by Cynthia Eden
Jon Walker had been given the grim moniker of the Bayou Butcher—sometimes shortened simply to the Butcher—for a reason.
Paul leaned toward her, his body on the edge of his wooden chair. His eyes, a steely light gray, raked over her. Paul was handsome, tall, strong. He had one of those golden-boy faces that got witnesses to trust him far too easily, a very handy trick. “You’re telling me the Butcher was in your house? Did you see him there? The uniforms told me they didn’t see any sign of anyone else.”
Like the blood hadn’t been a sign of someone else?
She shook her head. “I’m not saying I saw him.” Another icy breath. “I’m saying I didn’t kill Karen. I wouldn’t! Jon Walker has been out for over—” Hell, what was it? She’d asked the cops on her ride there. “Over twenty-four hours. That would have given him plenty of time to get out here and—”
“You think he came for you?”
Her fingers pressed onto the scarred tabletop. “I was the one who put him away.” She’d made her career on that case. She’d been twenty-eight when she prosecuted the Butcher. Twenty-eight and secretly terrified of the monster who sat in the courtroom with her. But Lauren hadn’t let fear stop her. She’d done her job. Convicted that murdering SOB.
By the time she’d turned twenty-nine, the Butcher had been in Angola and she’d already been the DA. A DA who still had nightmares because of that case.
“Fuck, Lauren.” Paul’s hand crept toward hers. A crack had appeared in his mask. “I wasn’t even on duty when the call came through about Walker and you. The captain just sent me in here when you pulled up with the uniforms. I got the shortest fucking briefing on record.” His gaze held hers as his fingers covered her hand. “But if that sick sonofabitch is actually back and targeting you—”
The door opened behind Paul. Lauren glanced up, expecting to see the face of another detective or maybe even someone from her office.
She didn’t expect to see U.S. Marshal Anthony Ross standing there.
For a second, she simply stared at him as the memories came rushing back. Once, she would have done just about anything for that man. She’d wanted him more than breath. Needed him with a fierce desire that just wouldn’t stop.
Then she remembered…
He’d just walked away.
He’d been so busy walking that he hadn’t noticed when he left her in damn pieces behind him.
His gaze—a green that was bright and intense—dropped to her hand. Paul’s hand. His square jaw seemed to harden, then he stalked forward, even as Paul leaped to his feet.
“This is an interrogation,” Paul began as his body blocked Ross’s. “You can’t barge in here—”
“It’s one cozy interrogation,” Anthony muttered. “I bet that technique works wonders with the suspects.”
He shouldered around Paul.
Paul grabbed his arm. “Who the hell are you and just why are you in my interrogation?”
Anthony yanked out his ID. “U.S. Marshal Anthony Ross.”
Paul blinked.
“And I’m here because I’m in charge of tracking the escaped fugitive Jon Walker.” Lauren could almost hear the dumbass that she knew Anthony wanted to tack on the end of his statement. Anthony had never been gifted with a whole lot of patience—or finesse.
Paul backed away.
Then Anthony bent over her. His hands swept over Lauren’s arms. “Were you hurt?” There was a deeper, more intimate note in his voice. One that reminded her far too much of other times.
She shook her head. “I wasn’t the one he stabbed.”
“No, but you were the target.”
That seemed to be the consensus, dammit. Anthony sure seemed certain enough of that. She stared into his eyes, seeing the faint gold around his pupils. Anthony was big, easily six feet three, with wide shoulders that had once done him proud during his college football days.
But he didn’t run on the field anymore.
Now he ran down fugitives. Protected witnesses.
Stared at her with a leashed fury in his eyes.
“Are we even sure it’s Walker?” Paul’s question was quiet, considering. “I mean, there are other killers out there.”
He was right. There were plenty of killers loose out there. But Jon Walker was in a category all by himself.
Paul shook his head. “Walker just escaped from prison—shouldn’t his first move have been a run for the border?”
Anthony’s expression never changed. “Not if he wanted revenge.”
Her heart beat faster.
Anthony’s stare was unnerving as he told her, “He had a picture of you in his cell. I don’t know how or when he got it, but Walker had it pinned right above his pillow, just where he could see it every night.”
A shiver slid over her.
“He escapes, then twenty-four hours later, a woman winds up dead, stabbed in your bed, Butcher-style.”
Paul stood behind Anthony, silent, but with an avid gaze on them.
“You don’t have to be a genius to connect those dots,” Anthony growled. “Walker’s coming for you. You put him in prison. You’re the one he wants dead.”
And Karen had—what? Been in the wrong place? Died, for Lauren?
So much blood. She tried—and failed—to shove the image out of her mind.
“If he wanted me dead—” She spoke slowly, trying to hold on to her control because of all the people in the world, she would not break in front of Anthony Ross.
Stay with me.
Those had been her words to him.
He hadn’t stayed.
Hadn’t cared enough to do so.
Her shoulders stiffened as she said again, “If he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be sitting here. He could have just stayed in the house, waited for me to get home, then he could have killed me.”
Now Paul cleared his throat. “Lauren, you said you heard a whisper when you got home.”
Anthony’s gaze sharpened.
Lauren gave a slow nod.
“Was that whisper from Karen?” Paul asked.
Lauren hesitated. “The wind was loud. I’d just come inside.”
“Was it a woman’s voice?” Paul pressed.
She closed her eyes for a moment, blocking him out, trying to block out Anthony, too. If only it was that easy.
But she focused and tried to remember…
The milk was sliding. The shutters banging. Then a whisper.
Lauren…
“I thought it was a man’s voice.” Her eyes opened. “But I can’t swear to that.” She, of all people, knew how unreliable witness testimony could be.
“If it was a man, he could have still been inside,” Paul said, voice tightening. “He could have been there—”
“And he got away when I ran out to meet the cops.” The thunder and rain would have masked the sound of the killer’s footsteps.
“Uniforms are searching the area,” Paul said. “We can—”
Anthony gave a hard shake of his head. “That’s not good enough.” Then he rose to his full height, a height that put him a few inches above Paul. “Jon Walker grew up in this area. He knows how to vanish in these swamps.”
Knew how, and had, for months before during his previous attacks.
Sometimes he’d taken his victims with him into those swamps.
“I can find him,” Paul said, voice grim. “I can track him down.”
Anthony’s gaze burned. “When it comes to fugitive apprehension, I’m in charge of the Walker case. The marshals will be finding him.” He stared down at Lauren. “We stop him before he gets close to the target he wants so desperately.”
Then he backed away. Marched for the door.
Her breath rasped out on a heavy sigh. That was it? He barged in, dropped the Walker photo bombshell on her, then vanished?
She shot to her feet. Almost instantly, she found her path blocked by Paul. Gritting her teeth, she said, “I need to talk to him.”
“My captain told me to hold yo
u, to make sure—”
“I’m not leaving the station, but I am talking to him.” She was the DA. She’d played nice with him, but she wasn’t about to let any of the cops shove her into a corner. “Follow me, but you aren’t stopping me.” The only way he could stop her would be to arrest her, and she knew that wasn’t happening.
Five years ago, Jon Walker had abducted and mutilated coeds. No, he’d started with coeds. The first two victims he’d killed quickly, but by victim number three—Gina Richardson—he’d changed his kill method. He’d taken Gina into the swamp. Kept her alive for days. Taken his time as he tortured her.
Hunters had discovered Gina’s body a week later. What was left of it, anyway.
The cops had been monitoring every college campus in the area. Extra security procedures had been put into place by the administrations.
Curfews were instituted, and girls had been advised to not walk alone at night on the campuses. With dead coeds, no one had been willing to take chances.
The cops had been sure that they would catch the killer.
But as the security had tightened at the colleges, Walker had just moved on to a new hunting ground. He’d abducted a waitress from an all-night diner. Then a mom of two. A stripper had been his next victim. A teenage babysitter his seventh—and the victim who had finally tripped him up.
Kathy Johnson had been hired to watch the children at 508 Marigold Place—she’d agreed to stay all night for a little extra cash so that the Petersons could enjoy an anniversary night on the town.
Walker had known about Kathy’s schedule that night. He’d known about the kids who’d been asleep upstairs—kids who hadn’t even realized what was happening in their house.
But Carolyn Peterson had gotten sick at dinner. She and her husband had canceled their anniversary plans and come home early—and they’d found Walker using his knife on sixteen-year-old Kathy.
So many bodies. So much death. And it wasn’t over. It still wasn’t over.
Because she hadn’t done her job well enough. Sure, the press had all claimed that she’d done great. Her boss had been impressed. But, deep down, Lauren knew the truth. If I’d fought harder, the guy would have gotten the death penalty. Not life in prison.
Now it looked as if he wanted her to be the one to die.
She slipped by Paul and hurried to the door. Her fingers shook as she grabbed the knob. She yanked it hard to the left, then rushed outside of the room, too aware of all the glances that slid her way. Her own stare darted around the room.
She found Anthony’s retreating back. Saw him and two other men she didn’t recognize. More marshals? Anthony and the men turned for the exit.
“Ross!” Her voice whipped with an order.
Lauren could sound like she had authority when she needed to do it. No one had to know that her knees were shaking.
Anthony looked back at her. The man was still as handsome as ever. High cheekbones. Strong blade of a nose. High forehead. His dark hair was shorter than it had been before, the faint lines near his mouth were a bit deeper, but the guy was still too good-looking by far for her peace of mind.
Dark. Dangerous.
Her type.
Well, once upon a time, he had been. She was trying—very much trying—to stick with the good guys these days. Guys who were safe.
Her tennis shoes squeaked as she hurried across the bull pen. She hadn’t exactly been given time to change before being rushed to the station.
Was Paul following her? She didn’t hear his footsteps. That was good.
She closed in on Anthony. “We need to talk.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Later, ma’am.” His native Georgia drawl rolled lightly beneath his words. “Right now, I have a killer to hunt.”
She grabbed his arm. Held tight. “A killer who was in my house. A killer who murdered my friend.” Karen, I am so sorry. Each time she thought of Karen, it felt as if someone were clawing open her chest. “You aren’t shutting me out, understand, Ross? I’m working this with you. I am going to make sure this city doesn’t fall back into the Bayou Butcher madness it faced before.” When fear had held them all captive.
Fear of the dark.
Fear of the monster who waited in the dark.
Jon Walker had made children—and even adults—fear the boogeyman once more. Because he truly was that monster.
“I tracked him before,” Anthony said quietly. No emotion entered his voice or his gaze. “And I can do it again.”
Without you.
Unspoken, but the words were still there, hanging between them.
She wouldn’t back down. “My office will give you any support you need. We will work together on this.” She knew the reporters were probably already swarming outside. Paul had been right on that score—a story about her, about the Bayou Butcher—hell, yes, they were talking a front-page spread.
Anthony bent toward her. His scent—rich, masculine—surrounded her. His mouth was close to her ear when he whispered. “Haven’t you already come close enough to death?”
She turned her head. Met his stare. “Haven’t you?” Because she knew the risks he took, day in and day out.
Even when he’d left her, she’d followed his career. Anthony’s cases were the darkest she’d ever encountered. Brutal killers. Sadistic criminals.
Nightmares.
“Not close enough,” he told her softly. “Not yet.” His green gaze heated as it swept over her. “I missed you.”
Then he was gone. Hurrying away with the other two men as they went out on the hunt. When the station’s doors opened, she heard the shouts from the reporters.
Yes, they were there.
Her hands had clenched into fists. She glanced around the room, wondering what the detectives and cops saw when they looked at her. Lauren sure hoped she didn’t look as out of control as she felt.
Because she felt like she was breaking apart on the inside.
I missed you.
But he’d sure walked away easily enough. Then, and now.
Anthony paused as the reporters swarmed around him. When a body was found right inside a DA’s house, word sure spread like wildfire.
Especially when the Bayou Butcher was on the loose.
“No comment,” Anthony snapped as he made his way through the crowd. When necessary, he knew how to use reporters to his advantage.
However, he wasn’t interested in using them at that moment. He wanted to get to Lauren’s house. To search the area himself. Every moment that passed allowed Walker to get farther away.
He went straight for Lauren.
Anthony slid into the SUV that waited on the corner. Three seconds later, he was rushing away from the scene.
When he arrived at Lauren’s house, he wasn’t surprised to see more reporters. They were standing behind the yellow line of police tape—barely behind it. Vultures, closing in.
“Go talk to the trackers,” Anthony ordered Jim O’Keith when the other marshal climbed from the second SUV and came to his side. Jim was new to his division, having transferred up just a few months back. This was the guy’s first big fugitive case, and Anthony could see the nervous tension in the man’s body.
But they didn’t have time for fear.
Matt Meadows followed behind Jim. Matt had far more seniority, and a real gift with tech. Matt didn’t talk much, but the man was one of the best guys Anthony had ever seen in the field. His ancestry was a mix of Jamaican and Cherokee Indian, and Matt had told him once that his parents had wanted him to be comfortable in any world he faced. From what Anthony had seen, Matt could more than handle himself, any place, any time.
Carefully, Anthony made his way past the police tape. He flashed his ID so he could gain access to the house. He’d be taking charge of this case—and this scene until someone with more authority came along and damn well had to kick his ass out.
He would make sure the Butcher went back to jail. And when he did, Walker would not be escaping again.
&nb
sp; Cops were milling around. More detectives. The homicide captain was there, too. Anthony recognized him at once—he’d worked with Reginald Powers when they’d originally apprehended Jon Walker years before.
Reginald inclined his head as he came toward Anthony. “Been a long time.”
They shook hands. More gray lined Reginald’s hair than the last time Anthony had seen him, and the guy’s dark eyes looked tired.
Anthony wondered if he looked as grim. After the Valentine Killer case, there had been days when he hadn’t even wanted to look in the mirror. That SOB almost took me out. But he shoved those memories aside. “You knew I’d be the one they sent to track him.”
Reginald pulled his hand back. “You are the best, right?”
No, he was just one of the marshals who faced death too damn much.
“Come on. I’ll show you where they found the body.”
Anthony didn’t tell Reginald that he already knew exactly how to get to Lauren’s bedroom. Not many people in that town had known about their relationship. Lauren had been too good at keeping secrets.
Reginald led Anthony down a tight hallway. The house smelled of Lauren. Lilacs. He hadn’t even known what lilacs were, not until her. After her, he’d never been able to forget the scent.
They rounded a corner, and then they were heading into Lauren’s bedroom. The sheets had been stripped from the bed, and Anthony could easily see the bloodstained mattress.
“The ME estimates that our victim died at least an hour before she was found,” Reginald told him.
An hour.
“Rigor mortis had already set in, but the uniform on scene…” Another rough sigh. “Hell, it was the kid’s first body. He still tried to save her.”
Hard to save the dead.
“Lauren heard a voice,” Anthony said. “When she first came into the house, she heard someone call her name.” His gaze scanned the tidy room—tidy, except for the blood. The scent of the blood smothered the lilacs.