“No…”
“Neighbors saw you. They identified your vehicle. The same vehicle will later be tested by crime scene techs. They’ll find ash and debris from the fire on it, in it, tying you to the arson.”
He hadn’t been there. He’d been at a bar, Rattlesnake. He’d been drinking. He’d gone to the back parking lot…
I don’t remember what happened after that.
“You also made a phone call right before you set the fire. A phone call that will be an extra nail to prove your guilt.”
I’m not guilty. “I…never…killed…”
“When you’re found, with your head blown open and Jenny Chandler’s cross cradled in your hand, the cops won’t look for a second serial killer anymore. The cases will end, with you.”
Not me.
Something cold and hard pressed under his chin. He glanced down and could see the barrel of the gun.
“The only question I have…” the smug voice continued, “is this: Should I shoot you from this angle…” The gun rose. Pressed into his right temple. “Or should I shoot you here?”
“No!” He jerked but saw that his hands were tied to the chair. Tied but…what the f**k? Padded? Cloth was beneath the ropes on his wrists and ankles.
His heart nearly burst out of his chest. The padding was there so he wouldn’t bruise. So that when he was dead, his body could be staged. Positioned.
No one would ever know he hadn’t put the gun up to his own head.
“I actually hadn’t planned for you to wake up. It’s harder to use your own hand to fire the shot when you’re awake.”
He wants gunshot residue on my hand.
“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 f**k. 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.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“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.