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John M. Floyd's short stories and fillers have appeared in a wide range of publications, including The Strand, Woman's World, Murderous Intent, Grit, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. A collection of his short fiction, Rainbow's End, will be released in October 2006.

The Range by John M. Floyd

(Originally published in Mystery Time, Autumn/Winter 2000)

At three a.m. Alice Howell jerked awake. Someone was outside her open bedroom window, pulling at the screen.

Her heart pounding, she grabbed her late husband’s .38 revolver from the nightstand drawer, pointed it at the window, and shouted a warning.

For an instant the shadowy figure froze. Then, as she watched from her bed, its hand drew a long knife--it actually gleamed in the moonlight--and slit the screen from one side to the other, in one swipe.

That was when she shot him.

She fired twice, at what she hoped was the middle of his chest, and heard him cry out. A second later he was gone, the slashed screen moving gently in the breeze, the moonlit yard empty and silent. She kept the smoking gun aimed at the window while she called the police.

They found nothing. No blood, no weapon, no footprints. Because of the shots her neighbors were all up and awake now, but no one had seen a thing.

“It was the Phantom, wasn’t it,” she said to Officer McKee, who was sitting across from her in the living room. Two more cops were finishing up outside, and another was using the phone.

“We don’t know,” McKee said. But his eyes told a different story. There had been four victims in the past six months, all of them middle-aged and living alone in affluent, security-conscious neighborhoods. Just like Alice. And the attacker had always escaped without a trace--hence his nickname.

“Whoever he is,” McKee added, “we’ll get him.”

“How? When he comes back to try again?”

“If it’s the Phantom, he won’t come back. He never did before.”

“He never had a reason to, before,” Alice said.

That was a valid point. All four women had been murdered, their throats cut in their beds in the middle of the night.

“We’ll get him,” McKee said again, as he rose to leave. Then he turned to look at her. “Meanwhile, just in case . . .”

“I’ll keep my windows locked,” she said.

***

The next morning Alice went to a gun shop, bought a dozen boxes of cartridges, and drove to the Federal Building downtown. The firing range was in the basement, and the agent in charge had been her husband’s partner in the Bureau. They let her stay three hours, shooting at gangster-shaped targets, until her gun hand was too tired to hold the grip.

She went again the next day, and the next, and the next. She grew to like the roar of the pistols, the smell of smoke and gun oil, the stark white lights above the targets. After a week she could consistently put six rounds inside a six-inch circle at twenty-five feet. The younger agents on the range began calling her Grannie Oakley. She didn’t mind.

That afternoon she stopped by an electrical-supply store, then went to the mall and bought five new outfits, each with baggy pockets. She had decided packing a gun might be a good idea.

If he did come back, she would be ready.

***

Three days later a tall, barrelchested police officer, one she hadn’t seen before, showed up at her front door. He stood there holding his cap in both hands, as if he had come to ask her for a loan.

“Ms. Howell?” he said instead.

“Yes?”

“We found him.”

Alice stared a moment, stunned, then invited him in. From his seat on the living-room sofa he said, “His name’s Thomas Kelso. We matched his prints to those at three of the crime scenes, and found pictures of the victims in his bedroom closet. He confessed to everything, even the attempt on your life.”

“Thank God.” She had a sudden thought. “But you used the present tense--”

“Yes ma’am. He’s alive.”

“Then I didn’t shoot him?”

“Oh, you shot him all right. He has a bruise this big”--he spread his fingers--“just under his right collarbone.”

Alice blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“He was wearing body armor,” the officer said. “A Kevlar vest.”

She nodded grimly.

“It can leave a bruise?” she asked.

“It can if it’s a big gun, at close range.” Watching her eyes, he flexed his right shoulder. “It’s still a little sore, actually.”

At first that didn’t register. Then he put his cap down on the sofa beside him, uncovering his nametag, and she understood.

It said T. KELSO.

He smiled when he saw her reaction.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

Alice couldn’t believe how calm she felt. Her heart was thudding, but her mind was clear. It all made sense now. That’s why he was always able to get away, she realized. Nobody would look twice at a cop--especially in rich, heavily patrolled areas. Acceptability equals invisibility. He was probably among the first at each scene.

She sat very still, watching him carefully.

“By the way, I brought you something, Alice.” His smile turned to a sneer as he pulled the long knife from his belt.

“Me too,” she said, and took her hand from her pocket.

***

When the police arrived, it didn’t take long to verify her story. Officer Thomas Kelso did indeed have a dark bruise underneath his armor, and a closetful of snapshots of the four victims--and of Alice Howell--at his suburban home. He also had a fresh, neat bullethole in the center of his forehead.

“I guess his vest didn’t come quite high enough, this time,” McKee said, staring down at the body on the sofa.

Alice just nodded. She felt tired.

“Are you okay?” he asked her.

“I am now.”

It took another hour to finish up. Before leaving, McKee stood with her in the living room a moment, looking thoughtful.

“Have you changed the lighting in here?” he asked. “It looks a little . . . stark.”

She smiled. “It’s just right,” she said.

When the police team finally left, Alice went to her bedroom and put the gun back in the nightstand drawer. The Phantom was dead; her pistol-packin’ days were done.

“But I’ll still keep the windows locked,” she said aloud.

Just in case.

THE END