Final Victim (1995) (20 page)

Karen was alone in the basement, looking at the computer. The silence and her loneliness began to get to her. After a minute she downloaded the Leslie Bowers information, including all of the police reports and autopsy photos, then left the room.

It was nine o'clock when she got back tc her Washington apartment. She sat at her desk and read the rest of the Bowers file; it was full of unanswered questions. She finally pushed it aside and looked at her watch. She knew that Lockwood was in California by now and she found herself thinking of him. Three or four times she reached for the phone to call, but she didn't have anything except his beeper number and she wasn't even sure he had it with him. She promised herself she would do something to help Lockwood escape his pain. She would use her profiling skills to find this animal who had killed his wife. Maybe that would help mend him. It seemed like a project worthy of her huge intellect. She had somehow become attached to him in a very shor
t t
ime. It didn't feel like just sexual attraction; this was something else as well. John Lockwood presented a different equation. She had tried to understand it, but the more she analyzed it, the more it mystified her. It was emotional and chemical and very unsettling. She knew it might hurt or disappoint her, or even destroy guarded parts of her, but maybe it wouldn't bore her. She also knew she had a delicately balanced emotional and mental mechanism. It was all she could do to keep the twelve-cylinder monster in her head from attacking her.

The phone on her bedside table rang. She reached over and picked it up. "Hello . . ." she said hesitantly.

"If I asked for your help, would you give it to me or get me busted?" the voice on the other end of the line asked.

"Malavida?" She was surprised to hear from him.

"I fucked up, Miss Dawson . . . fucked up big. I got that lady killed." "I know," she said softly.

"I wanna run a campaign on the buster who did it. I think I can find out where he is. But it needs two people. . . ."

"You still using my credit card?" she said, " 'Cause I canceled it yesterday."

"I maxed it out yesterday."

"Where are you?"

"You blow me in and I'm gonna go back to the joint for twice the time," he said. "Can I trust you?"

"You're too much. You called me," she said.

"I need to hear it, chica. Can I trust you? Tell me."

"Yes, despite the fact you played me like a mark," she said hotly. "I had to. I apologize. I couldn't go back."

"Where are you?" she asked.

"You got a cellphone?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Gimme the number. . . ."

She gave it to him, and, while he was writing it down, she asked again, "Where are you, Mal? You're in Tampa, aren't you?"

"Yep. I'm gonna use the Snoopy Home Shopping Network to pick up what we need. Get on a plane and get down here. I'll call you at noon tomorrow and give you an address where we can meet."

She was silent. She wasn't sure what she was getting herself into.

"Have we got a deal?" he asked.

"Deal," she finally answered.

Chapter
18

THE KILL/DIE RATIO

He never left her room. All night, Lockwood slept on the short, hard leather couch under the basket of colorful, wide-eyed hippos.

When Heather was awake, he held her hand and talked to her about horses and her painting, her school and friends. He let her know that her grandparents were coming to visit. Heather's concern about her mother's disappearance was growing hourly. She was increasingly agitated, her eyes darting wildly around. Any noise in the hall brought her to an upright position. "What's that? Is that Mommy?" she would demand.

It finally happened when she was sound asleep. At three A
. M
., Lockwood was awakened by a mournful cry. He sat up, not sure for a moment where it was coming from. He looked over and saw that Heather was tossing in a desperate tangle of bed sheets and blankets. . . . The horrible sound coming out of her seemed manufactured in some primal cavern deep in her soul. He moved quickly to the bed and grabbed her shoulders.

"Honey . . . honey, wake up," he said, and her eyes snapped open as she let out a frightening scream. The sound startled him and carried out into the corridor. He tried to calm her but she wouldn't stop struggling. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her to him, but it did no good.

In seconds, two nurses ran into the room and over to Heather. "Get a trank," the senior nurse said. And then the doctor came in. He was young, in his late twenties, and Lockwood hadn't met him before. He moved to Heather and pried her gently out of Lockwood's arms. She had stopped screaming now, but was whimpering. Her eyes didn't seem to focus on anything.

"Mommy! He killed my mommy!" she said over and over.

The nurse came back in with a hypodermic, but the doctor waved it off.

"Let it come out. Let it come out, honey. Say it . . . say it .. "

"He killed my mommy. He killed her. He killed her. . . ."

Her eyes were now as big and round as the hippos on the wall.

Then she looked directly at Lockwood.

"DAAAAAADYYY!" she wailed, drawing it out. But it was a cry of desperation and longing for her mother. He reached out and took her into his arms. "Oh, Daddy . . . Daddy . . . He killed her. He killed her with a knife. I saw it happen. Oh, Daddy . . . Mommy's dead. . * * "

He rocked her in his arms. He could think of nothing to say that would ease the memory, no words that would comfort her, so he just held her.

She was clutching him tightly, her fingernails digging into the flesh on the back of his neck and shoulders. He ignored the pain and held her. After a while, she began sobbing, and Lockwood could feel her tears on the side of his face. They ran down his neck and onto his shir
t c
ollar. He embraced her, squeezing her, wanting to give her something to comfort her and knowing he had nothing to give.

"Daddy . . . oh, Daddy . . ." she finally choked. "Daddy . . . don't leave me, Daddy. . . ."

"I'm here, Pumpkin. . . . I'm here," he said softly.

Marge and Gunnar Neilsen arrived from Minnesota at 9:30 in the morning. They were tense and agitated. Gunnar was in his late sixties, the American-born only son of Norwegian immigrants. Since childhood, everyone had called him Rocky. His wife, Marge, was thin and weathered and was holding Rocky's hand as they looked at Lockwood through bloodshot eyes.

They had raised Claire like a hothouse flower. Nothing was spared, nothing too expensive. They had run a ma-and-pa grocery store in Midland, Minnesota, called Rocky's Green Market. It had been a constant struggle to survive, but the market managed to support them and allowed them to provide for their daughter. When she was twelve, they had paid for her braces and the tap dance lessons by working extra hours. When she was sixteen, they had stayed open Sundays to pay for her cheerleading uniform and singing lessons. Ten years ago, when Claire was nineteen, they had sold the grocery store to an Armenian named Androsian to pay her tuition at the University of Minnesota. Rocky still worked behind the meat counter at Rocky's Green Market, which was now called Androsian's Food Center. They had come to Los Angeles, a town with violent graffiti and menacing headlines, to pick up Claire's body. They were about to spend their last dollar on her, for interment and shipping expenses home for her funeral.

Lockwood and the Neilsens had maintained a ten-year no-fire zone
,
but it had taken a monumental effort on both sides. Rocky never liked the fact that Lockwood had been in reform school; he never liked it that his high-school diploma came from the Marines and that he had not gone to college, except for night school and correspondence courses; and he never liked it that Lockwood made his living chasing monsters. In short, Rocky Neilsen had tolerated John Lockwood with that stoic reserve common to men who live in infuriating climates. He had weathered Lockwood like a bad winter.

Marge Neilsen had seen the better side of her son-in-law, but she found it difficult to discuss it with her husband. She had heard the "girl talk" from her daughter and she knew that there had once been a beautiful tenderness between Claire and John. A tenderness that she envied and had never found in her own marriage. She thought the divorce had been a shame for everyone. She had agonized through it with Claire. But nothing had prepared her for the utter helplessness she felt now that Claire was dead. She was swamped by an emotional tidal wave that washed over her, drowning her spirit and turning her vision black. Marge stumbled along beside her husband in catatonic darkness.

She looked at Lockwood and could see that same desperation in his eyes, and her heart went out to him.

"Heather . . . She walked in on the guy . . . and she's got very bad memories," Lockwood said.

The Neilsens nodded. Marge reached out and took Lockwood's hand. Rocky glowered at the gesture. "Let's go see her," he said gruffly, pulling Marge out of the handclasp and up the corridor.

Lockwood let them have time alone with Heather, knowing Rocky didn't want him imposing on their visit. They stayed with Heather for an hour; then Lockwood suggested lunch in the hospital cafeteria.

After selecting their food, they stopped at the cashier with their trays. Rocky refused to let Lockwood pay. It was a small gesture but it accurately communicated the disdain
. H
e felt for his son-in-law. They moved to an empty table and sat down.

"The police are sending a sketch artist to work with her," Lockwood began. "I'm not sure it's a good idea until she's stronger; but the Homicide dicks want to get something on the wire. . . ."

Rocky grunted and poked at the soggy, unappetizing, gravy-soaked wedge of meat loaf in front of him.

"Rocky . . . Marge," Lockwood said, looking at them, "I've got to admit something to you both. It's something you have to know. . ." They listened as he hesitated before going on. "The guy who killed Claire . . . was after me..

He waited for it to settle in. Rocky Neilsen set down his fork and put both of his hands on his thighs and looked down at the floor between his knees. When he looked up, his face showed the struggle going on inside him, but his voice was under control.

"So you're responsible for her being dead then," he said.

"I was trying to get a line on a killer. I used a computer at Claire's house and somehow he back-tracked my program through the phone lines and got her address."

"So like I said, it's your fault she's dead." He looked at Lockwood with contempt.

"Okay, Rock, it's my fault she's dead. Does that make you feel better?" He could feel the heat coming into his face and he knew he was seconds away from losing it. Not that he could blame Rocky .. . It was his fault. But he hadn't seen it coming. He hadn't understood the danger! Shouldn't that count for something? Or was he just trying to get it to come out that way in his mind, so he could say it had been one of those things that happen that you can't control. . . . Was he somehow engaged in some classic face-saving exercise? "I need for you to take care of Heather until this guy is off the road."

Rocky said nothing. He looked off across the hospital cafeteria at doctors and nurses in green disposable shoes and surgical smocks. They glided around silently like paper angels. "Why don't we just keep her for good and save you the bother?" he finally said, turning his gaze back at Lockwood.

"I've quit law enforcement, Rocky. I handed back my badge. But I've got to finish one thing and then I'm outta that life. I'm going to take care of my daughter full-time, the way Claire would want."

"You were never there for either of them before."

"I know, but that's gonna change."

"This thing you gotta take care of . . . is it the guy who killed my baby?"

Lockwood nodded, then continued, "Until it's finished, I can't take the risk of being with Heather. This guy is after me. If I don't bring it to an end, it could go on for years. I need you to keep Heather out of the way, take care of her till I can get it done."

"And what if this guy gets you instead?"

"Then you raise her. If she comes out like Claire, I'll have nothing to complain about."

Rocky was looking at Lockwood, a strange expression on his face. "Y'know, all my life I tried to make things come out right by sheer force of will. I figured if I work hard enough, play by the rules, I can make the ball fall into the hole. And most of the time I done okay. Then you came along and you play by rules I don't know about. You say you'll love Claire, you stand up in church and promise, in front of God, that it's forever, then you get yourself divorced. You say you quit your job, handed back your badge, but you're going after this guy anyway. Now you say you're gonna be there for Heather 'less this guy kills you, and then it's up to us. I never understood you, John. I never could understand what made you do this work."

Lockwood looked at him for a long time, not sure how to respond. He felt, for the first time ever, that Rocky actually wanted to understand. "I don't think this time I have any choice, Rock," he replied. "This killer is going to deal the play. I don't want Heather to get caught in the crossfire like Claire did. I can't change what happened and I'll live with the guilt the rest of my life. But once this is over, I'm retired. I'll do everything in my power to do right by Heather. I don't know how else to say it."