SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  Joey imagined he could see his friend below, shivering in his cold tomb. “Jason?” he whispered. “Are you down there?” He listened hard. “You can start haunting me any time, man. I don’t mind. Just… bang the metal or something. Come on. You can do it.” Joey touched the grille. “What’s wrong, man? Are you pissed off at me? Mad because we never found your body?” His voice caught in his throat. “I put up a memorial wall. We didn’t get many cards though. I’m sorry. You haven’t been going to school here long enough I guess… Hadn’t.

  “I looked for you the other night. In the cemetery. In the dark. By myself. God, this firefly scared the shit out of me. I swear. Followed me all the way back to the chapel. I bought a Ouija board, you know. Just for you. Thirty bucks. And I expect some return on my investment, Casper. So get your shit together.”

  He shifted and leaned against the brick.

  “I’m trying to keep my promise. The day you disappeared, remember? You said if something happened to you I had to keep fighting. So… I’m trying to learn everything I can about, you know, Hessians and the revolution. I’m in Mr. Smolenski’s class now. I dropped my choir elective. That went over well. I was totally holding that group together. One of the altos soaped my car. And my drama class is pissed at me too. But I don’t care. Somebody’s got to stop what’s going on. Kate’s still missing. Zef is useless. He stopped calling finally. Good. Like I need that in my life. And who knows where Valerie is? So it’s up to me, right? What Would Jason Do? I’d put that on a bracelet, but, you know, I’m not a jewelry guy.

  “And my dad keeps asking, ‘What’s wrong, Joe?’ because I didn’t do community theater this summer and I didn’t audition for this year’s Horseman’s Hollow—like I even would—and I’ve been pulling double shifts at the cemetery instead. But how can I tell my dad that I’m trying to keep him alive? The Curse is just waiting for me to let my guard down. I can feel it. Last month this chunk of masonry fell on his hearse. Right through the front window. Left a hole three feet across. Missed him by six inches. Because I wasn’t there to look out for him. I even thought about… quitting school. So I could be at the cemetery full time. But oh, wouldn’t that get me the third degree? I just tell him that I like the work, which I don’t. I hate it. I keep thinking, ‘I could dig this grave in thirty seconds if I could just use my Gift,’ but of course I can’t. Because he’s watching me, like any second I’ll do something… dirt-y.” Joey rolled up a sleeve. “But I’m getting some impressive muscles, if I do say so. Shovel for legs. Wheelbarrow for shoulders. I’m a grave-diggin’ hunk o’ man with a tan that ain’t from a can. No more Joey the Pasty. You like the new color? Rap once for yes. Twice for no. Three times if you think I look like Ricardo Montalban in The Wrath of Khan.” He waited. “Nothing? Then I shall mark you down as undecided.”

  He opened his backpack and pulled out a notebook and pen.

  “Okay! Let’s see what’s on the History Channel. I’ve looked into this Horseman stuff. I got this book on the Hessian soldiers and… it’s really sad. They didn’t want to fight, most of them. They were just farmers—good Lutheran boys who got drafted. The prince of Hesse—that’s in Germany—sold his soldiers to Great Britain like they were slaves. But he didn’t care if his rentboys got killed because he got paid by the dead body. He wanted them to die. ’Cause he’d make more money. That’s just evil. Hadewych should have been prince of Hesse. He’d have excelled at it. Take all those strapping young hotties away from their strapping young hottie wives, stick a gun in their hands, and ship them off to fight the Americans. Who they didn’t hate. They had no beef with us. They just wanted to kill and go home. They were only fighting because they had to. But some Hessians, you know, enjoyed it. Those were some scary guys. I guess that’s how it is in war. Some guys hate to fight, some really enjoy it, and some are like me: they’ve got no choice ’cause they were drafted. I bet the Horseman got off on the whole thing though. I bet he loved it. I bet he was a sick bastard. Probably killed old women and babies and mailmen and—”

  “What are we rehearsing?” A shadow passed over the sun. Lisa Mayfair, Joey’s scene partner from drama class. She had flaming red hair, wore a Gilligan hat and sunglasses, a men’s white dress shirt, and black dance leggings—her usual outfit, which she thought made her look like the diva Elaine Stritch. Her earrings were Greek comedy and tragedy masks. She plopped down, keeping Joey on the comedy side, and reached for the notebook. “Let me see!”

  “I’m not rehearsing.” Joey shoved the book into his backpack.

  “Sounded like you were reading lines.”

  “No. I was just talking to myself.”

  “You were… soliloquizing? Oh. My. Sondheim. That is so weird. It’s a sign. I’ve got chills now. Look at my goose bumps.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She held up jazz hands. “The gods of the theater just smiled on us.”

  “What?”

  “A funny thing happened on the way to the stairwell, my little mermaid.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Promise not to repeat it? This is in the strictest confidence.”

  Joey shrugged and zipped his mouth.

  “I just found out what play we’re doing this fall.”

  “And?”

  “And… who else is prone to soliloquizing?” She waggled her eyebrows. “If you get it.”

  Joey’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

  “Good. You got it.” She grinned. “And you will get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Mrs. Tillotson told me that she picked it just for you. She feels bad because she’s been giving you all the goofy parts—because you’re such a goof—and since you’re a senior…”

  Joey shot to his feet. “I’m playing Hamlet?”

  Lisa stood and put her arms around his neck. “Who else could fill those tights, you big queen? And I’m playing Ophelia. I get to go crazy and drown. It’s total typecasting.” She sank against the brick, one hand pressed to her forehead. “Betrayed by an envious sliver, she fell helplessly, to be snared by her own fantastic garlands, by long purples and dead men’s fingers, until her garments grew heavy with their drink—a poor wretch pulled from her melodious lay to muddy death.”

  “You’re paraphrasing.”

  “Fie on thee. I’m going to kill this role.” She grabbed his wrist, pulling him up the stairs. “I’ve got scripts for us. It’s not the full version. They cut out the boring parts.”

  “Two seconds.” Joey knelt to retrieve his tray and backpack, grinning for the first time in months. But as he stood, he caught a glimpse of the Tappan Zee Bridge in the distance. He froze, staring at it.

  “Come inside, sugar,” called Lisa in a sultry southern drawl. “I feel like a cat on a hot tin roof.”

  “I can’t.”

  Her brows knit. “You want to rehearse out here?”

  He faced her. “I can’t… do the play.”

  She approached. “But it’s Hamlet.”

  “I know.”

  Her eyes were wide, her voice flat. “You have dreamed of playing Hamlet since the day I met you. You know every line. You used to make me read Polonius so you could stab me.”

  “I just can’t.”

  She threw up her hands. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What’s the next line?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s the next line?”

  Joey took a deep breath. “Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, be thy intents wicked or charitable, thou comest in such a questionable shape that I will speak to thee.”

  She pointed at his face. “I’ll call thee Hamlet.”

  “I said no.”

  “Why not? We need you. I thought you’d be happy.”

  Joey looked away, toward the bridge. What could he tell her? That he couldn’t put in the rehearsal time? That he had to work at th
e cemetery after school and protect his dad? That he had to chase down the Headless Horseman and avenge his best friend? He didn’t have time to play Hamlet. He was too busy living it. Jason’s ghost hadn’t appeared to him yet, but he knew what it would say: “Revenge my foul and unnatural murder!” Right? If Joey Osorio didn’t do something, who else would? He’d made a promise. He had to keep fighting.

  He wiped his nose, wracked with indecision and guilt. To be or not to be Hamlet. That was the question. With only one answer.

  “You’ll have to find somebody else.”

  Lisa stared at him for so long he thought she might have forgotten her lines. She marched down the steps and stabbed a finger at his face. “What is it with you?”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know how hard I pushed to make this happen?”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. ’Cause I’m your friend. I used to be your best friend. Until Jason. Were you two dating?”

  “No!”

  “Don’t lie. You wouldn’t throw me over for some straight boy.”

  “He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Well, that’s what everybody’s saying.”

  “Go away.”

  “You can’t give up on life just because you’re a widow!”

  “I’m not giving up on life.”

  “Aren’t you? You’ve ditched all of us. Like you’ve got some big secret and we’d all drop dead if we found out.”

  Joey frowned. That was kind of the Great Curse in a nutshell.

  Lisa made sad eyes. “Come on. Remember? We were going to win Tony Awards. You and me.”

  “Lisa… you’re not being much of a friend right now.”

  “But why? You’re seriously turning this down?”

  “Yes.”

  They stared at each other. She looked away, turning the other earring in his direction. The scowling mask of tragedy now. “Fine.” She posed dramatically at the top of the steps. “You’re a lousy actor anyway. We just felt sorry for you. Because of your coma last fall. And because you sit up here and talk to your dead boyfriend at lunch.”

  Joey stared at her, aghast, clutching his backpack across his chest. Where had this come from? Had he hurt her so badly? Why had he ever been friends with her? What did they have in common? Had he ever been that… shallow and narcissistic? He was afraid to know.

  “Besides,” she said, “you’re wrong for the part. We need a prince, not a princess.” She put on her sunglasses and walked away. “Don’t expect comps.”

  Zef stood waiting in front of the trophy case after school. Joey gritted his teeth and forced his brain to stop playing Ethel Merman love songs. Zef was something else he’d given up. Why did Zef have to look so damn cute? He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt, a tie, and a sweater vest. He looked like a missionary trolling for converts. Squeaky clean and smoochable. Joey spun around and stomped in the other direction.

  “What did I do?” Zef whispered, following.

  “Didn’t you quit this school?”

  “Talk to me.”

  Joey stopped. “About what?”

  “Two months you don’t return my calls? Just tell me what I’ve done.”

  “Nothing. You’ve done nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Bupkiss. That’s what you’ve done. What happened to saving your dad, huh? I thought you just needed time to turn him from the dark side. How’s that going?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “No. It’s real simple. He’s a murderer. He’s still on the loose. God knows what else he’s up to. And you’ve done… nothing. Nobody has.”

  “Paul won’t let us.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Zef caught Joey’s elbow and pulled him into the empty seniors’ lounge. Above their heads, a wall mural displayed the Headless Horseman riding with a lantern in one hand and an eco-friendly globe in the other. The stenciled lettering below read:

  Be the change you seek in the world. –Ghandi

  Zef pointed to a chair. Joey sat, arms crossed. Zef sighed. “My mom wanted to have Hadewych arrested for arson. Battery. Anything. I was ready to go along. We still might do it. But we’re under Paul’s roof, and Paul says no. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why? The damn election again?”

  “What happens if my dad—one of Paul’s fundraisers—goes up for attempted murder?”

  “I don’t buy that.”

  “I was almost the man’s son-in-law. He and Hadewych were like that once. He won’t risk it. He’s already hiding Kate’s disappearance.”

  “Do we think she’s dead too?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She has to be. She wouldn’t just blow off senior year.”

  Zef sat on the sofa across from Joey and hung his head. “There’s nothing I can do about my dad. My hands are tied.”

  “Bullshit. You’re just scared of him. Scared little Zef can’t face his daddy.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “He’s looking for you, you know. I see him waiting after school sometimes. Sitting in his car, watching the crowd like some predator. He followed me once, to see if I was meeting you. It was freaky. Have you even gone back for your clothes? No. I see Paul’s been shopping for you.”

  “This is for Hockaday. Everybody wears this.”

  “Right. You’re all put together for your new prep school, where your daddy will never find you. You can’t hide forever, you coward.”

  Zef looked up and scowled. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Plenty.”

  “You’ve changed.”

  “Good for me.” Joey stood and headed for the door. “You haven’t.”

  “Don’t run off. I’m worried about you. You have to let Jason go.”

  “I can’t.”

  “This isn’t healthy.”

  “You just don’t get it.” Joey fought tears. “Look at us! We’re not like other kids.”

  “Keep it down.”

  “Not just that. Not just you and me. All of us. Jason and Kate too. We’re different. We’re way too adult. Haven’t you noticed? Kate’s… jaded. She lived in that house with those people, so it’s no wonder. You had your dad. Pushing you and pushing you. Valedictorian. Top of your class. And look at me.” He spread his hands. “I’m weirder than any of you. What do I have in common with the kids at this school? Nothing. They’re aliens to me. They’re all about selfies and tattoos and pop stars. I should have been born in the forties, you know? Half the songs on my playlist are seventy years old.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Joey raised both fists. “Jason got me.” His eyes were burning. “I don’t know why. Maybe because he was raised by an old lady. I don’t know. But he got me. We met and—boom—friends. Do you have any idea how rare that is? For me? You’re Mr. Popular but I’m… all alone.”

  “You’re not alone.”

  “Yes I am. You know how many kids my own age ever got me? One. He was it. And there’s not going to be a lot more. That’s my life. There are very few people out there who will ever get me. But I’m okay with that, as long as there’s one. And if he’s dead, then I’m alone again. And I can’t get through that. That’s too much.”

  Zef took a step forward, arms raised. “You’re not. Shh. You’re not alone. I get you.”

  “You don’t. You really don’t.”

  “I’m trying.” Zef caught his sleeve. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Yeah,” said Joey, pulling away. “You have. You’ve missed your chance. It got too complicated, to use a word you like, when it should have been simple. All of it.” His voice became flat. “It’s not going to happen, okay? Just leave me… alone.”

  Joey broke away from Zef, slipped into the hall, and closed the door. He walked, eyes on the white and maroon tiles as they passed, trying to be manly about the whole thing, trying to keep his books on his hip like a straight boy. He opened his locker and shoved his books inside. Taped inside the door hung a yellow flyer for his now-def
unct band, Hollow Praise:

  One Night Only

  At the MoonRock Diner

  The flyer for the band’s gig, Easter before last. The night that Zef had come to hear them play. The night they’d kissed in his car. Just the one kiss. Out back, in the parking lot. Joey had saved the flyer as a keepsake. “One Night Only.” Yeah. And that’s all they’d ever have.

  He tore the flyer down and wadded it. Behind it hung a mirror, long forgotten. Joey’s eyes were sad and haunted. He stared at himself as tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Jimmy Puleo, one of the Sleepy Hollow Boys, slapped Joey’s back as he passed, laughing. “Cheer up, fag!”

  Joey froze, his face flushed. The tears came harder. He wanted to crawl into his locker and die.

  BAM!

  “What did you say to him?”

  Joey looked up. Zef had shoved Puleo into a row of lockers and gripped him by the shirt front.

  “Nothing!” Puleo shouted.

  “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Apologize.”

  Puleo hesitated. A small knot of kids had stopped to watch.

  Zef’s face purpled with rage. “I said apologize.”

  Puleo’s eyes flicked to Joey’s. “I’m sorry.”

  “Louder. And take your hat off.” He snatched the knit cap off Puleo’s head and put it in his hands.

  “I’m sorry! Okay?”

  Zef put a finger to the kid’s chest. “His name is Joey. And he’s worth a hundred of you.”

  “Jesus, Zef. Lighten up. I said I was sorry. Hey, Joey, we’re cool, right?”

  Joey shrugged.

  Zef let Puleo go. Puleo slipped away, muttering under his breath. A handful of kids followed after him, whispering behind their hands. But most of the crowd began clapping. Zef looked at them, stunned that so many had taken his side.

  “I didn’t need you to do that,” said Joey when Zef approached.