Rachel laughed. "Silly."
"Go ahead," Hanson said. "I'll be along."
"Nobody is worrying about you," Doctor Bran said, and he and Rachel, arm in arm, went down the corridor.
"I'm afraid this is a bit of a business matter, personal too. I got a call on this from Fierd over at the Pasadena station ..."
"I'm sorry he called. There was no need for him to bother you at this time of night."
"Don't even say it. I like to keep tabs on my folks. Makes for a better team. First off, I'm really sorry about what happened."
"Thank you. I got a note, and a box ... I turned them over to the Pasadena police. They were supposed to take my key and go by . . ."
"They did. I've talked to Fierd about it. Terrible thing to get in the mail. We're looking for the girl's body now. No idea where to look, of course, but we've got missing person reports out. That might draw in something."
"But this isn't what you came here to talk to me about, is it?"
"Not exactly." Fredricks waved his hand at the lobby chairs. "Let's sit a minute."
When they were seated Fredricks said, "Your daughter supposedly mumbled something to the paramedic about a man trying to kill them, trying to force them off the road."
"Correct."
"Well, we're certain that man was The Hacker."
"Certain?"
"Pasadena station got a phone call. It was from The Hacker. He admitted to it, said, 'I'm going to get the nigger and his family tonight.' "
"Jesus H. Christ!"
"It may just be talk, but it's a threat. I'd like to ask you a favor. You can decline if you like, and you may want to after I explain."
"Ask away," Hanson said.
"I want you to play like the bait in the trap."
"I don't follow altogether."
"You and Rachel go home and act like you know nothing about the phone call, or at least not that you're concerned. We're going to post men outside and inside the house. You'll have plenty of protection."
"If he's a cop he'll know that. He might even be one of the men."
"No. I've thought of that. It's occurred to me that he might know of our plans, but if he's as screwy as he seems, he just might try anyway, and I'll pick cops who have airtight alibis for the days of the murders. If he tries we've got him. If not, well, I sleep better knowing you're safe. Matter of fact, I'm anticipating a bit. I've already had your house thoroughly searched in case he's lying in wait, and I've posted the cops. Got four on the outside—two in front across the street, and two out back. Got two men inside, or will have. Just one right now. I'm going to add a man to that."
"And you'll have me."
Fredricks was silent a moment. "Lieutenant. You're a good cop, but I don't want you on this thing."
"What?"
"You'll be in the house, of course . . . But I don't even want you carrying a gun."
"It's my family."
"That's why I don't want you totin' iron. Lieutenant—and I don't mean this unkindly—you've been a little, how do they say? Off your feed as of late."
Hanson opened his mouth to complain but said nothing. He remembered how he had run off and left Rachel alone. He had been in a blind panic.
"You're right." Hanson said. "You're absolutely right."
SUNDAY . . . 2:30 a.m.
Without his gun hugging his ribs, Hanson felt sexually neutered. He hated to admit there was anything to that man and his gun stuff, but it was almost as if someone had ripped away his manhood in one brutal swipe. He had been carrying that Colt Python for so long it seemed like a part of him.
Was he that bad? That tense? Surely they didn't think he was going to snap and start shooting cops and family. No. More likely they feared he'd pot-shoot The Hacker if he showed up. And he would have, too.
He sat quietly in the dark at the dining room table shuffling a deck of cards in a slow, whispery manner. It was just something to do with his hands. It was too dark to see the face of the cards as well. Across from him, hands in lap, making no more movement than a stuffed iguana, was a detective-sergeant named Raul Martinez. He was one of the inside duty men; the other had yet to show up.
Few words had passed between Hanson and Martinez, and much of the reason was that too much talk might discourage The Hacker should he come lurking out of the dark and up to the house for a looksee and a listen.
No matter what the reason, Hanson was grateful for the silence. He wasn't in a mood to talk. He was in a mood to think. It hardly seemed likely to him that The Hacker would try anything. The guy was no fool. He wouldn't call and not expect the police to act just as they were acting; especially if he himself were a cop. But then madmen were not to be figured.
What was it old Doc Warren had said, something about this man being intelligent, a cold and calculating killer? Something like that. And that being the case, he wasn't going to walk willy-nilly into any simple trap.
Then why the threat? Was it to keep Houston's finest on their collective toes? It didn't make sense. Unless it was a cop who delighted in plaguing the department.
That made him wonder. The thought had been there before, almost surfaced like a bloated drowning victim several times, but he had held it under. He let it surface now. The thought became totally alive. The thought was: was The Hacker Joe?
It seemed so unlikely. He knew Joe well. Joe was his closest friend. But things added up. Like tonight, Rachel told him she had called Joe for comfort, but that there was no answer. Him not being home, or not answering, didn't make him The Hacker, but it certainly added to suspicion.
Hanson began to sort the characteristics Warren had given him, put them in order with what he knew about Joe.
Warren said that The Hacker was most likely a loner. Joe was certainly that. Hanson didn't even know where he lived and he was his best friend. Joe had suffered a major trauma in his life when his marriage had fallen through. He was constantly trying to discourage violent thought and action on Hanson's part. Maybe it was just because Hanson was overly obsessed with the killer, or maybe it was because Joe was trying to make things easier on himself. Could it have been him that talked to the captain about his outburst in Evans' office, instead of Barlowe or Evans himself? Made sense. It certainly could be Joe.
Christ! Joe? The man who was his partner? The man he called friend?
Stop that kind of thinking, he told himself. It's ridiculous.
But the thought wouldn't go away. The idea grew like mold the more Hanson considered it.
SUNDAY . . . 2:45 a.m.
They were fools, absolute fools to think they could outsmart him. And they would try. Did they think him so stupid as not to expect police protection for Hanson's family?
No. He wasn't a fool. He wanted it that way. It added to the game, the fun.
No. He wasn't a fool. He was hungry. That's what he was. Hungry to give pain and to see and taste blood.
SUNDAY . . . 2:46 a.m.
Joe Clark's phone rang. He answered it on the first ring.
"Hello," Clark said.
"This is Captain Fredricks."
"Yes, Captain."
"Excuse the hour."
"No problem. I don't sleep worth a good goddamn anyway. Insomnia."
"This is important or I wouldn't have called."
"Hit me with it."
Briefly, but with great accuracy, Fredricks told Clark the events of the night, the threat and the precautions he had taken.
"And JoAnna is okay?" Clark asked.
"As well as can be expected. The doctor thought she'd do better at home."
"Good.' "What?'
"Good. Good she's home. I suppose you have something you want me to do?"
"Yeah. One reason I want you for what I have in mind is that you and Hanson are close. Actually, I think there are enough men there already, five to be exact, two out front, two at the back and one inside. But I promised Hanson two inside. I want that other man to be you, someone he knows, feels comfortable with, and can trust.
I meant to get you there earlier, but couldn't get hold of you."
"I went to a movie."
"Yeah, well, I want you inside. I don't have to tell you that I think Hanson is close to cracking down. I took him off the case and even had him hand over his gun."
"That right?"
"Yeah. He's ripe for stupidity these days."
"Yes, sir. Afraid that's true."
"That day you told me about the outburst in Evans' office, I should have taken his ass off the case then. Immediately. I don't think I've done him a bit of good, or the investigation, by keeping him on."
"You used your best judgment, sir. Gorilla—Lieutenant Hanson—has always been a fine officer; lately he's just had some pressure. I don't know why. In the field too long, maybe."
"Thanks, Sergeant. Now get over there and park out of sight, walk up to the house. I'll call Mitchel and tell him you're coming. He's in an old Volkswagen bus parked across the street against the curb. You'll find him and Tyler easy enough."
"On my way. —And sir?"
"Yes."
"Thanks."
"All right. I knew you'd want to be close to the lieutenant at a time like this."
"You got that right on the head, sir."
"Best of luck."
"Yeah. So long, Captain."
They both hung up.
SUNDAY . . . 2:51 a.m.
When there is emotional pain mixed with anticipation the hours crawl by like crippled snails. The minutes seem to hang forever, and thoughts, worn and frazzled at the edges, haunt the corridors of the brain like a restless and malignant spirit.
Thoughts of Joe. Thoughts of The Hacker. They danced through Hanson's mind like waltzing mice, blended together and became one. It had to be, he concluded. It had to be.
The phone rang him out of his mental well.
As was planned they let the phone ring five times. This was to convince The Hacker, should he call to taunt or threaten, that the family was asleep. On the other hand, if the phone were answered promptly, the killer might smell a trap.
Upstairs, the phone rang in the master bedroom in unison with the phone below. Rachel sat upright in bed, listened. The ringing of the phone was like knife jabs in the heart. Could it be . . . him? Fredricks had said The Hacker might call; that he enjoyed those little games, pleasured in the anxiety they caused.
Beside her JoAnna slept a drugged sleep. Sound as a rock. The phone was not in her world.
Rachel became so wrapped up in her fearful thoughts she almost didn't notice when the phone quit ringing.
*
"Hanson residence," Hanson said.
"Barlowe, Lieutenant."
The phone was less than six feet away from Martinez, and Martinez was leaning forward, listening intently.
"What the hell you calling at this hour for?"
"Phone tapped?"
"No."
"Something you ought to know. Can you act casual?"
"I think so."
"Do it. This is an emergency, but I think it's something you'll want to know alone."
"Just a minute." Hanson turned to Martinez. "No sweat. Guy callin' for me to go over and play cards."
Martinez nodded, leaned back in his chair and resumed his stuffed iguana impersonation.
"Don't think I'm up to playing cards, Harry. I mean, hell, man. You woke me up."
"I need to see you."
"Not tonight."
"This is as important as hell. Say what you got to to make it look good, but listen to this and memorize. Get to this address, quickly." Barlowe read it off.
Between pauses Hanson said, "Uh huh, uh huh. Another time, Harry." Then very carefully. "Why, cards tonight?"
"I know who the goddamned Hacker is. That's why tonight!"
Barlowe hung up.
Hanson went on talking like nothing had happened. "Quite all right. I'm just a bit cranky when I get woke up. I know I was supposed to be there. Yeah. Yeah. Uh huh. Bye."
"Who was that?" Martinez asked.
"Friend. I usually play cards this night of the week."
Martinez frowned. "This time of the morning?"
"Harry doesn't pay attention to his watch. He just likes cards. He's got the gang over there and he's short on dough. He wanted me to come over and lend him some. He didn't really give a hoot in hell if I wanted to play cards or not. When it comes to money, he doesn't give a damn about a man's rest."
Martinez smiled an expansive smile. "I got a cousin like that."
"Yeah, well you know the score then."
It suddenly occurred to Hanson what he was going to do. He couldn't tell Martinez the truth, lest the sergeant suspect his motives. Of course he could tell the truth, have a cop sent to the address, find out from Barlowe what the scoop was. But no way. If Barlowe knew who The Hacker was, Hanson wanted to be sure he was the next to know. He wished more than ever that he had a gun.
"You know," Martinez said suddenly, "Captain should have tapped the phone."
"I guess. He wasn't sure he could trust everybody in that department. Wanted only those he could be certain weren't The Hacker."
"Well, we fill the bill. All got air-tight alibis. 'Sides, it ain't no cop."
"You sound awful certain," Hanson said.
"Just don't think it's a cop."
"Guy sure seems to know a lot about our operations, seems to always be a step ahead of us." Hanson realized he was pacing. He went back to his chair, tried to look calm, but not too calm.
"Nothing he couldn't do by just usin' common sense," Martinez said. "That's always the first thing people think of in a nut case. It's a cop. Remember Son of Sam? That's what they said about him."
"Who the hell knows," Hanson said flatly. Then after a moment, Hanson looked at his watch, made a big production of looking bored. "I'm going down to the 7-11. It's open all night. I want to get some cigars . . . and maybe a beer. Since I'm not officially on the case I think I could do with one. Especially after tonight. Want anything?"
Martinez licked his lips. "How about bringing me a beer that you won't even notice me drinking?"
"Won't even see you. What kind you want?"
"Schlitz."
"Cow piss."
"Not to me," Martinez said.
"I might take a while," Hanson warned. "Once in a rare moon that place closes at eleven, just like its name implies. If so, I'll go on up Southmore. I know another place. I may be awhile, now. I like to look through the magazine rack pretty thoroughly."
"Take your time, man."
"This isn't going to get you in any trouble?"
"Naw. I wasn't told to make you no prisoner, just to watch for The Hacker. He'd be a fool to show up."
Hanson knew that wasn't entirely the truth. Martinez wanted that beer. He wanted to get out of there before Martinez suggested getting it himself.
"True enough," Hanson said. "He would be a fool to show up." Hanson stood up. "I'll be back in a little while."
"No sweat."
"Lock the door behind me."
"Sure."
Hanson went to the door and out. Martinez called to him, "I'll radio out to Mitchel. He gets kind of thirsty, too."
Hanson smiled. "I'll make it a six-pack, better yet, two six-packs." Hanson started walking toward the car.
Martinez locked the door, went back to the table and picked up the walkie-talkie, radioed Mitchel. Mitchel liked the idea. He was thirsty, and he was sure the others would be as well.
Martinez, putting the walkie-talkie aside, thought Hacker Smacker. No way that bastard is going to show up here.
There just wasn't any way he could have known.
SUNDAY . . . 3:25 a.m. AND COUNTING
The night was as soft as a woman's breast. The air was full of the smell of rain; a smell that reminded Hanson of the country, of his granddaddy's farm. But tonight it seemed more like the odor of a fresh dug grave, the clinging stench of a funeral shroud.
Hanson stood on his front lawn taking in the night; watch
ing dark clouds boil in over the moon. After a moment he went out to his car, waved to the Volkswagen bus across the street. He couldn't see the cop, Mitchel, inside, but he knew he was there; knew walkie- talkies were crackling, communicating with Martinez inside.
He knew Martinez would radio the others about the beer. He had been on many stakeouts himself. He, however, never drank when working, not even a beer. Nor would he tolerate anyone working under him drinking on the job.
Right now he was grateful for human weakness and the fruit of the grain. By the time they realized he had been gone too long for beer, cigars, or even magazine looking, it would be too late.
It only took a moment to kill.
*
Joe Clark, raincoat tucked firmly beneath his arm, came out of his apartment and walked briskly to his parked car. He stopped, examined the clouds overhead, sniffed the air. There was the stench of the city mixed with the smell of on-coming rain. Above, the heavens slashed open briefly to reveal a thin, short-lived fork of yellow-white lightning.
Yep, he'd need the raincoat. He tossed it in the front seat, climbed in.
A moment later he was heading for the Hanson residence, the rain falling against his windshield in small, wet pearls.
*
Barlowe waited in the room with one of the corpses for a while, then went out and stood among the shadowed shrubbery. He checked his watch; thought it won't be long now.
*
Rachel couldn't sleep, couldn't even rest. It was as if she sensed the collapsing of the universe. Certainly, her own personal universe had folded. She checked JoAnna. Still lost in the ozone.
Rachel climbed out of bed, slipped her feet in house shoes. She went to the bedroom window and looked out. It was raining. Not hard, just steadily. The streetlights made the side lawn and the neighbor's roof glisten. It was almost as if the yard had been sprinkled with glitter. Rachel let the curtain slide back into position. Would morning ever come?