Last Voice: A Concerto
14: Calando
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"Just wait here. I'll beep you if I need you."
Nick shifted the Tahoe into park. "Yeah. Go ahead. What gave you your idea, though?"
"Samson needed something to tell him Kasey was pregnant – something that he could just find in her home. Like a journal, Grissom said. Besides, I kept one when I was in therapy."
"Therapy?"
I started to get out and stopped.
"Hey… I have a quarterly check-up next Friday, but my car's going in to be serviced at the same time. Do you think I could get a ride from you?"
He blinked and nodded.
I shut the passenger side door, setting my sights on the apartment building in front of me.
Ignoring the alley.
Pointedly.
I didn't want to get into that again.
I opened the door, taking the stairs two at a time.
It was strange. All ready I felt uneasy.
Maybe it was just because it was late and shadowy.
Yeah, that was it.
I arrived at Kasey's apartment, taking the key out of an opened evidence bag.
I crossed the room determinedly. Don't be nervous. That's just stupid.
Pay attention to your gut! my subconscious warned.
Pay attention to your own gut, I replied silently.
"Okay… laptop, laptop, where art thou, laptop?"
It was set up on the desk. I pushed the power button and waited as the Windows XP screen loaded and disappeared.
Web camera. CD burner.
Video diary.
The desktop appeared. I clicked on the start menu, opening the CD files.
Bingo.
Fifty-seven files. The first – August 23 – I clicked on.
Kasey Kinsey's face appeared. She looked the same, only without the fractured bones, bruises, or blood.
This was her last voice.
"Okay… I feel kinda stupid doing this, talking to my computer, but… well, I heard it helped you deal with things to keep a journal. I can't write worth anything, so I'm starting this thing. Umm… Nothing much happened today. I'm moving into the city tomorrow. I just don't think I can stand being here any longer – ever since Mom died. It's not hard to say, just hard to think about. Well, I just hope I don't turn out to be a compulsive gambler or something."
I bit my lip and clicked on the next one.
"Hey, it's me again… I'm adjusting to life here. Made a friend down the hallway – some guy named Ted. Six and a half feet tall, yeah. You get the idea."
I shook my head and choose another file randomly. It was about six months ago.
"Yeah, William and I have been dating for a while. It's great, but still makes me nervous. You now, I…" She blushed. "Yeah. You know. I wonder if anyone will ever see this. I hope not, I'd die of embarrassment."
"That's not what you died of," I told her, choosing one from just a week before.
"I really don't know what to do. I didn't think this could happen – I'm not even sure it did or anything. Should I go to the doctor? Maybe an anonymous clinic? I don't know… Should I ask William what he thinks?"
She shook her head and shut off the camera.
No more – I had to get back to the lab, anyway.
I closed the folder and popped the CD out.
Hopefully, there would be something on it about Samson's stalking. Maybe more about her relationships.
I had stuffed an evidence bag into my coat pocket. I slipped the disk inside and sealed it.
Archie would probably handle it. I'd help, of course.
With a sigh, I turned and left the apartment, locking the door behind me and stepping over the newspaper on the welcome mat.
When I reached the first stairs, a voice stopped me.
"Mr. Swartz, Las Vegas crime lab, right?"
I turned. "What?"
It was a big, muscled guy, in jeans and a black t-shirt. Six and a half feet tall.
Bandage on one arm, revealed by a t-shirt.
Ted Samson.
I let a couple choice words slip.
"Now, no need for that."
My gaze traveled to what he was holding in his right hand.
It was flat, curved, with a sharp end.
The murder weapon.
"A crowbar?" I said, with far less fear that was creeping into my stomach. "You used a crowbar to kill people?"
"They weren't people. They were under me."
"Well, there's your problem. They didn't agree."
"I don't suppose you do?"
"That I'm 'under you'? Less than you? Hell no."
"What did I say about your language?" Samson took a couple steps.
I involuntarily moved back.
"I'm a dying man, Mr. Swartz."
"Sanders."
"My last t-cell count was a hundred and thirty. Do you now what that means?"
"It means you have AIDS."
"Very good."
He took a couple more steps and I prepared to run.
"It's a death sentence."
"No it's not."
"Really? And you're an expert?"
"No."
Samson grinned. It was not a sane grin. "You're a positive, too."
"Yes."
"Six years."
"Thirteen."
"Thirteen?" he repeated. "Impressive."
"Lucky."
"Luck would be not getting it in the first place."
I felt my heart pounding in my throat.
I was trapped in a stairwell with a serial killer.
I was at the bottom of the steps, on a landing. Only two flights to go before the door.
Could I make it?
I doubted it. Samson was almost a foot taller than me. He could have still outrun me if he'd had a fifty-pound bag of cat food stung over his shoulder.
Did that sound familiar or what?
I pulled my cell phone out.
Samson lunged.
Before I knew what had happened, I was ducking a blow from a blood-stained crowbar.
I yelped as it connected with my left arm. A sickening crack filled my ears and fire spread from the fracture.
Adrenaline took over and I jumped back. I tripped.
I was going to be murdered.
I had a sudden flash of my friends processing the scene. It looked suspiciously like the alley, with a different background.
Next thing I knew, I was down.
Get up, get up, get up, you idiot!
I had to get up.
I was not going to just lay there and die!
I looked up, in time to catch another blow against the side of the head.
Stars flashed in front of my eyes and I hit the second landing. Hard. The wind was knocked out of me.
There was a sudden pressure on my throat.
It took my confused brain a moment to put it together.
Kasey had been strangled. Manually.
I gasped, but nothing reached my lungs. I forced my blurry eyes open.
Samson, with one knee on my chest, the other on my broken arm (odd – it didn't seem to hurt right then), glared at me, a crazy glint in his eye.
"Well, looks like you won't be getting me for this. Too bad. Checkmate."
I wanted to swing at him. I wanted to break his face.
How could I die like that – without putting a mark on him?!
Wait.
Where was the crowbar?
Yes! There!
It was in my right hand. How I got hold of it I don't know.
It connected with Samson's skull. How I got the energy to swing it I don't know.
My throat opened and a yelp assailed my ears.
For a couple minutes I just breathed.
Keep breathing.
Don't black out.
Samson was down, still breathing.
Just unconscious. Too bad.
Not checkmate.
My cell phone had fallen nearby. I grabbed it and punched in Nicky's beeper number.
That was it.
And I don't remember any more.
A/N: HA! Look at that, fourteen chapters, it's almost done, heck yeah!
