Act of Love (2011) Read online

  "Ha, ha," JoAnna said.

  The doorbell rang.

  "Ill get it, Mamma."

  "Probably for you anyway."

  Rachel turned back to her dishes. Listened as JoAnna opened the door. Tommy's voice floated back to her. "Man, you're looking good."

  "I know it," JoAnna said half giggly.

  "You ready?" Tommy asked.

  "Yeah. But . . . there's been a change in plans."

  "Oh."

  Almost whisper soft. "Mamma says no drive-in on account of you know what."

  "Oh."

  Rachel found herself straining to hear.

  Suddenly both JoAnna and Tommy were in the kitchen. "We're going now."

  Rachel turned to look at Tommy. He was a tall, handsome boy, almost as dark as Hanson, but not quite. He had a natural hairdo, but not a full-blown one. It was actually rather short. She agreed with JoAnna's choice. He was handsome, and for that matter, nice.

  "You look nice yourself, dishsuds and all,"

  Tommy said. "I mean, I was telling JoAnna she looked nice, but if you're any indication of what she's going to look like when she gets older, I think I'll stick around."

  And intelligent, Rachel concluded in a half amused way.

  "You two be careful and have fun," Rachel said.

  "We will," Tommy said. Rachel thought that a bit too certain a statement, and she thought, but didn't say, "What kind of fun?" Nope, she concluded, I'm being an old hen. JoAnna has to make her own mistakes. I can't make them for her or keep her from them. But, on the other hand, I can try.

  "Bye, Mom," JoAnna said, kissing Rachel on the cheek.

  "Rye, baby. Be careful."

  "I'll take care of her," Tommy said. "See you later, Mrs. Hanson. Say hello to Mr. Hanson."

  "I will."

  JoAnna took Tommy's hand and they started out. They do make a good pair, thought Rachel, as she turned back to her dishes.

  *

  Hanson was getting too close. Too damn persistent. But maybe a little direct close-to- home action would make him pull back on the leash. With that in mind, he had planned tonight's events carefully. A little research had turned up the nigger's address and the fact that he had a wife and daughter. Nothing like losing someone you loved to throw a scare into you and hurt you the deepest. Tonight Hanson would hurt to the core.

  The van he was using for the job had been candy to steal. He had had to leave his car in a parking lot again and do a bit more walking than he intended, but when he found the van, bright blue with great long yellow flame licks painted on the sides, he felt certain he had a winner. And when he found a key on his special ring that fit the ignition, and when that motor had roared, causing the whole machine to shake eagerly beneath him, he knew his instinct and judgment had been perfect. The van was souped up from the word go.

  He now sat at the corner of Hanson's street, watching, observing. He had been there for fifteen minutes, just long enough to see a sleek black Grand Prix drive up in Hanson's drive, and observe a black youth get out and go inside. Almost absently, he fondled the raincoat that lay on the floor between the van's bucket seats, felt the hard metal of the bayonet through the vinyl. Feeling it was as comfortable as feeling his penis, rubbing it erect. In fact, caressing the bayonet was bringing him to erection. He would satisfy that need shortly, but for now, he must wait.

  He was eager to deliver the box, although in some ways, he thought using the contents this way was wasteful. He had intended to mail it, but no, this method was far more interesting . . . dramatic even.

  The front door of the Hanson residence opened again. This time the teenager came out with an attractive young girl. He watched her through narrowed eyes, observed the sensual movement of her hips. Soft brown love on a cushion of blood.

  She was the one, he decided.

  He watched as the youth backed the Grand Prix out of the drive. They did not come in his direction. The Grand Prix moved slowly to the block's end and took a right.

  Counting to ten slowly, he started up the van and drove away from the curb.

  The box would have to wait.

  *

  He followed them out Southmore, watched as they turned into a theater parking lot. Pulling in after them, he parked some distance from their chosen space and watched. They got out of the Grand Prix and walked up to the theater, arm in arm, laughing together.

  There were two long lines for the twin cinema. One of the movies was Prophecy; the other Love at First Bite. They fell into the line for the latter.

  His watch showed 8:27. Movie must begin at 8:30, thereabouts. Counting previews of coming attractions, snack bar advertisements and the movie, they would be in there for at least two hours. If he knew youngsters like he thought, they would have plans after the movie, and not just for a Coke. When he was growing up they sometimes called it "going to the woods," "grubbing," or "parking." Whatever, it was popular then and would be now. He wished he hadn't missed out on that fun, but perhaps tonight he could make up for vacant youthful memories.

  He checked his watch one more time, started up the van and headed back to the Hanson residence.

  *

  After the dishes, Rachel decided to treat herself to a small glass of wine. She had just poured it and settled down at the dining room table when the doorbell rang.

  Never fails, she thought, never fails.

  She went to the door, checked through the peep-hole. No one. That struck her as odd. Too odd. Kids playing pranks, perhaps. Perhaps. She went to the window, eased back the curtain and peeped out. There was no one standing at the door, but there was something before it. A box. Peripherally she saw lights, turned to look.

  A blue van was pulling quickly away from the curb.

  Odd, she thought.

  She waited five more minutes, then went to the door and picked up the box. HANSON was marked on top of it in big, magic marker letters. Sort of late for a delivery. But considering there were no stamps, hardly a professional presentation anyway.

  She turned the box around and upside down. Something heavy clunked inside.

  Curious.

  She closed the door and set the box on the dining room table, finished her wine. It was addressed HANSON, and although that was her name too, and she could open the box herself, she was certain it was addressed to Marve since that was what he most often went by. Usually with a great big "Mr." in front of it.

  She'd wait until he got home.

  Unless he took too long, and then her curiosity was bound to get the better of her.

  *

  Still nearly an hour and a half to waste. He knew just how to do it.

  *

  Rachel was just about to open the package when she heard a car in the drive. She went to the window and looked out. It was Hanson. Her intentions had been to confront him as soon as he arrived, try to get to the bottom of his recent insanity. Late night drives, disorientation. She wanted to talk to him again about giving up the big city, moving out to his grandpa's farm. But the minute she saw him, saw the odd look on his face—a poor mask for internal frustration—she decided to let it ride.

  She met him at the door like a happy puppy.

  "Well," he said when she opened the door, "you certainly look happy."

  "And why not. We—or maybe you—have a secret admirer."

  Hanson came inside. "A secret admirer?"

  "Someone who lusts for you at a distance. Someone with a warm spot in their heart—or elsewhere—for your big, masculine body."

  Hanson smiled. "Okay. What's up?"

  She took him by the hand. "Follow and all shall be revealed."

  She led him to the dining room, pointed to the box on the table. "Someone rang the doorbell, took off and left the box there. It has Hanson written on the top, so I assume it's for you. And if you don't open it immediately I'm going to break your arm off at the elbow. I've been dying to look at it."

  "Who's it from?"

  "A secret admirer, I told you. Just Hanson on the bo
x, nothing else. No return address. In fact, it wasn't delivered by post."

  "Huuummm."

  "Come on, you big dummy. Open it."

  "All right, all right."

  Hanson picked up the box and started for the den.

  "Hey," Rachel called, "where you going?"

  "Come on. I'm going to open it in the den where I can sit in my chair."

  "Now that's rich. Yassa Massa, I'll sit at you feets while you. opens it, and maybe kind massa you'll let me have a peek."

  "Maybe," Hanson said. He went into the den, Rachel hot on his big heels.

  Hanson sat down in "his" chair, set the box in his lap, cranked a cigar out of his shirt pocket, and carefully plucking a match from the gopher pack he carried, struck it and lit his cigar, puffing slowly.

  "Quit stalling, you big ape."

  "Ehh, ehh, ehh. My secret admirer."

  "Well the admired is going to have a big hole in his head from my fist if he doesn't open the package."

  "Hold on to your horses."

  Hanson edged himself sideways in the chair and dug out his pocket knife, settled back comfortably and opened the smaller, sharper blade. He cut at the paper tape that held the lid in place. When it was sliced free, he folded the blade in and returned the knife to his pocket. He set the box on the floor in front of his chair.

  "Come on, come on," Rachel said, as excited as a kid at Christmas.

  He peeled back the cardboard flaps. Inside was a folded sheet of paper and a plastic bag.

  The smell hit him first.

  "Get back, Rachel."

  "What? I want to—"

  "Trust me, baby. Get back."

  Rachel stood up, moved across the room to the sofa and sat down.

  There was a hand inside the bag.

  A woman's hand, peeling off flesh, stinking of death.

  The cigar fell from his mouth, struck the box, rolled inside and hit the plastic bag, already full of holes from rough treatment. The cigar burned through the plastic with a hiss. The stink of it filled Hanson's nostrils, and then there was another smell, the smell of burning flesh. He jerked the cigar from the box and stood up quickly.

  "Marve, what is it?"

  "Baby," his voice was brittle. "Leave the room, please."

  "Marve—"

  "Trust me. If you've ever trusted me, trust me now."

  Rachel stood up from the sofa. "Okay, baby." She exited quickly.

  Holding back the bile that was rising in his throat, Hanson opened the box again. He reached in and fished out the folded paper, put it in his lap. He allowed himself three deep breaths of air to clear the smell from his head. He pushed the box away from him with his foot, crushed his cigar out in the ashtray next to the chair.

  Unfolded, the note read in cut out letters:

  Your wife or daughter next time, nigger. I'm watching. I'll always be watching. Back off and stay out of my way. The hand belongs to a lovely lady. I have her head and the other hand. I don't even think she's missing yet. Lived alone, from the looks of things. I took my time with her. She may well be my masterpiece. Maybe you can give her relatives a hand. From what I found in the house I believe her name is Patricia. But I won't say anymore. I like to think of her body lying in her house with nothing but the heat. I cut off the air conditioner. It pleases me to think of how it will smell. I may even go back to check on the stench, since I have the key. Hurry up and find her, if you can. Maybe I'll meet you there.

  And watch your family, nigger. I like black meat. It goes so well with southern recipes, like Plantation Chicken.

  THE HACKER

  "God," Hanson said between his teeth. "Oh my, God." Rachel was standing in the doorway of the den. Her lips were trembling ever so slightly. "What is it? Tell me? What's wrong? I know something's wrong." "JoAnna, where is she?" Rachel's lips were trembling violently now. "Why?"

  "For God's sake, Rachel, tell me."

  "The movie."

  "Which movie?" Hanson's voice had an edge of impatience to it now.

  Rachel shook her head. "I don't know. I told them not to go to the drive-in. An in-door movie somewhere. Please, Marve, what's wrong?"

  "JoAnna may be in danger."

  "How?"

  "I haven't time to explain, just listen to me. I'm going to drive over to that theater on Southmore. It's close, it might be the one. You call the other in-door theaters and have them paged. If you don't locate them, call the drive-in. They may have gone anyway. I know kids."

  Rachel quit trembling, seemed to grab hold of her emotions. "Okay."

  "I'll explain when I get back, just trust me." Hanson looked at his watch: 10:22. He just might make it to the theater. The features nearly always let out somewhere between 10:30 and 10:45. He hoped for the latter tonight. "I'm going now. You lock the door and do like I said. You don't find them, call the police department, get out an alert for them. Tell them who you are, that your husband's a police officer. Hear?"

  Rachel nodded.

  "And Rachel?"

  "Yes, Marve?"

  "Stay away from that box, please."

  Rachel nodded again, as if words were too hard to form.

  "I'll explain when I get back. Now start calling."

  Almost at a run, Hanson started for the door.

  *

  He had killed time accurately. They were coming out of the theater in droves now. The couple he was looking for separated from the crowd and walked arm in arm for the Grand Prix. They were laughing, leaning together. Good. Real good. He was glad they were happy, that would make it all the better when he soured it for them.

  Now, if this kid just wasn't a "good" boy that took his date home promptly after a movie, then all would be well...for him, anyway.

  Tommy and JoAnna got in the Grand Prix. She sat next to him. The sleek automobile moved out on Southmore, pierced the crisp night air like a sharp shadow, the motor humming a soft, contented insect drone.

  The blue van followed at a comfortable distance.

  *

  "You know," Tommy Rae said, "the part I liked best was where the chick offered Dracula the joint and said this is some good shit . . ." "And Dracula," JoAnna interjected, "said, I don't smoke shit."

  Tommy Rae laughed. "Your Transylvanian accent leaves a little to be desired, but not bad."

  Tommy Rae turned off Southmore, headed down a long, residential street.

  *

  The blue van didn't turn off after them. It continued down Southmore at an accelerated speed, shaded a red light, and ran another to the tune of blaring horns and loud curses.

  After awhile, the van turned left.

  JoAnna, almost in Tommy's lap, began to work her tongue in his ear.

  "Hey," Tommy said, "that's not doing much for my driving."

  "Then why don't you find a place to park?" JoAnna said.

  "Well, I sure ain't takin' you out for a soda."

  *

  JoAnna, kissing him on the ear, said, "This isn't the way we usually go."

  "Nope. Got a new place. Hell, old Humper's Hill is getting too crowded. They're gonna have to start charging admission. 'Sides, Clarence said he and Lacy got chased out of there by the cops last time they was up there."

  "Oh."

  "Uh huh, but I've got a humdinger spot. It's . . ."

  The screeching of tires distracted him. A blue van wheeled out of a shadowed side street, its lights slicing the Grand Prix like a razor. Then it was behind them, riding close.

  "Crazy fool!" Tommy said.

  The van bumped the Grand Prix's bumper. Hard!

  "Goddamnit!" Tommy said. He stepped on the gas. The Grand Prix leaped forward like a striking cobra. It quickly outdistanced the van by two car lengths, but the van was moving up fast again.

  "Can you outrun him?" JoAnna said.

  "I don't know. He's got something special under that hood," Tommy said.

  "What's he doing?"

  "How the fuck do I know? I just met the sonofabitch."

  T
ommy was moving too fast to take a side street, and the way the van was riding his tail he didn't dare slow down. An island of concrete topped by dirt and grass separated the street. He passed a couple of crossovers but was afraid to take them at such high speed. Except for the Prix and the van, the street was empty of traffic.

  The van slammed into their rear again, tossed JoAnna forward into the dash.

  "God! You okay?" Tommy said.

  JoAnna leaned back holding her head. "Just a bump."

  "Get your seat belt on, but first pull mine around me and buckle it."

  JoAnna reached across him, fished for the belt, found it, clasped it together around his lean waist.

  The van bumped them again.

  JoAnna hung to Tommy, then quickly moved to the other side and clamped the passenger's belt around her waist.

  The island was ending.

  A car was coming down the street now, opposite lane toward them.

  "Hang on," Tommy said.

  "Jesus," JoAnna said, "you're not going to . . ."

  When the car, a white Volkswagen, was almost on them, Tommy jerked a hard left in front of it. Rubber burned and tires screeched. The Grand Prix seemed to lean to the left, almost as if it were trying to do a wheel stand, then suddenly it was level again and moving down a narrow street like a bullet.

  The Volkswagen swerved, ran up over the curb and came to rest in a front lawn, its tires buried halfway in grass and dirt.

  The van slammed to a stop. Backed fifty feet, stopped again, then quickly turned left after the disappearing taillights of The Grand Prix.

  "You could have killed us," JoAnna said.

  "No shit. I'm about six inches higher in this seat right now." Tommy checked the rearview mirror. Distant dots of lights were becoming less distant by the second. "The motherfucker's still with us."

  The pursuing lights became lamps, then great shimmering moons.

  "Christ, I can't outrun the sonofabitch. I'm taking this sucker back out into somewhere."