Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 17

  The congregation stood.

  An organ began to play overhead, where candles burned in fixtures of gilt. Jason had no hymnal, so he watched the crowd. They looked like decent people. Morally ambitious. We have that in common, at least. Their voices were clear and confident and surprisingly on key.

  A connection fell into place. Ichabod had been the singing master of this church, hadn’t he? Jason’s ancestor had courted Katrina with music lessons, right here. And his rival Brom Bones had responded by teaching a scoundrel dog to whine beneath the window. Jason searched his memory for a passage. “There are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the millpond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane.” Jason thought he heard a voice, somewhere in the crowd, flat and nasal, honking through the hymn. Ichabod’s echo.

  The music ended, but not everyone sat. The room had fallen silent. A few congregants stood staring at him. He felt pinned by angry glares, by thin lips, by contemptuous eyes… why?

  Oh.

  Across from the altar hung the shattered window, maybe even the same window that Brom’s dog had once bayed beneath. An ugly patch of bare plywood covered the damage.

  Jason had forgotten.

  He had ruined their church.

  People turned in their pews and began to mutter. Their voices rose, threatening to become a tumult. “Now, now,” the minister said, raising his palms. “Everyone is welcome in the House of the Lord.” But Jason didn’t feel welcome. Brows furrowed. Fathers drew their children close.

  A man’s voice rose, somewhere to Jason’s right, soothing and apologetic.

  “I’ll take care of this. So sorry, everyone. So sorry.”

  Jason recognized the voice. Hadewych was cutting across the pews, his face stern. Zef sat next to Hadewych’s abandoned seat, embarrassed, sinking behind a hymnal. Jason stepped backwards, preparing to dash, but Hadewych took his elbow and bum-rushed him from the church.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he spat.

  Jason stumbled outside, ceding the highest step to Hadewych. “I wanted to—”

  “Make a fool of me?”

  “What?”

  Hadewych pulled the doors shut. “I am trying to make things right for you, Son. But I can’t get these people on your side if you’re going to barge in and rub their noses in it.”

  Jason took a step up toward Hadewych. “That’s not why I came—”

  Hadewych slapped him. Not hard, just enough to get his attention. But it wasn’t Hadewych’s palm that struck Jason’s cheek. It was Bill Ferrer’s. Jason was thrown back to that terrible night he’d run to Eliza shouting Make him go away! Make him go away! I don’t need a father! I don’t need a father!

  “I’m sorry you made me do that,” said Hadewych.

  Jason swung a fist. Hadewych caught it and twisted Jason’s wrist backwards. Hadewych’s shadow rose across the doors of the church, towering there—as if Jason had become a small boy again.

  “This is a holy place,” said Hadewych through his teeth. “Control yourself.” He released Jason’s wrist. “My Lord. Face the facts. This church is the one place in town where you don’t belong.”

  Jason wanted to belong. To spend Christmas Eve singing carols here, in this church of fieldstones. Voices had risen within—within the church or merely in his mind, he couldn’t tell.

  “The hopes and fears

  of all the years

  are met in thee tonight.”

  He wanted to join in, if only for while. But he nodded and turned away. He shifted his red backpack and walked quickly down the hill.

  Hadewych’s voice chased after him, all the way down to the Horseman Bridge.

  “We’ll talk about this when I get home. Think about what you’ve done, young man.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Spider-Man”

  Jason yanked the coils of safety rope to one shoulder and heaved them out the attic window. The bundle bounced over the roofline and dropped to the yard below. He tightened the harness, making sure the shoulder straps were snug over his sweatshirt. He checked the anchor again. He’d secured it high on a diagonal joist of the attic. It looked sturdy. He put all his weight on it and decided it wasn’t going anywhere. He threaded his rope through the braking device, tested it, and clipped everything to the carabiner at his navel.

  So far, so good. Fireman Mike would be proud.

  Jason scrambled to his feet and killed the attic light. His stomach flipped as he neared the octagonal window. Had he tied the correct knots? Would he get himself killed? Weeks had passed since Mike’s tutorial and…

  But he had to attempt the break-in now, while both Van Brunts were at the Christmas Eve service. He swung his legs through the window and felt for the roof. His sneakers gripped the shingles and he wriggled out, grateful for once to have feet as big as snowshoes.

  Good thing Joey can’t see this. I’d never hear the end of it.

  He pulled on a ski mask and sang.

  “Spider-Man. Spider-Man. Does whatever a spider can…”

  He lowered his body. Wind punched him in the jaw like a supervillain, surprising him. His sweatshirt rode up and snow burrowed into his navel. He looked down but couldn’t see his feet. He relaxed his hands and put a few ounces of weight on the rope. It held. So far so—

  THWIP!

  The rope lurched. The window jumped away. He yelped and grabbed air. The brake engaged and his head snapped back. He hung in space over the yard, rotated his arms wildly, found his balance, and froze—not a spider at all, just a fly caught on a twitching thread.

  Something flew at him from the attic window. His arms went up, warding it off. A wide piece of onionskin paper wrapped itself around his arm. The grave rubbing of William Crane—but how? He tried to snag it but couldn’t risk losing his balance. A gust of wind embraced the paper and they waltzed away together, disappearing over the Hudson.

  He pulled himself forward, glove over glove. At last his knees found the shingles. So did his hands. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the rope, praying to the gods of gravity. He sat on his haunches until his heart rate slowed.

  What the hell happened?

  He realized his mistake. The anchor had slipped on its diagonal beam and had played out extra cord. He should have attached it farther down.

  He heard Eliza’s voice, clear as day. Jason Crane! What the hell are you doing on that roof? Get your be-hind down here this instant!

  He wanted to get his be-hind down this instant but he’d come too far to stop.

  He took stock. If he rappelled straight down from the attic he’d end up dangling about six feet to the left of Hadewych’s windows. But a foot-long vent pipe stuck up from the roof ten feet away. He could use that to adjust his approach.

  He took a deep breath and crabbed towards the pipe, cautiously, thumbing the brake to let out rope. His exhalations inside the ski mask fogged his vision. Clots of snow broke away, dove over the edge, and took far too long to hit ground. He drew his rope around the pipe and pulled tight. Now he could drop.

  No. You will not drop. You will rappel. You will rappel very safely.

  He backed towards the edge, towards the point of no return. The backyard lurched into view. It was a four-story fall and he’d probably hit the stairs on the way down. Vertigo rose like vomit.

  Jason closed his eyes, gripped the pipe, and dangled his feet off the roof. He slid farther, until he hung from the pipe with one outstretched arm. His knees slipped into the gutter, broke thin ice, and were immediately soaked. He reluctantly let go of the pipe and played out slack. His elbows dug trenches in the snow. He sledded helplessly. His legs fell, swung, and kicked the side of the house.

  Alarm bells went off in his head.

  He gripped the rope. It looked like… nothing. A shoelace. He struggled to climb, to save himself. He was going over the cliff—off
the Million Dollar Highway. He saw the scene painted on a tarot card. He was living up to his significator. Charley barked hysterically somewhere below.

  Jason Crane, you’re a damn Fool.

  He went limp and fell over. The rope gave a jolt and the harness tried to castrate him. He twisted, trying to save his poor descendants. He began to spin. His arm bashed through a row of icicles. The spin slowed, reversed, and at last he came to a stop with his back to the house, dangling over the back yard.

  Thank you rope that’s a good rope well done.

  He tried to turn around but couldn’t. With patience, he worked out a method of kicking in circles and managed to press his sneakers to the side of the house. He pulled off the ski mask and shoved it into a pocket, grateful for the air on his flushed cheeks.

  He took stock again.

  The Tappan Zee Bridge, Philipsburg Manor, and the Old Dutch Church each hung reflected in a different window of the master suite, like paintings side by side on a gallery wall. The Tappan Zee Bridge was nearest, about a foot beyond his fingers horizontally and about two feet down. He needed slack. He gathered his loose rope to the small of his back and disengaged the brake.

  ZIP!

  He fell fast, all his weight on the rope now. His feet, planted, shot up over his head. The brake caught him and the rope vibrated as wildly as a guitar string striking a note of panic.

  Jason heard a crunching sound and looked up. The leaf gutter crumpled and poured a stream of bitter ice water into his eyes. He snarled and wiped his face, dripping humiliation.

  At least now he could reach the window that framed the Tappan Zee. He braced himself, walked across the side of the house, and tugged at the sill.

  Locked.

  That figures. And what if they’re all locked? How the hell will you get in without him knowing you were in there? If he finds out he’ll probably change where he’s hidden everything. Why don’t you plan these things better, Jason Crane?

  He crossed over the reflection of the Tappan Zee and stretched his fingers towards Philipsburg Manor. He arced upwards, having barely enough rope to reach the sill.

  Philipsburg was locked as well.

  Jason rested a moment and stared at his reflection in the glass. He was an enormous Macy’s balloon drifting over New Jersey, tethered at the navel like Underdog.

  How the hell did you get up here, kid?

  He let out the tiniest amount of rope, lost his grip, and swung for a while. He was getting the hang of this, though.

  Ha ha. Hang. Get it?

  He pushed off, crossed over the bridge, past the Manor, and reached for the Old Dutch Church. He overshot and his sneaker kicked the glass. He winced, but it didn’t shatter. With a stretch, he caught the stone on the far side of the window and gripped it with the pads of his fingers. He felt like a wall-crawler at last.

  For a moment he held himself there, trying not to fall back. He did an awkward split, one foot above the window and the other below, hanging sideways with his weight on one hip. He closed his eyes and reached for the sill, crouching against the side of the house. His fingernails found the weather stripping and he tugged.

  Locked.

  He cursed and tugged again, anger rising. He grabbed the frame with both hands and pulled with all his spider-strength. Something popped, the window rose and the curtains splashed out. Jason dove head-first into the fabric, wriggled and kicked, let out some rope and fell with a whump into his archenemy’s lair.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “The Dragon Hoard”

  Jason slipped and slid, trying to find his balance. A pile of paper and fabric shifted beneath his knees. He fell forward, played out rope, found bare floor. He felt in darkness for the bedside lamp and switched on the light.

  His smile of triumph melted into horror and surprise.

  He barely recognized his old bedroom. Newspapers and dirty laundry had collected in drifts all around. The lamp had no shade, just a bare bulb. Jason sat crouched amid empty boxes of snack crackers, a green-splattered half-loaf of Wonder Bread, cups of stale coffee, bent aluminum dishes from the deli, empty wine bottles, plastic cups, soiled napkins, dinner plates lumpy with dried ketchup, and soda bottles, some half-full and dripping syrup on the hardwood. A fishy smell turned out to be the jar of caviar; Hadewych had taken one bite and had let the rest spoil. There were no sheets on the bed, only a man-shaped sweat stain on the mattress cover. An electric blanket lay wadded on the floor, still plugged in. The nightstand bore a pair of reading glasses and a bottle of baby lotion.

  Shock filled Jason to the brim, leaving no room for anger. He’d never been the neatest person in the world. Hell, he could be a slob sometimes. But this was—squalor. This was—pathological. He almost felt sorry for Hadewych, that the man would do this to himself. Was it self-hatred? Something deeper? Hadewych had grown up on the streets; Valerie had told him that much. Jason had read about people with deprived childhoods hoarding stuff. But, trash? Things that are spoiled? Broken? What kind of dragon hoard was that?

  He reminded himself of his mission. Be quick before the dragon returns. He wasn’t here to judge Hadewych’s mental state. The evidence was already in on that count. He stood and was startled by a thudding noise behind him. His trailing rope had yanked the window wide open. He unclipped his braking device and braced it in a corner, weighing it down under laundry. He closed the window and hid the rope behind the curtains. Untethered, he started his search.

  He didn’t know where to start. Anything could be buried under this junk and he was nervous about shifting the piles. Hadewych might have every item in the room memorized. Jason looked under the bed. Nothing. He scanned the top of the dresser. A watch, an expensive fountain pen, and a picture of Zef at middle school graduation—fat and sporting an embarrassing bowl haircut. Jason passed these over. A stack of mail sat on the edge of the dresser. Several looked to be pre-stamped RSVPs for the New Year’s party. Jason didn’t recognize any names.

  He opened the dresser drawers, finding them mostly empty, their contents probably on the floor. He found a box containing scraps of laminate and an X-Acto knife. Forgery supplies, probably, but not incriminating in themselves. A cockroach skittered from beneath the box, disappearing.

  Jason tried another drawer. An old leather wallet lay tucked among the dress socks. It contained a General Motors security card, several photos of Zef, and one of a young blonde woman. She might have been pretty but someone had drawn fangs and devil horns on her. Under the wallet sat a black velvet box with a wedding ring inside. Jason glanced at the devil woman and back to the ring. Curiosity got the better of him. He took off his glove, shook the ring into his palm, and—

  “Take the goddamn thing!”

  A young blonde appeared and threw the ring at Jason. No. At Hadewych. A younger Hadewych, in his late twenties maybe.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” Hadewych said, crouching and searching the floor.

  “How can I stay here—like this? With you?”

  “I’ll start looking again. I’ll find work.”

  “You keep saying that.” She covered her face. “I’m done. I’m just… done.”

  Tears sparkled in Hadewych’s eyes. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He got down on one knee and raised the ring as if proposing. “Put it back on… please.”

  The woman’s face drained of emotion. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Hadewych…”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because I can’t wear two wedding rings.”

  Hadewych looked puzzled.

  She turned away. “I can’t be married to two men.”

  Comprehension came into Hadewych’s face. “You met someone.”

  She nodded. “And he’s proposed.”

  Hadewych stood, slipping the ring into his shirt pocket. “Who is he?”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.”


  He took a step forward. She fled to another room.

  “Who?” Hadewych pounded on the locked door. “Who is he, you bitch?”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  Jason whirled. A boy stood screaming in the middle of the room. A Zef of baby fat and apple cheeks. Tears streamed down his face.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” he wailed.

  Hadewych went to the boy and tried to comfort him but the child squirmed and beat at his father’s shoulders, trying to get away.

  “Stop it, Zef. Shh. It’s okay. We don’t need her. Shh. We don’t.”

  The woman reentered, shouldering a purse. She hesitated at the door, staring at it the way a rookie skydiver stares at an open hatch.

  “Mama don’t go don’t go don’t—” Zef reached for her, desperately, but Hadewych held him tight.

  “I’ll know if you ever need me, baby,” she said. “I love you.”

  “Mama!”

  A door slammed.

  The vision broke.

  Jason poked the ring back into its velvet slot. He felt shaken and disturbed. He’d had no business seeing that. He’d invaded Hadewych and Zef’s privacy. He pulled on his glove, put the drawer in order, and shut it. He didn’t want to read anything else. All he wanted, suddenly, was to get out of this sad room. Why was he snooping in here? Hadewych kept the door locked out of embarrassment, nothing more. But Jason hadn’t checked the closet yet, or the bathroom, and—

  He heard voices downstairs. It had been the slam of his own front door that had broken the vision.

  Hadewych and Zef were home.

  He scrambled, trying to make a split-second decision. Go out the door? He could run up to the attic and heave his gear up before they saw it. He’d have to leave Hadewych’s bedroom unlocked, though. That would give him away. Out the window again? He’d better hurry—and what about the wetness on the floor? He snatched a pair of Fruit of the Looms and wiped his footprints away. Had he disturbed the piles too much? Was everything on the dresser as he’d found it? He scanned the stack of mail. One envelope had a plastic window in the front and the return address of a bank. A statement? He shoved the thing in his pocket. He’d look at it later, he—