Devil's Night (16 page)

A jump would be risky.

Not that Henry had much of a choice. The fire had reached the third floor. He could hear it consuming the floor and walls just beyond the door. A horrible crackling sound, it made him want to cover his ears.

The smoke, too, had increased. The towel under the door had managed to block a lot of it, but smoke still seeped in. Henry saw wisps of smoke insinuate themselves into the room and twist their way toward the ceiling.

He turned his attention to the window again. He heard sirens, somewhere distant but getting closer. Fire trucks. The fact that they were on their way offered no relief. Surely they’d be at the front of the building. He was at the back. No one would know he was still inside.

He looked down, seeing that smoke was pouring out of the basement door. The fire was there, too. Sharp licks of flame shot out of the door, stretching as far as they could reach before retreating. Yet another reason why he couldn’t jump. He’d literally be leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

An earsplitting creak rose from just beyond the door. It quickly became an equally loud groan, followed by a crashing sound that made Henry’s heart race even more.

The floor in the hall had given way.

The building was crumbling around him.

Henry eased himself onto the windowsill, legs dangling inside the room, upper body outside of it. Gripping the window frame for support, he leaned backward and looked up. The roof began several feet above him. There was about five inches of overhang from which rain gutters hung. If he stretched, there was a good possibility that he could reach it and pull himself onto the roof.

Again, it wasn’t an ideal situation. Henry had no idea what he’d do once he was on the roof. But he had no choice. Not with more smoke seeping into the room. Not with another horrible crashing sound coming from just outside his door.

Henry lifted his right leg, bending it at the knee until the bottom of his shoe was touching the windowsill. He did the same with the left. Then he started to rise slowly, gripping the window frame the entire time.

Soon his head was past the window, moving beyond it. Then his shoulders. He could no longer see what was going on inside the room, but he could certainly hear it. More crackling. More creaks. More noises of a building falling to pieces all around him.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the door to the room bending from the pressure. The sound was ominous—a deep groan of wood being stretched to the breaking point. Accompanying it was a series of pops as the door started to splinter from within. Soon it would burst open, letting the flames and smoke flood the room.

Henry was fully standing now, balanced on the windowsill. Looking up, he saw the overhang of the roof, just within arm’s reach. He stretched out a hand, his fingertips scraping along a shingle before slipping off.

The sudden movement threw off his balance, and for a terrifying second Henry thought he was going to tumble from the window ledge. He grabbed the rainspout that hung from the roof, bending it as he tried to regain his composure.

Below him, the room was quickly filling with smoke. It puffed out the open window in gray tendrils that twisted around his body. It was hotter down there, too. Henry could feel the heat from the fire on his legs and feet.

He reached for the roof again, the palm of his hand pressing into the stubble of the shingles. This time, his fingers stayed. Now his right hand was on the roof. His left still gripped the edge of the window.

It was now or never.

Henry took a deep breath as he let go of the window frame. He raised his left hand above his head, reaching for the roof. He touched it, slipped, touched it again. Now he was stretched over the open window like a shade that had been pulled tight—both hands on the roof, both feet on the windowsill.

A loud crash echoed through the room. The door. Finally giving way and sending a blast of hot air rushing toward him. Henry pulled himself upward, legs now dangling, as a tide of fire and smoke rolled past him out the window.

Grunting from the exertion, his arms burning as hard as the fire below him, Henry kept pulling until his head and shoulders were above the edge of the roof. With one last push, he propelled himself higher, leaning forward until his chest was flat against the shingles. With legs kicking and arms clawing, he scrambled fully onto the pitched roof.

He had made it.

He was, at least for a minute or two, out of harm’s way.

*

Just like the night before, the street was a rush of activity. The fire trucks had screeched to a halt in front of the Sleepy Hollow Inn. The sidewalk across the street teemed with onlookers. Oblivious drivers turning onto the road were blocked by Carl Bauersox on one side and Tony Vasquez on the other. The motorists tried to backtrack, doing awkward three-point turns in the middle of the street while dodging more cars that turned on to it. Standing amid the chaos, staring at the fire in rapt disbelief, was Kat Campbell.

Watching the flames dance behind the hotel’s windows, Kat could only think about the words of warning scrawled on Constance’s hand. Had she known there’d be another fire? Is this why she’d written them? Kat doubted she’d ever know for sure, but it was something to consider. Especially now that the Sleepy Hollow Inn was ablaze, its owner a numb figure standing alone in the middle of the street.

“It’s gone,” Lottie Scott cried to no one and everyone. “All gone.”

Kat joined her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. But it was cold comfort. Lottie’s pride and joy—and Perry Hollow’s only hotel—was a goner, no matter how fast the fire squad put the blaze out.

As they worked to douse the flames, Kat tried to count their ranks, seeing if Danny Batallas was among them. But they were moving so fast, and the scene was so chaotic, that she couldn’t keep track. She found herself counting the same firefighter twice or mistaking one for another. The only person she recognized without a doubt was Dutch Jansen, who led the charge as they unleashed water onto the burning hotel.

Remembering what Larry Sheldon had told her, Kat also kept an eye on the steadily growing crowd. Once again, she recognized a lot of them. Dave and Betty Freeman, no doubt rattled by two fires on their street in less than twelve hours, held hands and exchanged worried looks. The four remaining members of the historical society stood side by side, watching flames consume yet another Perry Hollow landmark.

Scanning the throng, Kat caught a flash of blond hair in the middle of the crowd. It vanished behind a cluster of onlookers, only to reappear a moment later farther down the street, away from the crowd.

Kat left Lottie’s side and pushed into the crowd, again losing sight of the man. She only found him once she was also beyond the wall of bystanders. She couldn’t make out a face—the person was, strangely enough, looking away from the fire—but she could tell that the blond hair belonged to a man. It was pulled into a ponytail and trickled down his neck to a black-collared trench coat.

“Stop right there!”

Although she could have been shouting at anyone, the man in the ponytail knew she was talking to him.

“You in the ponytail! Stop walking and stay where you are!”

The man started to run, his trench coat flapping behind him. Kat gave chase, trying hard to keep up with the stranger. But he was taller and he was faster. The man seemed to realize this as he glanced back to see her receding figure. A smile crossed his face—a smug one that would have infuriated Kat had she not seen Nick Donnelly standing a few feet up the street. When the man reached him, Nick thrust his cane into the street.

The stranger, caught by surprise, tripped over it. He fell to the asphalt, arms thrust forward, trench coat billowing over him.

Nick pressed the tip of his cane in the center of the man’s back. “The chief told you to stop.”

Kat caught up to them and flipped the man over. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before—white shirt, black pants, weird buckled shoes. But as he sat up, his coal-black eyes were wide with fear.

“What the hell are you doing?” he yelped, looking first at Kat, then Nick. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t stop when she told you to,” Nick said.

“That’s not a crime.”

“It is when I’m the police chief,” Kat said, angrily tapping her badge. “Now I need to see some ID.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

Kat knelt until she was eye level with the stranger. “Do you see my face? Does it look like I’m kidding?”

The man had scraped his hands during the fall. He looked down at his palms, which were speckled with dirt and blood. Wincing, he reached into his coat and pulled out a wallet. He opened it and held it out so Kat could see the driver’s license inside.

According to the license, the man’s name was Connor Hawthorne. He was twenty-seven and hailed from Salem, Massachusetts. Yet none of that explained what he was doing in Perry Hollow.

“Here for a visit?” Kat asked.

“Work, actually.”

“And what kind of work is that?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” Connor Hawthorne climbed to his feet, trying to wipe dirt from his trench coat but smearing it with blood instead. “I’m an American citizen. I have rights, you know.”

“You do,” Kat said. “But as police chief of this town, I have the right to question people I find suspicious. So let’s just save both of us a whole lot of trouble and tell me what kind of work brought you to Perry Hollow.”

Connor tilted his head and smiled. It was the same smug grin he had given earlier, only now it made Kat more unnerved than infuriated. Everything about Mr. Hawthorne was slightly unsettling, from the razor-sharp cheekbones to his too dark eyes.

“I’m a witch,” he said.

Nick let out an incredulous laugh. “Don’t you mean warlock?”

“There’s no such thing as a warlock,” Connor said, his voice a strange brew of defensiveness and annoyance. “Besides, men can be witches. It’s not gender-specific.”

“Thanks for the lesson,” Kat replied. “What does it have to do with my town?”

“Unless you’re going to arrest me, I don’t have to say another word.”

Patience wasn’t Kat’s strong suit, especially when she could tell the mysterious Mr. Hawthorne was hiding something. Yet he was right. He didn’t have to tell them anything, even if she did arrest him. Which she couldn’t do.

“I have no grounds to arrest you. At least not because you’re a witch.”

“I know,” Connor said. “Isn’t freedom of religion a bitch?”

And so was the fact that Kat couldn’t slap cuffs on him simply for being an asshole. But she didn’t have a choice. She was obliged to let him go.

“Mr. Hawthorne, I don’t trust you. And I’m going to keep an eye on you. So whatever brought you here, you better stay on your best behavior. Do I make myself clear?”

Connor wasn’t allowed to answer. A scream—short and startled—echoed up the street, cutting him off. It was followed by a collective gasp rising from the crowd. Kat, too far away to see what was happening, took a few steps forward, straining to get a better view. After a few more shuffles down the street, she saw what the crowd was looking at.

It was a man. Staggering along the roof of the Sleepy Hollow Inn. Vanishing and reappearing in the wafting smoke.

“Oh, my God,” Kat said. “It’s Henry.”

*

The roof was hot, close to scorching. Henry felt it through the soles of his shoes, which were slowly melting. They stuck to the shingles—also melting—and caused him to stumble awkwardly. But that was the least of his problems. Now that he was on the roof, Henry had no idea where to go next.

Standing in the center of the roof, he looked to neighboring structures, seeing if one of them was close enough for him to leap to safety. The nearest one, a residence by the looks of it, was at least ten yards away. Definitely not within jumping distance.

He backtracked, heading up the pitched roof until he was at the very top. There was more support there, which would come in handy if the roof started to cave in. Judging from the increasing heat and the roar of the flames inside the hotel, that would be sooner rather than later.

His perch gave him a view of the opposite side of the street, where it looked like most of Perry Hollow had gathered. Some stared up in openmouthed shock. Others couldn’t bear to look. A small group formed a circle of joined hands, their heads bowed.

They were praying, Henry realized. Praying for him.

He recognized two of the people standing in the crowd—Kat Campbell and Nick Donnelly. They were shouting something he couldn’t hear, gesturing wildly in ways he couldn’t understand. Kat was especially emphatic, waving her arms toward the right side of the roof.

Following her flailing arms, Henry saw the top of a ladder rise into view. A second later, a firefighter appeared, clinging to the top rungs.

“Come on!” he shouted. “Hurry!”

Henry bolted across the roof, trying hard not to lose his balance, trying even harder not to notice the sounds of collapsing wood getting louder from within the hotel. He willfully ignored the smoke that seemed to rise between the shingles like vapor from a steam grate. All he noticed was the ladder. If he reached it, he’d be safe.

Having made it across the roof, he now had to descend its slope. It was a tricky proposition. The angle was steep, and his increasingly gummy shoes made it even harder to navigate. Henry’s first instinct was to sit down and slide toward the ladder. He dismissed the thought quickly. If the heat radiating off the roof was turning his shoes to liquid, imagine what it would do to his pants. No, he needed to descend on foot.

Henry started down the roof, walking with his legs widened, arms extended for balance.

The firefighter on the ladder frantically waved for him to move faster. “We don’t have much time, man!”

Henry tried to pick up the pace. He was halfway down the side of the roof, slipping a little but remaining upright. The firefighter began to descend the ladder, making room for him to climb on.

“Just get to the ladder,” Henry muttered under his breath. “Be fast. Don’t fall. Just get—”