The Butcher and the Wren(43)

He hears her stumbling through the branches and underbrush and pauses momentarily to listen. The bayou will do its best to help him, but it will try even harder to trap her. She runs toward the dirt path they came down earlier, splashing water as her feet pound into the earth below. She has no idea that she’s running farther into his cage.

He runs toward her now, bursting from the tree cover into the open expanse of the dirt path. She hears him and turns to digest what little the moonlight reveals. Her face is lit with terror. Jeremy smiles widely, stalking toward her with the knife unsheathed. And Tara, now exposed, screams as she breaks into a clumsy run. It’s like she’s running through sand. He seizes the opportunity to gather two tennis-ball-sized rocks from the ground.

“Duck!” he yells out, startling her enough to stop and cover her head instinctively.

He throws one of the rocks with as much force as he can muster. It connects with the back of her leg, making her crumble to her knees in an unnatural way. She wails in pain and shock, frantically reaching for the source of the blow. He throws the second rock. It ricochets off her skull with a sickening crack. She falls to the ground, now clutching her head.

“Stop! Please stop!” she cries out.

But he doesn’t. He slowly walks toward her broken body in the middle of the path. As he crouches down next to her, she swats at him aimlessly. He catches her hand by the wrist, holding it up to the blade in his. He feels her pulse racing under his fingers and then drags the blade across her palm. She screams, trying to pull her hand back with everything she has left. As her screams turn to sobs, he smiles. He’s in control again.

“Is someone out there?” A man’s voice echoes out through the night, snapping Jeremy back to attention. Flashlights appear at the far end of the dirt path.

“Are you hurt?” a second voice calls out.

Jeremy can see the shapes of the two men entering the path. He claps his hand over Tara’s mouth before she can cry out for help, but panic starts to creep into his veins. They heard Tara. He didn’t scout out this location ahead of time tonight. He had acted on impulse, and he didn’t consider the hunters sitting in the very same ground blind locations that he had once occupied with his father.

“We aren’t here to hurt you. We’ll get you help,” the first man continues gently, swinging the beam of his flashlight toward them.

Tara’s eyes are wide, silently screaming out to these men, but they can’t see her. Not yet.

A pang of frustration rings through Jeremy’s chest as he weighs his options. In the end, there is only one path forward.

Still muffling Tara’s mouth with one hand, he lifts her chin to look at him. He takes one final second to relish in the moment when their eyes lock before hearing her would-be rescuers rush closer. He quickly brings the bowie knife across her neck, slicing deeply from ear to ear. As soon as the blade releases from her flesh, he drops her to the ground and takes off running. She sputters and gurgles behind him, and the men rush toward the sound. Deep, disjoined breaths heave from her tattered larynx as they arrive at her side. The wound spans the entire length of her neck, and it’s deep. They bark orders at each other, one of them calling for an ambulance and the other frantically trying to slow the bleeding. It won’t do much good though. Jeremy is sure he cut her carotid artery. She will be gone within minutes as her body forcibly pumps its own life force from her wound into the dirt.

He runs, not stopping as the chaos unfolds behind him, propelling himself farther and farther away with each bound. He dives into his car and flicks off the headlights before peeling away in a cloud of gravel and dust. He uses the night-vision goggles to guide him as he makes his way back to the main road. No other cars follow. The men are too busy trying to save a woman seconds from death.

Jeremy just drives, flicking the headlights back on and removing his eyewear when he’s put enough space between them. He opens the glove compartment where his phone sits and presses play on a random playlist. “Pretty When You Cry” by VAST plays loudly, and he takes in a deep, calming breath. Today was a bad day. In his brain, he knows he should have just stayed home. He should have dealt with the repercussions of his last miscalculation before piling another mess on top of it.

He’s sure Tara will die. But it’s the sloppy execution that bothers him. He dove into the water without even checking the depth. He was foolish and impetuous. He acted on animal impulses and ignored his prized brain. Without a thought, he swerves the car toward the side of a dark road, throwing it into park as dust swells around the headlights. He pounds his fist against the steering wheel, wails on the vinyl surface like it holds a treasure locked inside. When his hand throbs and his breath is heavy, he sits back in his seat and screams. All his stress and frustration, all his dissatisfaction and hunger erupt in a primal scream on the side of a dark, dirt road deep in the Louisiana bayou. Tears roll down his face, and he lets them cool his burning, dirt-covered cheeks.

His chest heaves as he throws the car back in drive and barrels toward his home. He turns the music up loud, hoping it will drown out his thoughts. The barrage of sound only fuels the anger he can no longer control. As he speeds down the road ahead, he knows his days in this place are numbered.





CHAPTER 28





LEROUX’S PHONE BUZZES FROM HIS coat pocket, and he takes the moment to answer it.

“Leroux,” he answers and taps his phone to put the call on speaker.