Free Jericho's Razor by Casey Doran Page B

hear it from his own mouth. And then I want to buy his ticket out of town!” I turned off the television, tossed the remote on the couch, and hurried down the steps. The foyer door swung open, and I was immediately engulfed by the mob. Pastor Albert Grimes was front and center, dressed in a black shirt and white collar. Smoke and ash hung heavy in the air, carrying the scent of brimstone. Pieces of charred paper danced in the breeze.
    â€œYou do realize that buying all the copies of my books doesn’t accomplish anything, right? The faster you empty the shelves, the faster the bookstores are going to replace them. All you are doing is inflating my sales numbers. So thanks for that.”
    Pastor Grimes took a step forward with an accusatory finger pointed my way.
    â€œJericho Sands! The son of the devil!”
    â€œMaybe. But you are more like Peter than I am.”
    Grimes’s face contorted with outrage. “I’m not a murderer!”
    â€œReally? Where were you Tuesday night between nine and eleven?”
    â€œI don’t answer to you!”
    â€œNice job evading the question.”
    A reporter beat her way through the mob and thrust her microphone between us. “Mister Sands, are you accusing Pastor Grimes of killing the man who was found in your building?”
    I took a step forward, getting in the pastor’s face. Sweat formed on his forehead, trickling down his ear. I kept pushing. “I’m just asking a simple question,” I said. “One that Pastor Grimes seems pretty determined not to answer.”
    â€œThe only killer standing here is you!” Grimes shouted. Once again, he pointed the finger. He was close enough that it jabbed me right in the chest. Hard. Purely out of reflex, I grabbed his hand and twisted, putting everything I had into it until I heard a crack. Grimes howled. His congregation screamed, as did one of the reporters. She danced around while looking at her camera man.
    â€œOh my god!” She said. “Did you get that, Steve? Tell me you got that!”
    The reporter loved it. She was probably going to get an anchor job out of this. She provided riveting commentary while the deputies lead me away to their car.

    The cops at the jail took my mug shot, fingerprinted me, and shoved me into a cell. It was concrete with a small plank bolted to the wall that served as a bed. The door was three inches of solid steel with no window.
    Home sweet home.
    I waited, cursing myself for my temper. Claustrophobia settled in, and the slate gray walls began to creep inward. Finally, an officer came for me. He explained that Grimes was dropping the assault charges. He told the officers that he was raised to ‘turn the other cheek’ and that he would not let me corrupt him. All he wanted in return was my promise to stay away from him and his church. I told the deputy that wouldn’t be a problem. Although I wondered why someone who called me ‘The son of the devil’ would put any stock in my word. More likely, he was just trying to make himself look good by not pressing charges.

    I walked home, opened a beer and turned on some Jimi Hendrix. The intro for All Along the Watchtower bounced off the walls of the loft while anxiety ran through me like the cold bottle of Newcastle I steadily drained. It was the third day since the murder of Sean Booker. If the killer was planning on using the same timetable as the one in Black as Night , than he was already planning his next attack. The fact that it was Halloween made the possibility of another murder all the more likely. The only question was where. As if to answer my unspoken question, my phone suddenly rang. Already I was learning to hate the sound of it, equating my guitar-riff ringtone to the trumpets of the apocalypse. I picked it up and found another video message. It was titled “Murder is in the air!” It was innocuous enough on the surface, a wobbly video stream of downtown. I saw