Final Victim

Chapter 35

"Is this Ms. Dawson?" Her voice was*tinny, she was whispering. In the background, Karen could hear her Death Metal music screaming. "Yes," she answered. "Who's this?"

"It's Tashay… Roberts. You met me with Bob Shiff, only he don't like me to call him Bob anymore."

"Hi," Karen said. "How are you doing?"

"That Lockwood guy, he really got fucked up big in Washington. They say on the news he ain't never comin' back from the bird farm." "But we can hope."

"First I was expecting him to call. I handed him a note that night with my number, but then I heard on the TV that he was in Washington and that he got… Wait a minute," and her hand was cupped over the receiver. Karen could hear a muffled man's voice and then Tashay was back on the phone. "Sorry, that fuckin' guy won't leave me alone. I'm backstage, we just finished a concert. Satan roared tonight. Cold-blooded shit… really out there."

"That's nice," Karen said, sitting up. "You had something you wanted to tell me…?"

"I seen this guy you're lookin' for. He was here, backstage, tonight. He's been to see Baby Killer a buncha times. A big son of a bitch… no hair, really looks broke to the curb. Ugly fucker."

"Is he there now?"

"He left. See, thing is, if I'm gonna help you, Satan's gonna be maximum pissed. He don't like cops. He told me not to call… If I roll on him, it's like a major L-12."

"L-12?" Karen asked. Tashay sounded ripped.

"It's like loco times twelve."

"What do you want?" Karen asked.

"Two things. First, it's just gotta be you and me. We gotta meet someplace where the T. Bone won't see us. And you gotta bring a thousand dollars."

"And what does that buy me?"

"It buys you this big, ugly prick's address. He gave Satan his address 'cause he wanted an autographed picture. Can you believe it? An autographed picture. We don't have band shots, but Satan took his address anyway… and I copied it down."

"Where do you want to meet?"

"I don't care. I just don't want nobody to see us. And if there's any cops around, you can twist a braid, sugar, 'cause I ain't gonna say shit to the cops… If Satan finds out I done that, my thing with him goes orbital."

"How about we meet here, at the Ramada Inn?"

"You kiddin'… where you did the TV thing? Check that. How 'bout Satan's house tomorrow morning. He ain't gonna be awake. He sleeps till almost four in the afternoon."

"Now you're kidding," Karen said. She searched her memory for a good place, some place public but where people wouldn't pay much attention. Then she remembered the park where they'd all gone after the Loomis Theater. "How about that park on Biscayne Bay," she said, "the one we went to."

"Bayfront Park… okay. What time?"

"Nine A. M.," Karen said.

"Shit, honey, I don't get up till two. I'm in the music biz." "Now you're in the information biz. I'll have cash. Be there at nine, if you want it."

Tashay sighed loudly; then she was talking to somebody else. "… the fuck you lookin' at, Martin?" Her hand went back over the receiver and Karen heard a loud muffled conversation. Then Tashay was back on the phone. "That asshole's been suckin' my flava all week."

"Nine A. M.," Karen said firmly.

"Okay, nine. But bring the grand in cash." And she hung up.

Karen decided not to tell Fred T. Fred yet. She had two reasons: First, she didn't think she could control Fred. He'd want to play it his way, and that might spook Tashay into clamming up. Second, Tashay wasn't very smart, but she was shrewd. She probably would be very careful before she gave up The Rat's new address. Karen was sure she could handle it.

She lay back on the bed and waited for the jolt of excitement to hit. It had always been risk that her life craved. But now, as she lay there, she felt nothing… no fire, no adrenaline, only a vague sense of distress and foreboding. She tried to pump up her engine. She told herself she would do it the way she always did: alone, with tools of her own invention.

Malavida had received the call from Karen at twelve midnight. After she hung up, he continued cracking into the computer at D. C. General Hospital in Washington. He finally managed to break through at about three A. M. In ten more minutes, he had John Lockwood's medical records up on the screen. He determined several things as he read them, including the fact that Lockwood was far from being comatose, as the TV had reported. He had come out of it and taken physical therapy. Malavida scrolled the doctor's notes:

John Lockwood's current prognosis is mixed. He has suffered damage to all four regions of the brain due to loss of oxygen for a sustained period of time (estimated five minutes). This has resulted in the loss of brain cells and has left him with multi-diminished capacity. This includes difficulties in memory, speech, and coordination, due to brain oxygen starvation in the orbital gyri of both frontal lobes, as well as the cerebral choroid plexus. The lack of oxygen carried by the occipital artery, as well as the parietal branch of the superficial temporal artery and the deep temporal artery, has caused some damage in the infraorbital nerve affecting speech, as well as the superorbital nerve and the facial nerve. The patient's prognosis over time is good; however, he will require physical and mental therapy to regain normal functions.

It was signed Dr. Lawrence Sikes.

Malavida wanted to talk to Lockwood, but there was no phone in the Customs agent's room. It was then that Mal saw that his next scheduled therapy was at ten on Sunday morning. Malavida was determined to reach him.

The next morning, Fred T. Fred made things easier when he discontinued the surveillance of Karen, due to a light Sunday shift and a division commander who would not approve the overtime. The cops left after she promised not to move around and to call in periodically.

It was quarter to nine in the morning when Karen arrived at Bay-front Park. She was looking for the brown VW band bus that belonged to Baby Killer. She drove slowly past the park on Highway 41, scanning the area for any sight of it. From the highway, she could see Biscayne Bay. A brisk, gusting wind was pushing big sailboats across the angry water, driving their lee rails under, as they cut through the morning chop. As she drove on, she thought she saw the brown VW van parked next to one of the restrooms at the south end of the park. She pulled her rental van onto one of the access roads and drove toward it. As she got nearer, she could definitely tell that it was the same van that had been parked behind the Loomis. She drove toward it and stopped a few feet away.

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 towels overflowed 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.