But the reverend was in Sleepy Hollow, and it would take many days for him to arrive. Too many days. Martha didn’t have that kind of time.
Washington had lost too many people who mattered to him over the years. He would not lose Martha as well.
After drawing the sigil, which resembled a star with six points, Washington looked up at his cousin as he got to his feet. “Help me unwrap the crosses, Lund. We only need six of them.”
“Then why did you commission ten?”
“Because ten men earned them,” Washington said sharply. Then he softened. “Besides, it is always prudent to have more than one needs.”
Lund started unwrapping one of the medals. “Why six?”
“The Reverend Mr. Knapp explained to me that six is a powerful number when it comes to magics associated with life and death, as these runes are. There are six stages in life, after all: birth, infancy, childhood, adulthood, old age, and death.”
Nodding, Lund unwrapped the remaining crosses with Washington in silence.
“Place each cross on one of the points of the symbol, Lund.”
Lund nodded again and did as he was told.
By the time they were done, it was almost sunset. “Night will fall, and with it will rise a new moon.”
“Does the new moon even rise?” Lund asked.
“Don’t be doltish, Lund, of course it does, we simply cannot see it. And the minions of Serilda will make their final attempt on Martha when the moon rises, and we must be ready with the counterspell.”
The wait for the moon to rise was interminable. Washington remembered many campaigns where he and his troops had to wait for day to break or for night to fall or for supplies to arrive. War was sometimes an organized bore, with the added distraction of time seeming to slow down when there was nothing to do, particularly if one was waiting for something.
But at last the moon rose and night fell, and Washington began chanting the words from the grimoire that Knapp had lent him, and which he had retrieved from the library shortly after they prepared the floor.
Martha moaned with her fever, crying out mournfully, breaking Washington’s heart with each utterance.
Then the deathly voice sounded again, even as a hot, fetid wind blew through the open windows of the bedroom. You cannot stop me with your small spells!
Washington continued to chant the words from the grimoire.
Your wife will die and you will suffer and you will never know happiness again! You will pay for what you did to Serilda!
Finally, Washington finished the incantation. Each of the Congressional Crosses he and Lund had placed on the sigil started to glow eerily. “The spell I have cast is not intended to stop you, witch. It is intended to save my wife.”
For a moment, nothing happened. The wind continued, but the awful voice of Serilda’s minion remained quiet.
Then the voice screamed loud enough to rattle Washington’s very bones. What have you done? I cannot touch her!
The slave woman who’d been caring for Martha—and who’d been crossing herself repeatedly since nightfall—said, “Sir, the fever’s goin’ down!”
Curse you, George Washington! She had the touch of death upon her, and you removed it!
“That was the notion, yes. Begone, witch! There is nothing for you here.”
I will go, the voice said, louder this time, and the wind picked up, feeling like a hot slap across Washington’s face. But know this, Serilda will rise again!
With that, the wind died down, leaving only the usual humid Virginia air that Washington expected in early August.
Although the cold, dark voice was gone, he did hear a much weaker one speak from the bed.
“G-George?”
“Martha!” A wave of relief spread over Washington as he ran to his wife’s side. She hadn’t spoken a single word in almost a week.
“I—I feel awful.”
Washington actually allowed himself to finally laugh. He sat on the side of the bed and embraced Martha, holding her head to his breast. “Do not fret, Martha. You’re safe now.”
The next morning, Washington arranged to have the Congressional Crosses delivered to the recipients—or, failing that, to their relations. The only one who left no family behind—at least, none to whom such an award could be given—was Crane.
Washington would have to find a place to store that one until such a time as Crane himself would be able to collect it.…
EIGHT
NEW YORK CITY
JANUARY 2014
BEDRAJ DEZAN HATED traveling exhibits.
His job as head of security for the Museum of the City of New York meant that he had to make sure that all the exhibits were, well, secure. This included supervising the staff of guards who kept an eye on both patrons and exhibits, making sure the alarm systems were state-of-the-art and up-to-date—or, at least, as much as the budget allowed for—and generally keeping the building safe and secure.
And Bedraj was very good at his job. He was proud of their record since his hiring: no thefts, minimal vandalism, and the lowest number of patron-related incidents since the museum opened at its current Fifth Avenue location in 1932. The vaults were secure, and the transfers of pieces from the vaults to the exhibit halls were always flawless. He’d been on the job for almost twenty years, surviving the post-9/11 fanaticism about security—which actually enabled him to incorporate some upgrades that had been deemed excessive in 2000—as well as the changes that came with emerging technology.
He had everything down to a science, a well-oiled machine.
Except when traveling exhibits showed up.
They always had their own security arrangements, and they inevitably clashed with his own. They had alarms that they insisted on using that were incompatible with MCNY’s own system. They’d insist on security measures that would require him to hire more people, except that the museum didn’t have the budget to hire more people or pay overtime for existing employees to do it.
He also had a good relationship with the local Interpol office, the FBI’s white-collar division, and the cops of the 23rd Precinct of the NYPD. Which made today’s invasion of his museum by representatives from the latter somewhat annoying.
It started when he was going over some files in the security office on the fifth floor of the museum, and he got a radio call from Ahondjon, the guard who was working the desk at the main entrance to the museum.
“Bedraj, there’s a bunch of folks from the NYPD here, along with Ms. Nugent from IYS. They’d like to talk to you.”
Frowning, Bedraj told Ahondjon he’d be right down and took the elevator to the second floor and then took the grand Nathalie Pierrepont Comfort staircase down the rest of the way to the first floor so he had time to see what he was in for.
As he went down the large spiral staircase, he saw a trio of uniformed officers, and three more in plainclothes. He recognized two of the latter. The tall, lanky Latino man wearing a suit that didn’t quite seem to fit right was Detective Tomas Vasquez from the 23rd Precinct. The short, stout woman with the olive skin and wearing a dark green suit that fit her perfectly despite her fireplug shape was the aforementioned Beth Nugent from the insurance company.
Once he hit the first-floor landing, he stared right at the detective. “Yeah, Tomas, what’s going on?”
Tomas held up both hands. “We’ve got a credible threat, Bedraj. Can we go talk in your office?”
The three officers started wandering around the museum, one heading to the exhibit at the east end of the building, another to the southern hall, the third into the gift shop. They made both the customers and the other museum employees nervous.
After giving the uniforms a sidelong glance, Bedraj looked back at Tomas. “Yeah, okay. This way.” He led the three of them to the elevator, and then he used his key to access the fifth floor. The top two floors of the museum were not open to the public.
They entered his cramped office, which had only two guest chairs. The tall guy offered
to remain standing.
“That’s very nice of you …?”
“Sorry,” Tomas said as he sat down, getting the hint. “Bedraj Dezan, head of security, meet Captain Frank Irving, from Sleepy Hollow. You already know Beth.”
Bedraj sat in his chair, which made the same awful squeaking noise it always made. Beth, Tomas, and the captain from Westchester all winced at the noise, but the truth was, Bedraj didn’t even notice it anymore. “Yeah, she’s the reason I’m taking this meeting in my office instead of making you and your goons all pay admission.”
Tomas winced. “Hey, c’mon, that’s not fair. You know me, Bedraj, you know I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think it was a good idea.” Then he grinned. “Besides, it’s suggested admission. You do that, I’ll tell ’em to each pay a penny.”
“Right.” Bedraj shook his head. “Yeah, and Beth knows I know you, which is why it’s you here instead of someone else from the two-three. So cut the crap and tell me what’s going on.”
For the first time, Irving spoke up. “Mr. Dezan, your current exhibit from the Society of the Cincinnati has an Independence Cross that was awarded to Tench Tilghman as part of the exhibit, am I right?”
“Of course it’s right.”
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art has two Independence Crosses, and the Cortlandt Museum in Tarrytown has another. All three have been stolen in the last week.”
For the first time, Bedraj sat up in his chair and viewed this meeting as something other than an annoyance. He’d been humoring Tomas and Beth because of his past relationship with them, but now—now, this really was a credible threat.
“Yeah, normally, this’d be the part where I tell you we have state-of-the-art security—and on top of that, the Society put a webcam on the damn exhibit, so the whole world can see it 24/7—but the Met has even better security than we do.” He gave Beth a glance.
She’d been uncharacteristically quiet up until now. “Look, Bedraj, SOP would be to go to the Society and MCNY’s board for this, but I know you. I know you hate the crap they pull, and besides, this is a security matter. So we’re doing you the courtesy of coming to you first.”
Bedraj nodded. “I appreciate that, Beth.”
Beth returned the nod. “Look, I know you don’t have the money to hire more guards, so the two-three’s gonna have three officers here during closing hours on foot patrol, and Frank and I’ll be here, too.”
A response died on Bedraj’s lips at that last phrase. “Hang on. Beth, you I can make a case for, but—well, no offense, Captain, but you’re way out of your jurisdiction.”
“Only recently,” he said. “I was NYPD before I transferred up to Sleepy Hollow. In fact,” and for the first time, the captain’s expression changed from the stony one he’d been using, “I used to be her partner. Taught her everything she knows.”
Snorting, Bedraj said, “So it’s your fault.” He shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t think I can allow it. I mean—”
“Mr. Dezan, they’ve already killed to achieve their goal.”
“What!?” Nobody had told Bedraj anything about murder.
“Show him,” Irving said to Beth, who pulled a tablet out of her purse.
Tomas shook his head. “No wonder you left the force, Nugent. We ain’t got the budget for the nice toys.”
Beth swiped her index finger across the tablet screen a few times and then showed Bedraj a gruesome photo of a bunch of body parts spread out across a lobby area.
As Bedraj’s breakfast started to well up to his throat, Beth took the tablet back and swiped over to another photo, but he held a hand up. “Yeah, I get the idea.”
“The vics,” Irving said, “were the three security guards on duty at the Cortlandt. The other two looked like that guy.”
“Dammit.” Bedraj swallowed down bile. “Yeah, why exactly didn’t you lead with that?”
“This kinda stuff,” Beth said, indicating the tablet, “it’s better to work your way up to.”
“Says you.” Bedraj shuddered. “Yeah, fine, come on over. We close at six, and thanks to the Sphincter of the Cincinnati”—the others chuckled at the malapropism—“I’ve got foot patrols overnight, but it’s only two guards. If something that can do that wants the cross, I’m more than happy to make it seven.”
“Good.” Irving moved toward the door. “I’ve got some other business to take care of. I’ll be back at six.”
Tomas got up as well. “I’ve gotta get back to the house. I’m gonna leave my guys here until closing. Then I got three guys from the night shift coming in later, okay?”
Bedraj nodded, barely noticing Tomas and Beth follow Irving out the door.
All he could see was that dead security guard chopped to pieces.
He debated whether or not to tell the two overnight guards when they reported what they were in for. Jessica, he wasn’t worried about, as she’d been a cop in Pittsburgh before she moved to New York for her husband’s job. But Emmett was a retired stevedore who mostly just liked the quiet of the overnight. He didn’t really sign on for being cut to pieces.
None of them did.
That was the great thing about museum security work. It was mostly just dealing with stupid tourists who didn’t get the concept of not touching things. The only criminals were either thieves or vandals.
But murderers? That was a whole other level.
Bedraj spent the rest of the day wandering around the museum trying not to be conspicuous. He didn’t think he entirely succeeded, but it mostly didn’t matter, because the three cops Tomas had left behind weren’t even trying. The day’s patrons were confused and nervous at the presence of NYPD in the building. For the first few years after the twin towers fell, it wasn’t unusual to see a heavy police presence in any public building in town. If nothing else, it made people feel safer. But that had tapered off over the years, to the point where now such a presence made people more nervous.
He also made contact with the Society of the Cincinnati and the board to discuss the threat. Beth had been right in that it made his life easier this way. It looked like Bedraj did his job well, identifying the threat and bringing it to them instead of the other way around. They were grateful that Bedraj was already planning tighter security, and they all agreed to discontinue the webcam until the threat was passed. IT put up a message saying that there were technical problems with the feed, which Bedraj hoped wouldn’t raise suspicions. The main thing was to cut off an avenue of surveillance for the thieves.
Bedraj was pretty much a wreck by the time six o’clock rolled around. For almost two decades, he’d been keeping this place safe, but the worst thing that happened to anyone was that time a sculpture fell on a mover and broke the man’s leg in four places (the sculpture survived unscathed). There was the occasional trip-and-fall, the occasional drunk or high students, but nobody had ever even gotten seriously hurt on his watch, much less killed.
At about five, he got a text from his wife, saying that she was home from her shift at the hospital and dinner was going to be lamb stew.
He loved Milena’s lamb stew.
The three cops left and were replaced by three others, while both Jessica and Emmett reported for their shift.
At about a quarter past, Irving and Beth both showed up. They all stood at the foot of the Comfort staircase on the first floor, the front doors having been locked, the general public and staff all ushered out.
“We got this, Bedraj,” Beth said with a small smile. “Get on home to Milena and the kids.”
“Yeah, I can’t.” He shook his head, the phantom taste of the lamb stew on his lips. “First of all, it’s just Milena—both boys are away at college now. And besides …” He sighed heavily. “I need to make a phone call. Excuse me.” Pulling his smartphone from his pocket, he called their Bronx apartment.
As always, she answered in Armenian. “Yes, my love?”
In the same language, he replied, “My apologies, little flower, but I’m afraid I must remain late
at work. There is a small crisis.”
“What kind of crisis? Is everyone okay?”
Bedraj smiled. Milena was always thinking of other people first. “Everyone’s fine—but I need to remain this evening and do another shift in order to make sure that everyone remains fine.”
“Of course, my love. Be well. I will save some stew for you to heat up when you get home.”
“Thank you, little flower. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Now Beth was staring at him angrily with her hands on her hips. “Okay, my Armenian’s kinda rusty, but I’m pretty sure you just told Milena that you’re not coming home tonight.” She smirked. “This is how wives get suspicious of their husbands having affairs, y’know.”
Bedraj rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well that Milena has no such suspicions. Besides, if I went home to her, all I’d do is constantly text you for updates and not sleep and not enjoy her lamb stew.”
Beth’s eyes widened. “She’s making her lamb stew and you’re still staying here? They are not paying you enough for this, Bedraj.”
Knowing that he’d have to fight to get the overtime request approved, a fight he was fairly certain he was going to lose, Bedraj agreed with her.
Jessica and Emmett walked up to him, Emmett lagging a bit behind and surreptitiously trying to hike his pants up, pushed down as they were by his prodigious beer gut.
“What’s the badge party for, Bedraj?” Jessica asked.
Before Bedraj could reply, the captain from Westchester stepped forward. “I’m Captain Frank Irving from Sleepy Hollow. We believe that one of your pieces is being targeted by a thief who doesn’t like it when security guards get in the way. He’s already killed three people. Our job tonight is to make sure they don’t get Tench Tilghman’s Independence Cross.”
Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution Page 8
