When the Devil Wants In

by Cate Ashwood

  “You know what,” Cletus said, gritting his teeth as tears and snot ran down the tip of his nose. He still hadn’t looked at John. “I didn’t mean to kill her, I swear.” He took a deep breath and let it out on a long, slow groan. “She was so precious, that girl. Always so sweet to me.”

  Of all the ways he’d pictured this going down, pictured himself getting his hands on Chloe’s killer, this wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected a violent and satisfying bloodbath. He’d imagined tearing the guy apart with his own hands, beating him to death with a hammer, setting him on fire. Doing things he’d only seen in nightmares and Stephen King novels. He’d expected damn near anything but this. John wasn’t sure if he could take any more. “She was sweet to everyone.” He hadn’t even meant to say it out loud, but Cletus looked at him then.

  “I know she was,” Cletus whispered. He dropped his hands in front of him, but he still held the revolver. “You can go ahead and shoot me now,” he said, seeing John’s finger on the trigger. “I don’t wanna live no more. Not after what I done.”

  There was his chance. He could shoot, say he had to, say it was kill or be killed. But in that moment, John thought about Chloe. Not her broken and ruined body or the fact that she’d never come back. He thought about her kindness, thought about her good heart. She wouldn’t be out for vengeance. She’d feel sorry for this old man. Hell, knowing Chloe, she’d probably even forgive him. John’s heart wasn’t quite that good, but remembering her like that stayed his hand. “What do you mean you didn’t mean to? How do you accidentally slit someone’s throat, Cletus?”

  Cletus closed his eyes and whispered, “Please quit callin’ me that. My name’s Casey.”

  John had to take a long, slow breath to keep from screaming. He wanted to tell Cletus—Casey—to just shoot himself and be done with it. But he forced himself to ask, “Okay, Casey. How’d you cut her throat if you didn’t mean to?”

  “I… I wrote it all down,” he said, nodding toward a piece of paper on the bed next to him. “I wasn’t gonna let ’em lock you up for it, I swear.”

  John grit his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. “So tell me anyway. I’m not in a readin’ mood.”

  Casey’s eyes slid shut. “Please don’t make me say it out loud.”

  He could hear sirens in the distance. Matt would be there soon. John just needed to keep Casey talking for a little while longer. “What happened? You thought she was pretty? Tried to get her to—”

  “No,” Casey said, looking at John again, his eyes wide, shaking his head. “God, no. Nothin’ like that. I just… I never shoulda listened… never shoulda tried to….” He paused, sniffling. “She was tied up and all and… I thought she was passed out. I went to cut her ropes so I could let her go and she….” He stopped, his tears streaming down his face as he squeezed his eyes shut tight again, as if he couldn’t burn the image of her from his mind. “She tried to jerk away from me and I was tryin’ to cut the rope and… I didn’t mean to. I was gonna, but then… and when I tried to stop it all, it just….”

  John could barely understand his ramblings. He’d at least wanted answers if not blood. “Why the hell was she tied up in the first place?”

  “I was tryin’ to… I just couldn’t do it. And then I did. And I….”

  John tightened his grip on his pistol. The urge to shoot Casey had faded—for the most part—but John hoped he could keep Casey focused on him, keep him from shooting himself until Matt got there. It’d be easier to sort the mess out if Casey was still alive. Marty and Bell deserved that at the very least. “That’s just not good enough.”

  “I know it’s not,” Casey whispered. The tension from his face seemed to wash away, seeming relieved at the thought that John might put a bullet in him.

  John heard someone shout from behind him. Finally. They’d arrived. He nearly jumped at the noise, but Casey didn’t seem to notice.

  “Just read the letter.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  MATT’S HEART thumped against his sternum, pounding hard enough that Andy could hear it if he listened hard enough. They raced down the road, lights flashing, sirens blaring, engine roaring, toward the run-down gas station at the edge of town.

  The distance in John’s voice when Matt had spoken to him on the phone haunted Matt as they barreled closer. He knew, beyond a doubt, that when they arrived, the phone booth would be empty. He held on to hope that John had the sense not to leave the property, but to wait for them to get there before he did anything fucking stupid.

  He turned into the gas station without slowing, slamming Andy against the door as they cornered. Dust billowed up from the tires, obscuring Matt’s view of the dilapidated building. He searched his memory for the image of a phone booth from the time they’d driven past it, but nothing came to mind. He’d been so focused on John, he’d barely registered anything else.

  He was focused on John now too, and Matt would have given anything to go back to that day when the world was slightly less dark, when everything felt like it had clicked into focus and nothing could ever go wrong. Instead, here he was, fumbling to get the fucking car door open to set out searching for John, not knowing what the hell he was going to find.

  The dust settled, enough for them to see the outline of the building against the sunlight streaming from behind it. Straight ahead of them was the phone booth, the glass smashed on one side, the others covered in carvings and graffiti from decades of people wanting to leave their mark. The receiver hung by the cord, dangling there, completely motionless, mocking Matt with how long it had taken him to get here.

  The parking lot was empty, the pumps out front vacant. The only vehicle on the grounds was parked near the back of the building, more rust than metal.

  The air was oppressively hot and completely still, the humidity mixing with the sweat that gathered on Matt’s brow. He made his way over to the convenience store, his gaze sweeping the property as he marched, his body and mind on high alert. Andy was by his side, mirroring his movements as they both reached for their weapons, drawing them silently.

  He pulled at the door, only to find it locked. Matt peered through the dusty windows, looking for movement in the darkness, but there was nothing. The store was quiet. Still. Abandoned.

  “Why the fuck couldn’t he just stay put?” Matt muttered, frustrated and strung out. His anxiety grew, a boulder picking up speed with each passing moment. Matt unclipped the mic from his shoulder and radioed the station. “Cathy, we’re at the Mud Creek. Subject is gone on arrival, so I’m gonna need that address.”

  “Where the hell did he go?” The second the words were out of Andy’s mouth, Matt spotted a building set back from the road, a few hundred feet behind the gas station. Although their line of sight was obscured by trees, Matt could make out a small shack a couple of hundred yards from where they stood.

  “Over there.”

  Andy squinted, looking in the direction Matt pointed. “Could belong to anyone.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “No.”

  “It’s the best we’ve got.”

  “Let’s go.” Andy sounded determined. With time against them, they rushed forward.

  Matt followed Andy across the dry ground, the terrain becoming uneven as they crossed from gravel to patchy grass covered in rocks and twigs. The house was derelict, the walls crooked under the weight of the sagging roof. The porch looked like it might collapse at any moment, and the windows hadn’t seen a rag in years.

  As they approached, a sick feeling took hold of Matt, knotting and twisting. A sense of foreboding hung in the air, thick as the moss that trailed from the tree branches.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  Matt scanned the front of the house. Something in his gut told him this was the place. There was absolutely no evidence to suggest this was where John had taken off to, but he knew it. He had to be here. “Christ. How long’s it gonna take to get a fucking warrant?”

/>   Andy leaned closer, as though listening for something in the dead quiet. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Matt asked. The only sounds for miles were birds and bugs.

  “I heard someone shout for help.”

  Andy hadn’t heard shit, but in that moment, Matt was more grateful than ever he’d been assigned as his partner.

  “Sounds like probable cause to me.”

  There was no imminent threat, no evidence of criminal activity, but every cell in Matt’s body was screaming that something was about to go down. Call it cop instinct, a gut feeling, whatever. If John was inside, things were going to get ugly.

  “I got your back,” Andy said as Matt drew his weapon once more and kicked the door open.

  It gave way with little effort, the hinges rusty and the wood of the frame weak with age, and slammed back against the wall.

  Although at first glance the house appeared as abandoned as the gas station, Matt shouted, “Police!” Sagging furniture and dusty surfaces made up the entirety of the small space, and Matt moved through it, quickly clearing the main room with Andy at his side.

  Sweat rolled down Matt’s back. And then he heard it. “In here,” John called out from somewhere in the back of the house.

  He rushed toward the sound of John’s voice. With each step, Matt’s unease grew.

  He came around the corner and found John standing in a bedroom, gun trained on a man sitting on the bed in front of him. At first he thought John was angry, ready to shoot. Matt froze. If he were being honest, this was on the list of scenarios that had run through his head on the way over, but now that he was confronted with it, Matt couldn’t believe his eyes.

  He edged around John and aimed his weapon at the man as Andy stepped into the room on the other side of them. There were now three guns trained on the man on the bed, but something seemed off—he was clearly distressed, but not in a way Matt had seen a suspect before. He was leaning forward, shoulders slumped, his body language the opposite of what Matt would have expected.

  “John,” Matt said. “Put the gun down.”

  John lowered the gun slowly, but he didn’t set it on the floor. “He killed Chloe.” Matt could hear the heartbreak in his voice, and he understood the inner battle he was waging. The struggle between heart and head, facing the man who’d taken Chloe from him. Matt could feel it too.

  Andy placed his hand on John’s shoulder. John didn’t flinch. His eyes were locked on the man.

  “I’m not readin’ the letter, Casey. Cops are here now. You’re gonna have to tell us what you wanna say.”

  “Please,” Casey begged, tears streaming down his weathered face.

  Andy slid his hand down John’s arm, closing his fingers around John’s gun. For a moment, John resisted, jerking away from Andy’s grasp, but with gentle persistence, Andy took it from him. He flicked the safety back on and tucked the gun into his waistband.

  “Casey,” Matt said gently, “I’m Officer Kinsley and this is Officer Manning.”

  Casey shifted his attention from John to Matt. His eyes were bloodshot, and he had snot running down into his beard.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay,” Matt said, in as soothing a voice as he could muster. “Just give me the gun and we can talk.”

  “I can’t,” Casey said. “You don’t understand…. I didn’t… I wasn’t…. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I didn’t want to hurt her.”

  “I know you didn’t. Just put the gun down so we can talk about it. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  The man lifted the gun from his lap and pressed it against his temple. “Nothing’s ever gonna be fine.”

  Matt said, more forcefully, “Casey, drop your weapon.” He took a short breath, his blood rushing, adrenaline on overdrive. “Let’s all walk outta here alive today, all right?”

  He heard the shot before his brain could register what happened. Blood splattered the wall behind him, dripping down the nicotine-stained wallpaper onto the bed where Casey now lay. In his last moments, fear had twisted his face into a gruesome mask.

  “Shit,” Andy cursed, dashing forward toward Casey, but there was no saving him now. He was gone. Matt radioed, letting Cathy know they’d need an EMT unit and the coroner, and giving her the approximate location since he’d never gotten the address in the end.

  “Andy,” Jay called out from somewhere behind them. “We heard shots.”

  “All clear,” Matt shouted over his shoulder.

  Jay nudged his way into the small room. Matt could hear the others coming into the house, but he didn’t pay much attention.

  “Goddamn,” Jay said, his voice hushed. “That Cletus?” he asked, sounding stunned.

  John looked up from where he’d fallen to his knees, let out a heavy breath, and said, “His name was Casey.”

  Minutes had passed, but it felt like a lifetime ago that Matt had left the station—two lifetimes since he had held John that morning and kissed him goodbye. He looked to John now, tried to read his expression, tried to get a sense of how he was handling this. Matt reached to help him off the floor, but John shook his head and got to his feet.

  Andy turned to Jay and said, “Casey was the killer.” Matt didn’t notice when Andy had picked up Casey’s letter, but he held it now. “Got us a signed confession.”

  “Jesus,” Jay said, still staring at Casey’s body. When John moved toward the door, Jay said to him, “Hey, for the record… I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  John didn’t say anything in response, but it wasn’t hard to hear his thoughts. Fuck you was written in every staggering move John made.

  Andy ran his hand through his hair, so damp with Casey’s blood that it slicked back. “Get him to the bus, have him looked over, and make sure he ain’t goin’ into shock.” He glanced at Jay and added, “Let’s get this scene secured.”

  Matt stayed close to John on the way out of the house. They wove their way around the other officers who now filled the small space. Matt would be happy if he never stepped foot in there again, if he never even saw the place again.

  Outside, the sunlight was too bright, the birds chirping too cheerfully. Matt led John away from the house, away from the other officers. If he could have, he’d have hidden John away forever, but for now, he just needed a minute, needed to make sure John was okay.

  “You all right?” he asked as they stepped into the shade, out of the blistering sun, out of the heat and chaos.

  At first, John didn’t say anything, just glanced at Matt and caught his eye. He pulled out his cigarettes, tried to light one, but his hands shook so badly, he couldn’t manage it. “Do I look all right?” he asked, the words clipped, stress evident.

  Matt took the lighter from him and sparked it for John, who leaned in and took a long drag, not saying another word as he exhaled.

  “I guess that was a stupid question.”

  John took another drag and then ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again.”

  Matt knew that wasn’t true. It would take time—a lot of time—but one day, John would wake up and realize he’d gone an entire night without thinking about Chloe’s death, not thinking about watching as Casey killed himself right in front of them. “You will be,” he said softly. “Long as you let yourself get through it, you will.”

  Then John did the one thing Matt never expected. He let out a deep breath and leaned close to Matt, rested his head on Matt’s shoulder.

  No one paid them any attention. Maybe no one even saw them, hidden under the trees away from the action. Matt wrapped one arm around John, let him collect himself. “I’ve got you.”

  “Yeah, ya do,” John whispered on a shuddering breath.

  The sound of ambulance sirens seeped in from the distance. Soon, every cop in town would be swarming the house. The coroner would take Casey away. Evidence would be collected. The scene would be photographed. But there would be no trial.

  It was over.

  Though, Ma
tt knew from experience, in some ways, the hard part had just begun.

  The first ambulance pulled to a stop not far from where they were standing. Two medics hopped out. John pulled back and caught Matt’s eye. He didn’t say anything as he took one step away from Matt, just finished his cigarette and waited.

  “Injuries?” Cheryl, one of the few paramedics Matt had met, asked as she came around to them.

  John shook his head. “It ain’t my blood,” he said, glancing at Matt again. “I’m okay.”

  “It’s over now. Everything’s gonna be fine.” He wasn’t sure who he was trying harder to convince, John or himself, but it didn’t matter. John was okay, and Casey couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again. None of it would bring Chloe back, but it could give them some measure of comfort, some degree of closure, knowing that the man who’d taken her from them was dead.

  Matt knew he should feel something about the loss of life—no cop ever wants a call to end with calling a coroner—but he couldn’t bring himself to feel regret for what had happened. The question of who had killed Chloe had been resolved. Now, all that was left was to fill in the blanks of the how and why.

  THREE DAYS had passed since Casey had shot himself. A lot had come out in the aftermath of his suicide, most damningly the suicide note he’d left detailing what had happened to Chloe. Some of the letter made sense, and some of it just sounded insane, but from what Matt understood of it, he’d meant to let her go and as Chloe struggled, the knife slipped and nicked her throat.

  He’d set her on a bed of magnolias in the spot he knew she liked the best and left her there to be at peace.

  Not a lot else was coherent enough to understand, and there were still some loose ends to tie up. They still hadn’t located Chloe’s car, but the most troubling thing in Matt’s eyes was that Casey seemed to contradict himself several times in the in the ten-pages-long letter. His confession seemed to fluctuate between full responsibility and innocence.