Final Victim (1995) (40 page)

The van appeared to be empty. She got out and looked inside. She could see nothing, so she knocked on the side door. "Tashay, it's Karen," she called out.

Nobody answered.

She looked at the restroom, which was a few feet to the right. After a moment's hesitation, she moved to the door, pushed it open, and called inside. "Tashay, it's Karen," she called again.

There was still no answer, so she carefully entered the ladies' room. Her heart was pounding in fear, not excitement, her own blood roaring in her ears.

The ladies' room stank. It was small and dirty. Wadded paper towel
s o
verflowed the metal basket like dead brown roses. There appeared to be nobody inside. "Tashay . . . ? It's Karen!" she called again.

And then she heard the faint sound of somebody moaning from inside one of the stalls. She moved to it and looked under the door. She could see a girl's bare feet.

"Tashay?" she called. She heard more soft, painful moaning. Then she reached out and touched the stall door. It was unlatched. She pushed the door open.

At first, she couldn't tell whom she was looking at. There was somebody in the stall . . . a woman. Her long hair was streaked with blood. Then the person looked up; her face was beaten and swollen. Several of her teeth were missing. It took Karen a moment to realize she was looking at Tashay Roberts. Karen's mind quickly started collecting facts: Tashay was seated on the closed toilet. Her arms were tied behind her back. She was barely conscious.

"Oh, my God," Karen said as the pitiful half-closed eyes of Tashay looked up at her.

Karen rushed into the stall to pull the girl off the toilet seat. Then she was staggered by a terrible blow from behind. It knocked her sideways. As she went down she saw a hideous man grinning. He had ugly black tattoos under his eyes and he was holding a baseball bat. He swung it again.

Just seconds before she lost consciousness, she realized that her assailant was Satan T. Bone.

Chapter
36

Lockwood was struggling to stay on his feet. He had crossed half of the linoleum floor of the room on a walker. He was dizzy. His vision was so distorted that he had been fighting nausea for almost an hour. Ginger, his muscular PT nurse, kept shouting encouragement, but the words and the task reminded him more of the obstacle course in Marine boot camp than anything else.

The phone had been ringing for almost a minute before Ginger snatched it up. "PT, Ginger Cortland speaking."

"This is Dr. Chacone, I'm a cerebral control specialist," Malavida said with dignity. "The Lockwood case has been referred to me by Dr. Sikes. I understand the patient is with you. I'd like to speak with him, if he's available."

"Sure," she said and looked over at Lockwood. "If you can get your butt over to the phone, sweet cheeks, you can take this call and buy a rest."

Lockwood turned the walker around and put it out in front of him, shuffled forward, then repeated the motion. He could barely make his feet respond to mental commands. Once he was in the general vicinity of the phone, Ginger took pity and moved the rest of the way toward him, handing him the receiver.

"Yeah," he said weakly.

"This Lockwood?"

"Yep, Lockwood," he said, slurring his words and concentrating to keep them in the right order.

"How you doin', Zanzo?" Malavida said. "You sound limp as a plate of pasta."

"The fuck," Lockwood said, grinning.

"My thought exactly. You okay to talk?" Malavida asked. "You alone?"

"No. Ten feet standing Hitler me from is." He took a deep breath. "Fucked up my punch line," he said, depressed.

"Look, we gotta problem. It's Karen. Listen to me and tell me what you think--"

" Kay."

"She's down here taunting The Rat. She's been on TV, insulting him, trying to sound like his mother. I couldn't stop her."

"Got to stop her." He grimaced.

"I'm flat on my back, Zanzo. I can't go to the bathroom withou
t c
alling in a committee. She snuck me out of the hospital, moved me t
o a
motel on the Miami River called The Swallow Inn. Technically, I'
m s
till a fugitive. I called the police department, pretending to be he
r b
rother. They told me they called off the stakeout this morning. Sh
e d
idn't come back here, so either this asshole got her or she's walkin
g a
round without cover. Nobody knows where she is. She's way overdue."

"Shit," Lockwood said, the imminent danger helping to connect
a f
ew dots in his ravaged nervous system. He knew Karen was a daredevil. He prayed that she was safe.

"Look, Zanzo, I'm up for most anything, 'cept I can't get out of bed."

"Mal . . . I'm . . . my head works weird. I don't . . can't remember stuff."

"Can you drive? Can you get on an airplane? I don't have anybody else. We call the cops, I'm back in Lompoc."

"I don't know. . . . I'm . . . I can't. Hold on." He put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Ginger. "Could you water me?" He smiled, then looked embarrassed.

"Don't blush, I know what you mean, sugar." She pushed herself off the table and went to get him water. As soon as she was gone: "Mal . . . driver . . . need car . . ."

"I'll send you a limo. I've been stealing limo rides since I was sixteen."

"Fly . . . I can't get . . ."

"I know. I can handle that too. There's an Executive Terminal at National Airport. The limo will have your jet's tail number. John .. . can you focus on this? You know what I'm telling you?"

"Trying."

"Can you get to the main hospital entrance?"

"Think so."

"Be there at twelve noon today. I'll have a car waiting. I'll set the whole thing in motion and have you delivered to my room here, just like a basket of fruit . . . no disrespect intended."

For Lockwood, the hardest part of the trip was putting on his pants, then moving the twenty or so yards from his room to the main entrance of the hospital in Washington. He scraped the metal walker along the yellow linoleum floors and shuffled after it. He finally made the fron
t d
oor, where a black stretch limo was waiting. He was delivered to National Airport and a Malavida-supplied charter jet. Lockwood had to hand it to Malavida; the cracker was amazing.

At three o'clock Sunday afternoon, John Lockwood was delivered to The Swallow Inn on the Miami River. He struggled to get his walker out of the cab, unfolded it, and told the driver to go on. He made a slow, awkward trip to Bungalow 7, pushed the door open, and shuffled in. He found himself looking into the much thinner, but smiling face of Malavida Chacone.

"You look like the last reel of a Frankenstein movie," the Chicano said.

Lockwood shuffled across the room until he was looking down into Malavida's dark eyes. "Least don't need a tube to piss," he replied.

Then, exhausted, Lockwood collapsed in a chair, and Malavida brought him the rest of the way up to date.

Chapter
37

At first it sounded like something growling. It vibrated, shaking her whole body. She tried to ignore it, to push it down into her subconscious, but it would not go away. As her mind began to focus, she realized there was more. Drums and guitars, discordant and angry, and then something else . . . a low whimper that ended with a strangled high whine. She tried to move but couldn't. Her head throbbed horribly with the constant vibration and, as she came closer to the surface of consciousness, she began to realize she was badly hurt. Her jaw was in agony; her whole body ached. She didn't know where she was or what had happened. She had loose pebbles in her mouth. . . . She wondered why. Slowly she moved her tongue to touch them. In horror she realized they were pieces of her own broken teeth. She spit them out and slowly opened her eyes.

It took her a moment to focus. She was looking at something big and curved. She struggled to identify it. A tire well. She was on th
e f
loor in the back of a truck or van. She felt a change in direction and then the sudden vibration of wheels passing over lane dots. She knew then that the vehicle was in motion. She didn't know why she was there or why she hurt so badly. Her mind struggled to remember. She could see the back of a man's skinny right arm as he drove. She tried to ask him for help but she couldn't move her mouth. Where was she? What was that horrible music that was playing?

She fought to put more pieces in place and then she heard the moaning again. Her body wouldn't move; she tried to turn her head and finally managed. She was looking into a tangle of blood-soaked blond hair, not three feet from her. She tried to see through the mess but couldn't, and then the head moved and the hair fell away and she could see the face. It was bloodied and swollen. A girl, vaguely familiar. Karen thought she remembered her . . . and then a big piece fell back into place. The public toilet . . . the attack . . . the baseball bat swinging at her.

"Tashay," she finally whispered to the girl, "Tashay?" The girl opened her eyes and the two exchanged a long look. A silent message of desperation passed between them. Then Tashay Roberts closed her eyes without speaking, cutting off the unspoken communication. Karen tried to roll into a better position. She struggled to turn over. It was then that she discovered she had been lashed to speaker hooks that were screwed into the floor of the van.

The skinny driver heard her moving and turned to look at her. "Keep quiet. Make any noise, you're gonna be pissing backwards."

She could see him clearly now. He was milk-white, with long black hair. The intermittent sunlight through passing trees shot lines and shadows across his gruesome, skinny features. The ghoulish tattoos under his eyes gave his hollow face a skull-like intensity. Then Baby Killer starte
d s
creaming a second verse through the speakers. Satan T. Bone's raspy voice filled the van:

It ain't a nice place
,
So shit in her face.

She's got no place to hide, So ya rip her inside.

Let the dogs eat her eyes.. . Yeah, dogs eat her eyes.

The horrible serenade continued. Tashay moaned. Karen tried to gather her resources. She remembered most of it now; the driver was Bob Shiff. He had hit her with the bat. . . . She didn't know why. What she did know was that she had somehow badly miscalculated, and now was in a desperate fight for her life. She could feel the van exit the highway and come to a halt. Then they turned right and made a stopand-go trip along a street. She could see patterns of moving sunlight on the walls and ceiling of the van. She could occasionally hear cars pull up next to them. Finally they picked up speed and Karen thought that they were on another highway of some kind. A short time later they made a hard right then pulled to a stop. She saw Shiff get out from behind the driver's seat and heard him walk to the back. The rear door opened and he leaned in. She could not turn her head to see him, but she felt him above her.

"You two make trouble, and I be shootin' on yer ass." He unhooked Tashay from the floor and dragged her out of the van by her heels. She moaned. As he got her out of the back, Karen heard her head hit the bumper. She fell to the ground and let out a cry. "Shut the fuck up!" he shouted at her.

Karen couldn't see where they were. Her head was facing in the wrong direction and she couldn't lift it up to turn around and look out the back of the van. She could feel the hot morning air, and she filled her lungs, trying to summon as much strength as she could. Somewhere far away she heard Sunday church bells ringing. Moments later Shiff was back. He poked her.

"You awake?" he said.

She said nothing, tried not to move. He reached in and over and untied her. She waited until he had unhooked her hands and legs and had started to pull her out. Then she focused all her energy, reared back, and kicked him in the face as hard as she could. He fell backwards, yelling in confusion and pain. She struggled to get to a sitting position, but she was dizzy and fell sideways. Shiff was immediately back on her, his skinny arms pushing her back into the van. Then he grabbed something. She didn't see what, but when he hit her, her head spun with the force of the blow. She felt no pain but saw a blinding light . . . and then nothing.

Malavida and Lockwood ordered a car from Hertz. They waited in Bungalow 7 of The Swallow Inn for the rental agent to deliver it. Lockwood had called the Miami police. He had tried to talk to Fred T. Fredrickson but couldn't get through. When he explained his concern about Karen's disappearance, he was transferred to Missing Persons. He was having trouble making himself understood, so he handed the phone to Malavida, who gave the information to a policewoman but refused to identify himself. Lockwood knew the case would be tossed on a pile with hundreds of runaways and would get little attention. After he hung up, Lockwood watched with distress while Malavida got out of bed and, using a chair for support, moved to the bathroom. Neither of the
m c
ould get around at all. They moved like two old convalescents doing a Thorazine shuffle. Lockwood wasn't sure he could drive; he was still having trouble with depth perception. When Malavida returned, he sat on the edge of the bed. They surveyed each other optimistically. . . . Each thought the other looked like hell.