“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 shirt collar. 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 . He 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.”
“Your family, Heather and Claire, didn’t never matter that much before,” Rocky said softly.
“They always mattered to me, Rock, but I was focused on something else… . It was a mistake. I admit it.”
“Just what was so important you didn’t have time for your family?” Rocky said, remembering the years he had put in as a provider for Claire and Marge.
“Something is wrong out there and it’s going to destroy us if we don’t destroy it first,” Lockwood answered. “If we don’t, then we’re just contributing to the problem by running from something that will end up devouring everything we care about.” Rocky and Marge were watching and listening intently. “Seems to me there’s way too many people on earth right now who are willing to kill for things they’re not willing to die for,” Lockwood continued. “You’ve got gang kids on street corners willing to machine-gun other kids for wearing the wrong-color bandanas, but if you ask ‘em, ‘Would you be willing to die for that?’ they say, ‘Hell, no.’ Same with this guy who killed Claire. He’s killing to relive some sick fantasy that he certainly wouldn’t want to die for. Vietnam screwed up the kill/die ratio. We were killing people over there for reasons we didn’t give a damn about, and after the war, we brought that sickness home.”
There was a long silence. “I thought somebody had to do something about it,” he continued. “Every time I saw a needless death, I put Heather or Claire into the equation and I thought … What would I do if it was them? I felt I had to get rid of this sickness before it could touch them. And now it has. I know you’re right, Rock. I was focused on the wrong things. I should have been there for them. The hours, the days lost I can never get back.”
Rocky finally nodded. “In World War II, I was in at sixteen ‘cause we were fighting for a country we loved and would die for. The cause was just, so we never felt bad about what we were doing.”
Lockwood concurred and then he leaned in. “I’m willing to die to get this animal off the street, so I guess that gives me the license to kill him … or at least to try. If I succeed, I’ll come back and get Heather, and I’ll be there for her from then on. If I fail, I want you to take care of my little girl for me, ‘cause I know with you she’ll have a great home.”
Marge reached out and took Lockwood’s hand. Rocky looked at the gesture, and this time, he didn’t seem annoyed by it.
Lockwood had finally connected with them. But, like everything else, it happened too late.
Chapter 18
TRIANGLES
She waited, standing in the tropical sun next to her rental car, which was parked outside the Foley D. Knight International Airport in Tampa. Malavida’s call came at exactly twelve noon, as promised. Her cellphone rang once and she flipped it open.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me.” His voice sounded pinched and thin.
“I’m here. Where the hell are you?”
“Listen, Karen—”
“Miss Dawson,” she corrected him.
“Miss Dawson. I’m a Federal fugitive. I’m in no hurry to go back to Lompoc. I don’t completely trust you. You could be transforming on me right now, so cut the shit. Okay?”
“Okay.”
There was a long silence and then he said, “I’m in the phone booth across from the Hertz counter. I can see you from where I am. Pull out and drive slowly toward the gate. I’ll come to you. Leave this phone connection open so I know you ain’t dimin’ me out ‘fore you get here.”
“Okay.” She got in, put the cellphone down on the seat, then drove the blue LeBaron slowly toward the Hertz return. She saw Malavida sprinting across the pavement—a tall, handsome young man who suddenly looked much different, dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt. He moved quickly in front of the car and jumped in. He picked her cellphone up off the seat, checked it, then switched it off.
“Let’s go,” he said, and she drove out of the airport.
They rode in silence while she concentrated on getting onto the right interstate. Once she picked up Highway 42 across the Charles Owen Expressway, heading toward downtown Tampa, she looked over at him. “Why?” she said.
“Why what?”
“You bullshitted us. You got away. You were free. Why call me?”
He looked out at the flat landscape rushing past the window. “I told you… . It was my fault Lockwood’s old lady got put down. I never was directly responsible for somebody being dead before. It feels horrible. I can’t just let it be.” There was heavy self-disgust in his voice. “I was showing off. I was trying to make you think I was hot shit. I didn’t bother to consider that the guy we were cracking could be as good as me. I didn’t figure on him using a backfinger, getting the address. I gotta put that right ‘fore I move on.”
She thought he somehow looked older. She could sense him beside her. He seemed different, more assured, more in control . sadder. She stole a glance at him. In that moment he looked almost god-like, his square jaw jutting, his glossy black hair and penetrating eyes flashing in the sunlight. But she was still angry at him for playing her like a mark.
He gave her directions and they arrived at his motel, which was near Tampa Bay, just off the Courtney Campbell Causeway. He had her park in the back.
“Where’s your car?” she asked. “Or don’t you have one?”
“I had one. It was a G-ride. I left it in the airport parking lot this morning. If the hubcap cops don’t find it, it’ll be a duck in two days.”
She thought he was saying that if the cops working auto theft at the airport didn’t find the car, it would get stripped. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking.
They climbed the exterior stairs to his motel room on the second floor of the colonial building. He unlocked the door and she walked into a cluttered room that looked like the repair center at Radio Shack. There were directional loop antennas, resistors, capacitors, and wires everywhere. Open on the bed was a suitcase with an assortment of wire clippers and needle-nose pliers, along with digital volt-ohm meters and screwdrivers. Two radios, stripped of their casings, were on the bed, center stage.
“What’s all this?” she asked, looking around.
“It’s how we catch this buster,” Malavida said. “It’s all stuff from Rat Shack. This zoot is using Pennet to make his calls. Unless he changes locations or computers, I think I have a pretty good chance of finding him by triangulating on his cellphone.” He was looking down at the radios on the bed. “This stuff is just high-frequency receivers with direction loop antennas I made from HF wire. I’m pretty sure he’ll stick with the name Rat or Wind Minstrel, and that’s gonna help us.”
“Why would he?” she interrupted.
“Two reasons. Because it’s already in Pennet that way and it would be a hassle to cha
nge, and because hackers get attached to their usernames. I’ve been Snoopy for almost ten years. But you can bet he’ll be more careful about his security next time he’s on-line. The one part of the link he can’t protect is from his cellphone to the pod that puts him into the phone line. He’s vulnerable there and that’s how I’ll get him.” “How do you know he’ll use a cellphone?”
“Anybody wanting to protect their POO usually uses a cellphone.” “Their what?”
“Point-of-origin. Sorry.” He smiled at her, and she couldn’t help noticing that the smile was dazzling and lit his handsome features. “Cellphones are better, because with no hard wire, they’re harder to trace.” He continued, “All you can do is get to the local cell pod, like we did. We know its origin is here in Tampa. He knows that’s a huge area. Now we’ve gotta narrow it down.”
“Go on.” She took a sheet of writing paper out of the desk and began to make notes.
“We ain’t gonna be having no test here, Miss Dawson, and I don’t need all this down on paper if I get busted.”
“I wanna know what you’re doing. Since I’m certain we’re breaking half a dozen FCC regs and a couple of dozen State and Federal statutes, I wanna have a list so I’ll know how many years I’m gonna serve.”
He looked at her and put his hands into his back pockets. “Why are you willing to stick your nose out, anyway? It wasn’t your fault Lockwood’s ex got killed, unless you got a thing for him.”
“It was my idea that got her killed,” she said, feeling her face redden.
He cocked his head and raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
“Come on … let’s give each other’s personal motives a rest,” she said, back-pedaling. “You wouldn’t be my first guess to be helping Lockwood either. I’m willing to buy your reason. Why don’t you just buy mine and tell me how all this works?”
Final Victim (1995) Page 15
