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
