Death Night

by Ritter, Todd

“Witchcraft in America.”

  “Who’s the author?”

  “Hawthorne. Connor Hawthorne.”

  Deana resumed her tapping, entering the information. When she clicked the mouse, the computer made a slight beep.

  “Found it. There’s one copy in circulation.”

  Henry’s eyes were still on Adam, watching intently as he fell back to sleep. He could see the baby drift deeper into slumber, each part of his body succumbing one by one. His legs grew still. His head tilted to the left. The last thing to go was his right hand, which slipped away from Henry’s finger before dropping to his side.

  Certain that Adam was sound asleep, Henry crept away from the carrier. “Who last took it out?”

  “It doesn’t say,” Deana said. “I’ll have to scan the actual book to find that out. Let me check the stacks.”

  She stepped away from the desk, moving toward one of the towering bookshelves behind it. Henry remained where he was, trying to keep an eye on both Deana, moving deeper into the stacks, and Adam. He didn’t want either of them to leave his sight. At least not until Kat returned. Yet Deana was already beyond his field of vision, heading toward the end of the row.

  “Did you find the book yet?”

  Deana’s voice echoed through the canyon of shelves. “Not yet. It’s nonfiction, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t see it,” Deana said. “I’m right at the spot where it should be located, but it’s not there.”

  Henry looked away from the stacks—it was pointless, really, since he could no longer see Deana—and back to the table. Adam was motionless inside the carrier, still fast asleep. The baby’s presence tugged at Henry, making him edge away from the circulation desk to be closer by just a few inches.

  Behind him, he heard Deana riffling through shelved books. Eventually, she said, “Got it! It was on the wrong shelf. I’ll have to tease Doreen about her stacking skills tomorrow.”

  She emerged from the stacks cradling a book against her chest. One glance at the cover—a painting of a woman being burned at the stake—told Henry that she had indeed found the right book.

  Deana approached the circulation desk. “Now, let’s see who had this out last.”

  When she scanned the book, the computer beeped—a brief burst of noise in the otherwise silent library.

  “Huh,” Deana said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t recognize this name.”

  She scanned the book again, setting off another beep from the computer. A second later, another, different noise shot into the library. Footsteps. Fast ones that were loud enough to make Henry and Deana both look to the front of the room. Even Adam reacted, squirming awake and letting out another frightened wail. Just beneath it, a noise within a noise, were the footsteps, getting louder.

  They belonged to Kat Campbell and the state trooper stationed outside. Both women burst into the room, guns drawn.

  “You need to get out of here,” Kat said. “Right now.”

  Henry and Deana both did the opposite. They froze.

  “What’s going on?” Henry asked.

  “Someone else is in the building,” Kat said.

  Deana gasped. “The arsonist?”

  “I’m not sure. But I don’t want you in here when I find out.”

  Henry heard more footsteps. Different ones. Faster and louder than the previous ones. They erupted from the passageway that circled the stacks, echoing off the bookshelves, making it hard to pinpoint their location. They seemed to be nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  Then they vanished, just as suddenly as they had arrived. Replacing them was an earsplitting siren that filled the library.

  The emergency exit’s alarm.

  “The back door!” Kat shouted, nudging the trooper forward before following after her.

  The two cops sprinted toward the closest row of shelves, disappearing through them on their way toward the back door. Deana edged away from the desk, standing at the threshold of the stacks. Henry remained where he was, not sure what to do or where to go. The alarm stopped briefly, signaling the exit was now closed again. Which meant the arsonist was outside. Which meant they should stay inside. Then it started up again, telling Henry that either Kat had left the building or that the arsonist had again entered.

  He looked left to Adam squirming and shrieking in his carrier. Then he looked right, to Deana, who had turned to watch Kat’s swift retreat.

  “We need a plan,” he said. “Any ideas?”

  Deana didn’t move. Standing rigidly between the two bookshelves, she seemed focused on something farther down the row.

  “Henry,” she said with terrifying urgency, “take the baby.”

  Henry had returned to the circulation desk, using it to push himself higher until he could see past Deana to what she was staring at. It was a bright glow located a few yards from her feet, shooting off white-hot sparks. At first, Henry thought it was a Fourth of July sparkler, burning itself out on the floor.

  Before he could even ask himself why it was there, he realized that it wasn’t a sparkler.

  It was a stick of dynamite.

  And there was no way Deana was going to get around that desk before it went off.

  “Go, Henry!” she shouted. “Now!”

  Henry pushed off the desk and ran as fast as he could to the baby. He didn’t stop as he grabbed the carrier by its handle, scooping it off the table as he continued toward the front hallway. The carrier swung back and forth, the motion making Adam cry even more. Henry ignored it. He had to.

  On his way through the door, he allowed himself one last look at Deana. It was brief. A fraction of a second. Just long enough to see her leaping over the desk, following him out of the library.

  “I’m right behind you!” she yelled. “Keep Adam safe!”

  Henry faced forward again, plunging into the library’s front hallway. His thoughts evaporated as his mind sharpened, taking in only what he needed to. He didn’t hear the sound of his shoes pounding the hallway tile. Nor did he feel the carrier secure in his clenched hand. He was only focused on the door ahead of him.

  It was open.

  Waiting for him.

  Just a few feet away.

  Behind him, the dynamite exploded.

  Henry didn’t hear it. His entire system—brain, ears, nerves—wasn’t wired to take in something so unearthly loud. They shut down immediately, leaving him deaf to the sound of the explosion obliterating everything behind him.

  Instead, he felt it.

  The force of the blast shoved him forward, an invisible army of hands propelling him down the hall as his surroundings crumbled around him. The floor seemed to fall away. The walls turned to dust. The ceiling, broken into chunks, rained down on him.

  Then Henry was out the door, still being pushed. He flew down the front steps so fast his feet barely touched them.

  Once on the sidewalk, he fell forward, having just enough time to clutch the carrier to his chest. Adam was inside. Still writhing. Still shrieking.

  Henry felt him press against his stomach as he continued to tumble.

  Off the sidewalk.

  Into the street.

  Past Kat’s car, its horn blaring.

  As soon as he stopped tumbling, Henry started dragging himself toward the car. The carrier was below him, scraping on the asphalt. He no longer heard Adam. He no longer heard anything. His ears were ringing—an insistent buzz that he just wanted to end.

  He was at Kat’s car now, forcing himself to sit up. He propped himself against the passenger-side door, unconcerned about his own possible injuries, and pulled the carrier away from his body. Adam was inside, face crimson from crying. But he was moving. Which was good. And he wasn’t bleeding. Also good.

  Henry removed Adam from the carrier, checking even closer for signs of injury. Convinced that his son was unharmed, he clutched the baby to his chest and turned around. He peered over the hood of the car, squinting ag
ainst the dust pouring out of the library’s front door, trying to spot Deana emerging through the haze.

  She wasn’t there.

  MIDNIGHT

  Kat pried herself off the street, face-first, the skin on her cheek sticking slightly to the asphalt. That was from the blood that smeared her face. Her knee was also bleeding. She felt it—moist and throbbing. Cool air rushed through her torn pants, stinging the wound.

  She and Hicks had just sprinted out of the alley behind the library when it exploded. The blast—sudden and deafening—threw them into the middle of the side street that led to Main. She remained there, still not believing what had just happened while simultaneously thanking her lucky stars she hadn’t been closer to the library itself when it did. Large chunks of stone and concrete surrounded her. Smaller ones trickled out of her hair. All around her, loose pages of scorched books fluttered to the ground like dying butterflies.

  Flat on her stomach, she managed to move her arms. Similar to the rest of her body, they were numb and sluggish—like quickly drying cement. Still, she pushed herself onto her knees, the wounded one throbbing even more. Then she climbed to her feet.

  Trooper Hicks was already up, trying to find her balance on unsteady legs. She looked as battered as Kat felt. Uniform torn. Scrapes picking through the gaps in the fabric. Twin drips of blood leaked from the corners of her mouth, making her look like a vampire after a fresh kill.

  “You hurt, Hicks?” Kat asked.

  The trooper didn’t reply. She was too busy staring wide-eyed at the large hole that dominated the wall of the library. It looked like a plane had smashed through it, Kat thought. For all she knew, that’s what could have happened. It had certainly sounded like a plane crash. A chunk of the building’s roof was also gone, providing an escape route for the dust and smoke swirling inside.

  Kat knew of only one thing that could have caused such destruction.

  The dynamite taken from the museum had finally been used.

  Then another thought shot into her head—Henry had still been inside the library.

  And Deana.

  And the baby she was certain both had parented.

  Kat ran toward Main Street. Her legs resisted, especially the left one. But she forced them to move, picking up speed as she rounded the front of the library. There was less damage there than in the back. The walls, although cracked, were still intact. Dust coated the street, pushed through the front doors. Her Crown Vic, parked in front of them, had been turned an ashen gray. Jostled by the blast, its horn blared steadily, like a monotone siren.

  And standing beside it was Henry, the baby against his chest.

  “Thank God,” Kat said, repeating it over and over as she limped toward them. “Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.”

  Henry, neither seeing nor hearing her, stumbled toward the library. “Deana!” he shouted. “Say something if you can hear me!”

  Kat grabbed his arm, shaking him to attention. “She didn’t make it out?”

  “No.” Henry pulled away from her. He was growing agitated, worry making his movements jerky and rough. “She said she’d be right behind me.”

  He moved closer to the library, dust raining down on him. In his arms, the baby was crying. Loud, terrified wails that eclipsed the sound of the Crown Vic’s horn.

  “I have to find her,” Henry said. “I have to help her. She could still be alive.”

  Kat looked to the library’s gaping doors. Dust still swirled around inside, haunting the interior like restless ghosts. It was clear Henry wanted to rush inside. Only the baby prevented him from doing so. Kat knew she’d have to go in. And soon, if there was any hope of finding Deana alive.

  Turning from the library, she surveyed Main Street. The blast had roused most of the town, and the first bystanders were appearing, shuffling zombielike into the streets. Kat recognized many of them, their faces growing ashen from both shock and dust. Lucia Trapani stood just outside Maison D’Avignon, teetering unsteadily on her heels. Claude Dobson, out of his suit and into a pair of pajamas, stopped in the dead center of the street, arms limp at his sides.

  “Call an ambulance!” Kat barked. “Now!”

  Behind Claude, sprinting to the scene from the police station, were two welcome faces—Carl Bauersox and Randall Stroup.

  Kat waved them over. “There’s someone still in there. Help me find her.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. They’d either follow her into the library or they wouldn’t. But Kat was going in, no matter what.

  Yet both men trailed her up the library’s front steps and through the door. Inside, visibility was zero, thanks to the dust, and breathing was hard. Kat fumbled for her flashlight with one hand and covered her nose and mouth with the other. Breathing through the spaces between her fingers, she started off down the hallway.

  The floor had mostly been turned to rubble, making it difficult to walk. Kat moved slowly, occasionally swinging the flashlight to the walls and ceiling to make sure they, too, weren’t on the verge of crumbling. They seemed stable enough. Kat hoped they stayed that way.

  She called over her shoulder to the two men behind her. “Keep an eye out, guys. She could be anywhere.”

  They kept going, Kat in front, constantly sweeping the flashlight. Back and forth. Up and down. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling. When they reached the hall’s halfway point, the beam of light caught something in its glow—a flash of white on the floor. Kat held the light steady, inching forward to get a better view.

  What she saw was a hand.

  A tilt of the flashlight revealed the arm the hand was attached to and a bit of shoulder. Another tilt illuminated the bloody and blackened face of Deana Swan.

  “I see her!”

  Kat surged forward, tripping over debris, until she was kneeling next to Deana. She grabbed her hand and felt for a pulse. One existed, although it was faint—the product of a heart on the verge of giving up.

  “Deana, it’s Chief Campbell. I’m going to get you out of this.”

  Deana didn’t open her eyes. Kat wasn’t even sure if she could. There was a large gash over the right one, oozing blood. More blood trickled from a wound on her forehead and flowed freely from both nostrils.

  But she could speak, and a single word escaped her dust-coated lips.

  “Adam.”

  “He’s safe,” Kat told her. “Henry has him.”

  Carl and Randall had caught up to them and were now on either side of Deana, sweeping rubble away from her body. From the open door, Kat heard the wail of an ambulance. Help was on its way.

  “We’re going to get you out of here in a minute,” Kat said. “You’ll be fine.”

  Deana coughed. A clot of blood came with it, sticking to her bottom lip. She then moaned slightly before trying to speak again.

  Kat put a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk. Just stay still.”

  Deana persisted, each word riding out on a rattling gasp. “The. Book.”

  The ambulance had at last arrived. Kat heard it screech to a halt just beyond the door.

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  Deana attempted to shake her head. Kat, fearing movement would make her condition worse, pressed a hand to her forehead to keep her still.

  “Ronald. Bradford.”

  “Is that a friend?” Kat asked, confused. “Do you want us to contact him?”

  Another cough from Deana. Another horrifying surge of blood. It bubbled out of the corner of her mouth as she continued to speak.

  “The book,” she whispered. “He had the book.”

  A trio of paramedics stormed into the library, shooing Carl and Randall out of the way first. Kat kept hold of Deana for as long as she could, hoping her touch would provide some small bit of comfort, praying that it wouldn’t be the last time they spoke to each other. But when a paramedic pried her away, Kat had no choice but to leave.

  “Ronald Bradford,” she said, stumbling toward the door. “I don’t know who that is.”


  But deep down, Kat did. Only that wasn’t the name she knew him by. And as she left the library, crossing the threshold from one area of chaos to another, Kat knew exactly where to find him.

  It was shock.

  It had to be.

  That was the only explanation Henry could come up with for what he was going through. His body was numb from head to foot, creating the disturbing sensation that he didn’t exist at all. He couldn’t feel anything. Not the thrumming of his heart or the baby in his hands. Every two seconds he looked down just to make sure that Adam was still in his grasp and that he hadn’t dropped him without realizing it. When people touched him—Kat, Carl Bauersox, a concerned paramedic—it took Henry a moment to realize they were doing it.

  With the sense of touch momentarily gone, Henry’s other senses were aflame with alertness. He smelled everything. The smoke. The cordite. The mildewed scent of old books pushed into the street. His eyes seemed to pick up every dust particle, every chunk of rubble, every smear of blood. When the paramedics emerged from the library carrying Deana on a stretcher, the blood was so bright that Henry had to look away.

  This sensory overload continued as he and Adam were led to the back of an ambulance with Deana. Each sound was as loud as a trumpet’s blare. The ambulance was so sterile that Henry could taste the disinfectant.

  Still, he was physically numb, even when the ambulance started rocketing toward the hospital and the paramedics shoved him out of the way. It was like an out-of-body experience, with him floating over the action, witnessing everything but feeling nothing.

  It was the same emotionally. He should have been feeling everything, deeply and forcefully. Fear should have pumped from his heart and coursed through his veins. Relief should have been present, too—a deep, blessed thankfulness that he and his son were, for the most part, unharmed. But there was nothing.

  Henry assumed this was his mind’s way of processing all that had happened. He had almost been killed. So had the son he barely knew.

  Then there was the devastating but undeniable fact that Deana was dying. Henry could tell that from the way she looked. From the frantic attempts of the paramedics to stabilize her. From the words they used, which blasted into his brain. Severe trauma. Crushed chest. Weakened pulse.