Barlowe took hold of the doorknob, shook it.
"Might as well let me in, niggers. I'm going to get in anyway. I like black pussy, niggers. It's all pink on the inside, you know."
Barlowe laughed. It was a madman's laugh.
"Then maybe you don't know, but I'll show you your insides. Won't that be fun?"
He laughed again.
"Well, for me anyway."
*
Rachel began to tremble as she moved back from the door. If she could just get in one good lick, right between the eyes.
Suddenly a silver tongue of metal slammed through the door.
*
Six miles.
Five.
Hanson forced himself to slow it to fifty. The streets were too narrow. Too wet.
Four.
A corner was coming up.
He tried to take it at fifty.
The car whipped, the rearend slammed against a telephone pole, spun into the middle of the road, then, whirling like a dervish, it crossed to the right side of the road, slammed hard against the curb and flipped.
The bayonet came through the door time after time. The shining point of the blade seemed to point at Rachel.
Slamming it through the wood with both hands, grunting with the effort, Barlowe was working himself up to a frenzy.
When he had splintered the wood well enough for him to see inside, he leaned forward for a peek.
Even in the dark, Rachel could see the eyes. Cold. Merciless. Glazed with lust.
"I'm coming for you, nigger," Barlowe said hoarsely. "You might as well spread 'em and get ready."
"Come and try, you honkey motherfucker, come and try."
*
The car rocked on its top and settled. Hanson crawled out through the window, made it shakily to his feet.
Lights in houses across the street went on.
Hanson sprinted for the nearest one.
*
The blade went to work again, a hungry tongue lapping up wood. The blade slammed, screeched as Barlowe withdrew it for another strike. A hole as big as a man's head appeared, and Barlowe's hand snaked in for the lock, encountered the chair. He grabbed it and tugged it from beneath the doorknob. It rattled to the floor.
Now the lock was easy to get at. He worked it with his thumb.
It snickered free.
*
"Police officer," Hanson yelled. "Open the goddamned door."
A middle aged man in pajamas and robe answered the door. Hanson flashed his wallet and shield at him.
"What seems to be the matter, office—"
"Your car. I've got to have it, this is an emergency."
"Well, I don't . . ."
Hanson grabbed the man by the collar of his robe and slammed him against the door sill. "Your car keys, you fuckin' moron. This is life or death."
The man started shaking his head. "I'll get them. I'll get them."
Hanson let go of the man and he disappeared inside, came back with the keys. "It's in the garage," the man said.
"Open it."
"All right. Take it easy." The man's eyes had rested on the automatic in Hanson's belt. He was beginning to think he had a maniac impersonating a police officer on his hands. He opened the garage.
"A Volkswagen?" Hanson said.
"That's it," the man said apologetically. "Good gas mileage ..."
"The bike," Hanson said motioning to a Harley Davidson close to the garage wall, "does it run?"
"Sure, but that's my son's ..."
Hanson took out the automatic.
"But I know right where the keys are," the man said quickly.
The man went inside to get them with Hanson close on his heels.
*
When the door slammed back and Rachel saw the bayonet in Barlowe's hand she knew real fear. Stark, crazy fear.
She ran directly for him, bringing the hammer down with all the strength in her lithe body.
It was a good blow. There was plenty of shoulder and hip in it, and had it connected, it would surely have killed Barlowe.
Had it connected.
It didn't.
Barlowe caught the hammer head with the flat of his blade and flicked it out of Rachel's hand. It flew across the room and struck her dressing table, knocking over the sack of nails and several bottles of cosmetics.
Barlowe reached out and took Rachel by the neck, clutched 'til the wind died in her throat and her eyes bulged. Eyes just like a Chihuahua dog he had butchered once. Just like that.
He bent his arm and shoved her back as hard as he could. She crashed to the floor in a heap.
He walked over to her, took her by the hair and pulled her up to her knees.
"You bitch. Tried to hit me with a hammer, did you? I'm going to show you what it's like, bitch. You hear me, bitch?"
He shook her head violently.
"On your feet, bitch. You and all women. Bitches, bitches, bitches."
He tugged at her hair, jerking out a handful by the roots.
"Up," he screamed, and he buried his fingers in her hair again. He tugged her to her feet, pushed her back against the wall and held her there with one hand, raised the bayonet with the other and brought it crashing down into the wall beside her.
He left the blade sticking in the wall, quivering with the force of his thrust.
"You thought that was it, didn't you, nigger?"
Rachel just looked at him, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling.
"Not that easy, sister, not that easy."
He grabbed her by the hair again and slung her down hard at his feet. He reached over to the dresser and picked up the hammer.
And then he saw the nails and had a better idea.
*
He hadn't been on a bike in years. His handling of it was a little off, but he was managing.
Less than a mile now. The rain was dying. Visibility was good.
He gave it full throttle.
Half a mile.
"Come on, baby," Hanson said to the Harley, "eat the road."
Two blocks now and closing.
*
Barlowe pulled Rachel up against the wall again. The flimsy nightgown she was wearing came open, revealed her breast. Barlowe grinned, squeezed it, pinched the nipple.
Rachel spit in his face.
Barlowe jerked his head back and frowned.
"Go right ahead, nigger. It just makes it that much more fun for me."
He held the hammer in his free hand. He let go of her and crashed his fist into her face.
Rachel's head slammed against the wall. She began to slide down, but Barlowe pushed his hip into her, held her up. He took her right hand and opened it, pulled her arm out to its full length, then holding her in place with his hip, he took one of the nails he had put in his pocket and placed it in the center of her palm.
Then, holding it in place with his left hand, he began to drive the nail with the hammer in his right.
Hanson skidded into the yard and dropped the bike. He rolled head over heels in the grass, scraped against the driveway for a mild case of asphalt rash. In an instant he was on his feet, darting for the front door.
He had just discovered the door unlocked when Rachel screamed.
Consciousness, like a hateful imp, returned to Rachel the moment the nail went through her palm into the wall. The slim nail hurt tremendously, but the head of the hammer smashing her palm sent shockwaves of unbearable pain throughout her body.
Rachel struggled.
Barlowe, his lips peeled back to expose the gums, took her other hand and forced it out against the wall.
Rachel closed her hand, scraped at his wrist and fingers with her long nails. She leaned out from the wall and tried to bite him.
He was just about to manage to get the nail in place when he heard a crash from below.
*
When Hanson heard the screams he pushed the door back and rushed in . . . and tripped over Martinez's body.
He scrambled to his
feet and tried the light switch.
Click. Nothing. No lights.
He started for the stairs at a trot.
Barlowe let go of Rachel and dropped the hammer. He jerked the bayonet from the wall and started for the bedroom door.
"Just hang tight, nigger, I'll be back."
He went out to the landing and started down the stairs.
Hanson was three steps up when he saw Barlowe.
"Greetings," Barlowe said. "Let me introduce myself." Barlowe had adopted a Bela Lugosi accent. "I am The Houston Hacker."
Hanson reached for the gun in his belt.
It wasn't there.
A feeling of unreality swept over Hanson. He must have lost it when he dropped the bike.
Barlowe was coming down the stairs, waving the bayonet.
"I want to see your blood," Barlowe said, still affecting the Lugosi accent. Then in his own voice, made hoarse by excitement, "I should have killed you earlier, nigger."
"Why didn't you?" Hanson said, thinking about Martinez. Maybe he had a gun on him. And maybe not. He didn't want to expose his back to find out.
"Too much fun watching you suffer, watching you go after your partner. Too bad you didn't find him. But I did. He's headed for his last roundup, Rastus. And you my black-faced wide-eyed A1 Jolson, have eaten your last crispy fried chicken."
With that Barlowe lept forward, covered three stair steps.
The blade was a whistling flash of light as it reached for Hanson's gut.
Hanson leaned back, an involuntary, "Uhhh," came from his throat.
The blade came back for him, like a falcon that had missed its prey on the first dive.
Hanson leapt to the right, fell back against the stair rail.
The bayonet cut only wind again.
Barlowe, grunting now with effort and anger, came for Hanson again, and this time the hungry blade found food. It sliced through his coat, shirt and the flesh on his side. Hanson could feel the blood run wet and warm.
The blade was not content with coat, shirt and flesh, it continued to travel, struck one of the stair rail rungs and sliced it where it connected to the top rail. The blow was so vicious the bottom portion of the rung came unlodged halfway.
Hanson dove for Barlowe's legs before he could bring the blade back for another taste of flesh. The attack knocked the madman's feet out from under him and drove him back against the opposite rail.
Barlowe didn't drop the blade. He struck down with it, but lying as he was, his head full of dizzy bees, he could only strike the huge black man with the hilt behind the right ear.
Once.
Twice.
Hanson roiled to his left.
Barlowe struck out at Hanson with the bayonet. Hanson caught Barlowe's wrist, but lying on his back, the madman now firmly on top, he could feel his grip lessening.
The blade seemed very, very close to his face.
Hanson kicked up between Barlowe's legs, smashed him in the groin, and with his free hand, tried to dig out the butcher's eyes. Hanson raised his foot again. The kick to the groin had had little or no effect. This time he pushed instead of kicked, planted his foot in Barlowe's groin and just shooooooooved.
Barlowe went up and back.
Hanson scrambled to his feet.
Barlowe had come up like a cat. He slashed hard and fast at Hanson, trying to slice him into black ribbons.
Most of the slashes were wild, but the narrow stairway offered few places to hide. One blow hit Hanson in the left shoulder and cut to the bone. Blood sprayed both of the men, and Hanson felt the shock of the blade to his toes. A wave of blackness swept over him like an incoming tide, but he fought it, forced it back to sea.
No matter, thought Hanson, it's all over now.
He had just enough energy to move away from a wild downward cut. He pushed both palms against Barlow's side, wheeled around him and collapsed against the railing on the other side. Instinctively he brought his hand up to his face, to protect against the blade . . . and his fingers touched something sharp.
The fingers told his brain that he had touched the broken stair railing.
Hanson clamped his hand around it, jerked it free.
Barlowe, grinning, struck the coup de grace.
Or so he thought.
Hanson kicked out with his left leg, struck Barlowe's right knee cap. The knee made a cracking sound.
The force of his downward swing, coupled with the weakened knee, carried Barlowe forward, off target. The bayonet ate through half the stair rail, lodged.
Barlowe tugged at the blade, brought it free.
Hanson raised up and slammed the wooden stake into Barlowe with every ounce of strength left in his body.
The stake penetrated Barlowe's chest on the left side. Blood sprinkled around the stake, splashed Hanson with red hot jewels, and then with a rushing scarlet flood.
Barlowe tried to straighten, but instead he went forward over the rail. As he fell, he thought in the dim recesses of his brain, he had seen his own blood, and it had been . . . beautiful.
Barlowe struck the floor with a thud and the bayonet fell across his body like a cross.
The hilt beneath his chin, the blade pointing down.
Hanson, black dots swarming before his eyes like bacteria beneath a microscope, pulled off his jacket and pressed it to his wound, started up the stairs, half walking, half stumbling.
A pencil of light stabbed through the window below, touched Barlowe's dead face with the first gentle kiss of dawn.
EPILOGUE
Jack the Ripper's dead.
And lying on his bed.
He cut his throat
With sunlight soap.
Jack the Ripper's dead.
—Children's chant from the East End of London
THREE DAYS LATER
Joe Clark's funeral put the period on Hanson's cop career.
When the last sod was thrown, Hanson, his arm around Rachel, JoAnna walking solemnly by his side, started for the cemetery gate. Rachel's right hand was in a partial cast— several small bones in her hand, broken by the hammer. They were almost to the gate when a small, white-haired man walked up to meet them, Doc Warren.
"I'm afraid I missed the funeral," Doc Warren said.
"It was very nice," Rachel said and began to cry.
"Take your mother down to the car," Hanson said to JoAnna.
JoAnna took Rachel by the arm and led her out of the gate and to the car.
"Something I said?" Doc Warren asked.
Hanson smiled. "No. Just been through a lot."
Doc Warren nodded. "How's your shoulder?"
Hanson looked down at the sling that held his left arm. "All right, as long as I don't move it much."
"You're leaving, aren't you?" Doc Warren said.
1 am.
"We'll be losing a good cop."
"No, you won't. I've been very stupid and very incompetent. Joe Clark was a far better cop than I ever was. I'm something else inside, not a cop."
"Anybody can suffer emotional strain."
Hanson touched Doc Warren on the shoulder. "Thanks. But I don't want to chance it again. Stupidity almost cost me .my family."
"Not stupidity."
"Whatever. I did learn one thing, Doc. You were right. The killer is in all of us, each and every one of us."
"How do you feel . . . about Barlowe?"
"Glad that I could protect my family, but sad. Not satisfied like I thought I'd be. Something's missing in me."
Warren nodded. "I was in the war. I still think about it."
"You killed?"
Warren nodded.
"Did you feel hollow inside?"
"I did, and it doesn't go away. I wish I could tell you it does, but it doesn't . . . But in time you do learn to cope with it."
"I hope so . . . I've got to go now."
"Don't make yourself a stranger, hear?"
“I hear,” Hanson said, and he held out his hand.
The shook and
Hanson walked down to the car.
Table of Contents
ABOUT THIS EBOOK
ABOUT THIS EBOOK
FOREWARD
ACT OF LOVE
THE BEGINNING. . .
Part One:
Part Two:
Part Three:
EPILOGUE
Joe R. Lansdale, Act of Love (2011)
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