Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones Read online

  “Check this one out,” said Joey, pointing to a card. The front bore a shirtless male model in hospital scrubs. The scrawl inside read:

  Feel Better, Fag!

  —The Sleepy Hollow Boys

  Joey laughed. “Warms your heart, don’t it? I should have gone into a coma years ago. How’s your day been?”

  Jason’s sprained ankle was killing him. He pressed a wadded Kleenex to his split lip. His shoulder still hurt where Eddie had punched him. Mr. Smolenski stood a few yards away, shaking his head. A gaggle of girls passed, wearing red lacrosse outfits with tiny skirts. They saw him looking, stuck their tongues out, and shot him the finger. And he was also going to die at some bridge, apparently.

  Jason shrugged and smiled. “It’s been great. Just great!”

  Jason and Joey took their food trays outside and sat high above the parking lot on the secluded stairwell that had become their lunchtime hangout, picking at their “Thanksgiving specials” and swapping updates. They were almost finished eating before Jason managed to screw up the courage to say what he needed to.

  “I want to apologize.”

  Joey looked puzzled. “What the hell for?”

  “Because your coma was my fault.”

  “Yours?” Joey ran a hand through his hair. “The Horseman beaned me, you didn’t. Hey, want to see something cool? Look what I found on my phone.” Joey produced the device, hit a few buttons, and swiped his finger. An orange circle hung in a field of black, overexposed, something that had been moving fast when the flash caught it. “I was trying to get his picture, right? Like an idiot? Well—I didn’t get him—but that is the pumpkin he threw at me.”

  Jason stared at the blurry orange shape for a long time. “Cool,” he whispered.

  “Cool?” Joey said, staring at the screen rapturously. “Can you imagine if we actually got a picture of the Headless Horseman? We’d be famous by now.” He pocketed the phone. “Hey, do you want the rest of this turkey? It looks like baloney.”

  “Tastes like baloney too,” said Jason. He speared the slice anyway. “Look, this is going to sound weird but… I think I made you a target.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I made you a target by… by telling you about my Gift. It’s some sort of… magical rule. Everyone we tell… dies.”

  “What?” said Joey, looking alarmed. “Who told you that?”

  Jason tried to figure out how to explain. He didn’t have permission from Kate to reveal her Gift to Joey. “I have another friend with a Gift.”

  Joey frowned. “Since when?”

  “Since never mind. This person told me that, if we reveal ourselves to a normal person, whoever we tell becomes a target for ghosts. And usually… they die.”

  Joey’s eyes went wide. “And you told me anyway?”

  “No! I’d already told you! There was no way to un-tell you. Don’t be mad. I’ve felt like shit ever since Halloween. It all worked out. Right? Right?”

  Joey’s expression had darkened. “Give me a second here.”

  “And there’s a bright side.”

  “What bright side?”

  “Now you’ll have a Gift, too.”

  “Me?”

  “That’s what your coma was. Some kind of… transition. You got targeted but you survived. You’ll be a Founder now. Like Ichabod. You’ll pass your Gift to your kids like he passed his to me.”

  Joey looked worried. “What kind of Gift will I get?”

  “People get Gifts that complement their natural abilities. Like Ichabod got a schoolmaster’s Gift and passed it on to me. It could be anything.”

  “Anything?” Joey smiled. “So… I could read minds?”

  “I guess.”

  “Turn purple and levitate?”

  “Probably not. Something that expresses the… essential you.”

  “Then I’ll have an actor’s Gift! I want… what’s an actor’s Gift?”

  Jason shrugged. “Super-narcissism?”

  “Shut up.”

  “So you’re not mad?”

  Joey was shaking with excitement. “Mad? This is the coolest thing ever! We’ll be like the Dynamic Duo. Fighting supernatural foes up and down the Eastern Seaboard!”

  Jason laughed, feeling epic relief. “I thought you’d be pissed.”

  “Nah.” Joey shrugged. “What’s a little coma between friends?” He took a bite out of a Nutter Butter, grinning madly. “I’m going to be a superhero…”

  “But you can’t tell anyone.”

  Joey frowned. “Why not?”

  “Weren’t you listening? Everyone we tell dies. Now you have to keep the secret too. You can’t talk about your Gift to anybody.”

  Joey squirmed. “Not even with Lisa my scene partner? She would get such a kick—”

  “No!” shouted Jason. He brought his voice down. “Nobody. Not unless they have a Gift themselves. Period.”

  Joey looked pleading. “But if they were targeted and lived… we could have our own X-Men.”

  “Yeah. Or all your friends could die. Do you want to risk that?”

  “No. I guess not.” Joey looked glum now. “But I don’t do closets very well, you know? I came out at conception.”

  “Promise to keep it to yourself.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Hey, why the hell are you still here? I’d be miles away if I thought the Horseman was after me.” He rubbed his forehead. “Do you think he still is?”

  Jason thought of the Nightmare. You die at the bridge. “Yeah. I do. And not because Hadewych will send him, either. I think the Horseman wants… me. Me specifically.”

  Joey adopted a movie-announcer voice. “JASON CRANE II: This Time It’s Personal.”

  “I’m serious. I’m scared. Why haven’t you quit the cemetery yet? It’s dangerous.”

  “Stop. You sound like my mom. Don’t change the subject. Why haven’t you hightailed it back to Maine?”

  “And leave Hadewych controlling the Horseman? What if he kills you? Or Kate? I couldn’t handle that.”

  Joey looked humbled. “Really? You’re staying to protect me?”

  “Among others, but yeah. I’ve got to get the Treasure away from Hadewych and back in the ground. Whatever it is, that’s what started this game and that’s what’ll end it. I’ve got to stay until the ghost is gone and Hadewych is dead or in jail. I’ve got to. It’s my responsibility.”

  “You are so Spider-Man.”

  Jason thumped Joey on the shoulder. “I am not.”

  “Not with a punch like that.” Joey shifted sideways and walked his sneakers up the brick. “So… the essential me. Ooh! I know what Gift I’ll get. I’ll get a singer’s Gift. What’s a singer’s Gift?”

  Jason shrugged. “Superhuman drug tolerance?”

  “Shut up.”

  They sank into thought, finishing their lunches.

  Joey nudged Jason with his sneaker. “Thanks, Jase. It’s nice to know somebody gives a damn about me.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m the one people hate. You get sick and the whole school sends Hallmark cards. I wouldn’t get shit. Everybody here loves you.”

  “Not everybody.”

  Joey took both of their trays and turned them upside down. The remains of their lunches fell through the grate and onto the trash pile below. Jason dropped his empty bottle too. They wouldn’t litter ordinarily but they’d developed a morbid fascination with the trash pile. The janitors couldn’t get into the space below the stairwell without unscrewing the mesh and climbing down. They rarely bothered, so an enormous pile of waste had built up. It felt symbolic, somehow, since this was where the boys came to vent.

  “Goodbye to bad rubbish,” said Joey.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.”

  “What? Something’s off with you.”

  Joey’s voice became sharp. “Not a single card. On the Get-Well Wall. I got cards from all my teachers, all my friends, from everybody but him.”

  “Every
body but Zef.”

  “Nada. Zip. Not a Post-It.” Joey stood, staring over the sea of cars. “Zef is an asshole.”

  “Glory Hallelujah he has seen the light! Does that mean you’re going to stop, finally?”

  “Stop what?”

  “Worshipping the ground he drunkenly staggers on.”

  “Yes it does, brother. Yes it does. Amen. Kate can have him. And you can have Kate. Hell, all three of you. Go be Mormons together. I don’t care.” Joey made fists and smacked himself in the temples. “What have I been thinking? It was one kiss! Last Easter! I’m such an idiot.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. I got him completely wrong. I can’t talk about this anymore.” Joey looked away and sniffed.

  Jason took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something else.”

  “Are you ready to go in? It’s damn cold.”

  “One second. It’s about Zef.”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Sit down.”

  “I’ll stand,” said Joey, sitting.

  “Okay. When you were in your coma your parents didn’t want me around.”

  “Yeah. I know. I’m sorry—”

  “Shut up. So I would come to see you at night. And… so did he.”

  Joey leaned forward. “Zef came to the hospital?”

  “He doesn’t know I saw. He came at night and… I think he was crying.”

  “Over me?”

  “No. He was peeling onions. He was crying and—”

  “What?” Joey pulled at the air, coaxing Jason to push the baby out.

  “He left flowers.”

  “No way.”

  “I didn’t see a card but, yeah.”

  “Which arrangement?”

  “Like I know? Something from the lobby shop.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Bullshit. You didn’t tell me because you hate Zef. Admit it.”

  “Can you blame me? After last night?”

  “You threatened to out him. You have no idea how scary that can be.”

  “Fine. So you’re on his side now?”

  Joey appeared stumped for a moment.

  “Great,” said Jason. He grabbed his backpack and brushed past, limping down the stairs.

  Joey followed him down the stairs, carrying the trays. “I’m on your side.”

  “Too late!”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Then help me! I’ve probably got less than a year before Hadewych cuts my throat! You know he’ll kill me and take the money, right? So I’m sorry if your freaking love life slipped my mind.” Jason gripped a lamppost, hanging. “I understand how you feel about Zef. I do. I feel the same way about Kate.”

  “Then tell her!”

  “She doesn’t need my problems.”

  Joey broke into a wide smile. “I’m going to tell Zef.”

  “No.”

  “Watch me.”

  “Zef’s an asshole. You said it yourself! And he’s so far in the closet that—”

  “That he can see Narnia. I get it. But he came to the hospital! That means—everything!”

  “I’m sorry I told you.”

  Joey wrote two sets of initials in the dusty windshield of a Volvo. “Zef and I will be together and you will marry Kate! Like in your vision.” He circled all four initials with a heart. “It’s predestined.”

  Jason brushed the letters away. “Don’t get involved. She loves Zef. I won’t hurt her.”

  “If she gets hurt it’s his fault, not yours. If you want the girl, take the girl. Man up already!” After a moment, he did an enthusiastic Julie Andrews spin in the middle of the parking lot. “Zef came to the hospital! I am so Sleeping Beauty.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “The Grown-Ups”

  “Now then,” said Justin Piebald, Attorney-at-Law, “there’s a copy for each of you. I’m glad to answer any questions.”

  He pushed an antique pen-and-ink stand out of the way and slid two identical sets of legal documents across his desk, one for Jason and one for Hadewych. Each set was an inch thick, bound with a burgundy laminate cover. Piebald liked that color, Jason noticed. The lawyer’s tie was burgundy, his carpet was burgundy, his bookcases and desk were burgundy cherry wood, the new wallpaper was burgundy. It was like having a meeting in a blood clot.

  “It’s all fairly self-explanatory,” said Hadewych, patting Jason on his sleeve. “We can go over it at home.”

  Jason flinched. He took the document and flipped it open. “So this is what’s supposed to keep Hadewych from robbing me blind?” He looked at Piebald skeptically.

  Piebald rolled his eyes and gave Hadewych a sympathetic glance. “I assure you that no one is robbing anyone. Mr. Van Brunt is guardian of your person and your estate until your eighteenth birthday, which is next…” he glanced at a notepad, “…November first. At that time the court deems you competent to handle the Legacy yourself, God help us. The age of majority is only eighteen in the State of New York. It might have been twenty-five, or greater. You’re actually quite fortunate in this regard. In only a year you’ll be a very rich young man. Until then, Hadewych is obligated to see that you are fed, clothed, and to provide everything else you need. That includes upkeep on your home—”

  “Our home,” Hadewych interjected.

  Piebald nodded. “Property taxes, utilities, and so forth. He can’t be expected to pay these things out of pocket, and so this judgment lays out the terms by which he can access your grandmother’s bank accounts.”

  Jason dropped the document on the desk. “Right. So he can rob me blind.”

  Piebald’s raised a finger. “You will show respect and courtesy in my office, Mr. Crane.”

  Jason pressed his lips together and nodded. “Is there any way for Mr. Van Brunt to… abscond with the funds?”

  “That hurts, Jason,” Hadewych murmured.

  “No. It’s not possible,” said Piebald. “The Legacy itself prevents it. Let me see if I can explain. The accounts are… firewalled. No one can really access them. They are invested very conservatively, which is why the Legacy is so small.”

  “Small?” said Jason. “A hundred and twelve million dollars is small?”

  “Compared to what it might be, yes. The Legacy is at least a hundred years old. It might have been triple or quadruple what it is now if the principal had been invested with a bit more… risk tolerance. But the funds have been invested and re-invested with an emphasis on keeping the fortune as intact as possible. I don’t think a dime of the Legacy itself has been touched in decades. You are the designee of a very old and stable fortune, young man.”

  “Which I can’t touch,” Jason said.

  “You’ll never need to,” said Piebald. “Your grandmother never did. The Legacy does provide a substantial income. It’s, well, let’s call it a fire hose of money.” Piebald smiled, practically a leer, as a man might look at a pole dancer wearing a g-string stuffed with dollar bills.

  “And who’s drinking from the fire hose until I turn eighteen?”

  Piebald and Hadewych glanced at each other. Piebald sighed. “I assure you that the Legacy itself is untouchable. So are your grandmother’s accounts. Mr. Van Brunt cannot access a penny of your inheritance without prior court approval.”

  “But the income?” Jason said. “The fire hose?”

  Piebald opened one of the documents and turned to a page. “The Legacy doesn’t differentiate between the designee and the designee’s guardian. Mr. Van Brunt has the authority to use the Legacy income on your behalf in… whatever way he sees fit.”

  “No way,” said Jason.

  “Let me finish,” said Piebald. “The court took this question into consideration. We cannot change the Legacy structure but Mr. Van Brunt will be held to account for all his expenditures.”

  “How?”

  “As your court surrogate, I will be reviewing Hadewych’s financial outlays.” Jason lean
ed back and put his hands over his face. “Look at me,” said Piebald. Jason dropped his hands and glanced at Hadewych, who was having some difficulty repressing a smirk and was pretending to wipe his nose with his pocket handkerchief. Piebald raised a finger. “Mr. Van Brunt will have to justify his expenditures every quarter and nothing—not a dime—will be spent except for your benefit. You have my word.”

  “Right,” Jason said. “And you are so objective.”

  Piebald reddened. “Meaning?”

  “You two are friends. He’ll get away with murder. He did get away with murder. Hadewych’s a crook and a thief. He’ll find a way to steal it all. That’s what he’s here for.”

  Piebald sat back in his chair and linked his hands across his belly. “What has he stolen from you?”

  Jason nodded. “The house, for one. He put his name on the title.”

  “I did not,” said Hadewych. “Liza did that.”

  “Mr. Piebald, please ask Mr. Van Brunt to use my grandmother’s actual name when discussing her.”

  “Excuse me,” said Hadewych. “Ms. Eliza Pyncheon Fellowes Puck Beringer Dawes Ferrer Logan Merrick put me on the title herself, as a temporary measure in case of a tragedy like this. I have no intention of keeping the house. When Jason’s eighteen I’ll sell my interest back to him for the sum of one dollar. I’ll put it in writing.”

  Piebald turned to Jason. “Does that satisfy you?”

  “No,” said Jason, though he couldn’t think of an objection. “Okay, what if he kills me before I turn eighteen?”

  “Really!” said Hadewych, elaborately offended.

  Piebald held up a hand, amused. “If something were to happen to you, Hadewych wouldn’t get a dime. He’d lose control of the Legacy and its income immediately. No one has anything to gain by killing you.” He chuckled a little. “Quite the reverse.”

  “What if Hadewych forged my will leaving himself everything? He’s a good forger.”

  Hadewych shook his head. “Where does he come up with these things?”

  Piebald nodded patiently. “No one’s forging a will. And, no, Hadewych can’t adopt you or hypnotize me or anything else you might imagine from watching old movies. Your estate is perfectly—”