Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Page 20

  He hadn’t wanted to steal Zef’s car, but he’d had no other choice. It was too nasty out to bike and he had no car of his own. Joey wasn’t around to drive him, and he couldn’t ask Kate, who had forbidden him to come around. Due to the weather, the cab and livery services he’d called needed an hour’s prior notice.

  He’d tried calling Valerie but it would take too long for her to drive over. “Why didn’t you—sneak me into the house?” Valerie had said when he told her about his rappelling adventure. “I could have opened Hadewych’s door—from the outside.” Because I’m stupid, stupid, stupid, Jason thought, and had left it at that.

  He pulled Valerie’s map out of his backpack, found Saw Mill River Parkway, and scanned the route, one eye fearfully fixed on the snowy road. The cars ahead crawled.

  The dash clock read 2:30. Had Hadewych’s note said “Back by four” or “Back at four?” Jason couldn’t remember. He could count on an hour, maybe.

  He could barely see through the frosty windshield. He fumbled for the defroster and hit the wipers by mistake. A mist sprayed across the glass, freezing there, making things worse. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out. The cold air felt good. He’d been running a low-grade fever for days. That was his own fault for being so pigheaded. Not wanting to leave Charley or Eliza, afraid of having the Nightmare if he slept inside, and not wanting to prove Hadewych right, he had continued to sleep in the RV, defiantly shivering through the blizzard with blankets and a space heater. And now he was getting sick. Great.

  He didn’t see the pothole coming. The car bounced and shifted, losing traction. The wheels kicked up a flume of snow like water behind a jet ski. He was going to wreck Zef’s car—get himself arrested for driving without insurance, kill some innocent pedestrian or somebody’s kid.

  But I have to stop Hadewych! Somehow! If the Horseman’s Treasure is there… please let it be there.

  He found Saw Mill River Parkway, choked with trucks and delivery vans. He passed corporate office parks and dreary industrial buildings. A Goodwill store. He glanced at the clock. Come on. Come on. He was running out of time and—

  There.

  Lantzee Self-Storage.

  It was a long shot, but it was the only lead he had. Nothing else on the bank statement had been incriminating. It had been the November statement. There’d been a five-hundred-dollar withdrawal on the second—Jason’s bail, probably—then Hadewych had reimbursed himself from Eliza’s accounts. He’d found a charge for the moving van, a deposit of thirty-five thousand representing Eliza’s bequest, and a ten-thousand-dollar deposit for the banquet venue, Stone Barns, where the party would be held that night.

  Everything looked legitimate, damn it.

  But what had Jason expected? He wasn’t going to find a charge labeled “Fifty thousand dollars to the Headless Horseman for services rendered, resulting in the death of Jason Crane’s grandmother,” was he? He’d begun to fold the statement when he noticed a few charges on a second page. Among these had been a small charge from November twenty-sixth: LANTZEE’S STRG 374220 11/22 $76.67.

  It wasn’t necessarily suspicious. Maybe Hadewych had only rented the unit to store spill-over from their old apartment above Valerie’s place. But why? They had an enormous cellar under 417 and plenty of attic available. Or maybe Lantzee’s was just where Hadewych kept all his spare trash—the soiled laundry and banana peels too precious for everyday use.

  But maybe, just maybe, it was where he’d hidden the Horseman’s Treasure.

  Jason parked near the offices, got out, and crossed the parking lot. He stopped at the double doors, realizing he didn’t have anything close to a plan. How the hell would he even open the unit? He shook his head and went in, trusting himself to improvise… something.

  Thishadbetterwork. Thishadbetterwork. Thishadbetterwork.

  A chubby fellow appeared from the back office and met him at the counter.

  “Happy New Year!” cried Jason with what he hoped would be ingratiating cheer.

  “Happy New Year. What can I do for you?”

  “I need to get into my unit but I forgot my key.”

  “No keys here. Everyone provides their own lock. Do you know your combination?

  “Oh. Right. The combination. Yeah. I know that. It’s the unit number I can’t remember.”

  The clerk nodded, dubiously, and went to his terminal. “Name?”

  “Van Brunt.”

  “Great. ID?”

  Jason sighed. This wasn’t going to work. He searched his pockets, came up empty, and shrugged. “Sorry. Nothing on me.”

  “Then I can’t help. Sorry.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not if you don’t know your unit number. I can’t just give that out.”

  “Please? I’m going to get into so much trouble if I don’t get in there. We’ve got this New Year’s party tonight and I need something for it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jason was stumped, trying to come up with something plausible that might sway the man. What could he claim to need? His dialysis machine? Too dramatic. He glanced around and spotted a calendar on the wall. A gift shop calendar with an oil painting of the Horseman and Ichabod.

  “It’s my costume,” Jason blurted. “My Horseman costume. I need it for the party tonight. Please?”

  The man frowned and glanced out the glass doors towards the parking lot.

  “Are you Zef?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Jason. “I am Zef.”

  “I thought I recognized that car. That’s yours, right? The blue one with the one green door? My daughter pointed it out to me once. I’ve seen you a dozen times, buddy. At halftime. You’re great. I love the Horseman mascot.”

  “Thanks,” said Jason, growing hopeful.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s my Horseman costume. I didn’t think I needed it anymore—with the season over—but my dad’s throwing a bash for all these out-of-towners tonight and everybody’s hoping the Horseman will show. You know. It’s good for the town and—well, I screwed up. It’s here and I’m in a lot of trouble if I don’t get it.” Jason bit his lip and swallowed. It was easy to sound tearful. His oncoming cold gave him the sniffles anyway.

  The clerk nodded. “I’ve got your dad’s number on file here—”

  “No. Please. He’ll kill me if he finds out I waited until the last minute. The party’s for Senator Usher and the mayor.” Jason put on a look of star-struck awe and let it crumble into resignation. It was time to play possum. “Oh, well. I tried. The Horseman’s going to have to miss this one. A lot of people are going to be disappointed, though.”

  He waited, certain that he had overplayed his hand with that last bit.

  Thishadbetterwork. Thishadbetterwork. Thishadbetterwork.

  The man glanced towards the cruiser again, as if using it to confirm Jason’s ID.

  “Just this once,” he said, tapping some keys. “As long as you’ve got your combination? I don’t have that.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know it,” said Jason, though he didn’t. He relaxed. He’d taken the right tack—had put all his chips on the Tarrytown/Sleepy Hollow civic pride, the Legend-boosting, and had won.

  “Unit three-two-seven,” said the clerk.

  “Thanks so much.”

  “One more thing?”

  “Yeah?”

  The clerk leaned on his elbow and waved Jason closer. “My daughter’s Cindy Reilly. Know her?” Jason shook his head. “She’s a sophomore and, well, she’d kill me for this, but… if you ever feel like asking her out, she’d probably say ‘yes.’ She’s got a little crush on you.” He patted Jason’s shoulder and thumbed a button, opening the door to the units. “Everybody loves the Horseman, right?”

  Not me, Jason thought. Not me.

  He strolled into the depths of the building, down dark cavernous hallways lined with gates, like an apartment complex offering nothing but garages. He found unit three-two-seven and stared
at the combination lock. The face of the lock bore four numeric dials and an elongated shackle secured the doors. Here was another impossible obstacle. He had no equipment for cutting the shackle. He thought briefly of Joey and his chain cutters, wishing he had his friend with him, even if only to compliment him on how clever he was being. No, a physical break-in was impossible.

  Could he use his Gift to open the lock? Maybe, but which Gift? He could pull a vision from the past or change the lock to some former state, but he’d only get one attempt. The lock would be dark after.

  He pushed his hair out of his eyes.

  He considered going for a vision. He might see Hadewych thumbing in the combination. But he might not. Hell, he might just see Hadewych in a hardware store buying the thing. No. A vision was no good. He decided to try to revert the lock instead. After all, it had been unlocked in the past. Couldn’t he change it back to an unlocked state? Besides, he enjoyed flexing this new muscle.

  He took off his right glove and wrapped his palm around the lock. He felt a vision coming at once but he held it at bay, as if cupping the energy in his palm and refusing to allow it to travel up his arm. He tried to picture the lock opening, the shackle popping upward, swinging open. He pushed the energy from his hand and into the metal, willing it to change.

  A flash of light came, but the lock didn’t open. It looked shinier, that’s all, and maybe a few scratches had disappeared. So—his power didn’t work that way. Restoration only. No telekinetic aspect. Well, that was good to know, he supposed. He’d tried an important experiment and he was glad that he had. But now he wished he’d gone for a vision instead.

  He concentrated, trying again, but the lock was definitely dark. He sensed a dullness to it, as if some filament inside had broken, overloaded like a popped light bulb, unable to channel energy ever again.

  He wracked his brain, trying to guess the combination. The house number of Hadewych’s old apartment? No. Initials? If you counted both the V and the B in their last names, you could come up with four digits by alphabetical substitution. But he didn’t know Zef’s or Hadewych’s middle names. He started thumbing in dates, making his best guesses at the Van Brunt birth years. No luck. Damn it. The Horseman’s Treasure could be right behind this door, and he couldn’t get in. He started to feel as frustrated as Hadewych had been staring at the lock on the Van Brunt tomb. So close. And now this stupid hunk of metal—

  Wait. What about—Legend dates? That sounded like something Hadewych would choose. Jason thumbed in 1-8-2-0, the publication year on the front page of his Sketch-Book. Nope. He searched his memory for the year of Brom’s birth. 1-7-8-0. Nope. Dylan’s? He couldn’t remember when Brom’s son had been born. He thumbed in possibilities. 1-8-0-0, 1-8-0-1, 1-8-0-2. Nope. He was stymied and running out of time. He had to get the car back before Zef found it missing.

  He gave up, stood, and turned to leave. But one more possibility popped into his head. The year of Brom’s death. The year of the Sunnyside Halloween party. The year Absalom had been found decapitated and Brom had locked the Treasure away. The year Hadewych still blamed for ruining all the Van Brunt fortunes.

  Jason knelt and thumbed in 1-8-5-0.

  The lock snapped open as if by magic. It fell to the ground and the door rattled up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “The Bloody Pillowcase”

  A fluorescent light flickered on. The space wasn’t that large, just a cage about fifteen feet square. Jason opened boxes and found a lot of junk: cracked dishes and books, a broken pendulum clock, boxes of stationery and a desk blotter with a GM logo. He pressed his palm to things, saw snatches of Hadewych and Zef, eating dinners and watching TV. He found a box marked “Baby Clothes and Mementos.” It contained a child’s blue jumper, a fringed Davy Crockett jacket, and a photo album.

  He couldn’t resist taking a peek at the album. The Van Brunts had been a handsome family. They smiled. They looked happy. Hadewych looked friendly and natural and… downright trustworthy. Somebody’s husband. Somebody’s neighbor. Somebody’s dad. He rode a water slide with Zef between his knees, the two of them laughing, the spray making angel wings behind.

  Jason put the album away, wondering for a moment whether he’d been wrong about his guardian. Maybe Zef was right. Maybe Hadewych wasn’t a monster after all. He felt confusion and sadness, and the same sense of guilt. He was being a damn snoop. He went to the back-most corner and found a storage chest there. Locked. He shrugged and pressed his palm to the lid.

  The light went out. Hadewych lay on the floor nearby, sobbing, and something was happening to his hands. Tendrils of fire rippled from his fingers. A cold white light speared through the keyhole of the chest and something within hissed a name through clenched teeth…

  …Jason Crane…

  …Jason Crane…

  …Jason Crane…

  …Jason Crane…

  Jason tore his palm from the trunk, terror overcoming his immobility. The lights flashed on again. A wave of gooseflesh crept up his back, as if something were staring at him. He whirled but saw nothing there. He could still hear the voice in his mind, hissing from the storage chest of memory.

  …Jason Crane…

  …Jason Crane…

  …Jason Crane…

  He had found it.

  He’d found the Horseman’s Treasure.

  With trembling hands he searched among the boxes and found a sturdy dinner knife. He thrust it under the lid of the chest and braced the bottom of the box with his knee. He pushed upward as hard as he could. The knife bent. The lock finally broke and the lid flew open. Something bloody lay inside the chest. Jason reached in and seized it.

  It was a pillowcase stained with blood.

  And it was empty.

  He pressed his palm to it.

  Hadewych appeared, standing in some bathroom, biting a toothbrush—what? Raising a bloody palm and staring at it. Blood snaked down his forearm. There was a deep wound in his palm, but it healed quickly, as if by magic.

  Jason blinked. The vision broke. Anger began to rise in him. The Horseman’s Treasure had been here! He was sure of it. But Hadewych had moved the thing. Damn it! When? And where was it now? He still didn’t even know what it looked like!

  Jason kicked the wall and the cage clanged shrilly. He threw the pillowcase aside and felt inside the trunk. He came up with a handful of paper. He recognized the writing. The Brom letter that Valerie had shredded in the cemetery. He grinned with dark satisfaction at the memory of Hadewych weeping, snatching at the pieces. She’d hurt him. Jason scattered the pieces back across the bottom of the chest. Had the whole day been for nothing?

  Searching further, he found a pocket in the lining of the trunk. Inside lay a sheaf of handwritten pages on parchment, each one carefully enclosed inside a protective Mylar slip. Jason held the first page to the dim light.

  April the 7th, 1865

  Andersonville Prison, Confederate State of Georgia.

  Dear Wife—

  I write to you from Hell, in the hope that I shall have a chance to send a line northward to God’s Land. We look for an exchange of most if not all who are here, yet I have been prisoner for six months and twelve days and I do not see hope for my return before next spring at the earliest. I pray that you and little Cornelius are well and that you have not suffered for provisions or clothing. If you are in need of money, write to Corwin in New York or to Lathey & Co. in White Plains. There is no use of your trying to get a letter to me for it would not be delivered even if received. My health has been poor but will soon improve. Save your kisses or reprimands for our reunion. I enclose a letter I have prepared for our son. Do not open it unless you have had word of my death. I do not expect to die, but…

  Jason scanned the page to the bottom and found the signature.

  Dylan Van Brunt

  A letter from Dylan to his son? And it was enormous! Page after page. Tiny letters in iron gall ink. Only the first page was in English. The rest were in Old Dutch. Ja
son flipped them over. Yes. Translations were taped to the back. He flipped through the pages. Words and names shouted out of the text. Horseman. Agathe. Treasure. Brom. Secrets.

  Jackpot.

  He stuffed the pages into his backpack. He had no time to read them now: he had to get home. When Hadewych returned to the unit he’d know Jason had taken the letter but he wouldn’t be able to prove it. To hell with him anyway. If the destruction of the little Brom letter had hurt him so much, the loss of this fat document would hurt him that much more. Good. Payback for the Sketch-Book. And if Jason could prove the murder there’d be payback for Eliza too. He would shred these pages and, when the State of New York strapped Hadewych into the electric chair, he’d throw fistfuls of Van Brunt confetti at the one-way glass.

  Jason killed the lights and locked the unit again.

  He had no choice but to pass by the front desk on his way back out.

  “Any luck?” asked Cindy’s dad when Jason emerged.

  Jason shook his head, pretending to be glum.

  “Don’t worry,” said the man, gesturing to a woman in green who had emerged from a side office. She reminded Jason of Anjelica Huston. Same pageboy wig and lipstick-slash mouth. “I think your dad’s got it. I’d just come on shift but Maureen here says your dad came in not a half hour before you did and took out a big box. Probably your costume.” He raised the telephone receiver. “Give him a call.”

  Jason raised a hand and pulled out his cell. “I will,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Wait,” said Maureen, her eyes narrowing. “You’re Zef Van Brunt? I thought you were blond.”

  Jason backed towards the door. “Oh, well, yeah, um. New year, new look! Have a good one! Go Horsemen!”