Cynthia Eden - Fear For Me

“I guess I have to make sure you’re out again. That’s kind, isn’t it? So you never see the shot coming? I can be kind.”

What the guy could be was a “Sick…fuck…” Wesley managed to say. One who’d been hiding in plain sight.

He should have been able to see the evil in their midst all along. Why hadn’t he? Why hadn’t any of them?

The face above his hardened. “I’m not the sick fuck. That’s you. You’re the one who killed and tortured all of those girls. You’re the one who did it all. The one who had to come back to the scene of his partner’s last crime because you couldn’t keep going without him.”

Wesley tried to yank free of his bonds. The judge had been bound in a chair like this. He’d fought to get free, too.

But Hamilton hadn’t escaped.

Hamilton’s blood stained the floor.

Mine will, too.

“The city will be glad to see you die.” The man lifted the gun. “I think it’s time you did just that. Go join the Butcher.”

He twisted the weapon so the butt was like a club.

Wesley tried to jerk back. Only there was no place to go.

“Don’t worry,” the man’s voice soothed. The devil’s voice. That was what it was. “The gunshot blast to the head will guarantee no one sees the bruises…”

He slammed that gun into Wesley’s head.

Dark spots swam before Wesley’s eyes. The nausea built again. Pain rolled through him, but he didn’t black out. He was fighting to hang onto consciousness with every bit of strength he had. Wesley yanked against his binds. The chair fell back.

The killer swore.

An engine growled in the distance.

* * *

The cabin was a dark, hulking shadow. Storm clouds hid the stars and the only light to shine on the area came from Anthony’s headlights as his vehicle pulled onto the graveled drive.

His headlights hit the cabin, and the Jeep Wrangler was parked right next to it.

“It sure doesn’t look like he’s hunting nuisance gators to me,” Anthony muttered.

Lauren didn’t speak. Right then, she couldn’t. We asked this man to help us. To hunt Walker.

All along, he’d been leading them in the opposite direction.

Another set of headlights lit up the scene. More marshals, arriving mere moments after them.

“I thought Paul was supposed to be here,” she finally managed, shoving down the fear in her throat. “I don’t see—”

Wait. She’d just caught a glint of light near the trees. “Is that his motorcycle?”

Anthony parked the SUV. They both hurried out of the vehicle, then joined Matt and Jim. Anthony stared at the line of trees. “That sure as hell looks like it to me.”

Where was he? The cabin was pitch-black. Everything seemed so quiet.

Too quiet.

A gunshot rang out. The sound thundered through the night and shattered the silence.

The sound had come from inside the cabin.

“Take the back door, and don’t let anyone out,” Anthony barked at his men.

Matt and Jim raced toward the back.

Even in the dark, she could feel the burn of Anthony’s gaze on her. “You stay behind me, Lauren. Every step, got it?”

“Got it.”

They ran for the cabin. When Anthony reached the front door, he kicked it open, and the wood shattered as it flew back. He hurried in with his gun up and his flashlight positioned above the weapon so he could sweep the scene.

In the circle of illumination from his flashlight, she saw Wesley Hawthorne. He was on the floor. The fingers of his right hand cradled a gun, and blood poured from the wound in his head.

Beside Wesley’s prone form, Paul had frozen, his own hands up, as he crouched over the body.

“What the hell happened here, Voyt?” Anthony demanded as he kept his gun up and aimed at the detective.

Behind him, Lauren let out a gasp and tried to go toward the men. No way, baby. He immediately moved his body, blocking her.

Hadn’t they had this talk? She was supposed to stay behind him.

There was blood on Voyt’s hands. The detective started talking, his words tumbling out quickly. “I just walked in. I found him like this!” His fingers were shaking in the light. “I haven’t even called for help yet! We’ve got to get help!”

“We will.” Anthony didn’t drop his gun. “Lauren, get your phone out. Call for an ambulance. Then I want you to go outside and make sure Jim and Matt get their asses in here.”

“But I can—”

“Go!”

He wanted her out of the room.

He heard her dialing nine-one-one, then her footsteps rushed for the back door.

“Why do you have that gun on me?” Paul demanded. His eyes squinted against the light. “We need to help him.” He ripped part of his shirt away and tried to use the torn material to stanch the flow of Wesley’s blood.

“Is he still alive?” Anthony asked, not moving.

“Yes,” Paul hissed, “but he won’t be for long. He fucking shot himself in the head!”

“No,” Anthony said softly. “He didn’t.” Anthony stepped forward. The back door had just slammed shut. Lauren was out of the cabin. She was safe. “I want you to stand up, keep your hands where I can see them, and back the hell away from him.”

Paul stared at him. “Are you crazy? He needs my help!”

“What he needs is for you to get back. Now, I’m telling you for the last time…” His fingers tightened around the weapon. “Move the hell away from him.”

Paul shook his head. “He shot—”

“A left-handed man wouldn’t use his right hand to kill himself.”

Paul frowned, then looked down at Wesley.

“You should know which hand your friend uses,” Anthony pushed, as he aimed dead center at Paul’s forehead. “That was just sloppy. Maybe we got here too soon for you, and you had to act fast. You were so rushed that you made a mistake.”

Paul was still staring at Wesley. “He is left-handed,” he whispered. “He always threw the football with…”

“You didn’t back away.” The guy really needed to. “And I can’t see your other hand.”

Paul’s head snapped up. “You think I did this?”

Hell, yes, he did.

“I didn’t! I got a garbled phone message from him, saying to meet him out here. I just got to the cabin, and I found him like this.”

Bullshit. “You were in the cabin when the shot was fired.”

“No, I was outside, I saw you pull up. I ran in—” He lunged to his feet.

Anthony prepared to fire.

* * *

Lauren shoved open the back door. “Jim! Matt!”

They weren’t there.

She stumbled to a halt, catching herself before she fell down the back steps.

“Matt?” Lauren called again, her right hand gripping her cell phone. She’d shoved the gun into her waistband while she called for help. Now she fumbled fast, grabbing for the weapon once more.

The marshals should have been there, but they weren’t.

“Lauren…help…”

It wasn’t a voice from her nightmares. It was a real voice—weak and thready and coming from the darkness of the woods that edged toward the swamp.

“Hel—” The word ended in a garbled gasp.

Lauren jumped off the steps. “Matt!”

She ran through the dark when her legs slammed into something warm and soft. She tumbled to her knees, letting out a cry as she fell. She twisted around and yanked out her phone, using it as a flashlight. The light hit—

Jim. Bloody, unconscious—please, please, please not dead.

A twig snapped behind her. Lauren whipped her head toward the sound and saw the knife coming right at her.

She screamed.

And then felt something sharp slice across her throat.

A knife.

* * *

Anthony froze. Had that been a scream? The sound faded away as quickly as it had come, but every muscle in his body tensed.

Lauren should have been back inside by now. She should have returned with Jim and Matt.

“Why isn’t Lauren here?” Paul asked. He’d jumped to his feet, but hadn’t advanced on Anthony. The guy had finally lifted his hands—showing he had no weapon, and he stood, still as a statue, a few feet away from Anthony.

Anthony glanced toward the back door. Lauren.

“Cuff yourself,” Anthony snarled as his eyes snapped back to Paul.

Paul blinked at him. “What?”

“You’ve got your cuffs on you. I see ’em at your hip. Cuff yourself!”

Paul pulled out the cuffs. Snapped them in place as he glared at Anthony.

“Now don’t fucking move,” Anthony ordered. “Because if you run out after me, I will put a bullet in your head.” He wasn’t staying in that room any longer.

Lauren should have returned.

Where was she?

He ran for the back door. Shoved it open. No Lauren. No Matt. No—

Jim was on the ground. The glow from Anthony’s flashlight made it look like black liquid soaked Jim’s clothes, but he knew what that blackness was.

Anthony hurtled off the porch and flew to the marshal’s side. He put his fingers to his throat.

Dead.

Jim was dead. Where was Matt? Lauren?

“Help…” A low, weak plea from the line of trees to the right that led farther into the swamp. Tightening his hold on his weapon, Anthony followed the sound. His flashlight cut through the trees, both helping him to see and making him a target.

There wasn’t any choice. He needed the light.

“Help…”

Christ. The light landed on Matt. Like Jim, blood soaked Matt’s clothes, but he was still alive. Barely.