A Killer Like Me

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Monday, August 6, 8:09 PM

Murphy crouched in the darkness at the foot of the stairs, using a banister post for cover. Upstairs, he could hear the wind whipping through the rafters. He aimed the. 38 and his flashlight at the top of the stairs. The flashlight was switched off.

If Jeffries appeared on the upper landing, Murphy would shine the light in his eyes and order him to walk down the stairs with his hands over his head. The stairwell had a level section midway up, a small landing. When Jeffries reached that, Murphy would empty the revolver’s five bullets into his chest.

But Jeffries didn’t appear at the top of the stairs.

Murphy called out again. “Jeffries, this is your last warning. Come down now… or the SWAT team is going to fire tear gas at you and send up the dogs.”

Murphy waited. His threats sounded weak, even to him. If there were a SWAT team and K-9s standing by, Jeffries would know it because of the racket. Police cars with flashing lights would have blocked off both ends of the street. A BearCat armored truck would be parked at the front door. Cops in tactical gear would be scurrying everywhere.

Another minute passed. It seemed like an hour. There was no movement upstairs. The jig was up. Jeffries was calling his bluff. Murphy had to show his hand or fold.

The stairs were still a problem, actually worse now than before, Murphy realized, because of his lame attempt to draw Jeffries out. Just because the killer had not used a gun to commit any of his crimes did not mean he didn’t have one. And now he was up there, alert and ready.

Standard tactical procedure is to take stairs slowly, but that assumes you have backup. If Jeffries had a gun and he caught Murphy on the open stairwell, he would kill Murphy where he stood. Just as Murphy had planned to do to him. But Murphy wasn’t going to get caught in that trap. He knew that even after being shot in the heart, a determined man can fight on for up to a minute before he died. Long enough to kill his enemy.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Dylan Thomas had said. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

All Murphy needed was speed and momentum. He took a deep breath as he readied himself to charge up the steps.

Upstairs, a woman screamed.

It was barely loud enough to be heard over the wind crashing through the attic. The scream had carried words, but he couldn’t understand them. He could only understand the terror behind them.

Murphy took another deep breath and launched himself up the stairs. He held the. 38 high. His flashlight was off, but ready. He pounded up the wooden steps. It was too late for stealth. His only hope was to take Jeffries by surprise.

Lord, just let me kill him before I die.

The top landing was cloaked in darkness. Three-quarters of the way up the stairs, Murphy’s finger tightened on the trigger. He switched on his flashlight, ready to fire the instant he saw Jeffries.

But Jeffries wasn’t there.

As soon as Murphy reached the top of the stairs, he spun around and swept the second floor with his flashlight. Straight ahead, twenty feet on the other side of the stairwell, was a galley-style kitchenette. He could see it was empty. Ten feet closer was the entrance to a dark hallway that disappeared to his left, down the center of the house. That was the only immediate danger point. He needed to see what was around the corner of that hallway.

After stairs, corners present the most dangerous tactical obstacle. The best way to approach them was from several feet away and at a wide angle. Because of the layout of the upstairs landing area and the stairwell opening in the floor, Murphy couldn’t do that. He had to approach the corner from a ninety-degree angle. The worst possible situation.

The stairwell was flanked on one side by the house’s back wall and on the other side by a wooden railing. Murphy pressed his back against the railing and slid toward the hallway entrance, keeping the. 38 and his flashlight trained on the dark opening. When he reached the corner, he shone his flashlight down the hall. It was empty. Then he realized he wasn’t breathing. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.

“Help me!” the woman screamed.

This time there was no mistaking her words. The voice had come from down the hall. Along the right side of the hallway were two doors. The first one stood open. The second was closed. Because of the angle, Murphy couldn’t see the left side of the hallway.

He shone his flashlight into the open door. “Can you hear me?” he called out. The sound of the wind had gotten louder.

“Help me!” the woman cried again.

“I’m a police officer,” Murphy shouted, trying to be heard over the raging storm.

“Hurry.”

The killer peeks through a tiny crack in the door directly across from the open bedroom in which Kiesha Guidry sits bound and helpless. He sees the policeman’s flashlight shining down the hallway. He is sure the policeman is alone.

Claudius, the king of Denmark, was wrong. When sorrows come, they do not always come in battalions. Sometimes they do come as single spies.

If there were more than one policeman, he would hear them. And he is quite certain the policeman is Detective Murphy. Who else could it be? It is Murphy whom Satan would send to try to stop him. But Satan will not succeed. Not today. Neither will Murphy.

As he hears the Jezebel pleading for help, the killer wishes he had replaced her gag. The hallway goes dark. Then the killer hears footsteps approaching. He tightens his grip on the stun gun and takes a deep breath.

Murphy switched off his flashlight and eased around the corner into the hallway. He could see three doors spaced out along the left wall. All were closed. He judged the open door eight feet away to be the greatest threat. His eyes focused on it as he crept forward, one quiet, deliberate step at a time.

When he reached the edge of the doorway, he peered into the room. His right hand, holding the revolver, was braced against the wall. In his left hand he held his flashlight, his thumb on the switch. The room was pitch-dark. There should have been a window in the far wall, allowing some ambient light to seep in. If his bearings were right, that wall overlooked Mazant Street. There were still streetlights burning outside.

Murphy pressed the button on his flashlight and shone the beam into the room. To his right, a young black woman was bound to a chair. She looked straight into the light, her eyes wide, reflecting her terror. He had found the mayor’s daughter.

Directly across the room was a pair of French doors. The glass panes had been painted black. Soiled mattresses covered the walls. To Murphy’s left, a video camera stood atop a tripod. There was no one else in the room.

Kiesha Guidry started crying.

Murphy stepped into the doorway. Behind him he heard a floorboard creak. Before he could turn around, something touched the base of his skull. His head exploded in pain. Every muscle in his body convulsed. Then his legs turned to jelly and he collapsed facedown on the floor. For several seconds he sensed nothing except blinding light erupting behind his eyes and bombs detonating in his ears.

Then he felt his tongue. It was too thick. It sagged from his mouth. He could taste the wooden floor. It was rough and gritty with dirt. The air smelled like burned hair.

Kiesha Guidry was screaming.

Murphy turned his head to the side. He raised his arms and pressed his palms against the floor, but he didn’t have the strength to lift himself.

An overhead light flicked on.

He saw the revolver on the floor, three feet away. He groped for it. A scuffed leather shoe kicked the gun away.

“I would love to drag this out, Detective Murphy, but I have work to do,” a voice said.

A hand grabbed Murphy’s hair and jerked his head a few inches off the floor. His senses were coming back. He tried to push himself up to his knees. Then he felt something rigid graze his forehead and scrape past his nose, lips, and chin. It tugged at his neck. There was a zipping sound. Then his throat cinched shut. He gasped for air but none reached his lungs. He knew he was being strangled with a cable tie.

Panic.

Murphy’s body responded with a surge of adrenaline. He lurched to his feet and turned toward his attacker. Standing five feet away was Richard Lee Jeffries, the Lamb of God Killer. Murphy recognized the scar above his right eye. The same scar the Lucky Dog man had described. There were fresh scratches on Jeffries’s face and a bandage covering his left cheek.

He held a stun gun in his right hand.

Murphy’s eyes darted around the room. The. 38 lay on the floor several feet away.

Jeffries triggered the stun gun, sending sparks arching between the two prongs.

My Glock!

Murphy clawed at his raincoat with both hands.

Jeffries lunged at him. He jammed the stun gun into Murphy’s chest and pushed the trigger. The electric blast knocked Murphy onto his back. Jeffries dove on top of him and snatched Murphy’s Glock from its holster. He flung the pistol into the hallway. Then he rolled away and scrambled to his feet. From a safe distance, Jeffries stared down at Murphy as he choked to death.

The killer’s expression was like that of a porno actor having an orgasm.

Somewhere in the background, above the roaring wind, Murphy heard Kiesha Guidry’s voice. This time there were no words. Just shrieks of terror.

Murphy’s heels thrashed at the floor. His right hand pulled at his empty holster. Then his fingers brushed against the top of his folding knife, clipped to the inside of his pants pocket. His vision was fading.

Murphy yanked the knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He jammed the three-inch titanium blade under the cable tie. The tip sliced through his skin as it dug under the hard plastic strap. Blood spilled down the handle.

Jeffries ran at him, but Murphy drove the killer back with a hard stomp to his shin. Twisting the knife outward, Murphy tried to saw through the strap, but his grip slipped on the bloody handle. Jeffries triggered the stun gun and jabbed at one of Murphy’s flailing legs, but Murphy managed to kick the killer’s hand away. Then Murphy hooked his other foot around Jeffries’s ankle and swept his leg out from under him, spilling the killer to the floor.

For Murphy, the dim light from the overhead bulb was fading fast.

I’m going to die.

He gripped the blood-slick handle with both hands and twisted it out and down. The blade sliced the cable tie in two. Murphy sucked in a deep lungful of air.

Kiesha Guidry was still screaming.

On his knees, with one hand braced on the floor, Jeffries stabbed at Murphy with the stun gun. When Murphy kicked at the killer’s hand, the twin prongs brushed his right leg. The brief contact sent a convulsive shock wave through his body.

Jeffries dove for the. 38, but Murphy, still on his back like an overturned turtle, managed to boot the gun toward the door.

As the killer crawled after the revolver, Murphy stood up. Only eight feet of space separated him from Jeffries. But Jeffries was only two feet from the gun. Like all revolvers, the. 38 had no safety. It was a point-and-shoot weapon. Inside the small room, Jeffries didn’t have to be much of a shot to bury the five hollow-point bullets inside Murphy. He would be dead as soon as he hit the floor.

Murphy turned toward the French doors. He wrapped his arms around his head and dove through the painted glass.

He landed on the awning that overhung the sidewalk. The surface was covered with tar shingles, but the downward slope and the rain had made it too slick to stop his headlong sliding roll toward the street.

Behind him he heard two gunshots.

As Murphy’s momentum carried him headfirst over the edge, he clawed at the fascia board. For an instant, his fingers snagged a piece of molding and held it just long enough so that his legs passed him. He somersaulted in midair and landed on his feet, with a slightly rearward angle that dropped him on his back a half second later.

His right knee popped and his breath exploded from his lungs.

Yet even while fighting for his next breath, Murphy realized he had to get out of sight. Like a wounded animal, he dragged himself over the curb and under the cover of the overhang just as three more shots rang out. The bullets tore through the wooden awning and ricocheted off the asphalt a couple of feet beyond the curb.

Then Murphy heard the repeated click of the revolver’s hammer falling on empty chambers. The. 38 was out of bullets, but his Glock was still upstairs in the hallway where Jeffries had thrown it. Kiesha Guidry was still up there too.

Murphy grabbed the nearest post and pulled himself to his feet. His knee held his weight but barely, and it hurt like hell.

Somewhere in the trunk of his car, Murphy knew he had a collapsible police baton. It was the only weapon he had left. A steel club wasn’t much use against a. 40-caliber Glock with twelve rounds in the magazine, but one way or the other, this was going to end tonight.

Lord, grant me the strength to beat that son of a bitch to death.