SLEEPY HOLLOW: General of the Dead (Jason Crane Book 3)

by Gleaves, Richard

  “Your insurance lapsed a long time ago, Ms. Bridge.”

  “I had no idea. What will it cost me… out of pocket?”

  The woman quoted an exorbitant figure, then another, then another. Ambulance ride, overnight stay, nebulizer, oxygen. On and on it went. Even if King Henry the Eighth himself were abducted, his kidnappers would find this ransom a tad excessive.

  Jessica bit her knuckle, thinking.

  “Popcorn,” said the woman.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re Jessie Bridge. You used to work at Tarrytown Music Hall, right? At the popcorn counter?”

  Jessica looked uncomfortable. “Yes.”

  “I’m Brenda, remember? Brenda Cutter? I worked the ticket booth.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s Brenda Burgess now.” She waggled the diamond chip on her ring finger. “Three weeks ago! Oh! I was so sad to hear about your mother. Where have you been? You just disappeared and—”

  “Listen to me,” Jessica said, her voice sharp as an ice pick. Her right hand shot out and touched the woman’s temple. “You don’t know me, understand?”

  Brenda’s voice grew flat. “I don’t know you.”

  Zef tugged Jessica’s elbow. “Mom? What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got this, baby. Brenda, we were never friends. I was never that girl. Got it? Now I want you to do me a favor. Do you see my information in your computer?”

  “Yes.”

  “All those little numbers you just read?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make them zeros.”

  “Zeros.”

  “The hospital’s having a fire sale. Just for me.”

  Zef paced, his hands in his hair. Someone would walk in at any moment. He was the unwitting accomplice to a psychic stickup.

  Brenda finished her typing.

  “Is that your purse, Brenda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “Mom!” snapped Zef. “Don’t steal her money!”

  “I’m not stealing her money. Brenda, I like your coloring, dear. I can borrow your makeup kit, can’t I?”

  Brenda nodded.

  “That’s very sweet of you.” Jessica stuck the leopard print makeup kit under her arm. “Now. One last thing. When you get home tonight, you’re going to tell your new husband that you want a much bigger ring, and if that cheap bastard doesn’t buy you one, you’re going to punch him in the nose. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to punch him in the nose.”

  “Good girl.” Jessica withdrew her hand.

  Brenda blinked. “Can I help you?”

  “No, thank you,” said Jessica. “We were just leaving.”

  Zef looked back over his shoulder as his mom led him outside. Brenda had raised her ring to the light and was scowling at the diamond chip indignantly.

  Neither Zef nor Jessica spoke, telepathically or otherwise, as they walked to Zef’s blue cruiser. Jessica climbed into the passenger seat and pulled down the vanity mirror.

  Zef slammed his door behind him. “So you just ripped off the hospital?”

  “Don’t lecture me, please. They were gouging us.”

  “That doesn’t justify—”

  “It’s an emergency. I didn’t have much choice.”

  Zef couldn’t stand the sight of her.

  Jessica touched his arm. “Never use your Gift like that.”

  He flinched. “Why not? It’s good enough for you.”

  “I don’t make a habit of it. It’s dangerous.”

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here before they arrest you.” He stuck the key in the ignition, but Jessica raised a hand.

  “Wait. No bumps until I’ve got my face on.” Zef leaned back in his seat and watched her rebuild herself, layer by layer, with the stolen makeup kit. She raised her chin and applied base to her throat, minimizing the bruises. “It’s not just dangerous because of the law. It’s dangerous because of what it does to you. You think I don’t have a conscience? I know I don’t deserve a freebie. I know that a hospital is a business and that doctors aren’t my slaves. I don’t own Dr. Tamper. And yes, I know that they’ll pass the cost on to someone else, and poor Brenda will have to buy new makeup. And I see you sitting there, looking at me like I’ve let you down, like I overfed Sammy the Goldfish again. I know. I’m a bad person and a bad mom. I look at you sometimes and… I feel so guilty for leaving you I just want to spit in my own face. But if you’d ever been in danger,” she tapped her forehead, “I’d have known, and I’d have come running, because I do love you. I do.”

  She raised a mascara brush to her red-sequined eyes. “Everything we do stays with us. You get older and your whole life comes along for the ride. And that’s the danger. Every Gifted person has to understand that. Guilt screws with people like us especially bad. Guilt turns your Gift around—turns it back on you. Do you remember Grandmother Bridge?”

  Zef did. Jessica’s mom had died when he was very young. Her garden had been weedy and her candy bowl bottomless. “What about her?”

  “Why do you think she got dementia? Spent all those years drooling on herself?”

  “She had our Gift?”

  “Oh yeah. A Pyncheon in spades. I couldn’t get away with anything when I was in high school. But she married a normal and cursed him… yadda yadda… tale as old as time. After Paw-Paw’s car wreck she couldn’t forgive herself.”

  “And that brought dementia?”

  Jessica twisted a tube of lipstick. “That’s what it looks like when a telepath goes sour. When her Gift turns against her.” She reddened her lips, pursed them. “Keep your conscience clear. Don’t do shit like I do, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Give me your hand.” He did. She blotted her lipstick on his wrist, then checked her work. “You have to be able to look at yourself in the mirror.” She stared into her own eyes for a moment, then closed the vanity. “Let’s go.”

  Zef started the car. “Where to?”

  “Where else? Paul’s house.”

  Zef smiled, shifted into reverse, and eased out of the parking spot. Maybe Joey would still be there.

  She shook out her hair, raised an eyebrow, and twinkled. “How do I look?”

  “Predatory.”

  “Good!” Jessica leaned back in her seat, crossed her legs, and zipped the leopard-print bag. “Just what I was going for.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “The Gift-Catcher”

  “How fascinating,” said Mather, pouring tea. “A dirt Gift? That’s marvelous. But do continue.”

  Joey had known, deep down, that he shouldn’t reveal anything to Mather, that it could cause problems and start trouble. Kate had warned Jason to stay away from her father’s crowd, to stay a free agent, to not get drawn into the politics of the Gifted world. But sitting at the Usher dining table, with Mather pouring cups of tea from a silver set, charmed by the man’s sartorial splendor and Henry Higgins erudition… well, hell, it felt like having an audience with Oscar Wilde. Joey had started blithering by his second cucumber sandwich.

  “So Jason and I went down to the Tarrytown reservoir to see where she was murdered.”

  Mather passed cookies. “Where who was murdered?”

  “Debbie Flight.”

  “The second victim. The realtor.”

  “Yeah. First Darley then Debbie Flight. Darley was killed at the millpond. Debbie at the reservoir.”

  “I understand. I followed it at the time. I knew Frank Darley.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. I still see his widow. Frank was Chief Risk Officer for Zelig Financial in New York. They handle our campaign money. Go on.”

  “So we went to the reservoir. To see where Debbie died, you know? And Jason stuck his hands in the water and he saw her get killed.”

  “Mr. Crane used his psychometric Gift.”

  “Yeah. He went still and watc
hed it happen. He said it wasn’t really Mike who did it.”

  “Mike?”

  Joey had never been good at keeping secrets. If there was some muscle that kept your mouth shut and the truth unspoken, he’d never exercised it. He’d never had to. Before his Gift, he’d never really had to hide anything. His parents knew he was gay by the time he was ten. Pat Osorio brought home a DVD of Grease one Wednesday, and by the following Friday Joey had not only memorized the soundtrack but had signed up to sing “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee” in the fall talent show. His parents didn’t discourage him. Joey performed the number to derisive catcalls and laughter, but his parents gave him a standing ovation. He followed that the following December with a heart-rending “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” channeling Judy Garland for an audience of elderly Shriners. His mom worked the boom box.

  His parents weren’t being progressive or conservative. They didn’t accept Joey as a political statement. They just loved him. Frankly, what was not to love? He was honest, funny, enthusiastic, talented, sensitive to people’s feelings and troubles. They let him work himself out, though they didn’t know what to do with him half the time. They watched—puzzled, exasperated, or delighted—as he grew into, well, into Joey, which was all he could be, after all.

  He came out at thirteen. Matter-of-factly, without fuss. One night, over grilled cheese and pickles, his dad asked with deliberate casualness, “Joey, do you like girls?”

  “Sure. But—I don’t have to date them, do I?”

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  “No, I guess not. But it wouldn’t be very… me.”

  Jim Osorio poured himself a glass of milk, frowned for a moment, but mussed Joey’s hair and sighed, with just a tiny note of regret. “No. It wouldn’t be, would it?”

  And that was that. Joey had never hidden who he was, not at school, not at church. Not when he’d sung with the youth orchestra at Carnegie Hall. He’d taken his lumps for it, sure. Everything that grows up has got to push through some manure. But his parents had his back, and that made all the difference. He was unique. His gaydar pinged around some kids at school, usually the same ones who picked on him the most—but they were in the my-parents-would-kill-me stage, stymied and twisted like houseplants in too-small pots, learning to hide, to lie, to concoct cover stories and false identities. Like Zef. But not Joey. He was out. An exploded houseplant, growing naturally. Singular and alone, with his own sensibilities and identity, but no friends, and certainly no dates. His sexuality was still… theoretical. But he knew who he was. He was himself. He sang when he felt like singing. He danced when he felt like dancing. He learned how to take a punch and when to punch back.

  But he never learned how to keep secrets.

  “You said ‘Mike’?” Mather repeated.

  Joey looked up and shrugged. “Fireman Mike. Jason said Mike murdered Debbie, but his face was blank, ’cause it wasn’t really him, you know? He was possessed. By a ghost. He doesn’t even remember doing it. So I say, ‘Possession? You’re talking about possession?’ and Jason’s all, ‘Yeah.’ So we went to my place to watch The Exorcist. Are you following?”

  Mather frowned. “One moment. Jason Crane’s visions. You trusted in them?”

  “Sure.”

  “He wouldn’t lie to you?”

  “He’s my best friend.”

  “But your best friend almost got you killed.”

  Joey put his teacup down. “It wasn’t his fault I got cursed. He didn’t know.”

  “Forgive me. Do you remember the moment?”

  “Which?”

  “There’s always a moment.” Mather plated a slice of crumb cake and handed it to Joey. “It’s not enough that someone reveals his Gift to you. At some point one is convinced, all doubts dispelled. I’m very interested in such moments. Only Founders experience them. A normal who crosses that threshold into belief ordinarily perishes. The Cursing Moment is seldom documented. What was yours?”

  Joey tried to remember. “The pin, I guess.”

  “Pin?”

  “When Jason and I went down to the reservoir, I didn’t really believe in his Gift yet. I’d been kind of laughing at him. We hadn’t planned to go down there. I was curious to see where Debbie died and I dragged him along. So… he stuck his hands in the water and after his vision he kind of wriggled down under the dock—into the mud. I thought he’d gone nuts. But he came up with this pin—a collar pin from the Sleepy Hollow Fire Department. The Horseman logo, throwing a pumpkin at Ichabod. He said he’d seen Debbie yank the pin off Mike’s collar when they were struggling. I knew Jason hadn’t planted it. So—I believed. That was my… Cursing Moment.”

  “You’re a lucky young man.”

  “To survive? I know. My friend Dave died. But—you were there, weren’t you? In the hospital? I saw you.”

  “We try to identify any potential Founders. I left once he’d passed on. A shame.”

  “Why him and not me?”

  “Ah, well. That is our greatest riddle.” Mather sighed, looking pensive, as at a crossword puzzle he’d failed to solve for years. “Everyone who survives the torpor state—the coma—comes out of it with no memory of the experience. But they all say the same three words. Can you guess what they are?”

  “I beat him,” whispered Joey, and the room turned cold.

  “I. Beat. Him.”

  “Who?”

  “That question is as old as our world. As old as the Gifted themselves, and we’ve been around in one form or another since the caveman. I believe we are not meant to understand it. Whatever happens to a Founder is… lost. But all our Founders earned their Gifts, somehow. Our families were… chosen. Appointed.” Mather drummed his fingers on the polished wood. “Better.”

  “Dave was plenty decent.”

  “I’m sure. I’m merely sharing a part of our culture. Myths and legends. Kate’s mother used to recite a poem. “Edgar and the Devil.” Do I still remember it? Let’s see now…

  Edgar fell to something grim

  and slept for seven-score.

  He lost his body, every limb!

  His spirit took a little swim,

  and found a distant shore.

  The Great Beyond was dark and dim,

  with rugged mountains ’round the brim.

  And, O! Weren’t Edgar’s chances slim

  to see his home of yore?

  But then the Devil, on a whim,

  took Edgar up and tested him,

  declared his spirit fit and trim,

  and sent it hurtling through the scrim

  to where it was before.

  He woke and whispered, ‘I beat him,’

  remembering nothing more.

  And on that day a Founder rose.

  How was he tested? No one knows.

  So eat your spinach, trim your toes,

  and never shirk a chore.

  The Devil’s keeping score.”

  Joey scratched his head. The poem had a… familiarity to it. “Who wrote that?”

  “Miss Usher’s Founder, actually.”

  “Who’s her Founder?”

  Mather smiled. “That is… a tale in itself. One for another time. Suffice it to say that your friend Jason is not the only supernatural with what we call ‘provenance.’”

  Joey finished the cake. “This world is too weird. Sometimes I think I’ve stumbled into some reality show prank.”

  “Newcomers always feel that. At first. So. What happened with the pin?”

  “Oh, uh… Jason gave it back to Mike. To see if he looked guilty. But Mike has no idea what he did.”

  “He was possessed.”

  “You say that like I’m crazy.”

  “A spirit that powerful is extremely rare.” A strange glint came into Mather’s purple eyes. “And rather implausible.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Wait.” Joey hesitated, thinking of his dad. “If someone gets cursed, how lon
g does he have?”

  “I’ve seen men killed the same day. I’ve seen it take years. The Spirit World follows its own inscrutable clock.”

  “Can anyone escape it?”

  “No. Not once the Cursing Moment has come.” Mather leaned forward, his purple eyes intense. “Have you cursed someone?”

  Joey stared at his empty teacup, at the clots of leaves like swarming ants. “My dad. Maybe.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is he a trusting sort? Or a skeptic?”

  Joey pictured his dad double-checking all the invoices from the Kleenex company, convinced the delivery man had cheated the cemetery on its bulk order. “Skeptic. Definitely.”

  “Then he may yet struggle with it for a while.”

  Joey frowned, a knot of fear returning. “I should get home.”

  Mather touched Joey’s sleeve. “Wait. Perhaps we could help you…”

  “How?”

  Mather watched him closely, with a trace of amusement. “There might be a way.”

  “To undo it?”

  “Perhaps. I’ll think on the matter. If I can trust you.”

  “You can.”

  “I’ll need to know everything you know, first.”

  “About my dad?”

  Mather’s smile broadened. “Tell me about Jason and Kate.”

  Joey ran his finger along the wood grain of the table. He could see his own face reflected there, as if reflected in his father’s glasses.

  “Well?” said Mather.

  “Jason… is in love with Kate.”

  “We’ve suspected that. Did he steal her from her fiancé?”

  “Zef was never her fiancé.”

  “What estranged those two?”