Fear for Me (2 page)

So very easily.

He stroked her cheek. “You did a very nice job on me.” It would barely scar.

“Will you—will you let me go now?”

Ah, there was hope breaking through her voice.

He shook his head. “No, now…” His smile widened. “Now you die.”

Terror leaked across her face as the words sank in. She tried to lunge away, tried to scream but—

There was no time for that. He brought up his weapon, slicing fast. Enjoying the blood and not caring that it soaked his clothes. He’d change soon—for now, he’d
enjoy
this.

Just as he’d enjoy the prey that was soon to come. Only that bitch’s death wouldn’t be easy. She sure hadn’t made things easy on him. Not when she’d stood in that courtroom, day after day, mocking him. Belittling him. Telling his secrets to the world.

She’ll pay.

As for Sheila, he would give her a quick death, though he did usually enjoy letting it linger.

Only ten minutes.
There was still a lot he could do in that length of time. Every slice of his knife would be heaven then.
Next time, I’ll do plenty more.

He’d made his list of targets. Some should have stood by him. They hadn’t. They should have feared him. Not put him on display. Not turned
him
into the freak.

So many deserved to be punished. So many.

Jon held Sheila while she died. He figured he owed her that much. After all, she’d just given him his freedom.

He inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent.

Freedom smelled a hell of a lot like blood—and peppermint.

CHAPTER ONE

“Do you know how many people Jonathan Walker killed?” U.S. Federal Marshal Anthony Ross asked the question quietly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

A real hard job, considering he was currently watching two bodies get bagged and tagged as they were loaded up by the Angola penitentiary coroner.

This should have ended.
Walker’s path of blood and death should have stopped five years ago.

Anthony had done his job. He’d helped to lock up the killer, sent Walker away for good—or so he’d thought. The bastard had just broken out of the prison that should have been his home until he died.

How the hell had he gotten out of Angola? Once in this pit, no one was supposed to get out. And a killer like Walker—he should have been a maximum-security hold, watched carefully, twenty-four-seven.

The warden—the
new
warden—was sweating bullets and shifting from his left foot to his right. “I believe that Walker was found guilty of killing seven people—”

“Eight, when you add his cell mate,” Anthony snapped. Now these poor bodies made Walker’s kill total reach all the way up to ten. That they knew of. Anthony had long suspected that Jon’s
kill list was much longer, but those bodies just hadn’t been found. “You knew what he did, yet you let the bastard just walk out of here?” So much for the prison being secure.

The Bayou Butcher
. Sonofabitch. That brutal bastard should have gotten a needle in the arm, but no, the man who’d sliced his way through seven women in Baton Rouge had been given consecutive life sentences instead of death.

And now more victims were bleeding for Walker. For the Bayou Butcher.

“He didn’t just walk out.” The warden, James Miller, swallowed quickly. The guy was in way over his head with this case. When word reached the press, shit was going to hit the fan, and Anthony knew Miller would find himself looking for a new job—because the governor would demand that the man leave Angola.
The Bayou Butcher had escaped on the guy’s watch.

Hell. This was so bad, in so many ways. Anthony would have to make sure all the jurors on Walker’s trial knew what had happened ASAP. They’d have to get protection—they’d need to pull in a ton of manpower on this one. He’d have to get his office to contact the victims’ families. The DA.

The DA.

His jaw locked.

“He didn’t just walk out,” Miller said once more, his voice gaining a bit of strength.
Too little, too late.
“Walker took the ID of one of the other doctors. Walker matched him in height and coloring and he—”

“Walked right out the fucking door.” Yeah, right, that was what he’d just said. Anthony’s gaze drifted over the blood-soaked room. Walker had been quick with his first kill, going right for the jugular with the guard, probably so that his prey wouldn’t be able to call out for help.

But then the sick SOB had played for a while with the female victim. Walker always enjoyed playing with his prey.

“Take me to his cell.” The dogs were already out, chasing after Walker’s scent. But the guy was smart. So damn smart. An IQ that had tested off the charts and a desire to torture and kill had been with him since he was seven.

Age seven—that had been when he’d decided to see what the neighbor’s dog looked like on the inside.

Sick, twisted, but
smart
. Anthony knew that Walker must have been planning his escape for a while, and, with that escape in mind, the man would have made sure that he had a getaway vehicle ready.

Did someone help you?
It was Anthony’s immediate suspicion. Because to get a car, to have that ride waiting, Walker would need assistance. A partner.

Whoever the dumb prick was, Anthony figured that Walker would turn on him, sooner or later.

“I want to see his cell.” Maybe Walker had left some clue behind. Some hint as to his partner’s identity or an indicator just where the hell the guy was heading.

“Of course.” The warden motioned toward two men. “Henry, Alan, escort the marshal to Walker’s cell.”

Anthony left the warden and the blood-soaked med room. The guards were all on high alert now. Like being on alert
now
was going to do any good. The prison was in lockdown, but as Anthony made his way to Walker’s cell, shouts and whistles filled the air.

The prisoners knew someone had escaped. That a guard had died. And they were celebrating.

The guards in front of Anthony shouted for quiet. They didn’t get quiet.

Walker’s cell opened with a groan and Anthony headed inside. He quickly searched the area. Saw no personal effects. No books. Nothing. He reached for the sagging mattress. Yanked it out and away from the narrow bed railing. There had to be
something
there.

The mattress fell to the floor.

It was a bunk bed, only no one slept on the top bunk. Not since Walker had climbed up one night and choked his cell mate.

Anthony checked the top bunk.

Nothing.

No fucking thing.

“We already searched his cell,” the warden told him as he came into the room. Anthony wasn’t really surprised that Miller had followed him. “There weren’t any more weapons here.”

“I’m not looking for a weapon.”

He was looking for a destination. A clue. Something that would help him figure out where the hell the guy had gone.

As a marshal, it was his job to track the escaped prisoner. But it wasn’t just about doing a job.

The Bayou Butcher had been
his
case from the beginning. He’d been in the courtroom, he’d been there to protect the witnesses.

He’d been there when Jon Walker was found guilty of seven murders.

“Did the guy get mail?” Anthony figured that he
had
to get mail—fucking fan mail, probably. There were always those freaks out there who got off on interacting with killers.

“He did, but he never read any of it,” Miller replied as he twisted his hands together. “He gave a standing order for us to destroy it all.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed at that. In his experience, many serial killers reveled in the attention of their “fans.” Why hadn’t Walker wanted that attention?

He rubbed a hand over his face. There had to be
something
there. His hand dropped. Anthony’s gaze focused on the bunk bed.

Something
.

He bent, craning his head, so that he could see the bottom of the top bunk’s mattress. This would have been Walker’s view, every single day and night. He would have looked straight up—

There was a picture there. Faded, as if it had been touched so many times. Too many.

Carefully, Anthony pulled down that photo. When he saw just who was in that image, his heart seemed to stop.

Not her.

But he knew that face. Knew it too well. It haunted most of his dreams.

Lauren Chandler.
District Attorney
Lauren Chandler. The woman who’d sent Jon Walker to Angola. The woman who’d pushed for the guy to get a needle in his arm so that Walker would never kill again.

Lauren.

Of course, when he’d known her, she’d still been the ADA. She’d gotten her promotional bump right
after
Walker’s conviction. She’d made her career on his case.

And once upon a time, she’d been Anthony’s lover.

A lot could change in five years.

He pulled out his phone. Dialed the number he still remembered so easily.

No longer in service.

Fuck.

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Finally—the two other marshals under his command had just rushed into the tiny cell. He shoved the phone into his pocket even as he held tight to that photo. It was a Saturday, so the DA’s office would be closed.

It had taken the warden twelve hours to notice that Walker was gone. Then it had taken Anthony and his team too many hours to get to the prison.

“We need to find Lauren Chandler.” He tried to keep his voice steady as he said, “She’s the DA in Baton Rouge. We need to get her on the phone and alert her to the prisoner’s escape.”

The marshals—Jim O’Keith and Matt Meadows—nodded in near unison.

He glanced back at the photo. Just getting her on the phone wasn’t good enough. Not with Lauren’s safety at stake. “Meadows, contact the Baton Rouge PD. I want them sending a patrol unit to her house.” The photograph was so worn. Walker had stared at it, touched it, for how many nights? He’d been fixating on her for who the hell knew how long.

Rage burned within Anthony. That bastard was
not
getting his hands on Lauren.

But the guy had screamed that last day in court, shouted that Lauren would pay. As the judge had handed down sentencing, four guards had been needed to subdue Walker as he lunged for Lauren.

Are you trying to keep your promise, you SOB?

He would see the Bayou Butcher in hell first.

Lauren juggled her groceries as she used her foot to prop open her back door. The milk was sliding, and she was about 90 percent sure the bread was going to hit the floor and end up a smushed mess. She should have waited, carried less inside in one haul, but the dark clouds promised a downpour that wouldn’t wait long.

Her phone was ringing in her back pocket, a vibration that was stubbornly persistent, but there was no way she could answer the call then.

She tried to hit the lights with her elbow. They didn’t turn on. Just darkness. Great. Fabulous. She hit the lights again, aiming harder with her elbow. Still nothing.

Had the storm already knocked out power? Sometimes the rough wind could do that in this area. She loved her neighborhood, with its sprawling yards, but the pine trees drew the lightning like crazy.

Her phone stopped vibrating.

Stumbling, weaving, she made her way to the counter and dropped her bags just before the milk could slide free.

“
Lauren…
”

She tensed. Had someone just whispered her name?

The call had been so faint, she wasn’t even sure that she’d actually heard it.

The wind was starting to howl outside, and her shutters banged against the side of her house.

It was so dark. She edged back carefully, and her fingers went to the light switch once more. Her fingers jerked the switch quickly. Up and down, up and down.

Darkness.

The lights
weren’t
coming on. Her heart was thudding far too rapidly in her chest.

Had
she heard her name being whispered?

Fumbling, she reached into the drawer on the right and pulled out a knife. A very sharp butcher knife. “Is someone there?” Lauren asked, her voice a little weak. One hand clutched the knife. The other reached for her cell phone as she yanked it
out of her pocket. No one should be in her house. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Didn’t have a boyfriend at all.

“
Is someone there?
” Her call was louder.

Silence was her answer.

No whispers. No creaks.

Then the shutters started to bang again. She jumped.

Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow down.

She’d check the house. Every room. Just to be sure it was safe.

Her job had given her an up-close and far too personal look at the darker side of life. She wasn’t about to take any crazy chances. She knew what happened when those chances were taken.

But she also knew that a girl didn’t get to call the cops on a storm-filled night just because she
thought
she’d heard a whisper. That was a surefire way to get a not-so-stellar reputation at the prosecutor’s office.

Taking a deep breath, she edged forward. She kept her hold on the knife. She took one step. Two—