SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  “There’s a lot of bones down here.”

  “Argh! I’m an idiot! It’s a mass grave. He’s on the bottom, remember? Jason said bottom of six!”

  “So do we keep going?”

  “Uh… here.” Joey offered a hand and helped Zef climb out of the pit. He kept digging, screwing up his face, discovering rib cages and skulls and brittle bones and scraps of old metal. He hit water. “Damn it!” Joey shouted. “There’s got to be a horseman in this shit somewhere!”

  A gunshot struck a nearby headstone, obliterating an angel face.

  “Get down!” Zef threw his arms around Joey and hurled him to the ground, behind a row of graves.

  “What the hell?” screamed Joey, as the gunfire intensified.

  A policeman was on the knoll, shooting at the Horseman. The Horseman threw his hatchet, and its blade kicked up a haze of marble dust. The policeman circled around, clicking his empty pistol. He turned and fled up the hill, directly toward Joey and Zef. He was a squat, dumpy man with a crew cut. Joey recognized him from TV: David Martinez, the detective who’d been searching so long for the Horseman Killer.

  And now he’d found him.

  Bullets raked the Horseman from behind as he pursued the fleeing cop. Martinez whirled and fumbled a clip from his belt, trying to insert it…

  “Look out!” shouted Zef.

  The frightened police officer slipped on the muddy edge of Joey’s pit and fell, landing in the muddy grave. He flipped onto his stomach, searching for his ammo clip among the many bones.

  The Horseman reached the edge of the pit and stood, framed by the flickering windows of the church just behind. He raised his hatchet—to throw it, to kill his enemy…

  But his arm froze in midair. The Horseman struggled with himself, as if the arm had rusted and he couldn’t free it. Then he convulsed.

  And a head began to grow.

  Eddie Martinez was fighting his way back up.

  Plates of bone sprouted from the Monster’s spine and fused together into sockets and mandibles and teeth and skin and hair… and Eddie’s dumb, bewildered face reappeared. He lowered the hatchet, chest heaving.

  “Dad?” he whispered, with ragged breath.

  But David Martinez didn’t hear. He found his ammo clip, slapped it into his pistol, whirled, weapon high…

  “No!” shouted Zef and Joey, as one.

  … and fired.

  Martinez had always been a lousy shot, even in his training days. The other guys had laughed at him. He always shot high. He shot high again, this night, and his bullet would have whizzed right over the Horseman’s neck-stump, and would have blazed into the sky, right between those two brightest stars that hung over the Hudson.

  If not for love.

  If not for the last shred of love inside Eddie Martinez, the bullet would have missed completely. But even bullies and monsters have someone on this earth they care about, someone they could never hurt, someone they’d fight monsters for.

  David Martinez didn’t kill Eddie. Eddie did it to himself, accidentally, by fighting his way to the surface at the worst possible moment. Still, it was the finest act he’d performed since he beat Croton 41-0.

  The bullet struck Eddie right between the eyes and blew out the back of his head, the only part of him entirely empty of ghost. He was a brainless body at last. His legs went out from under him, and he fell to his knees, teetering forward.

  “Eddie?” whispered David Martinez, as his son’s shadow blocked the sky.

  Eddie’s body fell into the pit, pouring blood across the chest of his father, across the bones of the six colonials buried by Thomas the Gravedigger in 1776: buckets of blood to seep into the earth, down down down to the headless man at the very bottom of the mass grave.

  “Eddie?” screamed Martinez from the pit, pinned helplessly beneath the dead body of his boy. “Oh, God! Eddie! Eddie! What am I going to do now, son? Huh? What am I going to do now?”

  Joey and Zef backed away, horrified.

  Zef’s face screwed up and his eyes filled with tears despite himself. He and Eddie had been friends once. He turned away, running up the hill to the Irving grave. He’d seen enough. He’d just… seen enough.

  Joey came to his side. They collapsed on the ramp of brick and sat looking back at the scene. More policemen rushed up the knoll, gathering behind the church, gaping down at the blood-soaked Martinez, still wailing at the bottom of the pit.

  “So, is the Horseman dead?” said Zef.

  “No way,” said Joey.

  “Holy shit. Poor Eddie.”

  “What now?” whispered Joey. “We can't dig up the Horseman with all these police around.”

  “And it’s a good thing, too,” someone said. They turned. Kate had appeared, riding Gunsmoke across the graves. “You would have screwed up everything. Agathe would have been the dominant spirit then.”

  Joey wiped his face with a muddy hand. “My bad.”

  “Thank God, Kate,” Zef whispered, rising to embrace her.

  Kate slipped from the horse’s back, frowned, and whispered, “Where’s Jason?”

  “Two seconds,” said Zef, closing his eyes.

  Jason? He called telepathically.

  It’s not a good time, Zef!

  Agathe’s gone! The people are waking up.

  I saw. I can’t talk right now!

  Why not!

  ’Cause I’m about to be killed!

  What do you mean? Hello? Jason? Jason, are you there?

  Zef opened his eyes. “Jason says… he’s about to get killed.”

  “By who?” said Kate, her eyes wide.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “But… it’s over now,” said Joey, gesturing to the scene below. “It’s over… isn’t it?”

  Next to the open pit of the Horseman’s grave, the blood-covered hatchet of William Crane shivered where it lay. It flew into the air and hurtled into the woods, called to its master’s hand.

  Inside the church, the organist woke and struck a thunderous chord. The audience, unaware of time or gunshots, and not noticing Buddy asleep in the back, leaned forward expectantly in their pews as Town Storyteller Jonathan Kruk blinked fire from his eyes and spit flame from his lips, breaking from Agathe’s spell. Without losing a beat, Kruk raised his staff and pumpkin. His tricorn-hatted shadow loomed on the wall, jittery with candlelight. His voice rose louder than the organ music, high with fear and terror, reaching for the climax of the classic tale:

  “‘Quick, Gunpowder!’ Ichabod cried, and the old plough horse galloped! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Ichabod threw his arms around the horse’s neck hard enough to pop out its one good eye! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! The goblin laughed behind, pursuing! Haaaaaahhh—hahahaha! The schoolmaster screamed! ‘Aaaaaaaah!’ The buckle of the saddle broke and fell away beneath him! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! The monster was gaining! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! But then a star of hope appeared, above the spire of this venerable church! And by its light he saw: ‘The bridge! The bridge! I must make the bridge! Then I’ll be safe! Then I’ll be safe!’ Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! The Horseman was at his heels, his raised pumpkin burning with brimstone and fire!”

  The organ rose to a feverish pitch, the pipes screaming with terror.

  “Ride, Ichabod! Ride like the wind! You have to make the bridge! You have to make the bridge! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! Budduh-yump! For once you cross that bridge his power ends!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  “Out of Options”

  Squoosh squoosh squoosh squoosh!

  Jason ran through the cemetery, wet sneakers throwing mud—

  Squoosh squoosh squoosh squoosh!

  —head hot with ragged breath, his ears alert to every sound—

  Squoosh squoosh squoosh squoosh!

  Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?

  The r
eliquary swung in his glowing hand, as if he led a lantern tour. Was Hadewych following? Was Hadewych behind?

  He reached a crossroads and risked a look.

  Not there.

  Not there.

  Not there.

  I’m safe.

  But Hadewych burst from between the tombs. He had blood in his eyes and madness in his mouth. He screamed through broken teeth, “You’re dead!” and threw a fireball from both hands.

  (WHOOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHH!)

  Jason dodged, took cover behind an angel’s wings. The fireball struck (BOOOSH!) and Jason dashed across the graveyard.

  Hadewych threw another. (WHOOOOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHH!)

  “You’re dead! You’re dead! You’re dead! You’re dead!”

  (BOOOSH!)

  Jason leapt a chain and ducked a branch. He hid behind a tomb, pressing his back to the cold, cold stone and pressing his palms to his fluttering heartbeat. (THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump!) Holding his breath, hiding his light. (THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump!)

  Then: the rise of approaching feet.

  … pat pat pat PAT?

  Hadewych panting, very close: (huh. huh. huh. huh.)

  “Where are you, you little bastard?”

  (huh. huh. huh. huh.)

  The night grew red and headstone-shadows swept across the blighted grass. Double-shadows, both hands burning… (cracklekillandcrushandcrack) The fire (so close) like papers wadding—(crushhimcrackandkillandkill).

  Jason’s heartbeat in his ears: (THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump!)

  —(shattercrushandskinscaldcrack)—

  The heat receded. Hadewych passing…

  PAT pat pat pat…

  Jason waited, waited, waited…

  (THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump! THUMP-thump. THUMP-thump. THUMP-thump… THUMP-thump… thump-thump… thump-thump…)

  He broke from cover, running again. (Squoosh squoosh squoosh!)

  He vaulted over a sunken grave and stumbled onto a gravel road—

  (crunch crunch crunch crunch)

  —trying to find a way back to his friends…

  (crunch crunch crunch)

  The skull beat time inside the lantern: Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  (crunch crunch crunch)

  As crickets called: Jason CRANE! Jason CRANE!

  (crunch crunch crunch)

  The river, like an annoyed librarian: Shhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  (crunch crunch crunch crunch)

  Jason CRANE! Jason CRANE!

  Shhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  (crunch crunch crunch crunch)

  Jason CRANE! Jason CRANE!

  The bullfrog whispered: hadewych… hadewych…

  Shhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  (thump-thump… thump-thump….)

  Jason CRANE! Jason CRANE!

  (hadewych. hadewych.)

  (crunch crunch crunch whoop!)

  Jason’s laces tripped him up and the lantern fell from his glowing hands: (THOONK. Thoonk. Thoonk-thoonk-thoonk.)

  It rolled downhill. He left the gravel, snatching the lantern from the weeds, but distant gunshots (Pop! Pop!) startled him. His sneaker slipped in uneven mud. Jason’s iffy ankle turned, so bad he thought he might have sprained it. He screamed and, losing balance, lost the road and stumbled through the underbrush. The ground dropped away beneath him. His left knee bent and his body twisted. He hit bark and dove across a log, crashing down a steep slope of boulders and brambles. A murder of black leaves took flight. Hysterical branches clawed his face with raven-talons. He clutched the lantern as the world whirled. Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! He saw nothing but the bucking reliquary, bright in his glowing hands, orbiting over and over and over—Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp! Whoomp!—the Horseman’s Treasure, mirror-bright, prismatic, an ivory skull waltzing in a golden chest, grinning like a pirate flag above the stormy sea that beat his body—Whoomp! Whoomp!—as they splashed together through the cold wet— Whoomp!—woods.

  Stone flew up at him. Black stone, crumbling stone. The western abutment of the broken bridge, Ichabod’s bridge. Jason and the reliquary fell end over end—like the schoolmaster knocked from his saddle—hurtling headlong, forehead-first to strike the very same chalk-dust and slate. (CRACK!!) The lantern burst into pumpkin-shards, exploding against Jason’s cheek, slashing his palms, biting his arms with sharp glass teeth. The reliquary whiplashed, latch breaking open and lid flung wide. The skull escaped with a gasp of triumph. It hit the bridge abutment and bounced—(click! clacka! click-clack-click)—and clattered for the edge, toward the abyss and the churning river. Jason dove after it, leapt onto his belly, onto broken glass…

  … and at the last instant, his bare palms closed on the skull of the Headless Horseman.

  Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…

  The vision of the Horseman’s death and life gathered itself in a rush and tumble of images, the events like a river rushing in reverse, seeping through the graveyards of the past, tumbling backward over stone and branch and leaf, back to their origin, back to some first drip of rainwater—some first teardrop—some secret source that started it all…

  First the beheading chop. The end of the life. Halloween night, 1776.

  “I have held the bridge!” screams William Crane, his eyes wide, his face bright with blood. He squeezes the Horseman’s severed head, as if to crush it, and screams the words again, loud enough to reach the flickering light within the lantern of the Horseman’s soul. “I have held the bridge!”

  He raises the head and throws it into icy black water.

  Now further back, up the stream, against the current. Five minutes prior. A young and beautiful Agathe stands naked on a rock, the river splashing about her feet. She is offering herself to the handsome Horseman. He bends, thinking to take her, to take out his anger and frustration on this enemy woman. But he throws his cloak to her, to hide her nakedness. His enemy rides past. William Crane. The monster with the hatchet. The monster who killed his fellow soldiers. The Horseman kicks Mitternacht and takes off after his enemy, leaving Agathe unfulfilled.

  And up the Gory Brook—up the Blood-Water that runs past the Zauberstein, the magic rock—fifteen minutes prior—to the hut of Mother Hulda and the Battle of Gory Brook. The ambush comes out of nowhere. Colonial soldiers, hidden beneath the thatch of Mother Hulda’s hut, rising from the herb garden, shooting from the shadows. One soldier with a hatchet, the Monster, William Crane, swinging wildly, killing the Horseman’s companions. They fall one by one, lifeless in moonlight. Blood fills the brook. The hooves of horses trample the herb garden, raising an aroma to season the gunpowder stew of air. Mother Hulda throws open a window and fires her rifle. The Horseman shoots her in the chest. He mortally wounds the witch with one expert shot. And Mother Hulda, in her dying act, will pour the last of her own Hessian blood into the brook, to seal his fate, and Agathe’s.

  Now follow the blood of those ambushed men. It is early Halloween night. Before the battle, before the ambush at the witch’s hut. A blue-blooded sunset. The lights of General Howe’s camp flicker in the valley below, like a hive of fireflies in the bosom of White Plains. The Horseman and his compatriots ride into the Pocantico Hills, down the throat of the forest. They have wrapped themselves in black cloaks. They are on a mission, their final mission… and they must not fail. The fates of a new nation and a mighty British Empire hang in the balance.

  And their own happiness as well.

  Earlier, the splash of canteens in camp. The sun hangs high over the field but the wind is cool. The trees are bright orange and the sky is a sickly green. A British officer in a scarlet coat haughtily inspects the collected mercenaries. The Hessians look tired and scarred. Their blue uniforms are browned with blood. Their faces are hard and bitter beneath their tall black hats. The Horseman squares his shoulders.

  The officer speaks German, but Jason has no problem understanding.

  “The coward General Washington is attempting escape. He will try to drag out this confl
ict, to keep you fighting on these shores, but we can end this war now. Tonight.”

  Follow the scrawl of ink as the officer takes up a scrap of paper scribbled with translated phrases, flips it over, and draws a map of the Tarrytown Woods.

  “Take the bridge at Tarrytown. Here. See? Cut off Washington’s retreat, and King George will owe you Hessians a great debt. Take that bridge and the war ends. Take that bridge, finish your mission, and we will send you home to Prussia. You have my word.”

  The Hessians cheer.

  The Horseman takes up the map, studying it. He runs a finger across the tiny word…

  Brücke.

  … the ink smears, a smudge of black on his calloused fingertip.

  “Take that bridge and we will send you home.”

  Follow the muddy road, wet with the futures of American soldiers, blood trickling through fields of corpses. A trail from White Plains, back to Harlem, back to Brooklyn. All that way, his thirsty sword reaps heads. His pistol throws sparks. Cannons blare and men march. Colonials fall and the Horseman steps backward over the dead. He is a ruthless killer with only one purpose. Complete his missions. Get them over with. Kill anyone who tries to delay him. Kill anyone who stands in his path. His commanders are fools.

  He will win this war all by himself if he has to.

  Exhausted men snore around him, but the Horseman needs no sleep. He lies on hard ground and stale sweat and blue wool, beneath the stars and the gaze of his stallion. He is covered in mud and insect bites and blood not his own. He cleans his hands from a canteen and, carefully, takes a white silk scarf from its woolen pouch.

  He caresses the delicate fabric.

  “Margarethe,” he whispers, with longing.

  Tears fall. Tears that no man shall ever witness.

  Tears reserved for the night and the horses and the stars.