A tear tracks down my cheek.I’m such a failure.
“I was supposed to be cold. Calculating. Like Odd or Anders. I was supposed to kill him and feel nothing.”
“There’s a pretty good chance you can still do that.”
I stitch my brows together. “What?”
“He might not be dead.”
I turn my body to face him. “What do you meanhe might not be dead?”
“I wasn’t aiming to kill him. He’s wearing an Apple watch,” he says, pulling an iPhone from his chef’s jacket. “I grabbed his cell before we left. Hacked it.”
He taps the screen a few times and hands me the device. “Check it out for yourself.”
He’s pulled up the health app, and, sure enough, there’s the bastard’s heart rate. A bit slow, but there all the same. I could kiss Erik for this.
“You knew what you were doing with that stiletto, didn’t you?”
His answer is a small self-satisfied smile.
“You…fucker. You just wanted to give me the big speech, didn’t you?”
“It’s a good speech.”
“Asshole.”
“At your service,” he says, saluting me as he pulls back into the lane.
We keep driving until we’re in the middle of a swamp outside of Slidell.
“I read about this place on his report, but isn’t this protected land? Seriously, how does he have a hunting cabin out here?”
Erik sends me alook. “How did he buy two historical homes that miraculously survived Katrina only to be bulldozed for that modern monstrosity in the middle of the Garden District?”
“Motherfucker.”
“Exactly.”
The concrete cubist cabin, painted a stark white and accessible by a waterlogged private road, sits on stilts, miles from anyone else. Wimberley suspects he’s brought a few of his victims out here, never to be seen again. From the looks of the place—more austere modernist construction where it doesn’t belong—I can guarantee that’s exactly what this place is.
Erik called it his hunting cabin, and he’s right. Only New Orleans’ prey are—were—young children.
Erik grabs the piece of shit and a length of rope from the trunk. Hoisting him over his shoulder, Erik strides through the open-design cabin full of high art to the back porch. He grabs an uncomfortable-looking metal chair from the tiny and weirdly futuristic outdoor set and carries his cargo to the end of the short metal pier jutting out from the back of the cabin. Setting New Orleans down, Erik efficiently ties him to the chair.
“Can he understand me?” I ask, cautiously approaching as Erik steps back.
“Pretty sure I destroyed the communication center in his brain, so probably not. He can feel pain though. As such, I present to you my sharpest knife and my most powerful handgun,” he says, offering the weapons to me on open palms. “I’ll be washing up and cleaning out the trunk. According to Odd, buttons wreak havoc on alligators’ digestive systems, so before you push him into the swamp, slice off his clothes and bring those back with you.”
A familiar flush rises over my chest.
“You really did listen to me.”
“Of course I did,” Erik answers, looking like he’d hug me if it weren’t for the weapons in his hands.
His blade, narrowly curved and wickedly sharp, glints in the morning sun. I grin up at him as I take it. Stopping, I reverse course and grab the gun as well.
Might as well have a little fun while we’re here.
