Final Victim

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 without calling in a committee. She snuck me out of the hospital, moved me to a motel on the Miami River called The Swallow Inn. Technically, I'm still a fugitive. I called the police department, pretending to be her brother. They told me they called off the stakeout this morning. She didn't come back here, so either this asshole got her or she's walking around without cover. Nobody knows where she is. She's way overdue."

"Shit," Lockwood said, the imminent danger helping to connect a few 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 front door, 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.