Death Night - Todd Ritter

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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 apparently 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.

      Since he didn’t have a driver’s license, in the U.S. or in Italy, he had to plead with a cabbie to drive him forty-five minutes into the middle of nowhere. When begging didn’t work, cash did. An exorbitant amount that he had to pay up front before he could even open the passenger door. Reaching town, he found a very familiar police car blocking the street his hotel was on, forcing him to carry his luggage several blocks on foot, through a crowd, in front of a fire.

      A fitting end to his journey, really. And, he thought, yet another reason why he should have stayed where he was. But now it was too late to turn back. Now he couldn’t blame the traffic or the delayed flights or the snide jackass at customs.

      Now, whether he wanted to be or not, Henry Goll was back in Perry Hollow.

      He was staying at the Sleepy Hollow Inn, a three-story bed-and-breakfast that was the only game in town as far as hotels went. His room was on the top floor, and while surprisingly large, it left a lot to be desired. It was too antique, too flowery, and smelled too much like cheap soap. All that pastel and potpourri was suffocating—like being hugged too tightly by an old woman.

      As he unpacked, Henry considered finding another place to stay. His options, though, were limited. He knew exactly one person who would put him up for the night, and she was two blocks away dealing with a fire.

      Henry had heard Chief Kat Campbell shout his name through the crowd of onlookers. For a moment, he had almost stopped and greeted her with the warmth and kindness she deserved. Instead, he ignored her, escaping the crowd unseen while the chief was occupied with some tall man she had just bumped into.

      It’s not that he didn’t want to see Kat. He was genuinely looking forward to catching up and hearing how both she and James were doing. But tonight wasn’t the right time. She was busy, and Henry was—well, he wasn’t happy to be here.

      He never thought he’d be back in Perry Hollow. He had had no desire to return. There were too many bad memories of the last time he was here. The thread pulling through his skin. The scalpel at his throat. The fire and chaos and blood that followed. Moving to Italy had dulled the memories, but Henry was afraid seeing Kat would bring many of them back. That trip down memory lane, he decided, could wait until later.

      When Henry finished unpacking, he looked at his watch, which was still set to Italian time. It was after eight A.M. there. Dario would definitely be awake. Which meant it was time to call home.

      Henry’s phone barely got out one ring before it was answered with a terse “Pronto.”

       “Sono Henry.”

      “Henry! How was your flight?”

      Although Henry was fluent in Italian, Dario Giambusso insisted on speaking English with him. Henry suspected his editor was trying to show off. Or maybe his Italian was that bad, and Dario was tired of hearing him butcher his native tongue. Either way, whenever they spoke, English was the language of choice.

      “The flight was”—Henry grasped for the right word—“long. But I’m here.”

      “Very good. Now you should relax. It’s early there, no?”

      Dario’s voice was almost drowned out by a loud whirring noise. It was accompanied by the rhythmic slapping of bare feet on a hard surface. He was on his treadmill. Other than knowing English, a love of exercise was the only thing Henry and his editor had in common.

      “It is early,” Henry said. “But relaxation isn’t on the agenda. I have a lot of background information to go through before I start contacting my sources.”

      “Don’t run yourself ragged. You need sleep, too.”

      “I slept on the plane.”

      “Then maybe you can visit that lady friend of yours,” Dario said, voice thick with innuendo. “Does she still live in town?”

      He was talking about Deana, Henry’s girlfriend before everything went to hell. Of course Dario knew about her. Most of the world did, just as they knew about what had happened to Henry. His story wasn’t a secret. It was the reason, in fact, he had been sent to Perry Hollow instead of the reporter who usually covered this beat. Henry certainly didn’t volunteer for the assignment. No, he had been handpicked by Dario, who thought Henry’s history with the town was something he could exploit.

      “Seeing Deana Swan isn’t on my agenda,” Henry said. “I just want to do my job and go home.”

      “That’s very noble, Henry.” The slapping noises got faster. Dario had just kicked up his speed. “But, in a way, you already are home.”

      Henry, no longer in the mood to talk, told his editor he’d check in as soon as he found something. Then with a quick ciao, he hung up.

      Tossing the phone onto the bed, Henry retreated to the bathroom and stared in the mirror over the sink. His reflection contained so many flaws he didn’t know where to look first. The large burn mark at his left temple had been there for so long that he barely even noticed

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