Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher Page 2

  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 fucking 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—fucking 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.

  She tried to hit the lights with her elbow. They didn’t turn on. Just darkness. Great. Fabulous. She hit the lights again, aiming harder with her elbow. Still nothing.

  Had the storm already knocked out power? Sometimes the rough wind could do that in this area. She loved her neighborhood, with its sprawling yards, but the pine trees drew the lightning like crazy.

  Her phone stopped vibrating.

  Stumbling, weaving, she made her way to the counter and dropped her bags just before the milk could slide free.

  “Lauren…”

  She tensed. Had someone just whispered her name?

  The call had been so faint, she wasn’t even sure that she’d actually heard it.

  The wind was starting to howl outside, and her shutters banged against the side of her house.

  It was so dark. She edged back carefully, and her fingers went to the light switch once more. Her fingers jerked the switch quickly. Up and down, up and down.

  Darkness.

  The lights weren’t coming on. Her heart was thudding far too rapidly in her chest.

  Had she heard her name being whispered?

  Fumbling, she reached into the drawer on the right and pulled out a knife. A very sharp butcher knife. “Is someone there?” Lauren asked, her voice a little weak. One hand clutched the knife. The other reached for her cell phone as she yanked it out of her pocket. No one should be in her house. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Didn’t have a boyfriend at all.

  “Is someone there?” Her call was louder.

  Silence was her answer.

  No whispers. No creaks.

  Then the shutters started to bang again. She jumped.

  Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow down.

  She’d check the house. Every room. Just to be sure it was safe.

  Her job had given her an up-close and far too personal look at the darker side of life. She wasn’t about to take any crazy chances. She knew what happened when those chances were taken.

  But she also knew that a girl didn’t get to call the cops on a storm-filled night just because she thought she’d heard a whisper. That was a surefire way to get a not-so-stellar reputation at the prosecutor’s office.

  Taking a deep breath, she edged forward. She kept her hold on the knife. She took one step. Two—

  A scream cut through the night. No, not a scream, a siren. The flash of red-and-blue lights lit up her kitchen. Her heart beat faster. She lunged for the back door, clutching her knife as she shoved her phone into her back pocket once more. As she rushed outside, Lauren saw the cops, already jumping from their vehicle. Her body was on high alert, and something was very wrong.

  Her feet thundered down the stairs of her back porch. Rain began to pelt her even as the bright light of a f
lashlight locked on her. No, not just one flashlight.

  Two.

  “Lauren Chandler?” one of the officers shouted.

  Lauren froze. Crap. She still had the knife. Instinct. But she knew better than to approach a cop with a weapon, so she let the blade drop from her fingers. In the glare of the flashlights, she knew the cops would see the weapon fall. “Yes, yes, I’m Lauren Chandler.” She kept her hands up. “What’s going on?”

  The cop on the right took a step toward her. “Why do you have the weapon, Ms. Chandler?”

  “I thought I heard something inside.” If they’d only witnessed what she had. Hell, if they’d been privy to all the details of her cases, most folks wouldn’t even be able to sleep at night.

  She’d sure been through her own share of sleepless nights. Sometimes, she’d only made it through after late-night phone calls with her best friend, Karen. Karen knew all about the darkness, too. She never thought Lauren’s fears were crazy—not when Karen shared them.

  We’ve seen the monsters out there. Karen’s voice, the low drawl that dipped beneath it, whispered through Lauren’s mind. Seen ’em plenty, and we’re smart enough to be afraid. The rest of the world—maybe they’re better off not knowing. Hell, sometimes, I wish I didn’t know.

  But Karen’s job was to know. Just like mine is.

  What would Karen think if she’d seen how scared Lauren had been in that dark house?

  She’d probably tell me I need a drink to calm down…and that next time, I should immediately get my ass out of the house.

  “Is there anyone else in the house?” the cop asked as he took another step toward her.

  “There shouldn’t be.” She wasn’t even sure she’d heard the whisper. Lauren glanced over her shoulder at her dark house.

  That was when she realized lights glowed from the homes of her few neighbors. The lots were big and private, but she could clearly see illumination coming from those houses. Hers was the only house with a power outage. The only dark house on the road.

  Lauren crept toward the cops. “Why are you here? What’s happening?”

  “We’re under orders to take you back to the station, Ms. Chandler.”

  “Is this about one of my cases?” This wasn’t standard operating procedure. The rain kept falling onto her.

  “The order came from the U.S. Marshals’ office, ma’am.”

  Her racing heart stopped. U.S. Marshal. “Why?”

  “We got word that a prisoner escaped from Angola, and the marshal wanted you to have protection.”

  “Jon Walker,” she whispered through numb lips.

  The cop replied, but the rumble of thunder swallowed his answer.

  She hurried toward them, her fear making her move faster. Her feet slipped in the slick grass, but she didn’t slow down. In the middle of the storm, the uniformed cops looked like the safest port she’d ever seen.

  The taller of the two opened the back of his patrol car. “Ma’am, why don’t you get out of the rain?”

  Grateful, Lauren slid inside. But the cops didn’t follow her. They were staring over at her house, and she knew suspicion when she saw it.

  “Why aren’t your lights on?” the cop nearest her asked. His face was round, his shoulders stooped just slightly.

  “The power didn’t work,” she confessed. Her hands pressed over her jeans as she tried to wipe the moisture from her palms. Part rain and part plain old sweat and fear.

  The cops had their guns drawn. She saw the quick nod they exchanged. The taller cop ran toward her house while his partner took up a position near Lauren.

  Guarding her.

  “We’re just gonna do a quick sweep,” he told her, flashing a grin that she was able to see in the glow of the patrol car’s interior lights. “To make sure that the area is secure.”

  Right. Goose bumps had risen on her arms. It was an early summer night, warm despite the rain, and she was shivering.

  A few moments later, the cop’s partner made it into her house. She could see the glow from his flashlight.

  “I’m Officer Hank Lane,” the man standing near the open car door said. “And you don’t have anything to worry about, understand? You’re—”

  The radio on his hip crackled. They both tensed as Hank picked up the radio.

  “Get an ambulance,” his partner’s voice barked. “Get one now!”

  Lauren… She shuddered when she remembered the whisper.

  Her gaze flew back to the house. She tried to push out of the car, but Hank held her back. No one should have been inside her home.

  Get an ambulance…

  Someone had been there. In the dark. Waiting for her?

  The cop’s grip tightened around her.

  “Go inside,” she said, voice desperate. “Help him!”

  Hank hesitated. Lauren pulled away from him. The man scrambled and called for backup and an ambulance.

  She could almost smell his fear. He was a uniform, probably new to patrol duty, and he’d just thought he was heading out to pick up the DA for a little babysitting job.

  Hank pointed at her. “Stay here, ma’am.”

  No, no way. If someone was in there—possibly hurt—she had to help. She was the one to run toward those in need, never away. Helping victims was her job.

  When he took off running, so did she.

  Hank jumped up the back steps. He whirled when he heard her footsteps. “Ma’am, you’re supposed to stay—”

  “We’re wasting time!” Her voice held the whip of command. She was the DA, dammit.

  Gulping, Hank spun around and headed into the house.

  She hurried behind him, using his flashlight to guide her. The milk had fallen to the floor. Spilled everywhere. Her tennis shoes slid through the white liquid. A few seconds later, she and Hank were in her narrow hallway. Then—

  Her bedroom?

  Hank’s flashlight hit the face of the officer. He was over Lauren’s bed. Crouched over the woman sprawled on Lauren’s covers.

  A woman who wasn’t moving. A woman whose eyes stared sightlessly above her. A woman covered in blood.

  So much bright, red blood.

  The light hit the woman’s face. Lauren lost her breath. I know her. “Karen?” She tried to rush forward. No, no, that couldn’t be Karen.

  Hank caught her arms. “No, you need to stay back!”

  Because it was a crime scene. Because they were looking at a murder victim. Because they were looking at—

  “Karen!” Her best friend. Sometimes…sometimes it seemed Karen was her only friend.

  The wail of a siren reached her. It was the ambulance coming to help them.

  Coming too late.

  Because Karen Royce, Lauren’s best friend, was dead.

  “Why did you have the knife, Lauren?”

  Lauren’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. The coffee was ice-cold, pretty normal for the police station’s thick brew. It was late, edging toward two a.m., but she didn’t need the caffeine to keep her awake.

  The image of Karen’s mutilated body could do that just fine.

  “Lauren?” the detective pressed, his voice deepening as he tried to catch her attention.

  Lauren sighed. “Do you really think we need to do the formal game?” She’d worked with Paul Voyt on dozens of cases. And right then, the guy actually had her in the interrogation room. Normally, they questioned the suspects together.

  Now he was the one questioning her.

  Paul exhaled heavily. Face grim, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we do. Karen Royce was stabbed at least five times, in your home, and officers on the scene reported that you raced out of your house holding a butcher knife.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache throbbed relentlessly behind her eyes. “There’s no blood on the knife. Or on me. Get the techs to check the weapon. They’ll see it wasn’t used.” Her lips wanted to tremble so she pressed them together as she straightened her shoulders. Then, when she hoped that the t
rembling had passed, Lauren said, “You can’t be looking at me for this crime. You know me, Paul.”

  Damn well.

  Biblically.

  Unfortunately. Their night together had been a one-time mistake that would not be repeated.

  She’d been lonely. Weak.

  Missing an ex-lover who couldn’t stay out of her mind, even though he’d sure moved on easily enough. As soon as the case had been closed, he’d left town without looking back.

  If only she’d been able to move on so easily.

  “Right now, all I know is that a dead body was found, in your house, in your bed, Lauren.” But there was sympathy in his voice. Paul was a good guy, and she could tell by his expression that he hated doing this part of his job.

  “I didn’t kill Karen. She was my friend.”

  “A friend who you were fighting with yesterday.”

  Her gaze flew to his.

  “Yeah. I know about that. Word traveled fast about your little courthouse scene.”

  “That was…a personal matter.” One she didn’t want to get into. Karen was dead. There was no need to say or do anything to hurt her memory.

  “Don’t give me that. I need you to be honest. To cooperate fully. Hell, you know the press is going to freakin’ flip when they find out that the DA is involved in a murder—”

  “Jon Walker escaped.” Lauren said the words flatly. “That’s why the cops were at my house. They were bringing me here, for protection. But you should already know that.” She leveled her stare at him. “So why am I being grilled when you should be looking for Jon and not wasting time in here with me?”

  “We are looking for him. But questions still have to be asked, and hell, Lauren, I thought you’d prefer to talk to me instead of the other detectives out there.”

  The breath felt cold in her lungs. He was right. If she had to sit through the questioning, she’d rather face him.

  “Why was she at your house?”

  “I don’t know.” Truth. “Karen had a key, and sometimes she liked to crash there.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t know she was going to be there?”

  “No!” The denial sprang from her. She sucked in a deep breath. Held tight to her control. “After our argument, I hadn’t talked to Karen. I had no idea she’d be at my place.” Not until she’d found her body. A sight Lauren would never forget. “I saw her in my room. I saw what had been done to her.” Lauren’s gaze held his. “You know Jon’s way of killing. You know just what the Butcher liked to do.”