STEP AWAY FROM THE KNIFE!

by Rus Morgan

Paul Derrick twisted the Bel Aire's radio dial and heard nothing but static. He hadn't seen another car in nearly an hour. He cursed himself for traveling this time of night to his daughter's house in Fort Smith where he planned on spending his waning days playing with his grandson in their tiny duplex until his heart condition would finally wrestle him to the ground.

Ahead, the lights of a rest stop on I-40 reminded the retired investigator of his swollen bladder and road-weary posterior, so he pulled the aging Chevy off the road into the parking lot. He parked in a convenient handicap slot not far from the guard post.

He struggled out of the Chevy breathing heavily, and then reached back inside for his fanny pack. The weight reassured him as he strapped it on.

He waved to the guard as he began the painful walk uphill to the restroom. The guard picked up his phone and waved back at Paul. Paul was glad to see his tax dollars at work after all the bad publicity the highway department had received following a string of rest stop murders.

From force of habit Paul glanced around the restroom and sensed nothing. But as soon as he stepped to the urinal he heard the creaking of the door of the stall closest to him.

He was about ten feet from Paul. He was a skinny, weasel faced white male. Paul sucked in a desperate breath as he saw his attacker draw a survival knife from under his arm and swing it back and forth in front of him. His deep-set eyes were wide and blank like he was already dead.

It was a good thing I retired, thought Paul. In the old days I'd never have been surprised like this.

The attacker kept his eyes at Paul's feet and continued flashing the knife.

Survival knives have dull sides so they don't shine in the moonlight but the blade has a wicked, razor sharp curve and is serrated on the back side. Paul had never been stuck with the needle point but the mere thought sent icicles up and down his back.

The knife wielder swished the blade back and forth like a lazy Zorro, always keeping the deadly point toward Paul.

“Give me your money old man and make no sound -– or I'll kill you.” His voice was shaky but he couldn't have been as scared as Paul was.

Thoughts raced through Paul's mind. When someone promises to kill you, they have just moved the action into another ballpark. Now it was kill or be killed. I was trained to kill years ago but I'm no longer adept. He started to answer but the vocal cords froze. All he could do was grunt.

The assailant moved toward the aging detective…the knife still at ready. Paul stuck his left hand in his pocket as though to get money and surreptitiously popped the back chamber on his fanny pack with a trembling right hand.

The attacker was concentrating on Paul's left hand –- the money hand. Paul slid it out of his pocket and tossed his money clip on the floor in front of his attacker. He ignored it and Paul knew he was in trouble. The attacker crabbed toward Paul like a fencer en garde. Paul jammed his right hand into the back chamber of his pouch and felt the comforting coldness of his Smith & Wesson hammerless 38.

Time seemed to suspend both men in the deadly choreography. The attacker crabbing forward and Paul drawing away to his right. Paul thought I have been licensed to carry concealed for more than forty years but have never drawn my weapon for an emergency.

Will that old training help me do what I have to do?

He knew that an agile knife wielder can cover twenty five feet in less than two seconds so he wasted no time drawing. When he was turned enough to the right he shot his attacker three times through the left side of his pouch.

The shots reverberated in the tile restroom like bomb blasts. Gun smoke and powder smell hung heavy in the air.

The knife wielder uttered no sound.

Paul thought he had missed.

The mugger dropped the knife and fell away from Paul and dropped on his face like a discarded rag doll.

Almost immediately there was a flurry at the door. The outside guard from the kiosk came flying in. Where was he when I needed him, thought Paul? The guard took in the scene in a moment.

He reached down for the knife.

A warning bell screeched in Paul's head. That knife was his silent witness and the guard was about to pollute the evidence.

Paul's 38 felt like a fifty pound weight but he brought it up.

“Step away from the knife – don't touch it!”

The guard was bent towards the knife. He turned his head and grinned at Paul. The grin was part pain and part anger. He paused but was still resolved. His left hand continued towards the blade.

Paul tried to draw a deep breath but the searing pain in his chest made it impossible. His breathing was so short he could hardly keep his 38 high enough to look dangerous. He croaked. “Don't touch it, I'll shoot.”

The guard grinned again –- this time it was pure evil -- like looking at the devil when he has just won your soul. “I don't think you've got the guts, old man. You're shaking like a druggie needin' a fix.”

He stood up. This took his left hand away from the knife but allowed him to casually drape his right hand over the butt of his Beretta. The move was so swift Paul almost missed it. Suddenly the guard's hand was coming up full of automatic pistol. Paul was trying to stop shaking enough to hold his revolver up.

With his last remaining strength he pulled the trigger. The shot hit the guard low. God, thought Paul. I am old and slow and scared.

The bullet punctured the guard just below the belly button. He gasped and his lips pulled tight against his teeth. He backed up against the wall and slid down on his haunches. The Berretta was too heavy for him. He let it down to the floor and moved his hand slowly away from it like the gun was a dog he had been petting.

He pulled his right hand across his belly and looked at the blood. “You shot me, you old sunofabitch. Call me an ambulance – I'm dyin.”

Paul fumbled his 38 back into his fanny pack. His breath got shorter and a sharper pain flitted through his chest. He popped a nitro pill under his tongue and tried to let the world come back to level. The room closed in on him and he couldn't stand. He fell backward into a corner. A public restroom at a state run rest stop is not a good place to sit on the floor but he had no choice. He dropped his cell phone twice before he could finish dialing 9-1-1.

The Paramedics arrived before the State Troopers. One worked on the guard and the other came to Paul. He checked Paul's vitals, gave him an aspirin and told him to stay quiet and let the pill do its job.

A Sergeant in the State Patrol appeared at the door. He had already been briefed by the Paramedics. He looked down at Paul still sitting in the corner. “Do you feel like getting up now?”

“I think so.”

His broad face broke with a satisfied smile as he walked Paul back to his aging Chevy.

He took Paul's essential information, checked his licenses and told him he was free to go.

As Paul hooked his seatbelt the Sergeant patted the top of the Chevy. “I've been trying for a year to catch that killer but I always seemed to be in a different rest stop than he was.”

Paul looked up at him. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I finally determined that the muggings were always when this same guard was on duty. Even when he was transferred to another facility it would happen there.”

Paul wondered aloud. “Why did he try to destroy the evidence and kill me?”

“You killed his brother.” said the Sergeant.