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

by Gleaves, Richard

  Hadewych understood. Mather knew he would have to murder the boy. And he was insulating his employer, giving him deniability. “Is that all?”

  “We do have one condition.”

  “What?”

  “Paul should receive some compensation for his efforts. As mediator.”

  “He wants money?”

  “No.”

  “He can’t have Zef.”

  “Oh, he adores Zef. But that’s not really enough. This is a complicated… undertaking. So to speak.”

  “What, then?”

  “Ah!” Mather snapped his fingers. “I have it. What did you find in your ancestor’s tomb last fall?”

  Hadewych went cold. “No.”

  “It controls the Horseman, doesn’t it? Paul guessed that long ago. He wants it. That’s his price. He’s told Jessica none of this, incidentally. Our… addendum to the deal is strictly between us fellows.”

  “I can’t give him that,” Hadewych blurted, thinking of Agathe.

  “Pity.”

  “What does he want with it?”

  “Oh, he would never use such an evil thing, of course. Paul merely wants to keep it safe, out of careless hands. Clumsy hands. You initiated the Stone Barns attack, didn’t you? Trying to kill Jessica?”

  Hadewych’s mind swam with terror. Those purple eyes held him captive, like a serpent’s hypnosis.

  “We should kill you for that,” said Mather. “You must realize that you cannot be allowed to possess such power. We shall keep the item unused and hidden. That’s our job. Our… mission statement.”

  “Whose?”

  “You asked to join us, once.”

  “The Appointed.”

  “But Paul turned you down.”

  “Yes.” Hadewych flushed at the memory. Paul had pronounced him a wannabe, had kicked him to the floor and ordered him away.

  “He’s reconsidered,” said Mather. “You’ve shown resourcefulness. He’s impressed.”

  Hadewych leaned forward, eagerly. “He wants me?”

  Mather shrugged. “Does that appeal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you even know what we do?”

  “My grandmother used to say that you… control the world.”

  “That’s not far off. But why? To what end?”

  “I don’t know. Power?”

  Mather folded his hands over his stomach. “Pour me a bourbon. Oh, come now. Men of your class always have liquor at hand.”

  Hadewych rose and fished a bottle from the kitchen, moving robotically, unable to form any plan of counterattack. He was completely unmanned, too embarrassed about the trash and too frightened of Agathe overhearing to frame a single coherent thought except: They want me. They want me. I could be on the inside at last. He returned and poured Mather a drink.

  Mather downed it without the slightest flinch. “A good label. The best Jason’s money can buy, I suppose. Come. Sit. I’m here to recruit you, not to kill you.”

  Hadewych sat, relaxing a little. “So, who are the Appointed, then?”

  Mather beckoned for a refill. “My ancestor founded our little society. Cotton Mather. Have you heard of him?”

  Hadewych poured. “Sounds familiar.”

  “He wrote A History of New England Witchcraft. He was one of the Salem witch judges, back in the 1690s. Old Cotton was there when they burned the witch called Legion in Salem Common. He was one of the first struck down by her evil spell.”

  “The Great Curse.”

  “But he survived. He became a Founder and a witch himself, to his horror. He awoke with a Gift appropriate to his avocation. We Witch-Hunters, or Gift-Catchers if you prefer, are all descended from him—that bewigged old white Puritan.” Mather gestured to his own face and dark skin. “There have been some upgrades, obviously.”

  He downed his second bourbon and continued. “Have you ever given thought to what occurred in those years? Before the Great Curse, before 1692, witches lived openly. They lived next door. Kept shop. Did brisk trade in remedies and spells. But when the Great Curse fell, that world ended. All who knew witches died. Oh, it took time. Even magic cannot circumnavigate the globe in a day. But… millions died. It was bloody and terrible. A worldwide slaughter. Wrathful spirits ripping the life from all who believed in us. The Native Americans, for example. Your historians will tell you they fell to smallpox, but the Nations believed in their witches, and would not be convinced otherwise.”

  “I’ve never heard any of this.”

  “Because of us. We stopped the calamity by stopping the belief. That’s what God appointed us to do. Prevent the discovery of witches. For the good of the normals.” He looked at the ceiling. “In those early days, the worldwide horror had one unexpected side result. It created thousands of new Founders. Men and women who survived as Old Cotton survived. The first Gift-Catcher and his descendants searched them out and drew them into fellowship. They birthed a new society, the modern Gifted, and we outnumbered the ancient enchantresses ten to one. We took the world in hand. We erased all evidence—as much as we could find—of the world that existed before the Curse. Some lore was impossible to eliminate. Fairy tales, for example. Certain religious traditions. But we did what we could. And it was enough to rescue the world. And to start an enlightened era of science to boot. We stopped the spread of death and saved all humanity from the Great Curse.”

  “By hiding any proof that witches existed.”

  “By relegating ourselves into folklore and fantasy and fiction. We don’t mind a little fiction now and then, so long as no one confuses it with fact. We live interesting lives, and many are too vain to see their adventures entirely banished from history. But we remain vigilant, to prevent the world from discovering any true witch, to ensure that no genocide of the normals starts up again. It becomes more difficult every year, as technology changes. Proof is now just a mouse-click away from reaching all humanity in the space of an hour. We will not let that happen.”

  Hadewych went cold. Mather wasn’t making idle conversation. He was sending a message.

  Mather reached into his briefcase and produced a file folder. “I want to tell you one story. Have you ever heard of Centralia, Pennsylvania?”

  “No.”

  He produced a photo for Hadewych’s inspection. “Spring of 1962. A pretty little town, wasn’t it? Whitewash and ticky-tacky, pastel housewives and perfect lawns. A mining community, mostly. Coal.”

  He turned over a second photo—a lovely young woman. “There was a single witch in Centralia, named Anna Lively. Anna had a green thumb. She could make her garden grow, whisper to a flower and send it shooting from the ground like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Just lovely. But… she was discovered.”

  “How?”

  “She was filmed. That spring, a boy named Bobby Avery received a Bell and Howell Zoomatic movie camera for his eleventh birthday—the same model of camera that Abraham Zapruder would use to film John Kennedy’s assassination only a year later. This is Bobby.” Mather produced a black and white picture of a tow-headed, freckle-faced kid. “Bobby amused himself by filming his neighbors. Sometimes without their knowledge, through windows and over garden fences. He filmed Anna Lively. On the first of April, 1962. I’ve seen the film. It’s at Yale, in our archive there. Old Cotton helped to found Yale. Twelve seconds of film. Just a girl and her garden patch and one swiftly blooming rose.

  “It killed the town. Bobby showed it to his friends. Children believe readily. Bobby was the first to die. A few more died by the end of May. Parents looked into it, watched the film themselves, and they began to die. Anna disappeared. Perhaps they attacked her, perhaps she escaped. But even in her absence, knowledge of a true witch was running wild through the population, as if Anna had beckoned it herself to grow verdant and spread. The Great Curse had killed sixty-four Centralians by the first of June. The deaths increased exponentially, and no one could guess the cause. The footage was offered to a national news organization. That was the precipice. It
might have been shown in prime time—between Leave It to Beaver and My Three Sons. We came very close to another worldwide calamity, but we were fortunate. One of our own was in place at the network. He alerted his superiors and they… ended the situation. Do you know how?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  Mather laid down another photo. “This is Centralia today.”

  It was an aerial view of a forest, endless trees and underbrush cut through by lanes of pavement—roads going nowhere, roads with no cars. Driveways with no houses, parking lots with no businesses. Just a maze of cracking asphalt, like the sketch of a town map—like the foundations of Sodom, ripped bare by the wrath of God. Only a cemetery remained, on a hill overlooking the former town. A white marble angel stood among the graves, grieving for the ruins below, like Lot’s wife, turned to salt.

  “Where are the buildings?”

  Mather remained silent, waiting for him to understand.

  “You destroyed the whole town?”

  “Not I,” Mather said. “This was well before my time. But… yes. Just as you’d cauterize a wound to stop a patient from bleeding to death. We blamed it on an uncontrollable mine fire, deep below the earth. We actually set the coal burning, in case someone investigated. It burns today. Touch any of those streets and you’ll find them hot, the asphalt melting, as if the town sat just above Perdition. It’s not something we’re proud of. But it was necessary. To save the world, Centralia, Pennsylvania—and everyone who’d seen that film—had to be sacrificed.” Mather collected the photos. “So. That is why the Appointed exist, and that is what we do. Still want to join? We value ruthlessness. We have to. It would be better for you to be our ally, Van Brunt. You would not like the alternative.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “We’re not the ones making threats. We’re not the ones who said we’d walk down Broadway with our hands on fire and curse the whole town.”

  “I… didn’t mean that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Mather closed his briefcase with a sharp little click. “Because we will never allow another outbreak to happen. Never. And if we were willing to do that to thousands of innocents…” He leaned forward. “Do you think we’d hesitate to do the same to you?”

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. Then we have nothing more to discuss.” Mather gave a slight nod and rose. “You have ten days to produce the boy’s body and the… bauble requested by Paul. Once it’s done, you’ll be welcomed into the fold. Congratulations.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “Then there’s no deal, no membership and, I’m sorry, no forgiveness.” On the way out, he turned a circle, looking at the mess. “You’re fortunate that I came and not the senator. His allergies, you know. Paul has no tolerance for… scum.”

  Mather gave a snide smile and left.

  Hadewych seized the bourbon bottle and drank from the neck. What would he do now? Agree to Mather’s request and give away Agathe’s reliquary? Agathe would kill him. Defy Usher and rely on Agathe’s protection? If she found out Jason was alive she might just murder Hadewych herself. But what other options did he have?

  I could let Jason go.

  Maybe he’d done enough to the boy. He could make an anonymous call. Tip off the police. Let them storm the lighthouse and rescue the prisoners. They’d take the comatose Jason to Phelps Memorial for proper care. Maybe he would wake up and be so happy to be alive that he… wouldn’t prosecute. And better to see Jason with the money than Jessica, yes? So… why not?

  You’re fooling yourself.

  Dr. Tamper hadn’t seen Hadewych’s face, but he would scream bloody murder once he was rescued. The police would investigate the kidnapping, figure out who boarded up the lighthouse, who arranged the security… Only one man in town could have done it all. Only one man had the authority to order a renovation under cover of creating a phony “maritime museum.” The head of the Crane Foundation. Hadewych Van Brunt.

  He put his head in his hands.

  He had no choice. He had to take the deal, surrender Jason’s body, stonewall on the reliquary, and hope to survive Usher’s wrath. He strode to his room, fished under the bed, and unzipped a red leather bag. Inside were syringes, a bottle of bleach, and a loaded pistol.

  At least Jason’s still asleep.

  Hadewych tucked his murder weapons under one arm.

  He’ll go quietly.

  A plaintive harmonica intro broke the cold air of the Old Croton Aqueduct tunnels, down below Gory Brook, and the Four Seasons began serenading the bats and raccoons. The song was “Big Man in Town,” a thumping, shuffling ballad—a promise from the singer to his true love that he would return, tall and powerful and on top at last.

  Eddie lifted weights in his stone lair. He curled his dumbbells with the beat, eyes fixed on the framed photo across the room. His body dripped sweat. His jaw ached from clenching. This was how he kept himself from crying, those rare times he needed to.

  His phone lay on the floor. He tried not to think about what he’d seen. The film of his transformation wasn’t anything like he’d expected. He hadn’t looked like a badass. He’d looked like a pussy. The Horseman was the badass, not Eddie. Eddie was a screaming kid with a Slurpee headache, eaten away from the inside, just the bitch of the witch who stood behind, eyes gleaming at his back.

  He kept lifting. Same weight, same reps, same motion, over and over, letting his biceps cramp and burn. He was a robot—so desperate not to think that he stood stuck in a loop, with no will to break free.

  “Big Man in Town” cut short. A huge shadow rose on the wall.

  Eddie dropped the weights and turned. “I was listening to that.”

  “I was calling for you,” said Agathe, throwing his clock radio aside. She carried a bundle of black fabric in her arms.

  “I’m busy.” Eddie turned away and wiped his cheeks, hoping she would mistake the tears for sweat.

  “You don’t need to exercise,” she said. “That’s not why you’re powerful.”

  “I like lifting. What do you want?”

  “Speak with me.” She sat on the soiled mattress, silhouetted by the bare bulb behind, and set the bundle aside. “You have been… distant, my friend.”

  “I guess. So what?” He kicked the dumbbells, sending them rolling across the stone floor. “I’m sick of being stuck down here. I need to do something.”

  “I know. I have been making preparations.”

  “Preparations? Six months I’ve been the Horseman. What have we done? Gone to town on a few suburbanites?”

  “I agree. The attack on Sleepy Hollow Manor proved… insufficient.”

  “Come on. I’m rotting in this hole.”

  “You’ve been most patient. And the time has come.”

  “For what?”

  She considered, pointed at the photo across the room. “Who are these boys you hate so?”

  “My old team. A bunch of backstabbing assholes who got me expelled. Left me twisting while they saved their own asses. I was their damn leader. See this?” He picked up a trophy. “I won this for them. Yeah. Me. And after I won that game, you know what they did? They put me on top of a damn fire truck and drove me around town like the Pope. But now they don’t need me anymore?” He threw the photo across the room. “Screw them.”

  “They have a game tonight.”

  “I know. Against Ossining. It’s homecoming. They’ve got some new quarterback—Cody McBride—some ginger freak transferred in from White Plains. Wait—how do you know they’re playing?”

  “I have been preparing a special night, just for my Edward, who has been such a fine friend and soldier—and so patient with this old ghost who loves him.”

  Eddie raised an eyebrow and grinned, feeling better. “What are you cooking up? Are we having sex finally?”

  “I have a different gift in mind. A special gift.”

  “What special gift?”

  “I have made your army strong. As strong as I.
The time has come to announce ourselves. And I am of the opinion that a touch of dramatic effect might be in order.” She produced the bundle of black fabric. “Try it on.”

  Eddie picked the thing up. It was Zef’s Horseman mascot costume. “What’s this about? What’s my special gift?”

  Agathe raised the framed photo. The glass had shattered across the faces of Eddie’s teammates.

  She grinned. “A massacre.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Pom-Poms and Curly Fries”

  Don’t let anything bad happen tonight. Joey kept looking at Zef’s hand, held in his own, as the cruiser drifted through the passing streetlights. It’s my first date ever, God. Don’t let it go wrong. Please? I’ve had a hard time. So has he. Let tonight be perfect. Okay? Even mediocre is fine. Just—don’t let him break my heart again. Not like New Year’s. I don’t know if I could handle that.

  “You’re quiet,” said Zef, his eyes on traffic.

  “I’ve got a lot to think about.”

  Zef took a deep breath. “Me too.”

  Cars filled the parking lot of Sleepy Hollow High. Zef found a space next to the baseball diamond and killed the cruiser. They sat in silence, watching the passing throng of kids. It was only now sinking in that they were about to present themselves as a couple to the whole school.

  Joey gave Zef’s hand a squeeze. “We don’t have to do this.”

  “I told you I would.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything. Let’s just… go to the Horseman and get a burger.”

  “No no no. We’re not chickening out.”

  A palm beat on Zef’s window. Zef snatched his hand from Joey’s and rolled his window down. It was Nathan Plummer, one of the few Sleepy Hollow Boys who didn’t play for the football team.

  “Z! Dude! Where the hell have you been?”

  “Hey, Nate.”

  “Puleo says you’re at Hockaday now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I bet. So what are the girls there like?”