Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher

  So badly.

  He stepped away. Summoned his control once more.

  And headed for the door.

  “You won’t leave me behind.”

  Never again.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw she’d grabbed the gun.

  “I’m not afraid of what waits in that swamp.”

  He knew she was, but she was still ready to face it anyway.

  How could he not love her?

  He yanked open the door. Matt was there, glaring at him. His fist was still up, probably because he’d been ready to pound through the wood.

  “If you’re finished making out—”

  Matt’s words ended in a gasp. Anthony had grabbed the guy and shoved him back. “I just crawled out of a fucking fire, dodged bullets, and was left to die.” His breath was ragged. “Don’t push, not now, and sure as hell not about her.”

  Matt’s eyes widened as he hurriedly straightened his shirt. “Ah, like that, is it?”

  Anthony’s hands fisted. “Yeah, it’s like that.”

  Lauren crept up behind him.

  Matt gave what was as close to a smile as possible. “That would explain some things…”

  Anthony growled.

  The whisper of a smile faded. “We got two satellite hits on Hawthorne’s phone. His first call was made about two hours ago.” He cocked his head as he delivered his news. “From a location right outside of Lauren’s house.”

  It was him.

  “He turned the phone off after that, but it came back on again about five minutes ago, when he made a call to our friendly neighborhood detective.”

  “Paul,” Lauren whispered.

  “Where was Wesley when he made the call?”

  A rough sigh slipped from Matt. “It’s hard as shit for the techs to get a location out in that swamp, right? It’s not exactly easy to—”

  “Where?” Matt wouldn’t be talking to him unless he knew a pretty damn close approximation.

  “From what the techs could tell it looked like the guy was calling from a spot near Judge Hamilton’s place. Figures that Hamilton’s family would have built the cabin in the one location where the cell service was pristine.”

  Hamilton’s place.

  “I tried to contact Voyt after we made the connections on the calls.” Matt’s stare dipped to Lauren. “But he isn’t answering his phone.”

  What the hell?

  Jim came out of his room, heading toward them with determined steps. The guy was armed. Ready to go.

  They all were.

  Three marshals. One DA.

  One killer.

  He’d take those odds.

  But he’d also stack the deck. Lauren always has to be safe.

  He yanked out his phone and had Cadence on the line within seconds. “I think you’re gonna want to take a little drive to the swamp.”

  The noise from the police station almost drowned out Anthony’s words. Cadence turned away from the bull pen, putting her hand over her left ear so she could hear him better.

  “We got a hit on Hawthorne…” Anthony was telling her. “He just used his cell phone out at Judge Hamilton’s cabin.”

  Her heart was beating too fast. She caught Kyle’s stare and inclined her head. The police chief had gone into the captain’s office. They’d just spent ten minutes trying to tear apart her profile. When they hadn’t succeeded, they’d retreated for a little powwow. They could retreat and come back to attack all they wanted.

  I know my job.

  “He fits your profile,” Anthony said. “His vehicle was just spotted at Lauren’s house.”

  She knew that. She’d been briefed on the fire that had nearly killed Ross and the DA. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be when the killer’s stopped.”

  That wasn’t exactly an answer. “You don’t know it’s Hawthorne.”

  “He made a call near Lauren’s house, right before the fire. He was there.”

  And he did have a strong knowledge of the swamps. He’d been in the area when Jenny Chandler disappeared and his job would have taken him all around Louisiana. Into the cities and counties where the other women had vanished.

  “He and Walker went to school together,” Ross told her. His voice was distorted, as if he was running or moving quickly. He’s going after Hawthorne.

  She already knew Hawthorne had gone to school with Walker. “Detective Voyt went to school with both men, too. He’s not—”

  “Where is Voyt? He’s there, right? Ask him why Hawthorne called him a few minutes ago, ask him—”

  “Voyt isn’t here.” She spoke slowly as her gaze swept the bull pen. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the detective.

  “Fuck. He could have gone after Hawthorne on his own.”

  She checked her weapon. Kyle was at her side. “You’re on your way out there, aren’t you?”

  A pause. “Aren’t you?” he tossed back.

  She glanced toward the captain’s closed door. “You have your men with you?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “I’ll meet you at the cabin.” She shoved the phone into her pocket and marched for the captain’s office. She didn’t bother knocking. She just shoved the door open.

  Kyle whistled behind her.

  He’d told her before he loved it when she got rough. She was about to get plenty rough.

  Both men spun to face her.

  “You will not be impeding our investigation any longer,” she stated as she stood firm in that doorway. “What you will be doing is shutting up, listening, and getting the hell out of my way.”

  Wesley Hawthorne opened his eyes. The back of his head throbbed, hurting like a bitch, and he groaned as the pain and nausea rolled through him.

  “Don’t worry, it won’t hurt much longer.”

  He glanced up at the voice. At the familiar voice. Wesley shook his head in automatic denial.

  A wave of nausea rose in his throat.

  “I know what you’ve done, Hawthorne.”

  He hadn’t done anything.

  “You’ve killed women. So many women, and you’ve dumped their bodies in your swamp.”

  “No,” he rasped, “I—”

  “You did. And tonight, you tried to kill the DA and her lover. You went to her house. You shot at them. You set her house on fire.”

  “No…”

  “Neighbors saw you. They identified your vehicle. The same vehicle will later be tested by crime scene techs. They’ll find ash and debris from the fire on it, in it, tying you to the arson.”

  He hadn’t been there. He’d been at a bar, Rattlesnake. He’d been drinking. He’d gone to the back parking lot…

  I don’t remember what happened after that.

  “You also made a phone call right before you set the fire. A phone call that will be an extra nail to prove your guilt.”

  I’m not guilty. “I…never…killed…”

  “When you’re found, with your head blown open and Jenny Chandler’s cross cradled in your hand, the cops won’t look for a second serial killer anymore. The cases will end, with you.”

  Not me.

  Something cold and hard pressed under his chin. He glanced down and could see the barrel of the gun.

  “The only question I have…” the smug voice continued, “is this: Should I shoot you from this angle…” The gun rose. Pressed into his right temple. “Or should I shoot you here?”

  “No!” He jerked but saw that his hands were tied to the chair. Tied but…what the fuck? Padded? Cloth was beneath the ropes on his wrists and ankles.

  His heart nearly burst out of his chest. The padding was there so he wouldn’t bruise. So that when he was dead, his body could be staged. Positioned.

  No one would ever know he hadn’t put the gun up to his own head.

  “I actually hadn’t planned for you to wake up. It’s harder to use your own hand to fire the shot when you’re awake.”

  He wants gunshot residue on my hand
.

  “I guess I have to make sure you’re out again. That’s kind, isn’t it? So you never see the shot coming? I can be kind.”

  What the guy could be was a “Sick…fuck…” Wesley managed to say. One who’d been hiding in plain sight.

  He should have been able to see the evil in their midst all along. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t any of them?

  The face above his hardened. “I’m not the sick fuck. That’s you. You’re the one who killed and tortured all of those girls. You’re the one who did it all. The one who had to come back to the scene of his partner’s last crime because you couldn’t keep going without him.”

  Wesley tried to yank free of his bonds. The judge had been bound in a chair like this. He’d fought to get free, too.

  But Hamilton hadn’t escaped.

  Hamilton’s blood stained the floor.

  Mine will, too.

  “The city will be glad to see you die.” The man lifted the gun. “I think it’s time you did just that. Go join the Butcher.”

  He twisted the weapon so the butt was like a club.

  Wesley tried to jerk back. Only there was no place to go.

  “Don’t worry,” the man’s voice soothed. The devil’s voice. That was what it was. “The gunshot blast to the head will guarantee no one sees the bruises…”

  He slammed that gun into Wesley’s head.

  Dark spots swam before Wesley’s eyes. The nausea built again. Pain rolled through him, but he didn’t black out. He was fighting to hang onto consciousness with every bit of strength he had. Wesley yanked against his binds. The chair fell back.

  The killer swore.

  An engine growled in the distance.

  The cabin was a dark, hulking shadow. Storm clouds hid the stars and the only light to shine on the area came from Anthony’s headlights as his vehicle pulled onto the graveled drive.

  His headlights hit the cabin, and the Jeep Wrangler was parked right next to it.

  “It sure doesn’t look like he’s hunting nuisance gators to me,” Anthony muttered.

  Lauren didn’t speak. Right then, she couldn’t. We asked this man to help us. To hunt Walker.

  All along, he’d been leading them in the opposite direction.

  Another set of headlights lit up the scene. More marshals, arriving mere moments after them.

  “I thought Paul was supposed to be here,” she finally managed, shoving down the fear in her throat. “I don’t see—”

  Wait. She’d just caught a glint of light near the trees. “Is that his motorcycle?”

  Anthony parked the SUV. They both hurried out of the vehicle, then joined Matt and Jim. Anthony stared at the line of trees. “That sure as hell looks like it to me.”

  Where was he? The cabin was pitch-black. Everything seemed so quiet.

  Too quiet.

  A gunshot rang out. The sound thundered through the night and shattered the silence.

  The sound had come from inside the cabin.

  “Take the back door, and don’t let anyone out,” Anthony barked at his men.

  Matt and Jim raced toward the back.

  Even in the dark, she could feel the burn of Anthony’s gaze on her. “You stay behind me, Lauren. Every step, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  They ran for the cabin. When Anthony reached the front door, he kicked it open, and the wood shattered as it flew back. He hurried in with his gun up and his flashlight positioned above the weapon so he could sweep the scene.

  In the circle of illumination from his flashlight, she saw Wesley Hawthorne. He was on the floor. The fingers of his right hand cradled a gun, and blood poured from the wound in his head.

  Beside Wesley’s prone form, Paul had frozen, his own hands up, as he crouched over the body.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “What the hell happened here, Voyt?” Anthony demanded as he kept his gun up and aimed at the detective.

  Behind him, Lauren let out a gasp and tried to go toward the men. No way, baby. He immediately moved his body, blocking her.

  Hadn’t they had this talk? She was supposed to stay behind him.

  There was blood on Voyt’s hands. The detective started talking, his words tumbling out quickly. “I just walked in. I found him like this!” His fingers were shaking in the light. “I haven’t even called for help yet! We’ve got to get help!”

  “We will.” Anthony didn’t drop his gun. “Lauren, get your phone out. Call for an ambulance. Then I want you to go outside and make sure Jim and Matt get their asses in here.”

  “But I can—”

  “Go!”

  He wanted her out of the room.

  He heard her dialing nine-one-one, then her footsteps rushed for the back door.

  “Why do you have that gun on me?” Paul demanded. His eyes squinted against the light. “We need to help him.” He ripped part of his shirt away and tried to use the torn material to stanch the flow of Wesley’s blood.

  “Is he still alive?” Anthony asked, not moving.

  “Yes,” Paul hissed, “but he won’t be for long. He fucking shot himself in the head!”

  “No,” Anthony said softly. “He didn’t.” Anthony stepped forward. The back door had just slammed shut. Lauren was out of the cabin. She was safe. “I want you to stand up, keep your hands where I can see them, and back the hell away from him.”

  Paul stared at him. “Are you crazy? He needs my help!”

  “What he needs is for you to get back. Now, I’m telling you for the last time…” His fingers tightened around the weapon. “Move the hell away from him.”

  Paul shook his head. “He shot—”

  “A left-handed man wouldn’t use his right hand to kill himself.”

  Paul frowned, then looked down at Wesley.

  “You should know which hand your friend uses,” Anthony pushed, as he aimed dead center at Paul’s forehead. “That was just sloppy. Maybe we got here too soon for you, and you had to act fast. You were so rushed that you made a mistake.”

  Paul was still staring at Wesley. “He is left-handed,” he whispered. “He always threw the football with…”

  “You didn’t back away.” The guy really needed to. “And I can’t see your other hand.”

  Paul’s head snapped up. “You think I did this?”

  Hell, yes, he did.

  “I didn’t! I got a garbled phone message from him, saying to meet him out here. I just got to the cabin, and I found him like this.”

  Bullshit. “You were in the cabin when the shot was fired.”

  “No, I was outside, I saw you pull up. I ran in—” He lunged to his feet.

  Anthony prepared to fire.

  Lauren shoved open the back door. “Jim! Matt!”

  They weren’t there.

  She stumbled to a halt, catching herself before she fell down the back steps.

  “Matt?” Lauren called again, her right hand gripping her cell phone. She’d shoved the gun into her waistband while she called for help. Now she fumbled fast, grabbing for the weapon once more.

  The marshals should have been there, but they weren’t.

  “Lauren…help…”

  It wasn’t a voice from her nightmares. It was a real voice—weak and thready and coming from the darkness of the woods that edged toward the swamp.

  “Hel—” The word ended in a garbled gasp.

  Lauren jumped off the steps. “Matt!”

  She ran through the dark when her legs slammed into something warm and soft. She tumbled to her knees, letting out a cry as she fell. She twisted around and yanked out her phone, using it as a flashlight. The light hit—

  Jim. Bloody, unconscious—please, please, please not dead.

  A twig snapped behind her. Lauren whipped her head toward the sound and saw the knife coming right at her.

  She screamed.

  And then felt something sharp slice across her throat.

  A knife.

  Anthony froze. Had that been a scream? The s
ound faded away as quickly as it had come, but every muscle in his body tensed.

  Lauren should have been back inside by now. She should have returned with Jim and Matt.

  “Why isn’t Lauren here?” Paul asked. He’d jumped to his feet, but hadn’t advanced on Anthony. The guy had finally lifted his hands—showing he had no weapon, and he stood, still as a statue, a few feet away from Anthony.

  Anthony glanced toward the back door. Lauren.

  “Cuff yourself,” Anthony snarled as his eyes snapped back to Paul.

  Paul blinked at him. “What?”

  “You’ve got your cuffs on you. I see ’em at your hip. Cuff yourself!”

  Paul pulled out the cuffs. Snapped them in place as he glared at Anthony.

  “Now don’t fucking move,” Anthony ordered. “Because if you run out after me, I will put a bullet in your head.” He wasn’t staying in that room any longer.

  Lauren should have returned.

  Where was she?

  He ran for the back door. Shoved it open. No Lauren. No Matt. No—

  Jim was on the ground. The glow from Anthony’s flashlight made it look like black liquid soaked Jim’s clothes, but he knew what that blackness was.

  Anthony hurtled off the porch and flew to the marshal’s side. He put his fingers to his throat.

  Dead.

  Jim was dead. Where was Matt? Lauren?

  “Help…” A low, weak plea from the line of trees to the right that led farther into the swamp. Tightening his hold on his weapon, Anthony followed the sound. His flashlight cut through the trees, both helping him to see and making him a target.

  There wasn’t any choice. He needed the light.

  “Help…”

  Christ. The light landed on Matt. Like Jim, blood soaked Matt’s clothes, but he was still alive. Barely.

  So much blood.

  “He got…Lauren…” Blood dripped down Matt’s face. “Heard…him…take…”

  “Who is it?” Anthony demanded. “Who the fuck has her?”

  It couldn’t be Paul, he’d left him cuffed inside. Wesley Hawthorne was struggling to survive, so who the hell—