Red and blue flashing lights appeared in my rear-view mirror.  I cursed and eased off on the gas, looking for a place to pull over.  Yeah, I was speeding.  The bad thing is that I wasn't even in a hurry.  I was just on my way home from work.

     Up ahead, I saw a paved turnout.  It looked like they'd made a small parking lot for a building that was never built.  There was already another car pulled over with a cop writing out a ticket.  Speed trap, I figured.

     I turned into the small lot and stopped, killing the ignition.  The cop parked behind me and I watched him talk into his radio for a minute before he climbed out of his cruiser.  He approached my car and I rolled the window down.

     "License and proof of insurance, sir," he said.  He was a middle-aged man with a graying mustache.  His name badge said Franklin.

     I fumbled for my wallet, hands shaking as they always did around cops.  I've always had an unreasonable fear of the men in blue.  They carried guns.  Real ones.  Like the one that killed my old man.  Of course, it wasn't a cop that killed my old man.  It was me.  The gun had looked like one of my toys, but it was heavier.  I hadn't known it was loaded.

     "The speed limit is thirty-five, Mr. Stevenson," the cop said looking at my license.  "I clocked you at forty-two."

     "Yes, sir," I said.

     "I'll be back in a minute," he said and took my license and insurance stub back to his cruiser to run a check on me.

     A third car pulled into the lot with a cop on his tail, lights flashing.  Speed trap for sure.  Probably had cops lined up down the street to pick us off one by one until they hit their quota for the month.

     I watched in my side-view mirror as the third cop approached his catch.

     The cop in front of me finished with his victim and they cleared out--the Geo Storm turning right and the cop turning left.

     I looked back in the mirror and saw Officer Franklin still talking into his radio.  The other cop kept talking to the driver he'd pulled over.  I watched as he stepped back and the driver climbed out of the car.

     The driver held a gun, raised it and pulled the trigger.  The cop's head snapped back in a shower of red.

     My heart thundered.  This was just a traffic stop!  It couldn't be happening.

     Franklin shouted, "Officer down!" into the radio and leaped from his cruiser, gun drawn.  The driver shot him twice and Franklin fell to the pavement, twitched once and lay still.

     I flashed back on my father as he fell.  I could still feel the kick of that gun in my ten-year-old hand.  Still remember the feeling as I watched my father hit the wall and slide down, drawing a jagged red line to the floor behind him.  Twenty years later and the memories were as vivid as yesterday.

     The cop killer walked toward my car, gun raised.  "Oh my God!" I said.  My hand twisted the keys in the ignition and the vehicle rumbled to life.  I stomped on the accelerator.  The tires barked and I raced toward the street.  Please please please let there be a break in traffic!  I don't wanna die!  Luck smiled on me.

     I heard several gunshots.  A bullet blew out the back window.  Several pinged across the trunk.  I screamed each time.  Then I was away and gone, racing down the street in fear for my life, worried that the killer would follow me, catch me, kill me.

     I stole glances into the rear-view mirror; the cop killer wasn't on my tail.  But then I remembered that my driver's license was still clipped to the cop's ticket book.  He could get my address from there.  He would go to my house.  He would find me.  Find Carol and Stacey, kill them, too.

     When I pulled into my driveway some five minutes later, my heart still thundered out of control.  Carol's car was gone; she and Stacey were still at the gymnastics meet.  I yanked the keys from the ignition and ran up the front steps.  I looked down the street, but didn't see the killer.  When I finally got the door unlocked I heard screeching tires.  My heart skipped, but it was only one of the neighborhood teenagers in the Firebird Mommy and Daddy had bought him for graduation.

     Inside the house, I felt a little better, but the panic still held me.  I knew I needed to call the cops, tell them what happened.  Franklin had no doubt called in a standard record check, so it was certain that I'd be a suspect.  I needed to be off the hook.

     I raced into my office and grabbed the phone.  That's when I heard the front door get kicked in.

     I dropped the phone and backed up to the wall.  "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," I whispered over and over like a mantra while I prepared myself for the inevitable.

     "I know you're in here," the cop killer called, "Mr. Bradley James Stevenson.  Horrible picture of you, pal.  Looks like a mug shot."  He laughed.

     "I won't tell anyone what happened," I said, my voice cracking.  "I swear!  I didn't see anything.  I don't know your name.  I don't know what you look like.  Please!  Just leave the license on the floor and go.  I'm no threat to you.  I have a wife and child for Christ's sake!"

     The cop killer laughed again, my voice giving away my location.  "Sorry, Bradley, I just can't take that chance."  He stepped into my office.

     His mouth dropped open at the sight of the shrine I'd made for my father and before he could aim and shoot, I shot him between the eyes.  He flew backward into the hallway, his brains painting the wall.  I felt that familiar feeling.  The one that always came up.  Like when I accidentally shot my father.  Then intentionally shot my mother and my sister.  The feeling was that of fear mixed with warmth and control.  I caressed the gun, not wanting to put it back in its place of honor on the shrine.  Just wanting to hold it a few moments longer--to feel that harnessed power.

     It was time to call the cops.  I knew they'd clear me of any wrong doing.  It was a clear-cut case of self defense.  And the panic in my voice was certainly real.  I've always worried that the killing would get out of hand.  That there was something wrong with me.

     But this time someone came to me, not the other way around.  So there was no reason to worry; I was still all right.  I looked over at the corpse of number seventeen, lifted the receiver and dialed 911.