by Ritter, Todd
All he could do was sit there and watch them try to save Deana’s life, knowing deep down that it was a losing battle. She was strong but not superhuman. Her body was failing, and everyone in the ambulance knew it. Even Adam seemed to sense something horrible was happening. He let out a series of heartbreaking wails that filled the ambulance.
“Hush, my love,” Henry said.
When that didn’t work, he tried Italian, whispering it to Adam.
“Silenzio, il mio amore. Silenzio.”
It didn’t help. Adam kept crying with a ferociousness Henry had never seen before. The wails ricocheted off the interior walls of the ambulance, eclipsing the noise of the sirens outside and the frantic sounds of the paramedics inside.
Henry began to worry that Adam really had been hurt during the blast. Something internal that he couldn’t have noticed. He was so small, after all. So fragile. Of course he wouldn’t have escaped injury when everyone else was hurt. But Adam’s movements were normal. So was his appearance. Even the crying, though agonizingly loud, was a sign of normalcy.
Then it dawned on Henry that Adam might be experiencing what he was going through. Shock. Numbness. Feeling everything so much that he felt nothing at all.
Adam knows what’s happening, he thought. He understands that his world is about to change.
Then Henry heard a voice, barely audible through the crying.
It was Deana’s voice.
Speaking her son’s name.
“Adam.”
The word emerged in a weak whisper that faded as soon as it reached the air. But it was enough to summon Henry to Deana’s side. He nudged one of the paramedics out of the way, knowing the man wouldn’t push back. It was too late to save her. The paramedics knew it. Henry did, too.
And from the way she unfolded her hands at her sides, Henry could tell that Deana also knew it. He didn’t know how much pain she was in. Not much, he hoped. Ideally, none.
Still, he lifted Adam until the baby’s tiny hand was in hers. Deana closed her fingers over it, holding the hand as if it was the most priceless object in the world. Henry wanted to believe that she was imparting some final bit of maternal instruction to their child. He imagined her wisdom and advice silently moving from her hand into Adam’s, telling him things that he needed to understand.
That she would no longer be there to take care of him.
That Henry was now going to be the person charged with his care and that Adam needed to be patient with him.
That she didn’t want to leave this way and wished that she could be around to watch him grow.
That she loved him with all her heart.
Henry believed all of this because, after a few seconds, Adam’s crying vanished. He simply let Henry hold him while his mother clasped his hand. And in that new and blessed silence, the short, sad life of Deana Swan came to an end.
“Don’t you even think about going there alone.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“No, Kat. I forbid it.”
“You’re the one who put me in charge, Lieutenant. If you’re having second thoughts, then I’ll gladly stop what I’m doing.”
Holding her cell phone close to her ear, Kat heard Tony Vasquez’s lowered voice. “You and I both know that’s a lie, Chief.”
She had called to tell him about everything that had happened that evening. He deserved to know what was going on and, she thought sadly, to receive a warning that more people would be joining him at the hospital. She also wanted his advice on what to do next, although that didn’t mean she was prepared to follow it.
“I’d be more comfortable if you weren’t alone,” Tony said, aiming for a more reasonable tone. “Take Carl with you. Or one of the troopers. God knows there’s enough of them in town to help out.”
But they were all busy, and Kat told him as much. There was crowd control at the library to contend with, solved by using gentle giant Randall Stroup to stem the growing stream of onlookers. Carl Bauersox was sent back to the station to check on Connor Hawthorne and field incoming calls. Every other law enforcement officer brought into town for the day was told to get back on the streets to look for Danny Batallas.
Kat was also on the streets of Perry Hollow, but heading toward a different location. Her Crown Vic had been rendered useless after the explosion, leaving her to make the journey on foot. She didn’t tell Tony that, but judging from her exhausted huffing, he probably already knew.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “He knows me. He trusts me. He’s not going to do something stupid.”
The man in question was Father Ron, also known as Ronald Bradford. He was the last person to check Connor’s book out of the library. He knew more than he had let on, and Kat was determined to find out how much.
“Just because he’s a priest doesn’t mean he can’t be violent when cornered,” Tony said. “People do a lot of irrational shit when they’re scared.”
“And,” Kat countered, “they also do irrational shit when they see a SWAT team burst through the door. I don’t want to scare him. Hopefully, he’ll surrender without incident.”
Up ahead, the bell tower of All Saints Parish came into view—a dark and silent sentinel in the sky. There was no turning back now.
“Tony, I’m almost there. I’ll call you soon. I promise.”
“Kat, I’m warning you—”
She ended the call and shoved her cell phone deep into her jacket. Then she limped the final few blocks toward the church. Her body protested, as she knew it would. Her aching joints creaked with displeasure, and her heart beat erratically in her chest. But Kat pressed on, feeling lucky she could even jog at all. She realized she would collapse at some point. Probably soon. But she knew it wouldn’t be right then. It couldn’t be.
Father Ron lived in a modest rectory that sat behind All Saints Parish. When Kat reached it, she saw that the house, tidy and trim, was dark. So was the church. And in that darkness, Kat sensed that she wasn’t alone. She felt a nearby presence, as if someone, somewhere, was watching her every move.
She stopped in the street, studying her surroundings. The only light came from the moon, which shone through the oak trees that lined the curb, casting gnarled shadows onto the ground.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
Kat whirled around, seeing something lurch out of the darkness. It was a person, looking like nothing more than a shadow as he emerged into the street.
Kat drew her Glock and aimed it at the shadow’s chest.
“Stop right there! Hands up!”
Two slender silhouettes rose above the figure’s head. Arms being raised.
“Chief Campbell, it’s me.” Although it was shot through with fear, Kat recognized the voice.
“Father Ron?”
A noticeable gulp. “Yes.”
“Step into the light. Let me see you.”
The figure moved closer and the shadows melted away, revealing the face of Father Ron. He was wearing a dark sweatsuit, his Converse sneakers on his feet. He stared at the blood on her cheeks, confused.
“What’s going on? What happened to you?”
Kat tried to keep the Glock trained on Father Ron’s chest, but even that was difficult. Her arms felt like they had ten-pound weights tied to them. “Why didn’t you tell me your last name was Bradford?”
“You never asked. Chief, you don’t look good. Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”
“When I mentioned the name Bradford today, you could have told me it was your last name. Why didn’t you?”
“That’s not the name you said. You said Brad Ford. Chief, why are you doing this?”
Kat could have given him a dozen different reasons. Because his last name was Bradford. Because he knew all about the tragic end of another person with that name. Because it supported her theory that someone—most likely a descendant—was trying to punish the town for what had happened there. The answer she gave, however, was shorter.
“Because you li
ed to me. You told me you didn’t see the book Constance had in her office. The one she was so worried about. But you did, and then you checked it out of the library to read it for yourself.”
“Yes, I lied,” Father Ron said. “I admit it. When Constance was talking about the book, I saw the name and the cover. The next day I went to the library and found a copy. But it wasn’t anything sinister. I just wanted to know what she was researching.”
“And how did you feel when you found out?”
“I was surprised,” Father Ron admitted. “But I knew right away it was merely a coincidence.”
“Did it make you mad?” Kat asked. “I’d be mad.”
A shifting cloud of emotion passed over the priest’s face. First was surprise, followed by confusion and shock. The final one was disbelief, as he realized what he was being accused of.
“Chief, you don’t think I started all those fires, do you?”
Kat didn’t know what to think anymore. All she knew was that a man who may or may not have been related to Rebecca Bradford was standing right in front of her. He knew the history, he knew what Constance Bishop was working on, and he was lurking outside as the town was literally exploding around him.
“What are you doing out at this hour?” she asked.
“I was asleep,” Father Ron said. “A loud noise outside woke me up.”
“That was the library.”
The priest furrowed his brow. “The arsonist struck that, too? Was anyone hurt?”
“Yes,” Kat said, thinking of how Deana Swan had looked amid the rubble. “Badly.”
“When did this happen?”
“Forty-five minutes ago.”
“Then that’s not the noise I heard,” Father Ron said. “This was a few minutes ago. I’m not sure, but I thought it came from the bell tower.”
As Kat half turned to face the church, she remembered the list of the town’s historic sites. The museum had been one. So had the Sleepy Hollow Inn, the rec center, and the library. The last building on that list—and the only one not damaged—was All Saints Parish.
“The church,” Kat said, heart suddenly galloping. “It’s the only one left.”
At last, Father Ron lowered his hands. “You don’t think—”
“The arsonist is going to strike the church?” Kat said. “Damn right I do.”
“Then we have to stop him.”
Kat didn’t agree. She had to stop him. Father Ron had to stay behind. She wasn’t going to let him follow her into a darkened building, no matter how much she needed backup. She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t trust anyone.
“I can’t let you go in there with me,” she said.
“All due respect, Chief, but that’s my church. The only way you can keep me out is to handcuff me to my porch.”
Kat reached for her cuffs. “If that’s how it’s going to be, put your hands behind your back and turn around.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“We’re wasting precious time here,” Kat said. “It’s either this or I shoot you in the leg.”
Father Ron chose the handcuffs, thrusting out one of his arms for her to slap the cuffs around.
“Forgive me, Father.”
“You’re already forgiven,” he said, as Kat guided him to his porch and clicked the other end of the handcuffs to the railing. “I’ll be praying for you.”
Kat gave an appreciative nod. “Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.”
She then headed for the church, hoping her body would feel a burst of adrenaline. When it didn’t arrive, she came to the realization that there was no more adrenaline left. She would have to search that church through sheer force of will.
Reaching the front of All Saints Parish, Kat saw that a single vehicle had been parked outside. It was a pickup truck, as black as the night sky overhead. Kat approached it with caution, moving in wide, nervous strides. She held the Glock in one hand. The other was at her hip, finding the handle of her flashlight. When she reached the pickup, she aimed the flashlight’s beam into the cab.
It was empty.
The driver’s seat was bare. The passenger seat contained only a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Kat moved to the back of the pickup, checking the bed. It, too, was empty, although she saw a splash of liquid inside. Gasoline. She could smell it.
She backed up to get a good look at the license plate. It said fyrman. Just as she suspected.
Kat faced the church. From the front, it looked just as dark and empty as it had from outside the rectory. The only thing out of place was the front door. Just like at the library, it was wide open.
Steeling herself with a deep breath, Kat moved to the entrance as fast as her exhausted body would allow. She paused at the threshold, saying a little prayer herself. Then, after whispering a quick “Amen,” Kat stepped into All Saints Parish, not knowing if she would ever leave.
The numbness left Henry as soon as they reached the hospital. There, amid the fluorescent brightness and nervous energy of the emergency room, he began to feel things again. Adam in his arms. The floor beneath his unsteady feet. Pain dotting his whole body.
And grief. Henry felt that more than anything else. It was a startling flow of emotion that filled his body and caused him to collapse into the nearest chair.
Deana was dead.
Their child would grow up with no memory of her.
And Henry had again lost someone he had once loved.
A pair of nurses approached, saying they needed to examine Adam. Henry ignored them, hoping his silence would send them away. But they were an insistent pair. One grabbed onto Henry’s shoulders while the other tried to pry Adam from his arms. The baby screamed in response, kicking so forcefully that the nurse almost dropped him.
“We’re fine,” Henry snapped as he grabbed Adam and held him against his chest. “He’s fine.”
The pair backed away and let Henry leave the emergency room. He found himself in an empty hallway, where he paced with frustration. Adam continued to cry, although the kicking had stopped. It wasn’t until Henry offered a finger to latch on to that the crying subsided altogether.
“It’s all right, little guy,” Henry whispered. “I’m here. Your daddy will always be here.”
And his mother wouldn’t be, a realization that left tears stinging the edges of Henry’s eyes. He thought about Deana and the raw deal that she had been given. Life couldn’t have been easy for her. She had suffered more than her share of grief, loneliness, and shame. Yes, she had made a terrible mistake a year earlier. And yes, Henry had suffered because of it. But he knew, deep down, that’s all it was. A mistake. He had forgiven her as soon as he laid eyes on Adam.
He also knew that Deana hadn’t deserved to die the way she had. She hadn’t deserved to die at all. The sheer unfairness of her death filled him with an emotion that went beyond grief, beyond anger. It was rage he was feeling. Pure and undiluted.
Making it burn even more was guilt. Deana wouldn’t have been anywhere near that library if it hadn’t been for him. She had insisted on coming along, but the journey was all Henry’s idea. He could have stopped her from coming. He could have insisted she stay home. But he hadn’t, and it was his fault that she was now dead.
The grief, Henry knew, would fade with time. So might the anger. But the guilt would stay with him forever unless he did something about it.
He set off down the hallway, finding a stairwell at the end of it. Making sure not to jostle Adam, he climbed to the second floor, twisting into one hallway and then another. Soon he was outside a hospital room. One he had visited earlier that afternoon. Without pausing, he pushed inside.
Despite the hour, Tony Vasquez was awake and sitting up. Someone else occupied a chair next to the bed. A woman with sad eyes and a downturned mouth. He assumed it was Lucy, the girlfriend of Nick Donnelly that Kat had talked about. Both of them contemplated Henry’s sudden presence, too fretful and exhausted to be surprised.
“You’re Henry, right?” To
ny said.
Henry didn’t answer the question. “Have you talked to Kat?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“Where is she?”
“The Catholic church in town. Why?”
Again, Henry didn’t provide an answer. Instead, he held out Adam. “Can I trust you with my son? I’m going to help Kat catch the man who killed his mother.”
1 A.M.
Kat saw the body as soon as she reached the top of the bell tower. It was a man, on his side and facing away from her. Yet one quick glance told her who it was. She could tell because she had been looking for him all day. Because his truck was parked outside.
Now Danny Batallas was dead, lying in a pool of blood that looked sickeningly bright in the beam of her flashlight. When Kat aimed the light toward the back of his head, she saw a deep gash and shattered bone.
Just like Constance Bishop.
The antique iron that had struck them both lay on the floor next to Danny’s feet. Kat rushed to his side and felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered. “And why—”
Her voice faded once she saw the propane tank in the corner. It looked so out of place that she was surprised she hadn’t noticed it sooner, even with a dead body nearby. The tank’s cap was gone, and the handkerchief stuffed inside it did nothing to halt the smell of leaking propane. The scent made Kat more light-headed than she already was. It didn’t knock her down, but it was enough to force her to look away.
That’s when she saw the other tank.
It, too, was in a corner. And stuffed with a rag. And definitely out of place in that dark and quiet tower.
Quickly, Kat stood, leaning left to look beyond the enormous bell that hung in the middle of the room. She then leaned right, checking the other side of the tower. Each movement brought a glimpse of another propane tank.
Four tanks. All stuffed with handkerchiefs that served as makeshift fuses. Kat had found pictures of ones just like them in Danny Batallas’s apartment. They were called fire bombs, she remembered. And they were made to do one thing—explode.