Joe R Lansdale

by Act of Love (2011)

"No. Just a promise," Hanson said solemnly.

  "Here we go again."

  Hanson darted Clark with his eyes. "Yeah, here we go again."

  Clark sighed. "Taking this awful damn personal, aren't you?"

  "It's always personal with me, Joe. You know that. Usually you too, man. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. Nothing . . . It's just . . . Well, I hate to see you so worked up over this guy. This is more than personal . . . It's an obsession. I'm sort of afraid you'll do something foolish. I don't want to lose you off the force."

  "Oh come on."

  "Dead serious. You're really wrapped up in this one." Clark smiled thinly. "I mean, hell, man. Now that I'm broke in I'd rather keep working with you. After your training ain't nobody else going to have me anyway."

  Hanson was touched. He smiled. "You've got a point there."

  "Damn right."

  No longer smiling. "But I'm going to get him, Joe. Ain't no way that bastard's going to get away. No way."

  "All right. I'll go with that. But let the system handle him. Don't do something foolish."

  "You like the way tne system handles things, Joe?"

  "No. But you can't ..."

  "No buts! That insane bastard is going to be dead if I catch him."

  "Lower your voice," Clark said nervously.

  "And you know what, Joe?" Hanson said in a lower tone.

  "What?"

  "Another hunch. I think the bastard just might be a cop."

  "You're kiddin'."

  "Do I look like I'm kiddin'?"

  Clark shook his head.

  "It's bad enough that the whole goddamned police force stinks with corruption, but if this guy is a cop, then what? How's that going to look? If he's a cop I want him worse than ever."

  "What makes you think a cop?"

  "The notes. Right under our cop noses. Remember?"

  "Yeah, I remember."

  "He's taunting us, telling us consciously or unconsciously."

  "Maybe he means it figuratively."

  "Maybe. And maybe that's the way he knows what goes on here, how he knows to cover up evidence."

  "But why would some guy just suddenly flip out?"

  "It happens. Remember Charles Whitman and the U.T. tower?"

  Clark nodded. "Okay ... I can buy that."

  "Then can you buy me tellin' you he's a dead sucker?"

  "Gorilla, I've worked with you awhile now. This don't sound like you. The tactics you're talking about are not dissimilar to those we're supposed to be against. Like I said before, getting rough now and then, or running a bluff is one thing, but you're talking about coldblooded murder."

  "In this guy's case I can make an exception."

  "There should be no exceptions."

  "None for cruelty. None for abusing justice. None for personal gain. But for eliminating a cancer from society . . . isn't that what we're here for?"

  "Very self-righteous, but it just doesn't wash."

  "Doesn't it . . . We are here for justice, correct?"

  "Yes, but we're not the judge and the jury."

  Hanson shook his head. "That's the way it is, Joe. I'm going to do the world a favor. I promise."

  Clark grew silent. He believed Hanson wasn't just blowing. He meant exactly what he said. And that worried him.

  WEDNESDAY . . . 7:15 p.m.

  Rachel's dinner was fine, but Hanson's palate was dead. It all tasted the same to him, bland. He stirred the food on his plate with his fork and said not a word.

  Rachel and Jo Ann a gave each other a look.

  JoAnna said, "Daddy, what's the matter?"

  Hanson tried to smile. "Not feeling well."

  "Again," Rachel said softly.

  "Yeah. Again," Hanson said.

  "You ought to see a doctor, daddy."

  "This is something he can't help with, I'm afraid." Hanson stood up from the table. "Excuse me girls, but I sort of need to be alone." He said the last sentence timidly, as though he were afraid of insulting them.”

  "It's all right," Rachel said. "I understand." "Just take a short drive," he said. "Maybe stop off at a magazine rack and look around . . . something . . . just need to clear the head."

  "We understand, honey," Rachel said. Hanson started for the door. "Daddy," JoAnna said, "I hope you feel better."

  "Me too, baby," Hanson said, "me too."

  WEDNESDAY ... 8:15 p.m.

  The room was a head, the window was a murky eye.

  He stood before the window that looked down into the filthy street. It seemed there was always garbage, no matter how often the garbage men came. Somehow, he found that pleasing.

  He opened the window. Up with the lid of the eye.

  The city drifted in. It was as if he could smell the women. Out there, waiting for him, not with anticipation, but with fear. Pleasing, that thought, very pleasing.

  He placed his hands on the window sill and looked at them. Strong, hard hands; hands sometimes dipped in red. It vaguely reminded him of a quotation.

  Who said it? How did it go?"

  Oh yes . . . Was Aristotle . . . and the quote was, God . . . No. Not God. It was, "Nature has made the hand of man the principal organ and instrument of man's body."

  He held up his hands and clenched them in front of his face.

  True enough, true enough.

  WEDNESDAY . . . 9:45 p.m.

  The drive had done him little, if any, good.

  Hanson came in quietly, closed the door softly.

  "It's all right," Rachel said from the stairs. "I'm still awake."

  Hanson looked at her shadowed form sitting at the top of the steps. "Waiting on me?"

  "I don't mind." Rachel stood up and came down the staircase.

  "JoAnna asleep?"

  "Finishing up her homework. She made a C in English last time, you know?"

  "Yeah, I know," Hanson said dryly. "She could make whatever grades she wanted to."

  Rachel came to his arms, they embraced and kissed. When they came apart Rachel said, "What's bothering you, baby? What's wrong?"

  "The Hacker. It's eating me up inside ... I even said some cra2y things to Joe today , . . That wasn't the first time."

  "You need to get off this case, Marve."

  "I can't. I can't do that. No matter what, I can't. I think what I need is to get out of this goddamned job, that's what I think."

  "Then you should. You used to enjoy being a cop. It's eating you alive now."

  "I got Jo Anna's college to worry about."

  "There are other jobs. Just a minute." She moved away from him, went upstairs and returned after less than a minute. There was an envelope in her hand. "This came from Zulean today. They're hiring policemen in Tyler. With your experience you could get a job easy."

  Hanson sat down on the floor with his back against the door. Rachel sat down beside him. He put his arm around her.

  "That's very tempting," Hanson said.

  "Then be tempted."

  "After this case, I just might."

  "Forget it, Marve."

  "I can't," he suddenly snapped.

  Rachel's features fell.

  "I'm sorry," Hanson said. "I didn't mean to yell at you."

  "It's all right," she said weakly, and she stood up.

  "I am sorry, truly."

  "I believe you, Marve. I'm just going to bed. I can't talk any sense into you, so I'm going to bed. Got to go to work tomorrow, remember. You should go to bed, too."

  "I'll be up in a little bit."

  "Goodnight, Marve."

  "Goodnight."

  Feeling like a heel, Hanson watched her go. He knew she was hurt even if she wasn't saying so. Nothing beyond repair, nothing a night's sleep wouldn't cure, but his outburst had been stupid. She was only trying to help, only concerned.

  All of this has got to stop, got to find that sonofabitch, got to put an end to his insanity . . . But how do you catch a creature like that? A beast-man of night and deceit.

  An idea occur
red to him. Warren was interested in necrophilia. Said that himself. Maybe . . .

  Hanson got up and went to the telephone. He looked at his watch. It was after ten, a little late for an old man who worked all hours, but . . . Hell, he'd try it. He had to. He looked up Warren's number and dialed.

  Warren answered on the third ring.

  "Did I wake you?" Hanson said.

  "No. Who is this?"

  "Lieutenant Hanson."

  "Oh, Lieutenant. How are you?"

  "Fine . . . listen, could you do me a favor?"

  "Well, I can try. What's the favor?"

  "I need to see you. I want to talk to you about this Hacker guy."

  "Me?"

  "You said it was your hobby."

  "Sure . . . but the psychiatrist ..."

  "Hasn't been worth a hill of beans," Hanson filled in quickly.

  "You know I'd be glad to help, Hanson, but I couldn't know anything the psychiatrist doesn't know. I'm a medical examin—"

  "You might know something I need. The shrinks are too tied up with their own theories. I just want some straight goods on necrophilia, the nature of it, not some formal doctor's scribbling. I need something that can help me learn how the bastard thinks."

  "Very well . . . but tomorrow night after work. Is that all right with you. I mean I could talk to you tomorrow at work, but this might take some time and I've got to saw a lot of brains up tomorrow, run some specimens ..."

  "Not tonight?"

  "Oh. Well I don't know . . . Tell you what. I'm going to be up, oh say another hour . . ."

  "Fine, I'll come over."

  "Wait a minute. Let me finish. I'm going to be up another hour, and in that hour I'll go through some of my books and files, and tomorrow night I'll be ready for you."

  Hanson was suddenly assaulted by his impoliteness. "Sure, Doc. I'm sorry. I seem to be running on dinghy fuel here lately."

  "Quite all right . . . Now I'll talk to you tomorrow at work, but we might have to compress it all into ..."

  "No. That's fine. Tomorrow night, around eight?"

  "Make it seven."

  "Good, seven then."

  THURSDAY . . . 9:05 a.m.

  "Captain wants to see you."

  "All right," Hanson said into the phone. "Thanks."

  He hung up and rose from his chair. Clark was snipping out Barlowe's column again this morning, and this time it was blasting the police. He had The Post and The Chronicle by his chair and he had already stated that even the conservative papers were starting to sound like lurid tabloids where The Hacker was concerned. Hanson didn't quite agree with that, but it was true that the killer, and The Bugle, were setting an odd and discomforting tone.

  "I'll be back. Think the Captain wants to gnaw my ear for something."

  "Uh oh," Clark said.

  "Uh oh is right."

  Hanson went to the Captain's office.

  "Take a chair," Captain Fredricks said. Fredricks was a lean, fiftyish man with a perpetual five o'clock shadow. His jaw looked as if it were made of granite, his nose was a beak. He looked a lot like Dick Tracy with light brown hair.

  Hanson sat down uncomfortably in one of the smooth black leather chairs that graced the carpet in front of Fredricks' desk.

  Fredricks stood up from his chair, clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the window overlooking the parking lot. Hanson noticed that his dark blue shirt and darker blue slacks looked as if they had just come off the rack. Which they hadn't. Hanson had seen him in that outfit at least a hundred times. Fredricks was always immaculate. His shoes even looked brand new and spit polished. Some people are like that, thought Hanson. His own body seemed to excrete some sort of acid that ate and wrinkled the clothes he wore in less than twenty-four hours. No matter what he wore and how much time he took to get ready, he always had a slept-in look.

  Fredricks turned away from the window, kept his arms behind him, rested his hands on the window sill. The overhead light hit his broad maroon and blue striped tie. It appeared to shimmer.

  "How long have you been on this police force, Hanson?"

  Uh oh, thought Hanson, here it comes. "About twenty years, sir."

  "That's a long time."

  "Yes, sir . . . Sir?"

  Fredricks said, "Yes?"

  "You've got something to say, sir, say it. No offense. But that's a line for rookies."

  Fredricks smiled. His teeth all looked capped. What made Hanson mad was the fact that he knew they weren't capped. "Sometimes a veteran acts like a rookie."

  "I'm wounded to the core," Hanson said dryly.

  Fredricks didn't lose his smile. "Very well. You know what this is about?"

  "The incident in Evans' office at The Bugle."

  "Well. It's good to know your actions there aren't so commonplace that you're having a hard time remembering what you're on the carpet for."

  "No sir. No problem remembering. I did shoot a couple of pedestrians this morning, but since they weren't in the crosswalk ..."

  "That'll be enough Lieutenant. I'm convinced you're a wit." Hanson was surprised to note that there still wasn't any anger in Fredricks' voice.

  "Evans call this in?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Barlowe?"

  "I said, it doesn't matter. Now I'm trying to be lenient with this, so shut up. Got me?"

  "Yes sir."

  "A man of your age and skill should know better than to perform such an outburst."

  "Captain

  "I'm not finished. It's bad for the force. It's bad for me, and worse yet, and of more immediate concern to you, it's bad for one Lieutenant Marvin Hanson. Is any of this soaking into your thick skull?"

  "Yes sir, but—"

  "And when things get bad for me on account of you . . . Well now, guess what? I get rid of you." Fredricks walked over to his desk and sat down. "No roughing up the innocent bystanders, Lieutenant. Remember. We aren't even supposed to be mean to the bad guys anymore. We are to be so squeaky clean and nice it'll make your stomach turn over. You got that, Lieutenant?"

  "I do."

  "That's good. That's real good. You can go now."

  Hanson got up and started for the door.

  "One thing, Lieutenant."

  Hanson stopped with his hand resting on the doorknob. "I understand you're taking this awful personal. That's bad. Real bad. Another outburst of any kind and you're off the case. Another incident like the one at The Bugle and you're off the force. I hope my meaning is clear."

  "Crystal clear," Hanson said.

  "That's good."

  Hanson half opened the door.

  "And Lieutenant ..."

  "Yes sir."

  "Unofficially, I wish you'd slammed Bar- lowe one in the mouth and let him digest his teeth."

  Hanson smiled.

  "You're a good cop," Fredricks said. "Now get out of here."

  THURSDAY . . . 6:30 p.m.

  Hating the light, he drove slowly wishing night would fall with the suddenness of thought. The night was his security. His blanket of warmth and power. As time went on, the day became more and more of a nuisance. He often wished that during those hours he could do as the movie vampires do, and crawl into a nice, damp, dirt-and death- smelling coffin to sleep. Sleep until night wove its fine dark patterns. And then from that coffin he could rise and hunt.

  Cops everywhere, or not, he could wait no longer. This coming night he felt he must find a woman to love with his blade. Find her now, follow her into the darkness and deliver her the well-deserved doom that was the only cure for feminine evil.

  But first, before tagging tonight's lamb, he had things to do.

  THURSDAY ... 7 p.m.

  Milo jerked his head at the sound of the opening door. Joe Clark stood framed in the doorway.

  "Frightened me, Joe."

  Clark flipped on the lights. "That little desk lamp isn't much to work by. Didn't know they kept it on the Xerox machine these days."

  "Yeah . . . Well,
I was Xeroxing a little something."

  "I see that. Can I have a look?"

  "Well . . . Yeah, I guess so."

  Clark walked over to the Xerox machine and stood next to Milo. He lifted up the light shield cover, picked up the piece of paper there and turned it over.

  "Interesting," Clark said. "An update on our progress with The Hacker."

  "A duplicate for the files," Milo said. "Think maybe you should cut that light ... I mean I don't need all that light for what I'm doing. Conservation and all."

  Clark looked at Milo with an expression that said, "Don't make me laugh."

  "You're sweating, Milo. Doesn't seem that hot in here to me. Why don't you take off your jacket?"

  "That's a good idea." Milo pulled off his sports coat and draped it over the edge of the machine. He watched as Clark took the paper over to the file cabinet.

  "Drawer's still unlocked," Clark said. He opened it and thumbed through the folders. His long fingers came to rest on one. He pulled it out and flipped it open. "Well, I'll be damned."

  "What's that?" Milo asked a bit too urgently. His eyes darted first to Joe then to the door.

  "You're not going to believe this, Milo."

  "Believe what?"

  "Why there's a copy already in here, just like there's supposed to be."

  "That right?"

  "Uh huh. One for evidence and one for the morgue file here. Unless special authorization is cleared, that's the exact number that there's supposed to be. Funny how these things get by you, huh, Milo?"

  "Funny."

  "You want to see? Come take a look."

  "No. I'll take your word for it."

  "You must be overworking, Milo. Forget a little thing like that." Clark looked at his watch. "Why, Milo. It's way past hours for you."

  "Yeah, I guess so. Got sorta wrapped up."

  Clark nodded pleasantly. "Well, I'll just slip this back into the file here." Clark did that as he spoke, closed the cabinet drawer, "and you won't have to worry about that sucker. Right?"

  "Right. I guess I forgot."

  "I guess so. But a copy each, plus a carbon is all you need. And since that was the carbon on the machine. Well, no need to go into that. You're all through for the night. Let's go, Milo."