“But he didn’t go.”
“He was pigheaded. Like his grandson. He said, ‘What kind of man would I be, if your battles weren’t mine?’”
“Ugh! That’s awful! What did you do?”
“I married him. Six weeks later. And it wasn’t awful. Not at all. Not for a second. He made me feel that we were in this life together. A couple. That’s what we were. ‘Coupled’ is a good word for it. He saved me, and I returned the favor—got him to believe in himself, to take risks. I made him a better man—more than his ego ever let him admit. Men are like that, the big dopes. And when he died, too young, he left me the Pyncheon Legacy. Over a hundred million dollars. I had no idea it even existed. In his will, he wrote…” Eliza took a deep breath, overcome with emotion for a moment. “Sorry. He wrote… ‘I never tipped you for the Dipsy-Dash.’”
She smiled, as if at a sweet movie on a distant drive-in screen. She raised a hand, beckoned, and cupped Kate’s little light in her palm.
“Let me tell you something. And this is a hard-won lesson from a foolish old lady. I’ve married and married and… well, married some more. But I never found another Arthur, however hard I tried. The spark is either there or it’s not. Love at first sight is real. Just like magic is real. Who’s the true skeptic here, honey? Jason or you? Believe in love. Take a chance on it. Or else you’ll lose it. And… if a man loves you enough to fight for you, do yourself a favor, sweet thing, and let him. Let him fight your battles. And you fight his.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward, as if imparting a treasured secret. “That’s what ‘together’ means.”
Kate and Eliza regarded each other. Kate’s little light reflected in Eliza’s eyes… or did it? Maybe the old woman still had a little firefly in her. A spark of youth, un-extinguished.
Kate slipped away. “But what if I never asked him for the—”
She froze. A bell rang. Suddenly. Soundlessly. Some black iron bell like a witch’s cauldron on a chain, striking over and over, loud and clamorous and evil.
“Do you feel that?” Kate shouted.
Eliza’s eyes grew wide. “Fight it!”
“What is it? Is he summoning us? Can he?”
“This is worse. Don’t let it use you!”
“I’ve got to go!” Kate screamed. She flew upward.
“No, Kate!”
She ignored Eliza’s cries. She whipped from the vent like a spark up a chimney and spun in the night air. She felt compelled to hurt someone, to break bone, to tear flesh, to gouge eyes and rip out tongues. She saw other ghosts, gathering bodies. A man in a modern suit. A woman in lace. A boy with only half a skull, his one eye feral, like a dog salivating over a dead raccoon.
Geoffrey was still waiting outside the vault. “Come with me, child!” He gathered Kate to his chest. His presence lessened the clamor, but Kate still felt the call, steeping her in bloodlust and inexplicable rage.
“What is this?”
“It’s the Great Curse,” he said. “I’ve been afraid of this. The poor man’s been teetering all summer.”
“Who?”
He pointed at the group arguing in the clearing.
“So you see?” Brennan was shouting. He held up a camcorder. A movie was running on the tiny monitor, over and over. “This shit is real!”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” Keegan said. “I was reviewing footage on my way back. I got it from a lady in town. I don’t think she even knew what she had.”
“That kid,” said Brennan, pointing at the screen, “is moving that boulder with his mind. Unbelievable. Come on, Mr. Skeptic. Say something.”
Jim Osorio stared at the screen. Kate could sense some mark appearing—like a brand on his forehead. The man knew a witch. He was marked for death.
Geoffrey shook his head. “The Cursing Moment has come.”
“Well?” said Brennan, with a laugh.
Osorio looked up, his eyes helpless. “That kid… is my son.”
The ghosts of Sleepy Hollow had heard enough. Their bodies coalesced, blue and distinct even to human eyes. They tore from the shadows, encircling the three men.
Keegan Garrity’s eyes went wide. He raised his camcorder—robotically—and pointed it at the ghosts. His face filled with helpless wonder. This was the pinnacle of his career, the certain proof he’d searched for and never expected to find. But just as he finally became a successful ghost hunter…
… he also became their prey.
They flung Keegan to the ground and held him there. The jeep lurched and rolled. Its rear tire crushed Keegan’s camcorder—and the hand clutching it.
He screamed, trying to pull his mangled fingers free. Brennan and Osorio gripped the jeep, straining to free Keegan, feet digging trenches as they struggled to roll it off him. But the rear tire lurched again. It flattened Keegan’s forearm and rode up his bicep, splashing the gravel with blood, then silenced his screaming with a final lurch, popping over the curb of Keegan’s shoulder and crushing his skull.
Brennan screamed. Ghosts threw him onto the hood of the jeep and held him there, pinning his throat, pushing him against the glass with such force that his eyes bulged and the windshield convulsed with cracks. His scream ended, abruptly—as if the channel had changed—and became a hiss, like white noise. Brennan’s eyes went blank and his body went limp.
Osorio covered his face and backed away. He tried to run, but a snarling specter caught his leg, throwing him to the gravel. The ghosts surrounded him. He flipped over onto his back, one hand raised to ward off the attackers, and his arm was yanked upward by some spirit. His body followed helplessly, rising into the air, dangling from one arm. He struggled and kicked and—
—and they threw him into the sky.
He hovered there—like a kid off the garage roof, just now realizing his cape was only a faded bath towel and wouldn’t enable him to fly—then flipped and dropped headfirst toward the hard ground.
“No!” shouted Geoffrey. He left Kate, roared through the air—fast as a flash of ninepins—and caught Osorio by the leg just before the man’s head would have struck the ground.
But it wasn’t enough. Osorio’s body swung like the pendulum of a clock. His temple struck a nearby headstone with a sickening crack—and he fell to the gravel in a heap.
The bells in Kate’s head ceased their pealing. She looked around. The body of Keegan lay on the ground in a black puddle of blood. DJ Brennan lay splayed on the hood, his face frozen in fear, framed by the shattered windshield as if he still commanded some TV screen. So this was the Great Curse. As terrible for the dead as it was for the living.
Geoffrey stood over Osorio’s body, protecting it from the other ghosts. “You’ve done enough! He’s been silenced! Back to your graves! I said back!”
The night air crackled like static after a lightning strike. The ghosts backed off, turned, and fled.
Kate somersaulted to Geoffrey’s side. They examined Osorio’s crumpled body.
“Is he dead?” asked Kate.
“I liked this one,” said Geoffrey. “He came to take pictures of my grave sometimes. I felt… famous.”
“But is he dead?”
“He lives, but even if he wakes he will still be cursed. And they will try again. Over and over. Forever. Until they achieve his death.”
“But you’ve saved his life.”
“For now.” The old man stood, straightened his coat, and brushed his thin white hair absentmindedly. “It felt good to make a difference again.”
“Then keep making a difference. Help me. Help Eliza!”
“Eliza?” said Geoffrey, with a smile. “Is that her name?”
A terrible scream sounded to their left. Alyson Baldock stood at the edge of the clearing, flashlight in hand, screeching like an arriving fire truck.
“We best depart,” said Geoffrey. “Quickly. While we still have our hearing. She’ll see to this man and take him to safety. There’s nothing more we can do for him. Or these other two.”
Kate drifted up behind. “You didn’t answer my question. Will you fight?”
He turned. “For Sleepy Hollow? Always. Shall we be comrades-in-arms? We’ve yet to be introduced.”
“I’m Kate Usher.”
“A privilege to meet you, Kate Usher. And… forgive me. Geoffrey Crayon was my nom de plume.” Over his shoulder, the Old Dutch Church caught starlight in its windowpanes and twinkled. He cocked a thumb toward the white nub of a headstone on the hill nearby. “I’m Washington Irving.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“The Deep Witch”
The Usher property swarmed with activity. At least a dozen security men patrolled the grounds. A truck with a satellite dish sat parked out front, and nine sedans were double-parked on Kate’s street. Joey followed Bent-Ear Man through the house. Men and women in suits and paramilitary gear bent over conference calls bickering with each other, phones pressed to ears, papers and maps all around. A crewcut in an orange shirt carried a computer, trailing power cords. A well-pressed man with a wrinkled brow blustered past, too intent on stirring his Styrofoam cup to watch where he was walking.
“What’s everybody doing?” asked Joey.
Bent-Ear man nudged him along. “What does it look like? We’re freaking out.”
“Remember whose house this is!” barked a woman. She had an earpiece in, an amazing collection of facial piercings and tattoos, and her head was shaved into a neon-green Mohawk. “If you’re wearing cologne or perfume I want you out of the main house!” She saw Joey and frowned. “Who’s this?”
Brian shrugged. “Mather had me pick him up.”
She raised a pierced eyebrow. “Cool! You must be the rogue! Hi. I’m Abby. Thanks a lot, kid. Really. Thanks a lot.” She shot the finger at Joey’s face and stomped off.
“What’s a rogue?” said Joey.
“Keep walking.”
Joey had never seen Mather’s private office, in the security building behind Usher’s house. It terrified him. Not the polished desk of ebony, not the exotic flowers or the jade tea service but… the art. On three walls hung bizarre paintings, obviously by the same artist, of laughing Chinese men everywhere. They had identical red-skinned bodies and enormous faces. They threw their heads back, eyes closed, mouths wide and toothy with hysteria. They were frozen like that, groups of them—seven in one boat, four on one bench, twelve in church pews. It was as if someone had pumped laughing gas into a production of Pacific Overtures.
“Do you know the legend of Pandora’s box?” said Mather, drumming his fingers. “When Prometheus stole fire from the gods, Zeus was so angry that he created Pandora, the first woman. Pandora had a jar she was never to open, but she just couldn’t help herself. She had to know what was inside. She peeked in—what was the harm?—and all the evils of the world flew out, bringing pandemonium. Do you know what that word means? Pandemonium? ‘All demons.’ It’s a good word. Pandemonium. All death and all trouble and all chaos.” He leaned forward. “You just had to be a hero, didn’t you?”
Mather stabbed a button on his computer keyboard. The footage played. The camera flew wildly about, in the hand of someone running. Screams rose all around—the chaos of a panicked crowd. The sound died as the footage went into a dreamy slow motion. The jitter decreased. The images had been enhanced, with pan added to keep the subject at center. Joey appeared, eyes closed, hands clenched. The great paint-splattered boulder blasted through the wall of vines. It struck the fork-thingy, took out the scoreboard, and careened through the parking lot.
“You were caught on film!” Mather bent over the desk. “And now it falls to me to decide your punishment.”
“My punishment?” Joey loosened a suit button. He was sweating and itchy.
“This is a capital offense.” Mather leaned forward in his chair. “Look at it again.” He let the footage run on a loop. “And who knows how many more videos are out there?” Mather snorted like a bull. “You’ve broken every law of our existence!”
Joey’s mind raced. “I was trying to save people.”
“By risking the deaths of millions! What if this turns up on the news tomorrow? Hmm? How many will you have murdered?”
“Murdered?” Joey began shaking. “I—I’d like to talk to a lawyer.”
“There are no lawyers for this. Paul is in charge of this town. And when Paul is away, I have that duty. I actually liked you, Joseph. I had hoped we would be friends.”
“I bet.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“‘One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.’”
Mather blinked. “What?”
“Hamlet. Scene five. Brush up your Shakespeare.”
Mather cut the footage dead. “Don’t test me.”
“It was all an act, right? You were going to help my theater career. Blah blah. And I fell for it. You aren’t even looking for Jason, are you?”
“We’re a bit preoccupied.”
“He’s all that matters. We have to find him. He’s the last of the Cranes.”
Mather rolled his eyes. “This again.”
“Like I told Zef. The ghost of Ichabod’s dad said—”
“Stop this nonsense. The Horseman will go away on his own. He always has before.”
“Before?”
“Do you think this is the first time he’s risen? He was seen all the time up until 1850. And sporadically since. He’ll rise up, make some mayhem, and go back into his grave. If people film—or even see—the Horseman, that is problematic, but a ghost is not a witch. Belief in him won’t invoke the Curse. I am far less concerned about the Horseman than I am about you. Do you know how much damage you’ve caused? The position you’ve put us in?”
Joey folded his arms. “I’m not saying anything else.”
Mather bolted to his feet and leaned over his desk, his purple eyes livid. “Do you think that matters? Ms. Bridge has asked me to give you an ultimatum. It is non-negotiable. Stay away from her son.”
“That’s not her business.”
“Zef was injured, you know. He might have been killed—on his little date with you. Stay away from him. Paul has put a lot into him, and, for a political career, this… lifestyle choice… is unacceptable. It ends. Today.”
“I’m supposed to just give him up.”
“Yes. And leave Sleepy Hollow.”
Joey’s ears were ringing now. “I live here! My parents live here!”
“Your mother? Your father?”
“Yes.”
“The father you cursed? He’ll be better off without you.”
Joey’s voice became small. “He’s all right. Nothing’s happened. I haven’t hurt him. I haven’t hurt anybody.”
“You put a boulder up the apse of the Korean Church of Westchester!”
“Nobody died!”
“Stop making excuses for yourself and accept responsibility for your crimes.” Mather sighed. “We’ll be taking you to one of our compounds. Probably… Omaha.”
“Omaha?”
“If you’re acquiescent and agree to do certain menial tasks from time to time, we will—perhaps—reconsider our judgment on you.”
Joey knew what that meant. He remembered the day Mather had left clothes for him in the guest bedroom. No, not just clothes. A uniform. Mather was trying to… draft him, use him as an asset. What kind of ‘menial tasks’? Breaking into vaults? What would they make him do? Joey was trembling. Or maybe he was making the ground tremble. He couldn’t tell which.
He rose unsteadily. “I’m leaving.” He went to the door. The knob wouldn’t turn. “Let me out.”
“Control your Gift,” spat Mather, bracing his jade tea set before it shivered off its shelf.
“Let me out or I’ll sinkhole this
place!”
“There. You see? You’re a rogue. A child with no self-control.”
“Let me out!”
“Sit down!”
“Help!” Joey pounded on the door like a wild thing. Yes, he was losing control of his Gift. One of the laughing Chinese fell from the wall. He was proving Mather right. He tried to rein it in and couldn’t. Maybe he was dangerous. Maybe he was bad for Zef. Maybe he was bad for his family. Maybe he was just… bad.
“Joey?” someone called from beyond the wood. The voice was unmistakable.
“Valerie!” Joey shouted. “He’s got me locked in here! He wants to send me to Omaha!” Joey didn’t really know where Omaha was. Geography wasn’t his strong suit—was it in Idaho? He could picture it. A dustbowl, populated by Grapes of Wrath straight people who sold insurance and thought Rogers and Hammerstein was a brand of motor oil.
“Stand back!” Valerie said.
Joey obeyed. The wood cracked and split, and the door burst open, hanging loosely from its hinges. Valerie sidestepped a falling strip of wood and entered. She wore a tan suit with a matching purse and tracheostomy valve.
Mather gathered the precious tea set in his arms. “How dare you. This is not your concern.”
“He’s my friend,” Valerie said, rubbing Joey’s back. “Easy. Everything’s okay.”
Joey relaxed. The tremors subsided, like the passing of a subway train. “How are you here?”
“She’s another rogue,” said Mather. “She used her Gift that night.”
Valerie scowled. “Is that—why your goons—carjacked me?”
Mather held up a hand. He arranged the jade tea set on his desk, reverently, checking it for cracks. “I’ll deal with you presently, Ms. Maule.”
“Let’s go, Joey.”
“The boy stays here. Or you’ll get worse for interfering.”
“I’m not—afraid of you. Joey isn’t either. Are you?”
Joey shrugged. “Actually, kind of.”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 29
