Mather patted her shoulder. “Good girl.”
“So!” Lisa gushed. “You’re really going to help my theater career?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“The Eye of the Storm”
Brian Flight huddled beneath the shaggy black umbrella of a linden grove and searched for his Camels. The storm had dribbled off—like a showerhead when your girlfriend flushes the toilet. He was glad of the sudden dry—his last chance to smoke before morning, maybe. He was luckier than some; the guards inside Lyndhurst were forbidden to smoke. Mather had bitched all that afternoon ’cause he’d found some lump of chewed Nicorette stuck to the marble bust of George Washington. God, Mather was a pain in the ass. Every guard wanted to be on campaign detail in Boston, not here. Paul Usher had a sense of humor at least.
Brian found the crumpled pack of unfiltereds and lipped one dry enough to light. The grove convulsed around him, shaking water from its fur. The rain may have died, but the cold winds were fierce as the snap of a wet towel. Brian hated those icy little squalls. He liked his smokes, but indoor duty did suit him better. No one as badly tethered to Earth as Brian Flight should work in a windstorm, that was for sure.
The first time Brian’s Gift had come, a sudden blast of winter had scooped him up on his way to school, like some predator with a white van, to flop him onto the snowy roof of an Arby’s restaurant. To this day—despite his training and twenty pounds of lead in each boot—a hard gust could make him feel like an idiot sixteen-year-old about to imitate a paper football. Brian wedged a toe under a linden runner, just in case, and fished out his lighter.
Abby’s voice crackled in his bent ear. “Blue Seven? You’re off my screen.”
“Can you see me now?” Brian flicked his lighter, holding it up for infrared.
“Those things’ll kill you.”
“Yeah. And piercings get infected.”
“Touché.”
Brian took a drag, blowing smoke through the branches. “What’s the weather saying?”
“Build an ark. Sorry.”
“Shit.”
“The eye is passing over us. Don’t forget to wear your rubbers.”
He was about to say something lewd but Abby killed the com. Just as well. She outranked him.
Brian could hear the rain intensifying, whispering against the thick canopy above. He decided to take a quick survey of the grounds—pay his soggy dues—then try to finagle a sentry post under the dry veranda for the rest of the night.
He sucked down smoke like a baby at a nipple, flicked the last quarter inch, and left the shelter of the grove, spitting shreds of tobacco leaf. He carried his helmet under his arm, enjoying the fine rain on his head and face, and checked out the parked cars, shining his penlight through the sparkling windshields. One little grey BMW was just begging him to take her for a ride. Sharp car. He could see himself in a fine lady like that someday.
He crunched across the parking lot, checked the locks on the gift shop, and set out cross-country, over the grassy knoll, headed for the greenhouse. A gust of wind caught him and he treaded air for a few seconds, kicking his legs like an Apollo astronaut in lunar gravity. His feet found the earth again. God, he hated when that happened.
He looked up at the moon, full and gleeful in a socket of black clouds, lusting after the sleeping world through a knothole in its bedroom ceiling.
The Eye is passing over us.
He wondered if Abby had seen his little spacewalk. Probably she hadn’t. The drones were grounded and he was far from the house.
“You okay, Neil Armstrong?” Abby chirped.
Damn. “That’s an affirmative, Houston.”
“Glad to hear it. Keep it in check, please.”
He put his helmet back on, to look more professional. He wasn’t about to get himself docked for “Public Display of Ability.” He needed his quarantine bonus. One of the Zelig precogs had given him a stock tip that sounded pretty sweet. He’d buy a mansion himself pretty soon. Bigger than this old rock pile. Too bad poor Debbie wasn’t around to get the commission on—
He froze, tensing up.
Who’s in the greenhouse?
He wiped his eyes, raised his foggy visor, and slipped to the right, laterally, to peer from behind a distended oak. A single figure, all in black, stood within the skeletal whalebone structure. The man twisted right and left, as if choosing a path at some crossroads.
“Houston, this is Blue Seven,” Brian whispered. “Whatcha got in Section C, inside the greenhouse, center between the two wings?”
“Looks dead,” Abby responded.
“But you can see me?”
“I can see you fine.”
“We might have company. I’m checking it out.”
“Want backup?”
“Maybe. I’ll let you know.”
Brian kept his rifle aimed at the grass. He used the groves for cover, approaching the greenhouse from the direction of the main gate. He heard the cawing of crows somewhere ahead, as if they’d clustered to peck on something.
“No one’s in the guardhouse,” he said, passing by the little wooden structure. “Either Red One is taking a leak or something’s up.”
“Keep calm and check your targets.”
Brian knew Red One. The gate guard’s name was Ferris. Usually pretty reliable. Maybe Ferris had seen the intruder himself. Brian moved in closer, entering the rusty greenhouse through its eastern arch, keeping clear of the subject’s line of sight. He pressed through the Rose House (nothing but thorns) and into the Grapery (nothing but vines). A soft music played, like the suspense effects of some horror movie. The meditation tones of the wind chimes were like fingers lipping crystal goblets. Some Fisher Price xylophone plunked its one note, over and over. Two marble children hugged each other, swallowed by the swamp of a neglected fountain.
Brian’s shadow entered the Palm House, the domed space at center, and the rest of him followed. Brian took aim at the figure’s back and whistled.
“Hands up there.”
The figure waggled its shoulders a little, reaching for a weapon maybe.
“Did ya hear me? Hands up. Now.”
Brian circled the intruder. He took out his penlight and shone it in the man’s face. “Shit.”
Burlap and buttons. Just one of the stupid scarecrows.
He thumbed his comm. “False alarm.” But Abby didn’t reply. He’d lost signal.
He slung his rifle back and put up his fists. He delivered a slow-motion punch to the scarecrow’s head—an old potato sack with black lettering down one cheek. Its red button-eyes were sewn on with plastic thread—maybe dental floss. The mouth was a bright red shoestring hot-glued to the burlap. One end had shaken loose, so that the mouth drooped like a stroke victim’s. Brian delivered a slow karate kick to its body, a business suit stuffed with hay. A stink rose—the guts were rotted.
Only this one scarecrow had survived the storm. A couple dozen others had fallen face-down in the mud of the Palm House, strewn about like martyrs of some Great Scarecrow War. Brian flipped one of these over with the toe of his boot. A wooden cross for a skeleton and a sequined green sweater for skin. Its wig-dummy head goggled up at him with two gouged pits of blue ballpoint ink. Motion caught his eye and he frowned. A second scarecrow had survived the storm. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he should have. This one wore a yellow hardhat and carried an axe. The hardhat was caked with mud, as if the scarecrow had been on the ground. Had someone righted it? The head beneath the hat was another wig dummy, veiled by layers of pantyhose, like a disguised bank robber. The eyes behind the veil were metal staples that caught light.
Brian turned away from it, disturbed, and noticed a third scarecrow leaning against a nearby wall. This one wore a clown costume and mud-soaked rainbow hair. How the hell had he missed that one? He was an idiot. If that had been a person they might have shot him in the head by now. He backed away from the trio of scarecrows. They reminded him of some… Sunday school tableau.
&n
bsp; He was about to make his exit when a white face flew from the shadows. The hockey mask of Jason Voorhees, the machete-wielding psychopath of the Friday the 13th movies. The mask landed at Brian’s feet and stared up at him. It was a dime-store plastic thing, trailing a broken length of pink rubber band, with two sad hollows for eyes above an extruded nub of nose. The cheeks were pierced with little holes and bore three bloody streaks of war paint.
Some poor scarecrow had lost its fright mask. Brian bent and picked it up, turned it in his hand, letting moonlight play across the concave interior face, creating that optical illusion where the gaze follows you. He lifted the mask, thinking of some childhood Halloween… when? Decades ago. When he’d been Jason Voorhees, stalking Sleepy Hollow, his tinfoil machete dripping Heinz 57.
When did I get to be so old?
People didn’t appreciate the classic scares anymore. The old shock cuts and startle tricks. He made little panting horror-flick sounds (Ch-ch-ch! Ah-ah-ah!), held the mask to his own face, and looked through its cutout eyes.
“Trick or treat?” he whispered.
The answer was, Trick.
A dozen scarecrows surrounded him. A dozen more writhed up from the mud. The eyeless corpse of Ferris the gate guard shrugged a hungry pecking crow… and pounced.
Brian ran.
“Jason,” whispered Kate. “Your hands.”
Jason’s hands had begun to glow again, dimly, as they gained the off-limits third floor. “Cool. The Dead Zone must be breaking. One more flight.”
“Cover up,” said Kate, pointing to a fat security guard patrolling the third-floor hall. Jason stuck his hands in his pockets, and they ducked into the shadow of a suit of armor—stooping down a little.
“He’s going to see us,” said Kate. “Go back. Go back.”
They retreated, and Kate pulled Jason into a storage closet. They tried not to breathe and waited for the guard to move on.
Jason had spent the last few hours in a mire of weirded-out confusion and frustration. Over dinner, his friends had looked at him as if he was the Chosen One in some story, like he’d bring balance to the Force or defeat Voldemort or some shit like that. He’d always hated that trope. Just the idea of some supernatural heckler backseat-driving the events of his life made him want to go running off to do something unexpected. Bail on the whole Gifted World and be a chiropodist in Indonesia or an executive assistant at Morgan Stanley, just to spite the gods. He’d decided to dismiss the whole thing—as best he could. He kicked himself for taking it seriously even for five minutes. He’d broken down and cried in front of Kate, and all the rest of them, over what? A stupid pinochle hand!
There’s no mystical energy field that controls my destiny, said Han Solo. It’s all a lot of simple tricks and nonsense.
But the last four cards played in Jason’s head.
The Moon…
The Sun…
Judgment…
The World…
The Moon…
The Sun…
Judgment…
The World…
“Why isn’t he leaving?” Kate whispered, peering out.
“We may be stuck in here a while.”
Kate closed the door, bringing total darkness. They were very close, and he could smell her. He tentatively brought his hands out of his pockets, and their dim radiance played across her blouse, raising lovely mysterious shadows. He wanted to touch her. He glanced up, and her eyes met his. The light of his hands grew brighter as he raised his palms. Their light flickered a little. He was trembling. Or she was.
Something broke. Some barrier, some defensive perimeter, some dead zone. She came to him in a flash, and they kissed. His hands roamed, back and forth like the rotation of the moon in the night. Hers roamed too, slipping across the skin of his back. She kissed his neck. He kissed her ear. She pressed her lips to his collarbone and he inhaled her. Buttons slipped open, by themselves. They were all over each other, desperately, with a long built-up need. It was a rejection of horror and despair and loneliness and suffering. It was the intoxication of pleasure and happiness and being young. They were back in the world, back in their bodies, back together. Jason hitched his pants, barely keeping them up. She lowered a bra strap. He brought his free hand to her bare shoulder and looked into her eyes. She looked scared but gave a nod. He kissed her, brought his lips to her ear and whispered. “Can we do it?”
“I was thinking more ‘should we,’ but… yeah.”
“Are we far enough out of the Dead Zone?”
“What?”
“To couple. That’s what you want, right?”
She stiffened in his arms even as he stiffened in hers. She held him at arm’s length and frowned. “Is that what you think of me?”
“No.”
“You think I’m just after that? Just trying to get my Gift back?”
“Not just. But… don’t you want to?”
“Yeah, but, believe me, that was the furthest thing from my mind just now. I can’t believe I almost… Oh my God. In a broom closet?” She was buttoning up, covering herself.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s my fault.”
“Kate…”
“Drop it. Let’s just see if he’s gone.”
Jason adjusted himself as she cracked the door. Damn, he’d made a mess of things again. He was such a bonehead.
“Story of my life,” Kate whispered to herself. “A boy in a stupid closet.”
The guard had stopped to inspect a side door that led onto the roof. He murmured something into his shoulder mic, then walked down to the second floor, leaving the coast clear.
Kate went out first, leading Jason along. His skinny shadow scampered up the last stretch of stairs. His head broke the floor line of the fourth-floor tower. Joey was pacing the square room. He rushed to Jason and knelt, rising little by little as they finished their ascent.
“What kept you?” said Joey.
“We, uh, ran into some old friends,” Kate said, quoting Leia Organa, princess of Alderaan. And oh, Jason wanted desperately to kiss her again.
“Did you see Zef?” said Joey.
“No,” said Kate.
“But he headed up before we did.”
“We?” said Jason.
Joey pointed. Valerie sat cross-legged in the corner, poring over the grimoire.
Jason inspected the tower room. Sets of skinny windows filled each of the four walls. A golden telescope hung lifelessly near the Hudson-facing western side. The sound of rain on the tin roof was soft and monotonous.
“Uh, guys,” said Joey.
“What?” said Jason.
Joey grinned and pointed. “Your buttons are all messed up.”
Jason blushed and tucked his shirt.
Kate turned away and adjusted her blouse. “Everyone have their Gifts?” she asked, giving Jason a wry look.
Valerie murmured some incantation. The golden telescope spun in a circle, as if manned by a punch-drunk astronomer. “I can’t break the Zone yet, but some spells are working.”
“I can’t feel any dirt,” said Joey. “It’s too far down. But this marble and I are gettin’ busy.” He caressed the stone. “Just say the word and I’ll bust us out.”
“Try not to hurt the house, Rocky,” said Jason.
“I may have to, Bullwinkle. What about your Gift?”
“Uh… yeah.” Jason raised his glowing hands.
Joey started giggling. “Will you guide my sleigh tonight?”
“Cut it. I should do a test.” Jason pulled the white silk scarf from his pocket and sat on the floor, cross-legged. “Zef thought we might get something on the Horseman from this. Let’s find out.” He pressed his palm to the fabric and…
A nude woman lies beside Jason in bed. He’s never seen her before. Her black hair is blue with moonlight and she wears the scarf draped about her neck. He reaches for her. His forearm is thick and muscular. His hand bears scars, prominent veins, and black hair across th
e knuckles. He traces the curve of the woman’s cheek, down her neck, drifting across her skin, cupping her body. His (not-his) hand gathers the scarf. He pulls one end, gently, and it slips from her shoulders. He brushes her cheek with the silk. She pushes him into the blankets. Her eyes look down at him—green eyes with long lashes—eyes full of love and hunger. She pulls him close, his hand opens, he drops the scarf, and…
“What do you see?” said Kate.
Jason blinked, embarrassed and blushing. “Uh. Nothing much. It’s working fine. My Gift is back.” Jason folded the scarf again, wondering who the woman was, who he had been, what it meant, and… wishing the scene had gone on longer. The vision pissed him off a little, too. That could have been him and Kate, if he hadn’t been an idiot. “Okay, guys, if Zef doesn’t show, do we try to escape without him?”
“No one else can help my dad,” said Joey.
“I know, but Kate and I have to start searching for Agathe’s bones. Any sign of that girl Lisa?”
“No. And it’s twelve-ten. I don’t like this.”
“We need more searchers. Valerie, what about you?”
“I can’t search either.”
“She has to help Mike,” said Joey.
“Fireman Mike?” said Jason, frowning. “What happened to Fireman Mike?”
“He was arrested.”
“Arrested for what?”
“For killing Debbie Flight.”
“What? That’s terrible! How did they find out he did it?”
Joey’s jaw worked and he held up a hand. Jason couldn’t understand his friend’s expression, or why he kept glancing at Valerie.
Valerie stood. “What do you mean, ‘find out he did it’?”
“It’s a long story.”
“What do you mean?” She sounded inexplicably… livid.
Jason shrugged, deciding honesty was the best policy. They were a team, right? Everyone should be on the same page. “It was Agathe. You know, possessing him. We should help Mike, I guess.”
“Mike was possessed?” said Valerie. “Mike killed Debbie Flight?”
“Yeah. I saw it last October. In a vision. Joey was with me.”
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 58
