Final Victim

by Stephen J. Cannell

  She reached out and picked up the compass and looked at it for a long moment. "But could you use a hamburger?" she asked recklessly.

  Chapter 20

  TRICKY LANDING

  They went to Crawdaddy's, which was located at the end of the Courtney Campbell Causeway near St. Petersburg. There were no hamburgers on the menu, but the sign advertised SOUTH FLORIDA CUISINE, and the place was packed.

  A calypso steel-drum band was pumping up the atmosphere. Karen and Malavida sat in the rustic bar and waited for a table. Malavida seemed absorbed in thought. Finally he looked up at her and she saw pain in his dark eyes.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "Claire Lockwood." He pronounced her name slowly, tasting the syllables. A bitter expression drifted across his face. "I just keep thinking… what was she doing when The Rat got her? Did she die in pain? Did she die slowly? Did she even know she was dying when it was happening?" He looked down at the Scotch-rocks in front of him and stirred the ice with his finger.

  "You didn't kill her, Mal. You were just doing what you were told." "Yeah." He looked up at her but refused to elaborate.

  "You're not at all what you try to look like," she finally said. "And what do I try to look like?"

  "I don't know. I'm not sure yet… but it's not what you make people think."

  "Nobody is," he said, "you included."

  "Especially me." She took a long swallow of her margarita and set it down.

  Malavida looked away as he spoke. "You can't show who you are in there. You let 'em see what's really inside, they take it from you the hard way."

  "In prn?" she asked. But he didn't answer.

  "The only place I ever saw weakness on the inside was Z Block. I used to score medicine on my computer for the queens on that tier. You'd go over there and you could feel the humanity, but the place was like something outta a bad sci-fi movie."

  "Z Block…?"

  "It was a place where they put all the cons who were infected with AIDS. It was nothing but a coroner's waiting room. The state didn't have the cash to treat those guys, so I tried to score AZT from the pharmaceutical companies on my computer. When I'd get the drugs, I'd take the shipments over. The place was horrible. The smells would gag you… decaying flesh, open sores… the sounds of men dying. Vomit ran like rainwater down the drains. They had a stroll up there, on the top of the block. It's like a place you can walk all the way around. There were guys on Z who I'd known before they got the virus.. cons who I thought were violent and unredeemable. One day I saw a guy they called the Maytag Man. He was a prn mechanic, a hit man. He used to take cigarette contracts on other cons. He'd wash you out for two cartons of Camels. He ended up with the virus. One day, I looked up and saw this hardcase helping a dying con walk the stroll, half carrying this skeleton around the tier so he'd get some exercise. Z Block was the only place in the joint I ever saw weakness, the only place where you could give a shit without looking like a target… and it was the most unrelenting, horrible place I've ever been."

  She looked up at him and saw he was deep in the memory.

  "It's why I took off," he continued, "why I ran in Atlanta. Once I was out, I couldn't go back. The place was changing me. There is no friendship in prn, only arrangements to survive. There's no seasons, only time… Your release date and your death certificate are the only two things that change anything."

  The maitre d' came to show them to their table. They moved across the crowded restaurant as the calypso band played "Yellow Bird" on the steel drums. The people in the restaurant clapped in rhythm to the music. Malavida and Karen sat near the window and she could see the moonlit water in the distance.

  She had also been sent away when she was in her teens, to a different kind of prn, being punished for her huge intellect. Her greatest asset, like Malavida's, had ended up costing her her childhood and her freedom.

  She looked across the table at him. Again she was startled by the transformation in her attitude toward him. He had opened up to her, shared some feelings. It was as if by shedding the prn dungarees he had altered his whole persona. She knew that if she stopped to examine her feelings using her Ph. D., she would warn herself to be careful. The differences between them far outweighed what they had in common, and she knew opposites attract only in science class. But something deeper drew her to him. In this tall, handsome Chicano, she was seeing long-lost parts of herself. She had read his yellow sheet and knew that his early crimes had been committed to give gifts to his mother, whom he worshiped. He had tried to please her just as Karen had tried to please her father… but his sentence had been more severe.

  At dinner they talked about things that didn't matter. Malavida continued to come alive, revealing a droll sense of humor. She had two more margaritas. She was beginning to feel fuzzy and warm. She knew she had hit her limit.

  The calypso band was replaced by a jazz combo at ten, and they danced on the small dance floor. She could feel his strong, hard body against hers, and she gripped him tightly, laying her head against his chest. She warned herself again, briefly, then clutched him and forgot the warning.

  "Are you okay?" he finally asked.

  She smiled up at him. "I think so…" she said, but she wasn't at all sure. Several times while she danced, she found her mind drifting to thoughts of Lockwood. She knew Lockwood was a mistake for her. He couldn't nourish her. He was focused on other things, lost in guilt over Claire and remorse over Heather. Karen knew she was just furniture in Lockwood's life. She was resigned to being alone. She couldn't invest herself in another failed relationship. She was too fragile to withstand another loss. Malavida had ulterior motives, but at least she understood them. She clutched him tighter and swayed with the margaritas and the music.

  They left the restaurant a little past midnight and walked slowly into the parking lot. Karen took his hand and led him past the car to a small wharf near the restaurant. They sat on a small iron bench on the pier, and she looked out at the shimmering, moonlit water.

  "It was nice that you sent away for the medicine."

  "It was computer theft… Class A felony."

  "So why did you do it?" she asked, looking up at him curiously.

  He smiled, his white teeth shining in the moonlight. "I don't know, Karen. It's hard to tell with me sometimes…"

  "Because you wanted to help them?" she volunteered.

  "I'm not that noble. Maybe ten percent… but mostly it was like everything else, I just wanted to see if I could do it."

  Karen had lived her life on the edge of that temptation. The trouble was, once you strapped yourself into an ALFA Wing and jumped, there was no turning back. You had to live with the outcome.

  She reached out and touched his face.

  "Karen… you're very beautiful and I desperately want to make love to you," he said slowly. "But I owe something to Claire Lockwood. I won't feel right until I pay the debt…"

  She knew he was right, but she had already strapped on the ALFA Wing, already started her run. She needed desperately to be close to someone. She was so damn lonely. She kissed him just as he finished the sentence. He put both of his arms around her. She could feel an exchange of chemical electricity. The kiss lasted for almost a minute and then it was followed by another. She wasn't sure what she was doing, or why this was happening. But she knew she needed human warmth, just like the cons on Z Block. She couldn't function in The Rat's depraved world of mutilation and death without some compassion and humanity.

  Back at the room they shed their clothes quickly, and, in the dark, they tumbled onto the bed. He was a good lover who took his time. His body was hard and ridged with muscles. The lone teardrop tattoo hung under his eye like a beacon symbolizing their differences. But having already run toward the edge, she now jumped, sailing out into space, falling free, her rudder assembly barely intact. She circled blindly in the dark. He entered her. She found immediate direction in the pleasure. The lovemaking was slow and rhythmic and they both reached orgasm toget
her. They held each other afterward in the dark. She felt his heart beating, his breath on her shoulder. She was lost in the moment. They were sailing together. He had said that only a release date or death certificate changed anything. But what about this? she wondered. Then her practical mind overtook her fantasy. She lay on the bed with his weight on top of her and knew that this would probably be one of her trickiest landings.

  Chapter 21

  SATAN'S MESSAGE

  The Rat had found a new place for the barge. It was miles farther down the Little Manatee River in the heart of the wetlands. He'd gone searching in his air-boat and he was sure it was deep enough for the heavy metal garbage barge, but he had not yet moved it. He sat in his underwear in the hull, enduring the intense late-afternoon heat. Deep in thought, he looked at the rusting walls. He had been waiting for the coveting to begin, for the sensation of need that filled him like electricity, making his skin burn, turning his mind taut and his emotions quick with longing. He sat in the stifling heat, wondering if he dared turn on the computer again. He knew he was engaged in a vicious, deadly, apocalyptic struggle with the Deity. He knew the answers he needed were more important than the risks; that the Beast must be constructed and given life so the answers could be told to him. He reached out and turned on his computer. He dialed into his account at the University of Florida on his cellphone, which was connected to his modem. He had decided not to use a hardwire phone hookup to reduce his risk of discovery. He would continue to use Pennet as his host computer because he generally trusted the high-tech security on that system, despite what had happened last Sunday. He decided it was his own carelessness that had caused that disaster.

  All week he had worked to make a new program that would be even more secure. It would protect him by using a leapfrog Internet address which was designed to work as an electronic trap. Anybody backfingering to that address would be busted by his alarm program and he would be alerted before they could get to him, allowing him to disconnect from Pennet and vanish into cyberspace.

  The Rat knew it was time for a new coveting to begin. He would go back into the SurgiCyberNet, which was where he made all his parts selections for the Beast. It was where he had been given the message almost two years ago that told him how to proceed. He logged on and typed in the name of his electronic trap:

  Iogflnger

  He then telnetted to Pennet at:

  rIng2Ice. Anon. Pennet. No

  And his screen said:

  Connected to rIng2Ice. Anon. Pennet. No Escape character Is 'Ar

  SunOS UNIX (rIng2Ice)

  login:

  And the password:

  Mutil8oR

  And was quickly accepted into Pennet:

  WELCOME TO PENNET, rat

  He checked the private chat channel to see if Satan might be there, typing:

  bbs/nick WIndMInstrel

  And was greeted by:

  WELCOME TO PENNET CHAT, WIndMInstrel

  When he saw Satan wasn't there, he left chat and shot through Pennet and out into cyberspace, then cracked the SurgiCyberNet system with a username/password he had already cracked months ago. SurgiCyberNet was a network for plastic surgeons, who left "before" and "after" pictures of patients and procedures so that they could share new techniques. The Rat had found the SurgiCyberNet chat line two years ago and had begun scrolling avidly through pictures of naked women. Its symbol on the Internet was G. The symbol had fascinated him. The S inside the C seemed to beckon him. S was Shirley's initial; C and S stood for cyberspace, which was his most powerful universe. Could this be a sign? As he looked at the pictures of naked women, his mind was still on the symbol. Then, by accident, he came across a picture of a woman who had unshaven legs and stocky, Shirley-like ankles. Shirley had never shaved her legs, because she said shaving one's appendages to attract sexual favors offended God. The Rat looked at the picture of the woman with Shirley's ankles for hours. Her name was Leslie Bowers and she was scheduled for liposuction on her thighs. It was almost as if Shirley's lower legs were there on the screen. His heart pounded and he wondered how two people could have identical calves and ankles. Had God also told this woman not to shave her legs? Then a mind-numbing thought hit him: Unless Shirley and the woman had a genuine correlation in the universe, unless they were part of the exact same eternal mosaic, how could they have calves and ankles that looked exactly the same? He knew that no two faces or fingerprints were identical. With legs, of course, there were far fewer identifiers, but still the thought intrigued him. It buzzed in his head like a broken speaker for days. It plagued him at night and kept him awake.

  He had returned to the SurgiCyberNet chat line every evening. Each time, he would find Leslie Bowers's picture and surgical data. Then one night, he saw the message! Under the picture of Leslie Bowers, it said:

  Surgery date 1/13/94 And below that:

  R. 13-IS

  Had the surgery date been revised from the thirteenth to the fifteenth?

  He wondered if it could mean something else. Could it be a clever message? The Rat had learned that numerals were often disguised messages. And then the true meaning screamed at him… How could he have missed it? He ran upstairs and found Shirley's Bible. His hands shook as he looked up chapter 13 of Revelation and read verses 13 and 14:

  And he doeth great wonders… And deceiveth them that dwell on the earth, by the means of those miracles which he had power to do in the sight of the beast; saying to them that dwell on the earth, that they should make an image to the beast, which had the wound by a sword, and did live.

  He read on to verse 15, his throat dry, his mouth open:

  And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the image of the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed.

  It had taken a great deal of effort not to shout his joy. He had found the answer. He should make the image of a Beast… He had long known that he had the mark of the Beast on him. Shirley had told him, when he got the sickness and all of his hair fell out, that he had been marked by the devil. Revelation 13:15 said that he had the power to give the miracle of life unto the image of the Beast, that the image of the Beast should speak, and that all who would not worship the image would be killed… He knew this message this from the Anti-Christ, and the clever devil had used the Lord's own testament to send it, using a woman who had Shirley's unshaven legs as the messenger.

  From then on, his mission had been clear. He would construct the Beast. Shirley had all the answers and so it was Shirley to whom he had to give life. That prophecy in Revelation had been made clear to him two years ago. It had been the beginning of the reconstruction and resurrection. The Rat had learned to covet and The Wind Minstrel had come forward in all his glory to swing the sword of reckoning. The first victim had been Leslie Bowers. She lived in Detroit. Her fat calves and ankles were in a freezer not ten feet from where he now sat in the rusting garbage barge. There had been five others who had contributed to the Beast; everything was there but the head. But the head was a special problem. It had to look exactly like Shirley. The head would be his final victim.

  Malavida had driven Karen across to St. Petersburg early the next morning. She had checked into the Comfort Inn, which was well positioned, right on the bay. They had stood in the parking lot, holding hands in silence. "I better get back," he'd finally said. They both felt awkward, wondering if they had true affection for each other or had just taken care of long-overdue emotional and biological needs.

  "I'll call you. Get all that stuff set up on the balcony," he'd said, then gotten into his rental van and driven back to Tampa. That had been four hours ago.

  In his motel room, Malavida's computer picked up the tones of The Rat's login and rang an alarm, bringing him in from the balcony where he'd been setting up his direction finder. He grabbed his phone and dialed Karen Dawson's cellular. Karen picked up on the second ring.

  "Hello?"

  "He's hot." Malavida
looked at his computer screen, which had captured the exact frequency of The Rat's cellphone:

  876.000 MHz

  "See if you've got anything on eight-seventy-six megahertz," Malavida said, and both of them were silent as they carefully twisted their antennas. He could now hear the sound of electronic static, indicating that on 876 megahertz he had a cellphone in use with a modem somewhere on the Tampa pod. "I got it!" he said.

  "Me too," she answered.

  "Find the null point and gimme the degrees," he commanded.

  Karen had her radio unit and loop antenna out on the tenth-floor balcony of the Comfort Inn, overlooking the windswept bay. She twisted the antenna loop until she could no longer hear the transmission static, quickly finding the null point. She laid the Boy Scout compass that Malavida had given her on the table and rotated it to line up with the loop antenna.

  "One hundred and sixty-four degrees," she said into the telephone. Malavida, with his phone cocked under his ear, also found the null point. His compass said 193 degrees.

  "Hold on a second," he told her and ran inside. He laid his compass on the map. He found Karen's coordinates first. He had marked her hotel's location at the end of the Howard Frankland Bridge on Highway 275 with a big X. He marked a course 164 degrees from that location and drew a line with a pencil and ruler. Then, from his own location, he found 193 degrees and drew another line.

  The lines intersected in the wetlands south of Tampa, about a mile and a half up the Little Manatee River.

  "Gotcha, you cocksucker," he said under his breath.

  Chapter 22

  RUSH TO THE APOCALYPSE

  "Yeah?" Lockwood said into the telephone.

  "How you doing?" Karen's voice came back softly.

  "Not good," he sighed. He was standing at the hospital nurses' station. It was nine P. M. and, after almost four hours of tossing and turning, Heather was finally asleep in her room down the corridor.