Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher(4)

“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 f*cking 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—f*cking 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.