Joe R Lansdale

by Act of Love (2011)

  Hanson put the automatic in his waistband, walked over to the desk. He picked up the book and opened it. It was a diary . . . No, it was a notebook. All of Joe's cases were listed inside, his daily routine. It wasn't exciting reading. Hanson put it aside, opened the desk drawers. Something was worrying him, something was skating precariously at the corners of his mind.

  The drawers contained clippings on The Hacker. Some of them were the clippings from the station, the ones Joe had kept so long in his desk drawer. There were also clippings from The Post and Chronicle, even a brief article from Texas Monthly on The Hacker.

  The gruesome bastard collects material pertaining to his crimes. That gave Hanson an idea. He would need it for evidence when he killed the sonofabitch, definite proof that Joe was The Hacker.

  Christ! Was Joe out doing his work right now?

  For a moment he shivered. Was he trying to . . . Good God! Hanson's knees trembled. Joe could come and go as he pleased. He could be at his house right now. No one would suspect his partner.

  Don't panic now. Barlowe's on his way there. He knows the score. He'll inform them. If Joe's going to try that ploy they'll nab him. One man without the element of surprise can't take five.

  *

  The Volkswagen bus had curtains on the inside and special dark plastic on the windows. Anyone inside could see out. But from the outside it was impossible to see in.

  Mitchel was leaning back against the bus's wall drinking a cup of lukewarm coffee. His partner, a tall, lanky man named Cramen was on watch.

  "Damn Mex is gonna cost us all our jobs," Mitchel said.

  "You thought it was a pretty nifty idea yourself ... at first."

  "Bullshit-"

  "Hold it."

  Mitchel lowered his voice. "What is it?"

  "A car parked at the curb in front of the house."

  Mitchel tossed off the rest of the coffee, rose up and shuffled across the bus floor on his knees. All the seats had been removed for carrying equipment, but the only equipment in it at the moment were the two cops.

  They watched as the car's door opened, a small car, a Toyota maybe. It was hard to tell in the dark and the rain.

  The person that got out of the car was wearing a hooded raincoat. The person walked like a man, lacked that special something a woman puts in her walk. The man was walking toward the bus and his hand was up and waving.

  "He knows we're here," Mitchel said.

  "Clark," Cramen said. "Got to be."

  The raincoat the man was wearing was missing a button.

  *

  Hanson forced himself to go through Clark's desk drawers methodically. He found the twenty Xeroxed pages Barlowe had told him about. More evidence. He flipped through the pages. Certain items had been circled in red ink. There were several typed pages behind that, all clasped together with a paper clip.

  Clark had been neatly gathering all the facts, making a casebook of them. He had drawn several conclusions and written them up in great detail.

  The first one made Hanson's heart skip a beat.

  Cramen opened up the sliding bus door and the man came inside with a lithe motion. Perhaps if Cramen had been watching carefully he might have seen the long blade slip down out of the raincoat sleeve and the hilt fall comfortably into The Hacker's hand. But he didn't, and he never would.

  The blade made a quick silver line in the dark.

  Before Cramen hit the bus floor—even before the terrible gash in his neck had time to bleed—The Hacker wheeled and brought the blade down hard and expertly on the unsuspecting Mitchel's head.

  Clark's typed note read:

  As much as I prefer to disbelieve it, the killer who calls himself The Hacker could, and I even find this hard to type, be none other than my friend and partner, Lieutenant Marvin Hanson.

  Lieutenant Hanson has suffered a near nervous breakdown several times of late. His condition seems to be worsening. All this seems to have been brought on by the arrival of The Hacker murders. Often these passions, dormant since childhood, expose themselves suddenly and violently, and less often, but occasionally, the murderer is not even aware of his crimes. He lives a sort of dual existence . . .

  Hanson skipped down, picked out a few sentences.

  I feel certain that if Lieutenant Hanson is involved in these crimes, he is totally unaware of his dual role.

  Down a little further he read:

  Of course this is all hunch, and for my notes only. At least until I can prove something. If there's anything to be proved. I certainly hope not. I feel like a traitor just thinking such thoughts, even if it is merely to myself.

  Hanson stood dumbfounded for a moment. My God, he thought, Joe thinks The Hacker might be me.

  *

  The Hacker wiped his blade clean of blood on Cramen's pants leg. He did this slowly and methodically, allowing his nostrils to fill with the sexually arousing scent of blood. Then he opened the door to the bus and slipped out into the wet night.

  He slid the door back into position, hoping there would be time to work on the bodies later. Of course if he could get to the women, well . . . there was nothing like women. He slid the bayonet back up his sleeve, and walked casually across the street toward the back of the house.

  *

  Hanson flipped a few pages. Joe kept this typed record as a supplement to his diary. The organization showed there was still much of the student in Clark. I never really knew him, Hanson concluded.

  He found more pages listing suspects. Former sex offenders and brutal murderers. They got less than a paragraph apiece. God! He was Joe's prime suspect. The last page was devoted to another suspect. No real evidence, just suspicions. And now, knowing what he knew, Hanson realized that this one was the right one.

  Hanson pulled the paper Milo had left his written indentations on out of his pocket. He put the address Barlowe had written for him beside it. The writing on the two pieces of paper matched up. They had been done by the same man. It had all been an elaborate plant.

  No two ways about it. The Hacker had to be . . .

  "Barlowe!"

  The two policemen had approached the raincoated figure from opposite sides, guns drawn.

  Barlowe had made no effort to conceal himself. In fact he made it easy, he had pulled back his hood.

  The burly cop who had spoken before said, "Whaterya doing here?"

  "Paper. Reporter on the ball," Barlowe said, grinning.

  The other cop, wearing a slicker like his partner, but hoodless, said, "We almost blew your fuckin' head off."

  "I heard you had a little party planned for The Hacker."

  "You just get your ass outa here . . . How'd you know about this?" the burly cop asked.

  "Like I always know," Barlowe rubbed his thumb and fingers together, "contacts."

  "Well," the hoodless cop said, "you best make contact and get outta here."

  "Okay, already," Barlowe said . . . "You guys wouldn't want to make some money?"

  The burly cop said, "You wouldn't be suggesting a bribe to a police officer, would you?"

  "Not me," Barlowe said. "Just know where you guys might get a part-time job."

  "Guy's a million laughs," the burly cop said.

  "You got a minute to beat it," the bareheaded cop said.

  The cops put their guns away, walked up close to Barlowe. Very close. "You deaf," the hoodless cop said. "Go."

  "Sure," Barlowe said.

  Barlowe let the bayonet slide down out of his sleeve and into his hand.

  "Hey," the burly cop said. "What ya got . . ."

  Barlowe clamped his free left hand over the hoodless cop's right hand and, slashing out at the other cop, struck him in the temple. The burly cop stumbled back, wobbled, fell to his knees. His hands went to his head but he was dead before they touched. He fell forward in the grass.

  The hoodless cop jerked his hand free of Barlowe's grasp, went for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  Barlowe slashed the cop's hand off at the
wrist. Kicked him in the groin, and then with a Muskateer lunge, ran the bayonet through the cop's heart.

  The cop went down spurting blood from his wrist and chest, the momentum of his backwards falling body allowing Barlowe to jerk the blade back in one smooth motion.

  Maybe, thought Barlowe, I was a little crazy to try that.

  But since nobody shot at him, he figured he was almost home free. Of course there was bound to be someone in the house.

  Barlowe crept quietly around the house 'til he found the fuse box. He opened it and went to work.

  *

  Inside, Martinez didn't realize he no longer had electricity.

  He was worried sick about Hanson . . . Worried more about his ass. Something like this could lose him his job.

  In less than twenty minutes he would lose his life.

  Martinez answered the knock at the front door with his service revolver drawn. He left the night-chain in place, peeked out at the drenched form of Barlowe.

  He thought, why in hell isn't that fool wearing his hood? He said, "Aren't you that reporter?"

  "Yep."

  "How'd you get wind of this—"

  "Come on, your buddies said you'd let me in."

  "They did, did they?"

  "That's right."

  "This is one hell of a stake-out."

  "For goodness sake, let me get in out of this rain. Who the hell you think I am, The Hacker?"

  Martinez hesitated. He'd made one fuck up tonight. That was bad enough. Two wasn't going to help any.

  "I think you should take a hike, and tell Mitchel . . . Was it Mitchel?"

  "Yeah, Mitchel."

  "... Well tell him to suck an egg."

  "Come on, man. Hanson sent me."

  "Hanson."

  "Yeah. I told Mitchel. He said you'd let me in."

  "Where is Hanson?"

  "Collaring The Hacker, that's where."

  "Well I'll be damned. That lying sonofa ..."

  Martinez slipped off the night-chain. When Barlowe lunged he still had his gun in his hand, but the blade came so quick he never thought to use it.

  With trembling fingers Hanson dialed his home number.

  *

  The phone began to ring the minute Martinez hit the floor.

  Barlowe listened.

  One ring.

  Two rings.

  Three rings.

  Four rings.

  He heard a car drive up in the driveway.

  That's five rings, thought Hanson, Martinez will answer now.

  He didn't.

  The phone rang again.

  *

  Rachel counted the rings. Six. Why in the hell didn't Marvin answer the phone?

  The phone rang a seventh time.

  Joe Clark got out of his car and slipped on his raincoat. The rain was coming down hard and fast now. The trees and shrubs whipped to the tune of frequent thunder and flashing lightning.

  Clark started across the street for the bus at a run.

  *

  The Hacker, out in the night, his hood pulled up now, became the hunter once again.

  *

  On the ninth ring Rachel couldn't stand it anymore. She answered.

  "Rachel!" Hanson said. "Where's Martinez?"

  "Marve . . . What ... I thought you were downstairs."

  "No time to explain. Please listen. Now try to stay as calm as you can. Barlowe is the man."

  "The man—The Hacker?"

  "Yes."

  "I don't understand."

  "I'm afraid he may be in the house with you.

  Rachel made a little strangled sound of fear.

  *

  "Lock the door," Hanson said, "and I'm on my way. I'll call the station, get the law moving."

  :Hurry, Marve.:

  “I’m gone, honey.”

  Hanson slammed down the phone, darted out of Joe’s apartment, went down through the stairs, taking them two at a time.

  Clark found the bodies in the bus. He stared at them for a long, hard moment. "Gorilla," he said aloud. "My God." He drew his revolver and turned. Barlowe, quiet as the falling of the dew, was on him.

  *

  Clark never knew what hit him.

  Rachel locked the bedroom door, pulled a chair over and against it; propped it so that the back was lodged firmly beneath the doorknob.

  Next she tried to wake JoAnna.

  No dice. The sedatives were too strong.

  She quit tugging at JoAnna's unconscious form and went to the closet. She opened the door, moved items from the closet floor, stuck them in the shelf above. She went back to JoAnna, and by placing her hands beneath JoAnna's armpits, dragged the girl from the bed and onto the floor. JoAnna's heels clunked loudly.

  Rachel held her breath for a moment. She didn't hear any movement.

  She dragged JoAnna to the closet and managed her inside. Placed her so that her knees were drawn up and JoAnna was leaning her side against the closet wall.

  Very gently, she kissed her baby on the cheek, then stood and closed the closet door.

  *

  Hanson got the speedometer up to one- twenty, nearly lost it several times. The rain blasted his windshield. The tires refused to grab properly. He dropped it down to eighty regretfully, reached over and clutched his radio mike to call in the police; comrades in arms.

  The speaker wire was cut.

  *

  Rachel went back to where she had left her hammer, next to the phone. She wasn't going to do anything foolish, like hide under the bed or in the half-bath. She was going to give the sonofabitch hell. He hadn't seen resistance 'til he saw a mother bear fight to protect her cub.

  The hammer felt good in her hand.

  Real good.

  *

  The sonofabitch cut the wire when he was pretending to drop his cigarettes, Hanson concluded. The wiley, motherfucking sonofa- bitch. He could stop and call the law. That might be what he should do. But the car's momentum, the rushing of the little white and yellow highway snakes beneath his automobile, gave him a feeling of progress. He felt that if he slowed down no one would be there on time. Not the police. Not him.

  Tricky bastard, thought Hanson. He must have thought Milo was getting wise, killed him and his family off and took advantage of the situation to lure me out of the house. Or maybe he just used Milo because he was handy and he could paint a good picture around his family's death.

  "Fool, fool," Hanson said aloud and pounded his fist on the dash 'til it hurt and he nearly lost control of the rocketing automobile.

  He was on a straightaway now. The Houston Ship Channel Bridge was coming up.

  No place to stop and phone 'til he was on the other side of the bridge and several miles down the road. By then he'd be less than twenty-five miles away.

  The highway was wide. Visibility with the bridge and highway lights was good, so . . .

  Hanson put the pedal to the floor. Passed the only vehicle on the road; a slow moving cattle truck whisking its sour cattle-pie odor to the night wind.

  By the time he crossed the bridge and took the Pasadena exit he was doing a hundred miles an hour. The exit sign said thirty-five miles per hour.

  *

  Barlowe put Clark's body in the bus with the other two and went back to the house.

  Inside he began to call, "Oh niggers, come

  out, come out wherever you are."

  Rachel stiffened. Her throat felt dry. Her hand cramped on the hammer handle. "Come and get it you sonofabitch," she said beneath her breath, and she moved toward the door.

  *

  On the straightaway Hanson reached one hundred-twenty miles per hour. The car was rocking side to side, making a sound like bowling balls knocking together.

  "Tire don't blow now," Hanson said between gritted teeth. "Stay with me baby."

  The railing posts just looked like dots.

  *

  Rachel heard footsteps on the stairs.

  Thump, thump, thump, climbing very slowly. />
  It was all she could do not to jerk the chair out of the way and pull the door open, go down after that sonofabitch.

  She reached out and took hold of the chair.

  No. Don't be a goddamned fool. That's just what he wants.

  She could hear the footsteps better now. He was nearing the top of the stairs.

  After a moment the steps stopped.

  He was on the landing.

  *

  Where are all the cops when you need them, thought Hanson wryly. The same complaint had been handed to him many times, and it always made him mad. Now he wanted to know the answer.

  Here he was doing one-twenty on a rain- slicked highway and not a traffic cop in sight.

  He began rocking forward, pushing at the wheel, as if by sheer physical effort he could manage more speed.

  *

  The voice was very close.

  "Oh niggers, come out, come out wherever your black, shiny asses are."

  Rachel listened with her ear to the door. The voice went down the hall repeating the chant. He was checking the rooms one by one. And this one was the last one.

  *

  He was eating up the miles now.

  Ten.

  Nine.

  Eight.

  Barlowe was at her door now.

  "Oh niggers, I know you're in there."