Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  Zef followed. “What are you doing?”

  Jason sidestepped cardboard boxes and ran his hands over the inmost door—the door without a lock, the door of Agathe’s pantry. Jason pressed his hand to the cold metal, concentrating… concentrating…

  “BROM! BROM! BROM!”

  He snatched his hand away. “She died in here,” he whispered.

  “Who did?”

  “There’s a room behind this door. I’ve got to get in.” He tested the seams. Not a crack. No place to put a crowbar.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Listen to me. There’s a letter in my backpack. A letter Dylan wrote.”

  “You took that? No wonder my dad’s pissed. That came from my grandmother!”

  “Have you read it?”

  “No. It’s in Old Dutch.”

  “It’s been translated. Basically your family was a bunch of evil shits. Anyway, Brom built a secret room back here and… I’m sure the answers are inside.”

  “Answers to what?”

  “Let me think.” Jason searched the cellar, looking for anything that might be part of Brom’s puzzle lock. What was the drain in the center of the room for? Rainwater, maybe. He moved boxes.

  “You’re freaking me out,” said Zef.

  Five rings protruded from the north wall, heavy iron rings like door knockers. Jason put a hand on one and closed his eyes. Debbie Flight, the realtor, appeared at the door. “And the best thing is,” she gushed, “there’s so much storage!” A middle-aged couple peered in. They looked unimpressed. Debbie swung the door closed. “Let me show you the garage!”

  Jason pulled his hand away. That hadn’t been helpful. He seized the ring and pulled it out from the wall, getting both hands on it, twisting it to turn the rod inside the stone, like winding a watch. It barely turned, though. He was too weak. “Help me out.”

  Zef shook his head but grabbed the ring. Together they turned it. Something clicked behind the stone.

  “This is it,” said Jason.

  “This is what?”

  “It’s a puzzle lock. These rings have to be turned in some combination. Then the door will open.”

  “What combination?”

  “I don’t know. Try the second one?”

  The second ring turned more readily. Something thrummed now, rhythmically, like the shuddering of pipes.

  Zef looked worried. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Of course.”

  Something groaned, and a box began to move by itself, drifting away from the wall as if pushed by a poltergeist. Zef stepped back; Jason stepped forward. Behind the box, a plug of mud was slowly extruding itself from a hole near the floor, a thick rectangle pushing the box aside, uncoiling like Play-Doh. It gathered momentum, becoming softer.

  “Oh shit,” said Jason.

  The plug of mud exploded from the hole, and a torrent of black algae and ice water burst across the room as from a broken fireplug. It smelled terrible, like brine or bile. Fishy and stagnant.

  “Turn it off! Turn it off!” cried Zef, grabbing the ring. He and Jason twisted it back into position but the water kept coming. They went back to the first ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Water gathered in the center of the room. The puddle was already lapping at their heels. “Try the other direction!” shouted Zef. They twisted counter-clockwise, and a sound like the striking of a gong filled the room. The water lurched and stopped. The drain slurped it greedily and burped.

  Zef gave Jason a shove. “Are you nuts?”

  Jason wrung the stench out of the hem of his robe. “It’s a hydraulic lock. It must work by water pressure. Let’s try again.”

  “Forget that.” Zef left the cellar.

  Jason followed him up the stairs. “It’s important, okay? Read the letter yourself.”

  “No, thanks.”

  They kicked off their wet sneakers and went inside. Zef went to Jason’s room and snatched up the backpack, taking out the letter. “This needs to go to my dad.”

  Jason blocked the door. “Not ’til I finish it. And not ’til you read it.”

  “I don’t want to read it.”

  “Then give it back.” Jason snagged the strap of the backpack.

  “It’s not yours.”

  They struggled, but it was no contest. Zef was stronger and Jason was still recovering. Zef shouldered the backpack.

  Jason rolled his eyes. “Don’t you want to know what it says?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re a wuss.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You are. You’re scared to know what your father’s been hiding.”

  “I hate you.”

  “You know I’m right. You’re a coward. Just like Joey said. And your dad’s a psychopath.”

  “Shut up about my father!” Zef pushed Jason and knocked him back onto the bed. “I should have let you freeze to death. I love my dad. He’s a good man. You and me, we’re better as enemies. I tried, but to hell with you.”

  “I’m not your enemy. Never have been.”

  Zef grabbed the back of the straight-backed chair and brought the legs down with a bang. “Bullshit.”

  “Fine. You want an enemy? Give me back the letter, or next time I see your dad…” Jason raised his eyebrows.

  “You can’t.”

  “Watch me.” Jason felt a cold dagger of contempt for Zef suddenly. His voice lowered, becoming smooth and implacable. “I can’t wait to tell him. I hope he throws you out. I hope he disowns you. I hope the son of a bitch cries like a little girl. I hope he knocks your teeth down your—”

  “Zef?” Hadewych stood in the door. He looked oddly frozen, as if turned to stone.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Jason. “I’ve got something to tell you, Mister Van Brunt. You’re going to love this.”

  Zef balled his fists.

  “Later,” said Hadewych. “I need to talk to my son. Zef… is this yours?”

  He held up a magazine. Jason couldn’t see the cover well. It bore a photograph of two men, both shirtless and apparently quite fond of each other.

  Zef gave a grunt of confusion. “No,” he said.

  Hadewych stepped forward, filling the door now, blocking escape. “Is it yours?” he asked again, his voice sharpening.

  “No,” said Zef, more insistently. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  Hadewych nodded thoughtfully. “I was snooping, I admit. I thought you might… keep a journal. Thought I might find out why you and Kate… Is this why? Are you a fag?”

  “No!” said Zef. He stepped back and bumped Eliza’s makeup table. Bottles of red nail polish fell on their sides and rolled off the edge like a trickle of blood.

  “Look me in the eye. Are you… a fag? Answer me.”

  “I did.”

  “I found this in your room.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “It was in your closet!” Hadewych began turning pages of the magazine, making expressions of disgust. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.” Zef backed into the bed, jostling Jason.

  Jason had had enough. “Get out of my room, Hadewych!”

  “Stay out of this. This is between me and my son.”

  “Then take it outside.”

  Zef took that as his cue to escape. He tried to push past Hadewych but his father caught him by the back of his shirt, swinging him bodily. Zef’s shirt tore and he fell into the straight-backed chair.

  “Get off him!” said Jason.

  “No, no, don’t,” Zef stammered, raising a hand. “Shh…”

  Hadewych kicked the door closed behind him, then folded the magazine in half and struck Zef’s cheek with it. “Are you a fag?” He stuck a foot in Zef’s crotch and pushed the chair over backwards. Zef crabbed away, looking helpless. “Get up! Look me in the eye! Is this why you broke up with Kate? Is this why you threw away our future?”

  Jason could hear Zef’s thoughts. “I deserve this. I deserve this. I’m a Monster. I�
�m bad. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m…” He’d never imagined that being in the closet was like that. He felt awful. “Forgive Zef,” Eliza had said. “He’s as much a victim of his father as anyone. And he’s family.” She had been right, as always.

  Hadewych’s hand went to his belt buckle. “If it’s not yours, whose is it? Whose?”

  “It’s mine.” Jason’s voice came out as a croak. Hadewych turned.

  “Yours,” said Hadewych, with much skepticism.

  “Yeah. Mine.” Jason rose and took the magazine from Hadewych, tucking it under his arm with blasé indifference. “I hid it back there. Before you guys moved in. I didn’t want Eliza to find it.”

  “Then you’re… one.” Hadewych sounded amused.

  “Maybe. Call me curious. So? You going to bully me now?”

  Hadewych’s eyes narrowed. “All right. Where was it hidden, exactly?”

  Jason glanced at Zef. He’d risen to his knees, one fist clutching a hanging piece of his shirt. The psychic connection was still there, just barely. “Under the boards. Under the boards,” Zef was thinking.

  “Under the boards,” said Jason.

  Hadewych practically wilted with relief. He chuckled. “No wonder! No wonder you’re friends with that Osorio fruit. I should have known. My God. You people disgust me.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” Jason opened the door. “Now go.”

  “Fine. But I want you to stay away from my son.” Hadewych turned to Zef and offered a hand. “Oh, my little baby, I’m so sorry.” Zef took the hand, reluctantly, and stood. “It was an honest mistake. I should have known you couldn’t be. You’re a good boy, Zef. My good boy.”

  Zef stared at the wall.

  “I’ll make it up to you, son. I promise. Tell you what. Let me make you some lunch. You’ll feel better.”

  Hadewych frowned at Jason. “Look what you made me do.”

  “I made you?”

  “Now he thinks I don’t love him.” He shook his head. “Think about what you’ve done, young man.” He turned and stormed out.

  Jason dropped the magazine on the makeup table, righted the chair, and sat on the bed, trembling.

  “Why did you do that?” Zef whispered, his voice small.

  “Because you don’t deserve it. Nobody does. A father’s supposed to love you no matter what. And because… I’m not your enemy.”

  Zef nodded slowly. Jason couldn’t hear his thoughts now. However their psychic connection worked—their shared Pyncheon heritage—the wall was back up now. And yet… some other wall had gone down. And would stay down, maybe permanently. Were they friends? No. Family? No. But they were not enemies. Not anymore.

  Zef wiped his nose. “I’ll read that letter now.”

  “Sure. Just tell me how it ends.”

  Jason offered the backpack. Zef took it but turned at the door. “You do like girls, right?”

  Jason shrugged. “I’m in love with Kate.”

  Zef considered, then nodded. “She could do worse.”

  Jason sat on the bed and gathered Eliza’s comforter around his body. He couldn’t believe what he’d just been through.

  He wanted his father, suddenly. He wanted a father. Very badly.

  Andrew Crane had installed swimming pools for a living. He’d been successful, and had built for his wife and child a comfortable house in the suburbs of Augusta, near Threecornered Pond. Jason had been back to the place many times. The new owners had whitewashed the brick, and the house looked awful now. His father had built a secret passageway in that house, a bolt-hole in the back of Jason’s bedroom closet, just for him. It led from the second floor down to their game room, which was well stocked with a pool table and a pinball machine and a Wurlitzer jukebox.

  But what Jason remembered most of all about that house was that he had been loved. Loved without question, without doubt, without hurt. His father had taken his hand and bought him comics, had lifted him up to see the game. He had set little Jason on the edge of the sink, preparing him to shave someday, letting him pat his father’s foamy cheeks, splashing him with hot water. He had provided and had sung Christmas carols and had died far too young.

  Yes. Jason had been a good man’s son.

  And he missed that, terribly.

  His eye fell on his father’s boots, sitting at the top of his closet. He’d read the right one. It had been his first psychic vision. He’d touched that boot and he’d seen his father die. He didn’t want to read the other one, not after that. But he wished he had something else of his dad’s to read. He wanted to see him again. He wanted his dad to haunt him. After all, Eliza had come back. Where was Andrew Crane?

  “If you’re here, Dad, I love you,” Jason whispered.

  He threw off the comforter and stood. He stripped off the robe, laid the talisman aside, went to the bathroom, and splashed his face with hot water, as hot as he could bear. He smeared shaving cream on his cheeks and took up his razor. He looked like his father, he really did. Jason’s scraggly whiskers disappeared row by row, as if scraped away by a snow plow. He climbed into the shower and stood under the water for a long time, his hair in his eyes, letting the tension pour off him, giving in to that calm and empty feeling that carried all emotion down the drain. He climbed out and pressed a clean white towel to his face. He wrapped it around his waist and stood before the mirror again. He’d grown thinner. His face was slightly wolfish, hungry-looking. And, holy hell, he had abs now. Oh well. Nothing a few cheeseburgers won’t fix. He felt like himself, fully recovered from his long ordeal. He was seventeen. He would be strong again, and soon. He was Eliza’s grandson and Andrew’s pride. They’re all in you. Your daddy and his daddy and his daddy, all the way back. Remember that. He dressed quickly. He needed to organize himself, take stock, and solve the world. But he felt like doing anything but. He pulled on jeans and a tee shirt that read “I REFUSE TO ENGAGE IN A BATTLE OF WITS WITH AN UNARMED PERSON.”

  He called Joey. “Hey, man. I’m alive. You up for a game of ‘Death and Carnage?’ I really need to kill something. Cool. Be right over.”

  He hung up, found his copy of Carl Sagan’s The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark and tucked it under his arm.

  Give me this one afternoon, he thought, just to be myself again.

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes, pulled on his gloves…

  …and got the hell out of that house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  “Be True”

  Hadewych leaned against the locked door of Zef’s bedroom. His voice was soft, ingratiating, elaborately apologetic.

  “I said I’m sorry. Won’t you talk to me? It was a natural mistake. Just a misunderstanding. I know you’re not… like that. I didn’t mean to insult you. But what was I to think? You break up with Kate, you won’t tell me why.” He rattled the knob. “Son, can you hear me? You know how I am about those people. You have to understand. When I was your age, younger, when I was on the streets and I needed money… No. Never mind. You have enough to deal with. I just hate them, that’s all. So, yes, I overreacted.” He sighed. “What happened with you and Kate, son? You can talk to me. I’m here for you. Always. And I’m no stranger to girl problems, believe me. Love is messy. But it’s wonderful. The love of a good woman is an amazing thing. It transforms a man. Makes him better. Without a woman to keep us honest, men aren’t worth much. But you’ll have that. Don’t worry. You know I adore Kate. But even if it’s not her. You’ll find the right girl. Trust your father. You’ll be back out there charming their panties off before you know it. Before…” The doorbell rang. Hadewych pressed his forehead to Zef’s door. “I’m here if you want to talk, son.”

  He checked his hair as he passed the hall mirror. Maybe Paul had come by to apologize.

  It was Jessica. She wore a red coat, a white scarf, and a cap of emerald, perched on her head like an acorn top.

  “Hello,” she said.

  He felt at a loss. None of his usual hatred welled
up at the sight of her. Only a little desperation and a strange jolt of happiness. “I was just talking about you,” he said.

  “I probably deserve it, whatever it was. Can we talk?”

  “About?”

  She shrugged.

  “Fine,” said Hadewych. “Come in.”

  “Is Zef home?” Hadewych nodded. “Then let’s walk. This should be just us.”

  “I’ll be right out.” He closed the door, took his coat from the hall closet and pulled it on. “Zef, I’m going to the store!”

  Jessica waited for him by the mailbox. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said.

  “Same.”

  She produced a small package. “Here.”

  He unwrapped a framed picture of the three Van Brunts, parents and small son. A lump rose in his throat. “Thank you. I don’t have many pictures of us. I confess I drew horns on every one I had of you.”

  “I cut you out of all of mine. But—one survivor. I thought you should have it.”

  “One survivor.” He ran his thumb over the photo and stuck it in his pocket.

  “Come on.”

  They walked together down Gory Brook. The cold air was patched with clouds, hanging over threadbare trees. A squirrel made a leap of faith between two nude oaks and barely made it. A bus passed, stained to the windows with mud. The black snow along the sidewalk showed rainbow patterns of oil. Sacks of garbage poked from beneath the drifts and treacherous patches of hidden ice attempted to fell them. Jessica slid on a nasty spot and grabbed Hadewych’s arm.

  She laughed. “I’ve never understood how the holiday of love ended up being in the middle of the ugliest month. Why not in the spring? When people want to hold hands and stroll?”

  Hadewych slipped his hands in his pockets. “Maybe the man who invented it was single and in a bad mood.”

  “Maybe.”

  They approached the Colonial-style house, its yard made up for the holiday. The trees bore strings of foot-high candy hearts of pastel construction paper. BE MINE and SOUL MATE and LUV YOU; MY PAL and LET’S KISS and so on. A field of fake roses sprouted from the browned bluegrass, making a garden of red blossoms around a wrought-iron bench. A golden bow stood above it all, strung with an arrow, ready to fire, enormous, as if Cupid had upgraded to a weapon of mass destruction.