Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

Lockwood looked at him for a long time, not sure how to respond. He felt, for the first time ever, that Rocky actually wanted to understand. "I don't think this time I have any choice, Rock," he replied. "This killer is going to deal the play. I don't want Heather to get caught in the crossfire like Claire did. I can't change what happened and I'll live with the guilt the rest of my life. But once this is over, I'm retired. I'll do everything in my power to do right by Heather. I don't know how else to say it."

"Your family, Heather and Claire, didn't never matter that much before," Rocky said softly.

"They always mattered to me, Rock, but I was focused on something else… It was a mistake. I admit it."

"Just what was so important you didn't have time for your family?" Rocky said, remembering the years he had put in as a provider for Claire and Marge.

"Something is wrong out there and it's going to destroy us if we don't destroy it first," Lockwood answered. "If we don't, then we're just contributing to the problem by running from something that will end up devouring everything we care about." Rocky and Marge were watching and listening intently. "Seems to me there's way too many people on earth right now who are willing to kill for things they're not willing to die for," Lockwood continued. "You've got gang kids on street corners willing to machine-gun other kids for wearing the wrong-color bandanas, but if you ask 'em, 'Would you be willing to die for that?' they say, 'Hell, no.' Same with this guy who killed Claire. He's killing to relive some sick fantasy that he certainly wouldn't want to die for. Vietnam screwed up the kill/die ratio. We were killing people over there for reasons we didn't give a damn about, and after the war, we brought that sickness home."

There was a long silence. "I thought somebody had to do something about it," he continued. "Every time I saw a needless death, I put Heather or Claire into the equation and I thought… What would I do if it was them? I felt I had to get rid of this sickness before it could touch them. And now it has. I know you're right, Rock. I was focused on the wrong things. I should have been there for them. The hours, the days lost I can never get back."

Rocky finally nodded. "In World War II, I was in at sixteen 'cause we were fighting for a country we loved and would die for. The cause was just, so we never felt bad about what we were doing."

Lockwood concurred and then he leaned in. "I'm willing to die to get this animal off the street, so I guess that gives me the license to kill him… or at least to try. If I succeed, I'll come back and get Heather, and I'll be there for her from then on. If I fail, I want you to take care of my little girl for me, 'cause I know with you she'll have a great home."

Marge reached out and took Lockwood's hand. Rocky looked at the gesture, and this time, he didn't seem annoyed by it.

Lockwood had finally connected with them. But, like everything else, it happened too late.

She waited, standing in the tropical sun next to her rental car, which was parked outside the Foley D. Knight International Airport in Tampa. Malavida's call came at exactly twelve noon, as promised. Her cellphone rang once and she flipped it open.

"Yeah?"

"It's me." His voice sounded pinched and thin.

"I'm here. Where the hell are you?"

"Listen, Karen-"

"Miss Dawson," she corrected him.

"Miss Dawson. I'm a Federal fugitive. I'm in no hurry to go back to Lompoc. I don't completely trust you. You could be transforming on me right now, so cut the shit. Okay?"

"Okay."

There was a long silence and then he said, "I'm in the phone booth across from the Hertz counter. I can see you from where I am. Pull out and drive slowly toward the gate. I'll come to you. Leave this phone connection open so I know you ain't dimin' me out 'fore you get here."

"Okay." She got in, put the cellphone down on the seat, then drove the blue LeBaron slowly toward the Hertz return. She saw Malavida sprinting across the pavement-a tall, handsome young man who suddenly looked much different, dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt. He moved quickly in front of the car and jumped in. He picked her cellphone up off the seat, checked it, then switched it off.

"Let's go," he said, and she drove out of the airport.

They rode in silence while she concentrated on getting onto the right interstate. Once she picked up Highway 42 across the Charles Owen Expressway, heading toward downtown Tampa, she looked over at him. "Why?" she said.

"Why what?"

"You bullshitted us. You got away. You were free. Why call me?"

He looked out at the flat landscape rushing past the window. "I told you… It was my fault Lockwood's old lady got put down. I never was directly responsible for somebody being dead before. It feels horrible. I can't just let it be." There was heavy self-disgust in his voice. "I was showing off. I was trying to make you think I was hot shit. I didn't bother to consider that the guy we were cracking could be as good as me. I didn't figure on him using a backfinger, getting the address. I gotta put that right 'fore I move on."

She thought he somehow looked older. She could sense him beside her. He seemed different, more assured, more in control.** sadder. She stole a glance at him. In that moment he looked almost god-like, his square jaw jutting, his glossy black hair and penetrating eyes flashing in the sunlight. But she was still angry at him for playing her like a mark.

He gave her directions and they arrived at his motel, which was near Tampa Bay, just off the Courtney Campbell Causeway. He had her park in the back.

"Where's your car?" she asked. "Or don't you have one?"

"I had one. It was a G-ride. I left it in the airport parking lot this morning. If the hubcap cops don't find it, it'll be a duck in two days."

She thought he was saying that if the cops working auto theft at the airport didn't find the car, it would get stripped. But she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of asking.

They climbed the exterior stairs to his motel room on the second floor of the colonial building. He unlocked the door and she walked into a cluttered room that looked like the repair center at Radio Shack. There were directional loop antennas, resistors, capacitors, and wires everywhere. Open on the bed was a suitcase with an assortment of wire clippers and needle-nose pliers, along with digital volt-ohm meters and screwdrivers. Two radios, stripped of their casings, were on the bed, center stage.

"What's all this?" she asked, looking around.

"It's how we catch this buster," Malavida said. "It's all stuff from Rat Shack. This zoot is using Pennet to make his calls. Unless he changes locations or computers, I think I have a pretty good chance of finding him by triangulating on his cellphone." He was looking down at the radios on the bed. "This stuff is just high-frequency receivers with direction loop antennas I made from HF wire. I'm pretty sure he'll stick with the name Rat or Wind Minstrel, and that's gonna help us."

"Why would he?" she interrupted.

"Two reasons. Because it's already in Pennet that way and it would be a hassle to change, and because hackers get attached to their user-names. I've been Snoopy for almost ten years. But you can bet he'll be more careful about his security next time he's on-line. The one part of the link he can't protect is from his cellphone to the pod that puts him into the phone line. He's vulnerable there and that's how I'll get him." "How do you know he'll use a cellphone?"

"Anybody wanting to protect their POO usually uses a cellphone." "Their what?"

"Point-of-origin. Sorry." He smiled at her, and she couldn't help noticing that the smile was dazzling and lit his handsome features. "Cell-phones are better, because with no hard wire, they're harder to trace." He continued, "All you can do is get to the local cell pod, like we did. We know its origin is here in Tampa. He knows that's a huge area. Now we've gotta narrow it down."