Jericho's Razor

by Casey Doran

  I pulled the knife from her purse and held it up. It was Peter’s, the knife used to kill Alyssa’s mother and leave me on death’s doorstep. I looked at the blade that gave me the scar I could feel against the inside of my shirt every time I twisted or bent down.

  “How did you get this?”

  “I stole it from an evidence warehouse. Those places are sieves. Go back for something from one box, take something from another box. The only hard part was finding what location it was stored at.”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “A few weeks. I stashed it in my car when I went to your place. Didn’t want to risk you seeing it.”

  “So you had it with you the other night on the boat.”

  “Yes. I thought about using it too. I had actually planned on it. I was going to kill you with your daddy’s knife and then string you from the mast. It would have been poetic.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. It would have worked. And it would have made Christian Black proud.

  “Why didn’t you do it?”

  “Honestly? Because I think I fell for you a little. I wasn’t expecting to. Fuck, I sure as hell wasn’t wanting to. But we connected. I felt it. And I know you did too.”

  I looked in her eyes and saw that she was not trying to play me. She really believed it. It was crazy and disturbing, especially since I had been falling for her.

  Jagger smiled. “Have you looked in the mirror yet?”

  “No.”

  “What are you waiting for? You know who you are. Stop hiding. To thine own self be true, Jericho Sandborn. Think about it. We could be better than your parents.”

  I tapped the knife against the table. “What are you are proposing?” I asked. “A partnership?”

  “Better. Two like-minded individuals who are drawn together by fate and chemistry.” Jagger leaned forward against her restraints. The storm of rage and tears had finished. She was back to being cold and calculating. “We’re being honest now, so let’s cut the bullshit. The sex was better with me than it was with Katrina. Wasn’t it?”

  I hesitated. And that was all the answer she needed.

  “This doesn’t have to be the end for us. It could be the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what?”

  “Of whatever we want, baby. There are all kinds of people out there who would make this planet a better place by leaving it. And you and I are just the people to do it. It’s who we are.”

  I tapped the knife and looked in her eyes, eyes that drew me in, stripped me bare and left me naked. Exposed.

  “Where would we start?” I asked.

  “How about Preston Masters? Think about it. He’s going to be governor soon. A few years after that, who knows. His father never pursued the White House, but Preston sure has the ambition. Do you really want to see that? President Preston Masters? We could stop it. And have a hell of a lot of fun in the process.” Jagger smiled. “We have something, Jericho. We connect.”

  “You were going to kill me.”

  “That was the plan. But I really don’t think I could have done it. In fact, I know I couldn’t have.”

  “That’s very comforting.”

  “Stop being a smartass. The only difference between you and me is that I have accepted the truth, and you’re still hiding from it. Look, Jericho. Look in the mirror. I dare you. See what you have been hiding from for twenty years.”

  I turned and looked toward the mirror. It waited for me, a cold, inanimate object that inspired more fear inside me than a grizzly bear.

  “You look just like him. It’s sort of scary. Same eyes. Same face. He’s right there. Must be why you grow your hair out and never shave. But it’s just a mask. A way to hide who you are. I’m comfortable with myself. How about you?”

  The mirror was right there. And I had to look. Not because Jagger was daring me, but because much of what she said was true. I spent my life hiding, too worried about what I would see to spend more than a second looking at anything that cast a reflection. Gripping the same knife that killed Jagger’s mother, the same knife that nearly killed me, I approached the mirror and stood before it. The effect was like a tidal wave. Standing in Peter’s basement, holding Peter’s knife, looking into Peter’s face, I saw everything I kept buried, everything I used Christian Black to face for me.

  Jagger waited. I turned away from the mirror and walked toward her. She read my intent, saw it in the way my hand gripped the knife hard enough to turn my knuckles white.

  “Fucking do it then,” she said. “Kill me, just like the two of you killed her. But I won’t give you the satisfaction of crying or screaming or begging for my life. You won’t get that from me, Jericho.”

  “Fair enough, Alyssa.”

  I raised the knife. Jagger didn’t even look. She just faced front, her green eyes looking past the walls, past the bloody history to whatever she thought lay beyond.

  “I’m coming, Mama,” she whispered.

  I thrust the knife down. There was no screaming. No spraying blood. No sound of tearing flesh. The blade sank deep into the chair inches from her arm. Jagger turned and opened her eyes.

  “I’m not like them,” I told her. “And I’m not like you.”

  “You’re right! You’re nothing like me, Sands! You’re a fucking coward! The son of the devil is a pussy!”

  With her screams diminishing behind me, I walked outside into the cold mountain air and pulled out my phone. I scrolled down until finding the number I wanted and dialed. He didn’t keep me waiting.

  “Sands!” Torrez yelled. “Where the fuck are you? Do you have Jagger?”

  I let him ask questions while I fished out a cigarette and lit it. After taking a long drag, I interrupted him.

  “How much have you put together?”

  “Enough to send that psychotic bitch away for the rest of her life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure! We got a warrant for her apartment. Jagger actually kept trophies. You believe it? A goddamned cop making the biggest mistake there is? She’s got pictures of her vics right before they died. She’s actually in some of them, if you can fucking believe it. Posing. It’s really, really sick-ass shit. The case is solid. Now where the fuck are you?”

  “I’m home,” I said. Smart guy that he was, Torrez realized I was not talking about the loft in Peoria.

  “Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  “I’m impressed. Seriously. I’m not sure I would have been able to keep from killing her.”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  I took a drag and flicked ash on the ground at my feet.

  “Does it really matter?”

  “I guess not. I’ll send the Montana state police. Just sit tight and wait for them.”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not waiting for anyone. Jagger’s not going anywhere, but I am. I’m done with this. All of it.”

  “What the hell do you mean? Where are you going?”

  “Home to get my dog and some stuff. Beyond that, I don’t know yet.”

  “You can’t just walk away from this, Sands. You’ll be needed for the trial.”

  “If that’s true, then you don’t have as good of a case as you just said. It’s going to be a circus, and I’m not going to be there for it.”

  I hung up and glanced one more time at the house. I was tempted to drench it with gasoline and toss a match. Peter’s house, along with Alyssa Jagger, would be ashes long before anybody arrived. It would be a fitting end. It’s certainly how I would have concluded a Christian Black novel. But like I told Alyssa, I was not like them.

  I pitched my cigarette, certain that I could still hear Alyssa Jagger’s screaming carried in the wind. Or maybe it was voices of the past, ghosts of those who had lost their lives here and were still waiting to be found.

  Voices that will never find rest.

  Acknowledgments
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  The author would like to express his gratitude to all of those who made the publishing of this book possible. Jason Pinter, who believed in the series from the very start and who provided Jericho with a great home. Everyone at Polis Books. I couldn’t imagine being surrounded by a better group of authors and people. Amy Vreeland, whose edits were first rate and who helped this book come to life. My friends and family for their continued years of support and laughter. And my daughter, Maya, who every day shows me how lucky I am to be raising such a wonderful young woman and who inspires me to be the best I can be at all things.

  About The Author

  A native of Southern California, Casey Doran learned to walk on the sands of Redondo Beach and spent his teenage years chasing the perfect wave everywhere from Baja Mexico to Washington State. He’s spent time in five star resorts, biker bars run by the Hells Angels and the occasional jail cell, and he’s left with stories from all of them. He now lives in central Illinois were he studies philosophy, psychology, and criminology, as well as spending way more time thinking of ways to kill people in gruesome ways than is probably healthy.

  Casey is currently pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in English Education while working as a deckhand on a riverboat casino and raising a teenage daughter. When he’s not writing papers on educational pedagogy, chasing away teenage boys and annoying his neighbors by wailing his Fender Stratocaster to Woodstock levels, he spends the rest of his time finding ways to get Jericho Sands into trouble. Follow him on Twitter at @cpdoran.

  Jericho Sands will return in

  The Art of Murder

  Coming Soon from Polis Books

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