Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher(90)

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 f*ck? 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…f*ck…” 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 f*ck. 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.