Final Victim

by Stephen J. Cannell

  ESCAPE

  This time when Karen woke up she was surprisingly alert. She still felt horrible and her head and jaw ached. Her muscles screamed at her, but her senses were tingling. Even before she opened her eyes she could smell mildew and dust. She knew she was tied up, sitting on a cold floor. She could hear Tashay crying. Karen's hands were lashed behind a wood post. She opened her eyes and looked around; there were boxes and junk piled everywhere. She determined that she was in a garage, but there was no room for a car. The garage had been completely taken over as a junk room. She could hear Tashay but couldn't see her. Karen craned her neck and finally saw that Tashay was standing, slumped over, her hands tied to a chain under an old block-and-tackle that was hooked to the heavy center beam. Tashay was half hanging by her wrists, sagging with her knees bent, her head tilted down, her gaze on the floor between her legs.

  Karen took a moment and pushed everything but her terrible dilemma out of her mind. Her mouth was a pulsating bright spot of agony. The broken teeth had exposed nerves that screamed in pain. Karen knew she had to blot it out in order to function. She knew from past experience that if she acknowledged the pain, it would control her. She had been through bouts of agony before. She knew she had to put it on another level. Focus hard on something else. In the hospital, after the ALFA Wing fiasco, she'd had a lot of time to practice. She now focused her mind on her current dilemma and tried to dial the pain down. Her mind started to rapidly collect facts. She looked over at Tashay and saw that she had stopped bleeding. The blood that was on the floor between her feet was caked and dry. That told her they had been there for at least an hour. Satan T. Bone must be waiting for someone or something, she reasoned. Where were they? she wondered. From what she could see, the garage was a mess. Extremely drganized She didn't think the mess belonged to Leonard Land. She had profiled him as compulsive and obsessive. He would be a neat freak; this garage would drive him nuts. She now focused on Tashay, who had stopped crying.

  "Tashay," she said, her voice low and whispery.

  "Oh, God… oh, God… Why is he doing this? Why?" Tashay said and started to cry again, but she didn't look up.

  "Tashay, you've gotta stop it. We've gotta get something going here." Karen tried to straighten up but her arms and shoulders screamed at her. She winced as she struggled to push herself up the wood post. She was still dizzy, so she stopped and sat back on the cold concrete.

  "Oh, God… What'd I do? I was helpin' him, why is he doin' this? Why… why?" Tashay was becoming even more emotional, choking back huge, sobbing breaths.

  "Stop it!" Karen commanded loudly. "He's going to kill us. You've gotta stop crying." And then finally Tashay brought her gaze up from the floor and looked at Karen. One of her eyes was completely swollen shut. The blood that had been flowing out of the cut in her head had stained her silk blouse. She was in short-shorts and had dried blood on her legs and thighs.

  "I need to know what's going on," Karen said. She struggled to keep her voice calm. She could see Tashay was in panic, on the edge of hysteria. Karen surprised herself that she had such a firm grasp on her situation after having been knocked unconscious twice. "Why is Bob Shiff doing this?" Karen asked in a calm voice.

  "I don't know… I don't know." Her voice was slurred through swollen lips. "I swear. He's been actin' strange since you asked us about that guy… the big, ugly one…"

  "Leonard Land?"

  "Yeah. You were right, he came to all our concerts, but never to the house. Now, he's been here twice this morning. He's creepy. He calls Bob 'Robbie.' "

  "Robbie?" Karen said… and then she knew who Bob Shiff was. He was the missing foster brother, Robbie Land. She and Lockwood had wrongly assumed he was killed in Mississippi in the early eighties. If Bob Shiff was Robbie Land, it answered a lot of questions. Her mind was reeling with this information, fitting it into the puzzle. She knew that serial killers are not born but made, usually by parental abuse. Of course, the right psychological pre-dispositions and stressors have to exist, but, if Shirley had raised Robbie the way she had raised Leonard, it was not at all inconceivable that they could come out with similar pathologies. It also explained the Death Metal lyrics and the worship of other serial killers like Gacy and Dahmer. She wondered if it was possible that Leonard and Bob worked as a team-like Kenneth Bianchi and his cousin Angelo Buono.

  "Tashay, is Bob helping Leonard commit these murders?" "What murders? Oh, God, why would he hurt me like he did?"

  "Can you move your hands? Can you get loose at all?"

  Tashay looked at Karen for a long moment, as if the idea hadn't even occurred to her.

  "I hurt… I hurt so bad," she said.

  "Tashay, see how close to me you can get."

  Tashay Roberts moved slowly across the garage toward Karen. The block-and-tackle chain allowed her to get almost three feet nearer.

  "Lemme see if I can get up," Karen said, and again she struggled to stand. She worked her legs under her and then started to rise up. This time, with careful effort, she controlled the dizziness. Her arms were lashed behind the post but she could slide them up slowly. The wood was rough and gouged her with splinters as she worked her way to a standing position. Then she rotated around until she could face Tashay.

  "We ain't never gonna get loose… We ain't never," Tashay moaned, and again she began to cry.

  "Tashay, stop it. Stop it right now!" Karen knew that her only chance of getting away was to include Tashay. She had to get her focused on the idea of escape and away from feeling sorry for herself.

  From this new position on her feet, Karen could see the rest of the garage. She looked up and saw that some gardening tools had been thrown up on the rafter beams overhead. The beams were only a few feet above where Tashay's hands were tied to the block-and-tackle.

  "Okay, Tashay, you see above your head… the gardening tools up there?"

  Tashay looked up but didn't answer.

  "See if you can jump up and knock them down. See that hedge clipper? See if you can knock it off the rafters and over toward me."

  Tashay looked at her again. "Bob and me was in the grip, y'know? We was rollin' deep. He says to me, `Tash, we gonna get outta this bonk town, go to Europe.' He's alla time talkin' to me about the Riviera and goin' to see Satan Wolf in prn. So why's he goin' and shootin' on me like this? Why's he wanna go ruin it? Why?"

  "Tashay, try and knock the gardening tools down. Will you do it!" she commanded, her voice taking on an edge as her frustration grew. "Don't yell at me…" Tashay started to cry again.

  "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I yelled. Can you do it?"

  "Why's he go an' do this to me? I don't understand. Why?" "Jump up and knock that rake handle. See if it'll drop the hedge clipper down. Do it… jump… jump up and hit it, can you**?

  Tashay looked up at the tools above her head, then back at Karen. "I can't. My wrists hurt."

  "You can. Just try…"

  "Maybe if I do everything they want… maybe if we promise to be good… maybe then they'll-"

  "Tash! Listen to me," she interrupted. "Leonard Land is a psychopathic serial killer. He's murdered three women I know about for sure. Bob Shiff is his foster brother. They aren't going to let you go. They're gonna kill you. They used you to get to me. They're going to kill us both. Our only chance, Tash, is to work together. You've got to help me. Can you do it? Will you try?"

  After a long moment she looked up at the rake handle above her head, then back at Karen.

  "You can do it. Try. Come on, honey, just once… try."

  Tashay looked up, and then she made her first tentative jump in the air. Her wrists had been rubbed raw and she squealed in pain as she jumped up, pulling the short length of chain with her. She almost made it on the first try. "I can't do it," she whined.

  "Almost," Karen said. "You almost had it. Just a little higher." Tashay jumped again. This time she hit the tools. The hedge clipper, which was balanced diagonally across the rake, fell between the tools and cl
attered down onto the concrete floor between them. The noise seemed deafening. Karen prayed nobody heard the racket. She had to move fast; something told her they were almost out of time.

  "Okay. Okay… good, Tash. Now you gotta get closer to it and kick it over to me."

  Tashay moved as close as she could, then hooked her bare foot under the long handle of the hedge clipper and flipped it over toward Karen. It landed right at the base of the post where Karen was tied. She lowered herself down the splintered wood and rotated around so that her hands were near the handle of the tool. She got a grip on it and started to carefully work her fingers down the handle, bringing the sharp edge of the shears toward her. Her fingers were numb from the ropes, but she finally got her hands on the cutting edge and positioned it so that she could start sawing the ropes that bound her. Then she heard a screen door slam outside and two men talking in low tones. She worked to cut the ropes off. She held on to the blade tightly, sawing frantically. And then she felt one give. She pulled hard and she was free. She stood and moved to Tashay, reached up, and untied her.

  "Maybe if we tell Bob we didn't run when we could've, he'll let us go." Tashay was talking animatedly, her voice was too loud.

  "Shhhh," Karen said, looking around. "Where's that door go?" she asked, pointing to a door at the rear of the garage.

  "Nowhere, just out to the backyard. There's a big hill with trees, goes up to the park. But the door's padlocked. The key's over there," she said, pointing at a tool bench.

  "Get it open. I'm gonna try to lock the front from the inside." Tashay retrieved the key and scuttled to the back door. Karen moved to the front of the garage and found some barbed wire. She grabbed it and started to wire the big garage door closed, wrapping it around several times. In her haste, the sharp barbs ripped open her palms and fingers.

  Then the wire accidentally banged against the light metal door, making a loud scratching sound.

  "The fuck you doin'…?" Bob's voice called from outside. Then she felt the garage door start to open. The wire popped free.

  "Run, Tashay!" she yelled as she tried to hold the door closed. She managed for a second, and then Bob Shiff and Leonard Land pushed it up and grabbed for her. She dodged them and stumbled backwards, falling next to the hedge clipper. She snatched them up and swung them at Leonard Land, who was now moving toward her in his awkward lumbering gate. She cut him across the side of his face with the open shears. He roared in anger and grabbed her, picking her up high over his head. Then he threw her down on the concrete floor. She was rocked by the blow, almost losing consciousness. She grabbed his leg and tried to bring him down. It was then that Bob Shiff grabbed her and pinned her arms behind her. He looked around for Tashay, but Tashay was gone. She had escaped out the back door.

  "It's her! It's the bitch Shirley!" the man named Leonard Land said. The blood from the cut ran freely down his cheek but he didn't seem to notice it.

  And then they heard a car out front. All of them turned and looked out of the open garage into the setting sun, as a gray Lincoln Town Car pulled into the drive.

  Chapter 39

  TRAFFIC

  Lockwood and Malavida were stunned when they pulled into the driveway at Bob Shiff's house and saw Karen on the floor inside the open garage. They saw Leonard Land lumbering toward her and skinny Bob Shiff looking out at them. Lockwood and Malavida struggled to get out of the car, as Land grabbed Karen up off the floor where he'd thrown her, then ran out the rear of the garage.

  Lockwood had lost his.45 to the Miami Police Department when he'd been arrested five days before. They were both unarmed. Lockwood knew, even before he was out of the car, that he wasn't going to come close to making it in time. He watched in horror as the huge man moved in that same awkward run he had witnessed in back of Land's house in Tampa. He galloped across the lawn with Karen over his shoulder to the VW van, which was parked on the grass behind the house. Leonard threw Karen into the back and clambered in behind her while Bob Shiff, who was only a few steps back, jumped behind the wheel and started the engine.

  Lockwood watched as Malavida stumbled after them. He also didn't have a chance to stop them, so Lockwood turned and hobbled on unsteady legs back to the Lincoln. He got behind the wheel and started it. Malavida had stopped his limping run and had sunk to one knee in the grass, holding his stomach in pain, while Bob Shiff popped the clutch, throwing huge pieces of dead turf out behind the van as it sped away.

  Lockwood pulled the Lincoln up to where Malavida was kneeling. There was blood on his shirt where some of the stitches had pulled free, opening his incision. Lockwood reached over and threw open the passenger door. "In!" he croaked.

  Malavida pulled himself up by the door handle and slung himself painfully into the passenger seat. Before he could get the door closed, Lockwood floored it and was in pursuit of the VW van, which turned right on Summer Cove Road.

  They could see it moving fast, a few hundred yards ahead. Then it turned left onto Old Cutler Road and headed toward Miami.

  "Whatta you gonna do?" Malavida asked through clenched teeth, one blood-covered hand still holding his ruptured incision.

  "Run fucker off road."

  "Karen's in there…

  "Gotta stop 'em… ram 'em," Lockwood said, "or she's dead. Call the cops."

  Malavida grabbed up his cellphone as Lockwood turned left onto Old Cutler Road, accelerating. The much faster Lincoln began gaining ground on the van. Lockwood figured he could almost catch them before they got to Miami, which was only a mile away.

  Something about that didn't make sense. Lockwood knew Shiff could see him in the van's rearview mirror. Why would they head back to Miami, where they would get caught in five o'clock traffic? he wondered.

  The Wind Minstrel sat quietly in the back of the speeding van with Leonard's computer on his lap. He knew all of The Rat's tricks and games. He knew he could change the world with the computer. Everything and everybody lived within the web of its influence. The Wind Minstrel never went out in the daylight. He had come out today only because his very survival was at stake, and he cursed the cowardly Rat for leaving this predicament for him to solve. His skin burned as he hooked the computer to the cellphone. The Rat had already preprogrammed everything and it was only a matter of minutes until The Wind Minstrel would activate it. He yelled at Robbie Land to go faster. The VW van rattled at breakneck speed. The Wind Minstrel loved Death Metal music but he abhorred Robbie Land. He was just a pretender, a poser who called himself Satan, but he was a fool with his worship of sick monsters-men like Dahmer, who ate his victims, or John Wayne Gacy, who killed to fulfill a sick fantasy. The Wind Minstrel was holy. His murders were Grand Biblical Adventures. He was the Anti-Christ, and walked on a higher plane of ritual dedication. He was involved in a personal struggle with the Almighty Himself to see which of them would control the universe.

  The Rat had cultivated Robbie, his one-time foster brother, and had used him to catch the Shirley-like bitch. The Wind Minstrel, working on the laptop, had established a cellphone hookup. He had just started his logon:

  bitran login:

  He logged in as root using a stolen password. He was immediately accepted to the City of Miami's transportation computer control system:

  WELCOME TO "BI-TRAN"

  root

  He typed in:

  DTCS

  In seconds the Distributed Traffic Control System appeared on the screen. It had been named SCOOT by the City of Miami.

  In the back of the cramped van, Karen pushed herself as far away from the huge, sweating man as possible. The rear door of the van was locked and there was no escape. The pungent smell of him filled the small space. His odor was rank and reminded her of bad meat and sour dough. She could see the computer in his lap and wondered what he was doing.

  And then the traffic light grid for the City of Miami came up on the screen.

  "Street?" The Wind Minstrel yelled at Bob Shiff.

  "They're back there. They're gaining o
n us. I can't go any faster," the skinny Death Rocker screamed. "We shoulda gone the other way. We're gonna hit traffic. They'll be on us!"

  "What street?" The Wind Minstrel said, growling ominously. "Old Cutler Road," Shiff called back.

  The Wind Minstrel typed it into the computer, and up on the screen came an enlarged map section of Miami that featured Old Cutler Road.

  "Cross streets?" The Wind Minstrel yelled at Bob Shiff.

  They were approaching a street that Bob Shiff knew ran north.

  straight into Miami. "Twenty-seventh Avenue!" he yelled out. "Turn left," The Wind Minstrel instructed.

  "I'll hit a million cross streets," Bob Shiff pleaded. "We'll be trapped in traffic."

  "You are in a holy presence," The Wind Minstrel growled. "This is my temple. It is written that the wicked risen in the Second Resurrection will go up on the breadth of the earth with Satan and follow his commandments. Now, turn fucking left, goddamn it!" he shouted; the veins on his rash-reddened neck bulged.

  Bob Shiff cursed but turned left. Twenty-seventh Avenue was absolutely straight and filled with stoplights and five o'clock cross traffic. He was certain they would be blocked and quickly overtaken by the car behind them. Somewhere in the distance he heard a police siren. Then a strange thing happened… Just as they got to the first stoplight, which was Coral Way, the red light turned green and they shot right through. Bob Shiff looked in his rearview mirror at the gray sedan following them. The light stayed green for only a second. Just before the Lincoln hit the same intersection, the light turned red, and the Lincoln slid sideways to miss a red Volvo accelerating down Coral Way. The Lincoln missed the Volvo by inches, then finally ran the red light and was again after them.

  "Cross street!" The Wind Minstrel yelled.

  "Eighth!" Shiff called back, and he heard the computer keys clicking… Ahead of him, at the last second, the Eighth Street light turned green. They shot through it, and in the rearview mirror he watched as it immediately turned red again. It was then that Bob Shiff understood what The Wind Minstrel was doing. He had cracked into the traffic-light computer system and was controlling all the lights on Twenty-seventh Avenue.