Final Victim (1995) (30 page)

"Eat me, fuckers . . ." Satan T. Bone screamed at his cheering audience, but by then Lockwood and Karen were back in the street.

Parked in the alley near the backstage door of the theater was a brown primer-patched VW van.

"Looks like ye old band bus to me," Lockwood said and circled it, checking the doors.

"Don't you need a warrant or something to look in there?"

"Yeah, probably . . . but I'm not a cop anymore, so this is just gonna be a straight felony B and E." He pulled out a pocketknife. Using the short blade, he pried up the rubberized strip on the door and pushed his finger through the opening, popping the lock and opening the van. "Didn't it bother you at all that John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, and Uncle Charlie's pictures are hanging up in there?" Lockwood said disgustedly.

"You mean instead of Abraham, Martin, and John?"

"Here we are working a possible serial killer, and three maniacs turn out to be the mascots for this band of jerk-offs."

Lockwood started looking around in the van. He pulled the registration slip out of the holder on the vr. "Bob Shiff. Same Court Road address." He returned it and started looking under the seats. He worked his way around until he got back to the front seat on the passenger side. It was a hot night and his shirt was beginning to stick to his back. He found what he was looking for in the glove compartment.

The three brightly colored balloons were knotted at the neck. He pulled them out and poked the knife blade through one of the balloons. He poured white powder into his hand. He smelled it, then tasted it. "Heroin. But it's flea powder, been cut way down." He put the balloons back inside the glove compartment, rummaged around in there some more, and this time pulled out a syringe. He laid it on the seat in plain view, closed the door, and relocked it, putting the strip back on.

"Y'know, John, if this is the way you did the job, no wonder IA was all over you."

"We're not gonna arrest anybody. We're just looking for information. You always do better if you get them playing defense."

He moved to the chain-link gate and closed it, blocking the alley from the front of the theater. He found an open padlock hanging on the fence, slipped it through the gate, and snapped it shut.

Two hours later the stage door opened. Bob Shiff and Tashay Roberts came out. Tashay was wearing a lace see-through top and denim shorts cut so that there was almost no back on them. She was holding on to Bob Shiff's skinny arm. Behind them were the other members of Baby Killer, all of them lugging their instruments. Some of their fans were now moving around to the back and hanging on the fence Lockwood had padlocked shut.

"Hey, man, open the gate," they shouted.

"Who locked the gate?" Shiff asked, looking at Tashay. Lockwood stepped out from behind the van.

"Who the fuck're you?" Shiff said.

"Space Patrol . . . You guys look like intergalactic travelers. Wanna roll up your sleeves, show me your arms?"

"You got a warrant?" Shiff said.

"Don't need one. Got probable cause for a search. You left your pump on the seat there." He pointed through the window at the hypodermic. "Gimme the key to the van or I'm gonna knock out more than your window," Lockwood said.

After a slight hesitation Shiff handed the key to Lockwood. "Those aren't my works, man. I never saw that before."

Lockwood opened the van and started to look under the seat, working his way up to the glove compartment. He opened it and pulled out the three brightly colored balloons. "Somebody having a birthday party?" he drawled, then took the balloon he had already slit open and poured some of the heroin into his hand. "Looks like Mexican marching powder."

"That's not mine," Shiff whined.

Lockwood spun and grabbed his wrist, turning it palm up so he could see the vein in his skinny arm. There were track marks all over it.

"Bullshit, Bob. 'Less you're a diabetic, you been slammin'. I think if we went down to the station you'd 'Jones' in two hours. . . ."

By this time there were thirty hopped-up kids rattling the chain-link fence. Shiff looked over at them, a gleam in his eye. "Hey," he yelled, "come get this guy off me. . . ."

The crowd of fans yelled out and surged at the fence. Two of them started to climb over; two more were climbing around the sidepole. Lockwood pulled the old .45 out of the back of his belt and fired on
e s
hot at the wall of the theater. The report of the gun was deafening in the concrete-and-brick-enclosed alley. All motion stopped. The kids on the fence froze. Lockwood turned to Shiff "Why don't we have this discussion somewhere else?"

Lockwood parked the band bus in Bayfront Park. The moon was full and shimmered across the water on Biscayne Bay. A light sea breeze vibrated a palm frond next to the van. He turned around in the driver's seat so he could see Bob Shiff and Tashay.

"Nice concert," he said, looking at them carefully. "If you don't mind pukey lyrics and a fistfight with a downbeat."

"You a music critic?" Bob Shiff protested. "I thought you were a cop."

Karen reached into her purse and
. P
ulled out her ID, flashed it at him, then returned it before he could see that it was a civilian ID.

"We're working a murder case. . . . I understand you got sent a woman's hand," Karen said, looking at Tashay.

"What the fuck you talkin' about? What hand?" Shiff said.

Lockwood leaned toward him. "Carl Zeno said Tashay gave it to him. It's been booked as a partial Jane Doe in the Tampa Coroner's Office."

"Tash, you got a fuckin' hand sent to us and you didn't tell me?" An amazed look spread across his narrow face.

"Hey, Bobby, we're getting a lotta wet packages. It's very cool an' everything, but I was afraid that whoever sent it was over the edge . . . y'know? So I called Carl. He made me give it to him."

They sat looking at one another for a long time. The silence became overpowering.

"We think the killer we're after may be the fan who sent you the hand. Maybe he came to one of your concerts?" Karen said.

"Lotta people come to our concerts," Shiff said insolently.

"This guy you wouldn't miss," Karen said. "He's almost seven feet tall, weighs three hundred seventy pounds." She reached into her purse, pulled out the printout of Leonard Land's DL picture, and handed it to them.

"Ever see him?" Lockwood asked.

Shiff studied the picture. "Ugly son of a bitch," he said, without interest.

Then Lockwood handed it to Tashay, who looked at it for a long time, her features furrowed in thought. "I don't think I seen this guy. You seen him, Bobby?"

Shiff looked at the picture again. "No, I'd remember. Can we go home?"

Lockwood took the picture back. "How 'bout the mail? You say you get wet packages. If he delivered this hand to you, maybe he sent you something else before this. You keep the mail?"

Tashay looked over at Shiff and he shook his head.

"No, we throw it away," Shiff mumbled.

They sat there for a long moment in a dark no-man's-land. . . . A full moon lit the horizon to the east; the illuminated buildings of Miami framed the city behind them. A boat without running lights whined at high rpms somewhere out on Biscayne Bay.

"If you see this guy at one of your concerts, get in touch with us. This is my beeper number." Lockwood handed one of his cards to Tashay and then one to Shiff.

"Look man, it's real late. I need t'get home. Have we done this or are you gonna bust me?"

Without answering, Lockwood put the VW van in gear and drove out of the park and back along Miami Boulevard, past the graffiti-lined buildings, to the Loomis Theater. He knew they were probably lying.

They were out on the edge, where bizarre behavior blends with anarchy. He was a cop and the enemy.

Lockwood set the hand brake and moved around the van as Shiff got behind the wheel. Lockwood slid the door open and Karen jumped out. Before he could close the door, Tashay Roberts stuck his business card back into his hand. She closed the door and Bob Shiff, a
. K. A
. Satan T. Bone, pulled the van out, squealing the tires slightly for effect. Lockwood looked down at the card. . . . Tashay had written something in cramped handwriting on the back. He held it up in the dim light of the street lamp. "Call me, 555-6245. I know something," he read.

He spun back just in time to see the van speed around the corner and out of sight.

Chapter
27

The barge rocked softly on a wind tide.

The Rat leaned over and got his CD headset. He put the earphones on and hit Play. . . . Satan T. Bone's raspy voice filled his head with glorious hatred:

Hit on the girl, screw her at last
,
Cut off her arms, plug up her ass.

The screaming will end when the body goes soft. The fucking will start when her head is cut off.

He swayed to the music in the cooling air as he worked. He had saved the head for last. The Rat knew there were more than one hundred identification points on the face and neck. For the Beast to come to life, it had to look like Shirley. So far, all of his searching had found nobody who answered his need. He had always known the head woul
d b
e the hardest. The head would be his final victim. He was being pursued now, so he had to turn away from this difficult selection and deal with his enemies.

Using his modem and cracking kit, it had taken The Rat almost two hours to penetrate security blocking codes in the computer at the U
. S
. Customs Service. As was always the case, he had searched for a hole in the system, and had finally broken through. Lockwood's picture and file were now in front of him on the screen. He read it quickly, his eyes scanning the information. The sweltering afternoon heat in the wetlands around the Little Manatee River had lessened with the evening breeze and he had left the hatch open to catch its wispy coolness. Sweat was drying on his slick, shiny skin. He could feel the beginning of the stinging sensation which indicated that The Wind Minstrel was starting to emerge. In two or three days, he would claim The Rat's body. He knew when that happened, The Wind Minstrel would be enraged. The Rat had made no selections for him. He was not ready to give The Wind Minstrel the final victim to possess.

John Lockwood's file gave The Rat a quick but thorough look at this enemy: unorthodox, talented, frequently reprimanded but usually successful. There were pages of Internal Affairs complaints against Lockwood, and yet there were pages of official commendations for excellence. It was a confusing picture of success amid failure.

The Rat realized, after reading the file carefully, that Lockwood was an awesome threat that would not go away. The picture of the handsome agent stared accusingly out of the computer screen at him. The Rat hated him on sight. Lockwood had been given a gift of physical attractiveness, while The Rat had been forced to live in Leonard Land's fat, ugly body . . . always hiding, always being laughed at and despised.

A plan formed in The Rat's clever brain. He felt he could attac
k a
nd kill Lockwood without ever leaving the rusting barge. It required very little beyond his genius and a little luck to accomplish the feat. He needed to download Lockwood's Customs picture and prints .. . and he had to alter them slightly and add a few manufactured details. Then he had to crack into one more "secure" computer. After he had accomplished that, he would simply wait for the right moment to spring his trap. In the meantime, he would take care of a much easier problem. He would reach out and end the life of Malavida Chacone.

The gas station was at the north end of Miami. Karen was filling the tank while Lockwood stood at the pay phone near the corner, gripping the receiver too tightly. He had tried to call Tashay Roberts but had gotten her answering machine. Then he dialed Children's Hospital in California.

Heather's voice sounded frail and uncertain, coming across three thousand miles of telephone cable. "I'm okay," she said bravely. "When will you come home, Daddy? I'm worried for you."

"I promise nothing will happen to me, but I have to finish this. . . . It's very important. I'll be careful. Don't worry about me."

There was a long, awkward silence on the phone and then, "Daddy . . . I want us to live on a farm, like you said. I've been thinking about that. I want to leave Los Angeles. Can we really do that?"

"It's a promise."

"A promise on a promise?" she said, her voice small.

"A promise on a promise."

"I love you, Daddy. I've asked God to look after you. Mommy's with Him, and they're both looking down. I'll pray to them not to let anything bad happen."

"I'll pray too."

"Here's Grandad," she said. "Bye."

Then Rocky was on the line.

"She sounds better," Lockwood said.

"Think?" the voice was gruff and distant. "She cries in her sleep and don't talk much . . . lookin' out the window most'a the time.. . If that's better, then she's better."

Lockwood winced at the remark but kept going.