A wind had risen outside. The persimmon tree scratched at the window pane. Jason nodded slowly, considering. “Okay. You believe whatever you need to believe.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“I said okay.”
Zef turned his face to the wall. “Does Joey hate me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it possible he’d ever… love me?”
Jason felt a twinge of annoyance. “Ask him.”
“I love Joey.”
“Right. Sure you do.”
“I do. I can prove it. Do you know the Pyncheon Gifts? There’s two things all of us can do. We can hear each other, and we know when people we love are in trouble. Have you experienced that?”
Jason nodded. “With my grandmother. The night that Hadewych—The night she fell.”
“It’s proof that you truly love someone.” Zef stared at his clasped hands. “I felt that with Joey.”
“When?”
“Halloween. Who you think found him in the cemetery?”
“That was you?”
“I didn’t know what it was. I just felt… Go! Now! Joey! Danger!”
“When the Horseman struck him down,” Jason whispered.
“I ran. Believe me I ran. I knew exactly where to go. I heard the crash when you jumped through that window. But I didn’t stop. I found Joey. I thought he was dead. I thought he was dead and I had told him nothing. I thought I’d die too. Right there. I wanted to die. But he took a breath. I picked him up and I carried him. I carried him out of the cemetery and got him to the hospital. And then… I ran away again.” Zef rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m like this. I just am. And why do I love Joey? I just do. Can you tell him that for me?”
Jason looked away. He’d always thought badly of Zef. Zef the closet case. Zef the chameleon. Zef the climber. No. Not good enough for Joey. A frigging jackass. He didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed about his former opinion. Only surprise that the opinion was… former. “Why don’t you tell him yourself? He’ll be at the fireworks tonight. Kingsland Point Park. With his parents.”
Zef looked hopeful. “You think I should?”
Jason rose and joined Zef. He brought a fist down in slow motion and tagged his cousin gently on the shoulder. “He could do worse.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
“The Iron Door”
Zef changed clothes, got into his cruiser and drove off. Jason carried the box of type down into the dark cellar and balanced it on a cardboard box.
“You’re going down, Brom!” he said firmly, his voice filling the room. “I beat your tomb puzzle and I can beat this one. Bring it. Show me what you’re made of. You. Me. Right now.” He held up his phone and his energy drink. “I’ve got the Internet and a Red Bull and I’m not afraid to use them. Let’s do this.”
He moved all the boxes away from the wall. He examined the five rings.
Each ring was about a foot across, attached to the wall with a bolt, and each turned some mechanism behind the stone. He tested them, one by one, straining to make each rotate. They loosened after a few tries. Turning a ring sent water shooting from a corresponding spout beneath, each about two feet above the floor. He tested them, clearing them of mud. Foul water collected in the center of the room and slurped down the drain.
“Okay, Brom. Let’s call these rings one through five and spouts one through five. What are they for? The aqueduct is dead, so there must be reservoirs behind here. Rainwater. Wastewater.” He knelt and inspected the drain. It wiggled a little bit but he saw no markings or signs of a mechanism. He searched the other walls, the inner door itself, the steps, and the outer door back up to the yard. He searched behind the water heater, around the fuse box.
Nothing else.
Five rings. Five spouts. One drain.
“And that’s all you’re giving me to work with.” Jason went to the box. “And this. If this has anything to do with anything.” He turned on the flashlight and played it over the inscription:
For Mr. Abraham Van Brunt
on the Occasion of his Fifty-Eighth Birthday
~
Presented to Him by his Friend
Mr. Washington Irving
He inspected the chicken-scratch:
ZET HAAK IN DE WATEREN
“Okay Brom, old buddy. Let’s see how you stand up to Google Translate.” He entered the words into his phone and got:
PUT HOOK IN THE WATER
Okay. Zef was right about the translation, though apparently “ZET” could mean (most likely) “set” or “push” or “shove” too. But what did it mean? If it weren’t for the word “water”, he wouldn’t even assume the writing had anything to do with the cellar. He rubbed the word. The chicken-scratch was crude. Was it “watereR?” “DIE watereN?” Jason gave up. He would never understand the grammatical nuances but he didn’t have to. This was a hydraulic lock. A water lock. All he had to do was solve it.
PUT HOOK IN THE WATER
He searched inside the box for any item resembling a hook. Should he let the water run, make a puddle, and fish in it? Something nagged at him. Some phrase. He couldn’t place it.
Bleeding in the waters…
That was it. Jason shivered as if someone had put an ice cube down his back. The inner door had opened once, and the ghost of Agathe had jumped out at him. That was the night he chased her with the sword. He thought of the shark, too. The shark that had stalked him on New Year’s Eve. The shark in the dumpster. The shark smells blood. He’s coming for you. The Horseman smells blood. He’s coming for you. Put hook in the water. Hook your hand and bleed in the water… Put hook in the water and catch the shark. Put blood in the water and catch the Horseman…
Jason pushed the hair out of his eyes. He searched through the box, raising various letters to his flashlight beam. They were silver, or pewter. The letters were backwards, ornate. An old-fashioned font. They brought up memories of Scrabble with Eliza, of the magnetic poetry that never spelled LOVE YOU anymore. What should he spell with these letters? ABRACADABRA? OPEN SESAME? LOOK TO FAMILY?
“Feel free to help me out, Brom.”
He could sense the old trickster laughing at him. “It’s right in front of you, boy. And I thought you were smart. Bah. Nothing but a pumpkin-head.”
“Fine. Maybe the translation is wrong.”
He thumbed the Dutch into the translation app again. He began moving letters around. Combining them. Reversing them. He accidentally deleted the space between the first two words. The app responded with:
COMPOSING STICK IN THE WATER
What the hell was a composing stick? Like… a conductor’s baton? A quick search gave him the definition. A composing stick—a “zethaak” in Dutch—was a typesetting tool. A “zethaak” was the strange device hanging inside the lid: a three- sided metal box with an adjustable vise. A typesetter would use his composing stick to prepare text, inserting each metal letter into the device—right to left and backwards—adding blanks where spaces were needed, using the vise to hold the text in place while he worked. Once he’d assembled all the text, he would empty his composing stick, adding the letters to the composition and, when finished, would roll the completed text with ink and press it onto paper.
ZETHAAK
SET-HOOK
“I have you now,” Jason muttered, doing his best Darth Vader imitation. That gave him a slight pause. Hadn’t he read somewhere that Darth Vader was Dutch for “Dark Father?” He felt an uncomfortable little thrill but shook it off.
“Okay. I’ve got my zethaak, Brom. What do I spell?”
He experimented with the zethaak, inserting letters. He tightened the vise, so they wouldn’t fall out. But what text was he expected to spell? And if he did spell it, then what? He took a swallow of his Red Bull, feeling stymied. He stripped his gloves. He pressed his palm to the box. He saw a brief vision of Zef discovering it in the closet. Not helpful. He walked around the room, taking visions from things. He saw men and women of vari
ous eras, former occupants of the house, mutton chop sideburns and flapper dresses. No Brom, no Dylan, no—
“Damn it.” He sat on the wet floor with the box in his lap. The seat of his jeans began to soak through but he was too intensely focused to notice. He stared at the box, at the five rings and five waterspouts. On impulse, he crabbed over to the spouts and pushed the composing stick into one. It fit. It didn’t go all the way in but the device fit the spout perfectly, as if it were… a lock and key.
Thrust “set-hook” in the water… PUT-HOOK IN THE WATER… ZET HAAK IN DE WATEREN. Jason felt a surge of excitement. He began to see the outline of an answer. He felt inside the waterspout and felt ridges, like the inside of a lock. If he put the right text into the device, put the device into the lock, that might just unlock the door… But what was the text?
Maybe it didn’t matter.
With a little effort, he pressed the composing stick all the way into the spout, the butt of it flush with the stone. He heard a click. He whirled, searching the room, but nothing had changed. He frowned and withdrew the composing stick. Oh crap. All the letters were gone, ejected and lost behind the wall.
He fetched the box of type. There were several of each letter but not many. Like Scrabble, you got only so many A’s and J’s and W’s.
So I won’t get unlimited tries…
Jason sighed. He had to have the right text and the right spout and he might only have a single try left, two at most. He stared at the letters, trying to guess the key. He closed the box and studied the engraving. An actual gift from Washington Irving to Abraham Van Brunt… He could put their names in… Why not? He saw nothing else to try.
He spelled out the names right to left, backwards, and filled the composing stick with blanks, tightening the metal pieces, holding them in place:
Now. Which spout should he try? Was there a hint somewhere in the engraving itself? Could it be Washington Irving TWO Abraham Van Brunt? He hesitated. It didn’t feel right. But he had nothing else. He pressed the composing stick into spout number two.
Click.
He searched the room and the inner door. Nothing had changed. He shut his eyes and withdrew the composing stick. The letters were gone.
He had one try left, if that.
He stared at the box, concentrating on its history. Brom’s fifty-eighth birthday. That was… eighteen thirty-eight. The cornerstone of the house had been laid in eighteen thirty-seven so that sounded about right. Around the time he’d have built Agathe’s pantry. Jason could see why Irving would give Brom such a gift. Brom was a character in Irving’s story, so why not a Dutch printing set? A pleasing and appropriate literary gift. And Brom had been pleased. So pleased that he’d built his puzzle around Irving’s present. But—
“Aaargh,” said Jason. He took one last swallow of his Red Bull and tossed the can aside. It clattered and rolled onto the drain. He felt ready to give up, to push the puzzle aside, to mull it overnight, for a week, for a month if he had to. But, no. He refused. He was going to solve this puzzle right now. Whatever secrets Agathe’s pantry held, he was going to dig them out of her little dead claws. Even if it killed him.
He focused on the chicken-scratch again, spotlighting each letter with his flashlight and mind.
ZET HAAK IN DE WATEREN
Okay, here was a question. Brom was fluent in Dutch. So why had he split the word “Zethaak” into two parts? Zet. Haak. With the word intact, it read “composing stick in the water.” Broken, it read “put hook in the water.” Brom had probably found the trick amusing, the way he’d enjoyed playing with “Sow”-“Hen.” The way he’d gone around at Irving’s Halloween party wishing the guests a “merry pig and chicken.” Yes. That sounded like Brom.
ZET HAAK
You could almost read the first word as ZEF but that was nonsense. Zef had been centuries away from being born. But there probably was some family connection—“Look to Family” and all that, as in the Van Brunt tomb. But what was the connection?
The sun had lowered in the west and a reddish light fell into the basement, tumbling down the stairs. The light fell on the iron door, on the entrance to Agathe’s lair. Jason balled his fists.
ZET
Z.E.T.
HAAK
H.A.A.K.
Could “K” stand for Katrina? If so, “H” could stand for Hermanus. And “A” could be his wife Agathe. And the other “A?” No, that didn’t work. If the third letter were a “B” then you’d have Hermanus Agathe Brom Katrina, but—but hold on.
“Your name wasn’t Brom, was it? Your name was Abraham. Abraham Van Brunt. So, yes: Hermanus Agathe Abraham Katrina! H.A.A.K. PUT “H.A.A.K.” in the waters with your “PUT-HOOK.” Oh, I’ve got you. Oh, yes. The Force is strong with this one.” With trembling fingers, Jason inserted the letters into the composing stick, left to right and backwards, and tightened the vise…
And, now… which lock? Which spout? He had a one-in-five chance. Should he risk it? No. There had to be a clue.
“Come on, Brom. One last trick.”
Five rings. Five spouts. 1… 2… 3… 4… 5… A… B… C… D… He stopped.
D
DE WATEREN
“D” WATEREN
“D” for…
“For Dylan,” Jason whispered. He walked to the fourth spout, the “D” spout, knelt, and made his incantation… Thishadbetterwork Thishadbetterwork Thishadbetterwork…
He raised his key and heard Eliza’s voice saying, “Your daddy and his daddy and his daddy…”
“Hermanus Agathe Abraham Katrina,” Jason whispered, as if to a child. “They are all in you… Dylan.”
The zethaak went all the way into the “D” spout, easily, yet did not click. Jason rose, uncertain of what to do. He had the combination right. He knew that. The key fit the spout perfectly and… Jason smiled. He turned the ring above the fourth spout. The mechanism shuddered but, with the key firmly in the lock, the water had nowhere to go except… The pipes groaned. Jason heard a gurgling sound beneath his feet. He followed it. The metal circle of the drain shuddered. It separated from the stone floor and rose on a spindle, like a mushroom. Jason crossed his fingers and stomped on it. The pedal slammed down, flush with the floor…
And the iron door popped open.
“See, Brom?” Jason muttered. “You messed with the wrong Crane.”
Jason took up the flashlight and approached the door, warily. Inside he found a passageway of red brick—Dylan brick, like the culvert that bled the André Brook into Patriots Park. Like the passageway to Hell in the basement of the Amityville Horror house. Red brick stairs descended to the left, into a tunnel glossy with condensation. Down into the black.
“You know you have to go in there.” Jason told himself. “Don’t be a baby. What would Howard Carter say?”
He raised the flashlight and crossed the threshold. His beam couldn’t find the bottom of the stairs. He descended one step, then another. A bright trickling sound filled the space. The walls are bleeding, he thought, testing the cold stone. No. They’re just… dripping. Water dribbled through cracks overhead. Dribbled fast. Something groaned—like a dying walrus. A gush of water tore through the mortar. Two bricks fell, striking at Jason’s feet and tumbling down the stairs. He jerked away but his feet twisted on the wet stone. He fell hard, onto his hip, skittering downward. The flashlight flew from his hand and clattered away, winking out. Water gushed endlessly, hitting Jason’s back. The pressure had overwhelmed the ancient mechanism. The reservoir system had blown out like an exploding fish tank. The iron door slammed shut, clanging like the gates of a prison, trapping Jason inside—cold and wet—locked implacably in the sinister unending darkness of Agathe’s lair…
CHAPTER SIXTY
“Wine and Roses”
Hadewych parked in Valerie’s driveway and checked himself in the rearview mirror. He took out a comb and dug it into his part over and over to perfect it. He picked his teeth, sprayed his throat, and gave himself a wink. �
��How can she resist? I promise. By the end of the night she’ll go limp and melt in your arms.” He collected his bouquet of yellow roses, climbed out of the car and up the stairs to Jessica’s apartment. He rang the bell. She didn’t answer. He waited patiently, rang again.
The door cracked open a little and her face appeared. “Yes?”
Hadewych presented the bouquet. “You have a gentleman caller, Mrs. Van Brunt.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m not dressed.”
“Has that ever stopped me?”
She shrugged and allowed him inside. She wasn’t naked. She wore denim shorts and a man’s T-shirt. She was barefoot and wore her hair in a rubber-band ponytail. She didn’t embrace him or kiss him, which was odd—just gave a little ‘right this way’ wave with one finger.
Hadewych offered the bouquet again. “Should I put these in water?”
“Whatever,” she said and walked away, disappearing into the bedroom.
Hadewych found a knife in the kitchen and shortened the stems of the roses. “I have an excellent table for us tonight! It’s at Bridgeview. The roof terrace again. We’ll watch the fireworks. Why don’t you wear the Vivienne Westwood I bought you?” He arranged the flowers in a vase. “Jess? Did you hear me? I have a seven-thirty reservation.” He took the velvet box from his pocket. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face. They were still married, of course, but the time had arrived to make the whole affair official. To put the ring back on her hand at last. It should never have come off. He’d given it to Zef, to slip onto Kate’s finger, but this was more appropriate. Full circle.
Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 52
