Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

She was finally released at 11:30 and the fatherly Watch Commander, Captain Fredrickson, offered to take her to her car, which was still in the parking lot of the Ramada Inn. When she asked to see Lockwood, he told her that Lockwood had been taken back to Washington under guard.

The drive back to the Ramada Inn was strained. Fredrickson was trying to be a good guy, but Karen was in a foul mood. She'd had less than two hours' sleep, and her unscheduled wake-up call had been unusually aggressive.

"Look," she finally said to him, "Malavida's life is in extreme danger. I don't think you quite get the gravity of that."

"There's a man outside his door at the hospital," he said.

"This killer isn't going to come within a mile of the hospital. He'll do something long distance with his computer," she said, a little too hotly. "Malavida is going to be murdered in there unless you people wake the fuck up!"

"Miss Dawson, I'm sorry for the inconvenience we've caused you, and I am very aware of the menace that Leonard Land might present to Mr. Chacone. However, so far we can't directly link Land to anything. I don't have enough evidence to even issue an arrest warrant for the crimes you're talking about. We have no physical evidence that he killed Candice Wilcox in Atlanta, or Leslie Bowers in Michigan. And as far as Lockwood's wife… I guess his little girl could potentially pick the guy out of a lineup, but that hasn't happened yet. Furthermore, all of this is out of my jurisdiction. It's Tampa's case. Best chance I have here is, if I get my hands on him, I can voice-print him and maybe get a match with that recording of the phony tip he called in. Maybe then I can get the DA to file on him for attempted murder. But even that is a long shot."

"What about his rigging that booby trap and blowing up Malavida?"

"Tampa PD would have to file that charge, but the way I hear it, technically you were trespassing without a badge or a warrant. I guess maybe they could file on him for arson or endangering or hazardous behavior or some damn thing. But he'd make bail in about an hour."

"You're telling me to go away and shut up?"

"No. I'm telling you I think you're right, despite the lack of evidence." Fredrickson's voice was soft and his eyes seemed concerned. "I agree this guy's probably a full-on maniac. But even if I knew where he was, I can't arrest him until he does something I can prove. I've done a lousy job of protecting Chacone, I admit it. I don't want the same thing to happen to you, so I'd feel a lot better if you'd get on a plane and go back to Washington."

There was definitely something fatherly about Fred T. Fred. Karen finally nodded her head. "Maybe that's a good idea," she said.

They were parked in the Ramada parking lot, next to her car. Fred T. reached across her and opened the door. "I'll work it as hard as I can. If this guy goes hot, at least this time we'll know who we're looking for."

"Thanks for the ride," she said. "I hope you don't mind if I call you from time to time, for an update…?"

"You'll be calling from Washington?"

"From Washington," she lied.

After he drove off, Karen got into her blue LeBaron and put the top down. It was noon, and the Florida sun was oppressively hot. She drove back to the Jackson Memorial Hospital. Ten minutes later, she was on the sixth floor checking on Malavida.

A new nurse told her he was still resting. She nodded and peeked into his room. The Miami cop was gone. He'd been replaced by a Federal agent in a suit. He watched her without interest as she showed her Customs ID and entered. Malavida looked very small in the hospital bed. She couldn't see the dressings because he had the covers up under his chin, but she knew he was wrapped in tape. As he lay in bed, his eyes closed, she could see what he must have been like as a little boy. There was an innocence about him. She moved closer to the bed and looked down. The lone teardrop tattoo hung under his right eye, a dangerous exclamation mark. She wondered if Lockwood had been right about him. She had made love to this person. She had found warmth in his tenderness. She wanted to believe that she had given that gift in honesty, but the events of the last two weeks had moved with frightening speed. Maybe she had been swept along by the current. She looked again at the tattoo. The teardrop was a symbol of distress. She had been told once that Mexican gang kids got teardrop tattoos when a good friend died from a street action. It represented the cultural ocean that separated them. Although Malavida's need for freedom had caused him to run away from them in Atlanta, his conscience had brought him back. He had tried to help them. She was supposed to be able to profile behavior, to predict what an UnSub would do… but she was badly confused by Malavida Chacone.

Then Malavida opened his eyes and looked up at her. They locked gazes for a long time.

"Hi," she said to him softly.

"Hi," he said back, his voice just a whisper.

She was about to say more when he closed his eyes. She thought he would open them again, but in seconds he was back asleep. She stood there for several more moments, trying to decide what to do.

Karen was suddenly bone-weary. She had eaten nothing since yesterday but two bites of stone crab. She knew that with Lockwood gone it was up to her to protect Malavida. She also knew that would be next to impossible in the hospital. There were too many systems The Rat could penetrate. Too many people, too many ways he could slip through electronic defenses and attack. She had to get Malavida healthy enough to move him. She had to find a way to sneak him past the Federal agent who, she suspected, was not there to protect his life so much as to keep him from escaping. She had walked right in, flashing civilian ID, while he read the paper. She had been giving the problem some thought and had the beginnings of an idea, but her head was so thick from lack of sleep, she needed to get a few hours to clear the cobwebs. She moved away from Malavida and back out into the hall…

Karen slept for four hours on the hard vinyl sofa in the visitors' area.

She opened her eyes when she heard Lockwood's voice. She looked around and finally saw him on the TV screen over the nurses' station. It was the five o'clock news. They were running file footage taken three months ago after the shootout on Operation Girlfriend.

The shot then switched to Trisha Rains in front of the Dade County Sheriff's Office: "That footage, many of you will remember, was taken last January when U. S. Customs Agent Lockwood was involved in a shootout at Miami International Airport… Agent Lockwood was arrested today by members of his own Internal Affairs Division. The arresting agent was Victor Kulack, also a participant in last January's gunfight. Apparently, Lockwood had been suspended a few days ago and was in Miami working on a murder case after having illegally freed a Federal prner named Malavida Chacone. As reported earlier, Chacone is now in critical condition at Jackson Memorial Hospital."

Karen sat up, went to the ladies' room, washed her face, and put on fresh makeup. She combed out her auburn hair and straightened her clothing.

Malavida was still sleeping, so she went searching in the huge hospital for Lockwood's old friend Ray Gonzales.

She found Gonzales in the Renal Care facility. He looked terrible. His skin was papery and so thin that the bones in his shoulder seemed to protrude sharply. He was in a hospital bed, hooked up to a dialysis machine and reading a Cuban tract called La Revolution, when Karen walked in.

"Senor Gonzales?" she asked.

"Si."

"Soy una amiga de Juan Lockwood."

"Then you don't have the sense God gave a goose," he said without an accent as he smiled at her.

"Probably not." She smiled back.