Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

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.

"It's a small world after all…" leaked musically out of recessed speakers. The song was stepped on by occasional doctor pages coming through the same sound system. A few children on crutches or in wheelchairs moved down the brightly colored hall to the skylighted playroom at the end of the floor. The area managed to be both cheerful and sad at the same time.

Lockwood moved out of the elevator with a young, earnest woman named Beth something-or-other. She was a volunteer who said she was getting her master's in child psychology.

"She's in emotional traumatic shock and she's blocking the whole event. Dr. Levitt says the best thing is to just let her come out of it naturally. Right now, when she gets agitated, we medicate her slightly."

Lockwood heard almost none of it as he plowed on blindly, looking for his daughter's room.

"It's in here," Beth said, taking his arm and turning him as he moved aimlessly up the hallway.

He entered a small room with two beds and a window that overlooked a concrete courtyard. The room had wallpaper with lots of little multi-colored balloons on it. An artist had painted animals everywhere. A large hot-air balloon dominated the far wall. Purple hippos with wide eyes looked over the side of the honey-gold basket. Heather was lying in the far bed, staring up at the animals on the ceiling.

"Daddy," she said, turning her head to him as he entered the room. "Daddy, it's all over and I didn't feel a thing… well, not really, but almost. I don't have a sore throat or anything…,, He moved to her and gathered her up in his arms and hugged her. He clung to her desperately. Heather struggled slightly to be free. She pulled back and looked at him with stern wisdom.

"I thought it was going to hurt because of what Lenore said when she had it done, but I woke up and it was almost like nothing happened. I tried to call Mommy but I guess she's at work…"

He sat on the bed, held her hand, and looked down at her. She seemed excited and happy, but there was a tightness around her eyes that betrayed everything; a shrillness in her voice that he had never heard before.

"So anyway," she continued, "they wake you up and make you take icky, syrupy medicine that's supposed to taste like cherry but doesn't… but they also wake you up all the time and feed you ice cream… and there was this girl, Sara, that was my roommate, who fell off her bike and hurt her head. But she went home yesterday…"

Then it dawned on him what she was talking about. She was back almost a year when she'd had her tonsils out. It had been at this very hospital. She was pretending desperately that it was a year ago, that the operation was over, and that explained why she was there. He looked into her pale-blue eyes, Claire's eyes, and felt tears come into his own.

"You wouldn't believe this neat doctor I got. His name is Dr. Dumbbell… That's what he told me and Mommy his name was… "

Lockwood knew she was talking about Dr. Dumbolten, who had performed the tonsillectomy last year.

"Isn't that a stupid name, Dr. Dumbbell? I think it's very stupid, but he's a good doctor anyway, because I don't even have a sore throat. I called Mommy and I tried to tell her, but I can't find her anywhere. She's not at home or at the office. I talked to Mrs. Watkins, that's her new secretary, and she kept crying and wouldn't say where Mommy is. And I'm ready to go home… Where is Mommy…?"

Lockwood looked at his daughter, then at Beth, who shook her head in a gesture that said, Don't tell her. He didn't. They talked about her year-old operation and they talked about her cat, Fluffy, which had been run over by a car last summer but which was now still very much alive in Heather's mind. Then she said something that almost doubled him over with anguish.

"Daddy, do you ever talk to God?" she said, looking at him earnestly and holding his hand.

"Sometimes I do, yes…

"Well, see… I talk to him all the time. I think God knows best** and God would never let anything happen to hurt me because He loves me… just like he loves you and Mommy."

"I know He does…"

"When I talk to Him, you know what I ask for?"

"What?"

"I ask for you and Mommy to get back together… for you to fall in love again. I ask God in my prayers. I've been doing it every night for a year. I don't want to bug Him, but it's very important, and guess what?"

"What?" Lockwood said.

"God answered my prayers."

"Good…" Lockwood's mouth was dry. His heart was skipping beats. He could feel it pounding in his throat.

"See… 'cause last Saturday, after you came, I asked Mommy if she still loved you like before… if we could ever be a family again. And you know what she said?"

"No, honey, what did she say?"

"She said she always loved you… that she never stopped and that she always would. Then she said that it was up to you. She said, 'When Daddy wants it, it will happen.' That's what she said. So now I'm asking God to make you love her back."

Lockwood had lost so much. His timing had been simply terrible. He had realized the enormity of his mistake just as Claire was snatched from him. He held Heather's hand and smiled at her through his tears. "I'll make you a deal, Pumpkin," he said, using the childhood nickname he had for her. "When we go home to Mommy's house, I'll come home and I'll live with you. I'll take care of you."

"But Mommy does that, and you have all your important work in Washington. How can you, Daddy?"

"I'll get some other kind of work. I'll get a job that will give us lots of time together."

"Can we go riding?" she said, smiling.

"Anytime you want."

"Can we paint pictures?"

"You bet. And you wanna know something else? I won't ever break this promise to you. It's a promise on a promise."

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "See, when you ask God for stuff, He listens," she told him sagely.