The killer wraps duct tape around Kiesha Guidry’s ankles, securing them to the front of the chair. Her wrists are already taped to the chair’s wooden arms. The mayor’s daughter is much more docile than the last time he saw her. There is nothing like two days locked inside a trunk to take the fight right out of a person. He smiles as he uses his KA-BAR to cut away the extra tape.
The last time he opened the box, Kiesha Guidry bit a chunk out of his face. This time she is barely conscious as he drags her out and drops her into the chair.
Above him, the wind screams through the attic. It has gotten louder in the last hour. He is afraid the wind will tear the old house apart. He needs to get back home. Had it not been for the two cops knocking on his door he would have finished this already. After their visit, he was paralyzed with fear. Several times he tried to leave his apartment, but the devil played tricks on him: “Don’t go outside,” Satan said. “They’re watching you.”
So he waited. For more than an hour. Now the storm is here.
The girl’s head lolls on her shoulders. He slaps her. “Wake up, princess. It’s time to talk to Daddy.”
“Daddy,” she mumbles. “Daddy… help me.”
He has removed her gag. He wants her to make a statement before she dies, to give a message to her father.
She smells of urine, but he doesn’t mind. Nothing can dull the glory of this moment. This will be his crowning achievement, the moment when he surpasses all messengers who have come before him. Has not God himself sent a hurricane to purge the filth from this city at the exact moment his servant is purging the blood from this Jezebel?
The killer stands, savoring his handiwork for a moment. In the dim glow from the overhead bulb, he can see the young woman’s eyes starting to focus. He wants her to know what is happening to her. He wants her to feel the pain. He pushes the steamer trunk out of the way, then crosses the room and stands behind the tripod. He presses the power button on his video camera.
As the camera comes to life, the killer lowers himself to one knee. Beneath the tripod lies his messenger bag. He stuffs the KA-BAR inside the bag. Then he pulls out the tool he will need for tonight’s work: his two-foot Khyber knife, bought over the Internet but originally imported from the rugged mountains of Afghanistan. He can see streaks of Sandra Jackson’s blood darkening the blade. He also takes out his black ski mask.
The killer stands and peers through the viewfinder. He adjusts the zoom to a wider angle. He can edit the footage on his computer later and zoom in if he needs to.
In his head he rehearses the ritual one last time. He will start the recording. Then he will walk to the back of the chair and order the young woman to read aloud the statement he has written for her. He will praise God, and he will cut off her head. Then he will throw her body on the other side of the levee for the storm-flooded river to wash away. He will keep her head and hang it next to Sandra Jackson’s, from a rafter in the attic, where the summer heat will dry them both into mummified skulls.
He presses the record button on the video camera and prepares to begin the ritual. But he hears a strange noise. Even over the howling wind, he can tell it came from downstairs. It was a sharp bang. Then he hears a change in the wind, as if it is now blowing through the rooms downstairs. The back door has blown open. Or been forced open.
The killer drops again to one knee. He sets the knife and mask down and digs into his bag. He pulls out his million-volt stun gun and a cable tie, the ends of which are already connected to form a loop large enough to fit over a human head. He turns and steps into the hall, flicking off the light as he passes the switch beside the door.
The back door was locked. It looked like a standard lock, something Murphy probably could have picked his way through, but his lock kit was in the car and the rain was coming down so hard he could barely see. With his bum shoulder and the weather, there was no way he could summon the fine motor skills necessary to pick the lock.
Fuck it.
Murphy stepped back and kicked open the door.
He rushed in, the five-shot. 38 and his flashlight thrust out in front of him.
The doorway opened into a small foyer, beneath the high end of a wooden stairwell. To the left was a wall. To the right stretched a large room. Murphy shone his flashlight across the darkness. On the other side of the room stood a wide arched doorway. Straight ahead was a small enclosed space, probably a bathroom. Past that was a kitchen.
There was no furniture.
He switched off the flashlight and crept across the empty room, careful not to drag his feet on the hardwood floor. As he advanced, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was above him on the stairs. The banistered stairway disappeared into a nearly pitch-black opening in the ceiling.
After crossing the room, Murphy braced himself beside the arched doorway, beyond which lay another room. Using the edge of the wall as cover, he switched on his light and swept the beam and the muzzle of the revolver around the room. It was empty.
Across this second room stood the front door, solid wood with an opaque glass transom above it. Murphy could see the silhouette of burglar bars through the glass.
He shuffled to his left and searched the kitchen and the small enclosed space, which was, as he had guessed, a bathroom. Both were empty of furnishings and empty of people. Jeffries had to be upstairs. And by now, he knew that someone was inside the house.
Murphy turned and looked at the stairwell. He hated stairs. Tactically, they were a nightmare. It was the perfect place for an ambush. Even with a team of officers, there was no way to climb them safely. He had been trained to creep up the steps with his back against the wall, while covering the upper landing with his gun. But against a dedicated opponent, the first guy up the stairs was always going to get shot. SWAT teams trained to have only two officers on the stairs at a time. That way, if someone above them started shooting, the team would only lose two members.
Murphy decided to do something unexpected.
The killer peers down the stairs. He can hear the wind rushing through the open back door, and he can see the glow from the street lamps outside. The stairwell opening limits his view of the ground floor. It’s also dark.
A floorboard creeks. The killer tenses. Someone is down there. He backs away from the stairs.
“Richard Lee Jeffries!” a man’s voice shouts from downstairs.
The killer’s breath catches in his throat, and he feels a stab of fear pierce his heart. This can’t be happening. He is doing God’s work. Surely, God would not allow some interloper to ruin his plan.
“This is the New Orleans Police Department. You are under arrest. The house is surrounded. Come down now with your hands over your head.”
The killer shrinks back into the darkened hallway.
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.
