Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher(91)

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 f*cking 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.”