Stephen Cannell - Final Victim

Sarasota County Real Estate Tax Board records indicated that Shirley's property had been sold in 1989 to Joseph Allen. He had died two years ago and the Allen family had put the place up for sale. Because of the bad Sun Coast real-estate market, they had not received an offer, and the house was now boarded up and empty. The lot wasn't technically in Bradenton but lay across the city line in Sarasota, at the end of a lowland island known as Siesta Key. It was only thirty miles south of the mouth of the Little Manatee River where, a few days before, Lockwood, Malavida, and Karen had piloted the rented boat-all three of them still in relative good health. The week that followed had exacted a heavy toll.

Lockwood and Malavida drove the gray Lincoln back across the tip of Florida to the west. They turned north on Interstate 75 and began the two-hour drive up the Gulf Coast. Malavida had been getting progressively worse. Lockwood had to stop the car twice so Mal could lean out and throw up. When Lockwood had tried to convince him to go to a hospital, he flatly refused.

"Listen, Zanzo," he'd said through clenched, shivering jaws, "I'm doing this. Okay? You're just John Q. Dickhead now. You can't order me around. So shut up."

That was the last thing the two had said to each other until they reached the outskirts of Sarasota. Lockwood had the map on his knees as he drove. He turned left on Clark Road and followed the humpbacked two-lane highway across the low wetlands; then he drove over the single-span Stickney Bridge onto Siesta Key.

The islet was low and sparsely populated. The road was dark with no streetlamps. They moved along looking for a shell road called Lower Key Road.

After driving for about two miles, Lockwood found it and made a right turn, heading west now toward the Gulf. The road narrowed and finally came to a stop at a crude cul-de-sac. The foliage was dense and reedy. Lockwood looked at his watch: It was 11:45 Sunday night. An almost full moon had climbed out of the eastern sky and hung there like a wedge of pale lime on the edge of dark black glass. Lockwood could see two driveways with mailboxes. He looked over at Malavida, who was slumped against the door of the car. His eyes were open but he was obviously out of the play.

Lockwood got out of the car and stumbled on unsteady legs to the mailboxes. He looked inside both and found nothing except ad brochures. The Allen house was supposed to be at 2464 Lower Key Road. He found an ad brochure with that address "To Occupant" and followed the driveway halfway down until he could see the house. It was a one-story stucco job with a slate roof. It looked like it had once been painted yellow but had faded to an off-white. The roof seemed to lean slightly. The yard was in a losing battle with the dense Florida undergrowth.

Lockwood slowly headed back up the drive to the car. He thought he was moving with slightly better coordination, but he still didn't trust himself to run or throw a punch. Maybe he could still swing a tire iron. He opened the trunk and pulled out the tool, hobbled up to the passenger side of the car, and looked in at Malavida, whose head was leaning against the half-open window.

"Stay here. Call the cops if I'm not back in five minutes."

"I'm coming…" Malavida said and opened the door, but that was as far as he got. He couldn't get out of the car. He tried to put his legs on the ground, but gave up and just slumped back with his head on the seat.

"Like I said, call the cops if I'm not back in five minutes." Lockwood took the phone out of Malavida's pocket, flipped it open, and put it in his hand. Malavida barely held on to it. Lockwood then walked carefully on uncooperative legs toward the house. Before he got ten feet, he heard Malavida's voice.

"Hey, Zanzo…"

Lockwood turned.

"I got your back."

"I can see," Lockwood said, then moved up the drive toward the darkened house.

The house was foreboding. Lockwood searching around slowly, trying desperately not to make any noise. He had been pumping adrenaline for hours to keep going, and now, when he needed an edge, he felt dull and used up. He leaned on the railing of the stucco house for a minute. He could see dust on the front porch. It covered the wood deck like a sprinkle of fine brown sugar. He could see in the pale moonlight that nobody had been on that porch for a long time. He looked around for the VW. The yard was empty, the house unused. He realized this had been just a long, time-consuming dead end. Karen wasn't here. He had failed her.

He slumped down and sat on the wood steps of the porch and stared at the dense, overgrown foliage. They had come close but they had lost her. He didn't think Karen could still be alive after the chase down Twenty-seventh Avenue. Leonard Land and Satan T. Bone would have to kill her to silence her. He sat there, used up, in the warm night… and then, suddenly, he started to cry. He tried to rein in his emotions, but he couldn't. The tears ran down his cheeks and fell on the tangled grass at his feet.

Lockwood had not cried since he was a ten-year-old boy at the orphanage. He had been pounded silly for showing his tears back then. It was perceived as weakness. In the world he was raised in, the meek didn't inherit the earth-they got the shit kicked out of them. He had not cried when he'd been sentenced to St. Charles Academy five years later or when Claire had divorced him or even when she'd been murdered. Despite the anguish of that loss, he had held himself in strict control. But he could no longer hold back the tears; he was physically and emotionally spent, and they now spilled out in silence.

He struggled to regain control of himself. He knew he was crying for all of them… for Claire and Heather, for Karen, for Larry Heath and Alex Hixon, even for Malavida, who, despite Lockwood's earlier harsh appraisals, had now gained his total respect. What he couldn't, or wouldn't, admit to himself was that he was also crying for John Lockwood, for all he had missed and all he had refused to experience.

Sitting on that Florida porch step after thirty years, John Lockwood finally lowered his guard… and it almost cost him his life.

She didn't know where the table had come from, but it was now in the center of the concrete room. She was strapped on top of it, her arms and legs tied with ropes to each corner. She tried to rock her body but the table didn't move. It was either very heavy or affixed to the floor.

"Stop that, you cunt," a voice said.

She looked up into the harsh overhead light, and then into view came Bob Shiff. He looked down at her; his ghoulish black-tattooed eyes glistened with a mixture of fear and excitement.

"Help me," Karen said softly.

He shook his head. His expression was grim. "He'd kill me. I'd rather he killed you. That was pretty smart, telling him God would punish him for killing on the Sabbath. Made him all nutty, though. He says he has to punish you. He says he wants to see into your eyes when he cuts your throat. Then this will all be over. Once the Beast is made, there is no more need. You're the final victim."

"You're wrong, Bob. This killing is a compulsion. He won't stop. He'll find another reason. This isn't over."

"Yes, it is."

"What about Tashay? She got away. She'll tell the cops," Karen said. "I won't be here. I'm going to Europe. I'm going to see Satan Wolf before he's executed."

Then Karen heard what sounded like a metal ladder, and in a few seconds Leonard Land came into her limited field of vision. He never looked at her but started unpacking his coroner's tools. He had changed into a silk kimono and his pasty white skin radiated in the harsh light. He had rubbed Vaseline over his entire body; she smelled its medicinal odor. He was selecting his scalpels now and he slowly laid them out on the concrete floor. She couldn't see them being arranged, but she could hear the metal handles ring slightly as they were laid at his feet.