagerly in spite of Johnny’s protest about the landlord.

“I chained the door,” Harry told him smugly, getting the rest of the kid’s clothes off.

“Harry, why here?” The question was no longer a protest, as Johnny was just as hurriedly undressing Harry, running his hands over Harry’s belly, setting him afire all over again.

“I thought maybe it might help to set your ghosts to rest once and for all, for us to make love right here in your own bed,” he explained, knowing it was his own ghosts he wanted to vanquish, defying the memory of Sweet to match the love he had for Johnny. “Besides, I got so horny just thinking about you on the way over,” he said, getting rid of the last of his clothes, “I knew I’d never be able to resist jumping you in the middle of the floor.”

Stretched out next to his new treasure, Callahan caressed Johnny tenderly in long, lazy strokes. He leaned over to brush his lips lightly over the exquisite face, wondering what made this face more beautiful than any other, not caring, as hands followed lips, delighting in the little animal sounds and squirming his attention was causing.

Callahan slid one hand under Johnny’s neck, lifting so the golden head tipped back, exposing that long expanse of throat, so vulnerable. Like Red Astrachan’s had been under his crushing blows. His hesitation must have been understood, as Johnny smiled and arched his throat even more, invitingly.

The open trust made Callahan catch his breath, and he fed greedily with loving kisses and lip-bites that seemed to excite Davis all the more. The two little moles Harry had discovered on Johnny’s neck seemed especially erotic, and he kissed them tenderly before moving down the highly excited body to the tiny nipples and downy chest.

Harry still wasn’t accustomed to loving a man’s body, but most of the women he’d touched there weren’t especially well-endowed either, so the difference was barely noticeable. His hand swept down the flat planes of belly to tight amber curls and the awesome straining shaft rising from them.

Much as he wanted to take time and explore this new world, Callahan could tell that Davis was enormously turned on. Almost mindless in his need, Johnny probably was unaware that he was arching and clawing as if to turn Callahan over. Harry turned, sliding down beside his excited animal on his stomach, urging him on top—like the first time, only this time Johnny wasn’t in a gentle mood.

With a low growl Davis pushed into Callahan’s body.

Harry gasped, the sudden force more surprising than painful, but the frantic madman mounting him seemed unaware. Callahan matched the wild rhythm, pushing back with every thrust, feeling that strange new fullness deep inside, that sensation of being complete at last, a feeling never known—before Johnny.

The wildcat screamed his explosion and Harry shivered at the peculiar feeling of liquid being pumped into his body. Johnny collapsed, kitten-limp across his back. No wildcat now.

Harry turned and gathered the exhausted boy tenderly into his arms, kissing his forehead, wiping him clean with an edge of the sheet, accepting the unpleasant as part of the pleasant.

“Now maybe we can start to live again,” Callahan whispered softly, knowing he felt alive for the first time in years, and he hadn’t even realized he was dead.

Johnny didn’t speak, just lay there panting and holding onto Callahan as if he’d never let go. Never let go.

Harry brushed the sweat-darkened blond hair back from the broad forehead. “I think we should find a new apartment. One with two bedrooms.” It felt good to say it. Cast his fate with this golden boy in his arms. Make the decision to share his life, his love, his home. Their home. He no longer wanted to think in the singular. Harry gazed into the blue eyes—and saw fear.

“Two?” Johnny asked in a strangled voice. “What for?”

Damn, the kid’s afraid I don’t want him in my bed. He leered reassuringly. “Variety, for one thing. I kind of like making it on your bed for a change.” Johnny still looked dubious. “For a lot of reasons, Johnny. You’ll need a place of your own sometimes, and so will I.” He kissed him lightly. “And I think we both know this isn’t temporary. A new place for a new start.”

The blue eyes grew dreamy and thoughtful.

Harry wondered what was going on in the kid’s head. He asked.

Johnny’s arms tightened in a crushing embrace. “I was thinking, for a man who deserves to be dead, I feel very good.”

Harry wanted to protest the guilty statement, but his mouth was full of questing tongue. He decided actions spoke louder anyway, and proceeded to show his erring angel just how much he was worth to one tired old cop. He’d prove it if it took a lifetime—a nice long lifetime.

***

“The sweet love we’ve been sharing since the first time,
Glows sweeter every day like vintage wine.
For the good times that we’ve been knowing,
Somehow seem to keep on growing.
I’m so thankful there ever was a first time.”
 —Hart