Jason heard the clack of a key turning, the clunk of a door opening, and the click of a pistol cocking.
“You don’t need that thing,” muttered Tamper, louder, higher on the stairs.
“No tricks,” said their jailer, with a familiar… bastard-ness.
“Fine,” said Tamper. “No tricks.”
The door far below clanged shut again.
Tamper’s voice grew in volume, like an approaching ambulance. “Hurry up. This is your fault. Those damn anti-epileptics you brought only made him worse.”
So. I’m convulsing. Great. What does convulsing even look like?
Jason began his performance, thrashing around in what he hoped was a reasonable imitation of a seizure. The cot shook and wobbled. He pushed spit out and frothed his chin. His feet kicked, his back arched, and his head twisted back and forth. Only his right arm remained still, hidden under the blanket. He gripped his weapon and prayed for a chance to strike.
“I can’t handle him by myself,” Tamper said, entering. “Please. Help me.”
Jason could hear a second pair of feet now, near the door. His eyelids reddened. The man had brought a light. A flashlight, probably.
“Please,” Tamper repeated, kneeling at Jason’s side. “He could die.”
“It doesn’t matter if he dies,” the man said, and the voice had that unmistakable… man-who-killed-my-grandmother quality. “Not anymore.”
“The hell it doesn’t!”
“Shut up.”
Tamper’s voice grew bright with fear. “Don’t point that at me.”
“Here. Inject this.”
Something landed near Jason’s cot. Inject?
“What is it?” Tamper said, bending.
“Just give it to him.”
Jason fought an urge to stop thrashing, leap from the cot, and take his chances. If only their captor would come nearer. Bring him nearer, Tamper, please, please… all I need is one good swing. One good swing. Jason felt an inexplicable surge of pleasure and realized that he was really looking forward to it. One good swing, that’s all I ask. Like the punch in the cemetery after Eliza’s funeral. That punch felt good. So good. Oh, yes. I am so ready. Cracking his skull would feel wonderful… Just bring him close enough… Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly…
But Tamper backed away from Jason’s bedside. “I’m not going to give him an injection without knowing what’s in it.”
“Just put it in his IV.”
Tamper made a sound of disgust. “This syringe is full of bleach.”
Bleach?
“You want me to kill him?”
“Yes,” said Hadewych, in his every-syllable-makes-me-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face voice. “I want you to kill him.”
“Why now? After all this time? I thought you needed him alive…”
“Things have changed. Pick the needle up.”
“I won’t do it.”
“You will shoot him full of bleach, or I’ll shoot you full of lead.”
“You’re going to have to shoot me then. Do your own dirty work. Why not just… shoot him yourself?”
Jason wanted to scream, Don’t give him any ideas!
“I’m no killer,” said Hadewych. “Not really. I wouldn’t hurt a fly unless I absolutely had to. But look at him. He’s suffering. He has to be put down. Humanely. Your part in this is over, doctor. You’ve done very well. Just finish him up and then… I’ll let you go. I promise.”
“Just like that?”
“Cross my heart. I might even write you a check, for your invaluable professional services. How does a hundred grand sound?”
“A hundred grand?” said Tamper.
“In cash, of course. Not bad for six weeks’ work. Plus you’ll have your freedom. Not to mention your life.”
“If I… kill the boy.”
“Yes. If you stay silent. And kill the boy.”
Jason had no problem thrashing now. He couldn’t guess Tamper’s mind. Maybe the doctor would take the deal—inject him with bleach—if that’s what it took to escape.
I told him to run if he saw a chance. He doesn’t know what a liar Hadewych is. Maybe he’ll decide killing me is the only way to survive. I can’t blame him. I really can’t. Do what you have to, Tamper. Just know this: if I feel a needle in my arm… I’m swinging at you both.
“Fine. I’ll do it,” Tamper whispered, and now the doctor’s voice had that… selfish asshole rat-bastard sure-I’ll-kill-the-kid-and-save-my-own-skin sound. “Hand me the syringe.”
Jason began to panic, wondering what to do. He tightened his fist on his weapon and prepared to swing.
“I could use a little money,” said Tamper. “And, believe me…” He chuckled. “I’m getting really sick of SpaghettiOs.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Joeyball”
TRANSCRIPT
JOB #66925268
Westchester Communications Officer: Westchester 9-1-1.
Caller (unidentified female): Hello? Are you there?
WCO: I’m here. Do you have an emergency?
Caller: I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?
WCO: I can hear you.
Caller: Hello?
WCO: Go ahead. Do you need help?
Caller: We need help—help—help—(inaudible)
WCO: Tell me where you are.
Caller: We’re at the high school!
WCO: Which high school?
Caller: Sleepy Hollow!
WCO: Sleepy Hollow High School?
Caller: Yeah! A fight broke out and he’s killing people!
WCO: Who’s killing people?
Caller: There’s a man on—on a horse and—he’s killing (inaudible)
WCO: You’re at the high school now?
Caller: At the football game!
WCO: We’re dispatching police. Can you get to safety?
Caller: I’m hiding! We’re hiding! What are these vines?
WCO: Did you say vines?
Caller: There’s vines holding us all in!
WCO: Vines holding you in?
Caller: It’s the Headless Horseman! It’s the Headless Horseman!
WCO: (pause) Ma’am?
Caller: Oh my God! (screaming)
WCO: You’re saying the Headless Horseman is attacking a Sleepy Hollow football game?
Caller: (inaudible) He set a head on fire and threw it!
WCO: Ma’am, this is an emergency line for real emergencies.
Caller: What?
WCO: The Headless Horseman is attacking you?
Caller: He’s coming! Oh my God! Run! Oh my G— (cut off)
WCO: Hello? Ma’am? Are you there? Ma’am? Ma’am?
END TRANSCRIPT
From high up in the announcer’s booth, Joey could see the pools of blood. It was everywhere, like Dalmatian spots on the blighted grass. The screams of the crowd had become small and strangled. The crowd had spread out all around the perimeter of the vine-tangled wall, their wailing turning into moans, subdued, as if each was afraid to draw attention to themselves. Every so often, a frightened child blurted, “Headless Horseman!” as if still unable to believe it.
How much time had passed? It felt like hours, but it had been scant minutes. Even if the cops were coming, by the time they arrived… there would be no one left.
I could end this, so fast, if I used my Gift. I could… open up quicksand and send the Horseman to China maybe.
Then he thought of Kingsland Point Park and his foolhardy heroism on July fourth. He’d used his Gift to save people and had put his dad’s life in danger. He’d learned his lesson. Still… he had to do something.
The Horseman stalked the crowd, deciding on his next kill. Mothers covered the faces of their children. People cringed against the thorny wall, hiding their heads.
Joey studied the wall. It was pretty thick and looked really solid.
Joey frowned. No way Zef’s going to break through that.
But…
From his h
igh perch, Joey could see beyond the barrier to the wind-whipped concession tents, where sat… the enormous paint-splattered boulder.
That might do the trick.
Zef limped to the grassy slope—now hidden behind the tangled wall—and saw Coach Konat’s boot sticking out through the brambles. The wall had grown right over the coach’s body, and this single boot was all that was visible of the man. It was definitely the coach’s boot though; no one else wore those bright red team socks to every game. Zef bent and pulled at the leg of the corpse, trying to yank it out enough so he could fish in Konat’s pocket for the keys.
The vines had the body in a pretty tight grip, but the man’s legs started coming into view. Zef glanced over his shoulder, glad of the dim light. He couldn’t begin to process the scene. A dad in a beer shirt shuffled past, shell-shocked, holding a severed arm, searching for the rest of his boy. The Horseman flung his hatchet into the man’s back. He fell and lay nestled in the crook of his son’s arm as the hatchet flew back to its master.
A deafening squeal of microphone feedback broke over the field, followed by Joey’s voice over the loudspeakers. “Make a hole, everybody! We need to make a hole.”
“No no no,” muttered Zef, pulling harder at the legs of the corpse. “I don’t have the keys yet. Wait, Joey. Wait!”
Joey didn’t wait. “Everybody get out of the… you know… the place with the… where the fork is. You know, damn it… the touchdown place down at the… it’s on the tip of my… You know! The touchdown place! Stage left!”
Oh my God, thought Zef, smiling despite his grim work. He is so damn cute.
“The danger—the twilight—the end zone! Everybody out of the end zone!”
Zef dropped to the ground and fished frantically in Konat’s pocket for the keys to the truck. Joey had jumped the gun. People were moving aside as ordered, clearing a path. The Horseman turned in Joey’s direction now, trying to understand what was happening.
Hurry. Hurry.
Zef’s psychic alarm started to chime. The Monster knew where Joey was.
Hurry. Hurry.
Konat’s keys weren’t in the man’s pocket, but Zef heard them jingling and reached into the brambles, feeling around. He found the keys hooked to the man’s belt loop. He’d just pulled them loose when, with a whit! of whipping air, a vine leapt from the barricade and threw itself around his throat, digging its thorns into his skin and cutting off… cutting… his… can’t breathe… can’t… can’t…
He struggled and kicked as the vine squeezed tight.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
Joey knew he’d made himself a target. Two of the red-jerseyed Horsemen appeared at the bottom of the stands. If he didn’t act quickly he’d lose his chance. He stood on the topmost bench, concentrating, reaching out with his Gift. He wore a Horseman helmet he’d picked up in the announcer’s booth. Silver, with a red horseshoe on each side. Hopefully, they’d bring some luck and the helmet would protect his secret identity. But if somebody saw him, that was just too bad. Better that a few people be cursed and die in a month than everybody be hacked down tonight. By the time the police came, the Horseman would have murdered every man and woman and little kid, unless Dirtman stood up now and did something dirt-y.
He reached for the enormous paint-splattered boulder, trying to get his brain around it. He’d never moved anything this big from this far away, and he braced himself for a real Samson-brings-down-the-temple Herculean feat worthy of He-Man and She-Hulk. He had good eye contact with the rock, and he focused on the word SENIORS written on the side. Come to Papa, you big dumb rock. Come on. Dirtman says wobble. Come on. Come on. Shake rattle and roll. Shake rattle and roll. Shake rattle and…
The boulder tipped and hurtled toward the field.
Joey blinked. Roll?
He hadn’t expected it to come rolling quite so fast. He’d pulled just a little too hard. He—
One of the white concession tents lurched and fell over. The merchandise tables flipped and threw red sweatshirts into the air. With an explosion of vines and thorns and brambles, the boulder blasted through the barricade, blowing a hole a dozen feet across.
But the boulder didn’t stop there.
Oh, no.
“Z!”
The vines broke from Zef’s throat. He sputtered and gasped.
Nate bent over him, throwing the vines aside. “Z! You okay?”
“Yeah… I…”
“What the hell is this, Z? What the hell is this?”
A clanging noise ripped through the air. Zef and Nate whirled, covering their ears. A huge boulder had blasted through the wall of vines and had struck the goalpost, sending it shivering like a tuning fork. The post ripped from its concrete, tipped, and fell hard onto the field, shaking the ground. Three possessed Horsemen fell onto the grass. The Horseman’s brown horse panicked and threw the Monster. The boulder kept rolling, its course deflected now, catching the slope of the hill. People dove out of its way. It battered out another chunk of wall and clipped the scoreboard, which twisted and threw sparks. The floodlights went out, casting the whole field into darkness. The boulder rolled out of sight, headed toward the parking lot.
Zef gripped the coach’s keys and ran for the flatbed.
I’m dating a bull in a china shop.
The boulder gathered speed. Joey stood at the top of the stands and craned his neck, wincing at every new impact. It careened down the hill and bounced through the parking lot, striking vehicle after vehicle, spinning end over end. Car alarms blared and an orange Hyundai caught fire. The boulder struck the corner of someone’s house, taking a bite out of it, then flashed the word SENIORS one last time and disappeared over a ridge, plummeting toward Broadway down below.
Car horns. An explosion. A distant sizzle of sparks. The spout of a burst fire hydrant. A block of shops lost power. Possibly his boulder would bounce all the way to the Hudson and take out the Tarrytown Lighthouse, like a bowling ball picking up a spare.
“My bad,” Joey whispered, to no one in particular.
So, thought Agathe, surveying the chaos from the roof of the school. We have flushed out one Gifted at least.
She turned to the servant ghost at her side. “I want that one.”
The ghost bowed and vanished. Agathe raised a hand, muttered a spell, and brought the woods down on the Gifted boy’s head. The great oaks above the risers twisted and splintered and tipped. She didn’t see the impact though, because in that moment of distraction a lightning strike of pain shot through her. She dropped the grimoire, staggered, and fell back onto the tarpaper and gravel, bewildered. Another stab of pain. What was happening?
A firefly darted from her chest, spun in the overcast sky, and returned, beating itself against her soul. Agathe winced at another stab of excruciating pain.
The Usher girl had caught her off guard.
Agathe marshaled her energies, bracing herself inside her stolen body.
“Nice try, little Kate. But this body is mine. Do you hear? Mine.”
The firefly attacked again, and they battled for possession of the field.
CRACK! CRACK!
The trees on the hill above Joey broke and fell. A heavy oak flattened the announcer’s booth, flinging glass from all its windows. A shadow swept over him and he dodged a massive trunk. The impact threw him into the air, and he tumbled down the crushed and groaning risers, bouncing from bench to bench, unable to stop, saved from concussion and maybe death by the helmet he still wore. He scraped his arm pretty bad but the little strip of chain link caught him at the bottom and he rose wobbly to his feet. Nothing was broken but…
The Devil’s minions were coming. Number fifteen and number seventeen and number eight. Coming fast.
Joey straightened his helmet, put in his mouth guard, and ran.
As soon as the rock cleared the opening, the crowd went running through the gap like water from an unstoppered sink. The Horseman pursued them on foot. A group of valiant men rushed him, buying time f
or the rest. He decapitated two of the attackers, dropped his weapons, summoned the pair of falling heads, set them on fire, and threw double missiles at the survivors as they ran. His weapons leapt back into his hands and he turned back, hacking at the crowd as they fled to the parking lot, where fires crackled and car alarms screamed.
Zef stuck his head out of the cab of the homecoming float.
“Joey! Joey! Here!”
GO! HELP! DANGER! NOW!
The truck’s engine turned over and Zef flashed the headlights, trying to get Joey’s attention. He drove slowly down the running track so people could climb aboard. Nate rode in the flatbed, shouting to the crowd, beckoning with an oversized one-fingered foam hand that read We’re #1! as he and Page the cheerleader helped the injured Ossining boys climb on. Zef wanted to floor the truck and go save Joey, but that would send Nate, Page, and all the Zeroes flying. Joey was sprinting downfield like a kick returner hitting a seam in the coverage, with at least seven Horsemen in pursuit. Damn. He was fast!
DANGER! NOW! GO! HELP!
Zef gasped and straightened. This alarm bell hadn’t been for Joey. No. Not for Joey at all. Zef’s eyes shot to his own in the rearview mirror and tears broke down his cheeks. Tears of pain, because this unexpected alarm was certain proof that, even now and despite everything, he still felt love…
… for his father.
“What are you waiting for?” snapped Hadewych, in his impatient-to-kill-Jason-and-get-back-to-being-a-villainous-asswipe voice.
“The boy pulled out his IV,” Tamper said. “I’ll have to find a vein. You’ve got to hold him down. I can’t do both.”
Jason increased his shaking, praying that this was some ruse of Tamper’s, that the doctor hadn’t betrayed him after all, but was just playing along with Hadewych, trying to bring the man near enough for Jason to strike. The light intensified. Hadewych’s flashlight hung just above.
Jason felt gentle hands on his wrists.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 20
