“Go out back and call Jason in,” Hadewych said. “I’ll get a shower and we can cook something.”
Hadewych was on the stairs.
“What do you want to cook?” asked Zef.
Jason didn’t stop to hear the rest. He ran to the dresser and killed the light, spun on his heel and, picking his way through a minefield of trash, slipped into the bedroom closet just as the key turned in the lock. His mind swam, trying to predict what might betray him. He’d closed the bedroom window and anchored the brake under laundry. The curtains would hide all that anyway. He still had a mile of bright green rope hanging from the attic, though. If Zef went to cook something, would he see it dangling outside the kitchen window?
Hadewych entered, singing “Oh, Come All Ye Faithful.” A sliver of light splintered the dark closet. Jason tried not to breathe. He found a hanging overcoat and slipped behind its skirt, crouching, back against the wall.
“Come and behold him! Born the king of a-angels…” Hadewych’s form blotted the sliver of light: he was just outside. “Oh, come let us adore him. Oh, come let us adore him! OH, COME LET US ADORE HI-IM!” He must have thrown his arms out on the climactic note because something hit the closet door with a whump and it flew open. Hadewych stood admiring his bare torso in the mirror. “CHRI—IST THE LORD!”
Jason flinched, feeling as exposed as a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. He willed himself into the shadow of the overcoat. He pulled in all his extremities and hooked his thumbs in his harness straps. Hadewych began to undress. Jason closed his eyes and looked away. Women may adore Hadewych’s toothpaste-commercial smile and impressive head of blond hair but the man’s body was as scrawny and unpleasant as the man’s soul. He’d descended from Brom Bones but he sure hadn’t inherited Brom’s physique.
Jason waited until the shower came on and Hadewych stepped inside. He could tell because Hadewych’s singing gained resonance and became almost bearable. He checked to make sure the coast was clear and—
His hand fell on a book, hidden beneath a pile of sheets. He drew it out and looked at the handwritten label on the spine. His face went hot. He opened the book to its first page.
THE
SKETCH-BOOK
Of
GEOFFREY CRAYON, Gent.
That son of a bitch.
Hadewych had found his secret safe. He had guessed the combination or had cracked it some other way. He’d stolen the Sketch-Book. Yes, it was the same copy. His ancestor had written inside the cover. Absalom Crane. September 17th, 1834.
The steam from the bathroom might as well have been coming out of Jason’s ears. If he’d had the butcher knife at that moment he may have reenacted the shower scene from Psycho.
Hadewych had admired the Sketch-Book the moment he’d seen it. Jason kicked himself that he hadn’t seen the theft coming but he was grateful that he’d moved Agathe’s diary to the RV. Even with the pages blank, Jason felt a stab of dread at the idea of Hadewych touching the diary. Somehow, he knew in his gut that that would be very, very bad.
He stood, looking around with disgust at the expensive shoes and designer suits. He should throw them all in a pile and set a fire. He didn’t really care if Hadewych caught him now, but he knew he’d be better off sneaking out than starting a fight. What if the bank statement contained proof of fishy dealings? He had to check that out first. Something good had to come of this adventure. And until he was certain…
He sighed and put the Sketch-Book back where he’d found it.
He had to move.
He checked the closet for any other surprises—the Horseman’s Treasure under a dusty comforter? No such luck. He did discover an impressive pile of porn.
He kept one eye on the shower door as he slipped out. He crossed the minefield again and found the rope. He clipped the brake to his navel. He would rappel down to the back yard and…
Zef strode across the back yard, crunching through the snow on his way to the garage. He hadn’t seen the rope yet, but would when he turned back. The snow had covered the coils on the ground, but who could miss the dangling lines?
Jason opened the window and pulled the rope up as quickly as he could.
Zef pounded on the garage door. “Jason? You in there? Dad says to come in for dinner!”
Jason gathered the rope into his arms but he didn’t dare bring it inside—the snow would melt and leave more wet evidence. Zef thumped on the garage door one last time, turned, and headed back to the house. Jason expected to be spotted at any second, his head sticking out the windows of the master suite, his arms full of rope.
But Zef rarely looked up when he walked. As long as Jason had known him Zef had walked with a slouch, looking at his feet. He was protecting his head from the snow, too, and so he made it all the way across the yard without looking up once. When at last Zef climbed the back steps and went into the kitchen, Jason counted to three, checked that he was clipped properly, and slipped out the window. Snow blinded him for a moment as he tried to adjust to dangling against the side of the house again.
“Brr!” Hadewych’s shadow loomed against the drapes.
Jason held his breath, sure he was about to be discovered, dangling like a fish on a hook. But Hadewych didn’t bother looking behind the drapes; he just groped blindly through the curtains, pushed the window shut, locked it, and turned away.
Jason shook his head. His luck would run out any second. He thumbed the brake, letting out rope, but only dropped about four inches. He fiddled with the brake, twisting, trying to get a look at it. Why couldn’t he rappel down?
Then he found the problem. A knot, too big to go through the brake. He wasn’t going anywhere.
He searched his mind for options. All his weight was hanging on the knot. He couldn’t untangle it while he was swinging there—there was too much strain on it. He was too far up to try to cut the rope, and what would he cut it with, anyway? He couldn’t gnaw through it like a beaver.
Well, if going down was out, what about going up? The rope sat in the groove of the crumpled rain gutter. Somewhere beyond, it wrapped around the vent pipe and then over to the attic. Jason heaved, but realized he wasn’t nearly strong enough to climb. Well, now, he’d finally discovered a practical application for gym class. He wished he’d paid more attention to the stupid rope-climbing part.
He was stuck. Out of options. He’d have to shout, get help from Hadewych and Zef. Or… try to go back in through the window when Hadewych left his room?
Jason looked at the window and frowned. The image of the Old Dutch Church had vanished now that the lights were on. He could see the glass itself. He had broken it after all. An enormous crack ran across the window where he had kicked it. And along with the crack, an unmistakable sneaker print—size seventeen.
Oh, damn it to hell. What is it with me and windows, anyway?
He was caught for sure. He had no way to fix the damage.
Or did he?
He took off his right glove and looked at the palm. It was worth a shot. He pressed his sneakers to the stone and wall-crawled over to the window. He saw Hadewych’s shadow moving around inside, sitting down on the bed, pulling on socks. Jason fished the ski mask from his pocket and wiped the sneaker print away. He pressed his bare palm to the glass.
Everything that is… contains the seed of what was…
He pictured the window as it had been, focused on the image of the church reflected in it, on that other window, the one he’d jumped through, healing, mending, coming together. He felt a surge of energy and opened his eyes.
The glass was whole again.
But Hadewych must have seen the flash of light.
“Zef?” he called, “Is it lightning out?”
Hadewych stood and began to walk to the window.
Jason threw caution to the wind. He had only one option; he pressed his sneakers to the side of the house and jumped as high as he could.
The rope leapt the groove of the bent rain gutter, slipped off the vent pipe, and pl
ayed out ten feet of extra rope. Jason fell, missing the back stairs by a hair, and the rope caught him. He swung like a pendulum that now hung from the attic, not the pipe. He caught a glimpse of the back of Zef’s head as he passed under the kitchen window. His momentum took him past center and up again, past the corner of the house. He ran across the stone, snagged a branch of the persimmon tree that grew in the side yard, and pulled himself into the shadows just as Hadewych threw up the sash.
The moon lay on the breast of the new-fallen snow.
Hadewych looked left, right, down, but not up. He didn’t notice the few yards of rope that stretched from the attic to the branches of the persimmon tree. He merely shivered and pulled himself back inside, singing: “JOY to the world! The LORD is come! Let EARTH re-CEIVE her KING!”
Jason waited until Hadewych’s voice receded.
He took off his gloves, undid the knot and lowered himself, one branch at a time. In his entire life he had never felt happier to touch solid ground. He fished the crumpled bank statement from his pocket. The only thing he’d gained from this whole adventure.
“You’d better be worth it,” he whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Mister Kate”
The dawn caressed Sleepy Hollow, like a father’s hand on the forehead of a newborn. A white Christmas, the first in several years. Kate loved the snow, always had. She loved sledding and snowmen and snowball fights. She loved to jog, like this, crunching through a winter wonderland. She’d enjoy it infinitely more, though, if she weren’t being shadowed. She was constantly aware of the huffing and puffing behind her. Red and Big Gulp couldn’t keep up and she hated pulling her pace for their sake. Why should she need security men for a simple morning jog? She liked speed, and the men behind her felt like two reins holding her back. She felt tempted to sprint, to cut across the yard of one of these mansions, to ditch them. But she had to get used to being shadowed. If her father became a senator this would be her life.
Forever.
She ran with eyes closed, blocking out the sounds of her pursuers. She raised her chin to the morning sun and the snow kissed her cheeks like a wedding veil. No—like a caul. Like the caul she’d worn at birth—sure sign of a future prophetess. Not that there’d been any doubt about that, not in her parents’ minds. She was an Usher twice over, daughter of second cousins, both future-seers. Of course she would be Gifted. Her mother had laid hands on her before they’d even left the hospital and had seen the powerful Gift she would possess. It had been a solemn moment. Her mother could only read her once and Kate would then dark to her. But once had been enough. Sophia Usher had declared her daughter to be the greatest prophetess in family history. The one whose visions would always come true.
Her parents had felt such confidence in her that they’d revealed their own abilities when she was only five, risking the Great Curse and her death in order that she would have a head start, would know the Gifted World from an early age. And they had been vindicated. The Curse hadn’t marked her. No ghost had come to claim her life. Further proof of her destiny.
She regretted their decision now. She’d grown up with knowledge that she couldn’t share with other children. As a result, she’d been isolated from her peers and had socialized almost exclusively with adults. At the time, she’d reveled in her secret; her Gift made her special, like the promise made to a princess that she would be queen someday. She began to act as if she possessed her Gift already, much to the amusement of her father’s trusted circle. She made wild guesses at dinner parties and declared them prophecy. The Jets would go to the Super Bowl (didn’t happen). Invisible Ink would win the Kentucky Derby (he finished second). Her aunt Madeline would have another boy (which came true, but the chances had been fifty-fifty, after all).
Sometimes she burned to tell others what she was, what she would be. One time, when kids were picking on her at school, she snapped and shouted, “I’m special! I’m a witch!” She’d been instantly afraid that she had cursed her classmates and they would be struck down. But the kids had laughed, thank God, and hadn’t believed her—without belief, there is no curse—and she hadn’t truly been a witch yet, anyway.
If she had been, she might have foreseen her mother’s death.
Her mother foresaw it. She began preparations for the ordeal two years before her first symptoms. She began eating more, gorging to build up weight and strength for the wasting ahead—and to quiet her own distressed emotions. Kate didn’t know why her mother had gained so much weight, only that her lap had become softer, her hugs warmer and squishier. Kate liked the change.
Mother told her everything on an Easter Sunday. Kate spent the morning hunting in clover for a golden egg, the afternoon learning about ovarian cancer. Sophia Usher sat her daughter down and explained what was to come.
“I have decided not to have radiation,” she said.
Kate was only seven, but she knew what that meant. “You’re giving up?”
“It’s pointless. I’ve seen what’ll happen.”
“Maybe it only happens because you’re giving up!”
“You’ve seen what radiation does to people. I can’t go through with it. Remember your grandfather?” Kate remembered vaguely. Granddaddy James, bald, walking with a cane. “I don’t want to go through that. It won’t do any good.”
“So you’ll just…?”
“Shh. Our Gift never lies. You’ll see. Someday—when you’re a Seer—you’ll see.” Her mother stroked her hair. “I won’t be here much longer. I’m sorry. Shh. You’ll be a great prophetess. You’ll see for both of us. You’ll have to be my eyes, Kate.”
Kate threw herself across her mother’s lap, so soft, so… necessary. “Fight it,” she whispered through tears.
“You can’t fight the future.”
For the next six months, Kate fought her mother, trying to cajole her, to make her see reason and forget her visions. She tried to cure cancer herself, staying up late with a flashlight and her mother’s test results, trying to understand words like “squamous” and “keratinizing” and “metastatic”. But the inevitable—if that’s what it truly was—came to pass. A brief stay at Phelps Memorial, followed by flowers and an autumn of grief.
You can’t fight the future.
After her mother’s death, Kate didn’t want to be special anymore. She dreaded the coming of her Gift. She wanted to be like other kids. She insisted on being allowed to attend public school. Her father indulged her, reluctantly, and she began to feel normal.
But her Gift did come.
Every year, Kate’s father gave her a special Christmas reading of some object of her choice, telling her all the wonderful things in store, keeping anything bad to himself. For example, he read her saddle and predicted that she and Gunsmoke would win the dressage championship that summer and they ultimately did; possibly the very idea that she could win had made Kate confident enough to try for it. Seeing the future did that to a person. The downside to a prophetic gift was that Seers could overdose on confidence. Kate knew that she drove and rode and lived too recklessly. But why not? She knew she would be fine!
Kate had always enjoyed her father’s annual Christmas readings. They were like letters sent back by time travelers. Usher never read Kate herself, though. That would be an event. That would be a rite of passage. Father would read daughter and she would become dark to him at last. Some Seeing families don’t make a ritual of such things. The Ushers did. Perhaps the reading would occur on the day she graduated high school—or on the day she got engaged, or the day she got married. Maybe he would save the reading for his deathbed, to give himself a look at all the years he would miss.
But Kate did read her father on that Christmas Day.
She hadn’t planned to, hadn’t known she could yet. He’d given her a ticket to Florence for summer break. She’d been so excited that she’d thrown her arms around him, thanking him, kissing his cheek, and had brought both palms to the side of his head. That was the moment when her G
ift engaged for the first time.
They say the first time is always the strangest. Your body and mind aren’t used to the process. Some mental or spiritual barrier gives way and you open to the Spirit World. She felt that barrier rip. She felt her Gift awaken. She saw her father’s future.
It was bloody and full of horrors.
“Miss Usher!”
Kate’s eyes snapped open. Big Gulp grabbed her shoulders and pulled her violently backwards, falling with her into the snow. A blue van streaked past, its horn blaring. She had almost jogged into traffic.
“I’m all right. I’m all right,” Kate said.
“What happened?” snapped Red. “Didn’t you see it coming?”
“No,” Kate whispered. “No, I didn’t. Let’s go home.”
They’d barely reached her mailbox when a snowball hit her in the temple.
“Head shot!” shouted Paul Usher.
Kate grinned and shook her hair. “Assassin!” she shouted, balling snow.
Her father held up a hand and backed up the porch steps. “Go easy on me.” Kate hit him in the sleeve of his pajamas. He swept a handful of snow from the railing and returned fire. “Help me out here, guys!”
“You’re doing nicely, sir!” said Red, staying neutral.
“Lot of help you are!”
Usher hurled one Red’s way but Red sidestepped it professionally. Kate tagged her father in the chest. They hurled snow at each other and laughed until Usher’s coffee cup took a fatal hit and spilled French roast across a snowdrift, opening a deep wound all the way down to the grass.
“Time out!” Usher called. He brushed ice from his wavy brown hair and kissed Kate’s cold forehead. “Caffeine comes first. Change clothes and come open presents.” He made some signal to Red, who nodded and disappeared around back. Big Gulp muttered into his collar: “The pony’s in the stable.”
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 18
