Devil's Night (36 page)

“Why did he believe you?”

“Because I was his boss,” Burt said. “In more ways than one. As mayor, I could make him a full-time, paid firefighter. Not that he needed much convincing. He was very willing to help out. So eager.”

“You told him to meet you here, didn’t you? At a little before one.”

“Yes,” Burt said. “I told him I was trying to clear his name.”

And when the firefighter arrived, Burt and his weapon of choice were waiting for him. Poor, naïve Danny Batallas. He fell for every lie that had been fed to him. Now he was dead. The fact that another life had been lost in her town, under her watch, made Kat burn with anger.

“And all of this was for Perry Hollow?” she said. “The fires. The deaths. None of it had anything to do with you and your career?”

Burt pursed his lips, pretending that he had never thought about it before. “Yes, this will change things for me, too. Cement my reputation. Maybe take me from being a lawn-mower salesman and mayor to something bigger.”

“Like the state legislature,” Kat suggested. “Or the governor’s office.”

She was certain that’s what had been going through Burt’s mind when he started fire after fire. And it gave Kat even more reason to despise him.

“There was a baby in that library,” she said. “And his mother, who is most likely dead by now.”

Her anger had reached full boil and was spreading from her chest to all points of her body. Her heartbeat pounded inside her head. Her index finger twitched on the Glock’s trigger, aching to squeeze it.

“Her blood is on your hands, Burt. So is Danny’s. So is Constance’s.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Chief. I swear. I was just going to start a fire in the library’s basement. But when I got inside, I heard voices. I didn’t know what to do. I got scared.”

So he blew the place up, almost killing them all. He was no better than the bastards who had killed Rebecca Bradford and her family, and it took all the willpower Kat possessed not to shoot him dead on the spot. He certainly deserved it. But she was better than that. Better than
him
.

“The ironic thing, Burt, is that Constance located Rebecca Bradford’s remains. Her skeleton is in police custody. More people know about her. Lots more. They know what happened on that land. All those deaths. And I have a feeling that at this very moment, Mr. Fanelli is looking for a new place to build your precious casino.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Kat said. “I saw the bones. I saw Rebecca’s grave and we’ll find the others. The secret’s out, and everything you did today—all that death and waste—was for nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

But he did. He believed every word. Kat could tell by the way his fearful eyes glinted in the flashlight’s glow. He resembled an animal, wild and afraid, caught in a hunter’s spotlight. And he acted the same way a terrified animal would.

He pounced.

He lunged toward her without warning—a beast bursting out of the shadows. Kat raised her Glock and fired off one unsteady shot. It missed, clearing his shoulder and allowing him to shove her toward the massive church bell behind her. The railing around the bell broke apart easily, splintering against her legs. Chunks of wood fell through the hole in the floor beneath the bell, dropping to the tower’s ground floor.

Burt continued to push until she was against the bell itself, which rocked from the force of the collision. It rang once—a deep, vibrating tone that filled the tower.

The bell soon rocked in the other direction, now pushing Kat forward. She tried to fire her Glock again, but Burt grabbed her wrist and thrust it upward, her arm jerked over her head. Her knuckles banged against the bell, pain shooting through her hand, her fingers opening against their will.

The Glock slipped away, knocking against the bell before falling.

Past the bell.

Through the hole in the floor.

All the way down to the bottom of the tower.

The bell shifted again, rocking backward this time, moving away from Kat and leaving nothing to support her. Her arms whirled frantically, trying to keep her balance, trying to keep herself from falling through the gaping hole. Kat glanced down, seeing the rope dangling from the bell, tracing its path eight stories to the ground.

She was going to fall. She knew it. Felt it in every panicked bone of her body.

But then the bell rocked forward again, reconnecting with her back, pushing her toward Burt Hammond. Kat swung the flashlight, slamming it against Burt’s skull. The flashlight ricocheted off his head, its beam streaking the ceiling.

She tried again, but Burt blocked the blow with an upraised arm. He pressed his free hand against her face. Pushing backward. Smashing her nose. Reducing her vision to blurry slits between his fingers. Then he shoved. Hard.

The back of Kat’s head slammed into the bell. Her mind went black. So did her vision. They were eclipsed by an explosion of pain. Kat’s legs buckled and her arms dropped to her sides. She was vaguely aware of the flashlight slipping from her fingers, just as the Glock had done.

Meanwhile, Burt’s hand still pressed against her face. He shoved her head into the bell a second time. Another detonation of pain. Another dulling of the senses.

Kat’s legs collapsed beneath her, pitching her forward. Burt backed away and let her drop. She fell hard. Face-first. Her chest taking the brunt of the blow and knocking most of the air out of her lungs.

Then Burt was upon her again, flipping her onto her back with the ease of someone handling a rag doll. That’s what Kat felt like. An inanimate object. Hollow. With neither a brain nor bones. When Burt leaped on top of her, it dislodged what little breath she had left.

He sat on her chest, his weight pressing against her ribs, pinning her to the floor. His legs clamped around her, locking her arms in place. Kat’s kicks, weak and futile, did nothing to dislodge him.

“I don’t want to do this, Kat,” he said. “I don’t. But it’s too late now.”

His hand crept into her field of vision. It was clenched into a fist, except for the thumb, which pointed upward. In the center of the fist was a simple cigarette lighter. With one click, a flame appeared.

“You’ll die a hero,” Burt said. “I’ll make sure of that. When they find you and Danny, they’ll know that he started the fires and that you died trying to stop him.”

He moved the lighter toward her. The flame danced just inches from Kat’s face. Coming closer. And closer.

“We’ll mourn you, Kat. I promise. You’ll be remembered.”

Kat shut her eyes. She couldn’t watch anymore. Couldn’t see the moment of contact. Instead, for the second time that day, she pictured James. If this was how she was going to die, she wanted her last thought to be of her son. Not of fear. Or fire. Or pain.

Memories flooded her brain. The positive pregnancy test that at the time was the last thing she wanted. His crimson face as he emerged, wailing, from her womb. Him as a baby, a toddler, the boy he was now, the man he’d eventually become.

Kat was still picturing James when she felt the fire. It was on her left shoulder—an instant and intense heat that made her eyes snap open. Looking down, she saw the flames rising off her uniform, eating away at the fabric, biting into her flesh with white-hot teeth. The pain was unbearable. The sight was worse.

The fire grew with terrifying speed. It quickly spread down her sleeve and roared toward her collar. Every inch of progress created more agonizing pain.

Kat wanted to close her eyes again, but she saw that Burt had moved the lighter to her right shoulder.

Another click.

Another sudden leap of flame.

In a second it would be pressed against her uniform, creating another fire. A few seconds after that, she’d be engulfed. A scream formed in Kat’s throat, begging to be released. She swallowed it down, summoning words instead.

“Stop,” she grunted. “I won’t tell. I swear.”

Burt halted, wondering if he should believe her.

“You’re right,” Kat said. “This will save the town. I know it will.”

Burt moved his thumb away from the lighter. The flame vanished.

The fire at Kat’s shoulder, however, continued to burn.

Getting larger.

Burning hotter.

Searing her skin so badly that tears leaked from her eyes.

Burt shifted with doubt. Not much but enough to give Kat room to move. She lifted her shoulder slightly. Close enough for the flames consuming her uniform to leap to the sleeve of Burt’s shirt. It ignited quickly, the cuff flaring like a candle’s wick.

Seeing the flames, Burt rolled off her, trying to pat the fire out with his hands. Kat, arms now free, did the same, desperately slapping an open palm against her shoulder. When that didn’t work, she tore at the uniform, ripping it open and yanking it from her body. Once it was off, she rolled on top of it, smothering the remaining flames.

Kat then moved toward the door, dragging herself across the floor. Her shoulder, raw and throbbing, still felt like it was on fire, slowing her progress.

Burt, realizing he had been fooled, rushed toward her. He had grabbed the iron next to Danny and was holding it aloft, arm trembling from the weight, a snarl on his face. It was how he must have looked right before killing Constance. And Danny. Now it was Kat’s turn, and even if she beat him to the door, he’d surely overtake her at the top of the stairs.

Crawling even faster, Kat spotted the bucket a few inches away. She stretched for it, her fingers curled around the lip of the bucket. She yanked it toward her, gasoline splashing her hands.

Burt was upon her now. Standing over her.

Kat got a hand under the bucket.

She lifted it.

She tossed.

The gasoline rained down on Burt in a full-on assault that soaked his face, his hair, his clothes. He stumbled backward in shock, the iron dropping from his grip. Kat also fell back, gasping with fear and exhaustion. She dropped the bucket.

“Try using that lighter now,” she said.

Burt sat down, sopping wet. Gasoline dripped from his body and spread across the floor. It pooled beneath him and rolled toward all four corners of the bell tower.

“It’s over, Burt,” Kat said. “Give up.”

But Burt had no intention of doing that. Kat could tell by the way he looked to the shadowy corners and saw the propane tanks sitting in each one of them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t.”

He was still holding the lighter. It poked out of his clenched fist, now as deadly and explosive as the stick of dynamite he had used earlier.

“Burt, stop!” Kat froze in the doorway, too scared to move. “It’s not worth it.”

But Burt Hammond had already made up his mind. All fear had left his eyes. In its place was the dim light of defeat. Life as he knew it was over. His grand plan wouldn’t happen. He’d be tried for three murders and four arsons. He would die in jail.

To Kat, he looked like someone who knew he was doomed. Someone who thought it would be easier if he just ended his life right then and there, taking her with him.

She started inching backward through the door, toward the tower’s stairs. It didn’t matter how close she got. If Burt lit himself on fire, she wouldn’t make it out alive. The entire bell tower would explode in seconds.

“Please, Burt,” she begged. “Don’t do this.”

Burt closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kat. Forgive me.”

He lifted a trembling thumb to the top of the lighter. He pressed down, ready to spin it to life.

A gunshot cut him off.

The single report blasted through the bell tower. Kat recognized the sound. She’d know it anywhere. It was a Glock.

Her Glock.

In an instant, Burt was flat-backed on the floor, a bullet hole the size of a dime in the middle of his forehead. The lighter sat beside him. Kat slid across the floor toward it, brushing it aside, pushing it straight into the chasm beneath the church bell, where it could do no more damage.

She then looked to the doorway, seeing Henry Goll emerge from the darkness of the stairwell. In his hands was the Glock she had dropped.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I think so.”

Kat didn’t know for sure. Her shoulder hurt like hell, and her head still throbbed. That, coupled with exhaustion and the fact that she had almost died for the second time that day, left her brain feeling like cotton candy. But she could sit up, which was good. Standing, however, might be more of a problem.

“How’s Deana?” she asked, trying to push herself off the floor.

The brief shake of Henry’s head told her everything she needed to know. Deana was gone, and the news caused Kat to drop back to the floor.

“I’m so sorry, Henry,” she said. “I truly am.”

Wordlessly, Henry stepped into the bell tower. He spent a brief moment surveying the scene—two corpses, propane tanks and all—before helping Kat to her feet. She couldn’t stand on her own, relying on Henry for support. It was a role reversal from their night in the burning mill a year earlier. Then, Kat had done the heavy lifting.

As they started the long descent down the stairs, the sirens of approaching emergency vehicles rose outside. The state police, arriving at last. Only that didn’t make any sense.

Kat turned to Henry. “How did you get here?”

“A new friend.”

She realized who he was talking about when they emerged from the church. Parked outside was a red Volkswagen Beetle. Standing next to it was Lucy Meade.

“Thank God you’re okay,” she said, crushing Kat with a hug so enthusiastic that it made everything hurt even more. Kat, though, didn’t mind.

“I was so worried,” Lucy continued. “Are you hurt?”

“Yes, but I’ll live.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

Kat waved away the suggestion, burned shoulder be damned. First, she needed to find Father Ron, remove the handcuffs, and say a few thousand Hail Marys. Then she needed to go home, hug her son, and take a long, hot shower. After that maybe, just maybe, she could finally get some sleep.

“No,” Lucy insisted. “We have to go to the hospital. Tony just called. Nick is awake.”

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