Magnum Force: Davis

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

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: Davis is the origin story of John Davis (the role played by David Soul), giving his background, his early life, and relates how he met and was befriended by the three men who would convince him to join the San Francisco Police Department where he was fated to meet Dirty Harry Callahan (played by Clint Eastwood).

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THIS STORY IS FOR ALL OF US WHO
COULDN’T BEAR TO SEE DAVID SOUL
DIE AT THE END OF MAGNUM FORCE.

****

DEDICATED TO DAVID SOUL
FOR CREATING A CHARACTER
THAT WE CAN CARE ABOUT…
AND
TO CLINT EASTWOOD FOR LETTING
US SEE THAT DIRTY HARRY CARES,
TOO.

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MAGNUM FORCE: DAVIS

by Ruth Kurz and Teri White

 

“I went on wondering where my life would lead,
and I reached out for something to believe,
but no one heard my song… until now.”
—Arvon

 

“C’mon, you guys, let’s move it! There’s a brawl at Chu’s!”

The relaxing M.P.s sprang into action at the ring of authority in young John Davis’ voice. Seven years of M.P. experience, the last few in Vietnam, commanded respect. The fact that the tall, bespectacled blond was also base pistol champion didn’t hurt him in the eyes of his men.

Davis led his squad through the door into the melee at Chu’s. Their shouts and whistles were ignored by the dozen or more belligerent battlers flailing away at one another amongst the wreckage of tables, chairs, and glassware. Davis spotted one combatant lifting a chair in preparation for crashing it down on his opponent. With well-practiced speed, Davis drew his long-barreled Magnum and sent six resounding, rapid-fire shots through the thin seat of the upraised chair, forming a neat pattern in the thick wall beyond.

In the stunned silence that followed, the grinning M.P.’s rounded up the battered bunch and headed them out to the waiting stockade wagon. Davis took the chair out of the trembling hands of the now subdued soldier, who kept staring at the scalloped hole in the seat, and pushed him gently into the custody of one of his men.

“That’s one way of getting their attention. Unorthodox, but effective.”

Davis turned toward the soft, southern voice, and saw a man about his own age smiling at him through a pair of blackened eyes and a bloody nose. Davis found himself returning the infectious grin. “You look like you were involved here,” he said.

“I’m afraid I’d have trouble denying it, but it sure puts my ass in a sling,” the slender man answered ruefully, picking up the remains of his glasses from under a table.

Davis tried to reassure him. “Don’t worry, you’ll just spend the night in jail and pay damages. That’s probably all.”

“Except I violated my probation.” He grinned at Davis. “I never could pass up a good brawl.”

Davis tried to hide a smile. There was something likeable about the man. “Come on. Maybe there’s something I can do.”

They headed out the door, ignoring the angry owner, who suddenly appeared to voice his complaints.

“That’s all. Get that truck moving!” Davis ordered the driver, who shrugged, put the vehicle in gear, and jolted off down the road. Davis turned to his pleasantly surprised companion. “I’m off duty now. Want a beer?”

“Sure,” came the relieved response.

“Well, let’s go somewhere else. This place is a wreck!”

As they walked, Davis carefully reloaded and bolstered his huge revolver.

His new-found friend eyed it appreciatively. “That’s not regulation army. I’ve never seen anyone outside of Special Forces use a beauty like that.”

Davis studied him. “You in Special Forces?”

“Yeah. Just got assigned here.” He looked at Davis. “I’ve got a couple of buddies I’d like you to meet. We think we’re pretty good shots ourselves. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

Davis smiled. “I spent most of my first hitch in the States at Fort Benning. I guess I spent more time at pistol matches than busting drunks in those days. By the way, I’m John Davis.” He held out his hand.

“Sweet, Phil Sweet.”

The handshake was strong and warm, as were the hours following, warm and full of comfortable comradeship. Davis, always a loner, unexplainably found himself responding to this soft-spoken, easy-going man. When they finally parted, Davis realized he was looking forward to seeing Sweet again and had even agreed to meet his buddies. As he drifted off to sleep that night, listening to the breathing and snores of the barracks full of men, Davis wondered if he dared to break a lifelong habit of loneliness, and allow himself a friend. He remembered dreamily how alone he’d always been, so terribly alone.

Johnny Davis couldn’t remember living anywhere but the Michigan orphanage. He couldn’t remember ever having been called Ben either, although his birth certificate read Benjamin John Davis, mother Marjorie Davis, died from childbirth, father unnamed. He assumed the County Welfare ladies who ran the orphanage didn’t like the name Ben.

It wasn’t a bad place to grow up. They had enough food, enough clothing, enough toys, enough education. About the only things they didn’t have enough of were parents—and love. Oh, the ladies tried their best, but so many children coming and going defeated them. They couldn’t reach every individual, especially not a quiet little blond boy who never caused any problems. They had their hands full with the troublemakers and criers. They were unaware that little John Davis had learned to cry inside to avoid drawing attention to himself. He never fought over toys either, being content to draw elaborate pictures in the dirt with a stick, or to throw pebbles at a tin can target with an amazing sense of accuracy that no one noticed.

Johnny was never any trouble. He didn’t complain about the other children, so no one knew that on his tenth birthday one precocious fourteen-year-old boy caught Johnny alone, took him to a dark closet, stifled his cries, and tested his newly discovered puberty on the child’s tender rectum.

That evening Johnny sat gingerly in his place at dinner. The ladies made amused remarks about how the other children had obviously given him his birthday swats. When it was clear Johnny wouldn’t squeal on him, his molester used him regularly, in spite of his protests, in that closet and other hidden locations, occasionally inviting a friend to share the fun.

On his twelfth birthday Johnny received a BB pistol someone had donated with other outgrown toys and clothes. It had only a small supply of BBs, so Johnny set up a little wooden box as a target, firing very carefully into its opening to catch the BBs, and from a good distance so they would be spent, and not risk being flattened out of shape. He still had almost all those original BBs when he left the orphanage for the army, and he hadn’t been in the closet once after he started sleeping with the gun under his pillow.

Davis found a place in the army. He enjoyed having his shooting skill recognized, and he liked his work, which allowed him to carry a gun, the only companion he trusted. He kept to himself, spending his spare time practicing on whatever makeshift range was available, or reading any books he could get his hands on. Everyone left him alone… until now, and Davis smiled in his sleep.

***

One quiet afternoon Davis was sitting alone at his favorite corner table in the Star Bar, reading and drinking beer, when he heard a familiar voice.

“There he is.”

Davis looked up and saw Sweet across the room with two other men. He closed his book and stood up politely to greet the newcomers following Sweet, who threaded his way through the tables toward him.

“Davis, this is Mike Grimes.”

The taller of the two strangers reached out to shake Davis’ hand firmly, a smile accompanying his friendly, “Hi, Davis.”

Davis felt the confidence in Grimes’ handshake as he returned the greeting before turning to the little baby-faced redhead beside him, looking owlishly through horn-rimmed glasses.

Sweet introduced him. “This is Tom Astrachan, but everybody calls him ‘Red.'”

Davis smiled and reached out his hand. “What’s a kid like you doing in Special Forces?”

Red’s face clouded, and he grasped Davis’ hand, pulling him suddenly off balance. A quick twist and Davis found himself on the floor, his head pulled back grotesquely by the hair, with the wiry little banty rooster planted firmly on his back, a downright evil grin twisting his cherubic features.

Sweet laughed. “Let him up, Red. I think you answered his question.”

Davis stood up, sheepishly wiped the dust from his clothes, then sat down at his table… a respectable distance from Red.

Grimes sat down next to Davis and gave him a hearty slap on the back saying, “Red’s touchy about his size, but he’s a good man to have on your side.”

Davis nodded ruefully. “Sorry, ki… Red.”

Astrachan grinned. “S’okay. I used to get the same reaction back home when I wanted to play basketball, but I could run right through those big guys’ legs and make baskets.” Something in his voice reminded Davis of a guy they used to call cowboy in boot camp.

Sweet had wandered over to the bar and now appeared with four beers and a pitcherful on a tray. Setting it down, he took the chair by Davis. “Good to see you again, Johnny. I really enjoyed our talk the other night.”

Grimes spoke up. “Yeah, thanks for keeping him out of trouble. We appreciate it.”

Davis dismissed it with a gesture, wondering again just why he hadn’t sent Sweet along with the other brawlers. He pushed his glasses back up on his nose and reached for a glass. “Thanks for the beer, Phil.”

Sweet smiled. “I owe you more than beer.” He looked into Davis’ eyes. “Don’t you get tired of arresting the same people over and over?”

Davis was startled. “What do you mean?”

Sweet warmed to his subject. “Like you said the other night, we’d just spend the night in jail, pay damages, and we’d be out again.”

“So?”

“So, that’s okay for drunks, but what about the serious stuff… the guys pushing drugs, and the damned fools using them? What happens to them?”

Davis thought about it. He’d often picked up G.I.s so spaced out they’d hurt themselves and not know it, but they rarely got hold of a supplier. “Once in a while we catch a guy supplying to his friends. They generally go to the stockade for a long time.”

Grimes had a bitter edge to his voice. “But the guy he bought his supply from you never catch, right?”

“Right,” Davis agreed sadly. “They’re the real troublemakers.”

Grimes continued, “If we only knew who they were maybe we could prosecute them.”

“Or save the courts the trouble.” Red had spoken softly, but Davis heard the words and looked at him sharply, missing the warning glance Red got from Sweet.

Grimes hurried on. “As an M.P., you must know a lot about what goes on around here. Have you got any line on the local drug connection? Our job here is to try to find out where the chain of dealers leads, so Uncle Sam can try to close it off from his boys.” He looked at Davis. “Maybe you could tell us who some of the guys are who are using. We could get them to tell us their suppliers and work our way up.”

Davis shook his head. “You know I can’t give you the names of any soldiers. Their records are confidential.”

Sweet stepped in. “We’re just trying to help them, Johnny. Defense wants to get the pushers off their backs.”

Davis, however, was adamant, so Grimes took another tack. “Maybe you know a place they’ve been connecting. That wouldn’t be confidential. We could go there looking for a buy and get the info for our boss that way.”

Davis was thoughtful. “I suppose that would be all right.” He looked at Sweet. “Won’t they be suspicious that they’re being set up?”

“With this puss?” Sweet laughed, indicating his purple and gold eyes.

Davis shrugged. “Well, that place you were in the other night seems to get a lot of action.”

“Chu’s?”

“Yeah. We figure his back-room business has a little of everything. We know he’s got girls and gambling, and most of our known users come out of there regularly—looking happy.” Davis watched a satisfied look pass from Sweet to Grimes to Astrachan before they turned back to him.

Grimes smiled broadly. “I hear you’re one helluva shot. Care to set up a little match?”

The gun talk continued easily, and Davis soon forgot the earlier conversation as the beer-relaxed bunch retired to the range. There they tested one another’s skills like happy schoolboys showing off and playing can-you-top-this.

Davis was on a high during the next few weeks as he enjoyed the warmth of friendship for the first time in his life. He was faintly disturbed by a nagging thought trying to surface the night Chu’s place exploded mysteriously, killing the owner and a few of his employees as they slept, but not even that thought came to him when sometime later the richest man in town was assassinated by a sniper the local authorities couldn’t find. After all, it wasn’t army business.

***

A few nights later the four friends were slurping beer at the Star. Sweet had been looking glum all evening, and finally Davis reached over to put a hand on his arm.

“Phil, what’s the matter?” he asked.

Sweet sighed and looked up. “We’ve been reassigned. Have to leave in a few days for Saigon.” He made an obvious effort at smiling, but failed. “Damn, I’m going to miss our rap sessions.”

Davis felt stricken. “Leaving?” His stomach knotted at the thought. “Leaving.” He drew a ragged breath, surprised at how hard the news had hit him. Red and Grimes looked uncomfortable at his open distress.

Suddenly Sweet brightened. “Hey, Johnny, why don’t you transfer to Special Forces and go with us?”

Davis looked up, hope dawning. He had no particular roots here, and he now realized how important these three men had become to him. “Could I do that?” he asked hesitantly.

“Sure!” Sweet said. “Come on, let’s go talk to the boss right now.”

It all happened too fast for Davis. He was used to the slow wheels of the regular army, but Special Forces seemed to live in a world of its own and regular army listened for some reason. In three days, he left behind a seven-year career as an M.P. to face… what? He was still very unfamiliar with the kind of work his friends did, as they only alluded to it vaguely, preferring to talk about guns, girls, or politics. Their political beliefs were fuzzy, except for one point that constantly surfaced: their condemnation of the courts, both military and civil, for being lenient with the criminals infiltrating and destroying society.

Davis didn’t talk much, but he listened and tried to understand.

When they got settled in Saigon, Davis began daily basic training and studying, including law, as well as practical courses in self-defense and shooting where he proudly excelled. So far “spy-school” as he called it to himself was merely an extension of his regular training, as if he were taking refresher courses to reassure his superiors that he was fit for the more advanced indoctrination.

The evenings were the best, spent in the camaraderie he’d come to depend on so much. Of course, the guys occasionally had to work nights on one thing or another, but generally the weeks were happy ones.

One night, however, Davis noticed his three friends were all unusually quiet. They’d been discussing the winding down of the war for days now, and even the Cambodian news was bothering them.

“There isn’t any real use for Special Forces anymore,” Grimes said to his beer. “We’re being wasted here.”

“I think we ought to quit when our hitch is up next month,” Astrachan said vehemently. “It’s all down the drain.”

“No, it isn’t.” Sweet looked thoughtful. “The natural extension of our work here would be to root out the criminal element back home. Now what kind of job would let us do that?”

“Yeah,” Grimes said, his face lighting up. “Police work. And not just busting drunks like the M.P.’s. Sorry, Johnny,” he added at Davis’ indignant look. “I’ll bet we could get in narco someplace. We’ve sure got the experience for that.”

Davis felt the rug slipping out from under him again. “You’re really gonna quit?”

Sweet put an arm around his shoulders. “How long ’til your hitch is up and you can join us?” he asked.

Davis thought about his plans to be a career man and realized it didn’t matter anymore. “Six months,” he said, already looking forward to it.

“Okay, then,” Sweet continued. “Just don’t say anything to the bosses about planning to quit, or they might put you in combat or something. Just wait ’til they ship you stateside for the rest of your training at ‘The Farm.'”

“The farm?”

“Yeah, that’s the advanced training base. Then, when they ask you to re-up for the two-year minimum, tell them you’ve changed your mind. They’ll probably put you on permanent KP, but you’ll be out in a few months. We’ll keep in touch so you’ll know where to find us.”

The plans made, the rest of the evening was a lot more cheerful, as were their final days together. Davis even managed to say goodbye to each of them as their hitches ended within weeks of one another. He continued studying hard for the joy he always got out of learning anything new, and at last he was shipped back. When he told the officials at “The Farm” he’d changed his mind about making the army his career, they accepted his excuse that the war was ending, and he didn’t want to be a peace-time soldier.

Davis waited patiently for mail from his three friends, but except for one letter from Sweet saying he’d arrived home safely and would write again, no mail caught up with him. When his six months were finally up, Davis headed to the Baton Rouge address on Sweet’s letter.

In the uncomfortably clean house Sweet’s parents kept, Davis learned that Sweet had gone to San Francisco and applied for a position on the police department there some time ago.

Eagerly Davis headed for California.

***

A few days later an impatient Davis waited in the visitor’s lobby of the San Francisco Police Headquarters building. The uniformed girl at the switchboard kept glancing at him appreciatively, making him blush helplessly.

Finally, a door opened, a familiar voice cried out, “Johnny!” and Sweet was there pounding him on the back.

“Damn, after my letters came back, I gave up hope.” Sweet sobered suddenly. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”

“Naw, just the army red tape, I guess,” Davis said grinning. “God it’s good to see you, Phil. Where are the other guys?”

“They’re here, too, just like we planned. Come on, let’s go get ’em.”

Sweet led the way through a maze of subterranean tunnels to a basement range where two uniformed policemen flattened target after target with familiar accuracy. Davis grinned admiringly at the trim picture they made in their crisply pressed shirts, motorcycle pants, and slim leather boots. His three friends looked like public relations posters showing San Francisco’s finest, and he felt proud to know them.

Finally, the men finished practicing and gathered in their targets to compare. In laughing camaraderie, they turned toward the patching bench. The shorter one stopped as he spotted Sweet and his companion.

“Jesus! It’s Johnny!” Astrachan’s face lit up with a smile any toothpaste ad would envy.

Grimes dropped his targets and covered the space between them in a few brisk strides. He wrapped both arms around Davis in an enormous bearhug that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Johnny! For Christ’s sake, man. Where have you been? We never heard from you.”

Davis could barely contain his emotions. Grinning with a joy that welled up from untapped depths, he managed to answer, “That’s the army for you. I didn’t hear from you either.”

Davis was floating as Grimes and Astrachan finished patching the reusable targets then packed him off to the cafeteria for a full-scale reunion party worthy of the occasion.

“Have you got a place to stay yet?” Sweet asked as they settled down with coffee and donuts.

“No, I just got in today. I wasn’t sure if you guys…” he stopped, flustered, unable to express the doubts and fears that had nagged him for the past few months. He hadn’t known if he could find them… and had been unsure about how welcome he’d be even if he did. Today’s reunion, though, satisfied him on all counts.

“We’ll find you a place,” Sweet assured him. “And you can bunk in with me until we do.”

“Thanks.” Davis looked at them curiously. “How did you guys happen to pick this city?”

Grimes glanced at Astrachan who looked at Sweet who nodded. “A friend of mine recommended it. He contacted a lieutenant here who appreciates the value of Special Forces vets,” Grimes explained.

“Now, tell us what you’ve been up to,” Sweet asked quickly, and Davis forgot his half-formed question about what that value might be.

“I did just like you said,” Davis told them. “They didn’t hassle me about quitting.” He grinned. “They even let me shoot with their team. Sent me to Camp Perry with them for the National Matches.”

“Yeah? How’d you do?” Sweet sounded really interested.

“Not so hot. Those guys can’t shoot like you.” Davis looked around at them. “What a team we four would make!” He could see himself dressed in that snappy uniform next to the three of them, taking all the gold medals at Perry. “But we need another guy for a full team. D’ya know any shooter on the force as good as we are?”

Again, that look passed among the other three.

“Yeah,” Grimes nodded ruefully, “but he wouldn’t be interested in joining us.”

“Because we’re rookies?” Davis asked, already thinking of himself as one of them.

“Uh, yeah, that’s it,” Grimes agreed. “So how about it? You ready to trade those tacky civvies for a real class uniform?”

“I sure am!” Davis answered enthusiastically.

“That’s great!” Sweet said, “Now let’s take you to personnel and start the ball rolling.”

***

Like his transfer to Special Forces, Davis’ acceptance into the police department seemed like a whirlwind of introductions, interviews, tests, papers to sign, medical examinations and psychiatric evaluations, then suddenly he found himself in the Academy studying again. With the constant help—pushing?—of his friends, Davis graduated at the top of his class with a special evaluation report in his records from a Lt. Briggs, whoever he was.

The highlight of his academy training was at the range. His first day there brought whistles of admiration from fellow students. Right-handed, left-handed, or two-handed he was a joy to his instructor’s heart. Basking in the warmth of admiration, Davis continued to improve with the expert coaching of the range instructor, who trained him enthusiastically in the art of competitive combat shooting. With Davis on their team the San Francisco Police looked promising to topple the leaders at the National Matches.

At one of their many after-workout beer parties, Davis sat listening to Sweet, Grimes, and Astrachan complaining about the cheap hoods preying on the community while their rights were being protected by a court system that turned them loose time after time to prey again. Davis thought of yesterday’s murder of a hood released on a technicality.

“At least that bastard, Ricca, won’t be back to hurt the city again,” he said, wondering at the smiles Grimes and Sweet gave Red.

“Dirty Harry’s got the right idea,” Grimes said with conviction. “Blow them away and save the courts the trouble. Of course, he always does it in self-defense,” he said, and grinned knowingly.

“Who’s Dirty Harry?” Davis asked curiously.

“You haven’t heard of Harry Callahan, the scourge of San Francisco?” Grimes sounded incredulous.

Davis looked blank.

Sweet took pity on him. “Inspector Callahan is well-known in the department for getting things accomplished… his way, even if he has to break a few rules… and heads to do it.”

Davis’ eyes grew large behind the wire-framed glasses. This Callahan sounded like a man to admire. He wanted to hear more, and the boys willingly filled him in on all the Dirty Harry escapades, real or rumored, that they had heard. Davis drank it in eagerly, glad that they were sharing themselves with him again. He leaned back against Sweet’s arm and was hardly aware of Grimes’ hand on his knee, or Red’s dark look of interest across from him. For the first time in his life, John Davis was happy and hopeful. He was surrounded by friends who liked him as a person, and he looked forward to fame in his own special field. He felt good.

Sweet broke into his mood. “You know, you’ll probably get a chance to meet him one of these days.”

Davis had lost track of the conversation. “Meet who?”

“Callahan. He’ll be coming to the range to practice for the department championship match soon. He’s a very good shot. Wins it every year, but they never could talk him into national competitive shooting.” Sweet smiled. “I believe his remark to the range instructor was quoted as ‘Fuck off, you fanatic.'”

Davis was thoughtful. Callahan had sounded pretty fanatical himself up to this point. He wondered about it, but his attention was diverted suddenly by Grimes, who gave Davis’ knee a squeeze and said, “Let’s take this party over to my place. I’ve got plenty of beer… and a lot of privacy.”

Davis was puzzled by the looks passing amongst the three as they got up and headed out the door, Grimes patting the waitress on the ass as they passed by.

At Grimes’ apartment the atmosphere of camaraderie continued. Davis was on the couch, sandwiched between Grimes and Sweet, who kept him well-supplied with beer laced with whiskey as they talked. Red sat a little apart, with a strange, expectant grin on his face, but Davis was too aglow with companionship and beer to wonder about it.

He heard Grimes’ voice softly whispering to him. “You know, Davis, there’s something about you that gets to me. I really like you.”

Davis smiled as Sweet added, “We all do, Johnny. It’s a real treat to have you back with us. We missed you.” And he kissed his cheek affectionately as he toyed with the curls at the back of Davis’ neck.

Grimes picked it up. “I’ve never known a guy as… interesting as you.” He leaned over and kissed Davis lightly on the mouth, watching his eyes intently as he did so.

Davis eyed Grimes curiously but was met with such a soft look that he relaxed and smiled. After all, they’d been buddies a long time.

Grimes returned the smile. “What’s a little kiss between friends, right?”

“Right,” Davis answered fuzzily.

“Besides,” Grimes continued, “you’ve got the most delicious mouth I’ve ever tasted.” He leaned over again, this time Frenching him lightly as his hand slid down Davis’ shirt, opening the buttons one by one.

Davis felt gentle hands slide into his shirt caressingly, and the mood was so good it never occurred to him to question what Grimes was doing, even when Sweet’s lips and hands joined in. Davis hardly realized his shirt was off, and just vaguely aware that Red was removing his shoes and socks while Grimes unzipped his jeans. He simply knew he felt wonderful, and whatever Grimes was doing to his groin was lifting him skyward on waves of pleasure.

He only half-heard Red’s voice saying, “Let me at him,” and Sweet’s sarcastic reply, “Cool it, Red, you’re out of your field. This is seduction, not rape.”

Davis was floating in a warm world of love and sensation. He rolled over lazily at Grimes’ gentle insistence as Sweet kissed him deeply, and Davis fed on him hungrily in return. He felt only vaguely surprised at the first sense of invasion when Grimes’ fingers slipped greasily inside him spreading ointment. Sweet held his attention with a deeper kiss, and the single faint thought Davis registered was how easily and painlessly Grimes’ organ had entered him. Unlike his childhood experiences it was smooth and pleasant.

Davis’ euphoria continued as Grimes and Sweet changed places, and he was still floating when Astrachan angrily took his turn at last. Sweet and Grimes were especially loving, keeping his mind off Astrachan’s furious pounding, and they brought Davis to a beautiful climax of his own just after Astrachan stiffened over him and pushed himself off, so the last memories Davis took away from the evening were pleasant ones. They covered him tenderly with a light blanket and slipped a pillow under his head.

Davis went to sleep smiling.

***

Davis woke up dreamily to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. He sat up slowly, noticing his nudity with a dazed confusion. Memories of the previous evening crept insidiously into his mind. He shut his eyes in anguished recollection.

How could I have let them, he groaned inwardly. Some sweet talk and some beer… and roll over Johnny. He wrapped the blanket around himself and headed shakily for the bathroom.

As Davis passed the kitchen, Grimes looked up from the cup of coffee he was nursing and smiled. “Morning, Johnny.” His eyes clouded at the look Davis returned with a muttered, “Morning,” before he escaped into the bathroom and locked the door.

The John Davis looking back at him from the mirror didn’t look happy or hopeful. He looked used. As Johnny sat to relieve himself, the old familiar pain deep in his flesh matched the old familiar humiliation deep in his soul. He wanted to cry. Instead, he took a shower to try to wash the degradation down the drain. Finally, he turned off the water in defeat and heard a knock at the door.

“Johnny,” Grimes voice called. “Johnny, open the door a minute.”

Sighing, Davis wrapped a towel around himself and opened the door.

Grimes stood there smiling, holding out clean underwear, socks, and a new toothbrush. “Hi,” he ventured. “Feeling better?”

Johnny didn’t answer.

“Here’s some of my stuff to hold you ’til you can get home and change.” He hesitated. “I’ll bring your jeans and shirt in, too, if you want.”

Davis shook his head, reached for the offering and closed the door. As he slipped on the briefs, he realized he did feel better. Grimes seemed genuinely concerned about his feelings this morning, and he remembered the talk he’d heard last night. It was sweet. There had been a lot of love in those voices—at least two of them—he convinced himself. He finished brushing his teeth, gave himself another long look in the mirror, sighed and went out to face the world again.

Davis was pleased to see his jeans, shirt, shoes, and glasses neatly placed on a chair next to the bathroom door. He slipped them on and went into the kitchen where Grimes served him breakfast. Davis grimaced inwardly wondering if eggs served with a smile was the current price of prostitution these days. He ate glumly and listened to what Grimes seemed anxious to tell him.

“There’s someone I want you to meet, Davis. I’ve told him all about you; how good you are with a gun, and how you feel about the chicken-shit court system we’ve got.”

Davis looked up, wondering just how he did feel about the court system. He couldn’t recall ever having said. “Who?” he asked.

“Lieutenant Briggs. He’s a very interesting man. He’s building a special unit of rookies, and he’s been talking to the three of us about it already. I figure you’re ideal for the group, and now that you belong to us… I mean, since you’re one of us…” But the damage had been done and his voice trailed off.

Davis looked at Grimes’ stricken face steadily.

Belong to us.

He rolled the words around in his brain. They didn’t sound bad somehow to a guy suffering from gut-deep loneliness. He’d never belonged to anyone before, certainly not his acne-faced aggressor at the orphanage. After all, hadn’t he really belonged to them since ‘Nam?

He smiled softly at Grimes. “I’ll meet your lieutenant.”

Grimes let his breath out slowly. “Thanks, Johnny.” He reached out hesitantly, then completed the gesture and brushed the golden hair into place. “You’re really special, Johnny. I want you to believe that.”

Davis sat back and some of last night’s euphoria slipped in to drive the morning-after blues away.

***

The meeting with Briggs was astounding. Davis came away from it in a state of confused shock. No wonder the man insisted upon secrecy. What an unorthodox and revolutionary idea, or was it a very old one? Davis knew it would take a lot of digesting. Just learning that one of his buddies had killed Ricca had been a lot to swallow, but they believed in what they were doing. They were ridding the world of killers… criminals. It was very important to them… and they were very important to Davis. He would do whatever Briggs ordered. He would do it for his… his “family.” He smiled at the thought.

Davis went from the meeting down to the basement range. He needed the comforting reassurance he always found there as he practiced. He wasn’t surprised to see Grimes, Sweet, and Astrachan already there.

They walked over to him questioningly. He looked at them in a different light, suddenly remembering the incidents in Vietnam with new significance. Now he knew why it had been so easy to get on the force, and why Briggs had given him that evaluation report. They wanted him with them, and that felt good, but he looked at Astrachan and thought of the Ricca killing.

Finally, he spoke. “I said yes. Give me time to absorb it all, but I’m with you.”

“Great, Johnny,” Grimes said, pounding him on the back.

“Yeah.” Red looked at him, carefully not touching him, until Davis reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze to show he was trying to understand. Red’s face broke into a relieved grin.

“Are you sure, Johnny?” Sweet asked, grasping his arms firmly.

Davis looked at him and spoke resolutely. “You believe in it, so it must be right. Yes, I’m sure. I’m with you.” It was a pledge of loyalty, and they all knew it.

Davis walked over to the line and pulled his gun, his old companion. He hefted it with a smile, feeling good as he always did with this beautiful machine in his hand. Noise suppressors on his ears, he set the display of silhouettes with the push of a button and began to practice, but as he stared at the target, it suddenly seemed to flesh out into the villainous face of Ricca. Davis hesitated, wondering if he’d be able to shoot at a living target no matter how evil it was. He fired and the target fell.

The range door opened and a tall, gaunt man came in carrying shooting gear. He glowered as the four buddies turned to him, and in a steely voice made it obvious what he thought of sharing the range with rookies.

Davis walked toward him. “I’m John Davis,” he said, but his outstretched hand was ignored. He then introduced the others before asking, “You’re Inspector Harry Callahan, aren’t ya?” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice.

“That’s right.”

This was the legendary Dirty Harry. Davis barely kept his mind on the conversation as he took in the long lean frame and strong hands that were taking a .44 Magnum from the bag. He watched with the others as Callahan condescended to let them stay while he practiced. His performance was as good as all the rumors Davis had heard, and perhaps he was even showing off a bit for the rookies.

In an apparent moment of weakness, Callahan offered his Magnum to Sweet, who hesitantly accepted it.

Davis was stifling a grin as he set the button and Callahan’s targets popped up at the same difficult angle. Sweet fired. Davis was delighted with the impression Sweet’s skill made on the renowned Callahan. He wanted this man to like them. Davis realized suddenly just how important it was to him that the great Harry Callahan be their friend, and all the awe came flooding back as Callahan smiled and shook hands around.

Davis was still staring up at him in open admiration until he finally realized the man’s hand was reaching out. He grabbed for it enthusiastically stammering, “I’m glad we had a chance to meet you, sir.”

Two green eyes studied his face curiously, the gaze sending an unexplainable shiver through Davis, then Callahan turned away.

As Davis left the range with his laughing, joking buddies, he tried to keep from looking back, but his eyes kept returning to Callahan as the big man continued his practicing.

“Close your mouth, Johnny,” Red said with an edge as he swatted Davis’ chin upward. “He’s not God, you know.”

Davis reddened and turned toward the door wondering why he’d been so affected by the meeting.

***

Davis sat in on more briefings with Briggs. He listened to their fervent anger at the futility of trying to prosecute criminals. He knew Grimes had eliminated the gangsters at the swimming pool, and now Sweet was ranting about something else.

“How much more will it take to get the people upset enough to face violence? How much longer will they put up with these two-bit criminals?” Sweet was especially angry. A cab driver had brought in a prostitute whose flashy pimp had poured drain cleaner down her throat for holding out on him. Her ghastly death caused him to pace Briggs’ office restlessly. “How much longer will the people be indifferent? Run away? Hide?”

“Calm down. Sweet. You’re raising your voice,” Briggs ordered. He looked at the angry young man. “We have a file on that pimp. Wait ’til you see the car he drives.”

Sweet’s eyes grew hard. “Can I have that assignment, sir? I don’t care if she was a hooker, she didn’t deserve that.”

Briggs smiled. “Your gallantry is wasted but go ahead. Maybe it will save the rest of his stable.” He turned. “Davis, we’ve got a good assignment for you coming up. Guzman,” Briggs told him. “Narcotics has a stakeout in the area so we’ll have to handle it a little more carefully. Guzman holes up in his apartment these days. You’ll have to infiltrate the way you used to in Special Forces.”

Startled, Davis looked at Grimes, who gave him a surreptitious sign not to reveal his ignorance. After they were dismissed, Sweet took off with Red, and Grimes walked home with Davis who lived near the station.

As they each settled down with a beer, Davis asked, “What do I know about infiltration?”

“It’s okay, Johnny,” Grimes reassured him. “We’ll teach you everything you need. Just remember, this Guzman turns thousands of young kids into junkies every day. He’s filth, but his lawyers get him off every time the narcs bust him.”

Davis looked long at Grimes. “You really used to do stuff like this in ‘Nam?”

“Sure, that was our job.”

“And the government approved?”

“That’s right, Johnny. Uncle Sam paid our salaries.” Grimes reached over and ran a finger along Davis’ jaw. “You know, I hardly ever have you to myself, Johnny. It’s nice for a change.”

Davis smiled at him. He’d never warmed up to Grimes as much as he had to Sweet, but it still felt good to be cared about.

Davis tipped his head back to finish his beer and Grimes leaned down to kiss the long arc of his throat, sending a shiver through him. Grimes kissed his way up to the full lips and searched the warm mouth eagerly with his tongue. Davis shuddered and started feeding on the gentle penetration, as Grimes hand slid down Davis’ uniform shirt, unbuttoning it and sliding it open.

Grimes left Davis’ gasping mouth and kissed his way down to the taut nipples, which he teased and sucked as his hands unfastened the heavy leather belt, opened the pants, and worked them down Davis’ legs. Kissing and licking, Grimes worked slowly down to the blond fuzz around the gradually swelling organ. Suddenly Grimes took the entire shaft into his mouth, causing Davis to arch helplessly and sink his fingers into Grimes’ dark hair. He gasped as Grimes brought him close to the peak, then gently turned him over, replacing his mouth with a firmly moving hand. In a hurry now, Grimes opened his own pants one-handed, and using only saliva for a lubricant positioned himself carefully, then drove his erection home.

Davis gritted his teeth against the pressure, wishing Grimes would take the time to make it pleasant as he sometimes did. At least when he hurried, it was always over quickly, and he still saw to it that Davis climaxed also.

They collapsed on the couch to catch their breath, then Grimes swatted him on the ass and stood up.

“Gotta go, Johnny. That broad from DMV is waiting for me.”

Davis grimaced. It wasn’t that he begrudged Grimes his women, but why did he have to mention one just after making out with him? It seemed to cheapen what happened between them.

Pulling his clothes together he saw Grimes out, then went in and lay on the bed feeling lousy, as he escaped into sleep.

Davis woke up to soft kisses on the back of his neck, and warm arms holding him. He rolled over in place, staying in the comforting embrace and smiled up at Sweet.

“Hi.” Sweet smiled back. “I let myself in. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Uh-uh,” Davis murmured, slipping his arms around his favorite friend and squeezing gently. “How’d it go?”

Sweet’s eyes darkened. “He got what he deserved, the bastard. He had no right to live, and what gets me is we could never have made an arrest stick. That cabby was too scared to testify. Damn the stupid bastards. Do we have to do all their fighting for them?”

Davis kissed Sweet soothingly. “It’s okay, Phil. The pimp got his. Now just relax. Calm down.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but forgive me, Johnny. I just don’t feel like getting it on right now. Just hold me for a while, okay?”

“Sure, Phil. Just take it easy.” Davis pushed Sweet’s head down onto his shoulder, and rubbed his back in long, lazy strokes. Slowly Sweet relaxed in the comforting arms.

***

It wasn’t long afterwards that Briggs ordered Davis to his office. His three buddies accompanied him as usual.

“Davis, we’re ready to move against Guzman,” Briggs said, mapping out the details for him and giving him the necessary keys. “It won’t be easy to stay out of view of the stakeout. That’s why you’re using the roof.”

Johnny felt doubts rise in his mind, and Briggs seemed annoyed at his hesitation.

“Can you handle it, rookie, or do we have to kick you off the team?” Briggs snapped.

That stung. “Yes, sir,” Davis answered. “I’ve never disobeyed a direct order yet, sir.” He looked at Sweet wondering if they really would kick him out if he didn’t go through with it. The thought was painful.

“Good. Make it fast. Dismissed.” And Briggs turned back to his desk.

The three friends took Davis home with his bike for a briefing.

“Do you know where to put your bike?” Red asked.

“Yes, around the corner of Guzman’s place out of sight of the stakeout,” Davis answered.

“How do you get to the roof?” Sweet asked immediately.

“I take the enclosed fire escape to the penthouse and use the stairs to the roof. If it’s locked, one of my keys will open it.”

“How do you get Guzman?” Grimes demanded when Davis’ last answer was barely finished.

“I unlock the roof door into the penthouse, and k-kill everyone in the apartment,” Davis stammered.

Sweet asked quickly, “Why, Johnny? Why are we after Guzman?”

“Guzman is a narcotics king who turns thousands of kids into junkies every day. He’s not fit to live,” Davis recited dutifully.

“Repeat it, Johnny,” Red ordered.

Davis repeated it.

“Again!”

He repeated it again, his voice getting stronger.

“Who is Guzman?”

He repeated his statement yet another time.

Red looked at Sweet.

“Here, Johnny,” Sweet said, handing him a small pill and a glass of water. “Take it. It will sharpen your senses and you’ll do everything just fine. Just pretend he’s a target at the range.”

Davis looked at the pill a moment, but by now was so hypnotized by the rapid-fire briefing he followed orders and swallowed it.

“Okay, Johnny, go get him.” Sweet affectionately squeezed Davis’ arms as he turned him toward the door.

Davis left his apartment feeling acutely aware of everything around him. He wasn’t familiar with drugs, so didn’t know exactly what Sweet had given him. He only knew he felt sharper than ever before. He rode to the Guzman apartment following instructions exactly. As he opened the door to the penthouse, he heard a sound beyond it. The door swung open, and a startled bodyguard faced him. Davis shot him dead with the semi-silenced revolver. He then replaced the used cartridges so he’d have a full cylinder and hurried through the apartment following the voices. As he opened the bedroom door, he saw a large, nude man on the waterbed fondling a young, blond boy as a girl watched.

Davis’ stomach knotted as he saw himself on that bed, and for a moment he froze, but Guzman was reaching for a gun. That brought Davis back to his task. Quickly he emptied his Magnum into the three people in front of him, appalled as the girl’s body was thrown back through the window fifteen stories above the street. His stomach heaved, and he fought for control as he ran from the apartment, down the service elevator and to the basement.

The kill had left him feeling strangely strung out and edgy, or maybe the drug was wearing off. The exhilaration he had felt at first had dulled, and he was anxious to get the report to Briggs over with so he could go shower and try to forget. Davis hurried through the garage hoping to get away without being seen. Just then the utility room door opened, and a motorcycle cop Davis recognized as Harry Callahan’s friend, Charlie McCoy, came out.

Davis froze. “No!” The scream inside his skull seemed audible. Briggs said no one must see me. I have to eliminate witnesses. I can’t… I can’t!

Charlie recognized him and smiled. “Hi, Davis, I was just washing my hands. What are you doing h—?”

He never finished as Davis pulled his weapon and fired. A momentary look of surprise crossed Charlie’s friendly face, then the second shot hit him. Charlie spun around grotesquely clutching at what was left of his chest as he fell in a gruesome heap.

Davis was breathing hard and sweating. His inner screams reverberated through his skull. This wasn’t a malicious criminal or a target. Davis couldn’t block out the sight of the bloody mess that had once been Callahan’s friend and a fellow officer. “One of us,” Davis whispered, trying to control his trembling as he removed the almost useless silencer, and bolstered his gun.

DiGorgio from the stakeout came in at that moment and saw Davis. He did a take.

“There’s been a little trouble here, sir,” Davis said, forcing his voice to sound calm. “Somebody killed a cop.” He walked toward the gathering crowd and tried to disperse them.

The basement was suddenly alive with cops—crime lab, ambulance, squad cars, detectives, the works. Davis stood still telling his story over and over of how he was going by when he heard the shots, but McCoy was already dead when he got there. Finally, they dismissed him. He walked numbly to his cycle, flung himself onto it, and went straight to Briggs, who grabbed the white-faced, shaking boy and dragged him into his office before anyone else could see his condition.

“Pull yourself together, you fool,” Briggs hissed as Davis buried his face in his hands, trembling uncontrollably. “What the hell have you done?”

In a shaking voice Davis told him. Briggs’ mouth hardened into a grim line. “Did anyone notice you come here?”

Davis shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. No one was in the halls.”

7.jpg

“Get into my bathroom and wash. There’s blood splattered on your jacket. It may not be McCoy’s.”

Davis cringed and slid the offensive jacket off. “He was a cop, sir,” he said, bewildered. “We were supposed to save the community from the scum. He wasn’t scum.” He looked to Briggs for reassurance.

Briggs stared back coldly. “He got in the way. You had no choice.”

“No choice,” Davis echoed vacantly as he went into the bathroom and vomited. He stayed in there a long time, mechanically cleaning his jacket and checking the rest of his clothes carefully. He washed his face and hands again, then stared at his reflection in the mirror, not believing what he saw. How could he look the same as always when he felt so different?

This is like the army, he told himself. When the general says fire, you fire. It’s not your fault if your target is a line of men firing back at you. Only I’ve never been ordered to fire at anything but circles on paper in the army.

The other guys had, he thought defensively, glaring at his image. His eyes fell away from the mirror. He stood looking at his jacket, then slowly pulled it on, and opened the door.

Briggs was gone… probably he was “investigating” the… murder. Grimly, Davis left the office and headed for the elevator. He stopped short when he saw Harry Callahan standing there with his back to Davis, who was suddenly flooded with feelings he couldn’t define. He wanted terribly to apologize to this man he admired so much, but what could he say? Pardon me, Mr. Callahan sir, but I just murdered your friend, and I’d like you to know I’m sorry.

Just then Callahan turned around and saw Davis staring at him intently. Davis’ face flamed with embarrassment and deep shame. He forced himself to walk over and answer the inspector’s greeting. The elevator arrived and they rode down in silence, Davis intensely aware of the inspector’s observant gaze. He felt his guilt emblazoned on his face in Charlie’s blood.

The elevator finally stopped at the main floor and Davis escaped from that terrifying scrutiny as the inspector continued to the garage, probably to go join the murder investigation of his friend. Davis walked faster.

Murder.

He couldn’t escape from the word. How does one atone for murder and keep on living? He found himself bypassing his own street and heading for Astrachan’s apartment. He took the steps two at a time, fumbled a moment for the key, then banged on the door.

“Red, open up. It’s me.”

Astrachan opened the door, curiosity showing on his incongruous babyface as Davis hurried past him breathing hard. “What’s the matter, Johnny?”

Davis stared at him trying to put it into words, but could only come out with, “I just killed a cop.”

Astrachan let out a low whistle.

Davis looked at him, his face anguished, appealing to the smaller man for absolution of some kind. “Red, I need… I need… ” he turned away in frustration. “I don’t know what I need.”

Not known for finesse, Astrachan resorted to his classic panacea. “You need a good screwing,” he said with conviction.

Davis looked at him. “Maybe you’re right,” he agreed thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s time to let you try all the things you keep talking about.”

Astrachan looked surprised. “Are you serious, Johnny? You really want me to get kinky?”

Determination and hope began to grow in Davis’ shattered soul. “Yeah, Red, that’s just what I want.”

“Okay, man, you’ve got it. You just do everything I tell you and I’ll take care of the rest.” He slipped his arm around Davis and steered him into the bedroom where they sat together on the bed. Astrachan pushed the jacket off Davis’ shoulders. He rubbed his hand over the smooth black leather. Then setting it aside he reached for the leather belt. “We may have a use for these later.”

Davis shuddered.

Astrachan noticed it. “If you’re gonna back out, do it now, Johnny. I thought you wanted it rough.”

Davis controlled his apprehension, allowing grim anticipation to take its place. “Yeah, Red, as rough as you can make it,” he whispered in fervent supplication.

Astrachan reached for Davis’ tie. Slowly he pulled it tighter and tighter until he saw the fear Davis couldn’t conceal. Then he unknotted and removed it and the shirt. He stood up, sliding his hand slowly across Davis’ shoulder and up into his hair, spread-fingered. Suddenly he tightened his hand into a fist and yanked Davis’ head back painfully. Davis gasped. Red leaned down and kissed him savagely, cruelly pressing his teeth into the soft lips. Davis tasted blood.

Red brought his free hand up and gave Davis first an open-handed slap on one cheek, then backhanded him on the other. “Fight me, damn you. If you want it rough, fight me!” He slapped him again. Davis lifted his hands and half-heartedly pushed against Red’s chest. “You call that fighting?” He slapped him again and again, careful, open-handed slaps designed not to cause any lasting, visible injury.

Astrachan belted him a powerful blow to the solar plexus, and as the tall man doubled over, Red grabbed him by the hair again, slapping unmercifully. He dragged Davis roughly off the bed, and unfastening the pants, pulled them off, leaving the boots on. He grabbed the leather belt and began beating the helpless figure on the floor.

Red was getting excited now and took off his own clothes. He laid the belt across Davis’ back and buttocks a few more times, becoming more aroused, and without benefit of lubrication rammed himself into his passive body. As soon as he climaxed once, he dragged Davis’ face around and set him to working the organ up to another one, beating him continually with the belt as Davis sucked frantically.

Astrachan didn’t rest after this climax either. He grabbed the leather jacket and threw it at Davis. “Put it on,” he ordered.

Grinning wildly, his fertile imagination at work, he handcuffed Davis to the head of the bed and started hunting around the apartment for new “toys” to play with before returning to his willingly helpless victim.

Davis took a deep breath, hoping the punishment would be severe enough to dissolve the deeper pain still in control of him.

A long, exhausting time later Astrachan unlocked the cuffs and collapsed on the bed in defeat. Davis knew there was nothing Red could think of that he hadn’t tried, and while he’d obviously enjoyed several satisfying climaxes, his gratification was marred by Davis’ inability to find release… of any kind.

Davis slid the leather jacket off his back and looked down dismally at the welts and bruises beginning to darken on his abused body. He pulled off the boots and stumbled into the shower, knowing there wasn’t enough water to wash him clean from any of this day. He stayed under the stinging spray a long time, aware of voices in the other room. The bathroom door opened, and Sweet came in. He stepped over to the shower stall, reached in and turned off the taps.

Davis stood there, arms at his sides, water still running down his face, but not from his wet hair.

Sweet stepped in, slipped his arms around the gaunt body and pushed Davis’ head gently down to his shoulder. Slowly Davis slid his arms around this refuge. His legs grew weak with infinite weariness, and the entwined bodies slid down the shower wall to huddle on the wet floor as Davis gave in at last to the wracking sobs that were the beginning of healing and hope.

***

Davis was barely aware that Sweet helped him dress. Because he was in uniform, he refused Sweet’s assistance as they walked to Davis’ place, but once inside his facade crumbled, and he allowed Sweet to put him to bed.

“Want me to stay, Johnny?” Sweet asked, brushing the blond hair back gently.

“Yes, please. I don’t want to be alone.” Davis watched Sweet undress. As he slid under the covers Davis reached for him and held on. “Phil, would you really have kicked me out like Briggs said if I hadn’t gone after Guzman?”

Sweet looked at him in surprise. “You mean that’s why you went through with it?” He held Davis close in his arms, stroking him languidly. Almost to himself he murmured, “I guess I always knew you didn’t believe in what we’re doing.” He kissed him tenderly. “No, Johnny. You don’t have to worry. You’re part of us no matter what.”

Davis snuggled into the safety he felt in Sweet’s embrace. “That’s good, because I don’t want to do it anymore.” He couldn’t forget the two young, spaced-out blond kids whose only mistake was being there, and McCoy—his stomach knotted again as he remembered meeting Harry Callahan by the elevator. Now they could never be friends. Killing Charlie had eliminated that hope Davis knew he’d been nurturing since first meeting Callahan. Tears squeezed out of his eyes as he felt the sharp ache of having lost something valuable.

***

Davis went to the airport with Harry Callahan to see Carol McCoy off with her husband’s body. Sweet had tried desperately to talk him out of it, but he’d been adamant. His guilt drove him to risk the danger. He knew Sweet had been right the minute he saw Callahan’s face. The carefully controlled grief in the tall man’s compelling eyes had moved Davis with compassion.

He found himself aching to bare his soul and tell Callahan the truth, and almost did when he had said, “If I’d been there sooner, McCoy might still be alive.”

“If…” That vicious word. I could have been long gone before McCoy came out of that room.

As Callahan drove him back to town, Davis realized he didn’t want the ride to end when so much needed to be said. He tried to think of the right words. Lamely he stammered, “I… I need some cigarettes, sir.”

Callahan sighed and took the first exit. “Okay, but let’s make it quick.” As they pulled up by a bowling alley he said, “What the hell, Davis, let’s have a quick beer.”

Davis was delighted. “That’s a fine idea, sir.”

They started in, passing two couples going out. Moments later the screams of one of the girls brought them flying back outside to drag two muggers away from beating one of the men.

Davis lost his head in his anger at the viciousness of the attack and banged the mugger he held again and again against a car, finally pistol-whipping him for good measure. Then he turned to the crowd angrily, unaware that he was quoting Sweet’s words. “How much more will it take to get you people upset enough to face violence? How much longer do you intend to put up with these two-bit criminals? How much longer will you be indifferent? How much longer?” Suddenly Davis realized Callahan was staring at him, and he flushed with embarrassment.

After the ambulance had gone, and the squad car left with the prisoners and a promise that Callahan would be down soon to do the paperwork, he took Davis by the arm and said, “Let’s get that beer.”

Davis was acutely aware of that hand pushing his elbow and felt another rush of blood to his face. As they sat at a table in the alley’s bar with a pair of tall beers in front of them, Callahan seemed pensive. Davis was afraid to break the silence, so he nursed his beer and surreptitiously surveyed this magnetic man next to him. He noticed how Callahan’s hair fell over his high forehead above the weathered face. Davis was hard-pressed to keep from reaching out and pushing it in place, so he kept his hands firmly around his glass.

Finally, Callahan spoke. “The guy who shot Charlie did him a favor.”

Davis choked on his beer and gasped for breath. Callahan looked at him. “Sorry, kid. I was just thinking out loud.” He looked back at his own beer. “I guess it was better for him to go out on duty than to be dragged away in a straitjacket.”

Davis managed to recover some of his composure. “I didn’t know Charlie was…” he hesitated to say “crazy.”

Callahan took a long swallow of beer. “He tried to commit suicide. I think he’s been trying little by little for a long time.” He looked at Davis. “He used to say the same things you just yelled at those people out there.”

Davis felt embarrassed again. “I… I just get frustrated when they won’t fight back.”

“Yeah,” Callahan agreed. “Charlie always felt like that. He hated the courts for spitting the crooks back onto the streets as fast as we busted them.” He gazed deeply into his beer and added softly, “For a while I thought he was the one killing off Ricca and the rest.” Davis held his breath as Callahan continued. “I could almost understand why he would. It’s a darned sight less futile than the legal way.”

Davis felt a glimmer of hope rising in his belly. Maybe Callahan could forgive him after all for Charlie’s death. Maybe there was still a chance for friendship. He seemed to understand what the guys were trying to do. Maybe…

“Come on, kid, we’ve got to get back. The typewriter’s waiting,” Callahan said getting up from the table.

Davis quickly finished his beer. “Coming, sir,” he said as he stood up. He looked up at Callahan who smiled, then started for the door. Davis’ breath caught at that smile, and he followed him, a hopeful look lighting up his eyes. Maybe…

***

Davis was back to normal by the time of the pistol championship. The scar tissue on his conscience effectively blurred the memory of Charlie McCoy’s death, and he allowed himself to believe what Callahan had told him about Charlie’s being better off dead.

When his turn came up Davis took his position on the range and ran through the entire combat course, giving the best performance of his career. He heard the undercurrent of excitement as the rangemaster announced he had beaten Callahan on that phase by four points. That tied their over­all scores, calling for a shoot-off. Davis was flushed with pleasure.

Callahan called for the combat course. Davis chose to go first before he got cold, he had said, but mostly before his knees gave way. He took a deep breath, went up to the line, and turned in a perfect score.

“Good luck, sir,” he whispered to Callahan as he passed him close enough to be aware of the scent of soap, sweat, and Harry Callahan. His eyes were shining with admiration as he watched the man perform flawlessly target after target.

Suddenly Callahan shot the wrong target. Davis’ chin dropped as he stared in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. Callahan was the best. Davis was only half aware of the pounding congratulations he was receiving from everyone. Somehow there was no pleasure in winning.

Then Callahan was there adding his own congratulations and asking to try his gun. Davis was eager to oblige. He couldn’t take his eyes off the tall man in his windbreaker, the look of determination on his face as he fired six rounds. Davis drank in the graceful, catlike power as Callahan turned and walked back to him.

“Not bad. I seem to have lost the last one,” he said, handing Davis the gun.

“You get used to it,” Davis explained absently, his attention on the brush of those long fingers against his hand as they released the gun.

“Yeah, I can see how you would at that,” Callahan agreed.

Davis felt an undertone in the words as if he were referring to something else. He looked at him questioningly, but Callahan had already turned away. Davis walked over to his friends and tried to feel happy.

***

It was late afternoon when Sweet knocked on Davis’ door. Davis let him in with a surprised look. “Why didn’t you use your key?” he asked.

“Johnny, didn’t it ever occur to you that you have a right to some privacy? What if you had been entertaining a lady?”

Davis reddened. “You know I never…”

“Yeah, I know,” Sweet answered with a sigh. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” He went to the refrigerator and helped himself to a beer before settling on the couch. “Johnny, who ran your life before you met us?”

Davis stared at him, bewildered.

Sweet patted the sofa. “C’mere, babe. Sit down a minute.” Davis sat. “What I’m getting at is…” he hesitated, looking deep into Davis’ eyes. “You don’t do much thinking for yourself.”

Davis felt uncomfortable. “I know what I want.”

“Do you?” Sweet asked. “You really wanted to kill Guzman? You believed it was the right thing to do?”

Davis was literally squirming.

“Or did you do it for us? Because we believed it was right?”

Davis looked at his hands and whispered, “For you.”

“I thought, so,” Sweet said quietly. “I talked to Briggs today. I told him that you wouldn’t be doing any more executions. It just isn’t right for you. He knows you won’t betray us, of course.”

Davis looked up quickly, eyes wide behind the glasses. “I wouldn’t, Phil. You know I couldn’t. Besides,” his eyes dropped again. “I’m in as deep as the rest of you.” He thought of McCoy. “Maybe deeper.”

“Yeah, well don’t worry about it. Briggs seemed to understand. It’ll be okay. You’ll see.” Sweet finished his beer and set the can down. “Now, about your ladies.”

Davis felt his cheeks start to burn.

“Damn it, Johnny, you even let us run that part of your life. You’re not gay, but you let us make out with you.”

Davis was blushing furiously now.

Sweet reached out and cupped the flaming face in his hands tenderly. “I love you, man. I’ve never loved a woman like I love you, but you let yourself be used.” Sweet kissed Davis gently, sending shivers through to his fingertips. Davis completely lost the power of speech as he listened to Sweet. “If I could teach you just once that love is give and take, I’d have done a service.”

Sweet’s eyes took on a dreamy quality as he stood up, drawing Davis after him toward the bedroom. They sat down on the bed and Davis waited for Sweet to start undressing him as he usually did. Sweet looked up at him, that dreamy look still in his half-closed eyes. “Johnny, make love to me.”

Davis sat still, unsure of what he’d heard. “Phil?”

Sweet opened his eyes fully. “Johnny, make love to me. Undress me. Kiss me. Turn me on, roll me over and make love to me,” he explained as if he were teaching a child. He reached beyond Davis to the nightstand, got the tube of KY gel and pressed it into his hand. “Make love to me,” he repeated.

Davis was non-plussed. “Me?” he asked.

Sweet sighed. “Don’t you want to? Haven’t you ever screwed anybody?” He sounded exasperated.

Davis knew his cheeks were on fire again. “Once,” he whispered. “There was this girl in Georgia…” he stopped, flustered.

Sweet grasped his arms. “Did you like it? Did everything go right? How did it feel?”

Davis started to remember, feeling a little dreamy himself. “Yeah, I liked it. Everything went just fine. It felt great.”

“Okay, then. You know how. Just pretend I’m that girl in Georgia,” Sweet suggested.

Davis’ face changed. “No, Phil. I didn’t love her, but I love you. I’d rather make love to you—as yourself.”

Sweet smiled happily. “Now we’re getting somewhere, babe,” and he reached up to kiss Davis long and lovingly.

Davis felt the tendrils of flame reach down into his groin as he returned Sweet’s kiss, pushing his tongue past Sweet’s in a gentle duel, and for the first time, he did the exploring of that familiar mouth. It felt good to be a little aggressive, and he broke away from Sweet’s mouth to place little kisses all over his face. Remembering some of Sweet’s techniques, he tried a tentative tongue around the edge of Sweet’s ear, delighted at the reactions he gave when Davis’ tongue darted inside once, then again. Davis continued the delicate invasion as his hands slipped down Sweet’s shirt front unbuttoning it. He slipped the shirt off and pushed Sweet gently down onto the bed. He started a series of skimming kisses down his chest, stopping to tease each nipple, enjoying Sweet’s squirming, and the little animal noises he was making.

As Davis licked and sucked the navel, he unfastened Sweet’s belt and opened the jeans. He stood up then and slowly slid the jeans and shorts down Sweet’s legs, his hands stroking the bare flesh as he pushed both the pants down and off. He kept his eyes locked with Sweet’s as he slowly removed the shoes and socks, then undressed himself. He stretched out full length along Sweet’s body and captured his lips in a tender kiss as one hand fondled Sweet’s rapidly engorging organ.

“Damn, Johnny,” Sweet whispered breathlessly. “You’re unbelievable.”

Davis smiled, then kissed his way down to his full hand. He kissed the shaft from the base up to the head before taking it into his mouth and sucking purposefully. He brought Sweet close to the peak, then rolled him over gently.

Opening the tube of gel, he put some on his fingertips, then set the tube aside. Reaching around with one hand to grasp Sweet’s waiting shaft, he worked ointment around and into his rectum carefully dilating it with one, then two, then three fingers, reaching forward to stimulate the prostate. Finally, he withdrew his fingers, and positioning himself precisely eased into the tight opening.

The sensation was fantastic. Davis realized how long it had been since he’d felt so good. He slowly worked himself forward until he was all the way in. Sweet hadn’t cried out, although Davis was convinced this was his first time at being invaded. He settled into a slow rhythm, moving his hand simultaneously on Sweet’s organ. He wasn’t in a hurry, wanting to enjoy this beautiful feeling for as long as possible. He felt Sweet rising to the zenith, so he allowed himself to build toward the crest.

Sweet exploded under him with a sharp cry of pleasure just before he reached his own climax, stiffening over Sweet’s back in helplessly delightful convulsions of bliss. They collapsed onto the bed breathing hard and sweating profusely.

Sweet finally caught his breath enough to speak. “Oh God, Johnny, what we’ve been missing!”

“Yeah,” Davis panted, turning Sweet over in his arms and brushing the wet hair lovingly out of his eyes. He reached down to pull the covers up over them both, then bent and kissed him softly. “Only I don’t know if I could do that with Red or Mike. I have to love somebody a lot to work myself up like that.”

Sweet looked up at him gratefully. “Thank you,” he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.

“That’s my line,” Davis replied, wrapping him tightly in his arms protectively. It felt good to take command of his life, Davis thought as he drifted off to sleep, and Sweet had obviously enjoyed it, too. He’d have to remember that.

***

An insistent clanging dragged him reluctantly to the surface. The phone was ringing. Davis disentangled himself carefully from Sweet, trying not to wake him as he groped for the telephone. “Hello?” he said sleepily.

“Davis.” It was Briggs. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, almost truthfully.

“Good. By any chance is Sweet there with you?”

“Yes, sir, he is.” Davis heard some muttering on the other end that sounded something like “Goddamned queers,” but decided Briggs would never say that.

“Tomorrow morning at 0500 you two get your asses in here and report to Inspector Callahan for an assignment,” Briggs ordered.

“Callahan?” Davis repeated, dumbfounded.

“You heard me. He requested you und Sweet to assist him on a raid.”

“Callahan requested us?” Davis was still stunned.

“Yes, goddamnit. You some kind of parrot? Just be there. Understood?” Briggs sputtered angrily.

“Yes, sir!” Davis answered, and Briggs slammed the phone down. Davis hung up slowly, still dazed by the request.

Sweet was wide awake. “What was that all about?”

“Harry Callahan requested you and me for a raid tomorrow morning.” He was still awestruck.

Sweet looked at Davis closely. “You’re really hung up on that guy, aren’t you? You even beat him shooting, but you still think he’s God.” He shook his head as Davis felt the betraying blush hit his face.

“I just admire his style, that’s all,” Davis muttered.

Sweet sighed. “You don’t have to lie to me, Johnny. You’re entitled to like anybody you choose. If you want him, don’t be afraid to admit it.”

“Goddamnit, Phil, I don’t know what I want!” he practically shouted.

“Okay, okay. It was just an observation,” Sweet soothed. “Set the clock and let’s get some sleep so we can make your hero proud of us tomorrow.”

Davis gave him a dirty look, set the clock for four, and snuggled back down next to Sweet. A little smile played across his lips as he thought of Harry Callahan. Was Sweet right? Did he want him? He looked at Sweet and tried to picture Callahan’s leathery face and larger frame stretched out here beside him. An unmistakable warmth hit his groin.

I guess that answers my question, he thought happily as he drifted off to sleep, dreaming of doing heroic deeds and seeing “his” Harry smile.

***

Early Sunday morning the police parking lot was a beehive of activity. The pre-dawn chill went unnoticed by an eager Davis and Sweet as they reported to Harry Callahan.

“Thank you for requesting us,” Sweet said.

“We won’t let you down, sir,” Davis offered earnestly.

Callahan seemed to look right through him. “I’m counting on that.”

The squads moved out to the warehouse where Imperial was holed up. Since they had warrants, they expected no trouble but surrounded the place carefully just in case. Davis and Sweet stood on either side of the door.

“Police officers!” Sweet called out. “We’d like to ask you some questions.” He kept talking with the voice from inside. “We have warrants for a search of the premises.”

Sweet held out the warrants and started toward the door. A shotgun blast caught him in the chest. His face registered surprise. “Oh damn,” he cried as he was thrown backwards and down to lie still.

Davis flattened himself against the wall instinctively and could only stare helplessly at Sweet lying there in a widening pool of blood. “Oh god, oh god, he’s dead,” he whispered over and over.

Gunfire and chaos were crashing all around him. He crept over to the door and crouched there a few moments, trying to overcome his shock. He tilted his head back against the wall and took deep gulps of air, gathering his wits and strength.

Suddenly he moved. Kicking in what was left of the door, he charged through, shooting everything in sight. He headed for the office and kicked open that door. It was empty. Just then another crashing sound drew his attention back outside. He rushed to the window and saw a car careen out of the alley with a man spread-eagled over the hood, clinging desperately to the windshield wipers. With a shock, Davis realized it was Callahan.

Oh god, I’m going to lose them both, he thought, rushing out front again where he watched in fascinated horror as the car swerved all over the road. He saw Callahan fall off just before the car crashed into a bunch of horizontal steel pipes that penetrated the windshield, killing the driver.

Callahan attempted wearily to get to his feet.

The shooting had stopped around him, and Davis slumped to his knees for a moment breathing hard. Finally, he summoned the strength and courage he needed to crawl over and gather Sweet into his arms. He rocked him slowly back and forth, tears streaming down his face, until the ambulance arrived and someone pried the body out of his embrace. He insisted on riding to the hospital, and no one had the heart to deny him.

Numb with grief, Davis sat for a long time in the Mt. Zion emergency waiting room, although he knew there was nothing to wait for. He caught a glimpse of Harry Callahan, bloody and in obvious pain, but angrily refusing a wheelchair as he was hustled in for treatment. At least he was alive.

A doctor came out to tell him again that Sweet was dead and he should go home, but he continued to sit there. It wasn’t until a strong arm came around his shoulders and someone else took both of his hands in theirs, that he looked up to see Grimes and Astrachan.

The tears started again. “He’s dead,” he told them.

“We know,” Grimes said, pulling him up and guiding him out to the car they’d borrowed. They drove around a while until Davis was over the worst of it, then Grimes turned to him.

“We’ve got to go see Briggs,” he said.

Davis looked at him groggily. “Yeah, okay.”

They drove to the station, returned the car, and walked up to Briggs’ office. Briggs took one look at Davis’ white face and vacant look and ordered him into the bathroom.

Davis obeyed. He washed his face, then noticed Sweet’s blood on his shirt, and tried uselessly to wash it off. He heard the mumble of voices from the other room, but by the time he was finished and went out, Briggs was gone.

Grimes took Davis’ elbow and they headed downstairs again for their bikes.

“What now?” Davis asked dully.

“We have to go see Callahan,” Astrachan said grimly.

Davis became alert. “What for?”

Grimes looked at Davis sharply. “He knows we’re the execution squad.”

Davis paled further. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Remember when he borrowed your gun… and missed?” Grimes asked.

“Yeah.” Davis still didn’t understand.

“He took the bullet to ballistics and compared it to the ones from Charlie McCoy.”

Davis felt like throwing up but controlled it. “So now what?”

“So now we ask him to join us,” Red explained.

“And if he won’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we have to,” Grimes answered, avoiding Davis’ eyes.

They dropped Davis off at his place to change clothes. “We’ll be back in a while,” Grimes told him. “We’ve got an errand to run for Briggs.”

Davis couldn’t see Grimes’ eyes, but Red’s looked furtive as they left.

Mechanically Davis pulled off his shirt and changed. He didn’t want to think about Sweet yet, the wound was too raw, so he tried to concentrate on what he’d say to Harry Callahan. Without Sweet, the gentle persuader, it was up to him to convince Callahan of their cause. Sadly, he realized he could no longer separate himself from it. He would have to carry on for Sweet. Mike and Red weren’t known for their diplomacy. He sighed and tried to remember all the reasons Sweet had given for their actions. By the time the boys returned, he felt he was ready.

The ride over to Callahan’s apartment building was difficult. Davis, the man Callahan knew had killed his friend, now had to convince him to join their crusade. He reminded himself of what Callahan had told him about McCoy’s death being for the best, but it didn’t help.

They sat on their bikes near the space marked Callahan and waited. The wait wasn’t long enough for Davis, as Callahan drove in, parked and got out of his car.

Davis spoke quietly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to prosecute a cop?” That wasn’t what he wanted to say, damnit. His mind wasn’t working right.

Callahan was looking through him again with those steely eyes.

Davis tried hard to explain what Sweet had believed in, about ridding society of killers the courts let go. “You of all people should understand that, sir,” he said, hoping Callahan would agree.

He heard Grimes add, “Either you’re for us or you’re against us.”

Callahan spoke firmly. “I’m afraid you badly misjudged me.”

It was hopeless. Davis tried desperately to think of some convincing argument that would persuade this man to accept their cause, but Grimes tugged him by the arm, and they started their bikes. As they rode out of the garage, Davis bowed his head to Callahan in disappointed farewell.

They rode to Sweet’s home to hold a private wake and see what needed to be done. Grimes called Sweet’s parents in Baton Rouge while Davis and Astrachan carefully packed his possessions for shipping, keeping only some photos and other war souvenirs for themselves. Just as they finished, the phone rang.

Grimes answered it. “Yes, Lieutenant, we’re all here… He found it?… What about Early?… That’s good… Yes, sir, we’ll be right there.” He hung up. “Early’s dead, but Callahan found the bomb in the mailbox. Briggs wants us to have a little talk with him. He’s picking him up and driving him out to the harbor.”

Davis was confused. “What bomb? What are you talking about? What happened to Early?”

Grimes looked disgusted. “Never mind. We’ll explain later. We’ve got to follow the boss now. Come on.”

Davis fell silent, but he didn’t like any of this. He went with them out to the bikes and rode along waiting to see what was happening. Grimes went to Callahan’s apartment while Davis followed Red to a point along the route. It wasn’t long before he saw Briggs’ car coming, followed by Grimes. As it got closer, Davis saw that Briggs was holding a gun on Callahan.

“Red,” he asked, pointing at the car. “Why the gun?”

“Shut up, Johnny. He wouldn’t have come any other way.” He started his cycle and headed across on an intercept course. Davis followed with growing apprehension. From a distance he could see the car speed up crazily. Red speeded up then, too, and Davis had no choice but to do the same. After a wild chase, Callahan’s car turned around, and to his horror Davis saw it drive straight into Grimes, sending both the man and the cycle flying sickeningly through the air to crash down and lie broken and still. The car took off along the dock.

As he and Red stopped by Grimes’ body, Davis could barely function. “Red?” he questioned.

“He’s dead, Johnny,” Red said bitterly. “The bastard killed him.” Astrachan jumped back onto his bike and headed after Callahan, his face twisted with fury.

Davis tried to keep up. He saw Callahan jump out of the car and onto an old carrier tied to the dock. Red was only slightly behind him on his bike. Davis went up the ramp, too. Callahan was nowhere in sight. Davis got off his bike and ran over to Red. He pointed Red toward the upper deck while he took the lower one, his mind in turmoil, death a tangible thing in the air. Davis was searching warily along the deck when he heard a multitude of shots above, then the sound of scuffling, and Red cried out once in anguish.

“Red? Red, are you all right?”

Silence. Davis climbed toward the sounds he’d heard, his flashlight shining in front of him. Suddenly the circle of light fell on a lump of clothes. He ran up to it and fell on his knees. Red stared into the light with unseeing eyes.

“Nooo.” It was a shudder of disbelief as Davis tried to feel life in the dead body of his friend. Tears welled up and spilled over, but before he could think about grief, he heard Red’s bike make a choking half-start.

Callahan! Anger boiled up through Davis. “I’ll kill him.” It was an oath as with a last look at Red, Davis ran for his bike.

He heard Callahan finally start Red’s cycle and ran harder. He jumped on his own bike, starting it on the first try, and went racing down the deck. Abruptly Callahan was there in front of him, trying to escape.

Tears blinded Davis as he lined up Red’s killer in his sights. There! But the gun wavered and he lowered it, knowing there was no way he could kill Callahan. Suddenly he saw Callahan spin out and crash the cycle. Throwing down the gun, Davis tried to stop… then the anguish of this day caught hold of him and he decided he didn’t want to stop.

He let his bike crash over the edge of the ship, as with a sad, private smile he fell down, down toward the murky water below, and the end to this nightmare.

***

Pain… pressure… drifting in darkness… needing… needing something… his body screaming for his attention… pressure in his chest… lungs… air… need air… not breathing. Consciousness slammed back and Davis struggled to lift his face above the wet surface. He gasped air into his tortured lungs as he realized where he was… and wondered vaguely why he was still alive. He started to thrash against the downward pull of his booted feet and grimaced at the wrenching pain in his left arm. Catching his breath, he swam feebly toward the pilings and found a small, broken area forming a sort of ledge. He hauled himself painfully up onto it, and before he could decide what to do next, fell into an exhausted sleep.

When he woke up it was night, but there were lights and commotion all around. He shivered in his damp clothes and tried to figure out what was happening.

“No luck, sir. Nothing but the bike so far.” The voice was nearly above his head. More splashes and lights playing across the water on the other side of the pilings.

Davis remembered. He shuddered, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the grim realization that they were dragging the bay looking for him. The tears came again as he remembered Sweet and Grimes and Astrachan. Callahan had killed them all, hadn’t he? He’s the one who ordered Sweet and me to serve the warrants. He probably meant for us both to die. Anger and sorrow tore through him.

I should have shot him. He remembered lining up Callahan in his sights… and not being able to shoot. Was it reluctance to kill a legend? Or a sense of justice—I killed his friend, he killed mine… but all three? Tears squeezed out of his eyes. Alone. So alone.

Davis started convulsively at footsteps immediately over his head. He took a deep breath and tried to slow his violently pounding heart.

“Did you get all the bodies?” It sounded like the police chief.

Davis peered up between the cracks but could only glimpse the backwash from the searchlights moving across the water.

“Yes, sir. Grimes was back on the dock. Astrachan was in the ship. Briggs was a little hard to scrape together after that car exploded, but yeah, we got ’em all. All except Davis.”

Somebody walked away. Davis barely breathed. The chief spoke again. “Inspector Callahan. Over here, please.”

Footsteps approached and Davis cringed at the closeness of this man who thought he’d killed them all. “Yes, sir?” The familiar voice of Harry Callahan sent an unexpected thrill through Davis’ body.

“Callahan, what the hell happened here?”

“It’s a long story, sir, and one I don’t think you’ll want the press to hear.” His voice sounded infinitely weary.

“I see. What do you recommend I tell the press?”

“Tell them it was a gangland killing,” Callahan suggested.

“Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?”

“Would you prefer to let the public know the assassins we’ve been trying to track down were a vigilante squad of our own men, headed by Briggs?”

The chief was quiet a moment before asking, “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Yes and no. I had proof of one killing, and the verbal confessions of the men involved, but now that they’re all dead, who do we prosecute?”

The chief finally spoke again. “Keep this quiet, Callahan. I’ll think about it and let you know what to write in your report. By the way, what are you sticking around for? You look beat.”

Callahan’s voice sounded defeated. “I guess I was just waiting for Davis, sir.” He sighed. “I think I’ll head home now.”

The police chief called out, “Okay boys, wrap it up. The body will float in one of these days. Let’s go home…”

The noises above continued for a while, but finally they were all gone and Davis was alone in the night. He slipped back into the water and worked his way from piling to piling until he reached some steps by one of the piers. The effort of climbing the slippery, moss-covered stairs sent daggers of pain up and down his legs. When he was finally on the pier, he stopped to catch his breath, leaning against an empty oil drum.

So, he thought fuzzily, John Davis strikes out again. I can’t even kill myself and make it work.

Everybody else was dead. Why, why, was he still alive?

And more important—what the hell was he supposed to do with this life that he’d been forced to continue? With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the oil drum and turned toward the city.

As he walked, dodging in and out of doorways and alleys to avoid being seen, Davis still didn’t know where he was going. Not to any of the places that had belonged to him until today. Not to Sweet’s, or Red’s, or Grimes’. Those places were of the past now. His own apartment might be dangerous, perhaps staked out by the police. Callahan would surely have thought of that. Callahan thought of everything, didn’t he? The Great God Callahan.

Davis huddled in the dark doorway of a drugstore, watching as a patrol car swept down the street slowly. Were they looking for him? He was shaking, both from fear and from the clammy chill of the clothes against his body.

A few hot tears rolled down his cheeks. He rubbed one hand across his face angrily. Stop it, he told himself, stop acting like a goddamned baby. You’re on your own now, like always.

He started walking again.

It was a long time before he realized where his aimless flight had taken him. He was only a couple of blocks away from Harry Callahan’s place. The realization at first frightened him, and then he shrugged. Why not? He had to go somewhere, and what could Callahan do? Kill him? Davis smiled wryly. His luck wasn’t that good.

What had Callahan said to the P.C. earlier? “I guess I was just waiting for Davis.”

Maybe he was still waiting.

Yeah, I’ll go to Callahan, Davis decided. Harry will know what I should do. Harry will make everything all right again.

When he saw the mailbox with the name Callahan scribbled beneath it, Davis paused. Red and Grimes had tried to kill Harry. Early had died. Charlie McCoy had died. And Red and Grimes. And Sweet… Sweet, who wanted to teach him about love, and taught him also about loss and grief and gut­deep pain. All those people were dead. Nobody left but him and Dirty Harry Callahan.

Maybe the scales were balanced.

He was standing in front of Callahan’s door for a long time before he raised his hand to knock. He kept on tapping gently, not knowing what he would say when the door swung open.

“Who’s there?” came a soft whisper from within. Above the whisper, Davis could hear the sound of a gun being cocked.

“Callahan?” he whispered in return. “Please, lemme in…”

The door eased open a crack and Harry Callahan peered out into the hallway. “Jesus,” he said.

Davis knew what he must look like, with his face bruised and swollen, his clothes caked with mud and blood, his arm twisted weirdly against his chest. He tried to speak, but his lips felt thick. “Help me…” he managed to say finally. Then he toppled forward.

Callahan caught him and for a moment the two enemies stood in the doorway, clutched together in a macabre embrace. Davis sensed the other man’s finger tighten on the trigger of the gun. He wanted to cry out, whether for mercy or for the death he’d sought earlier, even he didn’t know, but all that came out was a whimper.

Callahan set the gun aside. “Damnit,” he whispered viciously. “Why did you come here?”

Davis couldn’t answer. He was half-carried, half dragged to the couch and dropped there roughly. “Davis?” Callahan said sharply. “Davis, wake up.”

He managed to open his eyes. Above him he could barely make out the face of Harry Callahan. “I… lost my glasses,” he said helplessly. “I lost my glasses and everybody’s dead. I was so scared, you know?” He felt himself trembling like a man with a desperate chill. “I don’t want to die,” he said, knowing suddenly that it was the truth, “Not yet. Please.”

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

Davis tried to smile. Callahan wouldn’t kill him; he was safe now. At last, he was able to let the weariness wash over him and he slept heavily.

***

He woke up scared. His eyes snapped open, and he saw Harry Callahan sitting next to the couch. “Relax,” the big man 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 toward the ceiling. He realized that beneath the lightweight blanket that covered him, he was naked and that the cuts and bruises had been washed and treated. A towel and two safety pins had been used to construct a makeshift sling for his arm. “Where else could I go?” he said after a moment. “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?”

Davis thought about it. He had made a conscious decision to come here, to seek out Callahan. Did he even know why? “Because you’re an honorable man,” he said flatly, believing it.

Callahan got up suddenly and went to the cupboard. He took out a bottle and a tumbler that looked like it had once held jelly. He filled the glass with whiskey and came back to the chair. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Davis shrugged. “I don’t know.” The whiskey looked good. “Can I have some of that?” Callahan handed him the glass. Davis took a gulp, then gave it back. He was quiet, letting the stinging warmth flow through him. “Thanks,” he said in a moment.

Callahan shrugged. They were quiet for a few minutes, as he watched Callahan study 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 seemed 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 how different had he been? Only a little stupider, is all. At least the others had done what they did out of genuine conviction. Not because they were afraid. Afraid that the caring would be gone.

Caring? Davis’ smile turned bitter. Couldn’t he at least be honest with himself now? He’d been most afraid that the bed would be empty again. And now it was. “I wanted to think that, too,” he said finally. “That I was different. 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.” And I don’t mean just the sex, he added to himself. It was a whole lot more than that.

“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.”

He could see the flicker of something through the green eyes. Disgust? Probably. Well, good. Maybe it was time Dirty Harry Callahan had a little lesson in real life.

He rubbed a hand over his face, flinching a little as he touched bruised flesh. “It wouldn’t have been so bad,” he said, staring into Callahan’s face, “if anybody had really liked me. But nobody did. Until I grew up and met the guys, Red, and Grimes, and… Sweet.” He flinched again, this time at the memory of Sweet. “I belonged there. They wanted me to be a part of them.”

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

“No!” Davis was aware that he had shouted the word, and he lowered his voice. “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, 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.” Callahan got to his feet. “Tomorrow. Now we better get some sleep.”

“Okay.” Davis stretched out again and pulled the blanket up, watching as Callahan switched off the lamp and left the room.

***

He couldn’t sleep. His whole body hurt, and he hurt inside, too. The memories and loneliness were too much for him. He was alone and scared and nobody in the whole damned world cared. From the next room, he could hear the faint sound of Callahan’s snoring, and he began to think about Harry. He remembered each moment, from their meeting in the basement range to the ghastly chase on the carrier. He thought about Callahan’s face, the way his hair fell down in front, the leathery creases, the firm mouth, the compelling eyes that tried to conceal his pain. He imagined being in bed with Callahan. But that made him think of Sweet, and the thought of his dead friend made him sad again.

It had been a long time since he’d been all alone at night, and he longed just for the sound of someone else in the room. He slid off the couch and padded into the bedroom, sitting on the floor next to the bed. It felt good to know that there was another person nearby. Even if that person hated him. And he knew that Harry Callahan did hate him. For good reason. The sheet was tangled around Callahan’s sinewy legs, and Davis resisted the temptation to straighten it.

He remembered what Red had said to him during that long and horrible time after McCoy’s death. Red, on top of him, inside him, screwing him. He felt Red’s lips against his ear. “Bet you wish it was Callahan doing this to you, don’t you Johnny? Don’t you? Don’t you?” He kept it up, pulling at Davis’ hair until finally Davis nodded. “Say it, Johnny, say it.”

“I wish it was Callahan,” he gasped out.

“What do you want him to do, Johnny?” The words were gentle, but the fingers tangled in his hair were brutal.

“Screw me. I want him to screw me.”

Davis clamped his mind shut on the memory, wondering why Red had needed to be so cruel. Not just that time, but every time they got it on. The rest of the time he’d been really considerate, that is, unless he mentioned Callahan. Jealousy? The thought surprised him.

He leaned against the bed carefully, watching Callahan, waiting for the night to be over.

It was nearly dawn when Callahan stirred, seeming to sense that someone else was hovering in the grey half-light of his bedroom. “Huh?” he said in a sleep-fogged voice.

“Callahan?” Davis moved closer.

“Go back to bed, Davis.”

But he didn’t go. Couldn’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.” Davis didn’t care what he said now, what Callahan might think of him. What did it matter? His life was over anyway. “Somebody would be there. 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.” Davis knew what would happen to him in jail. It would be like the orphanage, only worse, because now his abusers wouldn’t be boys pretending at being men. They’d be animals. Davis knew that, and from the expression that crossed Callahan’s face, he saw that the other man knew, too. Their eyes met in mutual acknowledgement.

Callahan shifted a little beneath the sheet. “Davis…” he began.

“I’d rather be dead than go to jail.” Davis lifted his hand suddenly, almost without knowing what he was doing, and touched Harry Callahan on the cheek. “All I ever wanted was for somebody to like me,” he whispered. “Is that so bad? Please. I’m scared.”

Callahan just looked at him.

Davis blinked. “I wish I could see your face better.” What would he see there? Hatred? Disgust at being touched? Pity? That would be the worst.

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

Davis thought about that for a moment. “Thanks.” His mouth went dry suddenly, but he spoke again. “Can I get into bed with you?”

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

Davis longed to do something, but he was held powerless by his own fear. Already ravaged and shattered almost beyond his endurance, he knew that he would not be able to risk rejection now. Not from this man. “Remember that day on the outdoor range?” he said softly.

And he knew from his eyes that Callahan did remember.

“I feel like everything that’s happened since then was meant to bring us here,” Davis continued. “Does that make any sense?”

Callahan’s eyes closed for just a fleeting moment. “Johnny,” he said for the first time. “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.

Davis pulled the towel off. “S’okay,” he mumbled. “Harry? Oh, christ, Harry.” He didn’t quite believe this was real. 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… another man,” he said breathlessly. “Oh, Johnny… Johnny.”

Davis answered wordlessly, wrapping his arms around Callahan tightly. Callahan shivered, raking Davis’ flesh with his fingernails. “Oh, god,” Davis said. A slow trembling began somewhere deep inside him, as emotions too long unstirred came to life. No one, not even Sweet, had touched him this way, touching not just his writhing body, but seeming to get into his very soul. “Harry,” he said.

The whisper echoed in the room.

Callahan paused, frozen in midair over Davis’ willing form. He stared down at him, a strange look flickering through the verdant eyes. “Johnny?”

Davis tried to pull a little reason from the burning cauldron that was his mind. “What?”

“I… don’t want to use you. I don’t want to be like all the others.”

Davis still didn’t understand.

Callahan lowered himself and faced Davis’ bewildered expression.

“Harry?” he said again. The trembling inside turned icy. Had Callahan changed his mind?

“Shhh…” He dropped kisses over Davis’ neck and face, then took his face between both hands, looking deeply into his 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. “Please, Johnny,” he said, nudging him on top.

It hit Davis then what Callahan was offering him. The realization stunned him. Love, Sweet had said, was give and take. Harry Callahan was giving himself to John Davis. Davis sighed, letting his warm moist breath caress Callahan’s neck. “Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Oh, yeah.”

Their lovemaking was gentle, sensual, teasing, all at the same time. And tender. Davis thought fleetingly that he would die from the unbearable sweetness of it. The trembling of Callahan’s body beneath his, and the gasped words that cut through the sound of their paired breaths told him that Callahan felt the same.

Davis was aware, too, that it was all crashing toward the end. It would be over. He closed his eyes tightly to hide the tears that came to him at the thought.

As he entered Callahan, slowly and agonizingly, he knew that there was pain. Callahan tensed and Davis froze. “Harry?” he murmured, licking drops of sweat from his upper lip.

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 Callahan. An eternity passed in an instant. Davis exploded in climax, bathing Callahan in a wet heat that triggered his own release. He moaned once and 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. Dirty Harry Callahan shy? Davis realized that the next move was his. He lifted his hand to wipe sweat and tears from Callahan’s face. “Thank you,” he said.

Callahan turned a little red. “Shit,” he said. Then he cleared his throat “What the hell are we going to do?” he muttered, absently caressing Davis’ face and 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 couldn’t speak. He knew that if Callahan wanted to send him to jail, he’d go.

Again, 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.

Slowly, hesitantly, Davis relaxed in the embrace.

***

He awoke first.

For a while he just stayed where he was, listening to Callahan breathe, watching the craggy profile. Finally, he eased himself off the bed and went into the bathroom. It wasn’t a morning for thought. There were too many scary things to consider.

He got into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the stink of the bay, the sweat of his passion, and, regretfully, the musky odor of Callahan. Hoping Harry wouldn’t mind, he ran a well-used straight-edge razor over his face.

When he was clean, he toweled himself dry quickly, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his arm, and went to search for some clothes. His own filthy garments had been dumped unceremoniously into the trash, and he left them there without regret. In the closet he found a pair of jeans that were too long. He put them on, rolled a cuff on each leg, and pulled on a white shirt that he left unbuttoned.

Callahan was still asleep when he finished, so he went to the refrigerator and, not finding any food, took out a beer. He sat down in the bedroom and waited.

***

Callahan woke suddenly, sitting up quickly. There was a look of uncharacteristic panic on his face, which faded when he saw Davis sitting there. “You’re here,” he said, relaxing back against the pillows.

Davis didn’t want to be vulnerable this morning. He put an edge in his voice. “Where else would I be?” he said, squinting across 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.” His fear grew stronger. 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 stared at him for a moment and then got out of bed without speaking and walked a little stiffly into the bathroom. The door closed soundlessly behind him.

Davis didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do. He drained the can and went to the refrigerator for another. The shower was running again, and he wondered if there was enough hot water left. Or maybe Dirty Harry Callahan liked cold showers in the morning, Viking style. It would suit him, Davis thought sourly.

He came out a couple of minutes later, clean, shaved, wearing a robe loosely knotted around his waist. He walked over to the chair and took the beer can from Davis, swallowing a gulp of the cold brew. Then he handed 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, 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. Davis could taste beer, peppermint toothpaste, and the already familiar flavor of Harry Callahan. After a breathless moment, Callahan 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. I was really scared.”

“Me, too,” Davis said.

“Yeah?” Callahan stared at the floor for a moment. “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. “I don’t want it all to fall apart. What happened last night… is important to me. It matters, maybe more than anything has ever mattered before.” He raised his eyes and looked at Davis. “You have a place in my life, Johnny.”

“Thank you.”

“I really don’t know what’s going to happen now. 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 breathing quickly. “Yeah, I understand.”

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

“Right now?” Davis gave him the same challenging half-smile he’d used 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?” he said.

“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 struggled to hang the phone up. “Oh, Johnny… Johnny. ” He tangled his fingers in soft, golden hair, as if he were holding on for dear life, as if the world were 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, wanting to say so much more, but even now lacking the courage.

It was enough. Callahan smiled. “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.

***

Davis woke slowly and stretched carefully, favoring his painful left arm. Vaguely he recalled Harry’s saying goodbye when he left for work. Davis smiled dreamily as he remembered the soft kiss and whispered words full of reassurance and promise.

Still smiling, he padded slowly into the bathroom to shower as usual, but was reluctant, not wanting to wash off the comforting smell of Harry Callahan—afraid that the fragile new love would wash down the drain, leaving him once more with only memories to sustain him.

Tears welled up as the sudden pain of recollection knifed through him, and he allowed himself at last to grieve for his three dead friends. The shower was turning cold as the great gulping sobs dwindled to controllable little gasps. He turned off the water and toweled himself dry, only sniffing occasionally now, and feeling a deep relief as he laid his friends to rest in his mind.

He reached for Callahan’s robe hanging on the door and felt Harry’s love envelop him as he wrapped it around himself and tied the belt. It gave him the strength to wonder who was making the funeral arrangements for Red and Grimes. Sweet’s parents had been called yesterday.

Davis shook his head in disbelief. Yesterday. It was only yesterday that Sweet had been shot down at the raid. That was nightmare enough but couldn’t match the rest of the day… the terrible determination of Briggs, Grimes, and Astrachan to kill Callahan. Davis shuddered as he remembered how close he came to it himself after Harry had killed his friends. Davis sighed. Callahan had only been defending himself. He wasn’t even armed. A feeling of awe and pride flickered through Davis at the thought of what Callahan had managed to accomplish against such odds. No wonder he’d been so drawn to the man.

He grinned as he squinted at the bruised face in the mirror. Let’s face it, bozo. Sweet was right. You’re really hooked on the guy.

Davis made the bed and straightened the tiny apartment, noting with satisfaction that the trash with his bedraggled uniform, that now hated reminder of yesterday’s horrors, was gone. Hungrily he hunted for something resembling food among the cabinets, since the refrigerator had already proven a futile source. His search was rewarded with a box of macaroni and cheese mix and some canned vegetables. He set about putting together a rather elaborate casserole, hoping it would please Harry.

The aroma of his cooking filled the apartment, and Davis was settled quietly with one of the many mystery stories stacked around the walls when the front door lock finally rattled. Davis couldn’t help holding his breath in a combination of apprehension and anticipation as he strained to focus his eyes on the opening door. He started breathing again when he saw Callahan come in laden with packages, one of which he recognized as his own suitcase. He was going to speak when he realized there was someone else with Callahan. Davis’ heart pounded frantically, unable to dismiss the fear of betrayal as he waited, his eyes flicking from the stranger to Callahan questioningly.

“So, this is the patient?” The newcomer spoke in a soft, somehow reassuring voice.

“Yes. John Davis… Ben Klein. He’s the doctor I told you about, Johnny. Let him check you over, okay?” Callahan’s voice held a caring note and Davis relaxed.

Dr. Klein reached for Davis’ hand and turned the handshake into a helpful pull up from the chair. “Come sit on the bed, please. Do you have lights in here, Harry, or are you shaving your electric bill?” Klein teased.

“Cut the comedy, Ben,” Harry said, switching on the overhead light. “Just check him out. He had a bad fall.”

Klein gave Callahan a close look then turned to his patient. “Your face looks like you were in a fight. Callahan beat you up and now he’s trying to patch you together so you don’t sue?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Davis answered, wide-eyed, until he realized the doctor was only teasing his long-time friend.

The doctor’s gentle fingers finished examining the eyes and facial bruises, then slipped down to Davis’ neck, turning the head firmly from side to side, nodding approval. “I don’t see any signs of concussion or serious injury.” He slipped the robe off the shoulders and down to Davis’ waist, helping him pull the injured left arm out of it. Working slowly and carefully he made a thorough examination of it as Davis gritted his teeth und drew in his breath from the pain of the unavoidable aggravation.

Finally, the doctor sat back. “Nothing’s broken. I think you dislocated the shoulder temporarily and tore a mess of muscles and ligaments. It’ll hurt like hell for a while but will heal eventually. I can give you something for the pain.” He grinned. “You know, take two aspirins and call me in the morning.”

Davis smiled and started to put the robe back on.

“Hey, hold it. I’m not through.” Davis looked up in surprise. “Lie down. Since I’m checking you out, let me be sure you’re really okay.”

Davis lay back gingerly as the doctor opened the belt and laid back the sides of the robe, revealing his entire body in all its vulnerability. Davis had never become accustomed to the impersonal inspection of doctors in spite of the orphanage and the army, and he felt a warm flush climbing up his neck and into his face. For reassurance he looked over at Callahan standing next to the bed… and caught him staring appreciatively at his exposed body. Callahan’s eyes met his and Davis laughed aloud in pure delight at the unmistakable redness climbing into the leathery cheeks. He relaxed completely then, under the doctor’s probing hands.

“You ticklish?” asked the doctor, seemingly unaware of the real reason for Davis’ laughter.

“Yes, sir, some,” Davis answered, drinking in the sheepish smile Callahan was now giving him.

The doctor finished his pressure probes in Davis’ abdomen and declared him undamaged internally. A quick check of the legs satisfied him, and he helped his patient sit up before reaching into his bag for a package of pain pills. “He’s okay, Harry.” To Davis he said, “Take it easy with that shoulder for a few days. No acrobatics… or anything.” Davis blushed helplessly, but fortunately the doctor had already turned toward Callahan. “It’s your turn, Harry. Let me take a look at your latest battle scars. You’re kind of a mess, as usual.”

Callahan apparently knew better than to argue with his friend as he submitted to a studied examination himself, wincing when the doctor insisted on cleaning a couple of cuts Callahan hadn’t bothered to tend.

“Did you ever consider a less bloody line of work?” Dr. Klein asked as he applied antiseptic to yet another wound.

“Yeah, about as often as you did,” Harry answered, grimacing at the sting.

“At least it’s not my blood.” Dr. Klein looked long at his friend before continuing. “For all your current crop of injuries you’re looking better than I’ve seen you in a long time.” He glanced at Davis, who was listening intently. “Can’t say you don’t deserve some happiness, Harry. Now, how about my fee?”

“Sure,” Callahan said, going to the refrigerator and bringing back three cold beers. “Come over here, Johnny, and listen to his latest bunch of bad jokes. It’s a pretty stiff fee, but we gotta pay for the service.” To Klein he added, “I don’t suppose you’ll accept a meal?”

Klein shook his head. “Thanks, but Miriam’s expecting me.”

Callahan nodded. “It’s nice to have someone waiting dinner at home for you.” He sniffed appreciatively and gave Johnny a warm smile.

Davis’ face lit up, then he joined them dutifully, still somewhat reluctant to intrude on their friendship, but by the time Dr. Klein left he had relaxed to the point of calling him Ben. He’d even told him his own first name was Benjamin, a fact he generally managed to avoid revealing to anyone.

After seeing his friend out, Callahan turned back to Davis. “You got quite a laugh at my expense a while ago, didn’t you?”

Davis grinned. Callahan reached out, untied the robe and slipped his arms inside to pull Davis’ warm body close against him as he leaned down to kiss him thoroughly.

Harry Callahan, you may be new to kissing me, but you’re no beginner, Davis thought admiringly as he slid his arms around him and felt the fire starting.

Then Callahan broke the kiss, reached in back and pulled Davis’ arms away. With a sigh he said, “Later for that. First, we have to talk about some things.” He led Davis over to the packages. “Here’s some groceries and stuff we’d better put away. I also emptied your pockets before I threw your things into the incinerator, so I used your key to get some clothes and stuff out of your apartment.” Callahan frowned thoughtfully before continuing. “It’s safe for you to go back there whenever you want to.” He hesitated again, looking at Davis, who got a sinking feeling in his gut that something wasn’t being said.

“Aren’t the cops watching my place?” he asked.

“No,” Callahan said as he put some milk into the refrigerator. “I talked to the P.C. today. Told him you’re alive. It seems he’s going to blame the whole thing on Briggs. He’s saying Grimes and the others were unwitting dupes acting under orders they thought came from the top. Rookies who didn’t know better. The press is buying it.”

“What about me?” Davis asked, trying to control his inner fears.

Callahan looked deep into his eyes. “I told him you hadn’t been sent on an assignment yet.”

Davis stared at him. “But Harry… McCoy… I’m the one who…”

Callahan cut him off decisively. “We’re the only ones who know that.”

Davis couldn’t look at him. “I’m so sorry, Harry, so damned sorry.”

Callahan looked down at him for a long moment. “That’s not enough for McCoy, Johnny.”

Davis felt his fragile new hopes splinter. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists in despair, waiting for his condemnation.

Callahan gripped his arms tightly. “Look at me, Johnny.” Davis opened his eyes and forced himself to meet the green gaze that tore through him painfully. Callahan spoke quietly, but firmly. “McCoy is dead. It was wrong, and you’ll have to live with that, but I won’t remind you of it ever again. It’s over. Past. Let’s concentrate on what we need to do now. Understand?”

Davis nodded, unable to speak.

Callahan continued, “I told the P.C. you hadn’t killed anyone, but that since you were a part of the group you would resign and never be an embarrassment to the department.”

Davis bit his lip. “Do I have to stand trial?”

Callahan practically shook him with his intensity. “You’re not even included in the official report, Johnny. You’re only resigning because as their friend you failed to report your suspicions. That’s your story. Can you keep it straight?”

Davis was miserable with his unresolved guilt. “I’m sorry you had to lie for me, Harry. I’ll tell it however you want me to.”

Callahan obviously understood Davis’ misery. “Look, kid, you’re right to feel this way. You deserve to have your ass kicked into the pen for life, and just because there are a lot of other guys out there free as a bird who’ve done a lot worse, doesn’t make it right for you. But the department needs the people’s confidence, and the quicker this blows over, the better. The P.C. wants it this way, and we’d better be grateful he does.”

“We?”

“I told you we’d face it together,” Callahan said solemnly. “I may lie to the P.C., but not to you, okay?”

It was too much for Davis. Oh, god. Harry was really doing it. Making everything all right. For him. For them. He blinked furiously, trying to control the tears threatening to betray the turmoil within.

Harry kissed them away, then turned him toward the stove. “I’m hungry and something smells good. Let’s eat.”

Davis regained his control as he served the meal, and they ate in silence for a while, Davis picking at his food at first, but gradually his appetite returned. “What’d you bring me from my apartment?” he finally asked and was immediately aware that it was the wrong thing to say.

Callahan’s face had hardened into the look that had disturbed Davis earlier. The steely eyes were piercing him in the way that had always made Davis acutely uncomfortable. Callahan laid his fork down and sat up straight. Slowly he reached into his pocket, and drew out a few photographs, which he placed in front of the uneasy young man.

Davis picked up the first one and felt his face grow fiery with shame. Quickly he looked at the others, remembering exactly when Red had taken them, using his tripod and remote shutter release. As kinky as the things Red had made him do seemed at the time, it was hundred times worse to have the photographic evidence presented to him by the one man in the world he had hoped would never know of his depravity. No wonder Callahan had said it was safe for him to return to his apartment. He wanted him to get out.

Davis stood up shakily and stumbled into the other room. He opened his suitcase and started getting dressed, mentally screaming obscenities at himself for having caused Callahan nothing but trouble and misery since they met. He was so caught up in his self-castigation that he was unaware of Callahan’s presence until he was grabbed by an arm. Davis flinched away, fully expecting a rain of well-warranted blows to fall. Instead, he felt himself being enfolded in a pair of firm and deliberate arms.

The undeserved tenderness broke him, and tears of shame coursed down his face. God, all I’ve done today is cry. He refused to return the unmerited embrace, and slid out of it to his knees, head bowed in abject misery.

“Oh, god, Harry. You should let them execute me. I don’t deserve to live. Why the hell didn’t I just die in the water?”

Harry stood looking down at him, then stalked across to his dresser. When he returned in three angry strides he thrust something under Davis’ down-turned face. Davis recognized with a shock that it was his own gun.

“Take it!” Harry practically shouted at him. “Go ahead, blow your fucking brains out.” He thrust the weapon into Davis’ hand.

Davis remembered throwing it down on the carrier. Why had Harry kept his gun—not turned it in?

Callahan was still angry. “What’re you waiting for? Go on, kill yourself. Never mind that I love you. What the hell does that matter? Jesus, I don’t even understand it myself, but I just sold my soul to save your neck… only I guess that’s not good enough for you.” He walked over to the window and stared out at nothing.

Davis looked at the gun in his hand, his only companion for so many years. Then he thought about the man who had found it, kept it, hidden it when he thought Davis was dead. Even dead he was willing to protect him, hide the evidence of his crime from the ballistics department. The man who just now said “I love you” to him… angrily to be sure, but he had said it.

Davis forced his aching throat to speak. “Harry?”

Callahan kept staring out the window. “You still here? I thought you’d be dead by now.” His voice was back under quiet control.

“Harry, why’d you keep my gun?” Davis looked up and squinted, trying to see the man at the window.

Callahan sighed. “I don’t know exactly. I just knew it meant a lot to you, and I hated to see it go up for grabs, I guess. I suppose the evidence wouldn’t have mattered much once you were dead, but I just didn’t feel like handing it over.” He turned and noticed Davis’ tear-stained face, the unfocused eyes straining to see. “I found an extra pair of glasses at your place. Maybe they’ll help ’til you can get new ones.”

“Thanks,” Davis replied, but didn’t move to get them.

“You gonna sit there all night like that?” Callahan came over and took the gun from Davis’ unresisting grip, then reached out his hand. “You gettin’ up or shall I come down?” he asked softly.

Davis looked up into the expressive eyes, reading a warmth there that filled his aching emptiness. He took the hand and stood up. Gathering his courage, he asked, “Why’d you bring the pictures, Harry?”

Callahan touched his face. “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.” He gripped Davis’ arms firmly. “Do you want to hear about them, Johnny?” Davis shook his head. “Then come out here with me.” He led Davis to the kitchen, gathered the pictures, held them over the sink and set fire to them. “I could have done that at your place, but I decided it would be better not to.”

“Why?” Davis asked at last.

Callahan slid his arms around him. “So you’d know they don’t matter. I know all about you, and I still want you. Now is it clear?”

“Yes, sir… Harry.” He looked up into the green eyes. “There may be more pictures at Red’s.”

Callahan kissed him. “His family will have to build their own bonfire. If they try to publish them, we’ll sue for our percentage.” He grinned.

“Harry!” but Davis knew Callahan was only trying to lighten the mood so he’d stop worrying about it. Reluctantly Davis asked the major question on his mind. “Do you think I ought to move back into my apartment? Do you want me to leave? …Do you need time and space to think? …Do I have to go?”

“Do you want to go back there?” Callahan looked around. “I guess it is better than this place.”

Davis slipped his arms hungrily around Callahan and hugged him tightly. “I don’t want to be anyplace but here, Harry. This is the most perfect apartment I’ve ever been in.” And he reached up to kiss Callahan’s lips, probing tentatively with his tongue into the delicious depths. He felt Callahan’s body respond against him and pushed his hips forward in an answering thrust. He held Callahan tightly to him with hands that moved in firm circles on his lower back and buttocks.

Callahan pulled back gasping. “You learn fast, little boy.”

“How to turn you on? You’re right.” Davis grinned. Pleased with himself he thought, this rookie can teach even the great Dirty Harry some new tricks. Deliberately, Davis took Callahan’s mouth again in an even deeper kiss. Then without breaking contact, he reached one hand between them and loosened Callahan’s tie, pulling it off slowly and letting it drop. His tongue kept up its delicate probing, and he was pleased to feel Callahan respond with a gentle suction. Davis unfastened the shirt, button by button, as his left hand continued to pull Callahan’s hips tightly against his own thrusting ones. Then in one smooth motion he reached up und slipped off both the shirt and jacket.

Callahan came up for air, holding onto Davis’ upper arms for much needed support, as Davis unfastened the belt and zipper and started pushing the slacks and shorts down Callahan’s long legs to the floor, pulling off his shoes at the same time. Callahan stepped out of them and reached for Davis’ slacks, the only item he’d managed to put on. Leaving the clothes in a pile on the kitchen floor, Davis led the way lazily to the bedroom where he seated Callahan on the bed. He knelt to remove the socks as an excuse to slide his hands up the long legs, thighs, hips, stomach, and chest. Pressing his body close to follow his moving hands, Davis stretched full length against Callahan, and relentlessly pushed him onto his back, fondling and kissing him possessively.

Callahan brought his arms around Davis, and with a quick movement rolled him over. Lifting his head he grinned down at Davis, who looked up, surprised to find himself neatly trapped beneath the long body. “Little boys shouldn’t try to play men’s games,” Callahan said with a leer.

Davis’ eyes grew crafty. “Games, Harry?” he grinned as he suddenly jabbed Callahan just below the ribs on each side, then took advantage of his momentary loss of control to roll him over… only they ran out of bed and landed heavily on the floor. “Well, at least I’m still on top.” Davis laughed.

“Not for long,” Harry grunted, trying to topple him off, but this time Davis was ready for him and put up a good struggle, staying up precariously for several laughing minutes before sheer size won out, and Callahan flipped him onto his back with his wrists pinned over his head, and his body trapped once again under the long, lean frame. The laughter died away as they stared into each other’s eyes. Callahan leaned down to kiss him lovingly, and Davis felt the heat surge up in his belly and spread throughout his body.

If this is defeat, I should have surrendered sooner, he thought.

Davis realized his hands were free as Callahan’s were roaming sensually all over his body, and one had moved down to take possession of his now rigid flesh with gentle insistence. Slowly Callahan kissed his way down Davis’ body until his mouth found the target he had been seeking. Davis arched with pleasure and reached for whatever part of Callahan he could touch. With only a little tugging on his legs, he got the lanky body stretched out beside him. Callahan’s head was still in Davis’ lap causing such feelings of ecstasy that he could hardly find his way to Callahan’s half-erect organ. Barely in control, Davis began his own sweet assault on Callahan’s growing column of flesh. He was rewarded with a gasp and a tremor as he slipped his mouth over the entire shaft and began a slow, wet sucking.

Their dual ministrations slipped into a steady rhythm, which seemed to crescendo equally until both bodies went rigid at the same moment, causing convulsive swallowing in a pair of throats, and momentary bright oblivion in both minds. The two men rolled over onto their backs breathing hard.

Davis wondered if he’d ever be able to move again. His climax had left him totally wiped out.

Slowly Callahan got to his knees, and gathering Davis’ supine body into his arms, he lifted him and laid him in the middle of the bed, then sat beside him looking into the lazy blue eyes. Davis reached up and pulled the big man down next to him, wanting the comfort of holding in the pleasant aftermath… needing it. So much had happened in such a short time, his emotions couldn’t cope with it all. Callahan drew up the covers and held him safe, one tiny haven in a sea of worldly troubles. Tomorrow was time enough for the world. Tonight, they would rock to sleep on the soft waves of their growing love.

***

Davis woke to kisses… a beautiful way to start any day, he thought as he looked up into the green eyes, soft with feelings meant for him alone. Nerve endings zinged throughout his body. He wondered idly if he’d ever get so used to Harry’s love that he wouldn’t tingle any more at his touch. He hoped not.

“Hated to wake you,” Callahan whispered softly. “You look like an angel when you’re asleep.” He grinned to cover his momentary lapse into sentimentality. “And we all know that ain’t so!”

Davis reached up and kissed the little mole above Callahan’s lips before pulling the mouth to his again. He slipped his tongue between the yielding teeth hungrily, but Callahan pulled away.

“Uh-uh, not now, Johnny,” he said reluctantly. “Now comes the hard part. We have to face the world head on today.” He brushed the hair out of Davis’ eyes, toying with the curly ends a moment before he sighed and pushed himself off the bed.

They took turns in the shower, resisting the temptation to share one, and dressed in studied silence. Davis was glad Harry had brought his better suit. He needed to look as respectable as possible today. It was a role he was far from feeling, but for Harry’s sake he was determined to carry it off. He knew he deserved anything they could do to him, but not Harry.

After a quick cup of coffee, they headed for the door. Davis hesitated, drawing a deep breath, suddenly queasy and weak.

“You’ll be all right, Johnny,” Callahan said in a firm, reassuring voice. “You’re entitled to look upset. You just lost your best friends.”

“That’s not what’s bothering me, Harry.”

“I know that,” he said quietly, “but they don’t. I’ll try to do the talking.”

Davis gathered himself together. “I’ll handle it, sir.” He looked painfully at Callahan. “I don’t want you to have to lie any more, Harry.”

Callahan gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Well then, let’s go, John Wayne.”

They walked down to the garage. Davis was suddenly overwhelmed with memories.

“We’re ridding society of killers… You of all people should understand that…”

“I’m afraid you badly misjudged me…”

“Johnny!” Callahan’s voice cut through the chaotic thoughts, and Davis realized he was being shaken, then led to the car. Callahan opened the door and urged him inside. “The memories won’t always hit you that hard, kid,” he promised.

By the time they reached the station, Davis was in control again. Even the long wait outside the chief’s office didn’t rattle him too much, until Callahan was called in without him. Finally, he was ushered into the plush, intimidating interior. No one was present but the chief, Callahan, and himself.

“Sit down, Davis,” the chief commanded, looking like a thunderstorm about to break. Davis sat. The chief stared at him a long time before he finally spoke. “Goddamn you misguided fanatical fools. Can your army have changed so much from mine?!”

“I… I don’t know, sir,” Davis stammered, not knowing what to say to the totally unexpected exclamation.

The chief picked up a group of folders. He glanced at each file a moment, shaking his head and frowning as he dropped them one by one onto his desk. “Those are the four most beautiful personnel files I’ve ever seen. What really stinks is that they’re not faked. What a waste. Those four men should have been the finest officers this force has ever had. How the hell am I supposed to choose cadets? If I can’t trust the best…” his voice trailed off as he gazed at some indefinite point above the door.

Davis looked in helpless confusion to Callahan, but he was frowning at his own clasped hands.

Finally, the chief sighed and opened one of the folders. Slowly he raised his head, and with infinite sadness he handed a multi-carboned form to Davis. “Sign each copy of that, then get the hell out of here.”

Davis read the succinctly worded resignation “for personal reasons” already bearing the chief’s acceptance, then silently signed each page.

The chief ripped off the back copy and handed it to him before turning 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.”

Callahan half-smiled. “No, thank you, sir. I don’t think I’d like that very much.”

“No, I don’t suppose you would,” the chief answered, eyeing Callahan’s bandages and bruises. “But you might live longer.” He sat back looking considerably older, Davis thought, than he did when I was sworn in… such a short time ago. He stood uncomfortably still while the chief stared at him as if in disbelief that his judgment could have been so wrong. Finally, he waved his hand in a gesture of hopeless dismissal and turned his attention to other matters on his desk.

Callahan took Davis’ arm and pushed him out the door, past the secretary to the hall. “I forgot to give you these this morning,” he said, pressing Davis’ badge and I.D. into his hands. That’s all you’ll need at Personnel. Your gun wasn’t department issue.” He glanced around the deserted hall before taking Davis’ hands tightly in his own. “I’ve got to work now… for a while at least. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” Davis looked up sadly. “I’ve gotta check on the guys. Be sure somebody’s taking care of them, ya know?”

“Yeah, sure.” Callahan squeezed the hands encouragingly, then fished in his pocket again. “Here’s a key I had made for you. Can you get home okay, Johnny?”

Home. He couldn’t recall ever having used that word in his life. It just hadn’t applied to him… until now. His eyes misted. “Home,” he whispered softly. “Yes, Harry, I can find my way home.”

And Harry kissed him… right there in the hall where somebody could have walked by any moment. Davis stood there watching him walk down the hall toward the elevator. Harry looked back and waved before turning the corner. Davis stayed there a moment longer, still feeling the warmth of Harry’s lips on his, then he sighed and turned toward Personnel.

After turning in his badge and resignation form and getting a promise of his severance and pension pay “sometime soon,” Davis asked about his friends. He was told the families had been notified and the bodies and personal effects were being prepared for shipping. It sounded so cold and impersonal.

Davis felt a need to see for himself. Leaving his own apartment until last, he walked over to Astrachan’s place. He stood at the bottom of the steps a moment, then resolutely climbed them. Selecting the right key from his ring, he unlocked the door and went in. The apartment was bare. Only the original furnishings were left. There was nothing to indicate a friend named Red Astrachan had ever lived here. Davis walked through the neutral rooms looking for some proof that Red had existed. At last, in the bathroom, he spotted a stain on the linoleum where Red had spilled photographic chemicals. Davis knelt and touched the spot. It wasn’t much evidence of a vibrant, young life, but it was all there was.

“How did you get in here?” a voice behind him asked angrily.

Davis turned and saw the landlord glowering at him. He stood up.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Davis. I didn’t know.” He fidgeted a moment then added almost apologetically, “Mr. Astrachan’s family called and asked me to pack up his things. I know he was paid up ’til the end of the month, but…”

“It’s all right,” Davis reassured him. “I just came by to be sure it was done.” He resisted an urge to ask where the stuff was so he could look for the pictures, wondering idly if this man had seen them, then not caring anymore. He looked at the keyring in his hand. Slowly he opened it and removed one. “Here’s an extra key for your next tenant.” He took one last look around, not quite able to see it as it had been, knowing it was now a part of the irrefutable past. Then he left.

Sweet’s apartment was also empty. Grimly Davis considered the efficiency of landlords who were anxious to rent again as he walked to Grimes’ place. So much had happened there to change the course of his life. Or was the course charted from the first time he’d met the three in Nam… or even before? What is Destiny anyhow?

Unbidden, a pair of green eyes in a weathered face rose in his mind and he smiled. Destiny. Maybe so. He reached into his pocket and found the key Callahan had given him. He stood still in the middle of the sidewalk and drew out his keyring again. Only two keys were left on it now. He opened it and removed both Grimes’ key and his own and replaced them carefully with Callahan’s. A warm peace spread through him at the changeover. Putting his past into one pocket and his future into the other, he walked with new conviction to complete his task.

As he turned into the apartment complex, he spotted a rather flashy car parked in Grimes’ designated space. Idly Davis wondered if the place had already been rented again. He walked up the stairs fishing out the loose key, but the door stood open. Hesitantly he crossed the threshold and looked around at the piles and boxes lying about.

Davis recognized Grimes’ belongings, so called out to the landlord, “Mr. Jordan, are you here?”

A tall, handsome man dressed casually in a beige turtleneck shirt and slacks came out of the bedroom. “I’m not Mr. Jordan. Sorry,” he said with a look of curiosity. “I’m Mr. Grimes’ brother. Can I help you?”

Davis stared at him in astonishment. He had heard Mike speak of his brother who lived somewhere near San Jose. “You’re the priest?” he stammered.

The man smiled as if this were a familiar reaction to his unorthodox appearance. “I’m a Jesuit. I don’t suppose Mike explained that to you.” The amusement faded and the eyes grew solemn. “Were you a friend of his?”

“Yes, sir,” Davis answered, still awed by this unexpected encounter. “I’m John Davis.” He held out his hand hesitantly, wondering if that were a proper procedure with a Catholic priest.

“Father Thomas,” the man replied, gripping his outstretched hand firmly, “but please just call me Tom.”

“Yes, sir… Tom,” Davis said sheepishly.

Father Thomas looked closely at Davis. “Are you the Davis Mike met in Vietnam along with Phil Sweet and Red Astrachan?”

“That’s right.” Davis looked around. “I just came by to see that someone was tending to his things. Can I help?”

“Great idea. Everything’s out here now. It just needs boxing up.” They each started packaging the familiar items, lost in their own thoughts for a while, then Father Thomas broke the silence. “John, I’m having a hard time understanding all this.” Davis looked up. “I mean… I know the papers are saying he didn’t really know what he was doing, but…” He looked beseechingly at Davis. “How can a man get into such a situation? You know him. Please, tell me.”

Davis didn’t know what to say. Tom, your brother was a cold-blooded killer who enjoyed his work. The army taught him it was right to kill. Hesitantly he ventured, “He didn’t do anything he wasn’t ordered to do, Tom… in Vietnam and here.”

Father Thomas looked at the wall vacantly. “He was always a good kid, easy-going, happy. At least I thought he was. But then I was away so much at the seminary and my parish. Maybe I let him down. Maybe if I’d been there for him…” He looked helplessly at his hands. “How can a man convince himself that it’s right to kill another human being?”

Davis felt the uncontrollable warmth rising in his face. “The war…” he stammered. He ached to tell this man how simple it was to deceive yourself. He wondered if it would make it easier for him to know his brother wasn’t the only misguided killer around. Besides, priests were supposed to be able to give absolution, weren’t they?

Davis clenched his teeth. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. It’s not just your guilt on the line now, but Harry’s integrity. Davis knew that he was a murderer who’d have to punish himself. He could never pay his dues to society and set his conscience free. Grimly he started packing the box again.

After a few moments Father Thomas followed suit. “John, tell me about my brother.”

Davis looked up. “What do you mean?”

“I thought I knew him, but obviously I didn’t.” He looked at Davis in puzzlement. “What was he like? What did you do together?”

Davis looked down quickly, hoping his face wasn’t betraying him. What the hell could he say? Your brother was sometimes insensitive and sometimes very loving. We screwed damned near every day between kills. Davis thought about that, wondering if that was part of the reason a womanizer like Mike took him to bed, too. He smiled to himself. Let’s face it. Mike liked sex. He’d probably screw a sheep if nothing else was available. Red, too. Not Sweet, though. Sweet was different. Davis pulled himself out of his reverie realizing Father Thomas was waiting for an answer.

“You remember him right. He really was easy-going and happy.” He looked at the misery in the priest’s eyes. “He sort of separated his work from his life. We had some good times together… bowling, beer parties, and of course, shooting.” He cut himself off realizing that wasn’t a comforting reminder. “I mean for sport…” he was only making things worse. “I’m sorry.” He began packing furiously.

Father Thomas was thoughtful again. “I noticed a change when he got out of the army. He visited me before coming up here. I never knew him to be interested in politics, but all of a sudden, he was quite vocal about the subversives infiltrating our society, and that the government wasn’t doing enough to root them out. He almost sounded like he was reciting something he’d learned.”

“He was.” Davis kept packing. “He heard a lot of that stuff in the army. He worked for intelligence some of the time, he told me. Something to do with traitors and saboteurs. But Sweet was our real politician. He was always talking about wanting to help society by getting rid of the criminal element. I guess he just didn’t choose the right way.” He looked up at the priest. “He was a Catholic, too, but he never seemed to like it much… sorry, Father.”

“Tom, please,” the priest said softly. They finished packing the boxes and took them down to load into the car, dropping the keys off on the way.

“That’s a pretty snazzy car for…” Davis started to say.

“For a priest?” Father Thomas smiled. “We Jesuits are a liberal bunch. I’m afraid some of the other orders don’t quite approve of us.” He closed up the trunk. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

“Thanks, my place isn’t far from here.” Davis grinned. “But I’d really like a ride in that car.”

Father Thomas grinned back. “Hop in and direct me then.” He drove Davis to his apartment.

Davis got out and reached back in to shake Father Thomas’ hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Tom. Nobody came for the others. I know it’s a lot to expect, but still…”

“Yeah. It hurts. Friends deserve a better goodbye.”

“Yeah.” He straightened up. “Well, thanks for the ride.” He stepped away from the car.

“I hope you find peace, John.” And he drove away with an unpriestlike squealing of his tires.

Peace… Davis shook his head and sighed, then he fished out the one loose key left in his pocket and prepared to close out the last part of his past. Taking off his jacket and tie, Davis set to work emptying the little apartment. There wasn’t much to pack. Davis had never been accustomed to owning things and had rented the efficiency fully furnished. Two small cardboard boxes held the accumulation of twenty-six years of living, not counting the clothes Callahan had already picked up. He was rummaging for some twine to carry them when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Johnny, I’m glad I caught you there.” Callahan’s welcome voice filled the void created by the depressing tour of empty apartments.

“Hi, Harry,” he said, trying not to sound too eager.

“You okay, kid?” Callahan seemed concerned.

“Yeah, sure.” Now, he thought.

“I’m finishing here in a few minutes. Wait for me and I’ll pick you up, okay?”

“Okay.” He heard the phone click and hung up his own end, then called the phone company, and finished every other detail he could think of.

Davis wandered aimlessly around the little rooms remembering the good times, deliberately concentrating on the good times, in a personal memorial to the three men who had added so much to his empty life. He sat on the windowsill waiting for Harry and remembering. Sweet’s face was the most prominent in his mind, but even that was blurring at the edges like a watercolor painting. He was so deep in his memories that he didn’t hear when someone came up the stairs and into the room.

“I’ll help you forget, Johnny.”

Callahan’s soft voice startled him, but he turned with a smile. “I don’t want to forget, Harry.” He stood up and walked over by the bed where Harry was standing. With a sigh, he sat down. “At least not all of it. I know you think they were terrible, but most of the time they were really good friends.” He looked down and added softly, “I needed them.” He reached up to take Harry’s hand between his, rubbing the scarred knuckles gently with one finger. “Besides, if it hadn’t been for them, I’d never have found you.”

“I wonder,” Callahan said, reaching to stroke the blond head with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “Do you believe in Fate?”

The blue eyes lifted. “I never did before.” He put his arms around Callahan’s legs, hugging him close. The warm bulge next to Davis’ face began to throb and grow, delighting him that his nearness could affect Harry so much. He brought one hand back and unzipped the fly. His determined fingers slid inside and freed the pulsing flesh. He started a hungry licking and kissing from base to tip, then took the shaft into his mouth. Davis was fully aware of his own excited response as Callahan buried his hands in the silky hair and with helpless abandon thrust rhythmically in his hot mouth.

“Oh, god, Johnny, I can’t hold back. It’s not fair.” And he stiffened in ecstasy as Davis swallowed, still sucking to wring every sensation possible from Callahan’s rigid body. Finally, he freed the limp organ and gently tucked it back inside the shorts and zipped the slacks before looking up to see two dreamy green eyes start to flicker.

“Oh, no you don’t, little boy. You’re not getting off that easily.” And Callahan reached to unbutton Davis’ shirt.

“Harry, the landlord might come in. He’s got the key.”

“I chained the door,” Callahan said with a leering grin.

“You planned this!”

“Not that, I didn’t,” he said sliding the shirt off Davis’ shoulders. “This is what I planned.” And he reached for the slacks with determination and purpose.

“Harry, why here?” Davis asked as he reached for a few buttons himself, enjoying the feel of Harry’s skin as he slid his hands inside the shirt to stroke and caress the lithe body.

Callahan eased Davis back onto the bed to slide the slacks and shorts off and was busy with the shoes and socks before he finally answered. “I thought maybe it might help to set your ghosts to rest once and all, for us to make love right here in your own bed.” He sat next to him looking down with a soft expression for a few moments, then stood up to remove the rest of his own clothes quickly. “Besides, I got so horny just thinking about you on the way over, I knew I’d never be able to resist jumping you in the middle of the floor. Finding you in the bedroom is just a nice bonus.” He grinned and stretched out next to Davis, caressing him tenderly in long, lazy strokes.

Davis felt those already familiar shivers running to every extremity and closed his eyes in pleasure. Callahan started kissing him slowly and sensually from his forehead to his eyes, cheeks, chin… around to an ear while his fingers lightly traced the other ear, duplicating the action of his tongue. Davis couldn’t hold still and little moans slipped out as he squirmed in helpless delight. Harry slid a hand to the back of Davis’ neck, lifting so his head tipped back exposing the long expanse of throat Harry seemed to find so erotic. Davis smiled as he bared his throat willingly to this man he knew could crush his windpipe as easily as he’d done to Red.

He felt Callahan’s hesitation and knew he was remembering the same thing. Davis pushed upward to emphasize his trusting vulnerability, and with a half-sob of appreciation, Callahan fed greedily on the full length of that throat with kisses and lip-bites that caused a mad stirring in Davis’ groin as he arched and turned for more.

Callahan kissed the two little moles on the side of Johnny’s neck before moving down the highly excited body to the tiny nipples on the downy chest. Davis was so hot by this time he didn’t think he could control himself if Harry were to touch his rigid organ.

Harry sensed his heightened reaction, stopping his hand at the golden thatch surrounding the straining erection. Whatever he had planned to do, he suddenly stopped his stimulating assault on Davis’ agitated body, apparently aware of his uncontrollable need, and slid down beside him on his stomach, urging him on top.

Davis noticed with relief that he was self-lubricating. The shape he was in he didn’t feel he could hold back long enough to force his dry mouth to produce saliva. With an eager lust that surprised him, he pushed himself into Harry with barely controlled force. Callahan drew in his breath sharply, but Davis was beyond stopping now. He had never felt so frantic in his life and thrust himself again and again into Harry’s rhythmically moving body with an amazing furor. He felt himself climbing to a height of sensation he’d never experienced before and he exploded in an all-consuming climax beyond his wildest imaginings, stiffening again and again against Harry’s body until he felt totally debilitated. He collapsed, helpless, over his back.

“Oh, god, Harry. I’ve never… Oh, god,” he gasped in wonder and exhaustion. Finally, he found the strength to slip down by his side, and Callahan half-turned and took him tenderly into his arms, kissing him gently on the temple.

“Now maybe we can start to live again,” Callahan whispered softly.

Davis was too wrung out to speak. All he could think was, I’m paid up on the apartment ’til the end of the month, so the landlord can’t kick us out until then. Maybe by that time I’ll be able to breathe again.

Callahan brushed the wet strands of hair off his forehead and with quiet caring said, “I think we should find a new apartment. One with two bedrooms.”

The old insecurity was back. Doesn’t Harry want to sleep with me? Maybe I was too rough this time. He forced himself to ask. “Two? What for?”

Callahan leered at him. “Variety for one thing., I kind of like making it on your bed for a change.” His face grew serious. “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.”

Davis looked up at him feeling the depth of his words, knowing Harry was talking about a lifetime together. A sweet sense of serenity poured through him. “I hope you find peace,” Father Tom had said. Harry was trying to offer him a lifetime of it. Dirty Harry Callahan, the man who got shot at regularly, and often threw himself into danger with reckless abandon as he tried in a better way than Sweet to help society get rid of the criminal element. A lifetime with a man like that might not be very long.

Davis reached up to the face above him, tracing the lines etched there by countless experiences he’d survived. This was Harry Callahan, the man who could do anything, even the impossible. Maybe he could continue to beat the odds.

“What are you thinking about so hard?” Callahan asked softly.

Davis slipped his arms around the strong back and pulled Callahan to him in a crushing embrace. “I was thinking, for a man who deserves to be dead, I feel very good.” And lucky, and grateful… and I damned well better be glad to have him for as long as I can and never mind about tomorrow. He’d already been given more than he deserved, so everything from now on was a bonus. He’d grab each moment greedily, and if that was the only peace he could find, it would have to be enough.

“No one heard my song… until now.”

The sequel to this novel is Magnum Force:  Harry.