“Killing him isn’t the same thing as catching him.” The Butcher’s last words replayed in Anthony’s head.
“It is to me.” Matt’s gaze was dark and steady. “Now he doesn’t get to torture anyone else. Our job’s done.”
The job of tracking down and apprehending Walker, yes. But what about the bastard’s partner?
The only person who knew the man’s identity was being zipped up into a body bag.
“It’s not over,” Anthony said.
Not yet. Not even close.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Anthony didn’t go back to the police station. He called Jim and was told Lauren was at her office. When he was clear, Anthony went to her. He wanted to talk to her—alone—without all of the prying eyes at the police department.
Word of the Bayou Butcher’s death had spread like wildfire. Even as he drove to Lauren’s office, he heard the DJ talking about the death on the radio.
“Folks can rest easy in Baton Rouge tonight, the Bayou Butcher is off the streets. I for one am glad the bastard is burning in hell…”
Anthony leaned forward and pushed the dial, ending the broadcast.
He should have felt relief. He’d already gotten a call from his boss congratulating him.
Yeah, he’d stopped Walker, but Hamilton had still died. Stacy Crawford had died. The doctor at Angola—dead. The guard—dead. Walker had left a bloody trail in his wake.
A trail that had finally ended.
But one that still raised questions.
He showed his ID at Lauren’s office and got a fast track to her. There were two uniforms in the lobby, both wearing big grins. Everyone seemed to be celebrating Walker’s death, but didn’t they get it?
Another killer is still out there. A killer who’d taken far more lives than Walker had. A killer who could be hunting, even as they whooped and hollered.
Jim met him outside of Lauren’s office and offered his hand. “Good job, sir.”
So he kept being told. “I should have brought him in alive.”
Jim lowered his voice. “Why? To me, it’s better this way.”
Jaw locking, Anthony passed him and entered Lauren’s office. She was sitting behind a wide desk with a slew of papers in front of her. When she saw him, Lauren jumped to her feet and hurried toward him. “I heard—”
He caught her in his arms and pulled her tightly against his chest. Her sweet scent filled his lungs, banishing the coppery stench of blood that had clung to him since he’d found the judge’s body.
Her body felt warm and soft against his. Delicate. Fragile. He thought of Walker, charging with his knife.
He’d used that knife on Lauren.
When he’d pulled the trigger, Anthony had seen Lauren in his mind’s eye. The truth—brutal, dark—was that he could have shot the knife out of the bastard’s hands. He could have done it. He was a good enough marksman to have made it work.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted to just stop Walker.
He’d wanted to kill him.
I should have kept him alive. I wasn’t thinking, just feeling. Now we don’t have a link to the other bastard.
She pulled back and stared up at him with the gaze that had always seemed to see too deeply into him. “Is Paul going to be all right? I wanted to go to the hospital, but Jim said I should stay here.”
It had been Anthony’s order to Jim. Anthony hadn’t wanted her to leave until he got to her.
“Walker killed the judge before we got there. He stabbed Hamilton in the heart.”
Her eyes widened. “Does Julia—”
“She knows.” Cadence had made sure of it.
Lauren nodded. Her hands slid away from him. “I’m glad Walker’s gone.” A stark confession.
Tell her. His jaw locked, and he couldn’t speak. She said she was glad, but it was the heat of the moment. She didn’t fully realize the stakes.
If Walker had lived, he could have taken them to Jenny’s remains. Lauren could have finally brought her sister home.
“What is it?” She stared up at him, a faint furrow between her brows.
His hands tightened around her. “The last thing he said, it was about you.”
The stark understanding sank into her eyes. “Jenny.”
Anthony nodded. “Walker said, ‘Weeping willow tree. Tell Lauren.’” His jaw locked. “He didn’t have the chance to tell me anything more.”
Her lips parted as shock slacked her face.
“He wanted you to know, so I’m thinking…” Fuck. “She’s buried near a willow.” He’d gone over those words, again and again, in his mind. That was the only thing that made since to him.
The shock slowly faded. “A willow tree? My sister?” Her face was pale.
“I think if we find that tree, we’ll find her.” One tree in a fucking huge search area.
A knock sounded at the door. Lauren stepped away from him, putting at least two feet between their bodies. He frowned at her as she said, “Come in.”
The door opened. Jim was there with a petite woman with short, red hair.
“Lauren, the reporters are already calling,” the redhead said as she shifted nervously from her left foot to her right. “You’re going to need to release a statement soon.”
“Of course, Bridgette. I’ll be out in just a moment.”
Bridgette nodded, and after a curious glance at Anthony, she slipped from the room.
Jim pulled the door closed behind them.
“Your job’s done,” Lauren said softy as her eyes found his. “Walker’s gone. No more fugitive apprehension needed.” Her gaze was carefully shielded, showing no signs of emotion.
Anthony could already feel the walls coming up between them. He could damn near see them. Not happening this time. “I told you before, this isn’t over.” He couldn’t keep his hands off her and didn’t want to try. He closed the space between them once more, his fingers curled over her shoulders, and he pulled her against him. They had a few precious moments alone, without any threat from a crazed killer. “The case may be over for me, but you and I aren’t done.”
He pressed his mouth to hers.
As soon as his lips touched hers, a wildfire of lust seemed to explode between them.
The heat was always there for him, simmering just beneath the surface. No woman had ever made him want the way she did. Her body slid closer to his. Her lips parted, and her tongue thrust against his.
He’d seen too much death in his days and nights as a marshal. When he was with Lauren, she made him think of life. Passion. Hope. Every damn thing he’d ever wanted.
Right then, what he wanted most was her. His cock stretched, thrusting toward her. In his mind, she was already naked. They were on the big desk. He was in her.
His heart was a drumbeat pounding in his ears. Her scent seduced him, her body tempted him, and her tongue, her lips—they made him so hard.
The kiss stopped being gentle. It became rougher. Wilder. Her taste was all he knew. All he craved.
But someone was fucking knocking at the door again.
Growling, he pulled away from her and spun to face the door.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
He glanced back at her. Lauren’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining, her lips red and full from the press of his own.
“It’s my assistant again, trying to get me out so I can talk to the press.”
He sucked in a deep breath. Tried to calm the fury within him.
“The briefing won’t take long, then I’ll be done here for the day.” She slid her tongue over her lower lip, as if still tasting him, and his back teeth ground together as his cock ached for her. “Will you still be here then?”
Still be here? “We’ve covered this.” He said it slowly. Deliberately. “We aren’t done.”
He didn’t know that they ever would be.
Lauren gave a small nod. “I was told I could go back to my house today.” Her fingers brushed over the edge of her desk. “But I
can’t do it. I can’t stay there. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to go back, knowing what happened to Karen there.”
“You can stay with me.” As if he’d want her anywhere else.
“In the hotel?”
Tonight, he’d do something different. He’d gotten a call the new location was finally ready. With Walker dead, it would be the perfect time for the move. “Trust me.”
She smoothed back her hair. Straightened her clothes. “I always have, Tony.”
He was surprised by the truth he heard in her voice.
Lauren headed for the door. Sure enough, Bridgette’s nervous face was waiting when the door opened. Jim was there, too, with a few uniforms scattered behind him.
Time for the big press briefing. Time to say the Bayou Butcher would never kill again.
He was too busy already roasting in hell.
“Jon Walker, the man once dubbed the Bayou Butcher by the press in Baton Rouge, was killed today.” Lauren’s words were flat and cold as she stared from the television set.
He watched her, rage twisting through him. This wasn’t the way things should have ended for Jon.
This wasn’t the way things would end for him.
“Walker was tracked by a task force consisting of local Baton Rouge PD, U.S. marshals, and FBI agents. Working together, this team hunted Walker, and a few hours ago, U.S. Marshal Anthony Ross fatally shot Walker.”
The TV flashed a rotating headline beneath Lauren’s somber picture: Bayou Butcher Killed by U.S. Marshal.
“My sympathies go out to all of the families who lost loved ones as a result of Walker’s actions…”
Fuck them. Fuck her. She was standing up there, all but gloating, and the marshal was right behind her. He was always right behind her. From the instant that bastard had come into town, he’d been sniffing at her.
She’d fallen right back into the guy’s bed. He knew because he’d been watching them very closely.
She was still talking about the families. About the pain they’d felt. About how it was time for healing.
Blah. Fucking blah.
He glared at her. It felt as if someone had shoved a knife into his chest and cut out his heart. Something was gone, missing, and he didn’t know what the hell to do.
Jon had been with him for so long. Someone who understood the darkness. Someone who knew what it was like to want the blood and the screams.
Jon had been there for the first kill. They’d stalked their prey together. Planned every moment. Every single detail. Getting caught hadn’t been an option.
His Jenny had been so perfect. His first.
You never forgot your first.
He could still smell the blood. The death.
Jon had vomited after she was dead. The guy had been so shaken. Shaken, but he’d still understood the power they had. The power of life and death. Total control.
Jenny. Perfect Jennifer Chandler. The girl all the boys wanted. And all of the girls, they’d wanted to be her. She was the best one. Why would he have ever settled for anything less than the best?
If Jenny hadn’t tried to break up with him back then, he might not have realized just how powerful he truly was. But she’d wanted to leave him.
You’ll never leave me now.
He’d made sure that Jenny, his sweet Jenny, stayed with him forever.
Just as Jon should have stayed with him—forever. But Lauren had screwed that up for him. The bitch.
Even when Jon had been in prison, the link had still been there. He’d known Jon would be free sooner or later. Jon would be free, and he’d come back to him. They could continue, finish what they’d started.
The kills weren’t as fun for him if Jon wasn’t there. He needed Jon to watch. Needed someone to appreciate what he was doing. Needed someone to realize…I’m the best. I have all the power.
But prison had changed Jon.
Anger beat at the fucking hole in his chest. Jon had threatened to turn him in. That would have ruined everything.
The minute Jon said those words, he’d known the end was near. I couldn’t let him turn on me.
Only now that Jon was gone, the darkness within was growing stronger.
“Thank you,” Lauren said. “Now Marshal Ross will make a brief statement.”
She backed away. Her arm brushed against Ross’s. She tensed for an instant, and her gaze jerked up to meet the marshal’s.
Ross’s fingers slid down her arm. Lingered a second too long before Ross stepped into the center of the circus ring. He started talking about how Walker had died and that the Baton Rouge PD would still be—
“…investigating the mysterious partner who is believed to have helped Walker escape from prison and kept him hidden in the area.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
They were still looking for him. Even with Jon dead, they were still hunting him.
They weren’t going to stop. They were going to wreck his life, the life he’d built with so much blood, sweat, and savagery over the years. His perfect life. Jenny had taught him to be perfect.
No, Lauren and the marshal weren’t going to stop.
So he would have to stop them.
“Why aren’t we staying at the hotel?” Lauren asked as she settled into the passenger seat of Anthony’s car and watched the buildings slide by her.
There was a beat of silence, then Anthony said, “Jim and Matt will both be in their rooms tonight, and I didn’t want us to have to worry about any kind of…noise control.”
That made her laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed.
No, she could. It was with Karen, just last week. They’d gone out for drinks and—
“I lost you.”
She blinked at his words.
“Stay with me tonight. Focus on me. Not on the Butcher, not on all the shit he did. He’s gone, and I want to be with you.”
Her hands pressed against her thighs. “What about his partner?” Alpha team. One killer was down, but another killer—Jenny’s killer—was still out there. “That’s not your job, is it? You were here to catch Walker, and you did that.”
She’d gotten the feeling most of the cops were taking a case-closed attitude after the press conference. The homicide captain had sure been pushing that vibe. When Reginald Powers had spoken to her, he’d been clear that there were no bodies to be found, just missing victims and the hunch of FBI agents.
“I called my boss after the press conference,” Anthony said as he turned the wheel to the right. “I told him I was taking some long overdue time off.”
Surprise hit her.
His gaze slanted to her, holding hers for just a moment. “I’m not leaving town. I want to help you find out what happened to Jenny.”
Her heart beat faster. “Thank you.” For so long, it had just been her, hunting and hoping all by herself.
“Walker was the key to her murder. With that discovery, we will solve her murder.”
Murder. Not disappearance. Not runaway. Not all of the terms cops had thrown out for so long.
“But for tonight—just tonight—I want it to be you and me, Lauren. Just us.” His fingers tightened around the wheel. “I think we deserve that time.”
She wanted that time.
They drove in silence for a while, then he was taking the long, winding path that led to a two-story, gleaming antebellum home nestled on a private road, away from the bustle and lights of the city.
He parked the SUV, then came around to her side and opened the door. “I had a bag brought over for you,” he said as he took her arm.
He’d thought of everything.
Lights gleamed from inside the house. “How did you get this place?”
“I had a friend who owed me a favor.”
They walked up the gleaming steps and entered the house. Her gaze drifted over the marble floor, to the glittering chandelier and the spiral staircase. “Some friend.”
“When you’ve spent years finding safe houses for wi
tnesses and informants, you make a lot of connections.”
He locked the door behind them. Set the alarm. Then his arms wrapped around her.
His touch was warm and strong, and there, in that perfect house with him, she wasn’t going to let the shadows of fear pull her down.
“I remember the first time I saw you.” His lips feathered over her temple.
Her breath whispered out in a little sigh.
“You were in court, wearing a black skirt that stopped two inches above your knees—”
“Two inches? You remember that exactly?” she teased.
“Uh-huh, I measured. A sexy skirt and black fuck-me heels.”
Her jaw dropped. “I would never wear those to court—”
“Trust me, I looked at those shoes and wanted one thing.”
He still wanted that one thing. She could hear the arousal in his voice.
“You were a fantasy I could never give up.” His lips pressed to hers. “No matter how many miles were between us.”
“There aren’t any miles between us now,” she told him, her voice husky. He was the fantasy that had slipped into her mind too many times. A fantasy that wasn’t out of reach any longer.
A flesh-and-blood man, a man who wanted her, not a dream.
“There are just too many clothes between us,” he muttered, “but I think I can solve that problem.”
She was sure he could.
The marshal had great problem-solving skills.
Cadence Hollow shoved open the door to the morgue. “Dr. Wright!” She knew Walker’s body had been transferred to the morgue, and she wanted to see the Bayou Butcher herself.
Dr. Wright didn’t respond.
Her footsteps tapped over the old floor. Goose bumps rose on her arms as the chilled air swept over her. Most people didn’t like morgues. FBI agents and cops she’d met would often tell her that dealing with the dead was their least favorite part of the job.
That wasn’t the case for her. In order to hunt killers, it was best to study the victims. The victims held the secrets. They could show why and how the killers had acted.