Dead Shot (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 1)

Chapter 1

Cody Murray shifted in his recliner as he flipped the pages of his favorite sports magazine. Sitting still wasn't in his repertoire of skills on the field or off it. He lived like he played - always in constant motion.

But it was Sunday afternoon and Cody was trying to relax. He only had two vices, one of which was wasting time reading national sports magazines. The other he had enjoyed 15 minutes earlier. He knew it was wrong, but for an athlete who never stopped, it was the perfect enhancement to his workout regimen. But lately, Cody had become looser with the latter vice, sometimes partaking in it for sheer pleasure.

Cody knew steroids were bad and tough to get, especially in a rural town in southern Idaho. So, he didn't bother trying. He wanted his impressive body of work to be his body of work - he just needed a little help, a little kick while working out. It was harmless ... at first.

Cody dug his jagged fingernails into his left arm in an attempt to remedy a slight itch just above his elbow. It was an irritating distraction from reading the magazine and dreaming of being featured on the cover one day. As unlikely as it might be for the 6-foot-flat scrambling quarterback of a rural Idaho eight-man team to earn a handful of major scholarship offers, Murray had done it. Why not the cover? he mused.

But the thoughts abandoned him when the itching started.

At first, it felt like any other itch. Cody expected it to vanish with one quick scratch. But it didn't; it got worse. What's wrong with me? he thought, as he surveyed his arms. Red welts were forming on his arms and spreading to his chest and back. All the scratching seemed to make it worse.

In less than a minute his muscular athletic body was covered. All he could think of was getting relief from the fiery pain. Jumping up from the couch, Cody staggered through the back door, taking a giant leap off the deck and then sprinting full speed toward an Aspen tree twenty yards away.

Rational thought had deserted him. He jammed his fingernails into his chest while slamming his back against the tree and began rubbing against it, thrusting upward from a crouching position in an attempt to stop the itching. His efforts only intensified his skin's agitation.

Frantic for relief, Cody raced back into the house, ripping off his Statenville workout shirt along the way, and headed straight for his parents' bathroom. In his mad rush to find anything to help, Cody grabbed a tube of anti-itch cream. He emptied its white contents into his right hand and slathered it all over his bare chest and back. Still no relief. The itching increased.

Cody ran back outside to find another tree. Maybe with my shirt off, I'll be able to stop the itching. Past the point of despair, he dug both hands into opposing forearms, fell to the grass and rolled and scratched, crying out in agony.

The intense itching felt like fire searing the surface of his body. Cody screamed and flailed about on the ground in sheer torture. His efforts appeared futile but he refused to give up.

His body was covered in bleeding welts as he writhed in the grass. One final spasmodic convulsion and the itching stopped. So did his breathing. Streaks of blood created eerie patterns across his chest. His body lay in the Idaho sun looking like the discarded carcass of a sadistic occult ritual.

No one would believe that Cody Murray, Statenville's greatest football star in 50 years, had scratched himself to death.