Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

Cordell was leaning against the door behind her. There was blood spatter on the seat and on the rear window, which was pocked with holes.

“Cordell, you all right?”

“I’m hit, man.”

Harry said, “How bad?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry looked through the side window and saw Hess with the shotgun, moving toward the car. He reached in his coat pocket and drew the revolver. “Get down, he’s coming back.”

Colette glanced at him and turned her body, knees on the floor, face flat on the seat bottom. Cordell slid off the rear seat onto the floor. Through the side window Harry saw Hess approaching, getting close. He opened the door and went down on his knees. Heard the blast and felt the concussion, glass from the driver’s-side window spraying over him. When he looked again Hess was coming around the front of the car, visible for a second in the headlight beam.

Harry raised the Colt and fired but Hess kept coming, firing the shotgun, blowing out the right side of the windshield. Harry, on his knees, fired another round, but Hess had disappeared. Harry got up and saw him limping along the side of the road.

Harry went after him, got to Hess as he was pulling away, aimed for the left rear tire and squeezed the trigger. The Fiat fishtailed, went off the road and rolled a couple times down the hill into a thicket, headlight beams angled out of the shrubs. Harry climbed down, crouched and pointed his gun. The front passenger door was open, dome light illuminating the interior. He could see blood on the seats. Hess was gone, but he was hurt.

Harry stood behind the Fiat and listened, heard the wind and the rustling of branches. He had one round left in the .38. He looked over the car into the darkness and started down the hill.

Hess had been shot in the soft tissue just above his right hip. The bullet had gone through him. He could feel blood leaking out of the exit wound, his shirt and trousers wet with it. He wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, and had gripped the steering wheel when the Fiat started to roll, and when he couldn’t hold on any longer, let go and bounced around the interior till the car got tangled in dense shrubs and came to a stop.

He had moved down the hill about seventy meters below the car, leaning against a tree trunk, holding the Walther, waiting for Harry Levin. Shoot him when he had the chance. He could see the headlights above him, and feel a breeze come up from the valley. He was looking down at the lights in houses scattered through the hills, the city of Nice to his right hidden from view.

Harry took his time, zigzagging down the hill using trees and overgrown shrubs for cover, feet in loafers sliding on the steep terrain. Visibility was better now, the heavy clouds had moved out and there was a three-quarter moon lighting up the landscape. He stopped and listened, heard twigs snap just below him, and crouched behind a broadleaf evergreen. He saw a figure move down the hill, then disappear behind a tree.

Hess appeared again maybe fifteen feet away, limping, looking unsteady. Harry closed in, raised the .38 and aimed the barrel between Hess’ shoulders. “Take another step, you’re dead.” He couldn’t tell if Hess was holding a gun but had to assume he was.

“That’s what you said to me the last time. In the kitchen in Palm Beach, remember?” Hess paused. “You shot me again. That’s twice I owe you.”

“I’ll try to do better next time. Toss the gun away from you, and put your hands up where I can see them.”

“I’m not armed.”

Harry didn’t believe him.

Hess glanced over his shoulder at him. “Are you going to shoot me in the back?”

“Back or front, it doesn’t matter.”

Hess lowered his arms and turned, lost his footing and slid to the bottom of the hill. Harry watched him all the way and went after him, aiming the revolver, trying to keep his balance, telling himself again he had one round in the gun and to make it count.

When he got to the bottom of the hill, Hess was moving toward him, aiming a pistol. Hess fired and missed, fired again, the shots echoing around the hills. And now Harry, holding the .38 in two hands, aimed and squeezed the trigger. Hess went down on his knees, dropped the pistol and fell back.

Harry picked up the gun and stood over him, Hess’ hands pressing on the wound in his chest, trying to stop the blood that was running between his fingers.

“You put another hole in me.”

“That one’s for my daughter.”

“You think it’s over? I’ll be coming for you, Harry, but you won’t know when or where.”

“Not this time.” He aimed Hess’ gun at him, finger feeling the weight of the trigger. Hess tried to sit up and Harry pushed him back on the ground with his foot. Hess’ eyes were open, staring up at him, but he wasn’t moving. Harry crouched at his side, touched his neck and felt for a pulse.

Colette was waiting for Harry when he got to the top of the hill. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “I heard the gunshots. I didn’t know.”

“It’s over. How’s Cordell?”

“He needs a doctor.”

They walked back to the Peugeot at the side of the road, headlights still on. Harry opened the rear door. Cordell was sitting up in the backseat.

“You got him, huh, Harry?”

“I got him.”

“You sure?”

“You can go down there and see for yourself.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Not bad for being blasted with a shotgun.”

“You’re talking — that’s a good sign.”

“Got a lot more to say.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Harry paused. “There’s a restaurant down the road about a mile. I’m going to walk there, call a taxi and come back for you.”

The concierge called a doctor, who came to the suite with his black bag. Cordell told him a hunter had shot him accidentally while he was taking a walk up in the hills. “Man huntin’ birds or somethin’.”

The doctor looked at him quizzically. “What time was this?”

“Earlier this evenin’, didn’t know if I’d need medical attention.”

“By the look of your wounds I think you make the right decision.”

The doc led Cordell into the bathroom, cleaned him up, administered an anesthetic, and removed eight pellets from his right shoulder and arm, a couple requiring stitches, but he was okay.

When the doctor walked out of the suite Harry said, “I think we should leave, and the sooner the better. In the morning someone is going to see the Peugeot with the blown-out windshield and blood in the backseat and call the police. Then they’re going to find the Fiat and the murdered body of Vincent Chartier. They’ll go to the villa and talk to the housekeeper. She’ll tell them what happened last night and describe Cordell and me.” Harry paused. “I think it’s a good time to go to Detroit.”

We hope you enjoyed Back from the Dead . The Story Plant has published two other Peter Leonard novels, and we thought you might like a taste of each.

The year is 1971. The place is Detroit. Harry Levin, a scrap metal dealer and Holocaust survivor, has just learned that his daughter was killed in a car accident. Traveling to Washington, DC to claim the body, he learns that the accident was caused by a German diplomat who was driving drunk. This is only the beginning of the horror for Harry, though, as he discovers that the diplomat will never face charges — he has already been released and granted immunity. Enraged and aggrieved, Harry discovers the identity of his daughter’s killer, follows him to Munich, and hunts him down. What Harry finds out about the diplomat and his plans will explode his life and the lives of everyone around him. Brimming with action and dark humor, Voices of the Dead , firmly positions Peter Leonard as a writer every suspense fan needs to read.