“When who rode past?” asked a man.
The waitress frowned. “Who do you think? The Headless Horseman.”
Jessica collected her purse, feeling like an idiot. She’d forgotten to wipe the old waitress. The crowd began to murmur.
“Oh my God,” said Margaret, standing. “Is that what this is about?”
“What else?” said Jennifer.
“I can’t believe this.” Margaret stood and pushed her way down the pew. “I buried my daughter yesterday. I’m in no mood for jokes.”
“Jokes?”
“Yeah. This was in really poor taste. Headless Horseman? Screw you, nutcase.”
Jessica raised her voice. “I don’t believe in the Headless Horseman.”
“I don’t either,” said a second woman, standing.
“What?” said Jennifer. “Then why are you here?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “No idea.” She walked up the aisle and out the door.
“How about the rest of you?” said Jessica.
“I don’t believe in the Headless Horseman,” said the woman in green.
“Neither do I,” said the square-jawed man, offering his arm to the old woman next to him, who muttered, “What a freak show.” They walked out, followed by a bald man and his son—the chocolate-fingered boy.
“But… we all saw him,” Jennifer said. “What the hell is going on?
Before long, the entire crowd was filing out of the church, some grumbling, some chuckling, most just pissed off that their grief had been so ridiculously mocked. The waitress watched them go, dumbstruck.
“You know,” said Margaret, turning at the door. “I’ve always thought you were a little odd. But at least you were nice. Now I think you’re a damn psychopath. Who does this to grieving people? Unbelievable.”
Jessica waited until she was alone with Jennifer. She considered. Should I give her a quick wipe?
Jennifer stood next to the food-laden buffet table and spread her hands. “So. Who’s going to eat all these damn… lemon bars?”
“I’ll take a few home,” said Jessica.
“Thanks.” Jennifer handed her two bars wrapped in a napkin. “I thought I was… helping. You know?” She looked shaken.
“I know.” Jessica took a bite. It was good. I guess she’s harmless. She patted the waitress’s shoulder and walked away, slipping the lemon bars into her purse. “Don’t worry. They’ll get over it.”
“You think so?”
“I know so! People always forgive the Town Crazy.” Jessica turned at the door and gave a sympathetic look. “By the way. I hate to tell you this, dear, but…”
“What?” sniffed the waitress.
“You missed a curler in back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“The Prodigal Son”
Zef parked his cruiser in front of the high school. A scattering of memorial flowers still lay on the grassy slope. They were withered now and blackening. A teddy bear lay on its side in the brown grass. It wore an American flag sweater, dirty and covered with spider web. The illegible graffiti glared down from the side of the school, wet-looking in the afternoon sun. A spell to raise the dead, according to Valerie. But you can’t raise the dead, can you? Jason’s grandmother wasn’t coming back. Neither were the people at Stone Barns. Or the victims of the Horseman in Sleepy Hollow Manor. Sally Blatt wasn’t coming back. Or Puleo. Or Coach Konat. Or any of the others.
And it was all Zef’s fault.
No, he hadn’t swung any hatchet, but he was responsible.
Look to family, that’s the Van Brunt motto. But did you? Did you? Did you do anything when you had the chance? You can’t blame Jessica. There were clues. You should have listened to Jason. You should have seen what your dad was becoming. But you didn’t give a damn, did you? Not about anybody but yourself. You were all wrapped up in your little secrets, and didn’t have the brains to figure out anybody else’s.
He drove on, tears rising. He found no comfort at Joey’s house. Ladybug sat in the driveway, but Mrs. Osorio’s car was gone. Zef went to the front door and knocked. No answer. He sat on the stoop, wondering if he should leave a note, wishing he had his phone. He’d lost it at the homecoming game. Probably in the bus. He didn’t leave a note. He couldn’t drag Joey into his mess right now. And it was his mess, nobody else’s. He’d see Joey at the summons tonight, regardless.
Jesus. How can I even face him?
He climbed back into his cruiser, the tears coming hard.
Not good enough, the demons whispered. You should have tried harder. You should have been cleverer. You fell down on the job. You should have loved your daddy more. No matter what he did. Even when he beat you up. You should have tried harder to understand and… not be so selfish. Something terrible drove him to do all this. He said he was doing it for you. To make you rich. Why would he go so far? Did you make him feel like a bad father? Did you complain about being poor too often? Did you whine for things he couldn’t provide?
It’s your fault. Even after you knew what he was, even after he confirmed it all, what did you do? You ran away. You ran away to hide behind your mommy’s skirts. To live by her rules and Paul’s, and let them order you around. You acted like a chickenshit. You didn’t go to the police and name your father. Out of fear. You didn’t tell Paul what you knew. Out of fear. You made Joey keep quiet. Out of fear. You didn’t even go home for your damn clothes. Out of fear.
And look what happened.
Joey was right. He’d been a coward. “Scared little Zef can’t face his daddy.”
“Come on, scared little Zef.” He turned onto Gory Brook Road. “It’s time to be brave.”
He parked within sight of number 417, near the O.C.A. gate and the aqueduct trail. He walked up to the house, his breathing quick and shallow, hesitated, raised his index finger, and rang the doorbell. No one answered, and he cursed himself for feeling relief. He gritted his teeth and rang again, over and over.
The curtains in the bay window shifted just a little. Someone had peered out.
“Dad?” Zef called. “I saw you. It’s me.”
He waited. The curtains moved again.
“We need to talk. I’m not here to fight. Just to listen. And to help, if you’ll let me. Let me help? Help you fix this?” He thumped the wood, the nail heads painful against his knuckles. “Let me in, Dad. I know what you’ve done. Just tell me why. Why the school? Were you trying to kill me? Or Joey? Do you hate me that much?” He struggled to keep his voice steady. “I just want to understand. What are you up to with Eddie Martinez? I know it was him. And I saw Dylan’s sword, so I know he’s been here.” He knocked until his hand ached. He twisted the knob, but it didn’t budge. “Come on, Dad. This can’t go on. I’ll go to the cops if I have to, and then we can talk through glass. Is that what you want?” He heard a footstep inside, slow and heavy. He punched the door one last time, sending a jolt up his arm. “Fine! I did what I could. If you won’t talk to me, you can talk to the police.”
He whirled and stomped away, headed for the cruiser. He’d almost reached the curb when he heard a footstep on the gravel behind him. Before he had time to turn, two strong hands seized him by the shoulders and swung his whole body.
Crack!
Zef’s head struck the mailbox, hard enough to knock it from its post. He blinked, lying in the dry grass, staring at the name VAN BRUNT on the dented box an inch from his eyes. Someone grabbed his leg and pulled. The grass scoured Zef’s cheek. The VAN BRUNT name receded… and drifted away.
Then so did he.
Shame…
Shame…
Shame…
The sound was familiar.
Shame…
Shame…
Zef’s eyes fluttered open. He knew where he was at once. The sound of the persimmon tree raking its fingernails across the window screen was well known and unmistakable. This was his old bedroom. Heavy curtains hung at the window, so that only a sliver of daylight shone through. Candles fl
ickered around the bed, throwing feeble light.
Shame…
He tried to sit up. His head hurt. He rubbed his temple and found a lump there.
Shame…
Shame…
Shame…
“Shh,” someone whispered, just at his elbow.
He blinked. “Mom?”
“Rest easy. Let the medicine work.”
“What medicine?” Zef’s mouth was woolly and sweet. The figure raised a folded cloth to his forehead. A droplet of water trickled down his cheek. “What’s going on?”
The figure took up a candle. Her features became distinct and rosy with its light. “Do you know this face?”
Zef stopped breathing. Of all the people he might have imagined he’d discover here—his dad, Eddie, the Headless Horseman himself—he never imagined he’d find…
“Kate?” He bolted up and threw his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest. “Oh my God! Thank God, Kate. Oh, thank God.”
She pulled back, scowling. “Look what you’ve done. I’ve spilled wax on myself.” She set the candle aside.
“I’m sorry! I got excited. Just… come here.” He hugged her again and held tight. “Oh, thank God you’re safe.” He swayed with her, but something in the back of his brain raised an alarm. She wasn’t returning the embrace. He wiped his eyes and drew back. “Where have you been? Why are you here?”
“No. No.” Her face became empty and slightly contemptuous. “You answer my questions first. Why are you here?”
“What do you mean? This is my room. Holy crap. What happened to it? It looks like an ape’s been through here.” He looked at the stained ceiling, trying to find a coherent thought. “Talk to me. Do you know how worried I’ve been? You disappear without a word? We thought you were dead!”
Her fingers came to her mouth, as if suppressing a laugh. “But I am dead.”
“What?” She wasn’t acting like herself. No. Not at all. He noticed her clothes. She wore a soiled dress shirt with holes in the elbows. It had weird brown patches and missing buttons. Her fingernails were dirty and… God. Her breath. “Are you okay? Are you sick?” He gasped. “Are you a prisoner? Of my dad’s?”
“As if he could hold me.” She rose and clasped her hands behind her back. “You say this is your room? Your bed? Your home?”
“Duh.”
“So… if this is your home, why did you run from it?”
“Me? You’re the one who ran away from…”
She bared her teeth, bent over him, and slapped his face, hard enough to spin his head. “Why did you run?”
Zef went cold inside as knowledge trickled through him. This is… not… Kate.
The sting in his cheek evaporated, and he turned to face her again. “Who are you?”
“Who are you, boy? You claim to be a Van Brunt, but do you not know your matriarch?”
“My what? You mean Agathe? That psychopathic bitch?” She frowned, and something registered. He wanted to throw up. He took a deep breath and whispered, “Are you her?”
She returned to her chair. “Am I who? The psychopathic bitch?”
Oh, shit. Zef thought. I’ve insulted it. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Do not fear. I consider that a compliment, boy. We’ve not yet been introduced.” She extended a hand. “Yes. I am your Agathe.”
Zef felt the truth of it. Something rotten sat before him. Something… empty. Once Valerie had taken him to Madame Tussauds wax museum for his birthday. This was a wax Kate, a hollow Kate. No, not hollow. Something moved behind those eyes… watching from inside…
My life’s on the line here. This is who’s behind the murders. I need to get the hell out of this room, if she’ll let me. He knew in a heartbeat that she wouldn’t. Not unless she trusted him.
He took her hand. “Pleased to meet you. Sorry about the…”
“If you have such misconceptions about me, I’m not surprised. You’ve only heard my Dylan’s side of things.” She did not let his hand go, but tightened her grip. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you run?”
“Is—Kate dead? Or is she—”
“Forget Kate!” She snatched the bedclothes off his legs. He wore no pants, and the stitches on his upper thigh were visible. “Why did you run?” She dug her nails into the wound. Zef howled. He tried to throw her off but couldn’t move his arms. She whispered in some weird language, and the skin of his wrists prickled painfully. He could feel invisible fingers on his ankles and arms. She withdrew her nails. “Why did you run, if you’re still a Van Brunt? If this is your home?” She slapped his cheek, spattering him with his own blood. “Answer.”
“I was—scared. I—”
“Scared of your father?”
“Yes!”
“You were that weak?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you were. I know how weak you are. I know everything the girl knew.” She licked blood from her fingers, absent-mindedly. “Thin blood. Effeminate blood. I know your type.” She looked away, into the candle flame, her expression sad. “Your father loves you. I love you. Why did you run? Why do you hate us so, Dylan?”
Zef didn’t correct her. The sword of Dylan Van Brunt sat propped in the corner, as always. Zef forced his shivers away, thinking of homecoming. This… thing… this dead woman… she had spilled all that blood.
“I don’t hate you,” he said. “How could I? We’re family.”
Agathe’s eyes narrowed, searching his face. “You’re not Dylan.”
“No. But I’m named after him, aren’t I?”
“Are you?”
He nodded. “Joseph Dylan Van Brunt.”
“A fine name. Say it with pride.”
“Joseph Dylan Van—”
“Van Brunt! We are Van Brunts!”
“We are Van Brunts! And we look to family, right?”
“Yes. Yes. Good! And are we weak?”
“No.”
“Do we run?” She grabbed his leg again, squeezing hard.
“No!”
She held out the candle. “Put your palm to it.”
“What?”
“Put your palm to it. Show me a true Van Brunt. A true Van Brunt does not fear flame. Flame is our Gift. Take hold of it. Claim your birthright.”
Zef trembled. He hated fire. Always had. Even more once he’d seen what his dad could do. He feared fire in some deep primal way. But if he refused her or failed her test, she’d kill him.
“Do it,” she snarled. “Only the guilty burn.”
Zef stretched out his right palm and, gritting his teeth, held it to the candle flame. He hardly felt anything at first, but a bright blister of pain rose. He pressed his eyes shut. So this is how it feels to burn. He fought not to snatch his hand back. Everything depended on being brave now, on burning away the old Zef. If he had to burn to save his dad, then he would burn.
“Are you weak?” she said.
“No.” He whimpered, losing his resolve, but he held his hand steady.
“What are you?”
He thought he’d black out. A tendril of smoke rose from his hand. His nerve endings screamed, his flesh cooked. He thought he’d go mad, but he held her gaze. “I’m a Van Brunt.”
“Say it with pride.”
“I’m a Van Brunt!”
“Say it with joy!”
“I’m a Van Brunt!” Zef cried, and in that instant… his hand burst into flame.
His dormant Van Brunt Gift flared. Agathe crowed with triumph. This was what she’d been hoping for. Zef was horrified. This was everything he’d feared. He was a Van Brunt after all.
“Good,” she said, pulling the candle away. “Welcome home. Your father will be pleased.”
Zef shook the flame out and cradled his injured hand, fighting tears.
“Oh, my poor boy. Let me soothe it.” She whispered spells and the pain evaporated. The blackened patch on his palm crusted, scabbing over, then healed entirely. He took three deep breaths, feeling a
lmost grateful to her.
A grunting sound rose behind the closet doors, which were slightly ajar. A pair of horseflies walked up and down the edge, pacing the dark crevice. They scattered as the doors flew wide. Eddie Martinez emerged from a bolthole in the closet floor. Zef backed away and fell off the far side of the bed. Eddie put a board back into place and scowled down at Zef. “Why is he still in my room?”
“This is his room,” said Agathe. “He’s blood.”
“So I’m back downstairs? Why not put him in the other one?”
“That was my servant quarters. You may take it.”
“Screw that.”
Agathe shot to her feet, shivering the candles. Eddie backed away from her. “You are Zef’s servant now, as surely as you are mine. Apologize to my grandson.”
“For what?”
“A Van Brunt returns to his own homestead—and you attack him?”
“He was going to the cops! To my dad!”
Agathe waved Eddie away, dismissively. “Out of my sight.”
Eddie jabbed a finger. “You can’t trust this punk.”
“I will call you when I need you. If. You’ve disappointed me, Edward. I do wonder on occasion… if I chose the right Horseman.”
She turned to Zef, and Eddie shot the finger at her back. He knelt, pulled the board up, and began to climb down into whatever lair lay below.
“Wait,” said Zef, rising, stopping him. “It was you, right? You killed those kids?”
“Yeah, so?” Eddie shrugged. “She told me to.”
Zef looked at her. “Why?”
Agathe wagged a finger. “You’ve not yet earned the right to question me.”
“Can I ask Eddie a question?”
“If you wish.”
“What?” said Eddie, halfway down the hole.
Zef waited for Eddie to meet his eye. “Did it make you feel like a big man?”
Eddie’s face darkened. He disappeared down his rope ladder and pulled the board back into place.
Another door sounded in the distance, and a voice called out. “Zef?”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 33
