Final Victim (1995) (22 page)

She looked at him and saw that she had hurt his feelings. The dynamics between them had changed. There was something about his energy and bearing that made her see him differently. He no longer seemed like the convict they had picked up in Lompoc. He seemed older and sexier--a thought that struck her as strangely inappropriate. She was having trouble reading her feelings of late. She had made several mistakes in recent years, when she had confused the transitory absence of loneliness with sexual attraction. Her emotional survival alarm went off and she pulled back. "You're right," she said softly. "This is better than where we were. Good going."

"And I don't need a Vaseline rub either," he said sharply.

She reached out and picked up the compass and looked at it for a long moment. "But could you use a hamburger?" she asked recklessly.

Chapter
20

They went to Crawdaddy's, which was located at the end of the Courtney Campbell Causeway near St. Petersburg. There were no hamburgers on the menu, but the sign advertised SOUTH FLORIDA CUISINE, and the place was packed.

A calypso steel-drum band was pumping up the atmosphere. Karen and Malavida sat in the rustic bar and waited for a table. Malavida seemed absorbed in thought. Finally he looked up at her and she saw pain in his dark eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Claire Lockwood." He pronounced her name slowly, tasting the syllables. A bitter expression drifted across his face. "I just keep thinking . . . what was she doing when The Rat got her? Did she die in pain? Did she die slowly? Did she even know she was dying when it was happening?" He looked down at the Scotch-rocks in front of him and stirred the ice with his finger.

"You didn't kill her, Mal. You were just doing what you were told." "Yeah." He looked up at her but refused to elaborate.

"You're not at all what you try to look like," she finally said. "And what do I try to look like?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure yet . . . but it's not what you make people think."

"Nobody is," he said, "you included."

"Especially me." She took a long swallow of her margarita and set it down.

Malavida looked away as he spoke. "You can't show who you are in there. You let 'em see what's really inside, they take it from you the hard way."

"In prn?" she asked. But he didn't answer.

"The only place I ever saw weakness on the inside was Z Block. I used to score medicine on my computer for the queens on that tier. You'd go over there and you could feel the humanity, but the place was like something outta a bad sci-fi movie."

"Z Block . . . ?"

"It was a place where they put all the cons who were infected with AIDS. It was nothing but a coroner's waiting room. The state didn't have the cash to treat those guys, so I tried to score AZT from the pharmaceutical companies on my computer. When I'd get the drugs, I'd take the shipments over. The place was horrible. The smells would gag you . . . decaying flesh, open sores . . . the sounds of men dying. Vomit ran like rainwater down the drains. They had a stroll up there, on the top of the block. It's like a place you can walk all the way around. There were guys on Z who I'd known before they got the virus . . cons who I thought were violent and unredeemable. One day I saw a guy they called the Maytag Man. He was a prn mechanic, a hit man. He used to take cigarette contracts on other cons. He'd wash you ou
t f
or two cartons of Camels. He ended up with the virus. One day, I looked up and saw this hardcase helping a dying con walk the stroll, half carrying this skeleton around the tier so he'd get some exercise. Z Block was the only place in the joint I ever saw weakness, the only place where you could give a shit without looking like a target . . . and it was the most unrelenting, horrible place I've ever been."

She looked up at him and saw he was deep in the memory.

"It's why I took off," he continued, "why I ran in Atlanta. Once I was out, I couldn't go back. The place was changing me. There is no friendship in prn, only arrangements to survive. There's no seasons, only time. . . . Your release date and your death certificate are the only two things that change anything."

The maitre d' came to show them to their table. They moved across the crowded restaurant as the calypso band played "Yellow Bird" on the steel drums. The people in the restaurant clapped in rhythm to the music. Malavida and Karen sat near the window and she could see the moonlit water in the distance.

She had also been sent away when she was in her teens, to a different kind of prn, being punished for her huge intellect. Her greatest asset, like Malavida's, had ended up costing her her childhood and her freedom.

She looked across the table at him. Again she was startled by the transformation in her attitude toward him. He had opened up to her, shared some feelings. It was as if by shedding the prn dungarees he had altered his whole persona. She knew that if she stopped to examine her feelings using her Ph
. D
., she would warn herself to be careful. The differences between them far outweighed what they had in common, and she knew opposites attract only in science class. But something deeper drew her to him. In this tall, handsome Chicano, she was seeing long-lost parts of herself. She had read his yellow sheet and knew tha
t h
is early crimes had been committed to give gifts to his mother, whom he worshiped. He had tried to please her just as Karen had tried to please her father . . . but his sentence had been more severe.

At dinner they talked about things that didn't matter. Malavida continued to come alive, revealing a droll sense of humor. She had two more margaritas. She was beginning to feel fuzzy and warm. She knew she had hit her limit.

The calypso band was replaced by a jazz combo at ten, and they danced on the small dance floor. She could feel his strong, hard body against hers, and she gripped him tightly, laying her head against his chest. She warned herself again, briefly, then clutched him and forgot the warning.

"Are you okay?" he finally asked.

She smiled up at him. "I think so . . ." she said, but she wasn't at all sure. Several times while she danced, she found her mind drifting to thoughts of Lockwood. She knew Lockwood was a mistake for her. He couldn't nourish her. He was focused on other things, lost in guilt over Claire and remorse over Heather. Karen knew she was just furniture in Lockwood's life. She was resigned to being alone. She couldn't invest herself in another failed relationship. She was too fragile to withstand another loss. Malavida had ulterior motives, but at least she understood them. She clutched him tighter and swayed with the margaritas and the music.

They left the restaurant a little past midnight and walked slowly into the parking lot. Karen took his hand and led him past the car to a small wharf near the restaurant. They sat on a small iron bench on the pier, and she looked out at the shimmering, moonlit water.

"It was nice that you sent away for the medicine."

"It was computer theft . . . Class A felony."

"So why did you do it?" she asked, looking up at him curiously.

He smiled, his white teeth shining in the moonlight. "I don't know, Karen. It's hard to tell with me sometimes. . . ."

"Because you wanted to help them?" she volunteered.

"I'm not that noble. Maybe ten percent . . . but mostly it was like everything else, I just wanted to see if I could do it."

Karen had lived her life on the edge of that temptation. The trouble was, once you strapped yourself into an ALFA Wing and jumped, there was no turning back. You had to live with the outcome.

She reached out and touched his face.

"Karen . . . you're very beautiful and I desperately want to make love to you," he said slowly. "But I owe something to Claire Lockwood. I won't feel right until I pay the debt. . . ."

She knew he was right, but she had already strapped on the ALFA Wing, already started her run. She needed desperately to be close to someone. She was so damn lonely. She kissed him just as he finished the sentence. He put both of his arms around her. She could feel an exchange of chemical electricity. The kiss lasted for almost a minute and then it was followed by another. She wasn't sure what she was doing, or why this was happening. But she knew she needed human warmth, just like the cons on Z Block. She couldn't function in The Rat's depraved world of mutilation and death without some compassion and humanity.

Back at the room they shed their clothes quickly, and, in the dark, they tumbled onto the bed. He was a good lover who took his time. His body was hard and ridged with muscles. The lone teardrop tattoo hung under his eye like a beacon symbolizing their differences. But having already run toward the edge, she now jumped, sailing out into space, falling free, her rudder assembly barely intact. She circled blindly in the dark. He entered her. She found immediate direction in the pleasure. The lovemaking was slow and rhythmic and they both reache
d o
rgasm together. They held each other afterward in the dark. She felt his heart beating, his breath on her shoulder. She was lost in the moment. They were sailing together. He had said that only a release date or death certificate changed anything. But what about this? she wondered. Then her practical mind overtook her fantasy. She lay on the bed with his weight on top of her and knew that this would probably be one of her trickiest landings.

Chapter
21

SATAN'S MESSAGE

The Rat had found a new place for the barge. It was miles farther down the Little Manatee River in the heart of the wetlands. He'd gone searching in his air-boat and he was sure it was deep enough for the heavy metal garbage barge, but he had not yet moved it. He sat in his underwear in the hull, enduring the intense late-afternoon heat. Deep in thought, he looked at the rusting walls. He had been waiting for the coveting to begin, for the sensation of need that filled him like electricity, making his skin burn, turning his mind taut and his emotions quick with longing. He sat in the stifling heat, wondering if he dared turn on the computer again. He knew he was engaged in a vicious, deadly, apocalyptic struggle with the Deity. He knew the answers he needed were more important than the risks; that the Beast must be constructed and given life so the answers could be told to him. He reached out and turned on his computer. He dialed into his account at the University of Florida on his cellphone, which was connected to his modem. H
e h
ad decided not to use a hardwire phone hookup to reduce his risk of discovery. He would continue to use Pennet as his host computer because he generally trusted the high-tech security on that system, despite what had happened last Sunday. He decided it was his own carelessness that had caused that disaster.

All week he had worked to make a new program that would be even more secure. It would protect him by using a leapfrog Internet address which was designed to work as an electronic trap. Anybody backfingering to that address would be busted by his alarm program and he would be alerted before they could get to him, allowing him to disconnect from Pennet and vanish into cyberspace.

The Rat knew it was time for a new coveting to begin. He would go back into the SurgiCyberNet, which was where he made all his parts selections for the Beast. It was where he had been given the message almost two years ago that told him how to proceed. He logged on and typed in the name of his electronic trap:

Iogflnger

He then telnetted to Pennet at:

rIng2Ice
. A
non
. P
ennet
. N
o

And his screen said:

Connected to rIng2Ice
. A
non
. P
ennet
. N
o Escape character Is 'Ar

SunOS UNIX (rIng2Ice)

login:

And the password:

Mutil8oR

And was quickly accepted into Pennet:

WELCOME TO PENNET, rat

He checked the private chat channel to see if Satan might be there, typing:

bbs/nick WIndMInstrel

And was greeted by:

WELCOME TO PENNET CHAT, WIndMInstrel

When he saw Satan wasn't there, he left chat and shot through Pennet and out into cyberspace, then cracked the SurgiCyberNet system with a username/password he had already cracked months ago. SurgiCyberNet was a network for plastic surgeons, who left "before" and "after" pictures of patients and procedures so that they could share new techniques. The Rat had found the SurgiCyberNet chat line two years ago and had begun scrolling avidly through pictures of naked women. Its symbol on the Internet was G. The symbol had fascinated him. The S inside the C seemed to beckon him. S was Shirley's initial; C and S
stood for cyberspace, which was his most powerful universe. Could this be a sign? As he looked at the pictures of naked women, his mind was still on the symbol. Then, by accident, he came across a picture of a woman who had unshaven legs and stocky, Shirley-like ankles. Shirley had never shaved her legs, because she said shaving one's appendages to attract sexual favors offended God. The Rat looked at the picture of the woman with Shirley's ankles for hours. Her name was Leslie Bowers and she was scheduled for liposuction on her thighs. It was almost as if Shirley's lower legs were there on the screen. His heart pounded and he wondered how two people could have identical calves and ankles. Had God also told this woman not to shave her legs? Then a mind-numbing thought hit him: Unless Shirley and the woman had a genuine correlation in the universe, unless they were part of the exact same eternal mosaic, how could they have calves and ankles that looked exactly the same? He knew that no two faces or fingerprints were identical. With legs, of course, there were far fewer identifiers, but still the thought intrigued him. It buzzed in his head like a broken speaker for days. It plagued him at night and kept him awake.