Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher(31)

She had a fast impression of a big, hulking guy, a buzz cut, and hard eyes—and the motorcycle. Bearing right down on her.

She lifted the gun. “Stop!”

The motorcycle swerved and kicked up gravel. The man wheeled the bike around, trying to find another path.

Only he didn’t find another path. He lost control. The motorcycle slid onto its side, slipping and twisting away from him. The man flew onto the pavement, hitting with a thudding impact.

Lauren’s breath sawed from her lungs.

The guy leaped back to his feet and started to run. Anthony threw out his arm, clotheslining the man right around the neck. Buzz cut fell back, slamming once more into the pavement. This time when he tried to get up, he found himself staring down the barrel of Anthony’s gun.

“Benjamin Fort?” Anthony snapped the name.

Lauren tightened her grip on her weapon and slowly advanced.

The guy on the ground spat out a mouthful of blood. “Yeah, and who the f*ck are you?”

“U.S. Marshal.” Anthony didn’t lower his gun. “And that woman you nearly ran down, that’s the f*cking DA. Asshole, you just stepped into a whole world of hurt.” There was a deadly promise in his voice.

A promise that made Lauren tense because it was so dark, so dangerous, and so very certain.



Anthony stood with his arms crossed, his control held tight, as he stared down at Ben Fort.

The guy had bloody scratches and scrapes running along his face and arms, but that wasn’t even close to the amount of damage Anthony wanted to do.

He’d been aiming that motorcycle at Lauren.

If the SOB had hurt her…

Paul came into the interrogation room, swept his gaze over Fort, then raised a brow as he looked back at Anthony.

“The guy fell off his bike,” Anthony said.

At his words, Fort jerked his head toward them. “Because you and that DA were in my way! You come to my house, and I didn’t even see no warrant and—”

“They didn’t need a warrant to come and tell you about your girlfriend’s murder.”

Fort’s mouth hung open. “Murder?” He gave a rough bark of laughter, one that held an uncertain edge. “What’re you talkin’ about?”

Paul took the seat across from Fort. Anthony was playing by the rules—this time—and letting the detective have a crack at the guy first. But he wasn’t about to leave the room. He would stick close to Fort until he got the answers he wanted.

Anthony leaned back against the two-way mirror—he knew Lauren was watching on the other side—and waited for his moment.

If the detective didn’t break the guy, Anthony would.

Paul opened up a manila file and pushed a crime scene picture toward Fort. “Do you recognize this woman?”

Fort peered forward. “Yeah, man, that’s—” He jumped to his feet even as the color drained from his face. “Fuck! What the f*ck happened to Stacy?”

Anthony moved in an instant, grabbing the guy’s shoulder and shoving him back down in his seat.

“Stacy is your girlfriend, correct?” Paul asked quietly.

A rough nod. Fort’s fingers snaked out, edging toward the photo almost helplessly. “Her face…”

“Stacy Crawford told the marshal here…” Paul slanted a fast glance toward Anthony. “That the two of you were heading out of town last night.”

“Got a job in Jackson,” he mumbled. His eyes were on the photo. His shoulders slumped. “Her face.”

Paul’s eyes were on Fort’s face. “Why didn’t you report that your girlfriend was missing?”

“’Cause she wasn’t!” Spittle flew from his mouth.

“If you were supposed to leave with her—”

Fort slapped his hand over the picture, covering Stacy’s face. “She sent me a text. Told me that she had to pull an extra shift—wanted the cash since it was her last night. She told me that she would be late gettin’ in.”

“But she didn’t get in at all.”

Fort’s breath was coming in fast heaves. “When I got her text, I went out for some beers with friends. I got in and passed out. I’d just woken up when—”

“When you heard the marshal banging at the door?”

A nod.

Now Anthony spoke. “Do you always run when you hear a knock at your door?”

He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.

“Then I guess today was special, huh?” Paul asked as he pulled the photo from beneath Fort’s hand. “But not so special for her.”



Did you help the Butcher kill your girlfriend?

Lauren had watched hundreds of interrogations over the years. She knew all the tricks detectives used in order to get a suspect to confess. She’d seen men crumble in an instant, and she’d seen cold-blooded killers refuse to break after hours of questioning.

When she’d had Walker in the interrogation room, he hadn’t broken. He’d just sat there, smiling at her the whole time.

Fort was already sweating. Sometimes, the guilty sweated. They sweated plenty. Their eyes darted around the interrogation room—just like Fort’s were doing. Their fingers tapped on the table, their shoes kept up a steady pounding rhythm on the floor.