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

by Gleaves, Richard

  Agathe fell to her knees, scratching. “It’s under the floorboards.”

  “What is?”

  “Here. Rip them up. Rip them up.” She raked fingernails across the dusty wood.

  “Why me? My back hurts.”

  She sneered. “Obey me. Or you’ll know worse pain.”

  Hadewych shrugged. He should try to get on her good side before he asked his favor. If she even had a good side, which he doubted. But he didn’t feel like being a suck-up. Not today. He found a hammer and fought an urge to crack her skull open with it. But that would kill Kate, not Agathe. Besides, his back did hurt—too much to be shoveling tonight. He doffed his jacket and pulled up floorboards while she supervised. A lumber pile grew, slowly revealing the original attic floor, rough-hewn and knotholed.

  Agathe yanked one of the old boards up, revealing a hiding spot. She drew out a black book, slipped it quickly into a pocket, then disinterred a beautiful piece of white and blue Dutch porcelain. Delft, with religious iconography. The bowl had a strange indentation on one side, as if someone had taken a bite out of it. She trembled, brushing dust away. “Papa’s bleeding bowl.” She rose, hugging the bowl to her chest, and fell into the rocking chair, limply, as if exhausted. “Keep working.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” said Hadewych, wiping away a thread of sweat.

  “I’m… weak tonight. The girl is fighting me.”

  “Kate? You said you pushed her into the Spirit World.”

  “I underestimated her. Have no worries. I am far stronger than she is.”

  “But… what if?”

  “What if I lose?” Agathe made a fist. “I am a Van Brunt.”

  “What if she comes back and goes running to her father? What happens to me?”

  Agathe shook her head. “So selfish. After all I do for you. Work.”

  Hadewych returned to his task, but resentment welled up in him with every nail he pulled. “You do nothing for me,” he mumbled, helpless to stop himself. “Except make empty promises.”

  Her voice harshened. “What ‘empty promises,’ Dylan?”

  “I’m not Dylan,” snapped Hadewych, with fresh irritation. He yanked a nail out of the floor, viciously, like a dentist pulling a tooth without Novocain. “Dylan’s dead.”

  She blinked. “I know that… Hadewych.” (Again the Dutch, “Hodda-weak.”) “You resemble him. In looks. And in weakness.”

  The insult stoked his anger. “Great. He died miserable, you know. Penniless. Broken. In Confederate prison.” He squared his shoulders and looked up at her. “You lied to Dylan. Just like you lie to me.”

  “You also resemble him in insolence.” She rocked. “I take good care of my blood. I look to family.”

  He ripped up boards, revealing more and more of the ancient wood. Though she frightened him, he couldn’t help but give voice to his roiling, sullen resentment. “So where were you when Dylan died? When his son lost the house? And the quarry? Where were you when I was seven and—” His voice broke, tapping some deep reservoir of pain. “—when I was seven and sleeping in Washington Square Park? Where were you?” He dropped the hammer and withdrew from his jacket pocket a small book, bound in green leather. He kept it always, as he kept the homecoming photo of Zef. “Do you remember this?”

  “My diary.” Agathe lay the bleeding bowl next to her rocker. “Where did you find it?”

  “Jason found it. In the tomb. Where Brom hid it.”

  She rose and paced, hands behind her back as if inspecting him. “Have you broken the lock?”

  “Yes.” Hadewych rose on his knees and held the diary open, revealing the text that had magically scribbled itself across the pages. “I bled on it. Accidentally.”

  “Accidentally?” She rolled her eyes, disappointed. “What has my family come to? My clever lock? Broken ‘accidentally’? And I had hoped for intelligent descendants. Wasn’t the answer obvious? Only someone with my blood can read it.”

  “But I can’t read it! It’s in ancient Dutch.”

  “Of course. You could read it if you deserved to, but… if your fathers lapsed and fell from the old ways, that is their degeneration, not mine.”

  “What’s written in it?”

  She shrugged. “Learn Dutch and find out.”

  “There’s no time. I should know everything you do. What if I have to protect myself? Have you thought of that? No. But I’m selfish? I’m the most unselfish person you’ll ever meet. Everything I do is for my son. ‘Look to family,’ Agathe? You may have chosen our motto. But you don’t live by it. Even dead you don’t. You could read it to me.”

  She gave a backhanded wave, dismissing him. “Why should I?”

  “Because you promised! You promised Dylan that he’d know your secrets someday. Someday. Someday. Someday. He hated you for that word, you know, for that ‘someday’ that never came. Hated you.”

  A moment of silence passed between them, and Hadewych knew he had gone too far. She smiled gently, loomed over him, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Are you well, my dear?”

  “I suppose.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Her fingers trailed down to his carotid artery and lingered there. “For a moment you sounded a little… suicidal.” She turned away, bent and collected the bleeding bowl, holding it to her stomach, then slipped back into the rocking chair. “I forgive you, this once, but mind your tone in the future. I am this family’s matriarch. I don’t answer to you, child.”

  He sank onto the floor, the deep reservoir of pain opening again. “I’m no child. I was never a child.”

  She closed the octagonal window. The sunset’s glow threw half her face into shadow. Her cheekbones stood out, gaunt and angular. “When you live to be ninety years old, everyone is a child. When you’ve been dead for two hundred more…” She drew on the window with the invisible ink of her thoughts. “… everyone is a corpse.”

  She slipped into brooding and muttered a spell, setting all the hanging things to dance, reminding him of her power. Perhaps even reminding herself of it.

  Hadewych extended the diary again and knelt by her side, crouched and servile, adopting a gentler tactic. “Agathe… When I was little and… in the shelters, my Oma told me bedtime stories. To help me get through it all. Stories about you.” He gestured to the dangling whirligigs. “You and your magic. I’ve always wondered, since I was seven, what was true and what was made up.”

  “All of it,” she whispered, with an enigmatic smile.

  “Where did the Horseman come from? How does the magic work? What happened to Ichabod? I need to know. You were my… bedtime story. Thanks to Irving, you’re many people’s bedtime story.”

  “Not I. My Horseman. He is a good ghost story, isn’t he? I’ve always loved ghost stories.”

  “He’s our family’s ghost story. Maybe the most famous ghost story in history. I have questions. You have answers.” He raised the book. “They’re in here, aren’t they?”

  Something both fiery and sad glinted in her eyes. “Yes.”

  “Then, please. Grandmother. Read it to me. From beginning to end. So I don’t have to wonder any more. I’m tired of wondering.”

  “We mustn’t dwell on the past. I have too much past. It overwhelms me. I’ve protected my family from the burdens I carry.” She turned away, sighed, and pressed a palm to the village of Sleepy Hollow. “All this time, and I still see nothing of the Van Brunts. Only—Beekmantown.”

  “No one calls it that.”

  “Beekmantown. After Cornelia Beekman, who thought me common. Do you think that I am blind? Of course Dylan hated me. He named his son ‘Cornelius.’ Out of spite.”

  Distance came into her eyes as she regarded the sunset over the Tarrytowns, the same look that a haunted castaway might get, gazing at a ship that ignores her smoke signals. What had Agathe demanded from that reddening world beyond her window? What dissatisfaction gnawed at her even now? For the first time, Hadewych thought he was seeing a glimpse of the woman
who had been Agathe Van Brunt. Not the solid, scowling matriarch, not the witch, not the forbidding bust in the Van Brunt tomb. The woman. It was like meeting the artist’s model, after years of knowing only the hard and unyielding monument.

  He decided to press her. “I need your help.”

  She didn’t turn. “Of course you do. You weak men have always needed your Agathe. Agathe and her Horseman.”

  Hadewych hesitated. “I need to use your reliquary.”

  “No,” she said, at once. “Where do you keep it?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “Good. Much of my power is in it.”

  “Why can’t I use it?”

  “Because I do not wish it. That is answer enough.” She raised an eyebrow. “Who would you kill?”

  “Zef’s mother. Jessica.”

  “No. I’ve use for her.”

  “What use?”

  “I have use for all the Gifted. For all the Gifted of Sleepy Hollow.”

  “She’s making life difficult. I need her dead.”

  Her eyes grew fierce. “And I need her alive.”

  He stood. “Damn it. What are you up to? What are you waiting for?”

  “You’re right.” She shot to her feet, brushing him aside. “I have waited too long. The girl may come back. Under the boards.” She snapped her fingers and pointed. “Finish the work. There. There. Brom! Brom! Rip them up. Do as I tell you. Do as I tell you!”

  He obeyed, fearfully. As he pulled up the last two boards, he found himself thinking of the coffin of Absalom Crane, of ripping the lid up and finding the Horseman’s Treasure inside. What was Agathe hiding in that head of hers? If he did open her skull with a hammer, what would he find inside? Maybe he should use the claw end and pick her brains at last. He threw the last few wide boards aside and… cried out in fear.

  A demon leered up at him.

  He recoiled and tripped over the lumber pile, hitting his skull on the wall. The image, painted on the original floorboards, lay perfectly aligned with the octagon of light from Agathe’s window. A horned beast, swathed in red velvet, with goat legs and serpent teeth. It raised three-fingered hands and waggled a forked tongue.

  “What is that?” Hadewych whispered.

  “I painted it, long ago.” Agathe knelt, caressed the image, and whispered a spell. Above, the marble Hand of Glory lit on its own and released a tangled rope of pungent incense. The attic filled with an unpleasant aroma. A maggoty ashen reek, as if they stood downwind of a mass cremation.

  Hadewych rose to his knees, trembling. He could see the whole design now. The classic circle and star and beast. “Is that the Devil?”

  “As near as any witch could desire. He is Red Schacath, in whose name the Great Curse was wrought.” She waggled her own tongue, in wicked imitation of the beast. “I sold my soul to him, you know.”

  Hadewych believed her. “What did you get for it?”

  “My heart’s desire. I’m to be a necromancer.”

  “What’s a necromancer?”

  She kissed her fingers and pressed them to the beast. “One who raises the dead.” She stood, returned to her chair, and rocked, looking out the window. “Leave me. I need to prepare.”

  Hadewych was eager to go. The devil’s eyes followed him as he backed toward the door. “Prepare?”

  “I will kill tonight,” she said, casually.

  He froze. “Kill who?”

  “Many many many. My Horseman is restless. His army is strong. One good jolt of terror should startle the prey…”

  “What prey?”

  Her voice sharpened. “Do not harm any Gifted. And return my reliquary. I will need my full power soon.”

  “Fine.” He left the attic, but stopped on the steps just outside, wondering suddenly if he, too, had sold his soul. “But what about me? What do I get?”

  The rocking stopped. She folded her hands, her face shadowed, the sunset blooding the gold of her hair. “I promise… to read you my diary.”

  Hadewych smiled, like a kid anticipating Christmas. “Thank you. When?”

  She bared her teeth. “Someday.”

  She gestured, and the attic door slammed in his face.

  Hadewych pressed fists to his eyes. He stomped down the attic stairs, feeling thwarted and impotent. As he passed the master suite, a thought occurred. He opened the door of his former bedroom. The stain on the ceiling made sense now. It followed perfectly the outline of the satanic circle, the circle around the grinning demon—who had always been up there, each night as he slept, scratching at the attic floorboards, just above his bed.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  The house reverberated with a hollow booming sound.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  Someone was knocking at the front door, slow and ponderous.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  He cursed, hurried down the steps, and pressed his right eye to the peephole.

  Shit.

  “I know you’re in there, Van Brunt. I saw you. Open up, now. It’s time we had a talk.”

  Hadewych covered his face.

  It was Mather.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Centralia”

  Hadewych was immediately on guard. Usher’s right hand never made casual visits. “One second!” He kicked trash aside, out of view, and cracked the door. “What do you want?”

  Mather wore a red rosebud in his lapel and carried a brown leather briefcase. “I’d have made an appointment, but you wouldn’t have granted it.”

  “Go away. It’s not a good time.”

  “Not for you. Forgive my presumption, but I thought you’d rather hear the news from me.”

  “What news?”

  Mather shrugged. “Jason Crane is alive.”

  Panic rose and slapped Hadewych silly. Had Jason been found? Rescued? Were he and Dr. Tamper blabbing? Oh, this was his worst nightmare come true. He felt pinned by Mather’s purple eyes—those disturbing, unblinking eyes. “What makes you think that?”

  “Let me in.”

  “No,” Hadewych barked, cringing at the prospect that this elegant and immaculate man might see his squalor and judge him for it. “I can’t.”

  “I won’t be shocked. Miss Bridge has told us all about your… personal habits. Open up, or I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down.”

  Hadewych obeyed, wincing as Mather strolled in.

  “My,” said Mather, inspecting the mess. “I thought she was exaggerating. You are quite the little piggy.”

  “Cut to the chase. Jason’s alive?”

  Mather stepped gingerly through the minefield. “Your son seems to think so.”

  Oh, this was worse. How would he face his boy? Hadewych automatically went on offense. “So. Zef is with Usher.”

  Mather frowned. “Yes.”

  “I want him home.”

  “He is at home.” Mather swept an empty soup can from the davenport and sat. “And so is… Jason’s dog.”

  “Charley?” Hadewych balled his fists. He should have drowned that little rat in the Hudson.

  “Zef’s boyfriend…” Mather paused, enjoying Hadewych’s discomfort. “… found her at the boat club. The captain of the Rip Van Winkle claims to have pulled Jason from the river, alive, and to have given him over to… a third party.”

  Hadewych took the straight-backed chair. “That’s terrible. Who?”

  “We’ll show him some photos. Perhaps he’ll identify someone we know.”

  “He’s just a senile old man.”

  “I don’t think I mentioned his age.”

  Hadewych’s knees bobbed up and down. He was making mistakes. He considered burning Mather to death and running away.

  “Jason’s alive,” said Mather. “Aren’t you happy?”

  “Of course I am. If it’s true. But I’m his guardian, so… send me what you have and I’ll take it from here.”

  “But you and Paul are such dear old friends. He wants to help.”

  “No need. I’m perfec
tly capable.”

  “There is one question I have.” Mather sat rubbing his chin. “You told Ms. Bridge that you could produce Jason’s body, didn’t you?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “She misunderstood then.”

  “I should say so. What do you want, Mather?”

  “To understand. We believe the boy was attacked on the bridge—supernaturally—and put into a Founder’s coma. Now, a man finding him in that condition would have no idea whether Jason would live or die, would he? And if he stood to gain by prolonging the boy’s life… if he wished, say, to prevent Ms. Bridge from inheriting—I’m speaking hypothetically, of course—then he wouldn’t dare take Jason to a hospital. He might have died right in front of the doctors, and then where would you be? Forgive me—that was the hypothetical “you.” You’d have kept him hidden, to ensure that if the boy did die, his body would remained undiscovered until Ms. Bridge was disposed of.”

  “Please leave.” Hadewych rose, pointing at the door.

  “Sit down, Van Brunt. You are going to listen to me.”

  Hadewych sank into his chair, full of dread, wondering what terrible price Mather would make him pay for all the evil he’d done.

  Mather steepled his hands. “Ms. Bridge… accepts your deal.”

  “What?”

  Mather laid his briefcase on the coffee table. “If the boy turns up, she gets nothing. Neither do you. So, a deal is in both your interests, isn’t it?”

  Hadewych hesitated. “Yes.”

  “So produce the body—by whatever means you think best—and Paul will see to it that the terms are met on both sides.” Mather opened the briefcase. “Let’s make this right. Zef shouldn’t see his parents fighting.”

  “You want me to produce—”

  “The body. Jason never came out of his coma, did he?”

  “Well—”

  “Don’t. Please. We prefer not to know the details of the tragedy.” He gave Hadewych a significant look. “We will not intrude upon your private grief.”