“This is crap, Brian. You think I didn’t handle politically sensitive cases in Westchester?”
Grinning, Wilhoite said, “Honestly? No, I don’t. Not like this. C’mon, Abbie, you said it yourself: you worked in Westchester. I mean, c’mon, what was the most politically charged case you handled up there? When an alderman got his cat stuck in a tree?”
Abbie sighed, wishing she didn’t have a Chicago native for an ASAC. “No, because we don’t have aldermen in New York.”
“Very funny. Look, this is bureau policy. You don’t get to take the lead on a case while there’s still water behind your ears, you get me?”
“Fine.” Abbie turned and left the office, working her way through the cubicles until she reached her own.
Three pink pieces of paper were on her desk, two from Smith saying to call him, one from August Corbin.
Having absolutely no desire to talk to the person to whom Wilhoite had just handed her case, she instead chose to return Corbin’s message. She hadn’t heard from her ex-partner in months.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said after answering on the first ring.
“What’s up, August?”
“What, a guy can’t call his ex-partner to say hi? I mean, you do still remember your ex-partner, right? Not forgetting the little people back in the Hudson Valley after you graduated top of your class at Quantico?”
Abbie shook her head. “I think that’s a new record.”
“What is?” Corbin sounded confused.
“This time you got in the reference to my graduating at the top of my class in under ten seconds.”
Corbin laughed. “Can I help it if I’m proud of my protégée?”
“I guess you can’t.”
“So how’re things in FBI Land? Or can’t you talk about it with us bumpkin sheriffs?”
“Oh, stop that. Most of the guys here, they wouldn’t last five minutes under you.” She sighed. “Anyhow, I got a case—a possible serial, one I saw the pattern on and brought to the ASAC. But they gave it to another agent. I get to assist, but—”
“But you’re too new. You don’t get to be in charge of your own serial killer case first time out of the gate.”
“Yeah.” Abbie chuckled ruefully. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make everything sound reasonable. You said the same thing Wilhoite did, but it made sense coming from you.”
“Just my natural charm and good looks.”
Abbie rolled her eyes. “We’re talking on the phone. And you don’t look that good.”
Corbin chuckled. “Look, kiddo, I’m not one to give advice—”
“Since when?” Abbie asked with a grin.
Ignoring her, Corbin went on. “—but rules like the one that’s keeping you off this case were made for ordinary people. It’s so people don’t get thrown in out of their depth the first time out. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the rule’s absolutely right. But what you gotta remember is that you’re not ordinary. You never have been. You were an extraordinary cop, and you’ll be an extraordinary agent. A special special agent.”
She could practically hear his grin on that last joke. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “I mean it.”
“I know you do. Now go catch yourself a serial killer that some other agent’ll get all the credit for. Just don’t forget that there’s an old man in Sleepy Hollow who knows that you’re the best.”
Abbie was about to reply, when suddenly—
—she’s on a call with Corbin to the Fox Hill Stables just outside town. She moves around to the back of the stables, with Corbin taking the front. She notices Ogelvie’s pickup truck, the driver’s-side door wide open, which is very much not like him.
“Mr. Ogelvie? It’s Lieutenant Mills.”
There’s no answer.
She goes inside, and almost trips on a shotgun. Keying her radio, she tells Corbin, “We got a weapon on the ground.”
Seconds later, she finds a body. A body without a head. She realizes that it’s Jimmy Ogelvie, and he’s been decapitated.
As she comes into sight of Ogelvie’s barn’s double doors, she sees an axe head slam through the wood, splintering it. She hears the sickening squelch of blood, and the awful thud of a body falling to the ground. Fearing the worst, she runs to the barn only to find her second decapitated body in as many minutes—and also the second of her entire life.
It’s Corbin.
“Officer down! Oh, God, officer down!” she cries—
—and then she was back in her dinky cubicle.
“You’re dead,” she whispered into the phone.
“Excuse me?” Corbin asked.
She stood up, clutching the receiver to her ear. “This isn’t right. You’re dead, you were killed back in Sleepy Hollow. I never went to Quantico.”
“Kiddo, what’re you—”
Abbie slammed the phone down and then cried out, “I’m not buying this, Nugent!”
And then she screamed in agony.…
FRANK IRVING CAME home from his shift as commander of the 24th Precinct in Manhattan. The promotion had, he felt, been earned. The two-four wasn’t the toughest precinct in the city these days—the gentrification of Morningside Heights had reduced the crime rate considerably—but it was still enough of a neighborhood in transition that there was plenty to keep the cops under his command busy.
As soon as he opened the door, Macey came running into his arms at full speed, the impact of her running hug nearly toppling him over. “Welcome home, Daddy.”
“Oof.” Irving grinned. “Maybe don’t build up such a head of steam next time, okay, Little Bean?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Cynthia was taking her earrings off and had slid out of her heels, but otherwise was still in her suit. “I just got home myself.” She reached for the sideboard and held up several takeout menus, which she fanned out like a poker hand. “What do you want for dinner: pizza, Chinese, Indian, or Thai?”
Irving grinned. “Well, we had pizza last night and I had Chinese for lunch, so I’m for Indian or Thai.”
“Well, I had Thai for lunch, so Indian it is.”
Macey made a face. “Aw, Mom, last time we got takeout from the Indian place I spent all night in the bathroom.”
That surprised Irving. “You did? Why’s this the first time I’m hearing about it?”
Rolling her eyes, Cynthia said, “Because you could sleep through an earthquake, Frank. I’m fine with doing Thai again for dinner.”
“Yay!” Macey now ran to her room.
Irving watched her run, not sure why, but knowing that that was the most amazing sight in the world.
It was also completely wrong.
He lifted his left hand to his face, only to feel the weight of his wedding ring on his finger. It felt heavy, ungainly, as if he weren’t used to it.
And he wasn’t. This was wrong. Cynthia and he were divorced, and Macey—
—lies broken in the emergency room, doctors and nurses all around her, operating feverishly. Irving’s badge allows him into the hallway outside instead of the waiting room, but that proves to be a curse rather than a blessing. He can see them cutting Macey open, hoping to heal the wounds, to fix the damage, to save her life.
Unable to take it anymore, he goes into the waiting room, where Cynthia is sitting on the couch, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Is she okay? Frank? Frank—”
“—are you okay?”
“No,” he said honestly to the woman who may or may not have been his wife. “Something’s wrong. With all this. I shouldn’t be here.”
Cynthia laughed. “What’re you talking about, Frank? This is our home. Has been for ages.”
“Not mine. Not anymore.” He ripped the wedding ring off and tossed it to the floor, then grabbed Cynthia’s head, cupping her cheeks in his hands. He could smell her perfume, feel her warmth, yet he knew it couldn’t be her. “I wish this was real, Cynthia, but it isn’t. Macey can’t walk anymore and we ar
en’t married anymore, and this just isn’t real.”
And then he screamed in agony.…
“OKAY, THAT’S IT for today. Don’t forget, I need your thesis statements in my email box no later than five p.m. on Friday. Any later than that, and it affects your grade. And remember, I have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to excuses. Doctor’s notes won’t cover it—pretty much every hospital these days has Wi-Fi.”
The students around the room chuckled at Professor Joseph Bieo’s words as they got up from their desks, the sound of the chairs scraping on the tile cutting through the laughter that echoed through the lecture hall. Sitting on the side of the room, Bieo’s teaching assistant, Jenny Mills, just shook her head.
After the room cleared, Bieo looked at Jenny. “You know what the sad part is? About a quarter of the students will still hand in the thesis late. It’s human nature. And then I’ll give them a B or a C, and then they’ll complain about the low grade, having completely forgotten what I said today. Or worse, thinking that what I said didn’t apply to them.”
Jenny smiled at her mentor. “You’re a cynical bastard, aren’t you?”
Bieo shrugged. “Sadly, it comes with the territory. But enough about these slugabeds. Come Friday, you get to read all their theses and tell me if any of them are worthy. Personally, I don’t believe we shall have more than five good ones.”
Shaking her head, Jenny said, “I think you’re not giving them enough credit. I’m thinking ten.”
That got a grin out of Bieo. “Do you wish to put your money where your foot is?”
“Sure.” Jenny chuckled. “Ten bucks says I’m closer to right than you are.”
“Very well. Up to seven good ones, I win. Eight or more good ones, and you win. But let’s make it interesting, shall we? Money is so—so tawdry.”
Jenny shook her head again. “First of all, people who try to change a bet from money to something else are people who aren’t confident that they’re going to win. Second, you just wanted an excuse to use the word tawdry in a sentence so you could impress me with your vocabulary.”
Bieo bowed. “Guilty as charged. I was going to suggest the loser buy the winner dinner at a restaurant of the latter’s choice.”
“Which isn’t at all fair, because you like gourmet restaurants. I’m a PhD candidate, which means I’m broke. Let’s stick with ten bucks.”
“You’re on.” Bieo grinned. “Now then, I’ve got the seminar to teach. Can you meet with Mr. Alvarez at two? Apparently he is having some sort of issue.”
Jenny winced. “Okay, I guess? But I’ve got a session with Mira at two thirty, so Jorge really can’t be late like he usually is.”
Bieo shook his head. “I forgot that you’re mentoring the good Ms. Johnson. Remind me why again?” Now Jenny rolled her eyes. Bieo was a good professor, a fantastic archeologist, an understanding mentor, but details of everyday life tended to slip by him—which was why he needed a TA in the first place. “Mira’s a scholarship student, came up through the foster-care system.”
“So?”
Yup, details just flew on by. “My sister and I were raised in foster care. It sucks, it drains the life out of you, and Mira didn’t let it get her down.”
Shrugging, Bieo said, “You didn’t let it get you down, either. And isn’t your sister a police officer or some such? Doesn’t seem to me as if it’s all that much of a detriment if the three of you managed. Either way, I’m sure Mr. Alvarez will, in fact, be late, but I also can’t imagine his complaint is of any real moment.” He closed his briefcase and moved toward the door. “I will see you at Dr. Hastings’s reception this evening.”
“Yeah, fine,” Jenny muttered. He couldn’t remember why she was mentoring Mira Johnson, but he had to remember the stupid reception? She was really hoping his ditziness would get her out of that.
She also had no nice clothes to wear for the reception. The one nice outfit she had was still sitting in a pile on the floor of her bedroom waiting for her to have the money to have it dry-cleaned.
As she packed up her books and laptop she realized she was going to have to call Abbie. It would be a tight fit—Jenny was a bit taller than her younger sister—but she could probably squeeze into one of her suits.
She was looking forward to her session with Mira, who was a good kid. Jorge Alvarez, not so much. Jenny knew that Bieo had fobbed him off on her because the kid was a chronic excuse-maker, Bieo’s least favorite thing in the world. And Jorge was probably going to complain the whole time about how unreasonable Bieo was.
Jenny really enjoyed being Bieo’s TA. He was eloquent and tall and smart and engaging. It was like studying under an African prince. And she enjoyed just listening to him talk. It was just like listening to Crane.…
She blinked. Who the hell was Crane?
And then she remembered, a tall man in a ratty old coat—
—standing in the doorway to Room 49 of Tarrytown Psychiatric, her home away from home. She hates it here, yet she keeps coming back, because she knows that the world outside isn’t safe. It isn’t safe for her, and it isn’t safe from her.
“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Mills,” he says, sounding for all the world like he stepped out of an episode of Downton Abbey.
“Curiosity got the best of me,” she replies. Any change in the routine was something worth grabbing at, and some tall British guy dressed like he’d just walked in from a historical reenactment was definitely worth a look. “Plus, I was bored. Who are you? Abbie’s new boyfriend?”
“We are amicable. And yes, I am male, but I suspect you are implying something else.”
Deciding she likes this one a lot better than the last boyfriend of Abbie’s she met—which was years ago, and not even her most recent beau—she asks, “What’s your name, Tall, Dark, and British?”
“Ichabod Crane.”
Oh, this is too perfect. It really was like she walked into PBS. “What do your friends call you? Icky?”
“Not if they want to remain my friends.”
Impressed, she says, “Sense of humor, too.”
Then he drops the bombshell. “I’ve seen the demon in the woods—the one you and your sister saw as children.”
Jenny is taken aback by that. This is ridiculous, some guy coming out of nowhere and telling her that he believes her, which is absurd, because nobody believes her ever, not even Abbie, who was there, and—
—that didn’t happen! “It’s not real!”
Several people turned to look at her funny as she walked through the quad.
Shaking her head, Jenny started walking more quickly toward the archeology department’s offices.
“I’m not crazy,” she muttered to herself. That whole world was nonsense, with her sister betraying her and British guys from the Revolutionary War and demons possessing her and Corbin helping her and the Weavers and Adams and the training and all the rest of it, and it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real, because she was happy here and now, on her way to a PhD, not that crazy woman who spent her adolescence and her twenties in and out of loony bins. That wasn’t her. This was her.
But it wasn’t real.
And then she screamed.…
THE PART CRANE was least looking forward to was the bloodletting.
He stood next to the police automobile they had arrived in, holding the Congressional Cross he’d been awarded in one hand, a small dagger in the other. At the moment, he was simply waiting for a sign. They weren’t even sure that Miss Nugent would be in this house performing the ritual, and it wouldn’t do for Crane to waste time casting a counterspell against magics that were being cast somewhere else entirely.
But once he saw a sign that his very nascent spell-casting ability would be required, he would need to slice open his flesh in order to baptize the cross with his own blood. Crane understood better than most the power of blood. The mingling of his blood with that of Death led to his fate and that of the Horseman being intertwined. The revelation that Death was his old fr
iend Abraham van Brunt made that intertwining even more tragic, for he and van Brunt were already all but blood brothers, before Crane’s and Katrina’s love for each other came between them.
Then there was the golem that Katrina had made for their son, Jeremy, which had grown into a fierce, vicious protector of the boy. Crane could only kill him with the blood of the boy who created him—but Crane’s blood, being that of his father, did the trick as well.
And now this. This medal was awarded to him, and as Whitcombe-Sears had said, his own blood would infuse it with great power. Miss Nugent was doing the same with Whitcombe-Sears’s own blood, but it was diluted with the passing on of the generations. For once, Crane’s being out of his own time was a significant advantage.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of light. Turning, he saw that the windows in the dwelling belonging to Miss Nugent were flickering with a light that Crane recognized as being eldritch. That illumination came neither from any candle nor from the lighting bulbs that people in this era used.
The spell was being cast.
And so he took the dagger in his right hand and sliced open his left palm, wincing at the feel of the cold metal on his warm hand, followed by the slickness of the blood that pooled in the cut. Picking up the medal with his right hand, he held his left hand over it, the blood dripping onto the silver.
He started to recite the words he had rehearsed several times in the armory, but then was distracted—
—BY THE SMALL children running about the dock of New York Harbour. One urchin crashed into Crane’s leg, and he stumbled back for a bit.
Luckily, Jeremy was by his side and able to stabilize him. “Are you all right, Father?”
Crane brushed a silver hair out of his eyes and looked over at his son, who was a man now, as tall as his father. “I’m well, Jeremy, thank you.”
The boy who had collided with his leg had already lost himself in the crowd gathered waiting for the sailing ship that had arrived this morning from England and was in the process of being secured to the dock so that its passengers could disembark.
Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution Page 18
