Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  “He was scared? Does that guy get scared?” Janus asked.

  “Maybe,” Kate said. “Or maybe they cut some kind of deal. Maybe he told him about political events back home. In any case, the Romans don’t invade any further until a couple centuries later.”

  “So he’s a warrior?” Quinn asked.

  “He’s everything,” Kate said. “He’s the leader, he’s the general, he’s the priest. And he keeps showing up in Celtic history. Not during every invasion, but he’s there. He’s referenced during the conquering of Wales.”

  “Fat lot of good he must have done us,” Janus said.

  “That’s just it,” Kate said. “He’s referenced as helping the English.”

  “Fuck him,” Janus said. “What’s that about?”

  “It’s not the same person,” she said. “Through history, different leaders are chosen and they each have their own agendas. Maybe this guy just didn’t like the Welsh.”

  “Imagine that,” Quinn said.

  “Well, fuck him,” Janus said.

  “Does anyone mention Sanheim directly?”

  “Yes,” Kate asked. “A guy named Robert Crowley.”

  “That’s the guy I told you about,” Janus said. “He was the ‘Prince of Sanheim.’”

  “Who was he?”

  “Nominally, he was a bad poet of the Romantic era,” Kate said. “But he went crazy, even by Lord Byron’s standards. In 1873, he declared that his father was not Sir Richard Crowley, but a powerful Irish chieftain. He summoned followers to his home for what he promised would be the revelation of the ‘Prince of Sanheim.’”

  “Sounds like a nutter.”

  “Here’s what interesting,” she said. “He summoned women first. And just so you don’t think everyone was repressed in that day and age, many came.”

  “He started an orgy?” Janus said.

  “I think he was looking for someone,” Kate said, and she looked meaningfully at Quinn. “He was looking for the right woman.”

  “The kind that would live out his fantasies?”

  “The kind that would trigger the ‘Trial of the Cennad,’” Kate said.

  “I was really hoping we were going to talk in more detail about the orgies,” Janus said.

  “A man and a woman joining is the key, Janus,” Kate said. “There’s this weird Web site some group in England set up that’s devoted to Crowley. It would be disturbing if it wasn’t so damn helpful. But they list all of his poetry, which is really, really bad, filled with love, sex, death and more sex. But he has an entire poem on the ‘joining.’ It’s all about sex, of course, but this one is different from the others. This is the kind of sex that links the body and the mind.”

  “It links the souls,” Quinn said. “Two become one.”

  “That’s one horny guy,” Janus said, and then he paused. “Wait a second. They are linked in body and mind, which means they…”

  “Right,” Quinn said quickly.

  “You two?” Janus said. “That’s how come you guys are suddenly the picture of weirdness? You had sex and now you are…”

  “It’s not what we are,” Kate said. “It’s what we’re becoming. Quinn and I are linked now. I have a feeling it becomes even stronger once the trial is passed.”

  “Was it any different than normal sex?” Janus asked. When he saw the look on Quinn’s face, he continued. “Look, normally I would just wait to ask Quinn when he was alone, but since you two are one now anyway, what’s the point, right?”

  Quinn wasn’t going to answer. He was opening his mouth to say it was private when Kate replied.

  “Very. Imagine knowing exactly what your partner wants a half second before they even know they want it,” she said. “No awkwardness, embarrassment. No accidentally doing the wrong thing. It’s like everything is choreographed.”

  “That sounds pretty fucking awesome,” Janus said.

  “Yeah,” both Kate and Quinn said at the same time, and they looked at each other. Quinn didn’t want to think about sex right now. Or rather, that was all he wanted to think about, but if he did, if they lost themselves to that again, they would be dead.

  “So that’s the deal. The two have sex and…”

  “Sex changes everything,” Kate said. “That’s what Madame Zora told me when she read my future. It was in the Tarot cards: The Devil, which represented lust and sex.”

  “What else did she tell you?” Janus asked.

  “The next card was Death,” Kate said.

  “Oh. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that isn’t so good.”

  “Death can also mean transformation,” Kate responded.

  “Really? ‘Cause usually, when you use it in a story and whatnot, it just means death,” Janus said.

  “Jump back for a second,” Kate said. “We aren’t done with Crowley. He hosts this party, right? Women come from all around.”

  “So he can join with as many as possible?” Janus asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Kate said. “So he could find the right one. The Web site is vague—everything here is reading between the lines. Crowley was basically holding try-outs. I think by himself he was just a guy, but he believed if he found the right woman and they had sex…”

  “He would become the Prince of Sanheim,” Janus said.

  “Bingo,” Quinn said.

  “Which means what, exactly? All you can eat at the local Irish pub?”

  “I don’t know,” Kate said. “I know it triggers the ‘Trial of the Cennad.’ But I don’t know what that means.”

  “The Headless Horseman,” Quinn said. “He’s part of that trial. He has to be.”

  Quinn could vaguely remember his dream before he woke up. He had been talking to someone—he couldn’t remember who—but the man had told him something.

  “You are what you fear,” he said.

  Kate nodded.

  (You created him) she thought. (He’s your cennad.)

  (Which means what, exactly?)

  (It’s ancient Gaelic for ambassador)

  “Stop doing that please,” Janus said. “Not all of us are tuned in to Kate-and-Quinn’s FM Sex Radio.”

  “Sorry,” Quinn said. “Look, my parents read me ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ when I was a kid and I loved it. Loved it. I made them read it to me every night. Finally, my Dad, as a surprise, got me the Disney cartoon version of it. And it scared the hell out of me. I couldn’t sleep for weeks after that, and boy, was my Mom pissed at him for showing it to me. He figured that since I had read the story, I was ready. But I wasn’t.”

  “So the Headless Horseman is the thing you feared,” Kate said. “That’s why he attacked us.”

  “Can I just remind everyone that he’s made up?” Janus said. “He doesn’t exist.”

  “No, he didn’t exist,” Kate said. “But he does now.”

  “Because you two had sex?”

  “Dee saw him before this,” Quinn said. “That man near Phillips Farm heard a horseman late at night. And that was before we, uh, made love.”

  “Just a guess: it was after you met me,” Kate said. “Before you did, he was just a dream. Once you and I started getting closer, the Horseman became more real. But he wasn’t solid flesh—ready to attack us—until we had sex. That triggered the trial.”

  “And the trial is what? He shows up and puts Quinn on the witness stand?”

  “I could be wrong, but I think it’s a bit simpler than that,” Kate said. “We kill him or he kills us.”

  “Awesome,” Janus said. “That’s just great, because last time I checked there was someone else that wanted to kill you two. You are very popular with the psycho set this year.”

  “What happens if we succeed?” Quinn asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kate asked. “But I do know that at least at first, everything is tied to Halloween. That’s the apex of the Prince’s power and his lowest point is…”

  “Nov. 1, All Saint’s Day,” Quinn said.

  “So whatever pow
er is gained is lost at the stroke of midnight,” Kate said.

  “What happened to Crowley?” Janus asked. “What did he do with his power?”

  “I don’t know if he succeeded or failed,” Kate said. “But he held his party. It wasn’t a huge gathering, but it was enough. Maybe fifty to hundred.”

  “Fifty men went up a hill,” Janus said. “None of them came down.”

  “What happened?” Quinn asked, but he already knew.

  “No one who attended that party was ever seen again,” Kate responded. “They found the castle where he threw it totally abandoned.”

  “Fifty men went to see him,” Janus continued. “None of them were found.”

  “But they found something else, didn’t they?” Quinn asked.

  “Yes,” Kate said. “The Web site had a lot to say about that.”

  “What did they find?” Janus asked.

  “They found a message written on the wall,” Kate said. “It was written in blood.”

  “Let me guess,” Janus said. “It said, ‘Need more beer.’”

  No one laughed.

  “No,” Kate said. “It said, ‘The Prince of Sanheim is Risen. May God Have Mercy On Your Souls.’”

  21

  Tuesday, Oct. 24

  Quinn idly tapped his pen on his notepad as he waited for the press conference to start. It was already 10 minutes late and reporters were buzzing around the small room in the police station. It was late October, but the room was hot. Quinn wanted to open a window, but he was afraid to lose his chair. It was standing room only.

  There were reporters here from everywhere—The Washington Post, The Washington Times, maybe even The New York Times, he wasn’t sure. They had all gotten wind of what Sheriff Brown was supposed to announce. Lord Halloween is back. After a 12-year absence, Virginia’s most-wanted serial killer had returned, from the dead no less, as the man police had pinned the murders on had long since died.

  None of this was news to Quinn, of course. But journalism is a pack business and the pack followed the major news outlets. The Loudoun Chronicle could have reported a month ago that the killer had returned, but it wouldn’t matter until the bigger papers got a hold of it. Once they did, only then would the story exist.

  (I wonder why the press conference hasn’t started yet?) Kate asked.

  (Not sure,) he replied. (Maybe Brown wants to make a grand entrance?)

  (Could be,) the voice came back. (But I’m not sure it is needed here.)

  Kate was not at the press conference—she was in fact sitting across town at her computer trying to read something on the Internet. If Quinn closed his eyes and concentrated he could see it, as she could do likewise. That this now seemed natural was the weirdest part. In just two days, Quinn almost could not remember what it had been like before. Kate was just always there, in his head, and if that might seem scary to some, it was immensely comforting to them both.

  It was as if you constantly had your best friend on a cell line with you. But better. He did not need to say anything out loud, but could just think it. And the speed with which they could communicate was unbelievable. Better still was that they did not need to find words to describe how they were feeling.

  The other just knew. They felt it too.

  In fact, the only really odd moment had come the first time one of them went to the bathroom. But they had solved that problem quickly. It turned out that they could block the other one out—have a private thought in other words—if they wanted to. But aside from bathroom time, neither had found any reason, or desire, to do that.

  (Laurence wants you to ask him about Kyle,) Kate’s voice came in his head.

  (Yeah, I heard him tell you to call me,) Quinn replied.

  (I didn’t think you were paying attention. You were thinking about sex again.)

  (I can multitask, you know.)

  (I know. This is just different. I think multiple thoughts in my own head all the time. But it’s kind of strange when I’m hearing someone else’s.)

  (I understand completely.)

  (I thought we agreed we aren’t going to think about sex anymore.)

  (Yes, we did. But I’m a guy. It is a hard thing to shut off.)

  (I know, but we agreed for a reason. No sex for fear of scary guy riding horse. That clearly triggered it last time.)

  (I’m down with the plan, honey. I’m just saying: if you are going to listen to my thoughts, you have to know that I will think about sex a lot. It’s just there.)

  (I know. The problem is then it gets me thinking about it, too. Damn. This will be a vicious cycle.)

  (I know, I know. We will figure this out. We will figure out how to beat this. We’ll beat the trial and take it from there.)

  (What if there is no there? What if we lose?) Kate asked.

  (We won’t lose.)

  (How can this feel so natural? Why doesn’t this feel more invasive?)

  (I guess for the Prince of Sanheim thing to work the two of us have to be able to function comfortably together.)

  (You talk about it—okay, think about it—like it is some design. Like somebody really thought this through before creating it.)

  Quinn thought of the man standing on the hill, the one from his dream.

  (You think he designed it?) Kate asked.

  (I’m not sure. I’m not sure he really is who he wants me to think he is.)

  (Why is he helping us?)

  (He wants something.)

  (What?)

  (I really don’t know.)

  It had been a hellish few days. They had practically had to force their way out of Bluemont hospital. Doctors had insisted they wanted to keep him under observation. The local police had questions about how a horse had attacked the local hotel, but Quinn and Kate had claimed total ignorance. They had arrived back in Loudoun County to find another reception of police, who wanted to know where they had been, when they had been attacked and why they hadn’t reported it any earlier. Quinn had been disturbed to find that while the rest of the reporters had checked in, Kyle had not. They feared the worst. In fact, Quinn expected it.

  Sheriff Brown walked into the room. He looked pale, haggard and approximately 20 years older than when Kate and Quinn had seen him just a few days before.

  (He looks like shit.) Kate said.

  Quinn just nodded and watched the man slowly walk to the podium. He clearly didn’t want to be there. Which was odd in a way, Quinn reflected. This was a guy who loved attention, who savored the moment when Loudoun was big time news. But Quinn supposed even Brown had his limits.

  (There is something more to it than that, Quinn. Look at the way he is moving. I wonder…)

  But Brown had now ascended the platform. Flashbulbs went off. Quinn could hear the distinct whir of the TV cameras recording every second of it. For a moment, Quinn felt bad for Brown, who faced what must have appeared like a pack of wolves waiting to eat him alive.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Brown began. “I apologize for being late. We at the Loudoun County Sheriff’s department are very reluctant to communicate with suspects in the following fashion, but we have been asked, and I have reluctantly agreed, to make an exception. I wish to make the following statement: Lord Halloween has returned. Please take all precautions necessary to guard your loved ones. No one is safe.”

  For a second, you could hear a pin drop. Then more flashbulbs went off and there was a bustle of activity as reporters started scribbling on paper.

  “That is all I have to say for now,” Brown said. “I wish to make it clear that we made the preceding statement at the request of an individual who has said this is the only manner in which he will communicate with us. We do not wish to start any kind of panic. The department is doing everything it can to make this county safe for everyone. We are working around the clock. We urge everyone to be cautious and to report anything out of the ordinary to the police.”

  Before he could even finish, the questions started.

  “Did Lord Hallow
een leave you a note or has he contacted you by phone?” Summer asked. Quinn had not even noticed she was there.

  “All communication with this individual has been through notes,” Brown replied. “I’m sorry, but I cannot take more questions…”

  But the dam had been broken.

  “Is it the same murderer that terrorized the county 12 years ago?” she asked.

  “How many people has he killed so far, Sheriff?” another reporter said.

  “How are you assuring the safety of the county, Sheriff?”

  But it was Quinn who stood up and raised his hand. Brown, who clearly wanted to leave and had already started to walk out, paused when he saw Quinn’s hand in the air.

  (He knows what you are going to ask him.)

  Slowly, Brown nodded.

  “Sheriff, I recognize that you are normally reluctant to comment on on-going cases,” Quinn began. He licked his lips before continuing, acutely aware that he did not want to know the answer to the question he was going to ask. “But on behalf of his colleagues, we wondered if you believe Kyle Thompson’s disappearance is connected to this case?”

  One of the other reporters gasped. Quinn knew without looking it was Summer.

  Brown paused and seemed to draw a large breath.

  “Quinn, it is very difficult to answer that question without commenting on other cases,” Brown began. “But I’ve just spoken with your editor. It’s the reason I was late.

  “For those of you who don’t know, Kyle Thompson was a reporter for the local paper here. He covered the crime beat and so worked with this department for more than a decade. His disappearance was reported Sunday. We here have not always agreed with his coverage, but we respected his work. He was also a police officer for two years with this department. It is with sincere sadness that I report that at 7:00 a.m. this morning we discovered a body identified as that of Kyle Thompson. Though the body has been tampered with, pending DNA tests, we have sufficient evidence to conclude it was Kyle.”

  Quinn felt like he had been hit in the gut. It was the answer he had been expecting, almost. But it had not seemed real then. Part of him really believed that Kyle just blew town, even when he knew that made no sense. Kyle, who set his watch forward three minutes early so he would never be late. Kyle, who insisted on talking to everyone about wrestling even when he knew no one cared. Kyle, who would not have walked away from this story in a million years.