The Butcher and the Wren(55)

“This isn’t him,” she says disbelievingly. She falls into a seated position and scrambles backward on the ground to put distance between herself and this stranger. For the first time, the dead have her scared.

“Of course it’s him!” Will rushes forward to grab her shoulders. “Muller, what do you mean?”

She shakes her head, feeling panic rush up inside of her, and shouts, “No! It’s not! This isn’t him, Will!”

“You recognized him back there. I saw it. You both recognized each other.”

“I did. We did. It was him out there. But not here, not now,” she explains and takes a deep breath. “There is no bullet wound where you shot him.”

He moves his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. His gaze rests on the lifeless body nearby, and it’s clear he is trying to find the logic here.

“That’s impossible. I shot him in the chest.”

“If this was a self-inflicted gunshot wound, where is the gun? He didn’t shoot himself. He was shot by the guy who set him up for us to find.”

Will’s eyes dart back and forth between her own and the body. He looks up and sharply points a finger at an officer standing to their right.

“Search this place inside and out. Find him. Now.”

The officers scatter in different directions.

He looks back at Wren and calls for an officer, who rushes to their side. “Bring Dr. Muller back to Leroux and make sure they both get out of here safely with the medics.”

Wren opens her mouth to protest, but Will cuts her off again.

“Your job is done. Go with Leroux to the hospital.”

Wren stands and squeezes his arm before turning to walk back through the thick green vegetation with the officer protecting her in tow. As she makes her way up the path toward the ambulance parked on the lawn, she waves to the paramedic.

“I’m coming,” she says.

The medic nods, opening the doors to reveal Leroux on a gurney. He is sitting up and gives her a look of relief.

“Is it over?” he asks.

She shakes her head, taking a seat next to him on the small bench. The doors close with a bang, and the engine roars to life.

“No,” she responds softly.

Leroux tries to catch her eyes, but she can’t bring them to focus.

She lifts them to meet his gaze.

“He got away, John.”





CHAPTER 35





JEREMY EMERGES FROM THE SWAMP outside his property and stops to catch his breath. The bulletproof vest under his T-shirt rubs against his sweat-covered skin. He never wants to wear one of these again. It’s binding and suffocating, but he is thankful it worked when he needed it to. Sucking in the humid air around him, he fingers the welt on his chest that is beginning to swell and turn red.

Better than a bullet wound.

He pushes forward through the thick swampland stretching out before him. The warm water soaks into his pant legs, leaving a layer of slime behind. He can feel the mud pulling at his boots with its deep suction, trying to free them from his feet. He waves away a cloud of mosquitoes, and they spread out momentarily only to reconverge around him with increased fervor, ready to brand him with a million itchy wounds for his insolence.

It won’t be long before Wren discovers that the body he left behind is not him. Once she does, he has no doubt that she will put it all together quickly. She’s just as smart as he remembers, and she’s motivated by a deep anger. It radiated from her eyes when they met his own. Like the mosquitoes who attack him ruthlessly now, Wren was hungry for his blood before this, and would be insatiable now. But he’d won this battle, and soon he’d win the war.

She couldn’t shoot him. He watched her finger hover over the trigger but never squeeze. He wonders if that would change now. He wonders if she would hesitate again, given another chance. Unfortunately for Wren, she won’t get that chance. He will be hundreds of miles from this place soon enough. As he shifts the backpack on his shoulder, he pushes his way through the trees that grab and scratch at him. There isn’t a path through here, but he still knows his way well enough. His father once brought him here to try his hand at hunting gators. Of course, they never caught one.

He’s keenly aware of the monsters who share this space with him. In the dark, their eyes gleam like they do in nightmares. They move slickly through the muck with tails capable of incapacitating a man faster than any weapon. They are the true bayou butchers, ruthless and bloodthirsty. And tonight, he’ll be one of them.

The sun sets low under the horizon, and the night sounds rise in sync as he walks toward the road stretched out ahead.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


TO MY JOHN, THANK YOU for always being supportive and encouraging even when I was sure this writing thing was not going to work out. Thank you for watching the babies while I sat outside and pounded away at the keyboard, drinking hundreds of coffees whenever a quick burst of inspiration came. Thank you for giving me the confidence to start this book at the first sentence. I love and appreciate you endlessly. You are a true gift. I promise never to hunt you in the Louisiana bayou.

To Karen, thank you for being the mother-in-law that no one believes can exist. You are selfless and always willing to send me away to write while you do something fun with the kids. You are appreciated more than you can know, and this wouldn’t have been possible to finish without you.