Murphy’s face.
Ignore him. Focus on loading. He’s not going to hit me. Big sky, little bullet. Big sky, little bullet.
It was something he had read that Wyatt Earp used to say to himself when he was in the middle of a gunfight.
Murphy’s fingers felt like fat sausages. He shoved the two shells into the breech and snapped the barrels shut. He raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The blast knocked Jeffries off his feet.
Murphy waited and watched, covering Jeffries with the shotgun. He had one more barrelful of buckshot.
For several seconds Jeffries lay on his back, not moving.
Murphy pulled himself to his feet.
Jeffries rolled onto his side and fired, snapping off several shots. The. 40-caliber rounds clanged against the car’s metal body.
Murphy ducked around the Taurus to get away from the hail of bullets. He scrambled along the driver’s side toward the front bumper but slipped on the wet pavement and fell. A bullet struck the back left tire and blew the air out with a giant hiss.
Murphy tumbled around the front end of the Taurus. The shooting stopped. He lay on his stomach and looked under the car. He saw the bottom of Jeffries’s legs limping toward the house, already too far away for Murphy to risk his last shot.
He realized he had probably only hit Jeffries with a few pellets. To kill him with this cut-down, underpowered 20-gauge, Murphy knew he needed to get within a dozen feet and hit Jeffries dead center.
The driving rain dug into Murphy’s face and cut visibility to almost nothing. He rose to one knee and peeked around the Taurus. The big house, no more than thirty yards away, was barely visible, just a hulking gray shadow against the black sky, a shadow that had already swallowed Jeffries.
The killer hobbles through the back door and slams it shut. The wood around the lock is splintered, and the lock itself is useless. He puts his back against the door and slides to the floor. He screams in pain.
There are three holes in his right pant leg, each more than a quarter-inch in diameter. Blood pours through them. He pulls off his ski mask and examines the holes. He can see that the flesh beneath the torn fabric is mangled. How could he have missed Murphy?
He had fired at least ten shots at the flatfoot. Maybe some of them found their mark while Murphy was crawling around his car like a whipped dog. The killer examines the big pistol in his hand. How many shots are left? He doesn’t know how to check.
He reaches for the doorknob and pulls himself to his feet. As he puts weight on his injured leg he screams again.
Oh, God, it hurts.
Struggling up the stairs, the killer realizes that Murphy called him by his name. Somehow the Philistine figured out the killer’s identity and knows he is the Lamb of God. Yet Murphy came alone.
He’s not here to arrest me. He’s here to kill me.
The killer limps into the room. The mayor’s daughter is where he left her, duct-taped to the chair. Her face is red and swollen from crying and stretched wide with terror. Her nose and lips are crusted over. She looks nothing like the beautiful ebony princess who was honored at the awards ceremony two nights ago.
Her fear strengthens him. He shoves the pistol into his pants.
Wind and rain whip through the busted glass of the French doors as the killer pulls the Khyber knife free from the wall. He hefts the heavy weapon in his hand. It feels good.
He pulls a folded yellow sheet of legal paper from the back pocket of his pants. As he unfolds the wet page, he is glad to see the words are still legible. He has hand-printed four lines of text. The girl will read the lines into the camera. Then he will strike off her head and hold it up for all the world to see. Including her father.
The killer touches his face. His mask is downstairs. No matter. He can edit himself out of the video later. What is important now is that he finish his work. Then he will find Murphy and kill him.
He checks the camera. It is already recording. He remembers pushing the red record button just before he heard the noise downstairs. His struggle with Murphy has been recorded.
God is on my side. I shall not fail.
Murphy pushed open the broken door and slipped into the foyer, the shotgun gripped in both hands. He did not waste time searching downstairs. Jeffries was upstairs. He was sure of it. At the bottom of the stairs, Murphy reached down to unlace and remove his shoes.
He didn’t charge up the stairs this time, not with a busted knee. But he moved steadily, turning as he climbed, keeping the shotgun aimed at the upper railing. He had lost his flashlight, but his eyes were adjusted to the darkness.
The top of the stairwell was empty, but the dark tunnel of the hallway loomed straight ahead. Murphy limped toward the opening. He peeked around the corner with the shotgun ready, his finger on the trigger. The hallway was empty. The first door on the right was still open. Inside, the light was on. He stepped into the center of the hallway.
At the edge of the open door, he paused and took a deep breath. This was it, he thought. Only one of us will leave this room alive.
Murphy pushed off with his good leg and stepped into the room. Jeffries was to his right, his back to the door. He stood next to Kiesha Guidry, who was still bound to the chair. Jeffries held a sheet of yellow paper in front of Kiesha with his left hand. His right hand held a huge knife, nearly the size of a machete. He pressed the tip of the blade against the terrified girl’s neck.
Kiesha sat facing the camera across the room. She was reading out loud from the paper Jeffries held in front of her, but Murphy couldn’t make out the words over the sound of the wind blowing through the shattered French doors. Jeffries was looking down at her.
For a moment, neither of them noticed Murphy.
He could not fire his last round of buckshot without hitting Kiesha.
Then Jeffries turned and saw him. He dropped the sheet of paper and the knife and snatched the Glock from his waistband. Murphy tried to jump behind the wall but his right leg folded under him. He fell on his back in the doorway.
Jeffries screamed something, but the wind sucked his words out of the room before they reached Murphy’s ears.
With the pistol thrust out in one hand, Jeffries took two steps toward Murphy and fired. The bullet smacked into the doorframe beside Murphy’s right ear. Jeffries took a third step and paused to take careful aim. He didn’t seem to notice that the slide on the Glock had locked back on an empty magazine.
Murphy noticed.
When Jeffries pulled the trigger, nothing happened. So he pulled it again. Then he turned the pistol in his hand and stared into the empty chamber.
Murphy raised the shotgun and fired.
The blast caught Jeffries high in the chest. He stayed on his feet for several seconds, looking down at the dozen black holes smoking in his chest. Then he collapsed.
Murphy pulled himself up from the floor. There was no need to check Jeffries for a pulse. No one survives a round of buckshot to the chest from six feet.
Murphy dropped the shotgun and looked at Kiesha Guidry. “Are you hurt?”
She stared at Jeffries. “Is he dead?”
“He’s dead.” Murphy hobbled toward her and reached for his folding knife, but it wasn’t there. He lowered himself onto his left knee and tore at the duct tape with his fingers.
A blast of wind ripped through the broken French doors and shook the house like a dog with a bone. From another upstairs room came the sound of breaking glass. Then from outside, Murphy heard what sounded like a piece of tin bouncing down the street.
Catherine was here.
“We need to get downstairs,” Murphy said. “We’re going to have to ride out the storm here.”
She looked at him and nodded.
“You are Kiesha Guidry, right?”
She nodded again.
