The gate was still shut across the gravel driveway but instead of reassuring him it only made him feel more uneasy. Elle was a demoness; she didn’t need to be let in by gates or doors. He took a moment to look around the perimeter of the fence, though the delay chafed, then he dug his toes into it and climbed up to the top. He vaulted over the top and let himself drop down on the other side, landing in a crouch and remaining there for a minute while he listened carefully.
Silence greeted him and he cautiously straightened up, making his way up to the house. Something about the silence bothered him but he had reached the front door before he realized what it was: he could hear no frogs or cicadas singing. He cast a quick, wary glance over his shoulder, then carefully opened the front door and went inside.
He put a hand on the light switch but didn’t turn on any of the lights yet, waiting and listening. The silence was heavier in here, weighing down on him oppressively, but his instincts—pickled by drink though they were—told him that there was nothing here. He took a deep breath and flicked on the light, squinting a bit in its sudden glare.
The warped door caught his attention first and he went over to it, running a hand along the wood. A breeze brushed past him and he looked down the hall towards a shattered window. The sight of it made him draw his gun and he made his way towards it cautiously, stopping when he saw the tacky blood drying on the floor. He looked up and down the hall, trying to picture what had happened, then continued on towards the open office door beside the broken window.
He smelled the stench of blood even before he went inside. It made him pause on the threshold, his heart hammering painfully inside his chest; he felt sick to his stomach and suddenly wanted a drink as badly as he’d ever wanted anything. Instead he took a deep breath and went into the office, turning on the light as he did.
It wasn’t Drae lying there with legs splayed, surrounded by a puddle of blood that turned the blue carpet purple. Jones felt a sick sense of relief, even as he went to kneel on the carpet and gently close Chase’s staring eyes. After the first glance he avoided looking at the ruin of Chase’s chest, where shattered bone jutted out of torn flesh and muscle, the ends gleaming dully in the overhead light. Instead he got up and found a blanket to drape over him, then went searching for any sign of Andraeon.
He found the sweatpants and T-shirt he’d loaned Andraeon in the guest room, along with a damp towel, but no clues as to where he’d gone. Wondering if he’d run, Jones made his way back down to the front door and stepped outside.
The sudden glare of lights froze him in place and he had a brief moment of empathy for deer that froze in the headlights of oncoming cars. Then a disembodied voice ordered him to drop the weapon and get down on his knees. He squinted into the lights and realized the voice was coming from a police officer with a bullhorn; and the lights were from a semi-circle of squad cars pulled up in front of the front porch. A dozen officers knelt by them, guns trained unwaveringly on him.
He judged his chances and found them almost nil; the heavy police rifles would tear him apart before he even made it off the front porch. Moving with exaggerated care, he laid his own gun carefully down on the front porch and held up his hands, palms out to show he wasn’t carrying a weapon. Officers converged on him and forced him down on his knees, cuffing his hands behind his back before yanking him back up and frisking him. One of them took the pack away and went through it, discussing the contents in a low voice with another officer.
He was hustled into the back of the nearest police car and the door was slammed shut, then the officers got into the front seats. One of them turned around to read him his rights while the other listened to the radio crackling as the other officers explored the house. Jones heard their exclamations upon finding Chase’s body with half an ear, but most of his attention was on the crimes he had supposedly committed. For a moment he was so stunned he felt just as frozen as he had in the glare of the headlights, then it came to him: Shasta. The anger that washed over him was sudden and vicious, and the officer reading him his rights stuttered a little on the next few words. Jones realized the rage must have shown on his face and quickly schooled his features, but he had an idea the damage was already done.
The radio crackled again and he caught the tail end of an order to take him back to the precinct. He tipped his head back against the seat and began to think up ways to escape, absently working his wrists back and forth in the handcuffs. They were already scared of him, that much was obvious in their body language and the way they had handled him; but whether that would help him or hinder him was a gamble he needed to take. He didn’t think he would stand a chance once they reached the precinct so that meant he needed to act now.
Twisting in his seat, he started slamming both feet against the window. He was glad now that he was wearing heavy boots; shitkicker boots, they’d called them when he was a kid. The window was tough and reinforced, but so were his boots, and he had plenty of reason to kick this window out. The cops in the front were yelling at him to knock it off but he ignored them, hammering his heels into the plastiglass. A crack appeared under one foot and the car swerved over to the side of the road, but not before he sent another punishing kick right against the crack. The window exploded outward—he briefly thought of the broken window in Chase’s house—and he was getting his knees under him to leap out even as the car screeched to a stop.
He landed awkwardly on his shoulder with his arms still cuffed behind his back, but scrambled to his feet and took off running. One of the cops launched a flying tackle at him even as the other cop yelled for him to stop or they would shoot. He ignored the command, kicking himself free of the grip on his ankle, and bolted for the woods.
The harsh reports of guns cut through the air and he heard a bullet whine past his ear. The second grazed his side, making him stumble, and the third caught him in the shoulder, pitching him forward into the dead leaves beneath the trees. His arm immediately went numb, hanging uselessly against the cuffs as he shoved himself to his feet and staggered further into the trees. More bullets struck the trees around him and one whistled so close by his face that he nearly had a heart attack, but the sounds of pursuit gradually faded behind him. Adrenaline kept him going further into the woods, until his knees suddenly gave out and spilled him flat on his face in the dirt.
He rolled over onto his good side and just lay there for a long moment, panting for breath. Fiery pain crawled through his shoulder and his shirt was sticky and wet with blood. It took him three tries just to get back up onto his knees and he whimpered at the strain it put on his shoulder, wondering how much more abuse he could take. He knelt with his head hanging for at least five minutes, then heaved himself up onto his feet and stumbled forward.
Branches and roots seemed to reach out maliciously for him as he picked his way through the trees, tripping him up and snatching at his clothing. He walked straight into one branch and felt it scrape along his arm, but that minor pain was swallowed up in the agony from his shoulder. He knew he couldn’t make it much further but the trees seemed to be thinning out and he stumbled out into the backyard of a small cottage almost before he realized there was a clearing.
For a moment he just stood there, watching the cottage and knowing that anyone who got a look at him right now was more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Then he started across the grass, stumbling and weaving on legs that felt like old teabags. He made it only halfway before his legs gave out completely and this time he couldn’t summon the energy to get up again. Dimly he heard a dog barking and realized it was coming closer a few moments before it stuck its wet nose in his face. He choked out a laugh despite himself when it licked his neck, then winced as it barked right beside his ear.
“What have you found, fuzzbutt?” The voice was a woman’s and he heard her approaching through the grass. “Got another squ—holy shit.”
She knelt down beside him and checked his pulse with an efficiency that made him think she might be a doctor or nurse. The dog tried to stick its nose in and she waved it away with an absent, ‘Get lost, we don’t need your help.’ She held something to his mouth and told him to drink, and he drank gratefully when he realized it was a water bottle. Nothing had ever tasted so good and when he was done he had enough strength to get his legs back under him with her help. She took in the cuffs holding his hands behind his back without comment, then carefully put an arm around him and helped him back towards the house.
They went in through the back door and she made him sit down on the couch, ignoring his weak protest that he would bleed all over it. She left him there for a few minutes and returned with a first-aid kit and a mop bucket full of hot water, then pulled a hairpin from her bun and efficiently picked the lock on his cuffs. He gritted his teeth as the lessened support pulled on his injured shoulder but the pain gradually faded.
“Your shirt’s toast,” she said, taking a pair of scissors out of the kit and cutting through his shirt from the hem up. “Don’t move, I don’t think you need any more injuries.”
“Look, I...” He shook his head. “Thank you.”
“No problem, I’m always happy to help handcuffed men with gunshot wounds who show up in my backyard. I’m Lea. Got a name?”
“Jones,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Just Jones.”
“All right, just Jones, this is going to hurt like a bitch, so try to keep still.” She took a syringe out of the kit and filled it from a bottle containing clear liquid, then injected it in the area around his shoulder. “This’ll numb it somewhat but it’s not perfect. You want something to bite down on while I get the bullet out?”
He shook his head, digging the fingers of his good hand into the couch cushion and gritting his teeth as she went to work on his shoulder. She worked quickly and knowledgeably, but he was still on the verge of passing out by the time she dropped the bullet on the coffee table and began to wash out the wound. He must have blanked out then, because when he came back to himself she had cleaned all the blood off him and was busy wrapping a bandage around his shoulder.
“Oh good, you’re back.” She taped the bandage down and found a bottle in the kit, handing it to him. “Painkillers. You can go sleep in my spare room and then in the morning you can explain everything. Okay?”
He just nodded and accepted her help in getting him up off the couch and down the hall to the small guest bedroom. She helped him strip down and climb into bed, tucking the sheet in around him, then grabbed him a glass of water so he could down a few of the painkillers.
“Bathroom’s just down the hall on the right, and my room’s at the end of the hall. Keep the door shut or the fuzzbutt will be in here with you. Think you’ll be all right?”
He nodded. “Thank you. Again.”
“You just better have a good story for me in the morning. Night, Jones.” She went out and shut the door behind her, leaving him in the cool dimness of the room. The painkillers began to kick in and exhaustion took over, dropping him into sleep between one breath and the next.
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