by Cynthia Eden
Hamilton shook his head. “Only women. That’s his target. That’s what all the shrinks and profilers said on the stand. He only targeted women because of need for control and fixation on the female form and—”
“The prison guard was male. He’s just as dead as the others.”
The judge shut up.
“You’re getting protection.” The last thing Anthony wanted was another body turning up.
If they didn’t find Walker soon, that was exactly what would happen.
The judge was nervous when he walked into the courtroom. His steps were too fast, his movements too abrupt.
Good. The bastard should be nervous. He should be shaking. Running.
Dying.
He would be dying, soon enough.
The judge slammed down his gavel. Called everyone to order. The lawyers stood and started preening for the jury.
The judge’s eyes were darkened with fear as they swept around the courtroom.
Looking for a killer he wouldn’t find. Disguises were always easy enough to manage. Most folks saw only what they wanted to see.
The guy had no clue.
He’d been in this courtroom before. So many times. Waiting. Watching.
He’d lost something very important in this same room. He would be getting it back.
As for the judge—as for the self-righteous jurors and the slick lawyers—maybe it was time for them to see what it felt like to lose.
To lose everything, including their lives.
He stood and made his way to the back of the courtroom. This wasn’t the place, but the time was close. So very close. The next target waited.
He had a list, and he’d be crossing the names off.
One by one.
He paused at the door and glanced back at the judge. The oblivious fool.
I’ll be seeing you.
Maybe he’d let the bastard die with the robe still on. Seemed fitting. The robe—the job—would be what killed him.
The SUV braked just outside of the small cabin that sat on the edge of the swamp. Lauren climbed out of the vehicle, and her heels immediately sank into the mud.
Gritting her teeth, she trudged forward, or, rather, she went as far forward as Anthony would allow. He threw up his hand, blocking her, while the two other marshals he’d introduced her to earlier, Jim O’Keith and Matt Meadows, made their way toward the cabin.
“It looks abandoned,” she whispered. It looked that way because it was. Once upon a time, the cabin had belonged to Jon Walker. After his arrest, the place had been left to rot…and rot it had. The wood was falling down and the windows were smashed in.
The word BUTCHER had been spray painted across the front door—a door that swung open. She could see bricks and rocks strewn across the sagging front porch.
Folks in the area hadn’t exactly taken kindly to finding out that a serial killer had been using their swamp. Right after Walker’s arrest, the place had even been set on fire. The wood in the back and near the roof was charred, and maybe it was her imagination, but she could almost swear she still smelled ash.
Jim and Matt slid inside the open door.
Her gaze darted to the left. To the right. Trees twisted and concealed, hiding the murky green water that she knew wasn’t very far away.
“No sign of any other vehicles, at least, not since the rain,” she murmured as her gaze slid over the muddy stretch that passed for a dirt road. The only tire tracks she saw were from the marshals’ SUVs.
So Walker hadn’t returned to his little home away from home.
I’m surprised someone didn’t come back and finish burning this place to the ground.
The victims’ families had sure been angry enough to do it.
And the little cabin—the dark husk that remained of it—was eerie. Dark.
Dangerous.
“Clear!” Jim’s voice came from inside, and Anthony finally stepped back so that they could head toward the cabin.
Jim met them on the porch. “There’s no sign of anyone inside.” He was young, probably in his midtwenties, with dark-blond hair and eyes that seemed a bit nervous.
Behind him, Matt Meadows was still doing a sweep of the area. She’d met Matt a time or two over the years. Quiet, intense, the African American marshal seemed the exact opposite of Jim. There wasn’t anything nervous about Matt—the guy was too controlled for nerves.
“We’ll start a sweep of the perimeter,” Matt said as he turned toward the bald cypress trees that dipped toward the murky water. Heavy moss hung from the trees, drooping toward the dank earth.
Anthony nodded. “I’ll finish the search in here.”
The others slid past them.
There wasn’t much to search in the charred remains. Two rooms. No furniture. Dirt. Mold. Decay.
“This is where it started,” Lauren whispered as she crept carefully around the cabin. This place. With its wooden walls and small rooms. They’d found Walker’s tools in this cabin. The sharpened knives.
The trophies.
Walker had kept trophies from his kills.
Her gaze lit on a heavy chunk of wood that had fallen near the left wall.
“No,” Anthony said, “it didn’t start here.”
The certainty in Anthony’s voice had her glancing over at him.
“This is just where it ended. Where it should have ended.” His eyes narrowed, but his gaze wasn’t on her. It was on the wood near her feet. “Where did that come from?”
“It must have fallen—” But she broke off because she’d just looked up and realized that there weren’t any missing roof slats from above them, and the wall beside her was charred, but not broken. The wood was broken to the left, way across on the other wall, not in that spot.
His hand closed around her arm and Anthony pulled her back. Then he bent and carefully slid the wood, maneuvering it so he could see underneath it.
She peered over his shoulder.
Something gold glinted in the light.
Gold…
“We’re gonna need Detective Voyt and his men out here,” Anthony said as his fingers tightened around the wood.
“A necklace.” She could see it clearly now. Thin, delicate. A woman’s necklace.
“Maybe it’s nothing, just something left by some kid, but—”
“It’s not.” Her voice was sad and certain. She could see the locket on the end. A locket with a rose in the center. Karen’s locket. “It’s hers.”
His head whipped up, his eyes blazing. “Karen’s?”
A nod.
“You’re sure about that?”
Dead sure. “She was wearing it the last time I saw her alive.”
In the next instant, he was pulling her from the cabin. “Don’t touch anything else!”
She knew the drill. Evidence was there—evidence they didn’t want to contaminate because the cabin wasn’t nearly as abandoned as it looked.
Before, Walker had kept his trophies there.
Now that he was back in town, it seemed he was back to his old tricks. He’d killed Karen, then brought his trophy back to the cabin.
It looked like some habits died very hard.
As soon as they exited the cabin, Anthony had his phone out. She listened to him make the call. He was asking for a tech team and telling Paul to get there ASAP.
Then he broke off.
She looked at him, and saw that his gaze had turned back toward the trees that led to the lake.
“We need you now,” he snapped into the phone and ended the call. His gaze lit on her. “Stay behind me.”
He pulled out his gun.
“The killer could still be here.”
Her heart slammed into her chest. She crept behind him as they edged toward the line of twisting trees.
“There are old paths all through this place,” Anthony muttered. “If you’re coming by car, you have to take the dirt road. But you don’t have to get here by car.”
He slid through the trees. One hand
locked around her wrist while his other hand remained tight around his weapon.
The trees bent overhead, blocking out the sky and sending faint streams of sunlight trickling over them. It was summer in Louisiana, which meant that it was already hell hot. Sweat began to bead on Lauren’s skin. Every foot or so, her dang shoes got stuck in the mud, so she jerked them off and held them in her free hand.
Insects chirped around them and her breathing seemed far too loud. She was pretty sure she heard the hiss of a snake just a few feet away.
Then Anthony froze. “Tracks.”
She could see them, too. Not from a car, but the single indention of a tire. A motorcycle?
The tracks cut through the mud and led deeper into the swamp.
Yes, some habits died very, very hard. It looked like Walker had come home again.
How many bodies would he leave in his wake this time?
The dogs were barking as they rushed through the swamp. They’d given the dogs Walker’s scent, taken from prison clothes left at Angola. Anthony kept his gun ready, the image of Sheila Long’s body too fresh in his mind.
Killers like Walker were predictable. They followed patterns—twisted patterns. After Karen’s death, Anthony had suspected that Walker might come back to his cabin. It had been the guy’s trophy shop, and sure enough, the killer had been back.
Karen Royce’s necklace was proof of that.
The dogs began to whine. Hell. Not a good sign. The green water of the bayou waited up ahead.
And the motorcycle tracks ended.
“He didn’t just take the bike into the water,” Jim burst out as he threw his hands in the air. He glared at the dogs’ handler. “Make them get the scent again.”
One of the handlers spat on the ground. “Don’t work like that.” He had on the pressed uniform of the Baton Rouge K-9 unit. “You don’t make ’em. They get what’s there for them to find.” The dogs were sniffing near the water’s edge. “This is where he went.”
Anthony nodded. “A boat.” He could see the indentions on the embankment. The bayou slipped around and branched in at least four different directions. “The SOB had a boat waiting here for him.”
A boat that was big enough to hold a motorcycle.
With every discovery they’d made, it was sure looking like Walker must have help. A man who’d been in prison for this long shouldn’t have so many resources at his fingertips so quickly.
Sure, he could have stolen the motorcycle, but the boat, too? Maybe. Doubtful. Anthony’s gaze landed on Detective Voyt’s. The guy had hauled ass to meet them. “You got any reports of a stolen boat in these parts?”
Eyes grim, Voyt said, “I’ll find out.”
They needed to find out yesterday.
He can’t be doing this alone. But according to the prison’s warden, the guy hadn’t read his mail. He hadn’t gotten any visitors, other than lawyers. How the hell had they coordinated this?
An accomplice…not just an accomplice to escape, but, with Karen’s body growing cold in the morgue, an accomplice to murder, too.
If Walker had stumbled on someone to go along with murder…fuck, are you helping him kill?
Anthony surveyed the water. A gator was drifting lazily about twenty feet away. “Locals have access to this area.” The locals were the ones they needed. “Let’s get some boats and see just where the hell he could have gone.” He’d need aerial maps, ground maps. The swamp gave Walker far too many places to hide.
It also gave him a huge advantage. Walker had buried bodies in the swamp. He’d kept his victims here—alive, for days—while he’d tortured them. And no one had realized what was happening.
Because Walker had known the area too well.
“We need someone as familiar with this area as Walker.” A guide who could help them while they hunted.
While we hunt, Walker’s hunting, too.
Which one of them would find their prey first?
When Walker had been on the loose five years ago, they’d used an agent from Fish and Wildlife to help them search. He’d need to see if the guy was still available.
Anthony glanced back over his shoulder. He didn’t see Lauren. She’d stayed behind with the uniforms. Watched him walk away with a worried gaze.
Get to her.
The instinct was there, and he found himself turning away from the others. Hurrying back toward the cabin. “Find that guide and get me those boats!” Anthony shouted back to the assembled men.
Each step was faster than the last as he rushed back to the cabin. Back to Lauren. Things were raw between them, rough. Their ending—hell, it had been screwed.
Walking away from her had been one of the hardest decisions of his life, but Lauren didn’t know the secrets he carried.
He didn’t want her to know them—or his shame.
He’d stayed away, tried to play it safe. Given her time to move on. To settle down. To have a family.
Only she hadn’t settled down. She was still single—still just as tempting, and he needed her just as desperately as he’d needed her five years ago.
He’d wanted to see her, but he’d never expected to come back and find a killer stalking her.
Lauren was supposed to be safe. Protected. Always.
He jumped around the trees. Cop cars had swarmed on the scene. Uniforms were everywhere as they searched the area.
But he didn’t see the shine of her blonde hair.
Anthony grabbed the nearest uniform. “Where’s the DA?”
The guy blinked, doing a fast impression of an owl. “She got called back to the city. Some judge needed her.”
Some judge… “Which judge?” He pulled out his phone. Hamilton hadn’t called him.
“She didn’t say. Just asked that a patrol car take her back.”
The knot in his gut was getting worse. “Get that patrol car on the radio. I want to know exactly where she’s going.”
Had he really thought he’d be able to turn over her protection to someone else?
He needed her where he could see her. Wanted her close.
That had been the problem for them. He’d wanted her too much.
Until she’d become his obsession.
He knew, better than most, just how dangerous an obsession could be.
He glanced back at the cabin. So much death was there. He could feel the darkness, hanging in the very air around them.
Lauren had asked why Walker hadn’t run for the border. Anthony knew it was because the killer hadn’t escaped in order to be free.
He’d escaped to get his vengeance.
“Sir?”
He turned back at the uniform’s voice.
“She’s headed to meet Judge Hamilton. He’s the one who called her back.” The kid hesitated—and he truly looked like a kid, barely older than twenty-one. The uniform was new for him. “Want me to have her brought back to you?”
He’d wanted her back for years. But he’d stayed away.
He forced himself to unclench his jaw and say, “Tell the uniform to stay with her. Every single minute.” He didn’t like having her away from him. He wanted Walker back in his cage and as for Lauren…
Lauren with the lips made for sin and the eyes that, even after all she’d seen and done, still glinted with innocence.
He wanted Lauren back in his bed.
Too bad he couldn’t always get just what he wanted.
“You can stay here,” Lauren said as she turned and gave the police officer a weak smile. He’d been shadowing her the entire time she’d been in the courthouse. But she was at Hamilton’s office door now. Safe, with plenty of guards close by. And Hamilton’s message had said that the judge needed to see her—alone.
She rapped lightly on the door.
The secretary was gone from her desk again. But it was long past five now—past time for everyone to go home.
I can’t go home. I don’t want to remember Karen. I don’t want to see the image of her body.
She’d alrea
dy talked to Karen’s parents twice that day. The grief in their voices had ripped through her.
Grief, rage…it had just made her guilt worse.
Hamilton didn’t answer the door.
She frowned. He’d called her less than forty-five minutes ago. Told her it was urgent. That he had to talk to her about Walker.
Her fingers curled around the doorknob. If Hamilton wasn’t there, it would be locked. Standard protocol at the courthouse.
“Ma’am?” The uniform came closer to her. Officer Shamus Riley. As far as shadows went, he was a good guy. “Is there a problem?”
She shook her head. “Just give me a minute.” She twisted the knob and it turned easily beneath her fingers, but the door ran into something as she pushed. As she leaned against it and opened a space wide enough to enter, Lauren was expecting—hoping—to see Hamilton rush toward her in his billowing black robe.
But Hamilton wasn’t there.
And his office had been wrecked.
CHAPTER THREE
Lauren stood inside the doorway of Hamilton’s office, her gaze sweeping over the overturned files, smashed computer bits, and cracked glass of photo frames. The place had been trashed. Gutted.
“Where is he?” Lauren asked as she whirled to face the cop. He’d already called for backup and, over Shamus’s shoulder, she could see a guard rushing toward them.
Shamus shook his head, worry tightening the lines near his eyes.
“We need to page Judge Hamilton, now,” Lauren told the guard. He had a radio on him that connected to the main security system. They could send a call through the courthouse. If Hamilton was there, if it was possible for him to respond, he would.
Then Hamilton rounded the corner. He came to a stop when he saw them.
“Ms. Chandler?” He hurried toward her, sending a quick frown toward the courthouse guard and Shamus. “I was hoping you’d—” He broke off, his eyes widening as he glanced toward the open door of his office and caught sight of the destruction. “What in the hell happened?”
He was okay. Alive. He’d just scared her to death. She grabbed his hands. “Judge, where have you been?”
“I had to sign a warrant for your ADA Crenshaw.” He stared over her shoulder at his office. The color drained from his face. “He came looking for me, didn’t he?”