Cynthia Eden - Fear For Me

The panting of her breath got worse. Her fingers were shaking so badly it took her five tries to get the first stitch in place.

He smiled as he watched her work. He’d always been involved in cutting people open, not stitching them back together. It hurt every time the thread went in, but he found he didn’t mind the pain as much.

Not when he got to watch her face and think of all the things he’d do to her. She would be his practice run. A guy could get rusty after so long away from his trade. He had to make sure he was in top form when he delivered the payback that was coming.

Then she was done. Sheila even cleaned him up. Wasn’t that nice? What, did she think that if she was good enough to him, he’d let her go?

Not happening, Doc.

But she’d done her part. The rest would now be up to him. He glanced over at the clock.

Jon knew where the scrubs were kept. He’d put them on and slip away at the shift change that took place in ten minutes. Ten minutes. That wasn’t much playtime.

The other doc—Casey Hall—had left his ID behind. He’d noticed that Hall did that. A mistake, leaving the ID behind on the weekend, but Hall had a bad habit of being a little too forgetful. With Hall’s ID, Jon would be able to get out so easily.

So very easily.

He stroked her cheek. “You did a very nice job on me.” It would barely scar.

“Will you—will you let me go now?”

Ah, there was hope breaking through her voice.

He shook his head. “No, now…” His smile widened. “Now you die.”

Terror leaked across her face as the words sank in. She tried to lunge away, tried to scream but—

There was no time for that. He brought up his weapon, slicing fast. Enjoying the blood and not caring that it soaked his clothes. He’d change soon—for now, he’d enjoy this.

Just as he’d enjoy the prey that was soon to come. Only that bitch’s death wouldn’t be easy. She sure hadn’t made things easy on him. Not when she’d stood in that courtroom, day after day, mocking him. Belittling him. Telling his secrets to the world.

She’ll pay.

As for Sheila, he would give her a quick death, though he did usually enjoy letting it linger.

Only ten minutes. There was still a lot he could do in that length of time. Every slice of his knife would be heaven then. Next time, I’ll do plenty more.

He’d made his list of targets. Some should have stood by him. They hadn’t. They should have feared him. Not put him on display. Not turned him into the freak.

So many deserved to be punished. So many.

Jon held Sheila while she died. He figured he owed her that much. After all, she’d just given him his freedom.

He inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent.

Freedom smelled a hell of a lot like blood—and peppermint.

“Do you know how many people Jonathan Walker killed?” U.S. Federal Marshal Anthony Ross asked the question quietly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

A real hard job, considering he was currently watching two bodies get bagged and tagged as they were loaded up by the Angola penitentiary coroner.

This should have ended. Walker’s path of blood and death should have stopped five years ago.

Anthony had done his job. He’d helped to lock up the killer, sent Walker away for good—or so he’d thought. The bastard had just broken out of the prison that should have been his home until he died.

How the hell had he gotten out of Angola? Once in this pit, no one was supposed to get out. And a killer like Walker—he should have been a maximum-security hold, watched carefully, twenty-four-seven.

The warden—the new warden—was sweating bullets and shifting from his left foot to his right. “I believe that Walker was found guilty of killing seven people—”

“Eight, when you add his cell mate,” Anthony snapped. Now these poor bodies made Walker’s kill total reach all the way up to ten. That they knew of. Anthony had long suspected that Jon’s kill list was much longer, but those bodies just hadn’t been found. “You knew what he did, yet you let the bastard just walk out of here?” So much for the prison being secure.

The Bayou Butcher. Sonofabitch. That brutal bastard should have gotten a needle in the arm, but no, the man who’d sliced his way through seven women in Baton Rouge had been given consecutive life sentences instead of death.

And now more victims were bleeding for Walker. For the Bayou Butcher.

“He didn’t just walk out.” The warden, James Miller, swallowed quickly. The guy was in way over his head with this case. When word reached the press, shit was going to hit the fan, and Anthony knew Miller would find himself looking for a new job—because the governor would demand that the man leave Angola. The Bayou Butcher had escaped on the guy’s watch.

Hell. This was so bad, in so many ways. Anthony would have to make sure all the jurors on Walker’s trial knew what had happened ASAP. They’d have to get protection—they’d need to pull in a ton of manpower on this one. He’d have to get his office to contact the victims’ families. The DA.

The DA.

His jaw locked.

“He didn’t just walk out,” Miller said once more, his voice gaining a bit of strength. Too little, too late. “Walker took the ID of one of the other doctors. Walker matched him in height and coloring and he—”

“Walked right out the fucking door.” Yeah, right, that was what he’d just said. Anthony’s gaze drifted over the blood-soaked room. Walker had been quick with his first kill, going right for the jugular with the guard, probably so that his prey wouldn’t be able to call out for help.

But then the sick SOB had played for a while with the female victim. Walker always enjoyed playing with his prey.

“Take me to his cell.” The dogs were already out, chasing after Walker’s scent. But the guy was smart. So damn smart. An IQ that had tested off the charts and a desire to torture and kill had been with him since he was seven.

Age seven—that had been when he’d decided to see what the neighbor’s dog looked like on the inside.

Sick, twisted, but smart. Anthony knew that Walker must have been planning his escape for a while, and, with that escape in mind, the man would have made sure that he had a getaway vehicle ready.

Did someone help you? It was Anthony’s immediate suspicion. Because to get a car, to have that ride waiting, Walker would need assistance. A partner.

Whoever the dumb prick was, Anthony figured that Walker would turn on him, sooner or later.

“I want to see his cell.” Maybe Walker had left some clue behind. Some hint as to his partner’s identity or an indicator just where the hell the guy was heading.

“Of course.” The warden motioned toward two men. “Henry, Alan, escort the marshal to Walker’s cell.”

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.