Joe R Lansdale Read online

  "There's a precinct station near here," JoAnna said. "Go there. It's not far off. It's on—"

  "I know where it is. Hang on, baby, whoever this is, whatever he wants, the bastard's going to have to earn it."

  The speedometer was at eighty. The van clamped to their tail as if it were being pulled by the big, sleek car.

  "Ever seen someone take a right turn at eighty?"

  "Tommy, no, that's crazy."

  The Grand Prix seemed to reach around the turn. Tires screamed. Sparks flew out from beneath the car as the axle bounced down and scraped pavement. The car began to skid. The tail end mounted a curb, went up and over, dug down in the soft dirt of a front lawn and hung.

  The van didn't attempt to make the crazy turn. It passed by the street, started slowing down for a stop. It took some distance before the van was slow enough to stop, pull in a driveway, and turn around.

  Tommy floorboarded the car. It yawned and heaved but remained hung.

  The van was picking up speed, making its way toward them.

  The front door to the house opened.

  JoAnna, looking over her shoulder, saw porchlights come on. "Tommy, someone's up."

  Tommy popped his seatbelt off, jerked the door open, stepped out. "Call the police."

  It was a man standing in the doorway wearing candy cane pajamas. He had a shotgun in his hand.

  "You crazy kids, I'm gonna call the cops."

  Tommy was literally hopping up and down. "Great, great, call them."

  The van turned at the corner.

  "Call them," Tommy yelled again and he was back inside the Grand Prix in one smooth motion.

  "Tommy," JoAnna whined, "it's the van."

  Tommy fastened his seatbelt, slipped the Grand Prix in reverse, gassed it. The Grand Prix rocked. Thick, grey smoke plumed up from the tires and mixed with the night.

  The van door opened.

  The man in pajamas was yelling something.

  All Tommy and JoAnna could hear was the whine of the engine and the digging of the tires.

  JoAnna looked at the van. A dark shape, a man, was stepping from it. She couldn't make out his features. He was wearing some kind of long coat, and now as he came from the van, he flipped a hood up and over his head. Was he wearing a raincoat?

  The car backed out of the ruts slowly, digging a longer trench as it went.

  The man in the pajamas discharged his shotgun in the air.

  The man from the van jerked his head at the house, saw the man standing there. He had been so wrapped up in his quarry, he had noticed neither lights nor the man.

  Tommy jerked the Grand Prix in drive and eased down on the gas, then floor boarded it again. The car jumped out of the self-made ruts, bounced over the curb and was off.

  The man in the raincoat leaped back in the van. JoAnna, looking out the back window, thought she saw something in his hand. Something long and shiny.

  In less than thirty seconds the van was hot on their tires again.

  Tommy tried to keep his speed moderate. The van bumped them twice, once nearly forcing them off the road. It was pulling around them on the left.

  "Let him pass, Tommy, let him pass."

  "Pass, hell I He wants our ass. Another coat of paint and we'll be wearing that van."

  The van was pulling up neck and neck now. The driver of the van, the hood pulled up over his head, looked like some kind of monk.

  "Why, why, why?" JoAnna said.

  "Who am I, Hurkos?" Tommy growled. "Sorry, babe."

  The street was opening out into the highway now. Lights were abundant.

  "Tommy, this hill is too damn steep."

  "Shut up and pray nothing is coming."

  The road suddenly started down. Tommy made no effort to check his speed. He held the pedal to the floor. The great black car leaped out into space and dove down the other side, seemed to fall a great distance before the tires touched pavement again. The force of impact nearly jerked Tommy out of his seatbelt, but he stayed with the wheel, trying to remember and respond to the old adage of turning in the direction of the skid.

  Out into the busy highway the car went, whipping its tail to the left, very fast. It looked like an elongated, black top with yellow eyes whirling aroundandaroundand- around.

  A tire blew. The naked wheel, flapping slabs of black rubber around it like hooked fish, tore up concrete and popped up sparks to the height of ten feet.

  Half a dozen cars barely avoided hitting the Grand Prix before it rolled twice, then came to rest on the opposite side of the highway lying on its right side.

  The van, which had checked its speed before the hill, cruised down slowly, turned right and headed off unnoticed.

  SATURDAY . . . 11:15 p.m.

  Frustrated, disappointed, he ditched the van near his car, shed his raincoat and concealed the bayonet within its folds. His hands were shaking. He had been cheated of his prize. He had given them fear, but he had not satiated his urge. That came only with the work of his blade, with the spilling of dark red blood.

  He walked the short distance to his car, his footsteps thudding in his ears like frightened heartbeats.

  *

  Over and over Rachel told herself to be calm.

  Her fingers weren't listening. They kept twitching and crawling together with their companions, wringing, clenching. She sat next to the phone, leaning in her chair as though

  ready to leap.

  She had called all the theaters, even the Houston ones. Paging had accomplished nothing. She had even tried the drive-ins. Same lack of results. Next she had called the police station and explained that her husband was a police officer and that they were trying to find their daughter. And then she had done what Marvin had asked her not to do.

  She had looked in the box.

  After a trip to the bathroom to discharge the contents of her stomach, she had returned to the box, and this time with her emotions in control, she read the note.

  The Hacker. The Houston Fiend was after her baby.

  God, Marve . . . call, come home with the kids, something. Anything.

  She thought of Joe Clark. He was a cop, Marve's best friend. Maybe he could do something. What, she didn't know, but she was ready to clutch at straws.

  Quickly now, dial and state the problem, then get off, don't tie up the line. She suddenly realized that she was calling Joe for comfort. She needed to reach out and know someone was on the other end.

  She dialed his number.

  The phone rang several times.

  No one answered.

  At 11:44 Hanson came in the door. Rachel almost ran to meet him. There was no one with him. She asked the question. Hanson looked at her for a long, silent moment, then said:

  "Nothing. Not a goddamned thing!"

  "Oh ChristI" Rachel said, and she began to cry.

  His eyes wet with tears, Hanson went to her and held her.

  "You did what I asked?" he said.

  "Yes," Rachel said tearfully. "Nothing. The police are searching."

  "Good," he patted her back and pulled her hair close to his face, smelled her gentle fragrance. "They'll find them."

  She lifted her head and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Alive? I read the note."

  Hanson couldn't say anything.

  "The Hacker, Marve. The Hacker is after us because of you."

  Swallowing, he said. "I know. I'm going to call the Pasadena station, tell them about the note."

  Rachel allowed Hanson to move away from her, and when he was nearly to the den she said, "I have already. When I read the note I called them back."

  "You saw . . . what was in the box?"

  She nodded.

  "I'm sorry," Hanson said.

  "If anything happens to JoAnna, don't use that word. Don't use any words. They won't help." Rachel turned and walked to the kitchen.

  Hanson watched her go. He suddenly realized that in his haste to find JoAnna he had left Rachel alone. She would have been at the mercy of the mad
man. He was losing his head. Time after time.

  "God," he said aloud, and he began to tremble.

  *

  There were so many lights it looked like Christmas. Red, blue, yellow and white splashed abstract designs against the canvas of night.

  The street was filled with automobiles: halted traffic—many of the occupants outside their machines staring gooseneck over the tops of cars and the heads of people—police cars, ambulances, a wrecker, and two lime green fire trucks. Shortly thereafter came Barlowe of The Bugle.

  Barlowe abandoned his car, and using shoulders and press card, made his way through the throng of on-lookers and up to the boundary that authorities had made with their vehicles and personnel.

  The Grand Prix was lying on its side. It looked like some kind of giant bug about to flip over on its back, but trying desperately not to. A firetruck had pulled up on the roof side and pushed its butt against it to keep it from rocking on over and smashing down on its top. A wrecker supported the other side. Two firemen swarmed up the wrecker wench and came down on the car's side, peered through the glass. Inside they could see two unconscious forms, the closest, a teenage boy, dangled downwards, held in place by his seatbelt. The other, a girl, lay with her head against the smashed passenger window. There was blood mixed with the shattered glass.

  One of the fireman tried the door. No go. When the car had rolled the door had been crushed. It would have to be cut open, or with a little luck they could lower The Grand Prix down and go in from the girl's side.

  They set about attaching the wrecker's grappling device to the underside of the car, next to the driver's door. When the hook was fastened securely, the firefighters climbed down.

  Barlowe yelled to one of the bunkersuited firemen who had climbed down from the Grand Prix.

  "Bad?"

  The firemen looked at him. Barlowe waved his press card, inched around two policeman without resistance. The police were accustomed to the press, and especially Barlowe. He was a familiar figure to them—.

  Barlowe made his way over to the man, repeated, "Bad?"

  "Could be," the man answered. "Couple of kids in there. Neither are moving. Man, you press guys get here quick."

  Barlowe smiled. "Police radio in my car helps. I was out this way already."

  The firefighter nodded. "Well, excuse me, I think they're just about ready for me." With that he strode away from Barlowe toward the Grand Prix and the wrecker.

  The wrecker driver, watching and working carefully, was pulling away from the Grand Prix, tugging it forward, keeping the winch taut. When the once sleek automobile was hanging by support of the wrecker alone, its right side tires just touching the pavement, the winch began to slowly unwind. Carefully, the driver settled the car into an upright position.

  That done, the two firemen that had climbed on the car and looked inside, ran out to try the passenger door.

  No dice. The roll had frozen it as well.

  The burly firefighter who had spoken to Barlowe turned and yelled something to a crowd of men. A moment later one ran forward holding an instrument that at first glance looked like some kind of chainsaw. Barlowe recognized it immediately. It was a gas driven tool, nicknamed The Jaws of Life, and in less than three minutes it could pull the door off the Grand Prix as easily as a knife sliding through peanut butter.

  As the fireman began working on the boy's side the air was suddenly full of the machine's engine whine; and shortly thereafter, the screech of its "jaws" chewing metal.

  Less than three minutes later the fireman moved back and killed the machine. The door was off.

  A paramedic ran forward and leaned into the car, checked the boy's pulse. He took a stethoscope from around his neck, slipped the ends in his ears, put it to the boy's throat, then moved it to his chest. After a moment he straightened himself up and moved from the car.

  "Unfasten the seatbelt and take him out," the paramedic said. "This kid's dead."

  Two large firemen responded, and then, as the boy was removed and laid out beside the car, the paramedic crawled across the seat to the girl.

  One of the firemen said, "Boy's neck is broken, I think."

  "Looks that way," the other one said.

  From inside the car the paramedic yelled, "This one's alive."

  SUNDAY . . . 12:05 a.m

  The phone rang. Hanson picked it up promptly. His voice was a dry croak. "Hello."

  "Is this the Hanson residence?"

  "It is."

  Rachel, who had been sitting in the kitchen draped over a cup of cold coffee, came into the room the moment the phone rang.

  "Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Fierd at the Pasadena Police Department."

  "Yes," Hanson said weakly.

  "There's been an accident, I'm afraid."

  "God. JoAnna?"

  "Yes, but she's fine. Nothing more than a good bump. I'm afraid the boy is dead. Car turned over."

  "But JoAnna is all right?"

  Rachel was saying over and over, "What is it, Marve? What is it?"

  "She's all right," Fierd said. "She's in Bayshore."

  "Thank you, Sergeant. We're on our way now."

  SUNDAY ... 1:30 a.m.

  The hospital clock said 1:30. Hanson paced the sterile aisles like a test rat in search of the cheese. Rachel sat quietly in one of the hall chairs clenching her hands. She was clenching so tightly the circulation in them was nearly dead.

  Rachel watched Hanson. He had aged ten years overnight it seemed, and her earlier comment certainly hadn't helped him any. She licked her dry lips, said, "Marve."

  He stopped pacing. "Yes?"

  "What I said earlier. I'm sorry. I was upset. I didn't mean it."

  He smiled. "That's all right. It was well deserved. I have been acting foolish."

  "I said he was after us because of you. You're just doing your job. I'm sorry."

  "Forget it."

  "Marve?"

  "Yes?"

  "I truly am sorry."

  Hanson went over and sat in the chair beside her, held her cold hands in one of his. "It's going to be all right. You'll see."

  "You think it was The Hacker that caused the wreck?"

  Hanson shook his head. "I don't know. Just know what Fierd told me and what the doctor said."

  "She did say a man was chasing them. A man in a blue van with a raincoat."

  "That's what the doctor said. But she was hysterical when she came to. A bump on the head . . ."

  "You don't believe that. It was The Hacker."

  "Yeah," Hanson said. "I believe it was."

  They both turned to the sudden squeaking of soft shoes. Their family doctor, a short, plump man in his fifties, was coming down the corridor. His face always looked flushed and his nose was the brightest part of it.

  Hanson stood up, said almost before the doctor was in hearing distance. "How is she?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Hanson," he said as way of greeting, ignoring Hanson's question.

  "Doctor Bran," Hanson said, "how is she?"

  "Fine, fine, fine. Healthy girl. Strong. She's in a bit of shock, of course."

  "Does she know about, Tommy?" Rachel said.

  "No, no. Of course not. Wouldn't want to mention that just now. Told her the boy was in intensive care. She's asked about him several times."

  "Shouldn't we just tell her?" Hanson said.

  "No. Don't think so. Bad time for that. Shock, you know. Crazy stuff." Bran said, pulling his earlobe.

  "JoAnna will be all right?" Rachel asked.

  "Fit as a fiddle. Fine. Fine." The doctor paused, looked about as if watching for spys. "Tell you what, and let's not make no big announcement out of this, but I want you to take that gal home."

  "Home?" Hanson said. "But you said she was in shock ..."

  "Oh shut up," Bran said pleasantly. "I'm the goddamned doctor around here. Want to see my license?"

  Hanson smiled. "No. I seem to remember you delivering Jo Anna."

  "And they say elephants have
a memory? Now you folks listen to me and stay shushed up 'til I get finished. I'm anxious to get my old tired butt home. I'd like to eat, too. I'm so damn hungry I can see corn bread walkin' on the ground. Now, JoAnna is in a state of shock. Common, of couse, very common in an incident like this. Hospital would love for you to keep her here for observation, lots more money in that. I want to save you folks some money and I want to do JoAnna some good.

  "Tonight that nut in the van, whoever he was, put the fear of the Lord into her. She needs to be home. She'll feel more comfortable there. She ain't sleeping worth an owl hoot right now anyway. Too nervous, shock, different surroundings. Do her a whale of good to spend the night in her own bed. That all right with you folks?"

  "Fine with me," Rachel said quickly.

  "You sure it's all right? I mean, it won't do her any harm?"

  "Think I'd make much of a living killing off my patients, son?"

  "No sir."

  "Then shut up and let's check that kid of yours out. Someone in a bad way might need that bed."

  "Lieutenant," a voice called from the end of the hall. The trio turned. A handsome man in his fifties had just stepped out of the elevator, walking briskly their way. He wore a three hundred dollar suit, dark brown with a matching tie against a dark green shirt. His highly polished brown shoes caught the light and threw it away as he walked. It was Captain Fredricks.

  "Captain," Hanson said.

  Fredricks held out his hand, shook with Hanson, Bran and finally Rachel. To her he said, "Been awhile since I've seen you."

  "Yes, it has."

  Fredricks took on a sour expression. "Sorry about the circumstances."

  "She's quite all right," Rachel said.

  "That's good," Fredricks answered, "that's very good." After a moment of awkward silence Fredricks said, "If I can be forgiven for this, is it possible that the Lieutenant and I could be alone for a moment, to talk something over. I'm afraid it's private."

  "Why don't you," Doctor Bran said. "Me and your missus will get the check-out business over with. All kinds of doodly-do before you can get someone out of one of these institutions." Bran took Rachel's arm. "Come on, Mrs. Hanson, and try to look like my date. I'd like to give them snooty young doctors something to think about."