The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

That’s when I spy the movement, when I catch him in my view, running away with a big lead. I launch myself in that direction, and suddenly, as if the night inhales, the rain withdraws, the massive droplets turning to a gentle, barely present spray. The apartment lighting is now more effective, allowing me to track The Poet more clearly, and his path past two buildings. I gain on him, but I don’t know that I should. He’s a big, tall man, faster by genetics. Logically, I know he’s drawing me in, but I can’t let a killer escape who I might capture.

He cuts toward a fence that I know shelters a small dirt path the residents of my complex use to walk to a nearby store. If he turns that corner, my chances of catching him are slim to none, but if I call out, he’ll know I’m here. I can’t shoot a man running from me, so I make the decision that surprise is my friend. If he thinks this is his time to disappear, if he thinks the shadows of that walkway protect him and discourage me, he will be wrong, and I might catch him.

He turns the corner and disappears behind that fence.

I run faster and when I reach the fence myself, I flatten on the wooden surface, sucking in air and ignoring the vibration of my phone. I inch around the fence and scan the pitch-black night. Without my bag and flashlight, I grab my phone and hit the flashlight on it. I inch around the fence again and shine the light onto empty space.

I have about three seconds to contemplate how dangerous my next move will be, but a mental flash of Dave naked in a chair drives me forward. I can’t let this man kill again. Decision made, gun in front of me, I step onto the muddy, dirt path, my light a tunnel in the darkness, guiding my steps, while I scan for The Poet, left and right. Suddenly, he darts out in front of me and starts running.

Adrenaline is the fire in my blood. “Police. Stop!” I shout. “Austin PD. Stop now or I’ll—”

He turns and there’s a flash of a weapon. The world seems to stand still in eternal seconds as instinct and training kick in and I fire my weapon. The Poet falls to the ground. Still running on instinct and adrenaline, my weapon remains ready as I move toward him. I’m aware that this man, of all men, could be just fine and waiting to take me down. I step closer, his feet at my feet, and I nudge his shoe. He doesn’t move. I do this twice, with the same result. I move around him, outside the reach of his arms, and stand above his head, the hat and hoodie still hiding his face. I lean in just enough to check for a pulse that I don’t find.

God.

I killed him.

It’s a shocking, horrible feeling, despite his monster status. I suck in a breath and hit one on my phone, which autodials 911. “911, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Samantha Jazz, ID number 25K11. I’ve discharged my weapon and I have a suspect down and nonresponsive.” I recite the address and hang up. Voices sound and then police officers are rushing toward me. I kneel and yank back The Poet’s hood to administer CPR, and my world spins.

This isn’t The Poet. It’s a boy no older than twelve or thirteen, no more than five-foot-three, when I know I was chasing a man over six feet tall. And yet he’s wearing the same clothes The Poet was wearing.

Desperation kicks in and I scream out, “Stop the bleeding!” while I administer CPR I know won’t work. This boy is dead. And I killed him. Because that’s what The Poet wanted. He wanted me to kill. He wanted me to be just like him.

Chapter 70

I stand in the shadows off the walkway and watch her drop to her knees beside the boy.

She killed him the way she was supposed to kill him.

I’d doubted her, I admit. I didn’t think she had the stomach for such things, but I’m quite pleased to be wrong. She’ll struggle this first time, question herself, more because of societal expectations than anything. She hasn’t quite accepted her place above such things. And the messiness is beneath her, but that’s how it starts. My first certainly wasn’t clean and neat. How profound this is, though, truly profound.

I’d chosen this young sinner, a bully who’d knocked the poetry book I’d given another young homeless boy out of his hands and then mocked him. Our now-dead little bully had reminded me of another boy from a long time ago. I’d known this bully would be her first, as another bully had been my first. It had been so easy to set up. I’d convinced the bully we were playing a game, scaring the lady cop, and his reward would be a crisp one hundred dollar bill. All he had to do was jump in front of her and shine the flashlight on her.