“So’s half the crew. Did you hear about the bridge?”
“What about the bridge?”
“It got wrecked last night. Water truck jackknifed. They’re dragging the Hudson.”
“Somebody went over?”
“If they did, they’re in the Atlantic by now. So! Half of New Jersey’s trying to commute to Manhattan. The George Washington is snarled so they’re having to cross up at Fort Montgomery. Ruiz and Glascow both called in. I need you for Mrs. Carlyle’s service. What’s your ETA?”
“Uh… it’ll be a while. Actually, I won’t be in. I’m sick.” Joey coughed violently.
Someone on the road honked. Joey rolled his eyes and pulled the car forward, filling the four-foot gap that had opened between him and the car ahead.
“If you’re sick,” said his dad, “why are you driving?”
“I need Dayquil.” Joey coughed again. “God, I feel like crap!”
“Okay. What’s going on, Joe? I want some answers. What did I see last night?”
Joey winced as his mind raced. “No idea.”
“You smothered that fire. Like you’d—commanded the dirt.”
Joey forced a laugh. “That’s stupid. What? You think I’ve got magic powers?”
His dad hesitated. “No, but…”
“Right. Sorry. You caught me.” Joey’s voice became low and husky. “I’m Dirtman.”
“Stop.”
“No, it’s true! I got a Dirt Pole in my room. Takes me down to the Dirt Cave where I park the Dirtmobile.”
Jim’s voice gained a smile. “Ha ha ha.”
Joey pressed his advantage, adopting a radio-announcer voice. “Once a mild-mannered gravedigger for a major metropolitan cemetery, Joey Osorio was bitten… by a radioactive gopher.”
“Okay! Point taken! So what happened? I know you’re lying.”
Joey wanted to tell his dad everything, to come out as Gifted. But he had no choice. “Why would I lie? If I had superpowers I’d be pounding Forty-Second Street trying to win a Tony Award for my one-man dirt show. I wouldn’t be working for you.” He realized he didn’t sound sick enough and threw in a few sniffs for good measure.
Jim’s voice grew thoughtful. “Well, that’s for sure.”
“Just… drop it. You swallowed a lot of smoke. Your mind played a trick.”
Jim sighed. “That’s what Pat said.”
“You told Mom?” Joey gripped the steering wheel and struggled to keep his voice casual. Had he cursed both his parents?
“Yeah. After the fire. When we met up again.”
“Did she… believe you?”
“No. She humored me.” Jim’s voice gained an edge. “We need to talk this out. You’re not sick. I know you’re not. Get your ass down to the cemetery.”
“What was that?” Joey made static sounds. “Sorry! Call’s dropping! What did you—CHHHHH.”
He hung up, feeling miserable.
Dad won’t drop this. But Jason’ll know what to do.
The car ahead had pulled forward another few feet. Joey hit the horn again. At this rate he’d never get to Jason’s house. He saw an opening, goosed the gas, and cut into the northbound lane, trying to pass. A delivery truck honked. Joey cursed, spun the wheel, and jumped the curb, lurching across a grassy median. A pedestal blocked his way—a ghastly abstract-art statue of the Horseman chasing Ichabod, an unrecognizable thing of rusting metal, twisted like a dead oak tree. A green plaque read:
Landscaping Underwritten by
The Crane Foundation
Joey gritted his teeth and skirted the statue, tires flattening the flowerbeds. He ripped through the Chevron parking lot and broke back onto Broadway. He cut off a housewife in a Pontiac and peeled out with the woman’s middle finger in pursuit. The jolt must have rattled loose some mechanism, because the air conditioner gasped like a patient shocked back to life and started breathing normally again. Joey tried to follow its example.
The snarled traffic thinned somewhat, but it took another twenty minutes to reach Gory Brook Road and pull Ladybug to a stop in front of number 417.
Joey got out.
The old house gave him shivers. The persistent blight on the woods had vomited corruption from the mouth of the nearby aqueduct trail. A calico stain had claimed the front yard. The walls of grey Van Brunt Quarry stone looked strangely alive… as if each brick were a cell in some muscle, mortared with striations of gristle, fed by black capillary vines, ready to flex and pounce. The brown slats of wood across the upper floors might have been some old devil-mark, like half a pentagram. This was no house. It was… an elephantine cancer growing on the skin of the hill. Something to cut off, and soon. Before whatever lurked inside broke through the windows and metastasized.
No cars sat in the driveway. Not the silver Mercedes that had belonged to Jason’s grandmother, not Zef’s cruiser with the mismatched door, not Hadewych’s ostentatious little Phantom Coupe. No one answered Joey’s knock, either. He left the porch and stood beneath the listing sycamore. He cupped his hands and peered through the bay window. The dining room lay empty and dark.
He circled the house and loped down the drive. He tried the door of the detached garage and found it unlocked. “Jason?” He entered cautiously. Jason had been living in his grandmother’s RV for most of the year. Joey peered inside the camper. Drawers hung open as if someone had packed in a hurry. A book lay on the lower bunk—the Gatewood Guide to Genealogy. Red ink on the cover read:
SIE STERBEN AN DER BRÜCKE
Joey stared at the words, remembering the translation: YOU DIE AT THE BRIDGE. A pit opened in his stomach. No. Jason hadn’t been on the Tappan Zee Bridge last night. Not after months of nightmares and psychic threats from the Horseman. He’d been warned away from bridges. He knew better, didn’t he?
Joey stepped on something soft, and it squealed. He knelt. One of Charley’s chew toys. But Jason’s black poodle wasn’t here either.
Joey dropped the toy. “Where the hell are they?”
He left the garage and strode across the dead grass. He noticed a pile of turned earth at the base of the persimmon tree in the side yard. Jason had hidden a bar of gold there—his getaway money. If he’d dug that up… had Jason run off? His friend had talked about escaping Sleepy Hollow many times. But he’d have called first, wouldn’t he? Joey felt a twinge of hurt despite his worry.
He took out his phone, hit redial, and heard a distant ringing. He climbed the thirteen steps to the rear porch, but the sound dwindled. If that was Jason’s phone, it wasn’t in the house. Joey followed the sound and descended to the yard. The phone was ringing… in the cellar.
The ancient iron door stood slightly ajar. Joey felt paralyzed by fear. He’d never gone down there. He hardly ever visited Gory Brook to begin with, not since Hadewych Van Brunt had become Jason’s guardian. Jason always came to Joey’s house—to escape, to play “Death and Carnage,” to make plans. But he’d spoken many times of the haunted cellar beneath Gory Brook, and of the lair of Agathe, the Van Brunt matriarch, protected by a puzzle lock of her son Brom’s design. Jason believed that he’d released Agathe’s ghost and had started the whole awful sequence of possessions and murders that followed by opening this door on the night he came to town. Her body lay somewhere below. That’s why her ghost remained free of the Horseman’s control, unlike those buried within the cemetery borders. The Gory Brook cellar held the keys to all of Agathe’s secrets—to her fate, her mortal remains, and her bloody work.
Joey closed his eyes. He would have to go down there.
And that’s where he’d find Jason, wouldn’t he? He would open this door and find his friend’s corpse, red and wet, on the floor below. Jason’s eyes would be open and blank. No. He’d be headless. Joey would find Jason’s headless corpse today, and the sight would haunt his nightmares until he, too, went under the earth.
But maybe not, right? Jason might be unconscious, injured, needing rescue.
That settled it. He had to go d
own.
The door cackled as he swung it open. His shadow fell down the stairs and collapsed across the stone floor. He thought of the chalk outline around a murder victim.
“Jason?” His voice returned to him as a hiss of echoes.
He crept down, warily, checking the corners for ghosts. He saw no sign of his friend, dead or alive, only endless cardboard storage boxes. But he didn’t feel… alone. He felt as though many, many people were in the room with him, whispering to each other, planning something evil. His boot slipped on wet stone. An empty Red Bull can clattered past the drain.
Joey hit redial again, and Jason’s phone squawked at his elbow, jangling his nerves. It lay atop a square chest. He grabbed the phone and examined the chest. Inside were compartments of silver letters—some kind of typesetting kit. Jason’s fingerless lifting gloves lay nearby, though he always wore them, to protect against unwanted psychic visions.
Yes, Jason had been here. Doing what? Trying to solve the puzzle lock? To crack its code? If so…
Another door stood in the depths of the cellar, veiled by darkness: the locked door protecting the secrets beyond. Joey approached it. Had Jason figured out the combination? Had he been trapped inside?
Joey pounded on the iron. He searched the seamless edge, hoping to pry it open. “Jason? Jason, are you in there? Jason?”
A shadow fell across the room. Joey wilted with relief and spun around, expecting his friend. A dark figure blocked the cellar door.
“Who’s there?” said Hadewych Van Brunt.
“Just me,” Joey stammered. “Joey? Jason’s friend? I’m looking for him.”
Hadewych took one step down into the cellar, his body still in silhouette, his expression impossible to make out. “Joey Osorio. Imagine finding you here.” His voice slipped into a low croon, suggesting an evil smile. “I was just thinking about you.”
Joey’s flesh crawled. “Sorry. I was looking for—Jason’s phone was ringing and—”
“You shouldn’t be snooping, you know. This is private property. I should call the police. I’d have every right. But we can keep this to ourselves. Can’t we?”
“Sure.”
“Who knows you came down here?”
“Nobody,” blurted Joey. He bit his lip immediately. That had been the wrong answer. “Well, except my dad.”
“Didn’t your dad teach you not to trespass?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll go.” Joey stepped forward, but Hadewych remained motionless, blocking the only exit.
“No no no no no.” He descended another step. “Someone needs to learn a lesson about respecting other people’s property.”
Joey felt unnerved and panicky. “Please. Hadewych.”
“Mr. Van Brunt.”
“Please, Mr. Van Brunt, may I go now?”
“‘Please’? Not such a smartass now, are you?” His voice grew flat and contemptuous. “You little bastards think you run the world. But you have no idea. No idea where your food comes from, what your parents have to go through to put clothes on your back. Humiliating jobs. Long hours. Going grey. To provide for you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Life. Real life. You think it’s easy, don’t you? Don’t you? Those stupid adults doing their stupid adult things while you play all day. Well, it’s hard. You hear me? It’s hard.”
Joey’s breath caught. He knew what Hadewych was capable of. “What did you do to Jason?”
“Nothing.”
“Where is he then?”
“Jason’s… run away from home.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’m the adult. I ask the questions. What did you do to my son?”
“To Zef? Is Zef okay?”
“No. He’s not. Zef is not okay. And it was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who did it.”
“Who did—what?”
“Who twisted his mind.”
“I haven’t done anything to Zef.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Hadewych raised a hand, and a fireball blossomed there, so bright that Joey covered his face. The room grew red, and Hadewych’s eyes glittered with reflected flame. Smoke gathered on the ceiling, like an approaching storm cloud. Joey had never seen Hadewych’s Gift before and, like the cellar, the reality terrified him more than Jason’s description had. The man held a piece of hell.
Hadewych reached the bottom stair. “He said it was you. That you made him… what you are.” His voice cracked, full of anguish and fatigue. “My son. My baby boy. He said it to me. He said…” Hadewych’s features contorted. “Did you turn him queer? Did you?”
Joey understood. Zef had come out to his father at last. Oh, of all the times to be trapped in a cellar with Hadewych. Joey forced his voice to remain calm and soothing. “No, sir. No one can turn another person—”
“Don’t deny it! You took my son from me. Where’s my boy?”
“I don’t know.”
“I said don’t lie!” Hadewych threw the fireball. It struck a box and set it ablaze. “I despise liars.”
Joey scrambled to the other side of the room, crouching. Hadewych’s hand lit again, illuminating his features. His face looked like something carved from driftwood, full of cracks and crevices. His eyes were shadowed and vacant but glittering with flame, like knotholes full of fireflies.
Yeah. Someone’s mind had twisted, but not Zef’s.
Hadewych’s gone batshit.
Hadewych passed the fireball from one hand to the other. “Did Zef send you for his things? I know you know where he is. He said… he said he was in love with you.” Hadewych made it sound as if Zef had confessed to murder. “Is that true?”
“I don’t know.” The sky hung cool blue over Hadewych’s shoulder. If I could just get past…
Hadewych broke into a wide grin. His famous toothpaste-commercial smile. “Well—we can find out, can’t we? He’s a Pyncheon. Right? A Pyncheon would know.”
“Know what? You’re not making sense!”
“It’s their Gift! The Pyncheon Gift. My son’s a Pyncheon, like his whore of a mother. And Pyncheons are telepaths. They always know when the people they love are in danger.”
Joey’s eyes had gone wide. He blinked, trying to process the information. Zef had a Gift? For sure?
“They have a… psychic alarm. If you hurt someone they love, they come running.” He raised the fireball. “So let’s find out. Let’s find out if Zef really loves you. Let’s see if he’s a fag or not. I know he’s not. You’ll see. He won’t feel a thing when I do it.”
“When you do what?”
“When I burn you black.”
Joey went cold.
Hadewych meant it.
CHAPTER TWO
“The Countdown”
The air over Hadewych’s shoulder had grown wavy with heat ripples, yet Joey was shivering. God, he wanted out of this cellar and away from this crazy tormented man.
Hadewych looked at his watch. “We’ll give Zef… one minute.”
Joey scanned the room searching for a weapon—a golf club, a baseball bat, dirt he could throw with his mind. He came up empty. Nothing but cardboard boxes, a few of them burning. He’d burn too before he got the chance to search any of them. “Please… Just let me—”
“Shut up. You’ll make me lose count.” The seconds ticked away. Hadewych’s fireball intensified, growing white and garish at the core. “Where do you suppose he is?” Hadewych gave a nod of satisfaction. “It doesn’t look good, does it?” He began to count down. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…”
“You can’t!” Joey coughed, overcome by smoke.
“… five, four, three, two, one.” Hadewych sighed. “Time’s up. You see? He doesn’t love you. My son is straight as an arrow. And after you’re gone he’ll… figure that out and… come back to me.” He raised his fireball and looked away, like a chef about to ignite hot grease.
Joey closed his eyes. Don’t let it hurt too much.
“Goodbye now,” said Hadewych. “You… did this to yourself.”
Joey’s phone rang.
He and Hadewych stared at each other.
Hadewych’s whole body sagged and his flame flickered. He staggered back and leaned against the wall. “Answer it. It won’t be him. Go on. It won’t be him. You’ll see. You’ll see. Hold it up. I want to hear.”
Joey raised the phone and pressed a finger to the screen.
“Joey? shouted Zef. “Joey, are you okay? Answer me! Joey? Joey, are you there?”
“Hang up,” Hadewych said, sounding lost now. “That’s enough. Please.”
Joey obeyed, cutting Zef off mid-sentence.
“I’m so sorry,” Hadewych whispered. His flame sputtered and went out. He sank to the cellar steps. “I thought he wouldn’t… I was sure. But it’s true, isn’t it? He’s… what he said. He is.” He sniffed, his voice cracking. “So. That’s that. There will be no more Van Brunts. We’re the last of the Bones, Zef and I. The very last. The line ends with us, with me and my boy. It’s done. And it’s all because of you.”
“I didn’t turn him gay,” said Joey. “He always has been. And he always will be. Just love Zef and accept him.”
“No!” Hadewych bolted to his feet and his hands blazed more lividly than before. “It’s just a phase.”
In the instant before Hadewych threw his fireballs, Joey stretched out his own hands. He reached mentally for the bare dirt of the back yard, imagined sinking his fingers into it. He pulled—
—and a jet of dirt and grass and rocks exploded into the cellar, striking Hadewych in the back, knocking him to the floor and dousing his inferno. Joey sprinted for the stairs and that patch of blue sky beyond. Hadewych snarled and grabbed for his leg. Joey pulled free, ran up and out, and stumbled into the back yard. As he dashed for his car, Hadewych’s voice echoed behind him. “I’ll get you, you son of a bitch! You won’t take my son from me!”
Ladybug started, thank God, and Joey hit the gas. He tore down Gory Brook Road, leaving that house behind, terrorized into a fit of uncontrollable hiccups.
SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3) Page 2