Free Act of Love by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

minute," Hanson said, "you're trying to tell me something."
    "Remember what we were talking about. I collect those columns because I'm," Clark looked at the list, "number two, curious."
    "That's an odd way to make a point."
    "Yeah. Do you remember number eighteen?"
    "No."
    "Tact, self-control and dignity."
    "So."
    "So you're taking this all too much to heart, Gorilla. It's eating your insides out."
    "You're starting to sound like Rachel."
    "Listen to the woman. She know of what she speaks."
    "Bullshit!"
    "Just promise me you'll try to take it easy."
    "This is crazy."
    "Promise me you'll take it easy. I don't need a partner with an ulcer."
    Hanson sighed. "All right. I know when I'm whipped. I promise to try."
    "Good."
    "Man, you college folks sure do go a long way to make a point."
    "Yeah, we're a real pain in the ass sometimes."
    "Most of the time."
    "Humm ... Oh, say, Gorilla."
    "Now what?"
    "When do I get my very own desk?"
    "You don't."
    "Oh."
     
     
    WEDNESDAY . . . 10:15 a.m.
     
    Barlowe's typing sounded like machine gun fire. Ratatattat, ratatattat, ratatattat.
    A feminine voice interrupted his progress with, "Philip?"
    Barlowe looked up from his work. "Yes?"
    Sharon Carson, the attractive brunette receptionist, stood over him, a long, blue envelope in her hand.
    "I found this on the desk a moment ago. It's addressed to you, but I don't remember seeing anyone put it there. Maybe when I went to the water fountain ..."
    "Put it down!" Barlowe snapped.
    "What?"
    "Put it down," he said more gently. "Excuse me for being so sharp, Sharon. But I think it might be from him."
    "Him ... The ... The Hacker?"
    Barlowe nodded.
    Sharon put the envelope on his desk as if it were a fragile Ming Dynasty Vase. "Christ, I never ..."
    "No sweat. It might be a bill."
    "It doesn't have a return address on it."
    "Yeah. The last one was in an envelope just like this. Thanks, Sharon. I'll handle it from here."
    "Okay. Man, I'm sorry."
    "Forget it. Go on back to work. I'll take care of it."
    Sharon, feeling as inadequate as the proverbial tits on a boar hog, went back to her desk. She watched tight faced from there while Barlowe, using a folded sheet of typing paper, picked up the letter in its groove and carried it into the office of the editor, Evans.
    "Chief," Barlowe said opening the door.
    Evans, a white-haired, plump-faced man with a body to match the face, looked up at Barlowe. "Yes." There was a scowl on his face and impatience in his voice. "What is it?"
    "This," Barlowe said dumping the letter and typing paper on Evans' desk. "Don't touch it, Chief."
    Evans withdrew the hand he had been snaking toward the letter. Recognition crossed his face. "Him?"
    "I think so. Sharon brought it to me. She found it on the main desk . . . just lying there. She didn't see who brought it in. One thing for sure. It didn't come in with the morning mail. There's no stamp."
    "I see that. I guess he just waltzed in and put the goddamned thing on the desk himself."
    Barlowe licked his lips. "Looks that way ... if it's him. I've got a feeling it is. I mean it does look like the last one. The blue envelope and all. My name on the front in carefully cut letters. Who else could it be?"
    "Yeah."
    "Should we open it?"
    "I don't think so. I'm calling the cops. Let them decide what to do."
    "It might turn out to be a note from one of my police informers?"
    "Then that's the breaks. The cat's out of the bag. Better that than us ruining evidence."
    "Yeah. I guess you're right . . . Besides, it's just like the last one."
    "It's him. I bet you my job. Sit down, Phil." Evans waved him at a chair. Barlowe sat. Evans pushed buttons on his phone. Fifteen minutes later the police were there.
     
     
    *
     
     
    Wearing sheer plastic gloves, Hanson opened the small blade of his pocket knife and cut one end of the envelope open. He pinched out the letter inside. It was typed on one sheet of typing paper, single space.
    Clark, standing at his side, said, "I guess he got tired