Читать книгу Death Night - Todd Ritter - Страница 9

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 it anymore. Same thing with the scar that ran from ear to chin, intersecting both of his lips in the process.

The others at his lips were more recent, and he still wasn’t used to them. Not even after a year spent studying them in any mirror he could find. The plastic surgeons had managed to save what they could, but it was still clear something horrible had happened to him. His lips were now a series of unsightly bumps, populated with specks of white where the needle and thread had slipped through. When Henry ran his fingertips over them, it felt like he was trying to read Braille.

Tugging on his collar, Henry examined the right side of his neck. His skin was eggshell pale, even after months of living in Italy, and logic dictated that the scar there wouldn’t be as noticeable because of it. But sometimes logic had no place where the human body was concerned, and the scar on his neck was the most visible one of all. It was a bright pink and wider than the others. Even when Henry wore a shirt and tie, it was still visible, a cruel reminder of his past peeking out of his collar.

“Welcome home, Henry,” he muttered to his reflection. “Hopefully you’ll leave in better shape than you did last time.”