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Death Night
Todd Ritter
24 hours: that’s all they have to stop a killer in his tracks… Perfect for fans of Gregg Hurwitz and P.J. Tracy.Two things Perry Hollow Police Chief Kat Campbell never thought she would do again: Enter a burning building, and lay eyes on Henry Goll, the man who was trapped inside with her the last time she was in one. So Kat's on high alert when, barely a year after the dust settled around the Grim Reaper killings, both happen on the same day.She's jolted awake at 1 a.m. by a desperate phone call telling her Perry Hollow’s one and only museum—home to all the town’s historical artifacts—has been set on fire. Arriving at the scene, Kat catches just a glimpse of Henry's face among the crowd before she's rushed into the charred building, only to find the museum curator dead…bludgeoned, not burned.Kat has lived through some tense moments and seen some gruesome crimes, but the next twenty-four hours will be the most dangerous of her life as she and Henry seek out a killer and the motivation behind these terrifying crimes.Todd Ritter returns to the beloved town of Perry Hollow, Pennsylvania with Death Night, his most poignant, cleverly plotted novel yet.
Death Night
TODD RITTER
Copyright (#ulink_cd265896-4f9b-5355-a0cc-e4cf33092718)
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
This edition published in Great Britain by
HarperCollins Publishers 2015
First published as Devil’s Night by Minotaur Books, NY, 2013
Copyright © Todd Ritter 2013
Cover design © Head Design
Todd Ritter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © June 2015 ISBN: 978-0-00-813319-1
Version: 2015-05-14
Dedication (#ulink_3a6e61bf-36e5-5326-a51d-8325210b9971)
To Sarah
Contents
Cover (#u4d687a1d-f7c7-5788-84b3-618d5fd533c3)
Title Page (#u57fad863-a108-574f-8c49-e014a28e5e74)
Copyright (#ua24b2a1d-7ad9-5982-af7d-f0bbaa740f1d)
Dedication (#u181d2fdb-5f9c-55ce-8d37-28af0555cbc4)
24 Hours Earlier (#udab81bc4-40d1-59cf-b182-27b0fb42eac0)
1 A.M. (#uc543bdf8-cbaa-5ccf-93f6-b155922e2bb0)
2 A.M. (#u487cbe67-da12-5cb8-a654-62326af5196d)
3 A.M. (#u595f06a7-b0c2-5dac-bc44-23e94f012b2f)
4 A.M. (#uaf498556-682a-5385-af93-4b7deb457e38)
5 A.M. (#udda88a24-7dbe-5f78-8a3f-fb019073ee55)
6 A.M. (#u904b15c5-845f-50e5-b6ab-065047897387)
7 A.M. (#u433cb955-fea1-5e90-b0dc-0663de381655)
8 A.M. (#u762f571a-90dc-5355-9942-92b5075f410e)
9 A.M. (#udbd00147-e3d0-58e6-87d0-8fa23e4e5eee)
10 A.M. (#u25fb7742-f486-520f-9987-cccb39554cf6)
11 A.M. (#ufbccfc65-2d39-5e69-b546-60a6b779c24a)
NOON (#u4d3154ae-263f-5e46-9adc-9488285441f0)
1 P.M. (#ua9a51dc6-9eb1-5f3f-afe3-81da8dc55fb9)
2 P.M. (#uf138f7fe-5e57-54bd-8dc9-f62a6fd2c602)
3 P.M. (#ud581f472-e5c2-5ee7-93a9-dc2dea0d8166)
4 P.M. (#ud32e6cf4-4ac7-5003-9f70-5bd464521aa7)
5 P.M. (#u20fafbea-2542-5b71-b324-e63f94852460)
6 P.M. (#udb090dec-765d-5d95-b3ea-24d01a51585f)
7 P.M. (#ufe54d459-4cc5-52c9-b38d-68f494e82109)
8 P.M. (#u6bc9faf6-141a-5f6b-a1d2-1145b47b8bb1)
9 P.M. (#u28a7b714-921d-5c3b-b47c-db8dd50dcab1)
10 P.M. (#u77baea72-1d5d-5551-951c-3ca89a394aa3)
11 P.M. (#uf4cb5801-81ce-5cd5-a891-6575f7db043a)
MIDNIGHT (#u112c6fdd-f3d4-54cb-9c46-79b167a74c02)
1 A.M. (#uc6c290b0-ab98-504e-98ae-4c86aa9de46f)
2 A.M. (#u89889229-1d6a-5dd7-99da-b75522869bcb)
Acknowledgements (#u486b06a3-5f3d-5264-8dc9-1dbebf6b6767)
About the Author (#ucdf5586f-43bf-599c-abe3-3656deee499b)
Also by Todd Ritter (#u39e45b41-00ea-5852-be94-b3f81a3a3164)
About the Publisher (#ua98b58b7-7466-5e67-b382-f5de417a080e)
It was dark.
Too dark for Kat’s liking.
Windows were few and far between, and those she did pass were so small they offered nothing more than narrow slips of moonlight. Rather than lighting the way, they only made it harder for her eyes to adjust to the blackness pushing at her from all directions.
Kat had a flashlight, but she didn’t dare use it. The beam might reveal her presence. And the element of surprise was more important than visibility. Other than her gun, it was the only weapon she had.
Her trusty Glock was clenched in her right hand. Her left hand was just below it, supporting her outstretched arm at the wrist. Walking that way slowed her down, which was good. She couldn’t risk moving too fast. Like the flashlight, sudden movement would give her away. Kat couldn’t have that happen. Her life likely depended on it.
So she skulked through the darkness, trying to fight the exhaustion that clouded her mind. Thoughts came slowly, taking twice as long as normal to piece information together. For instance, she should have known that she was nearing the stairs, but her brain was too sleep-addled to realize it. Instead, she ran right into them, slamming her big toe against the bottom step. The pain was so sudden and jolting it almost made her yelp. She caught the sound halfway up her throat and gulped it back down.
Swallowing hard again, Kat began her fumbling, cautious ascent. She paused at each step, resisting the urge to sprint up them two at a time. Despite her utter exhaustion, part of her wanted to just get to the top and see what awaited her. But another part of her already knew, and it terrified her.
Pausing halfway up the stairs, she leaned against the railing and listened for sounds from above. She heard nothing. Not for the first time, she wondered if she was wrong. About her destination. About what was being planned there. But everything she had learned in the past day pointed to this place. This moment. This hour.
Kat’s thoughts suddenly slipped away from her. It was happening with alarming frequency now. Her train of thought would derail and she’d suddenly find herself blank and aimless, wondering where the hell she was and what she was doing. Severe sleep deprivation did that to you.
She couldn’t bring herself back with a slap. Although it had worked earlier that night, it would be too noisy in that echo chamber of a stairwell. Instead, she pinched herself. Hard. Right on the back of her upper arm, where it hurt the most.
It did the trick.
Alert again, she pushed on. Up the stairs. Heart pounding. Trigger finger flexing at her Glock.
Soon she was at the top of the stairs and rising into the room. There were more windows there, massive ones that let in enough light to see by.
Taking in the room, Kat realized she would have preferred darkness.
The first thing she saw was a body on the floor. It was a man, slumped on his side and facing the far wall. Blood matted his hair and oozed from beneath his head in a circular pool that crept across the floorboards.
Even without seeing his face, Kat could identify him. She rushed to his side and, despite already knowing that he was dead and gone, checked his wrist for a pulse. When she didn’t feel one, a heaviness flooded her heart. Yet another casualty in a day that was full of them.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered. “And why—”
She stopped speaking as her gaze flicked to the dark corner nearest the body. Something was there, shrouded in the shadows.
A propane tank.
It was small, just like the one hooked up to the gas grill in her backyard. The cap had been removed, replaced with a grease-smeared handkerchief that soaked up the liquid inside. The gas that leaked out was a noxious vapor that made Kat dizzy.
She glanced in the opposite corner. It also contained a propane tank. As did the room’s other two corners. Each tank was the same. Caps off. Stuffed with rags. Waiting to be ignited.
A mere spark on one of the rags could make an entire tank explode. That would set off a chain reaction. Explosion after explosion after explosion.
The whole room had been turned into a bomb.
And Kat was now standing right in the heart of it.
24 HOURS EARLIER (#ulink_2173538d-03d2-5feb-8c43-e00f247bba10)
1 A.M. (#ulink_f79ed189-cc39-5e8c-beda-bb65eea7c667)
Kat was dreaming about Henry when she heard the sirens. She had no idea why. It’s not as if she dwelled on him so much during her waking hours that it invaded her subconscious at night. In fact, it had been weeks since she thought about Henry, months since she had heard from him, and a full year since she last saw him.
Yet there he was, front and center in her dream. They were in a nondescript room so dim and vast that Kat wasn’t sure if it was a room at all. Dreams were like that. Ceilings not supported by walls. Floors as malleable as wet sand. The only thing concrete about their surroundings was the table in front of them—white Formica as bright as a smile in a toothpaste commercial.
On the table were two large sheets of paper, thin and translucent. Henry, staring at his swath of paper, frowned.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
“It’s easy,” Kat said. “I’ll show you.”
She lifted a corner of her sheet to the center, cementing the fold with a crease. Henry followed suit. They did it again, this time simultaneously, with an upper fold.
“See,” she said. “I told you it was easy.”
Then the sirens started, so distant and muffled that Kat at first thought they were just another part of the dream. But they continued, even after Henry, the table, and the paper all vanished. That’s when she knew they were real.
Kat listened without opening her eyes. Although they were far away, she could tell the sirens belonged to the fire department and not her police force. The ones on the fire trucks were louder and deeper—the baritones to her patrol cars’ tenor.
Sliding out of bed, she went to the window and saw the reason for the sirens—a fire, glowing orange and eerie in the distance. She couldn’t tell how large it was or pinpoint its exact location. All she knew was that she needed to be there, no matter how much she wanted to crawl back into bed. Pausing only long enough to yawn, she started to put on her uniform a mere hour and a half after taking it off.
She was mostly dressed by the time her phone rang. As expected, it was Carl Bauersox, her deputy, sounding much more energetic than she did. On the night shift, he was used to being alert at this hour. Kat was not.
“We’ve got a fire, Chief.”
“I know,” Kat said. “I hear the sirens. What’s burning?”
“The museum.”
He was referring to the Perry Hollow Historical Society and Exhibition Hall, a collection of documents, artifacts, and photographs that dated back to the town’s founding and beyond. Because of its unwieldy name, and because most of the town’s history resided within its walls, people simply called it the museum.
