Jericho's Razor Read online

  The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in an entirely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Casey Doran

  Cover design by Adrijus Guscia

  ISBN 978-1-940610-01-6

  Published in 2014 by Polis Books, LLC

  60 West 23rd Street

  New York, NY 10010

  www.PolisBooks.com

  Jericho’s Razor

  by

  Casey Doran

  CONTENTS

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For M.L.D – Thank You for Everything.

  Murder is in the air.

  —Jericho Sands

  Chapter One

  I killed my father when I was sixteen, sold my first novel when I was twenty-five, and saw my name on the bestseller list for the first time when I was twenty-seven. My success bloomed from my infamy. I am the firstborn son of serial killers, the spitting image of the old man without the predilection for ritualistic carnage. My books are sold in over a dozen countries and have been banned by church groups, schools, and other “respectable” organizations in all of them. They are graphic, bloody tomes that make no illusion or apology for the hedonistic pulp that they are. I write because the solitude lends itself to my reclusive nature. I write because it is the only thing that I really know how to do. But on the night that my past came to bite me in the ass, I wasn’t writing a goddamn thing.

  My recurring character was stuck, suspended in literary stasis while his creator fumbled for his next move. While many authors market heroes, I harvest the other side of the spectrum. Christian Black is a musician who enjoys classic literature, vintage guitars, and homicide. He lives a double life, one that fans who download his hits on iTunes would never imagine. In his latest exploit, Christian was preparing to dispose of a corrupt congressman. The politician was tied to a rotting elm tree while waiting to see what manner of death lay in store for him. There were several to choose from: Fire. Beheading. Disembowelment. Gun. Knife. Nail gun. Hammer. Hedge clipper. Ax. Samurai sword. The problem was Christian had already used them. After seven books, the well of creative killing methods was running dry. Every idea that popped into my brain was followed by the same three-word mantra: Already done it.

  I tapped a drumstick against the desk, mimicking the pattern of the blinking cursor.

  “Come on, dumbass.” I muttered to myself. “Just kill the bastard already.”

  The drumstick tapped against the desk.

  The cursor flashed on the screen.

  I continued to not have shit and reached for a glass of Jack Daniel’s that went empty over a half hour ago. Setting the glass aside, I set down the drumstick and lit a cigarette, thinking about Dr. Baum’s words the last time I had sat in his office. “Your lungs are blacker than your main character’s soul,” he told me. I thought it oddly poetic for the sixty-year-old doctor, if not fatalistic. Plus, I was sure he had never read my books, despite asking for an autograph on my first visit.

  I blew smoke rings across my office, willing an epiphany to slice through the haze of writer’s block, when my phone chimed. I wondered if it was Katrina calling and instantly hated myself for it. No, dumbass, I told myself. She still hates you. But curiosity pulled me toward the phone. I rationalized that checking a message would only be a brief distraction. Discipline demanded that I finish the book, meet my deadline, and put another Christian Black installment on the shelves for the local PTA to boycott. The cursor pulsed at me like a dare, and I felt that if I got up it would win. But as it often did, curiosity defeated discipline. I scooped up the phone and saw that I had a video message attached to an email.

  The screen showed a man tied to a chair. Strips of black duct tape bound his arms and legs and covered his mouth. I could hear murmuring from behind the gag, words that were lost before being formed but were undoubtedly desperate pleas for help. Both eyes sported ugly purple bruises. Blood drooled from his nose onto the tape covering his mouth.

  Pretty good, I thought. Fans would often reenact scenes from my books and send me their handiwork. They would dress in rubber suits covered in fake blood and wave rubber machetes like drunken jungle guides. Most were immediately stricken down with the ‘Delete’ key, but some were kept in a private file for whenever I needed a laugh. This one was looking to be among the best. The makeup was a nice touch; so few of them bothered to focus on the details.

  On cue, I heard the angry metallic clatter of a chainsaw. The hostage thrashed against the chair hard enough to make it fall on its side. While he continued to fight against his restraints, a second person entered the shot. Covered from head to foot in a black rain suit, he held the chainsaw in a high, two-handed grip and approached his “victim.” I waited to see how far they would take it, expecting the movie to cut out while the live hostage was replaced with a dummy. That was how these things usually went. I actually considered sending the creators of this reproduction a reply. It had been a shitty week, and I needed a good distraction.

  The feed continued. The executioner stood directly above his victim as the chainsaw sang a song of death and mayhem. It was a living thing, ravenous and determined. The clatter rose to a howl as the chainsaw swung down in a powerful arch, meeting blade with neck, causing a geyser of viscera amid screaming only to be found in the darkest corners of Hell.

  My cigarette dropped to the floor.

  My eyes and my brain began an immediate and intense debate about what I had just witnessed. There was no way it was real, I told myself. No. Fucking. Way. This was the product of some overly motivated film students trying to impress a weird writer. The executioner disappeared behind the camera, leaving a trail of bloody footprints in his wake. The shot wobbled, as though the camera was being removed from a tripod, and then panned to the left. I saw a concrete wall covered in red spatter that dripped to the floor and formed oily puddles. I saw gray matter mixed with it—bone marrow or brain matter or whatever the hell else explodes from a human body when having a critical piece of anatomy severed with a chainsaw. Finally, I saw what the director of this morbid home movie wanted me to see. It sat like an idol to realism, safe and familiar, but still covered in viscous red detritus.

  It was my truck. In my building. Downstairs.

  The screen went black.

  I suddenly realized I had been holding my breath. Slow down, I told myself. Assess the situation. I took a deep breath and reached a speedy conclusion. The video was real, and there was a killer with a Leatherface complex downstairs.

  I slid open the top drawer of my desk. Inside was a Smith & Wesson .45 caliber revolver. It’s not an intimidating hand cannon like Dirty Harry’s, but it already saved my life once and can stop anything in front of it. I didn’t have to make sure it was loaded. It’s always loaded. With my finger just under the trigger guard, I proceede
d to the main living area of the loft.

  Doomsday quickly came to my side. Doomsday is a brown boxer of uncertain age and the closest thing to a best friend that I have. Probably because we are both strays who prefer to forget our past. Two minutes ago the dog was likely sleeping on either the sofa or in my vacant bed, but I was not surprised that he had run over so quickly without having to be called. His ability to sense trouble is as good as my ability to find it.

  Panoramic windows line the east wall of my loft. It offers a good view of downtown Peoria and the Illinois River. In the summer, I can watch the minor league baseball team play home games two blocks east. Now, brilliant cascades of lightning rippled through the night sky and cast the room in brief flashes of near daylight. But even in the moments of darkness I easily navigated around the furnishings, careful to use the sofa and end tables as a barrier between myself and anything that decided to jump out. If someone had been in the lower level of the building, it was not a leap to assume they could have made it up to my loft as well. One thing I was sure of, people with chainsaws were not to be trusted.

  Hanging over the mantel was the movie poster for Black as Night, the film adapted from my first novel. It was a straight-to-DVD release that boasted only modest sales. You could probably find a copy in the bargain bin at Walmart. But I was proud of it and hung the portrait prominently. It portrayed a holographic version of Christian Black: choirboy in one image, machete-wielding killing machine in the next. The strobelike flashing of the lightning made it appear as though Black himself was the uninvited guest and was crashing at his creator through the wall.

  I nearly shot it.

  Doomsday quickly led me through the living room, past the kitchen, and toward the door for the stairwell. After disengaging the deadbolt, I stood on the landing and listened. I heard neither the metallic purr of a chainsaw nor any screaming that may accompany it.

  In my books, as well as in most horror movies, going down the stairs would certainly lead to a violent death. Searching the basement. Investigating the suspicious noise coming from the barn armed with nothing but a flashlight. They were all classic mistakes that got characters killed. Viewers would yell at the screen because the characters were idiots who deserved to be disemboweled by the lunatic with no face who was waiting in ambush. In knew all these clichés. Hell, they put food on my table and beer in my fridge. But the fact was that when you were in the moment, knowing better was not the point. You just couldn’t help yourself.

  Doomsday waited. Behind me lay the safety of the loft. Below lay death. I aimed the gun down the stairs and took my first step into darkness.

  “We have company, boy.” I said. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  Chapter Two

  My building spent the sixties and seventies as a slaughterhouse. The lower level, to where Doomsday and I now descended, had been the killing floor. Pigs were brought in by railcar and unloaded onto pins to await execution. One frigid December morning, the building’s boiler had ruptured, killing seven employees and badly injuring several others. The slaughterhouse was forced into bankruptcy, and the building was closed. It sat boarded up for over a decade until catching the eye of David Howitzer, a local developer who had aspirations of turning the property into luxury apartments.

  But Howitzer’s vision was never realized. A year into the renovation, the head contractor fell to his death down the elevator shaft while conducting a routine inspection of the pulley system. A month later, Howitzer himself was killed when a loose overhead light fell from the ceiling. The building acquired a reputation as being cursed. Despite its ideal downtown location and panoramic river views, no other developer would touch it. It sat empty, with only one of the eight floors completed, a monument to unfulfilled potential.

  For me, it was perfect: No neighbors. No distractions. And a history nearly as dubious as my own. Flush from the money from my first major sale, I made an offer to the estate of the deceased owner, who were only too happy to get rid of it. The city took my money for utilities every month, but no plans were underway to finish the renovations. I was the lone resident on the one completed floor of a cursed building.

  Currently, not so alone.

  I reached the killing floor. To my right was the main entrance. The area beyond was cloaked in shadow. The controls for the lights were just to my left, and I turned them on. Rows of halogen lights illuminated the area. Someone had left me a message on the wall. The thick and runny texture of the letters left little doubt as to the medium. The blood had already begun to dry and turn to a dark brown against the concrete backdrop.

  Murder is in the air!

  Murder is in the air is how I began all of the Christian Black novels. It was my signature. Now being used as a taunt by someone with a sick love for power tools. I moved forward. The stench washed over me as I approached the body. I pulled my T-shirt over my nose and mouth. Many times I had written about the decaying odor of death. As it came to me now, I realized that my best attempt at describing it did not begin to do it justice. Even Doomsday’s eyes were watering.

  The body was still bound to the chair. The head was across the room. Blood pooled under the chair and splattered the walls like a macabre Jackson Pollock painting. I saw the chainsaw resting cockeyed at the foot of the chair, discarded after being used for applications that would surely void the warranty.

  It was mine. I recognized it immediately from the scratches on the side caused by tossing it in the back of my truck. Turning away from the body, I looked over to the footlocker where I keep my tools. I use the area for research. When describing the damage a sledgehammer does to a human skull, the best way to be as realistic as possible is to try it out. Granted, I’ve never actually used the real thing. But I’ve found that pig heads work pretty well. The lid to the footlocker was flipped open. I never kept it locked. A key is needed to open the door leading to Main Street, the large metal roll door requires a remote, and the building has no other tenants. People getting into my stuff isn’t a concern I normally have. In any event, I doubted a ten-dollar padlock would have stopped them. I was more interested in how the killer knew that I owned it and where it was kept.

  Beyond the body was a trail of bloody footprints that led toward the rear of the building and disappeared behind a blind corner. Beyond the corner was the rear entrance, a single door that led out to the alley behind the building. The message was clear: Follow, if you have the nerve. Doomsday moved first. He was probably pissed that somebody had dragged him out of bed and was looking to sink his teeth into the offender’s leg. He is not your average dog. He growls at most people he meets, pisses on cars with a verve that seems calculated, and has no patience for mundane doggy standards such as shaking paw, rolling over, or playing fetch. When he isn’t eating, shitting, or grumpy, he is asleep.

  I trailed close behind, making sure to give the body and the surrounding pool of blood a wide berth. At the swinging rear door the footsteps disappeared, washed away in the rain that pounded the pavement. The sharp thump against the side of the building matched the beating of my heart. Thump! Thump! I stepped outside and got pelted by the storm, propping open the door with my foot while searching the shadows.

  Somewhere, a killer waited. Possibly he was on the run, seeking refuge before the police arrived. Or maybe the footsteps were a trap. It was possible that the maniacal lumberjack was lying in wait somewhere in the shadows. The area was a killer’s wet dream, offering dozens of dark corners that loaned themselves to an ambush.

  Doomsday took a step forward with his head cocked like a trigger, ready to fire at the slightest hint of an intruder.

  “What do you think?” I asked. I talk to him often, and he usually answers in his own way. He took a careful step forward. Not rushed, but not overly concerned either. If someone was nearby, I trusted the dog to know about it. He lowered his head and went back inside.

  Noting out there to worry about.

  The front entrance to my building faces a busy street. Several c
lubs and restaurants are all within walking distance. But the alley is deserted. It is an area formerly used for deliveries to the business that had not been in existence in decades. All the killer would have to do is pull into the alley, jimmy the lock, and come and go as he pleased. The deserted alley and the storm provided the perfect cover.

  Keeping the gun up and ready, I looked around for the killer. A person covered in this much gore and viscera would surely have a difficult time hiding anywhere but a GWAR concert.

  I resisted the urge to yell, “Is anyone there?” Cheesy horror movie lines had their limits. I shut the door, silencing the staccato of rain pounding off the building, and walked back to the other side of the garage. Again, I gave the body a wide berth. But this time I noticed that something else had been scrawled on the opposite wall.

  It was the number 5.

  I swore under my breath. In Black as Night Christian Black spent a month exterminating five individuals in gruesome and sadistic ways. At each crime scene, he left a number boldly painted in the blood from his kill.

  Death imitating art. Blood and tissue were flung around like confetti. It hung from the ceiling in gruesome stalactites, oozing down with visceral fingers. It pooled on the floor and glistened in the overhead lights. The average person holds about six or seven pints of blood in their body. It seemed like my garage was covered in six or seven gallons.

  No longer able to stand either the sight or the smell of the body, I exited the building and went outside, taking shelter from the storm under the covered alcove and sucking in deep breaths of fresh air. I unloaded the gun held it with the wheel cylinder open to show that it was empty. When the police arrived, they were going to be on alert enough without me making it look like I was holding a loaded weapon. With that done, I out my phone.

  “911. What is your emergency?”