Devil's Night

by Todd Ritter

  She needed sleep. At least a few hours of it. But sleep wasn’t on the agenda. Not for a while, anyway. Not until she found whoever was going around torching buildings in Perry Hollow.

  Before returning to Tony’s room and agreeing to take over the investigation until a replacement could arrive, Kat took a detour to the nearby ladies’ room. She made a beeline toward the sink, where she splashed cold water on her face. It was bracing but not enough to wake her up.

  Kat needed more.

  She turned the water on full blast, making sure it was as cold as possible. She waited, thrumming her fingers on the countertop and examining herself in the mirror. Her reflection, with its bloodshot eyes and blotchy skin, horrified her. Dark circles, as swollen and purple as a bruise, hung beneath her eyes. And the less she looked at her greasy hair, the better.

  Kat averted her gaze, staring down at the sink instead. Water had filled it to the halfway point. Enough for what she had in mind.

  She leaned over the basin.

  She counted to three.

  Then, taking a deep breath, Kat plunged her head into the water.

  2 P.M.

  Henry stood completely still, letting the hot spray of the shower rush over him. It felt good having the water rinse away all the grime and soot he had accumulated that afternoon. The dirt ran off his body in dark streaks, exposing patches of slick, rosy flesh. The cleaner he got, the lighter he felt.

  He reached for the shampoo and sniffed. It smelled too perfumy, like something he would have found in the Sleepy Hollow Inn. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he was most definitely a beggar in the house of Kat Campbell. Since she’d been kind enough to offer the use of her shower, he wasn’t going to turn up his nose at the shampoo just because he didn’t like the scent.

  Lathering up his hair, Henry thought about all the other things he’d have to borrow from Kat. Everything he had brought with him to the United States had been destroyed in the fire. His clothes. His wallet and passport. Even his phone, which meant his editor couldn’t get in touch with him. He imagined Dario Giambusso frantically calling and wondering why he wasn’t picking up.

  Not that Henry would be able to tell him much. The flames had also consumed his notes on the Fanelli article, leaving him with nothing to show for his work. The only thing Henry had going for him was his meeting with Lucia Trapani later that night. He hoped that would at least appease Dario. If he ever got the chance to talk to him between now and then.

  Henry stuck his head under the stream of the shower and rinsed off his hair. Watching the soapy water swirl around his feet before spiraling down the drain, he thought about the other woman he was scheduled to meet that day.

  It was two o’clock, the time Deana Swan wanted him to come over. Henry hadn’t decided whether he would go or not when the fire at the bed-and-breakfast and its aftermath made the choice for him. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder if Deana was still waiting for him, sitting in the breakfast nook of her quaint little kitchen. That was where he had usually found her, no matter the time of day. In the evenings, when he’d come over after work. In the early hours of the morning, after he had spent the night. As he stepped out of the shower, Henry realized that it would have been nice to see Deana that way one more time.

  But it was too late for that now. By the time he got there—and he still wasn’t sure he wanted to go—she’d be gone. Deana wasn’t one for patience. He remembered that from their time together. One rainy Sunday afternoon he had tried to introduce her to opera, playing a recording of Parsifal. She had lasted all of five minutes before begging him to switch to something else.

  Once he toweled off, Henry got dressed in new clothes Kat purchased for him on the way back from the hospital. The store—a tiny men’s shop on Main Street—had a limited selection in his size. The jeans, although the right length, were sized for someone with far more gut than he possessed. When he belted them, the waistband bunched awkwardly around his hips. His shirt wasn’t much better. The fit was fine, but Henry didn’t think red and black flannel was really his style.

  Exiting the bathroom, Henry heard voices coming from below. He descended the stairs into Kat’s living room, which opened up into an adjacent dining room. Beyond that was the kitchen, now filled with state troopers. They stood shoulder to shoulder—there wasn’t enough room to sit down—eating sandwiches from the Perry Hollow Diner and washing them down with coffee gulped from chipped mugs.

  Henry couldn’t see Kat. Barely an inch over five feet, she was blocked by the taller cops. But he could hear her voice, rising from an area near the kitchen sink.

  “I know we’re all exhausted,” she was saying. “It’s been a long day already and we’ve got a lot of work under our belt. But we need to do more. Now, we need to focus.”

  Inside the kitchen, a few of the troopers had shifted position. In the sliver of space between them, Henry could see Kat leaning against the kitchen sink with a man who looked so young he was almost boyish. She introduced him as Larry Sheldon and let him have the floor.

  “I’m afraid we have a serial arsonist on our hands,” he announced. “We don’t know why he’s targeting this town and we don’t know if he plans to torch anything else. But my educated guess is that there’s a reason behind his actions and that, yes, he has other targets in mind.”

  One of the troopers in the back, a short woman with blond hair, raised her hand. Henry admired the determined way she stood on her tiptoes and stretched her arm in an effort to be seen behind her taller colleagues. He imagined Kat had done the same thing when she was a young cop just starting out.

  “So the fire at the bed-and-breakfast has been officially ruled an arson?”

  Larry Sheldon nodded. “It was started in the basement with the use of an accelerant, most likely gasoline. The inn’s owner said that she seldom locked the basement door, saying she didn’t think anyone would have any reason to go down there. Well, someone did, and another fire happened. Now, I’m not saying we could have stopped it, but we definitely didn’t see it coming.”

  “We were all focused on the fire at the museum,” Kat added. “We all thought it solely had something to do with Constance Bishop.”

  The younger version of Kat again raised her hand. “So Constance Bishop’s death isn’t related to the fires?”

  “We’re not sure,” Larry said. “It might be that Constance was unlucky enough to be in the museum when the arsonist tried to set fire to it.”

  “But is there a connection between the museum and the bed-and-breakfast?”

  Kat fielded that question. “Not that I’m aware of. The museum was owned and operated by the historical society. The Sleepy Hollow Inn was owned by Lottie Scott, who has no affiliation with them. Other than being on the same street, there’s no connection.”

  “That being said,” Larry added, “we have nothing to suggest the arsonist is picking buildings at random. Most serial arsonists choose their targets for a reason. I doubt the guy we’re looking for is much different.”

  “Are you sure it’s a he?” This, surprisingly, came not from the female trooper but from the man standing next to her.

  “Yes,” Larry said. “Fewer than eighteen percent of arsons in the United States are committed by women. And of those, many are one-shot deals perpetrated by women trying to escape abusive relationships or scorned women with serious mental-health problems getting revenge. Few women set buildings on fire just for the hell of it.”

  “Then there’s the medical examiner’s report,” Kat said. “From the size and depth of the wound to Constance’s skull, he concluded that she was attacked by a man.”

  One of the troopers raised his voice. “Are there any persons of interest?”

  “Yes. This guy.”

  Kat held up a police sketch of a narrow-cheeked man with dark, deep-set eyes. His hair, rendered on paper in sweeping strokes of the artist’s pen, hung in a ponytail. She handed photocopies of the sketch to the nearest trooper, who passed them around.<
br />
  “His name is Connor Hawthorne,” Kat said. “Caucasian male. Age twenty-seven. Hometown is Salem, Massachusetts. We have nothing that directly links him to the fires other than the fact that I saw him at the scene of both. I bumped into him at the museum fire last night and chased him down at the hotel fire this afternoon. He slipped away after I saw a friend on top of the Sleepy Hollow Inn’s roof. We need to track him down, find out what he’s doing here, and find out where he was when both fires started.”

  The troopers all studied the sketch, committing the image to memory. One of them asked, “Is there anything else we should know about this guy?”

  “Yeah,” Kat said. “He claims to be a witch.”

  “Did he start the fires with a magic spell?”

  The group started to laugh, but Kat shut them down with a raised hand and a mean-looking stare.

  “This isn’t a joke,” she said. “This is my town. People I know and love have been badly hurt, even killed. If Connor Hawthorne is the man behind it, I want him caught. Now get out there and do it.”

  With that, the meeting was over. The troopers filed out of the house, using both the front and back doors. A few of them gave Henry odd glances as they passed. Perhaps they recognized him from his escapades atop the Sleepy Hollow Inn. More likely, they noticed his scars. Henry had forgotten how rude American stares were. He much preferred the Italian way.

  When all of the troopers were gone, Henry caught up to Kat, who stood alone in the kitchen. She gripped the counter, taking deep, chest-raising breaths. Nerves, Henry knew. Used to her two-person police force, she had been intimidated taking charge of a room full of troopers.

  “You did great,” he said. “Very forceful.”

  Kat thanked him with a nod. “I was impersonating Nick.”

  “I could tell.”

  A mug left behind by one of the troopers sat on the counter within arm’s reach. Kat grabbed it and checked to see if there was still coffee inside. Seeing that there was, she downed it.

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “There isn’t even a word to describe how tired I feel,” Kat said. “But instead of sleeping, I need to talk to the couple who lives across the street from the museum. I’m hoping they saw something last night that can point us in the right direction.”

  “What about James? Do you need someone to look after him?”

  Kat didn’t slow down, moving directly into the living room. “He’s with Lou. They went to buy flowers for Nick and Tony and bring them to the hospital. I thought it would be a good way to get them out of the house before all the cops arrived.”

  Henry caught up with her as she was opening the front door. He slipped around her, blocking her exit. He could tell when someone was heading for a crash. Working in a newsroom, he had seen it plenty of times. He had been on the receiving end of several, and he knew that once someone hit the wall, it would be a while before they could get back up again.

  “You need to slow down, Kat. I know you don’t want to, but you need to.”

  “I don’t have time to slow down,” Kat said, trying to sidestep past him.

  “Then you need to pace yourself. Going full throttle won’t get you where you need to go.”

  Kat huffed, the annoyed exhalation rustling the curl of hair that hung over her eyes. “I’m just trying to do the best I can. And right now, that means finding out everything I can about who might be starting these fires.”

  Henry let her pass but followed her down the sidewalk to the Crown Vic in the driveway. Kat tried to lock the passenger-side door, but he got to it first and flung it open. When she climbed behind the wheel, Henry slid inside, too.

  “Henry.” A second huff, more agitated than the first. They had been through this before, a year earlier. “You can’t tag along.”

  “And you can’t do this by yourself.”

  “I’m not trying. You saw all those guys in the kitchen. Until tomorrow morning, I’m their boss.”

  Henry wasn’t talking about the investigation. He was talking about the sleepless marathon Kat was attempting to run. “You need someone to watch your back. I’m going to be the guy who does it.”

  “Listen,” Kat said. “I know you want to help. But you don’t live here anymore. These fires don’t concern you.”

  “Really? It didn’t feel that way when I was clinging to a rain gutter after escaping my burning hotel room.”

  Even though Kat let out a third huff, Henry knew she was relenting. Starting the patrol car, she said, “Fine. But fasten your seat belt. Your day just got a lot more interesting.”

  *

  There were dozens of couples in Perry Hollow just like Dave and Betty Freeman. Kat saw them all over the place. Married so long they started to look alike—hair the same shade of gray, identical toothy smiles, tortoiseshell glasses they probably mixed up more often than not. Kat, whose own marriage had lasted less than a year, felt a twinge of envy. She’d never get the chance to share a bed with the same person for fifty years, like the Freemans had done. Nor would she ever have someone by her side, finishing her sentences, like the Freemans did that afternoon.

  “We’re on edge right now,” Dave Freeman said. “Two fires in one day on our street, it’s—”

  “Terrifying.” Betty had taken over. “Completely terrifying. We don’t know what’s causing them.”

  “Or who’s causing them.”

  “That’s right,” Betty said. “Who’s causing them. All we know is that something—”

  “Weird. Very weird.”

  “—is going on.”

  The pair sat side by side on their floral sofa, staring at Kat with eyes made all the more wide and innocent by the thick lenses of their glasses. They were waiting to be reassured, she knew. Hoping that she’d tell them their fears were unfounded.

  Kat tried her best. “There’s nothing to worry about. The state police are assisting in the investigation, and we’re chasing down every lead.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Mr. Freeman said, “but what are you doing to prevent more fires? I want to know that our house won’t be next.”

  “There are troopers everywhere. They’re keeping a close watch on every part of the town. They’ll make sure there won’t be another arson.”

  The Freemans weren’t buying it, and Kat couldn’t blame them. Even as she was talking, she realized how falsely optimistic her words sounded. If an arsonist roaming the town wanted to set something on fire, chances were pretty good that he’d find a way to do it.

  The couple turned to Henry Goll, who sat uncomfortably on an antique high-backed chair built for someone half his size. “Are you with the state police?” Betty asked.

  “No, ma’am.” Henry shot Kat a desperate glance, begging for her assistance. “I’m—”

  “He’s a reporter,” she said, opting for the truth. “He was inside the Sleepy Hollow Inn when the fire broke out. Now he’s using that experience to help with the investigation, which is what I’d like both of you to do, as well.”

  “Help how?” Dave Freeman this time, sounding both apprehensive and excited about the prospect of aiding the police. “You mean like a neighborhood watch?”

  “We already have that,” his wife said. “Don’t you remember? I was the first to volunteer.”

  “Because you like to spy on the neighbors.”

  “It’s not spying,” Betty insisted. “It’s—”

  “Being watchful.” Her husband rolled his eyes. “I know. You use that excuse all the time.”

  Kat pictured Betty Freeman spending most evenings ducking behind the curtains of their living room window, watching the activity outside. Craning her neck, she looked past them to the picture window situated just behind the sofa. It provided a head-on view of the history museum across the street.

  “Were you being watchful last night?” Kat asked.

  “No,” Betty said.

  “Yes,” her husband replied.

  Kat looked back and forth between th
em. “Which is it?”

  Mrs. Freeman chose her words very carefully. “I might have looked outside once or twice last night. You know, just to keep an eye on the neighborhood.”

  She cast her eyes downward, ashamed of her admission. Kat, on the other hand, was positively elated. Betty Freeman could be a world-class voyeur and she wouldn’t care. Just as long as she was able to glean some information out of it.

  “And did you see anything strange last night?” Kat asked.

  “At the museum or on the street in general?”

  “Both.”

  Dave Freeman sighed. “Get ready for an earful.”

  His wife slapped his knee. Dave chuckled. The gesture made Kat suddenly, irrationally jealous. These two people were lucky to have each other, and despite their bickering, they knew it.

  “Well,” Betty Freeman said, “it was pretty quiet all night. I did see a light on at the museum for most of the evening. I figured Mrs. Bishop was there burning the midnight oil. And then Mrs. Pulsifer stopped by. I saw her walk right into the museum.”

  “When was this?”

  “About eight o’clock,” Betty said.

  This was in line with what Emma Pulsifer had told Kat right after the fire. She had checked in on Constance before departing for the fund-raiser at Maison D’Avignon.

  “Other than that, did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Anyone suspicious,” Henry added. “Or did you hear anything.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Betty said. “We were watching TV and I heard something strange outside. Dave heard it, too.”

  “I did,” her husband confirmed. “It sounded like clicking.”

  “Clicking? Where on earth did you come up with that?” Mrs. Freeman turned to Kat. “It was a tapping noise. Not a clicking.”

  Dave shrugged. “I heard what I heard.”

  On the coffee table in front of them was a half-finished crossword puzzle. A retractable pen sat on top of it. Betty Freeman picked it up and started to push it open and closed.