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.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Monday, August 6, 8:21 PM
The flatfoot has escaped.
In frustration, the killer stands amid the shattered French doors and fires the. 38 revolver down through the wooden awning, at where he estimates the edge of the road lies. The gun bucks in his hand three times before the hammer falls on an empty chamber. He pulls the trigger several more times.
Then he remembers the other gun. The one he tossed into the hallway. He turns and runs across the room. The girl screams again. In a moment she won’t have a head to scream with. The thought makes him smile.
He finds the pistol in the hall. A big automatic. The sheer size of it scares him. He steps back into the room, the big gun clutched in his right hand. The mayor’s daughter stops screaming. He holds the pistol up to the light, looking for a safety, but he can’t find one. How does this thing shoot? He points it at the floor and squeezes the trigger.
Bam!
Evidently, there is no safety.
The killer tucks the gun into the front of his pants. He stoops and picks up his Khyber knife from the floor beneath the tripod. Then he walks toward the girl. She screams and yanks at her bonds. Halfway to her, the killer stops and turns around. He looks at the red LED light on top of the camera. He hopes his face is not within the camera’s viewfinder. He has forgotten his mask. He retreats across the room to retrieve it.