Bicycle Shop Murder 38

As Marty Crumb walked toward Cabin 17, warm rifle in hand, every vein in his body tingled. He was addicted to taking lives. He had tried weed, cocaine, ecstasy, LSD—you name it. But there was no greater high than the power he felt when he killed a human being. For those few moments—he was God.

Marty wished that Buford’s foolish, young hit man had been alive long enough to know who was killing him. John X had shot Marty at the Holiday Inn, as the elevator doors were clos­ing. He had hit the intended target—the center of Marty’s chest. But why hadn’t John X checked to make sure Marty was dead? Had the boy never heard of a bulletproof vest? The kid was just too cocky. Too sloppy.

Marty had changed while in prison. He had found God. He had learned to pray. And he had made a promise to God that he would never again commit murder. But then Buford Bellowin came into the picture. He pulled some strings to get Marty an early parole. And Marty had been appreciative until he learned he was not really free.

He would be Buford’s slave. And it might involve some killing. And if Marty refused, then Buford would make a call to his buddy on the parole board, and Marty would face a trumped-up parole violation. Then he would go back to prison, facing the prospect of being locked up for the rest of his life.

Marty’s assignment had been to do ‘whatever it takes’ to assure that Kantrell Jamison was acquitted. Marty figured Kan­trell was actually guilty. But he had no idea why Buford cared about the boy’s fate. And he didn’t want to know. He just wanted to pay his debt to Buford, and be free. He had hoped he could do the job without having to break his vow to God.

But then, there was the problem with the witness for the prosecution—Arabeth Albertson. The defense attorney had suggested her eyesight was poor, and therefore her testimony was invalid. But after she had passed a court-mandated eye exam, Marty was worried she would destroy the defendant’s chances. He saw no other solution—he had to kill her before she got back on the witness stand.

So, he used her beloved cat to lure her out into the darkness of the night. Then he tripped her as she walked down the stairs. He finished her off by smashing her head into the pavement. Marty had felt sick at first, then exhilarated.

Then there was the problem with Troy Blockerman. He’d been single-handedly pushing the jury toward a guilty verdict. After slashing Troy’s throat, Marty was back—in full murder mode. Just like the old days. It was like giving up cigarettes for a month, as a three-pack-a-day smoker, and then taking a deep draw on ten cigarettes all at once. No—even better than that. It made him feel alive like nothing else in the world. How had he survived all those years in prison without this feeling?

One of the first things he’d done when he had arrived in Coreyville was to put a bug in Dorothy Spokane’s house. Buford had warned him that she might be a problem. So, when she called the D.A.’s office, Marty knew he had to act immedi­ately. It had been so easy for him to pull the trigger and blow her away.

But then Buford had surprised Marty when he told him his debt was paid. Marty knew better. He knew Buford had not been happy with his work, and was hiring someone else to fin­ish the job.

He also knew Buford would want Marty taken out first. And Marty felt he deserved it. Not because he had let Buford down. He deserved to die because he had broken his promise to God. Several times. He could have tried to blame it on Buford. But that would have just been an excuse. Marty had made the con­scious decision to work for Buford. Maybe God had been testing him. If so, he had failed miserably.

So, he just accepted the fact that he was about to die. He put on his only suit and tie, and started to go out for dinner. Then he had a thought. He could wear a bulletproof vest under his clothes. Then, if he somehow lived through whatever the new killer had for him, he would take it as a sign that God had forgiven him. And that he had been given another chance to redeem himself.

It had seemed like a fair deal to make with God. After all, the vest provided only limited protection. He could have still been killed with a bullet to the head, or an explosion, or any number of other ways.

He had seen John X hiding behind the plant, pointing the gun at him. The bullet went straight toward his heart. It had knocked the breath out of him, as it hurled him to the back wall of the elevator. Then the doors had closed, and the elevator had gone to the second floor.

After taking a minute to catch his breath, he had walked out of the elevator, into his room, and had been amazed that the hit man had not checked to make sure he was dead.

So, apparently God was giving him another chance. But he felt that the Lord would want him to put an end to Buford’s activities first. After that, Marty could live his life for God’s glory, and kill no more.

First order of business: stop the new killer. Since jury deli­berations were currently on hold, Marty had guessed cor­rectly that John X would report back to Buford before killing anyone else. Marty had been watching for John X to enter Buford’s parking garage, when he saw something unex­pected—Greg Tenorly’s Bonneville. And it appeared that Greg and Cynthia Blockerman were both in the car.

Then he had located the car in the parking garage, and watched from a distance. He had seen John X attaching the tracking device to the Bonneville. So, he knew Buford’s new killer would be following them. Marty could have killed John X in the parking garage, or at numerous other times throughout the day.

But that might have allowed Greg and Cynthia to get away. Were they part of the problem? Should he kill them too? There would never be a better opportunity to do it. He had his Bowie knife with him. So, he could do it quietly, and not even disturb the other campers. They would sit helplessly, unable to move, as he slit their throats.

Marty turned the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open with his rifle. John X was sprawled across the floor on his back. His head was at the foot of Cynthia’s bed, near the left corner. His feet were under the edge of the table.

Marty took a good look at the punk who had tried to kill him. The top of his head was bleeding. Marty had split his scalp, but not his skull. He wasn’t dead, but he was out cold.

The Dirty Harry weapon was on the floor, in the bathroom doorway. If John X came to, and went for the gun, Marty could easily take care of him with a rifle shot to the back. By the time the punk reached the revolver, it would be covered with his own guts.

Marty looked at Cynthia. Her eyes were red, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

Cynthia said, “Thank you for saving us.”

I’m no savior—I’m just another killer, Marty thought. But he would stop killing soon.

John X had regained consciousness right after Marty had entered the cabin. But he had played dead, and hoped he could fool Marty. But how had Marty survived? he wondered. He knew his shot had been perfect. He even saw Marty fall back when he was hit. Then, he knew the answer. No! Not a bullet­proof vest! Marty must have somehow known he was coming.

John X didn’t know where the .44 Magnum had landed. But he knew if he made any sudden movement, Marty would not hesitate to shoot him with the rifle. Then he remembered. His little semi-automatic pistol was in his pocket, as always.

He would slowly move his hand into his pocket. Fortu­nately, his right side was away from Marty. He opened his eyes ever so slightly. Marty was studying Cynthia’s face. He care­fully slipped his right hand into his pocket, and put his fingers around the gun. His trigger finger was ready. Then he turned the gun, inside his pocket, toward Marty, and in rapid succes­sion, released the safety and fired three times.

Marty turned with the rifle and pointed it at John X, who was screaming in pain, and holding his crotch. His pistol was now in the corner of the room, away from his reach. It had flown out of his pocket when he yanked out his hand. His cream-colored slacks were quickly turning red under his hands and on his left pant leg. The three bullets had ripped through his genitals, as well as major arteries in his leg. Greg and Cyn­thia turned their heads to see what had happened, and then quickly looked away.

Marty walked over to John X, and popped him in the tem­ple with the butt of the rifle. The boy was not dead—but he would bleed to death before waking up. Marty considered it an act of mercy. And it made him feel better that he had not killed him. The fool had killed himself.

Marty knew the gunshots would draw attention from neighboring cabins. It wouldn’t be long before somebody decided to come check out Cabin 17. So, he needed to go.

But what should he do with Greg and Cynthia? They looked scared to death. They also looked innocent and harm­less.

Marty had not broken his new pact with God. And he would not do so tonight. He turned and walked out of the cabin.