Devil's Night Page 2

  Exiting on the other side of the crowd, she looked in all directions, seeing no sign of Henry. If it was even him. Kat had her doubts. The last time she had heard from him, he was living in Italy, making it unlikely he’d be walking the streets of Perry Hollow at one-thirty in the morning. Perhaps she had spotted someone who merely looked like him. Maybe it was a trick of the fire-lit night. Or maybe she was simply seeing things. It was late, after all, and her dream had put Henry back into her thoughts.

  Concluding that the dream was to blame, Kat whirled around, ready to return to Emma Pulsifer. She instead collided with a man standing on the edge of the crowd.

  For a brief moment, she again thought it was Henry. The man was as solid as she remembered Henry being. Bumping into him felt like smacking into a brick wall. Kat almost said his name again, so certain was she that the man she had collided with was the long-lost Henry Goll.

  Yet when the man spoke, she immediately realized her error. Henry’s voice was deeper and more halting. The voice of the man she had bumped sounded high-pitched and startled.

  “Whoa,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  “It was my fault.” Kat wiped a strand of hair away from her face. “I should have been watching where I was going.”

  “Look before you leap, right?” the man said.

  “Exactly.”

  Kat studied the man a moment, certain she had never seen him before. Since she knew practically everyone in Perry Hollow—if not by name, then by sight—she assumed he was a recent arrival. Or else a visitor. He had the appearance of someone who didn’t belong. Although his voice contained no hint of an accent, he looked vaguely foreign, with deep-set eyes the color of coal, sharp cheekbones, and blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  His clothes, too, were out of place in a jeans-and-T-shirt town like Perry Hollow. His collared shirt was buttoned all the way to the neck. His black pants were too tight and too short. An extra inch or two of white socks poked out from the cuffs before vanishing again into pointy shoes fastened by silver buckles. Over it all hung a black trench coat that was slightly frayed at the sleeves.

  Kat introduced herself, hoping the stranger would do the same.

  He merely nodded politely. “Nice to meet you, Chief. Have a good night. Don’t stay up too late.”

  He departed, his trench coat fluttering behind him. Kat watched him walk toward Main Street, still unable to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about the guy. And it wasn’t just because he refused to give a name. It was the whole package—his face, his clothes, his whole manner—that unsettled her. Had the circumstances been different, she would have tried to follow him, just to find out where he was going.

  Behind her, the crowd on the Freemans’ front lawn erupted into cheers and applause. They were clapping for the firefighters, who had started to emerge from the cloud of smoke still pouring out of the museum.

  The fire had been conquered.

  *

  Kat waited to approach the ladder truck until the firefighters had peeled away their turnout gear, their cast-off boots, coats, and helmets littering the grass. She then thanked each of them, doling out a few high fives in the process. She was in the midst of being taught an elaborate handshake by Danny Batallas, the youngest member of the squad, when the fire chief beckoned her over.

  Even in his younger days, Boyd Jansen had looked so much like a fire chief that it was inevitable he’d become one. Strong upper body. Thick around the middle. He kept his mustache neatly trimmed, although, like his sandy hair, it gathered more gray with each passing year. Joining him at the front of the ladder truck, Kat greeted him by his nickname.

  “Great job, Dutch. You and your boys knocked that fire out in a hurry.”

  The chief waved away the compliment. “It was a birthday candle—quick to flare up, easy to snuff out.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “You’d think,” Dutch said. “But my gut tells me that fire might have had some help.”

  And Kat’s gut told her she was about to be served some bad news. She was proven right when Dutch pulled her to the far side of the ladder truck, where they were out of earshot of the others.

  “That fire went up quick,” he said. “Never seen one sprout so fast.”

  “It’s an old building,” Kat countered. “Not exactly fireproof.”

  “You’re right. But I’ve seen enough fires to know that this one makes me suspicious.”

  Suddenly, Kat longed to be back at home, in bed, fast asleep. Because if she understood Dutch correctly, she wouldn’t be getting any sleep for a very long time.

  “You think someone set the museum on fire?”

  “Maybe.”

  “On purpose or by accident?” Kat asked. “It’s the night before Halloween. A few kids could have been bored and decided to get creative on mischief night.”

  She was grasping at straws. In Perry Hollow, mischief night never got more dangerous than a few egged windows and a generous toilet-papering of front yards. Very rarely did it escalate into setting something on fire. If it did, that something was usually a paper bag full of dog poop.

  “You don’t know too much about fires, do you?” Dutch asked.

  “Not really,” Kat said. “How’d you guess?”

  “Because if you did, you’d know that a flaming bag of shit couldn’t do this kind of damage.”

  “Do you think we should get an arson investigator out here? Maybe find out just what we’re dealing with.”

  “That,” Dutch said, “would be a fine idea.”

  “Chief?”

  Both Kat and Dutch looked to the front of the ladder truck, where Danny Batallas now stood.

  “Sorry,” he said, blushing. “My chief.”

  Dutch straightened. “What is it, Danny?”

  “Did you give the all clear to enter the museum?”

  “Hell, no. Why?”

  Danny jerked his head in the direction of the still-smoldering museum. “Because I think someone’s about to.”

  Kat was on the other side of the truck in an instant, although it wasn’t fast enough to catch the face of the person rounding a burned-out corner of the building. Not that she needed to. A flash of pink fabric flaring in the person’s wake was enough.

  “It’s Emma Pulsifer,” she said. “Help me drag her out of there.”

  Dutch and Danny both grabbed helmets before joining her in a sprint across the museum’s lawn. Kat felt them behind her as she hopped over the fire hoses still sprawled in the grass. Then it was through a wall of smoke that drifted languidly from the building. Small bits of ash swirled in the air, clinging to her face. She swiped them away as she moved along the side of the museum.

  Reaching the back of the building, Kat saw the door Emma had mentioned earlier. It was open and creaking slightly back and forth on its hinges. Smoke escaped from the doorway, but not as much as from the front of the building. Back there, it was merely a trickle. Still, it was enough to make Kat want to cover her nose. It smelled like the world’s biggest ashtray.

  “She’s already inside,” Kat told the two firemen behind her.

  “She shouldn’t be anywhere near this place,” Dutch hissed with annoyance. “God knows how unstable it is. The whole thing could crumble with one wrong step.”

  Hearing that did nothing to put Kat’s mind at ease as she leaned in the doorway. It was dark, of course, the gloom made even worse by the smoke that hovered like a stubborn fog. Kat tugged the flashlight from her duty belt and flicked it on. Then she stepped inside.

  Emma Pulsifer was just beyond the doorway, standing in what appeared to be a cramped hallway. She bumped against the walls, fumbling blindly in the darkness. Kat placed a hand on her shoulder—a small attempt to calm her.

  “We shouldn’t be in here,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

  “I know.” Emma looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. “But please let me try to salvage at least a few things. Please.”

&nb
sp; Kat liked to think she was too tough to be swayed by tears. She was wrong. The fire had left Emma devastated. Letting her try to save a few items was the least she could do.

  “Okay,” she said, stepping in front of Emma. “But let me go first.”

  Dutch entered the museum. Gripping his own flashlight, he aimed the beam at Kat’s face. “Not a chance,” he said. “I’ll go first.”

  Behind him, the voice of Danny Batallas rose from outside. “I’ll stay right here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go back to the truck,” Dutch instructed. “Tell the others what we’re doing. If we’re not back in five minutes, send in a rescue team.”

  He waved his flashlight back and forth between Kat and Emma. “You got that? Five minutes.”

  Dutch handed each of them a helmet and demanded that they put them on before going any farther. “You’ll thank me if the ceiling caves in,” he said.

  Kat did as she was told. The helmet was heavier than she expected—a weight pressing down from the top of her skull—and did nothing to aid in navigation. It obscured her peripheral vision, forcing her to twist her head to the sides if she wanted to see anything that wasn’t directly in front of her.

  Not that there was much to look at in the hallway. Inching through it, Kat saw only a few administrative offices and a meeting room. Still, she could tell that this section of the museum wasn’t nearly as fire-ravaged as the front. Other than the smoke and some puddles of water, everything seemed to be in decent condition. It wasn’t until they reached the end of the hallway, which opened into the main gallery, that Kat saw the extent of the damage.

  The gallery, a large room packed floor to ceiling with displays, had been obliterated. Sweeping her flashlight across the room, Kat saw that portions of the floor and most of the ceiling were badly charred. The walls were, too. The one facing the street had been so severely gutted that she could see right through it to the thinning crowd outside. Whatever had been hanging on the wall was now gone. Only warped and blackened frames remained.

  In fact, most of the displays in the gallery had been destroyed. Those that weren’t consumed by the fire had been ruined from water damage. Display cases that might have withstood the flames had been knocked over by the pressure of the hoses. The floor was covered with glass shards and water, which combined to make a crunching and sloshing sound that reminded Kat of a pebble beach at high tide.

  Roaming the gallery, she noticed random objects among the detritus, some of which she still remembered from her childhood visits. A pocket watch. A woman’s shoe. A blade saw from the mill’s early days. In the corner, a wax figure wore the remains of a Union Army uniform from the Civil War. Drops of water fell from the sleeves, and large holes that resembled cigarette burns marred the fabric. The figure’s face had melted, its misshapen nose oozing down to what had once been its chin.

  She looked to the wall opposite the front door. Still hanging there, safe in its frame, was the deed Emma had mentioned earlier. Roughly the same size as a newspaper and written in florid script, it stated that Mr. Irwin Perry now owned a hundred acres of land outside an unnamed village in southeastern Pennsylvania. A year later, the Perry Mill opened, flooding the village with workers. To mark this surge, the village was officially named Perry Hollow. Of all the pieces in the museum, the deed was the most treasured. Seeing that it had been spared made Kat breathe a sigh of relief.

  Emma, however, was downright overcome with emotion. Sniffing back tears of gratitude, she hugged both Kat and Dutch.

  “You helped save history,” she told them. “You really did.”

  “I’ll take it down,” Dutch said. “Then we’ve got to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to press our luck.”

  While he removed the frame from the wall, Emma took off her helmet and whipped out her cell phone one more time. “I have to tell Constance. She’ll be thrilled to know the deed survived.”

  She dialed and held the phone to her ear. A second later, Kat heard a muffled trilling coming from somewhere inside the museum. It chirped three more times before abruptly going silent.

  “She’s still not picking up,” Emma said, flipping her phone shut.

  Kat also removed her helmet. “Call her again.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Once again, Emma tapped in the phone number. And once again, Kat heard the electronic trill. She edged to a corner of the room. The sound was slightly louder there, though still muffled. When it chirped again, Kat realized the noise was coming from beneath the floor.

  She turned to Emma. “Does the museum have a basement?”

  “There’s a crawl space under the gallery. We sometimes use it for storage, although the rest of the collection is up in the attic.”

  “How can I get down there?”

  “A trapdoor,” Emma said, confused. “You’re standing on it.”

  Kat took a step backward, finally seeing several gaps in the floorboards that formed a square. A nickel-sized hole—easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it—sat on one side of the square. Kneeling, Kat jammed an index finger into the hole and raised the trapdoor until she could slide a hand under it.

  Seeing what she was doing, Dutch handed the framed deed to Emma. He then knelt next to Kat, aiming the flashlight into the crawl space as she removed the door and peered inside.

  What they saw was Constance Bishop.

  She was slumped over a wooden chest, her generous rump raised in the air. Her legs were bent slightly, knees pushing against the wooden chest, and her lifeless arms dangled forward. One of her shoes was missing, revealing the sole of a foot blackened with dirt.

  Dutch moved the flashlight beam over her body, which hadn’t been able to escape the fire hoses despite being beneath the floor. Beads of water dotted the pale skin on the back of her legs. Her blouse and skirt, darkened by moisture, clung to her body.

  When the light reached the back of her head, Kat saw a flash of crimson. Blood. Just behind her right ear. Tiny bits of white stuck to her hair. Bone fragments, Kat surmised. Or maybe brain matter.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Dutch muttered.

  “What’s down there?”

  It was Emma Pulsifer, stomping toward them with the deed tucked under her arm. Kat stood, trying to block her, but it was too late. Emma peered into the crawl space, spotted Constance, and choked out a strangled cry.

  “No! Dear God, no.”

  She clamped a palm against her open mouth, the deed slipping from her arms. The frame shattered when it hit the floor—Perry Hollow’s founding document smashed into a hundred pieces.

  The noise snapped Kat into action. Returning to the floor, she lowered herself into the crawl space. It was a tight fit, especially with Constance there, but she managed to squeeze herself inside. For once, being short was an advantage. Still, wiggle room was nonexistent, forcing her to stand behind Constance, straddling her lifeless legs.

  As Dutch held the light steady from above, Kat leaned forward until her chest was pressed against Constance’s back. She placed two fingers against the side of Constance’s neck, feeling for a pulse.

  There wasn’t one.

  Not content with the results, Kat pivoted as much as space would allow and reached for Constance’s left arm. Although it was as heavy and unwieldy as wet cardboard, she managed to raise it enough to slip two fingers against her wrist. No pulse there, either.

  “She’s dead,” Kat announced.

  She swallowed hard, suppressing the sob that threatened to bubble up from deep in her chest. Part of her sadness was, of course, for Constance Bishop, a kind woman whose life had been cut short. The rest of the grief was reserved for her town. She thought the violence had died with the Grim Reaper killer. She was wrong. Murder had once again visited Perry Hollow.

  Above her, Emma’s sobs grew louder. They blasted through the hole in the floor and echoed into the smallest recesses of the crawl space until they became tinny and faint. The light above Kat shifted as Dutch app
arently turned in an attempt to comfort Emma. The new slant of the flashlight’s beam illuminated the left side of Constance’s head, her shoulder, and part of the arm that Kat was still holding. It also, Kat noticed, shed light on a series of black marks on Constance’s hand.

  “Don’t move,” she shouted up to Dutch. “Keep the light right where it is.”

  “Why?” he called back.

  Kat didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned forward even more, staring at the dark lines on chalky flesh. They were letters, she realized, scrawled in what seemed to be black marker.

  Someone had written on Constance Bishop’s hand.

  Kat twisted the wrist until all of the words were visible. Fear poked her ribs as she read what had been written across Constance’s skin. It was a fear she had last experienced a year ago. A fear she had hoped to never feel again. But there it was, jabbing at her with an insistence that made her want to scream. It stayed with her as she read the words on Constance’s hand a second time, then a third.

  A mere five words long, the message was simple but agonizingly clear.

  THIS IS JUST THE FIRST.

  2 A.M.

  It was the longest journey of his life, if not in distance then in actual travel time. Sixteen hours total. Most of them containing at least one headache.

  First was the maddening cab ride through rush hour in Rome—a gridlock of Smart Cars and scooters and curses shouted in Italian. Next came the interminable wait at the airport as his flight was delayed. Twice. Once onboard, it was ten hours in coach, trying to sleep as the college kid sitting next to him exhausted an endless supply of gadgets: iPad, iPod, iPhone.

  After they landed in Philadelphia, it took an hour to get through customs, although he was still an American citizen. He chalked that up to his face. People tended not to trust a face like his. As annoying as it was, he couldn’t blame them.

  He considered every roadblock an omen, telling him to turn around. He certainly had considered it. Many times. The words I shouldn’t be doing this ran through his mind more often than not. It was a bad idea, clearly. Anyone could see that. Yet he pressed on, exiting the airport and stepping once again onto American soil.