Final Victim

Chapter 15

It took exactly one hour before the phone in the file room was turned back on and Karen dialed out. Minutes later, a sixty-year-old building security cop let them out. Lockwood felt lower than whaleshit and, looking back, it still turned out to be the high point of his day. He called Harvey Knox to tell him Malavida wds in the wind.

"This is a joke?" the little Assistant U. S. Attorney asked, his voice in a strange no-man's-land between humor and consternation. "I've been working all night… You're joking, right?"

"I wish I was," Lockwood said apologetically.

"So he's running around in Lompoc. Did you tell the sheriff up there?"

"No."

"NO?" Harvey shouted the word through the receiver. "Why the hell not? Listen, John, that Special Circumstances Release I wrote is vacuum bag dirt. We both know it won't hold up. I'll have to eat it page by fucking page. My bosses up at DOJ are gonna pound on my nuts for this."

"I know, Harvey. I'll take the hit… I'll tell 'em it was my idea." "You gotta get him back in custody, John. Call the sheriff in Lompoc. Get a dragnet out."

"It wouldn't snag him."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause he's not in Lompoc." Lockwood sighed.

"He's not in Lompoc," Harvey repeated, deadpan.

"Right, he's not in Lompoc."

"Where is he? Santa Barbara?"

"Atlanta."

"Atlanta?" Harvey's voice said he could barely comprehend it. "You took this guy to Atlanta?"

Lockwood said nothing. The silence on the line was long and meaningful and crackled with Harvey's disbelief. "There's no witness protection case, of course. We both knew that was bullshit from the beginning. Right, John?"

"Right. Look, Harvey, I'm gonna get slaughtered for this anyway… so I'm gonna tell 'em I forged your signature. Okay? You just say I came by asking for the SCR and you threw me out. Okay? There's no need for us to go into this coffin together."

Another long silence.

"Atlanta?" Harvey said in disbelief. "Why the fuck is he in Atlanta?"

"Harvey, hold your dirt on this. I'll take the torpedo. Just don't go soft and admit to anything. You threw me out… You're pissed I stole the forms. I'll back your story." There was a long, empty, friendship-ending pause from the attorney. "I'm sorry," Lockwood said and hung up. Karen had been strangely silent, watching him while he talked.

"I was actually beginning to like him," she finally said. "He used me, didn't he?"

"Yep," Lockwood said, "but I'm the dummy who let him get away…"

They headed back to Washington on the three P. M. Delta flight. People chattered and sawed on cardboard steaks. Lockwood called his boss, Laurence Heath, on the Airfone and was greeted by long, awkward pauses. Heath finally cleared his throat. "John, I'm going to have a car meet you at Dulles."

From Heath's voice he could sense foreboding.

"Look, Larry, I'm sorry I missed the IA hearing. I got grounded by fog in Atlanta and I-"

"I'll see you when you get here, John," he said and hung up.

Lockwood looked back at Karen, who was sitting in coach still poring over copies she had made of the Atlanta crime scene report. He moved back down the aisle and sat next to her.

"How'd it go?' she said.

"Not good. I'm staring at a hanging. If you want a good seat, show up early. It's gonna be crowded."

"It can't be that bads," she said, looking up from the report. "You're one of their best agents."

"That's a nice confidence boost, but I've got way too many 'silent beefs' in my packet."

"Silent whats?"

"When you're the subject of an internal investigation and there isn't enough evidence to take action and the investigation gets dropped, it doesn't exactly go completely away. It's what they call a 'silent beef.' It's not on paper, but the people involved remember. I've got hundreds of those in my record. Lotsa brass in the agency have been shining up their swords, waiting for this day. But it's okay… I think maybe I've been trying to make this happen, anyway. The IA shrink who's doing my head-pressure test says I've been courting this disaster for years… that I wanted this to happen. And I think maybe he's right…"

"You want a second opinion from a more friendly doctor?" she said, putting the police report down on her lap.

"Anything friendly would be welcome right now," he said, thinking that she was way too young and way too pretty to be dealing with head cases like him and the psychopathic nut who had killed Candice Wilcox. Karen should be out dancing in the sunlight, interacting with people who didn't have emotional problems, or the stink of this job clinging to them.

He didn't know about the demons stalking Karen Dawson.

"We are a species of hunters and gatherers," she began. "Society's rules have attempted to regulate our behavior, but primal urges and genetic behavior codes determine our natural law and are much more defining than any human laws. You break the rules because your sense of the hunt is more important than your sense of self-preservation. In Greek mythology it would be a heroic trait. In the Customs Service it causes problems."

"It's caused problems in my life, in my marriage. I've been cruel to people I love."

"You're wrong," she said softly. "Cruelty and sentimentality can sometimes be companion traits… but never cruelty and love." She touched his arm. "Don't be so hard on yourself, John. You know something…?"

He looked at her in a different way… seeing different qualities. "If you let it happen, you might actually turn out to like who you are," she said.

There were four men whom Lockwood had never met before waiting for the Delta flight at Dulles Gate 12. They introduced themselves as members of Laurence Heath's administrative staff and then walked without speaking, next to Karen and Lockwood, out into a surprisingly cool April day. A wet, gusting wind was scattering the brown and gold leaves of spring, occasionally lifting them in eddies of air, swirling them around in tiny, twisting tornadoes. Lockwood watched a one-foot-high twister whirl across the parking lot and spill into a Chevy hubcap… mindless motion followed by an abrupt collapse. The perfect metaphor for his career.

They got into two cars. Karen sat beside him on the backseat as they pulled out of the huge Dulles Airport and took the forty-minute trip through Virginia's countryside into Washington, D. C.

Lockwood had been expecting to be taken to the IA floor on five, but instead they went to SES on three. He was led into Laurence Heath's office. Bob Tilly avoided his eyes when he looked at him. Oh boy, Lockwood thought, they're not even gonna give me a blindfold this time.

Laurence Heath was standing with his back to the door, looking out the picture window at ominous clouds and the White House administration annex. His hands were clasped behind him and the Teutonic wrinkles in the back of his head bristled from a recent haircut. When he turned, Lockwood saw a different expression from the one he had been expecting. Heath had sad compassion pasted on his rough tank-commander's face. His blue eyes seemed watery and distant. "Sit down, John."

He didn't sit. He wasn't going to take this on his ass. "Do I get a last meal and a cigarette?" Lockwood said, trying to find the right tone for the final note of his career.

"John… I have bad news…" Heath started slowly. "There's been a tragic circumstance. There's no easy way to get to this, so I'll just say it straight out. Claire has been murdered."

Lockwood stared at Heath… The words failed to penetrate his brain. "What?" he said, even though he'd heard Heath clearly.

"She's been murdered. A man broke into the house in Studio City and killed her. It happened Sunday night. It's been kept off the news until you and her family could be notified."

"Heather… Is Heather okay?" he said. His mind was reeling now; his body starting to sweat uncontrollably. It was a cold sweat that turned his stomach sour. "Is she… is she…?" He couldn't finish the sentence.

"She's okay. Well, not exactly okay… She apparently walked in while the man was… while it was happening. She wasn't attacked but she's in traumatic shock. She's at Children's Hospital in Hollywood… under sedation."

There was a long silence. John's thoughts swirled like leaves in the wind. His emotions were at war with this devastating news. He looked at his boss, who was shaking his head sadly.

"Heather… Heather is… in a hospital?" Lockwood finally managed.

"Yes. In a hospital… Children's Hospital. The body, Claire's body, is with the L. A. Coroner. She was killed with a narrow blade of some kind. At least that's the Coroner's initial description of the wound. He believes she died quickly."

"A scalpel," Lockwood said dully. He felt himself begin to sag. He caught the arm of the sofa and sat down on it heavily. One thought kept trying to penetrate his churning emotions. Claire was gone. She was really gone. He would never see her again… not in love or in anger. He would never see those Nordic blue eyes; eyes that could smile without her lips moving. He would never again hear the husky rasp in her breathing when she made love. He had lost her forever. He had left her in his own selfish wake, and now there was nothing he could do but hate himself for his senseless behavior.

"I want to go see Heather. I want to go now," he said softly. "I've arranged for a plane. It's standing by at National." Lockwood tried to stand but his legs wouldn't hold him. Larry Heath moved to him and helped him to his feet.

"Bob, get in here!" he yelled.

Tilly arrived on the run and, with the two of them holding on, they walked Lockwood down the hall.

"She's okay," Heath said. "Your daughter's okay. She's just in emotional shock. The doctors know how to deal with it. We'll get the man who did this. I promise you, John, we'll find him."

"I know where he is," John Lockwood said. "I'll get him myself…"

"You know…? How do you know? Who is it?"

"I don't know… not really. I just… Look, Larry, just let me go, will you?"

They moved down to the elevator and Heath pressed the button. The four men in suits who had met Lockwood at the airport were waiting on benches nearby. They stood immediately to go with him.

"John, you can't get involved in this investigation. If you know anything, tell me now."

"Just get me out to L. A., Larry, okay? Don't tell me what I can't do."

"It's policy, man. You can't work on a case involving a loved one." "Fuck policy!"

"You've been suspended, John. I wasn't going to tell you that until later, but IA suspended you when you failed to show up this morning. Kulack had the hearing without you."

The elevator door opened and one of the gray suits caught it. They all stood there, not knowing what to say… frozen in a tableau of embarrassed silence.

"When I first saw Claire, we were at the park," Lockwood finally said. "It was a summer day and I was there with some guys and we were drinking beer and looking for girls. I saw her and I thought, that is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen-"

"She was beautiful," Heath interrupted.

"Listen to me," Lockwood said sharply. "I don't know if I can say this so you'll understand, so I'll understand. I saw her there, backlit, wearing a white sundress, and with those blue eyes… and I said, 'God, if you'll let me have this woman, I won't ever ask you for anything else again.' And I guess God was listening, because it happened. He gave me Claire. I… I loved her, but I didn't deserve her, Larry, because everything in my life was always so hard and cynical… from the institutions that raised me to this job. I never let her have the good parts of me because I was always playing defense, trying not to get hit. That's the way I was taught to survive. And now, for the last few months, I've been seeing how unfair I was to her and to Heather and hating myself for it. I gave her my promise of love, but I never shared myself with her. And now, when I want to… when I've been dreaming about finding a way back to her… it… it's too late."

There was a long silence. The four gray suits shifted their weight.

"There's only one thing I can do for her now, Larry. Only one thing. It's too late and too little, but I'm gonna do it, nonetheless… and not you or Customs or anybody else on this planet is going to stop me." He reached into his pocket and handed Larry Heath his badge and his plastic ID. He pulled his government-issue S amp;W.38 out of its holster and handed it to the DOAO. Then he turned and walked on rubber legs into the elevator. The four men trailed in behind him, and in seconds the door closed and John Lockwood was gone.

Malavida was in a truck-stop motel in Macon, Georgia, when he saw the story on TV. The lacquer-haired commentator said that the release of the woman's name and picture had been withheld until the family could be notified. Then, up on the screen came Claire Lock-wood's beautiful face.

"The L. A. Coroner estimates that Claire Lockwood was killed at approximately ten o'clock last evening. She was stabbed in her bedroom several times and was pronounced dead at St. Joseph's Hospital in Burbank at eleven-fifteen P. M., Sunday. Her ten-year-old daughter may have witnessed the crime but is in traumatic shock at Children's Hospital in Hollywood."

"Motherfucker," Malavida said out loud, his heart sinking.

The news anchor continued: "The L. A. Coroner says that the penetration and track of the wound indicates a very narrow blade, perhaps a fruit knife."

"Scalpel," Malavida said under his breath."

… Mrs. Lockwood was recently divorced from her husband, John Lockwood, a Customs agent who, police say, was in an airplane with other Customs employees when the murder took place and is not a suspect."

When the story was over, Malavida turned off the TV and sat in the dark. He didn't move for almost an hour. He thought back to that Sunday afternoon, working his cracking program from Claire's French Provincial desk in her sunny study. He'd had a feeling even then that it had been a mistake not to put a masking program on his UNIX host's address, but he'd been in a hurry and had wanted to impress Karen. He was being Snoopy, wire-walking in cyberspace, performing his amazing magic, working carelessly without a net.

Now he sat in the dark motel room in Macon. Over and over, he replayed the events in his mind, looking for another explanation. But there was no denying it. He punished himself with one thought: It was his fault that Claire Lockwood had been murdered.