Fear For Me: A Novel of the Bayou Butcher (For Me 2)

No, she wasn’t the bitch who tormented his dreams, the one who’d pay for taking so much away from him, but Sheila…oh, sweet Sheila would still bleed damn well for him. She’d give him the rush of power, of pleasure, that he’d missed for so long.

She was his tool. His toy. His ticket out of the cage.

He could feel the mad thunder of her heartbeat against him. Sheila was small, probably only around five foot two. Curved, but she hid her figure under her oversize scrubs. Her features were plain, when he liked his girls prettier, but she’d do.

She’d definitely do.

“Call out to the guards,” he ordered her, keeping his mouth at her ear. She was trembling against him. “Tell them you’re stitching me up.” Because they were just outside that door. He knew that. He let the shiv slice her, drawing forth a long trickle of her blood. Yes. I missed that. “If you call for help, you’ll be dead before they get in the room.” Those words were a promise. Sheila would have read his file. She would know all about the things he’d done.

She would believe him.

She should believe him.

Sheila’s head moved in a fast nod. This part was the gamble, but really, what did he have to lose?

Nothing. If she ratted him out, then he went back to his cell. He was already serving multiple life sentences—what more could they do to him?

If Sheila didn’t scream for help, if she did exactly as he’d ordered, then…

Freedom.

His fingers lifted from her soft mouth.

“I-I’m going to need more time.” Sheila’s voice grated in his ears because the fear was so sharp in her words. Would the guards hear the fear?

His own heartbeat kicked up. Sweat trickled down his back. The wound in his stomach began to throb.

“Finish your duties!” Sheila called, her voice getting a little stronger. It was lights-out. All the guards needed to patrol right then. “I’m stitching him up now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The guards shuffled away.

Jon smiled. He pressed a kiss to Sheila’s head. “Good girl,” he whispered as he turned her in his arms.

She stared up at him. Her eyes were wide, stark, terrified. Just the look he loved.

“Wh-what happens now?”

“You stitch me up.” First order of business. He couldn’t very well escape with a wound that might get infected.

Her breath was panting out as she reached for the needle.

“Now, you’re gonna need to be careful.” He angled his body so that she could reach his wound—and so he could keep the weapon at her throat. “Because you make one wrong move, and I’ll slice your throat open.”

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.

CHAPTER ONE

“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.