Jim pushed the dirt with his finger. He found his eyeglasses on the bedside stand, then inspected Joey’s hand as if looking for magnets. “How…”
“Lock the door, Zef?”
Zef gave a nod. Joey dumped the dirt back into the sippy cup and set it aside. He took his father’s hands, looked into his own reflection in his father’s eyeglasses, and whispered, “No more secrets.”
Hadewych Van Brunt stood beneath the harsh fluorescents of the Shell station island, listening to the rain, and pumped gas. The whole process felt alien to him, as though swiping a credit card and choosing “unleaded” was an arcane rite of frightening sorcery. He’d lost the normal world, somewhere. He lived in hell, and the little makeshift technologies of the surface people were as far above him as heaven might be for another man.
The summons had fallen silent, at least for now. Agathe had made another potion for him, from the blood of Mather this time. She’d allowed Hadewych only a sip, enough to quiet the ache, long enough for him to do his errand. He had Mather’s blood in his stomach, and on his shoes, and on the scorched cuff of his shirt. He stared at himself in the window of the Phantom Coupe, checking that he was presentable. At least he had his hair, and his toothpaste-commercial smile, however forced. Those had always worked for him.
The tank reached capacity and spit back a thimble of gasoline that dribbled down Hadewych’s pants leg. (“Hadewych wet himself! Hadewych wet himself!”) He jammed the nozzle back in its cradle and slapped the flap on the fuel intake closed.
Burn it, he thought. Burn down the gas station. He glanced at the security cameras. Do it on tape. No more secrets. Curse the world, Hadewych. Kill the world.
He didn’t kill the world. He pocketed his wallet, climbed into the car, and drove away. The car filled with the aroma of gasoline, as a hearse fills with the aroma of roses. The sky rained gasoline. The whole world was drenched in unleaded, and he could be the match. Why not? Why the hell not?
He stopped at a light and glanced at his passenger, the silver sword of Dylan Van Brunt, still caked with blood, propped in the seat next to him. Dylan would burn the world. Dylan would burn everyone black and feast on their flesh, if that’s what it took to survive, to get out of the swamp… to rise from the slough… the Slough of Despond.
Someone hit their horn. Hadewych blinked up at a green light. He pulled forward, hands gripping the wheel.
Burn that person. Make them pay for honking at you.
No, no. That’s not me. I’m a good man. I didn’t expect things to be like this. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t have known!
He gained speed, as if to flee from the driver behind him, the driver who had honked, the human being who had dared to criticize him, who had presumed to point out an error he’d made. Hadewych knew he made errors. He didn’t need other people to point them out. He didn’t need strangers telling him his shoe was untied. He didn’t need Jessica criticizing his manhood, or Valerie questioning his choices. He didn’t need officious pricks giving him pink slips or preachers condemning his sins. He knew! He knew!
Everyone just leave me alone! Quit telling me what I’ve done! Leave me be, so I can forget myself! You’re causing me pain. Can’t you see that? You’re causing me so much pain!
He sped his wipers, clearing gasoline from his eyes. He drove straight through the red light at Main Street, not wanting to stop, not at Main and Broadway, not in the heart of Agathe’s world—the site of the Couenhoven Inn, of the Van Tassel Tavern—he wanted out of Agathe’s world. He wanted the hell out of hell.
I’m on The Road, aren’t I?
I’m on Agathe’s road, on my way north, to the Hanging Tree.
He drove on, faster, heedlessly, down a black stretch of oil-slickened asphalt.
Get off the road, then. Just get off it. Get off Agathe’s Road.
He crested the slope and plunged down the hill toward Patriots Park, toward Wildey Swamp, toward the spot where Ichabod first encountered the Horseman, where Agathe slit her wrists. Where Agathe made her ultimate sacrifice, to force her beloved to return…
Do it. Why not?
The steering wheel twisted suddenly, ripped from his hands by a spirit—by that fragment of Hadewych’s soul that still cared.
The Phantom Coupe turned into oncoming traffic. Hadewych hit the accelerator, and the car went off the road, struck the corner of the Captors’ Monument, flipped crazily into Patriots Park, and came to rest upside down in the gully of Andre Brook. The windshield filled with gasoline. More gasoline seeped in from below. A full tank of gasoline dripped from above. The sword fell into Hadewych’s arms, and he clutched it to his heart.
There, thought Hadewych. Zef will come now. Zef will come.
If he still loves me…
Zef sat up in his chair, feeling a spark of alarm.
Go. Hadewych. Danger… now…
The spark fizzled though, unable to sustain itself. It flickered feebly, like a candle wick floating in a spread of spent wax, then winked out.
“You okay, Zef?” said Joey, looking up from Jim Osorio’s bedside.
“Yeah, sorry, uh… someone stepped on my grave.”
Joey scowled. “What?”
“Never mind. I’m fine.”
Zef sat by the sparkling window, listening as Joey unburdened himself, sharing all his secrets with his dad. Zef didn’t watch Joey. He watched Joey’s father. Jim Osorio wasn’t angry or upset. He merely leaned back against the pillows, listening, accepting as much as he could, letting Joey be Joey, whoever that turned out to be. Zef felt wretched and jealous, but he was glad that Joey had that, even if he, Zef, never would.
“So you’re a hero,” said Jim, when Joey finished.
“No,” said Joey, shrugging it off.
“He is a hero,” said Zef.
Jim took Joey by the shoulders. “You saved those people at Kingsland Point Park. You saved me from getting squashed at that funeral. You’ve been… fighting monsters and… watching over me. And I saw a tape. You saved people at homecoming.”
“So you’re… not mad?”
“Why would I be mad?”
“I’ve been lying to you.” Tears broke down Joey’s cheeks.
“Come here,” Jim said. “Shh. Come here.” He gathered Joey to his chest. “Lie to me all you want, kid. It won’t change anything. I know what’s true. I know you’re a good son. If you don’t feel you can tell me something, that’s got to be my fault, not yours.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Joey. “I’m the liar.”
“You’d only lie if you thought the truth would… stop me loving you. Never think that. You’re my boy. I don’t care if you turn purple and levitate.”
Zef pivoted away, to look at his own reflection in the rainy window. I have my father’s eyes, don’t I? I wish I could save you, Dad. Whatever trouble you’re in. I want to be a hero too. But how can I fight monsters for you if you’re a monster yourself? How can I fight against you… for you?
“So now you know,” Joey said. “But you can’t tell Mom.”
“I get it,” said Jim. “This… curse.”
“It’s real. Anyone we tell gets hurt.”
“Okay. What happens to me now?”
“That’s the thing.” Joey squeezed his dad’s hand. “You have to forget.”
“I don’t want to forget.”
“There’s no way around it. You have to forget, or you’ll stay cursed. And… I don’t want you to die. I’m fine sneaking around, if that’s what it takes.”
“You can’t make me forget.”
“Zef can. He’s a telepath. He’ll take this away.”
“He can’t have it. I’ll take my chances.”
“Please.”
“But I’m proud of you.”
“I know, but… please.”
Jim sighed, giving in. He ruffled his son’s hair. “Do the trick again, Dirtman? One last time? For me?”
Joey wiped his tears and gathered another handful of dirt
. He screwed up his face and concentrated. Once more, the dirt gathered itself into a tiny heart.
“That is… so cool. But… there’s one thing I don’t understand. You say people get a power that reveals who they are deep down? You’re no gravedigger, Joe. I pushed you into that. So you’d earn a paycheck and I could keep you around. I didn’t want it to take over your life. Your Gift should be more… arty. You know. A singer’s Gift, or an actor’s Gift.”
“I thought so too.”
“You can do way better. You can do things I couldn’t in a million years. I’m the gravedigger. Not you. So why is this your Gift?”
Joey considered, staring at the little heart of dirt cupped in his palm. “I guess because… deep down, what I truly am… is…” He looked up. “… your son.”
Zef turned away. He didn’t see whether they embraced or burst into tears or rolled their eyes. He stared out the window, feeling moved and miserable. When he turned back, Jim had taken his glasses off and had set them aside. He cleared his throat and beckoned to Zef.
“Okay, Doc. What’s the procedure?”
Zef rose and sat on the bed. “Just… give me your hand, sir.”
Jim hesitated. “Promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t break my son’s heart?”
Joey sat up, frowning, but Zef cut off his objections, saying, “I promise.”
Jim raised a hand to shield his mouth, whispering: “And… if you can see what’s in my head, don’t tell Joey about my college years. I don’t want him thinking that stuff is okay.” He winked.
“What did you do in college?” asked Joey.
“None of your business. I’m allowed secrets too, you know.”
Zef took Jim Osorio’s hand, remembering Jessica’s instructions. Empathy. Empathy is what it takes. He imagined himself as Jim, in a hospital gown with a bandage around his head. It was easy. It was easy to imagine himself as someone who loved Joey. Loving Joey was easy. He felt Jim slip into a trance. He saw images of Joey’s life. Joey with a bad haircut, Joey in the graveyard, learning to work the backhoe. Zef became Jim Osorio, holding up a camcorder while Joey danced in gold lamé. “You don’t believe in dirt powers,” Zef whispered.
“I don’t believe in dirt powers.”
Joey winced and covered his face.
“You’re going to forget about ghosts being real, and about Joey’s Gift. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“But you will remember this. Your son loves you, and he’s a hero.”
“I know that,” said Jim, as if Zef had told him the sky was blue.
“And one more thing. If you ever find out about Joey again, you’re going to remember what he’s told you tonight. You’ll remember the Curse, and you’ll know to keep quiet so no one gets hurt. You’ll come to Joey, and we’ll do this again. Okay?”
“Cool beans.”
“That’s enough,” said Joey.
Zef slipped his hand from Jim’s and rose.
Jim blinked and reached for his glasses. “What were we talking about?”
“Nothing much.” Joey wiped his eyes and tried to look perky. “How are you feeling?”
Jim considered. “Lots better.”
“Good.”
Jim put his hands behind his head. “I always feel better with my boy around.”
Zef’s not coming, Hadewych thought, feeling miserable, listening to the rain and the shouts of people outside the wrecked car. The smell of gasoline was overwhelming. He could make the wreck explode, he realized, with a single spark from his pinkie finger. But he was too upset to die.
That little brat didn’t come.
He pulled himself through the shattered window, still clutching the sword to his chest.
I can’t believe he didn’t come.
A rumble of thunder rolled over the scene.
“Are you okay, mister?” someone said, touching Hadewych’s shoulder. A dumpy middle-aged hausfrau with a lime-green umbrella.
“Get off of me!” Hadewych barked. “I don’t need your pity, cow.”
“Who are you calling ‘cow,’ asshole?”
“Don’t you know who I am?” Hadewych raised the sword, threateningly.
She laughed at him. “I don’t know. Zorro?”
He almost sent fire at her but stopped himself. He was dripping with gasoline, after all. He twisted away and marched up the slope. “Laugh while you can! You’ll see. You’ll see.”
“Yeah. I see an idiot who can’t drive. You’re just going to leave this wreck?”
“I can buy all the cars I want!” Hadewych marched down Broadway, leaving the Phantom Coupe upside down in the gulley.
Zef didn’t come, he thought, scratching the sidewalk with the sword as he went, gasoline soaking through to his skin. After all I’ve done for him. After all I’ve sacrificed. He can’t even be bothered to care when I’m upside down in a ditch… dying. My son is an ingrate. He doesn’t deserve me.
He doesn’t deserve me at all.
Hadewych knew Zef wouldn’t be at Gory Brook, but he walked home anyway. He pushed open the nail-studded door and stumbled inside, engaging all the locks, dripping gasoline on the floor.
He raised his left index finger and set it afire with his Gift, his little candle throwing grotesque shapes around the living room. The place was a complete ruin, ransacked, a landfill of trash, with bullet holes in the wall and mice shivering the debris. He righted the davenport, sat with the sword across his knees, and stared at his own shadow, looming on the fireplace.
Hadewych imagined that Eliza Merrick sat to his left, drinking tea, that Valerie Maule sat across from them, laying tarot cards on the coffee table, and that Jason Crane sat in the straight-backed chair—Jason on the day he’d met the boy, wearing a T-shirt with an image of a piñata and the words “I’d Hit That.” Hadewych’s shadow at the fireplace was performing for the group, reciting the words of Washington Irving with elaborate theatricality: “Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood.”
They had applauded. And he’d been planning murder.
That day was for Zef.
All that he’d done had been for Zef’s future. He’d pictured that future. So many times. Zef would grow old here, in this house, with pretty Kate Usher at his side, the daughter of a senator. She would be Zef's Katrina. And Zef would have the Pyncheon fortune in addition to the Usher wealth, a hundred and twelve million dollars with which to conquer the world…
And there would be children…
… and there would be little blond Van Brunt children running through this house, children to call Hadewych “Grandpa.” Children to carry on the line, to pass down his blood to future generations. And those generations would bless him, would bless Hadewych the Patriarch for making his sacrifices, his blood sacrifices that had won their happiness.
But now the house was… this.
Pain shot through his hand. He shook his flame away and brought his fingers to his mouth. Why had his Gift turned against him? He had no reason to feel guilt. His motives were pure, his cause just. They always had been.
It was never for me.
But I’m through with the world now. They can all go to hell. Jason and Agathe, and Zef, and Usher, and Jessica, and Valerie, and Hadewych…
Wait. What am I saying? I’m Hadewych.
Aren’t I?
He raised the sword.
Maybe I am Brom. No… Dylan, like Agathe keeps saying. Maybe I’m possessed too. Maybe Dylan Van Brunt has possessed me, and all this was his doing—not mine.
He liked this idea. It was true, in a way. He’d been possessed by Dylan Van Brunt years ago, on the day he’d read his ancestor’s letter. He’d been possessed by Dylan’s sense of entitlement, his resentment at the slights he’d been dealt. He’d seen a kindred soul in h
is ancestor, and a kindred pain.
Hadewych rose, kicking trash into the air. Yes, Dylan was the one responsible. Dylan was to blame.
He glared at the sword in his hand, at the tiny, angry letter “D” on the hilt, at his own reflection in the blood-crusted blade.
“You got me into this,” he croaked.
He threw the sword down and ripped his gasoline-soaked clothes off. He ran naked into the kitchen and ran gasoline in the sink, scrubbing his body frantically with dish soap and Brillo, washing away all the gasoline with splashes of more gasoline, drying himself with a roll of Brawny towels.
He returned naked and picked up the sword.
“It was all Dylan’s fault.”
He bent at the hearth and presented the sword to the fireplace, on open palms, just as he’d once presented it to Eliza that day in McCaffrey’s morgue. He lay it down in the ashes, summoned his fury, and poured flame into the blade, watching it redden and glow. He might have been an ancient Elven blacksmith, making the thing afresh, but he was unmaking it, this silver sword that had stabbed him in the back. Un-forging it. Oh! He might have remained a good man, if Dylan hadn’t pointed out the shortcut to hell.
The blade grew orange, like the scrawny carrots he’d peeled in the toilet of the shelter.
“What happens to shirkers?” Mama asked.
“They don’t eat.”
“And lazybones?”
“They sleep outside.”
“Don’t cut corners, and don’t look for shortcuts, son. We’ll get there. With work and nothing else.”
He should have listened to her. Why had he allowed himself to be lured by evil? Why had he let it turn his head?
“Damn you, Dylan!” Hadewych shouted, as the blade began to bend. “Damn you! Damn you! Damn…”
He pictured the day of the exhumation, when he opened the casket of Absalom Crane and slipped this sword inside. He saw Eliza Merrick, swinging this sword happily in the morgue. He saw this sword in Zef’s hand, when he was the Horseman mascot, and in Eddie’s when he murdered those kids. He saw it in Dylan’s fist at the battle of Doctortown, in the hands of a post rider, presenting it to his ancestor’s widow. What a long journey this sword had taken. But every journey ends eventually. Sometimes in heaven, and sometimes in hell.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 63
