When the Devil Wants In

by Cate Ashwood

  “Wagner’s here,” Andy said.

  “He’s the one with the dogs?”

  “That’s him. They’re huntin’ dogs. Nothing they can’t pick up a scent on.”

  With renewed resolve, Matt and Andy walked behind John’s house, where Carl was standing with Jay, the captain, and a man Matt didn’t recognize.

  “Matt Kinsley, this is Lee Wagner. Lee, Matt.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Matt said, not meaning a single word. This was the guy with the dogs. The guy who was here to track John down like an animal. The whole situation was so fucking surreal. Here they were, making pleasantries while this guy held the leashes of two dogs chomping at the bit to move. They jumped and barked, Lee’s body jerking with the effort to keep them from taking off.

  “This’ll work,” Jay said as he emerged from the back door carrying the shirt John had been wearing the last time they’d been together. “Found it in the hamper.”

  The dogs dashed forward, sniffing the garment quickly before Lee unleashed them. One of the dogs ran up to Matt, nosing interestedly at his crotch. The other dog took off running for the woods, and with a quick redirection from his owner, they were both taking off into the trees.

  THE LIGHT had started to fade, and Matt trudged through the swamp, his boots caked with mud. He was sweaty, his face layered with dirt, and everything ached, but the dogs had picked up a scent near the house and were leading the group through to the water.

  What had begun as a couple of officers and two dogs had quickly transformed into a full-scale manhunt as news traveled through town that John was on the run.

  Uneasiness pierced through Matt at the thought of what would happen if they found him. The mood was a strange mix of frenzied and somber, the shouts of the search party rising and falling each time one of the dogs picked up the scent.

  Matt’s shift had long since ended, but he couldn’t leave. If John turned up, he needed to be there.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE AFTERNOON heat sunk in. John had no way to know for sure, but he thought it had to be at least ninety degrees. His plan had been to hide out in the woods until the sun went down, but not long after he’d hit the creek, he could hear voices, bushes thrashing, even a dog or two. He had a good lead on them but not nearly good enough. Rather than stick to his course, he cut west across the water and then headed south. Most of his stomping grounds, favorite spots to camp and fish, were north of him, and everyone he’d grown up with knew that, if nothing else.

  The trees were so thick the sun barely touched him, but it made for stagnant air and damp ground. Mosquitos and horseflies feasted on him, sweat ran into his eyes, and with every step he took, John felt a little weaker and a little more foolish. He knew he’d made a mistake. Running would only make him look guilty, but running was all he knew how to do. Now, there was only one place he could think to go, one safe haven left to him.

  Just as he debated going back, turning himself in and letting the chips fall where they may, his foot caught on a rock. He teetered near the edge of a small hill, but the ground was so moist, the mud so thick, his other foot went out from under him, and John found himself sliding down over pebbles and sticks. When he tried to right himself, his slide turned into a tumble, and before he knew it, he was in freefall. What had seemed like a gradual slope from above was actually a steep incline worthy of a mountain goat. For a few long moments, John’s world narrowed to brutal repetition as the warm Georgia ground battered him all the way down the hill.

  By the time John reached the bottom, he could hear the river nearby as he landed with a thud. The place was familiar to him, and he knew exactly why. He couldn’t help a small, ironic laugh as he lay there and tried to assess the damage. He wiggled his toes, flexed his fingers, and figured he wasn’t too torn up if nothing had broken. His head swam, though, and his forehead stung, the skin tickling like a thousand ants crawled over him. Wet ants. No, blood. It ran down his face, into his eye. He’d knocked a good twenty minutes off his journey, but he wondered if he’d be paying for it with a concussion.

  For one long moment, he considered staying as he was, letting himself die there under the hot sun. If Andy and the rest of Mayberry could find him, they could damn well keep him. He’d made one bad choice after another—like most other things in his life—and he didn’t think he had it in him to continue. He rested his head and let his eyes fall shut, thinking about the sound of that river, so close by. He remembered bringing Chloe out there, visiting his aunt and her grandkids who’d come out for the summer. They’d fished and chased frogs, tried to catch a rabbit. Chloe had laughed all afternoon, teased John about his backwater family. But she’d loved his great-aunt May, and May had adored her.

  With that thought in mind, John forced himself to his feet and headed around the big willow tree on the far edge of May’s property.

  “Been expectin’ you for a while now,” May said without turning around. She sat in the shade of a large pine tree, churning butter.

  Not a lot had changed since the last time John had been by, over a year ago now. “What do ya mean?”

  May turned, wiped her hands on her apron. “Heard your name on the wind,” she said quietly. “Knew you’d be by eventually.”

  John never was sure if she was crazy or psychic, but it always added to her charm either way. “Who needs a phone when the wind announces your guests?”

  She cackled like she was crazy, like some old witch out of a cartoon, but the sound made John smile when he hadn’t thought it was possible.

  Looking him up and down, she said, “Didn’t expect ya to look like death, though. What the hell happened to ya?”

  “It’s been a rough week.”

  “I can tell,” she said as she stood up. “Let’s get you inside, get you fixed up.” She muttered something to herself as John followed her through the tall grass to her front steps. John couldn’t make out what she said, but he had grown used to her and learned early not to ask her to repeat herself.

  Her cabin was cool and dark inside, small and rustic, with the main room serving as a kitchen and living room. Herbs dried along the walls with pots and pans hung on nails. Her wood stove was over a hundred years old, only a little older than the cabin itself. She went to a shelf and pulled out a small pot of God only knew what.

  “Sit right here,” she told him, pointing to a stool by the large, scrubbed-wood table. She dipped her finger into the bowl and smeared something that looked like mud over the cut on John’s forehead. It burned like fire, but he didn’t have it in him to protest.

  “Hurts, don’t it?” she asked.

  John could only wince and nod in response.

  “This here land is tryin’ to tell you somethin’, or it wouldn’t have kicked your ass.”

  Under other circumstances, John would’ve laughed. Instead he said softly, “I’ve missed you, Aunt May.”

  May had been the one to teach John how to catch small game, how to skin a squirrel, how to cook possum—all those old cliché jokes about hillbillies and their roadkill. Only May never seemed like a hillbilly to John. She seemed special, damn near mystical. She’d raised seven children in her little two-bedroom cabin, taught them all how to read and write before sending them off to school when they each turned seven. When her husband died, she’d been pregnant with her last baby. Everyone in the family had thought she’d move closer to town, find another man. But Aunt May carried on, one foot in front of the other, and lived her life the same as she always had.

  “I’d say I missed you too, but you’d know that’s a lie.” She smiled at him, though, and something in her eyes told him a truer story. “You must be in a mess a somethin’ to show up here lookin’ like this.”

  “Mess is right,” he said slowly, trying to decide how much he should say. “I best not get into it, though. Don’t wanna bring my trouble to your door.”

  May pointed to the door and said, “In case you haven’t noticed, your trouble is already here.” Fair point, but be
fore John could say anything else, May narrowed her eyes and asked, “Got the law on ya?”

  Never in his life did he think he’d have to answer that question. “Yes’m.”

  With a nod, May stood up again and went to the stove. She pulled some greens from a pot and put them in a bowl. “Well,” she said as she turned back to him and handed him the bowl. “Probably no one’s gonna look for ya here. Main road’s closed, has been since those mudslides a few months back.”

  John had forgotten about that. He’d meant to visit sooner, but he’d never gotten around to it. Now he was there to deliver bad news and hide for a while in her private sanctuary. “Chloe’s gone,” he whispered. He’d known it would hurt to say the words out loud again, but he hadn’t expected the pain to feel so fresh.

  May stood at the stove. She froze at John’s words. “How long?”

  “Found out yesterday,” he said slowly. He wasn’t even sure when she died. All he really knew was when they found her.

  May turned to face him then. She’d lived through a lot, seen some terrible things, but she looked as though finding out about Chloe was one of the worst yet. “They think you did it? Or did you kill whoever did?” She knew John pretty well.

  “Think I did it.” Even now, he couldn’t believe it. He could barely wrap his head around the fact that she was gone. But this? Running for his life, people thinking he could hurt her like that. It was enough to choke him.

  “Fools,” she spat as she swiped at her eyes, stopping any tears before they could fall.

  “I can’t stay here for long,” he said as he shifted on the stool, pushing his fork around the soupy greens.

  “I reckon not. You got some things to take care of,” she said as she took a seat next to him. “I know you’re hurtin’ right now. I wager the whole universe is cryin’ over losin’ that girl.” She paused and looked out her window. The sun was fading, and she reached to light the lantern in the center of the table. “But you need to think real hard about what you do next. You been runnin’ your whole life, John. Runnin’ from everything and everyone.”

  That seemed rich coming from Aunt May given that she’d spent most of her eighty-some-odd years on her ten acres and rarely, if ever, left her own land. John ran, but Aunt May hid. Same difference as far as he could see.

  As if she’d read his mind, she said, “It’s different if ya know what you want and ya know who you are and you tell the rest of the world to go to hell.” Rather than let John get a word in, she added, “Eat your greens or I’ll pour ’em down your throat.”

  They spent several minutes in silence. John ate and contemplated his future while May watched him closely. Once he finished, he pushed the bowl away and folded his arms on the table, resting his forehead on them.

  Rather than clean up or mill around the small room, she sat quietly for another long minute. “Sun’s about down now.” He lifted his head when she spoke. She looked at him as though she couldn’t decide if she should say anything else. “Be good and dark soon.” She chewed her bottom lip, as if still deliberating. John had never seen her hesitant before. It made him restless, nervous in a new way. “If you were gonna go, backward or forward, now’s probably best. They won’t go lookin’ for ya again until sunrise, I reckon.”

  Dammit to hell, she was probably right. All John wanted in the world was some justice for Chloe and a quiet place where he could grieve for her, but of course, that wasn’t possible. “Reckon so,” he agreed, wishing things were different. Wishing everything were different.

  May finally got to her feet, shuffling to the sink. She pumped the handle until water flowed out, and then she filled an old canteen. “I’ll be wantin’ this back,” she said over her shoulder. “So you best get this sorted.” As she passed it to him, she added, “It probably wouldn’t stop a bullet, so you be careful.”

  “I’ll do my best,” he said as he stuffed it into his backpack.

  May brought a wet cloth over to him and wiped the medicine from his forehead. “Don’t reckon ya need stitches,” she said after looking closely at the wound. “Might have a dandy of a scar, though.” She pulled back and caught John’s eye. “It’ll give your face a little character.”

  Again, he almost laughed. He wanted to hide there forever, pretend nothing had ever happened, pretend Chloe was still alive and well and living her life somewhere beautiful. He didn’t know what to say to that, so he only muttered, “Thanks.”

  She looked out the window again. The sky was denim blue and getting darker by the minute. “Moon’ll be nearly full tonight,” May said as she turned back to him. “Shouldn’t need your light if you’re careful.”

  She didn’t exactly kick him out, but it was close enough. He had things to deal with and they both knew it. No more running away, no more hiding, no matter how badly he wanted to. John collected his things and stood up. “I’ll be seein’ ya as soon as I can.” Assuming they didn’t shoot him on sight.

  “You better,” she said as John hugged her tight. “I’m not dead yet, but I will be eventually.” She pulled back and touched his chin like she did when he was a boy. “I know you,” she whispered seriously. “If you come by just one day late and find me dead on the floor, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

  She was right about that. “Soon as I get this mess sorted. Promise.”

  And with that, John turned for the door, his pack hitched on one shoulder. The night crowded in, but the moon was on the rise and nearly full, its light filtering easily through the leaves. He let his eyes adjust and headed north. He knew he should go straight to the station, turn himself in, but nothing about that felt right.

  There was only one place he could think of, one place he wanted to be, and that was another bad idea, but he did it anyway. Matt might tell him to fuck off, might cuff him and run him in, but John was willing to take that chance. For the first time in his life, he was willing to run to someone rather than away from them.

  He reckoned that had to count for something.

  Chapter Twenty

  ANDY DROPPED Matt off at home, pulling the cruiser up as close as he could to the front walk. Matt was beyond grateful for it. There were things he should have taken care of at the end of his shift—paperwork to fill out, his firearm to check in—but it would all have to be done the next morning. He didn’t have the energy to finish off the day. Physically, he was worn-out and sore from trudging through the swamp, but even more so, the worry had taken a toll on him.

  Even with the aid of the dogs, hours of searching hadn’t turned up any solid leads, and for now John was in the wind. That was one small relief. So long as John was missing, as guilty as it made him look, it gave Matt a chance to figure out what really happened. If he could find the murderer before they found John, he’d have a chance to save him.

  It was a gut feeling, but Matt believed if John turned up too soon, there’d be no reason to keep looking for evidence. Too many of his coworkers had already decided he’d killed Chloe and that was that. They’d consider it a waste of time and resources to continue with an investigation that was so open and shut. Matt knew deep in his heart that their doubt of John’s innocence was rooted in feelings of disloyalty more than anything.

  So much for justice being blind.

  He slogged up the front steps to his porch, bone-weary and longing to collapse into his bed. Knowing John was still out there somewhere meant Matt wasn’t likely to get much sleep, but if he could just get off his feet for a few—

  Matt stopped short when he noticed the scattered dirt leading up the stairs and onto the porch. He slowed and looked closer. One of the prints eclipsed the threshold. Suddenly thankful he still had his service weapon on him, he pulled his gun and slipped into cop mode.

  He listened for movement coming from inside the house, but all he could hear were the sounds of the insects singing in the trees, the sound of his breath as he inhaled and exhaled at a steady pace. The windows were dark and still as he’d left them that morning.

  A
s silently as he could, he reached forward and turned the doorknob, unsurprised to find it unlocked. He was positive he hadn’t left it open. No one other than his landlord had a key, and there was no reason for anyone to be inside his home.

  The hair on the back of his neck rose.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Keeping his back to the wall, he slipped into the house and through the living room, his gun at the ready, his finger beside the trigger. His hands were steady, the rhythm of his heart unwavering. The living room was clear, so with soft feet, he moved to the kitchen. As he neared, he could see a shadow darkening the floorboards just beyond the doorway.

  Matt counted off silently. Three… two… one… then burst into the kitchen, his gun raised and level, steadied with both hands in front of him.

  “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

  With only a slight flinch, John turned around, and Matt immediately holstered his weapon.

  “Jesus Christ, John. What the fuck are you doing here? Where the fuck were you? How did you…?”

  John looked half-mad, wild and wounded at the same time. “What can I say?” John said, his tone hollow. “When the devil wants in, he’ll find a way.”

  There were so many things Matt wanted to say just then. They had some serious things to discuss, but in that moment, Matt didn’t care. He crossed the kitchen and fisted his fingers in John’s shirt, reached up and pushed John’s hair back. “God, you had me so fucking worried.” Matt pulled John in, pressed their foreheads together. It wasn’t until that moment that Matt realized how scared he’d been. All day he’d been frozen with worry, and now that John was here, now that Matt knew he was safe, everything rushed out of him.

  “I know,” John said quietly, as if he was afraid to raise his voice above a whisper, afraid the devil really would get in, find him there, and take him down to hell. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

  Matt didn’t let him finish, only kissed him, soft at first, almost afraid of breaking him. Then he poured everything he had into it, the worry, the fear, the love, all of it. He wanted John to feel that kiss through his whole body, wanted him to ache with it. Wanted him to know how fucking terrified he’d been, how desperate to know he was okay. Matt needed to touch him, to be close to him, to know he was safe.