Fear For Me:A Novel of the Bayou Butcher

By: Cynthia Eden


He stared at the same fucking walls day in and day out. The prison cell reeked of piss and vomit, and the heavy stench wouldn’t go away. Sunlight never came inside his cell—there was no window to let in anything sweet. Just those three fucking walls, a stained toilet, a bed, and the bars that kept him prisoner.

Day in and day out.

But he wouldn’t be prisoner for much longer. He’d planned. Prepared. His time was nearly at hand.

I’ll get them. Every damn one of them. They wouldn’t get away with what they’d done to him.

Yes, he’d make them pay, and he’d start with her.

His fingers curled around the shiv in his hand. He’d spent hours and hours carefully transforming the plastic spoon, turning it into the weapon he needed.

He preferred to hunt with a knife. He loved the feel of a knife in his hand. The hard, cold power of the blade.

He’d have a knife again. Soon enough. He’d feel the blade slice into skin. See the brilliant and beautiful red spray of blood.


“Lights out!” the guard barked as he passed. Right on time. Douglas was always on time. “Lights out, Walker!”

Jon Walker’s shoulders hunched but he made no move to advance toward the crumpled mattress that passed for his bed. Instead, his fingers curled tighter around his weapon. He’d never been one for cutting himself before. He liked to give the pain to others, but sometimes, sacrifices had to be made.

“Medic,” he bit out.

The guard’s shuffling footsteps halted. “What’s that?” Douglas Reed demanded.

Walker sliced the shiv across his stomach and grunted at the lance of pain. Blood dripped over his fingers as he turned to face the guard. The lights were still very much on, so the guard would easily see his wound. “I need…a…medic…” The wound wasn’t that deep, but he’d always bled fast and well—well enough to put on a nice show right then.

The guard—short, stocky—swore and reached for his radio. “Prisoner’s wounded!” Douglas snapped. “It’s Walker, cell block four ten.”

So far, everything was going according to plan. It should. He’d had plenty of time to plan. All those days. All those nights. Locked away.

Her fault. She’d been the one to toss him in this prison.

“Drop the weapon!”

More guards were coming. Other prisoners were shouting now as they realized that some action was going down. They all liked blood, as long as it wasn’t their own.

Yes, Jon had everyone’s attention. It was so hard not to smile, but he couldn’t do that. Not yet.

Making a big show, he dropped his weapon. Kept playing his role. They thought he was crazy anyway. That was why no other prisoners were allowed in his cell with him.

They’d tried to put a prisoner in with him, back when he’d first been brought to the Louisiana State Penitentiary. When the bastard had tried to push him around, when the others had tried to attack him, Jon had known just what to do.

Killing his cell mate had been easy. The sweet rush of power was exactly what he’d needed to get through the dark days.

The guards swarmed him. He kept bleeding, but he didn’t even feel a sting from the wound anymore. Soon the guards were rushing him to the med ward. At this time, so close to lights-out, the med ward would be nearly empty.


There she is. Not the bitch who haunted him, but one who would give him a chance to escape. A woman who would do…for now.

The doctor spun toward him when he was wheeled inside. Dr. Sheila Long. She didn’t smell of piss and vomit. She smelled of hope.


And peppermint. The lady had a taste for sweets. He’d noticed that the first time she’d checked him out. Noticed it. Noticed Sheila with her long, dark hair. Hair she kept pulled back in a ponytail. Her skin was pale, it looked like silk, and he’d wanted it beneath his knife since that first meeting.

Sheila’s gaze met his and then dropped quickly to his wound. Sheila never looked straight at him for too long. No one did. He noticed her stare widen when she saw the blood. The blood had soaked the bottom of his shirt, so she couldn’t see the wound clearly. Good. She wouldn’t know yet that he’d avoided everything vital. After all his knife practice over the years, he knew how to make a cut that bled plenty but left the victim without any mortal injuries. He could keep playing like he was at death’s door.

“Get him on the table,” Sheila said, biting her lower lip. “I need to see the damage.”

One of the guards dragged him up on the table.

Jon gave out a long, pain-filled groan.

Sheila hurriedly went to work on him. “Who attacked this prisoner?”