Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

"In a while we're going to take you down for some physical therapy," the doctor said. "What has happened is that when you were unconscious, your brain was deprived of oxygen and parts of it died. Unfortunately, brain matter doesn't regenerate. Your vital signs are fine but you're going to have trouble with some things for a while, until other parts of your brain can take over those functions. We might as well get started and find out how much stuff got shorted out. You get what I'm telling you?"

"Yes. Do I sure," he said, realizing that it didn't sound quite right. "Sure do I," he corrected himself. Still wrong. Fuck it, he thought.

"Trust us, John, we'll get your engine up and running again."

They helped him out of bed. He had almost no control of his body. He wobbled horribly the first time he tried to walk. He fell after one step. They were there to catch him before he hit the ground.

"Bitch of a…" he said angrily as they helped him back up.

He looked at the door, which seemed to be miles away. There was something wrong with his depth perception. It was as if he were looking down the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Everything seemed remote, as if he were watching it through a strange lens and was not a part of it. "Can't see right," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"The part of your brain that controls your sight and speech was affected. Another few minutes and you'd have been a vegetable. Fortunately, John, this is a partial paralysis. It should all come back, but you've gotta keep working. I won't BS you, it could take months, even years."

They helped him walk down the corridor of the hospital, one attendant holding each arm. He could see where he wanted to go, even though his depth perception was altered, but as he tried to get there he would veer and stumble. Often his legs buckled under him without warning.

They got him down to therapy in a wheelchair. A very strong, thirty-five-year-old, muscular blond woman, with a friendly smile and a face like a torn softball, helped him up out of the wheelchair. She almost lifted his 190-pound frame singlehandedly. She joked with him as she pushed and punished him for an hour without much result.

He was back in bed when Bob Tilly from Laurence Heath's office came in to see him. "You don't have to talk, John," he said.

"S'okay," he slurred. "Heath, sorry Larry." He paused. "Larry Heath I'm sorry about," he said, getting closer.

"Not your fault."

Lockwood was struggling to recover something. It had to do with the large bald man in the air-boat. "Leonard Land," he finally said. "Leonard Land did something," Lockwood said. "This did he with…" His mind reeled, looking for the answer.

Tilly couldn't make out what Lockwood was saying, so he went on. "It was some kind of computer fuck-up, John. The whole building went goofy. The system that runs things just went psycho… sent an earthquake message to the elevators, which locked them and set of the halon extinguishers."

Lockwood was struggling with it. He was very, very close. He had to tell them something… warn them. "I know it what is. I happening is…" He stopped. "Fuck!" he shouted in a burst of anger. "I know what happened," he finally said. "Reprogrammed computer… from Florida."

"Who?"

"Land Leonard."

Bob Tilly looked at him for a long beat. "The serial killer you were working on in Miami reprogrammed the computer? Made all this shit happen?" he said.

"Yes. Leonard Heath killed Larry Land," he said, and then he lay back, exhausted. "Fuck… You know what I mean, Bob."

Bob Tilly looked down at Lockwood. He was sure that his old friend was still delirious. How on earth could some guy in Tampa, Florida, lock the elevators in a Washington building, close down the ventilation, then set of the halon fire extinguishers? It had to be a computer malfunction. Lockwood just wasn't making any sense at all.

At five P. M. on Saturday, Karen went to the store to get food and medical supplies for Malavida. After she loaded her purchases into the van, she stood outside the run-down, graffiti-damaged market in a litter-strewn parking lot and made a second call to Trisha Rains on her cell-phone. She had been told when she called earlier that the TV reporter was in the field doing a remote and wouldn't be back till five. Karen had timed her trip to the market to coincide with Trisha's planned return to the news room.

"Trisha Rains," the TV reporter said as she finally came on the line.

"This is Karen Dawson. I saw you out at Leonard Land's house."

"The mystery woman the cops wouldn't let me talk to. Nice to finally hear from you." Her voice was aggressively friendly and Karen winced slightly. "Do you have any idea where Carlos Chacone is hiding?" Trisha asked without any warm-up or chitchat.

"Before we get into that, I need to know a few things. I'm taking a lotta chances right now. I'm legally and physically at risk. I need to know if you and I can have the right kind of relationship."

"I'm not going to commit a crime to do my job, Doctor."

"You know I'm a doctor?"

"I have your whole resume right here. 'Awesome Dawson,' the `Michigan Miracle.' Since the cops wouldn't let me interview you, I ran a background check. A Ph. D. in psychology before you were twenty. I'm glad you weren't busting the curve in any of my college courses."

Karen let that one go and pushed on. "I don't want you to break any laws, Trisha, but I need to know that you and I are going to have a First Amendment relationship… that you're going to protect me as a confidential source and not divulge anything until I give you permission."

"That goes without saying."

"Yeah, but let's hear you say it anyway."

"As long as you don't bullshit me, girlfriend, I'll protect you as a source."

"I think I might know how to lure Leonard Land out into the open, but I need your help."

Trisha Rains was skeptical at first, but when she heard Karen's plan, she warmed up.

They agreed that they would talk again before six that evening.

After she hung up, Karen returned to The Swallow Inn with food, soft drinks, fresh bandages, and a thermometer. Fifteen minutes later, she had Shirley Land's newspaper picture in her purse and her car keys in her hand and was ready to leave.

Malavida had given up trying to argue with her. She refused to listen to his logic. She brought some Gerber baby food and bottled water to the bed, where he was glaring at her, and put them on the bedside table.

"Till your intestines heal, this is what the nurse told me you were gonna get in the hospital. I hope you like creamed corn."

"I hate creamed corn and I want you to slow down and listen to me."

"I should be back by midnight. If not, I'll call and check in with you," she said. Then she picked up the thermometer, shook it down, and paused, waiting for him to open his mouth.

"Karen, you can't mind-fuck this guy. You heard Lockwood, there's a big difference between doing a paper profile and a field encounter, or whatever he called it."

"Who says I'm mind-fucking him?"

"I sorta got the hang of how you think. You're about six-tenths kamikaze."

"Look, Mal, I'm not going to do anything stupid or dangerous. I know how twisted Leonard Land is. Give me some credit, I'm smart enough not to wave a red cape at a psychopath,."

They locked gazes. She was still holding the thermometer. "Open, please. I have to find out if you have a fever before I leave."

"What if I don't cooperate?" he said.

"There's more than one place I can stick this, buddy," she said, waving it ominously, a smile on her lips, and he finally opened his mouth. His temperature was normal.

Her mind kept turning back to John Lockwood. Uneasiness about his condition hung in her thoughts like a dark mist. At least she knew he was alive. That gave reason to hope, but she had to keep moving. She was the last knight on the battlefield, the only person left who had a clear picture of what they were facing.