Chuck Hustmyre - A Killer Like Me

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.

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.

What will Murphy do now? the killer wonders as he pulls the black ski mask over his head. Will he give up? No, he will try again.

Murphy is like me. That means I have to find him first.

In a burst of anger, the killer stabs the Khyber knife into the wall behind the tripod, burying the blade halfway to the hilt in the soft Sheetrock.

Murphy pulled his keys from his pocket and opened the trunk of his Taurus. As soon as the trunk light flashed on, he smashed it with the bottom of his fist. He didn’t want to be silhouetted against his car.

It was raining so hard he could barely see. He ducked his head inside the trunk to try to get out of the worst of the weather, but the wind was pushing the rain almost horizontally and threatening to tear away the trunk lid. Murphy had to paw blindly for his baton. He knew it was there somewhere.

His hand fell on the chopped-down butt of a shotgun, the one he had taken from Jonathan Deshotels in what seemed like another lifetime.

Murphy didn’t hear the shot over the screaming wind, but he heard the bullet strike the underside of the trunk. It punched a hole through the metal six inches from his face. He turned and saw Jeffries striding toward him, a dark mask covering his face. The killer was forty feet away, with his arms thrust out in an awkward combat posture and Murphy’s Glock squeezed between his hands.

A flash exploded from the muzzle of the Glock. This time Murphy heard the shot at the same time the bullet thudded into the metal next to his head. He jerked Deshotels’s sawed-off shotgun from the trunk and ripped it from the paper bag. The shotgun was an over-and-under 20-gauge, with the barrels cut down to little more than a foot and the stock chopped into a pistol grip.

Murphy thumbed the release lever and broke open the barrels. They were empty. Where had he put the two shells of buckshot he emptied from the gun at Deshotels’s house?

Another gunshot. Murphy glanced up. Jeffries had stopped advancing. He stood thirty feet away, trying to aim at Murphy. The Glock wavered in his hands.

Murphy remembered where he had put the shotgun shells. They were inside the paper bag. He dropped to his good knee and picked up the bag from where it had fallen beneath the bumper. He shoved his hand inside and grabbed both shells.

Jeffries fired again. The bullet blew out the left taillight of the Taurus. Bits of shattered plastic struck 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.