The sensation passed as quickly as it had come.
What was that? It had been like… like the night Eliza died. That night he’d been sitting in the rain at the Horseman’s Hollow and, like the stab of a knife, had known his grandmother was in danger, had jumped to his feet and run, had known where to find Eliza… but how had he known? He’d never considered it before.
The door flew open and Hadewych thrust his head inside. “What are you doing?”
Jason hit his head again. “Can you knock? I’m cleaning up in here.”
Hadewych beckoned. “Come inside. We need to talk.” He jerked away and disappeared.
Jason stared at the door for a moment, trying to relax.
He didn’t feel any psychic alarm. Maybe he had imagined it. He pulled on his gloves. He stood, went down, held the barking dog inside, and buttoned up the RV. He yawned and tromped across the yard to the house, fists in pockets, wondering what unpleasant surprise Hadewych would spring on him now.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“The Truce”
They had their summit in the living room. Hadewych poured Jason a drink, gesturing for him to sit. “It’s a bulldog smash,” he said, setting it on the coffee table. “Fresh muddled peach and an excellent bourbon.”
“The best my money can buy,” said Jason. He ignored the drink. He sat on the edge of the davenport, hands folded between his knees, waiting for the next outrage.
“Naturally,” said Hadewych, sipping his own drink and pacing. “Try it.”
“No, thanks.”
Hadewych drained his glass and chewed ice. “About New Year’s.”
Jason nodded. “You were trying to kill Jessica, weren’t you?”
Hadewych looked surprised. He put his glass on the coffee table and pulled up a wing-backed chair. He crossed his legs and settled in by the fire, like a storyteller. “No. In fact, Jessica and I are talking about getting back together.”
“Sure you are.”
“Not that it’s any of your business. Please don’t say anything to Zef. May I?” He leaned forward and took Jason’s drink. “Waste not, want not.”
“What do you want, Hadewych?”
He took a sip. “Is that a philosophical question?”
“No.”
“What do you think I want?”
“To rob me blind.”
“Material comfort? Don’t mind if I do.” He smacked his lips, enjoying the drink. “And I think you want… to be good. That’s what you want.” His eyes narrowed. “You think you’re better than I am, don’t you?”
“Gangrene is better than you are.”
Hadewych laughed. He kicked his shoes off and warmed his feet at the fire. The room began to smell of his socks, more pungent than the wood smoke. “I actually enjoy you sometimes, Jason.”
“Get to the point.”
“All right. I will. Do you have a Gift?” Hadewych asked, casually.
Jason sat up. He hadn’t expected this. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t lie. Tell the truth. I know it all anyway.”
Jason wished he’d accepted the drink now. He debated what to say. On impulse he decided to risk the Great Curse. If Hadewych died so much the better.
“Yes. I do.”
“Ah.” Hadewych swirled the ice again. “That is a tragedy.”
“Why?”
Hadewych offered Jason a look of pity. “I didn’t want to have to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“How will you live with the guilt?”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you, but promise not to take it too hard.”
“Stop playing games.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m leaving.” Jason stood.
Hadewych raised his voice. “Eliza came to see me, some weeks before she died.”
Jason turned and slowly sank back into his seat. “And?”
Hadewych smiled and wiggled his toes. “She was excited and, well, she said something which, in retrospect, seems quite worrisome.” He tapped his temple. “What were her words? Ah, yes. She said, ‘I think there’s something magical about my boy.’”
Jason leaned forward. “She said that?”
“Yes. See, it’s all in here.” Hadewych bent and opened a satchel. He withdrew a thick green file folder. “In the Crane file.”
“I knew you took it. That’s Eliza’s research. Hand it over.”
“No.”
“It’s ten years of her life. Please.”
“I only took it for your sake. I knew the truth would hurt.”
“What truth?”
Hadewych opened the folder and scanned the contents. “Generations of Crane men, all alike. Your Gift is in your hands, yes?”
Jason fought an impulse to hide them. “Yes.”
“She’d figured that much out. There’s all sorts of notes in here about the gloves. Liza found them very mysterious. She found some letters your father wrote…” He held up a page.
“Give me that,” said Jason, rising.
“Sit down,” snapped Hadewych. Jason obeyed. Hadewych put the page back in the folder and closed it. “She’d figured it all out. Put it all together. She was a smart woman, our lovely Liza.”
Hadewych’s hunched shadow looked enormous on the wall.
Jason felt a horrible idea growing.
Hadewych sighed. “‘There’s something magical about my boy.’ She figured it all out.” His eyes narrowed. “And she believed it too.”
“Don’t, Hadewych. No. No.”
“You cursed her, Jason.”
“Don’t say that.”
“She knew. She knew about your Gift. It’s all right here.”
“I did not curse her!” His mind raced. Was it possible? Had he cursed Eliza? Had she come to believe in his Gift? And had that… killed her? Oh, God. No. No. No. No.
“These things happen,” said Hadewych. “It’s not your fault.”
“I did not kill my grandmother.”
“You’ve been blaming me all this time. I know that.”
“Shut up.”
“You’ve blamed me from the beginning.”
“I said shut up!” Jason crossed the distance between and seized the front of Hadewych’s shirt. “I did not kill my grandmother!”
Hadewych became very still and sympathetic. “You can hate me, Jason, if you need to. But it won’t change the facts. It wasn’t me who killed her. It was you.”
Jason released Hadewych. He shook his head. “It wasn’t me. You used the Treasure.”
“I did not. But even if I did, her death was predestined from the moment she was cursed. I was just the instrument the Spirit World used. Hypothetically.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“Language, Son.” They were close enough to bite each other now.
“What’s to stop me from beating you to death?” growled Jason.
“Well,” said Hadewych, tossing the file aside, “there’s this.” He raised a hand and, with a whoosh of igniting air, a fireball blossomed there. Jason fell back, his cheek seared, his hair burning. He swatted the embers, hot as tar. They fell on the davenport and scorched the fabric. He was singed but uninjured. Hadewych held the ball of flame high. It looked like a portal to hell. Jason shrank back, knowing that his life hung on Hadewych’s decision whether to burn him alive or not. He thought of Brom and Dylan. Hadewych’s hand showed no sign of blistering, of course.
“You have no guilt,” Jason whispered.
“I’m a Van Brunt.” Hadewych tossed the ball of flame into the fireplace. “But you have guilt… don’t you? You know you killed her. You can feel it. It’s burning you alive.” His eyes twinkled. “You weren’t as surprised by my display as I thought you would be. But you’ve read my letter, of course. Where is it?”
“I don’t have it.”
“You were in my storage unit. You took it. Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Hadewych shook his
head, thoughtfully. “At first, I couldn’t guess how you found Lantzee’s. But your friend Mike Parson dropped in to collect the rappelling gear you borrowed. Very clever. When did you break into my room?”
“Christmas Eve.”
“And you found?”
“A credit card statement.”
“You see? We’re making progress. We’re understanding each other. Mike and I found the gear in the attic. Incidentally, I wouldn’t ask him for help again. He seemed very cross. I want that letter, Jason. It was my mother’s.”
“Fine. I’ll get it for you.” Jason was trying to concentrate, to not think of Eliza, but the horror of Hadewych’s accusation kept returning. Did I kill her? Did I kill her? No. No. No.
“Where is it?”
“Give me the file and I’ll give you the letter.”
“Oh, no. We must put the past behind us. And move on.”
With a whoomp, the Crane file ignited in Hadewych’s hand.
“No!” Jason rose, reaching, but Hadewych threw the pages into the fireplace. The genealogy file on the Crane family, representing a decade of Eliza’s life, shriveled and turned to ash, lost forever. There was nothing left to restore. Jason balled his fists.
“But I will offer you this,” said Hadewych. He drew a book from the satchel. The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon. “Bring me the letter and I’ll give you back the book. And, here.” He threw a ring of keys.
Jason caught them. “What’s this?”
“The Mercedes. You said you wanted a car. It’s fixed up, like new. It’s yours. And anything else you want. Money? We have plenty to go around.”
“You can’t bribe me with my own inheritance.”
“Can’t I? You just stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours.”
Jason tightened his fist around the keys. “You know what, Hadewych? I’m going to take your precious letter and first chance I get I’m ripping it to shreds.”
“You mean like this?” Hadewych ripped the Sketch-Book into pieces and threw the remains on the coffee table. Jason rose, ready to punch him. Hadewych produced another fireball. The blast of air sent the ashes of the genealogy file into a spin. They turned and broke. An ember drizzled upward, fell onto the carpet, and winked out. Jason sat again, reluctantly.
Hadewych’s easy smile disappeared. “I’m not joking, Jason. This ends now. Choose.” Black smoke rose from the fireball and sooted the ceiling. “Truce… or war.”
“All right,” Jason growled. “War.”
Hadewych shook his head. “I know who your friends are, remember. I’d hate for one of them to be… collateral damage. For instance, your boyfriend Joey.”
In a flash, Jason saw Joey in agony, blistering, burning, blackening. No. Jason couldn’t challenge Hadewych directly. The man was too ruthless.
What if he learns I’m in love with Kate?
He saw Kate in pain and that decided it. He couldn’t risk her safety.
War, sang Jason’s heart. His ears rang with the clash of swords and shields. War. War. War. War. War.
“What do you say, Jason?”
Jason extended a hand reluctantly. “Truce,” he whispered.
“Bravo. Very sensible. I wont shake, though. Wouldn’t want to catch anything.” The ball of flame died. “Sorry about the display. It was time we understood each other.”
“I agree,” Jason said. He picked up the pieces of the Sketch-Book. “So you listen to me, now. You’re never going to win. If you hurt anybody I love, I can heal them. If you break anything I own, I can fix it. Whatever you do, I can undo. Whatever you destroy—”
Jason’s hands flashed brilliantly. Hadewych flinched and pulled away. The Sketch-Book lay restored.
“—I can make right again.”
Jason saw fear in Hadewych’s eyes. He stood and tucked the Sketch-Book under one arm. “There. Now we understand each other.”
He turned and walked out.
He kept his composure until he reached the RV. There, his knees went out from under him and he sank to the floor. He threw the Sketch-Book aside. It fell open on the carpet. Absalom’s writing had vanished from the inside cover. Jason had restored the book too well.
“Eliza,” he whispered. “Is it true?”
He gathered all the Scrabble letters into a pile.
“Eliza, did I curse you?”
He spread the tiles out.
“Please, just tell me, yes or no.”
He waited, hoping the tiles would move, that his grandmother would speak from the great beyond and take away his burden of doubt and guilt. He scrambled the magnetic poetry on the front of the mini-fridge. He was weeping now, and couldn’t stop.
“Eliza?” he cried, his voice high and frantic. “Eliza, did I curse you? I need to know. Eliza?!”
Eliza heard.
The cries woke her like the sound of an alarm bell.
Who was calling? Was someone in the house? She opened her eyes to darkness. True darkness, not even the moon through a window. It must be cloudy out. Had she fallen asleep on the sofa again? Jason would lecture her for that. It wasn’t good for her arthritis. But she didn’t have a single ache. She was snug as a bug in a rug. Remarkably comfy. Her pills must be working. She put out a hand and felt for Charley. Her puppy dog usually slept across her chest. No. Maybe she was on the floor? No. She felt nothing.
“Here, girl,” Eliza whispered.
No answer. Perfect silence to accompany the perfect dark.
She’d been having the most beautiful dream. She’d been in the old house, the little French Colonial on Merridy Street, watching Dianne get ready for prom. It had been so vivid, so perfectly real. She felt that she could close her eyes again and slip back into it, effortlessly. She could feel her daughter’s blonde hair under her fingers, the hairbrush in her own hand, see the two of them framed in a gilded mirror. The flick of a makeup brush, the scent of powder, the flutter of a falling Kleenex, blotted with a kiss of pink. Aunt Tab’s diamond heart glittering on its silver chain. How proud Arthur would have been. How beautiful their daughter looked.
“Did I curse you?”
She gathered herself again. Who had said that? It had been a man’s voice… it had been…
And she remembered.
“Jason?” she called, and her voice seemed strange to her. Like a thought in her own head. She tried to sit up and couldn’t. She wasn’t on the sofa. She was in a box. Why the hell was she in a box?
And she remembered the rest, unspooling like a thread.
She remembered her argument with Hadewych over the title, driving home in the rain, the sound of hoof beats. She remembered climbing the thirteen stairs. She’d told the poodle to take care of Jason, had turned, and had faced the Horseman. The actual Headless Horseman. His arm had come up. He’d thrown a burning pumpkin.
And I fell down the stairs.
She had fought for her life. For a long time. She’d fought against someone… who? Him. Not the Horseman. Someone else. Something else. Him. That’s all she remembered. She’d beat Him and won, had swum back to the world…
She had opened her eyes. Her boy sat beside her, weeping. But she hadn’t been able to stay. Her old heart had skipped a beat, then two, then…
Oh, my holy bejeezus I’m dead.
As if a light bulb had lit in her mind, as if the dawning of realization were the only light she needed, she could see now. Tiny pleats of silk over her head. The lid of her coffin.
It was always like this, the waking from dreams, the realization of where she was. Every time she came back to the land of the living was like the first time. She raised her own hand and looked at it. Not much to see. A shimmer of white, a blur of movement, as if looking through frosted glass. She concentrated her thoughts and saw her hand clearly. White and yellow, now. Transparent. And still old. Still liver-spotted. That was a disappointment. She shifted, rotating onto her shoulder. (Or did she? She felt no weight. She might have been rotating in orbit.)
She looked at her
own remains.
You’ve looked better, old girl.
But somehow the sight of her physical person didn’t disturb her. It was like looking at a stranger. No. At a costume. An Eliza Merrick costume she had worn to a giddy party. She’d come home and taken the thing off, that’s all. It had been a wonderful party and she was oh, so grateful to have been invited to Life. But that party was over and this body was not an outfit she would ever be wearing again. She’d put too many wrinkles in it.
So this is being dead.
Well, it had to come eventually. No use being cross about it. She’d never believed there’d be clouds and harps and angel wings. That would have been nice, though. Especially the wings.
Oh, I remember! I can fly again.
Before she knew it she was out of her coffin, whipping soundlessly through the dirt, through the grass. She wasn’t rising. The world was dropping away. Moonlight splashed the Pocantico river. The Old Dutch Church dwindled into a matchbox. Sleepy Hollow lay far below, dazzling, with veins of white and red lights. A wisp of cloud obscured her sight of it. She’d always loved this, the freedom of flight. The feel of the earth falling away like a convict’s ball. Of coming untethered from it. Only one thing was missing. She couldn’t feel the wind.
Okay, that’s enough, she thought. I’m up here without instrumentation, Lord. And I don’t know how to land this thing.
She pictured an altimeter reading three thousand feet, two thousand, one thousand. The ground neared. She saw the graveyard approaching, and…
Someone stood beside Eliza’s grave. (Her unmarked grave, which rankled her tremendously. How would her descendants make grave-rubbings if they had nothing to rub?) As Eliza descended, she could make out the form of a girl. A blonde girl, standing in the dark. She was pretty but disheveled-looking, her clothes were on funny, inside out or backwards, as if she didn’t know how to wear them.
“I can sense you, Spirit,” the girl said. The voice was harsh and icy.
Eliza sensed a presence as well. This was not just a girl. Something else was here, too. Someone else. “I think I sense you back,” she said. The girl’s head tilted, as if she’d heard but wasn’t sure from which direction Eliza’s voice had come.
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 42
