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

by Gleaves, Richard

“I’m sorry. I needed Jason alive.”

  “For his wealth. And I would have let my Horseman kill him. I would have understood. A fortune was at stake. I might have spared the boy, for a time, if you had confided in me. How did you hide him?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  She picked up a small saw. “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not. I honestly don’t know.” He backed away and looked behind her, intensifying his torch. A water channel cut the far end of the room, and above it hung a cage of metal straps, hammered into the shape of a man. There was no man inside. The cage was half-full, up to the waist, with…

  … with severed heads.

  “Oh my God,” Hadewych whispered, his light flickering.

  “Do you like my collection?” she cackled. “These are all new.”

  “Are these from… homecoming?”

  “Some,” she said, peering at the heads. She flicked one with her index finger, as if testing the produce. It opened its eyes.

  “You… mad bitch,” Hadewych groaned. “What the hell are you up to?”

  “I’ve been learning,” she said.

  “Learning what?”

  “How to bring them to life.” She reached up and rapped the cage with her saw. All the heads woke, mouths started moving, frowning, muttering silently. “I’ve had mixed results. Don’t look so scandalized, Hadewych. Most of them were dead already. They’re just corpse heads. I’m not a complete monster.”

  “Why are you doing this?” His unlit hand went to the diary in his pocket.

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  “No. No.” He bent, vomited, and began to shake. Thank God Zef didn’t follow. Hadewych pointed to the house above. “Mather might find the rope ladder and come down here. I can’t… I can’t let them find this! No one can see!”

  He dashed to the hanging cage and broke open the latch, shaking the severed heads into the water channel. They spilled into the pipe, one by one, flipping and clumping in the water, riding the current and disappearing into the downstream pipe. Only one remained. The head of a girl, with green eyes and a freckled nose, landed just at Hadewych’s feet. He nudged her into the channel and watched her drift away. Her eyes followed him, and her lips seemed to say, “Why?” Then she was gone.

  “No, son!” Agathe snapped. “They were still fine ammunition. I was saving them for Edward’s birthday. Ah! No matter. Where do you keep my reliquary?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “But where is it?”

  “It’s at the lighthouse, too.”

  She whirled, glaring at him. “With the Crane boy?”

  “Yes.”

  She screamed, balling fists. She strode to the altar, took a skull in hand, gripping it through the sockets, and hurled it at Hadewych. The skull shattered against the stone behind him.

  “What did I do?” he gasped, ducking a second missile.

  She threw more skulls, one after the other. Someone’s temple struck Hadewych’s own. He blinked away stars and staggered into the water channel. His shoes filled with bitter cold. A thrown skull clattered across the metal table, striking an immense Mason jar, tipping it. The jar fell over and spilled its contents: a writhing swarm of fat, hungry leeches.

  “You buffoon!” Agathe screamed, raising a rot-encrusted skull. Hadewych half-expected it to burst into flame. “He’s gone to the lighthouse! To kill the boy!”

  “So?”

  “So?” Agathe hurled her missile and it shattered, throwing teeth and fragments of putrid chalk. She snatched up her bleeding bowl and ran from the pantry as if monsters were in pursuit. “What if he takes back his head?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “The Battle of Tarrytown Light”

  Jason Crane!

  Jason flailed about in a panic, unable to find the door, unable to escape the lantern room, trapped in the tiny enclosure with the Horseman’s Treasure.

  Jason Crane! shouted the severed head inside.

  Jason Crane!

  The light of the reliquary glowed brighter, and Jason could see a half-door by his knees, only as high as his waist. He knelt, pulled the bolt, and a rush of cold air filled the lantern room. He crouched and wriggled out into the night, glad to leave the hissing head behind.

  Rain kissed his face and the back of his neck. Cold wind beat at his body. It felt wild and wonderful after so many days of ashen, stagnant air. He stood on a narrow iron-railed catwalk, six floors above the crashing Hudson. Shielding his eyes from the lash of rain, he leaned over the side, searching the wider fifth-floor catwalk below. There: the enormous copper signaling bell. He was right above it. He would have to drop down. It wasn’t a long drop, but he only had one good arm, and if he lost his balance on the descent he might slip and fall over the rail, unable to catch himself, and be dashed against those jagged rocks far below.

  He swung his legs over, dangled from the wet railing with one hand, and let go. He dropped fast and landed on the lower catwalk. His sneakers squeaked and he teetered precariously. His left hand shot out and found a flagpole. He pulled it to his chest, hugging it. The wet flag beat against his face, like Betsy Ross fighting a purse-snatcher. He remained like that for several minutes, rain soaking him through, as down below the Hudson chewed the rocks and slapped the lighthouse walls.

  He saw a dark shape on the water, moving downstream toward the Tappan Zee Bridge—a passing freight barge. He went to his knees and crawled to the bell. It hung inside a cubical lattice of riveted iron. He considered beating it with his fist, but found a mallet on a chain and hammered left-handed, as hard as he could. The note was high and piercing, like a buoy jostled by waves. He struck it over and over, pounded the lightning-lit inscription USLHS 1926, letter by letter, number by number, as if he were a blacksmith at his forge, engraving the thing himself. Thunder drowned out its note.

  He dropped the hammer, raised his feebly glowing left palm, and waved to the ship.

  “Help! Help!”

  But the barge drifted past, disappearing into a growing fog like a ghost-ship. Jason fell onto his haunches and beat the bell with growing agitation and frustration and despair. Someone had to hear! Someone had to come!

  Someone did.

  Jason heard a banshee scream from somewhere below. The scream of an animal. He swept his wet hair out of his eyes, rose to his knees, and searched for the source of the sound.

  Far below, on the landing astride the lighthouse, a black horse reared and beat its front hooves against the curtain of rain. It brought its hooves down, raising a cymbal crash, and lurched backward, fighting the rope that reined it to one end of the lighthouse bridge.

  The horse grew ever more agitated, frothing and groaning, whipping its tail. It blinked glowing red eyes, bright and hot as the vents of a coal furnace.

  And… where was its rider?

  Jason broke into cold shivers. He tore his gaze from the beast and searched the fog all around, expecting the Horseman to stride through the rain or drop from above.

  The Monster did neither.

  Jason gripped the rail and peered down again. Far below, a white hand appeared, reaching over the lip of the metal skirt that circled the lighthouse base. It closed on some rivet and pulled. A man’s body came next, headless and brandishing a hatchet.

  The Horseman was coming. The Horseman was climbing.

  And Jason had nowhere to go.

  He circled the railing, searching the churning waters. The landward side of the lighthouse, facing the seawall of the GM wastes, had fewer rocks protecting it. He might survive a jump on that side. But the Horseman stood on the first-floor roof, climbing from that direction now, reaching for the metal mesh that barred a third-floor window. Jason looked for a weapon, but found only the mallet, chained to the bell casing. He let it drop. His shoulder was throbbing as his heartbeat raced. He thought he could feel the old hatchet-nick in his neck like a bright spot of fire. He searched for an escape, but the rusted fifth-floor door was locked. He couldn’t get back
inside from here.

  He would have to go back the way he came. He’d have to climb back up to the lantern level—with only one arm.

  “Oh, God. Hope I did enough pull-ups.”

  He craned his neck, searching for an easy ascent, finding none. He climbed precariously onto the bell casing, and the wind did its damnedest to shove him off, to pitch him over to his death. He braced his body and reached for the railing above. His fingertips brushed it, but he slipped and barely caught himself before he went over. He gritted his teeth. He had no time for fear or pain.

  He jumped and grabbed the rail of the upper catwalk. He tried to heave himself up, but he wasn’t strong enough for a one-armed pull-up. He needed both hands.

  He fought agony and raised his right arm. A jolt of pain shot through it. He couldn’t bring it overhead. His grip was slipping. He managed to swing his body and grab a second rail. His body swung back, yanking his right arm taut, and with an audible pop… his arm slipped back into its socket.

  The sudden absence of pain was more beautiful than any possible pleasure, like the return of spring after an age of deep freeze. Jason’s right palm flared to life, the magic un-kinked again. He took two deep breaths and pulled himself up, wriggling and kicking his legs. He struggled up and over the sixth-floor rail and fell onto the upper catwalk like a fish thrown on the deck.

  Clang!

  The bell below had sounded, but he hadn’t struck it. He peeked down through the rail. The Horseman had been right on him, had swung his hatchet and had struck the bell. Jason had been moments from death. He’d had no idea. He let out a childish “Ah!” sound and pulled away from the railing, searched for the half-door, and pulled himself back into the lantern room. He curled his body, reaching behind, and bolted the half-door behind him. He felt no safer. The Horseman could easily batter through the glass above. Jason huddled on the floor, wet and terrified.

  Jason Crane!

  Jason Crane!

  The voice startled him, and he bristled. On impulse, Jason climbed up. He wrenched the lantern out of its case, tucked it under one arm, and scurried down the orange ladder, back to the dark fifth-floor maintenance room. He stepped on one of the fallen spray cans and almost broke his neck, his shoulder raising a crack of thunder as it struck the row of storage lockers. He found the trap door, descended partway down the spiral staircase, closed it behind him, reached through the ceiling porthole, and turned the lock. That wouldn’t hold the Horseman off for long, if at all, but it might buy him a few seconds.

  Jason Crane!

  The voice at his elbow startled him. The reliquary slipped from his wet fingers and clattered onto the floor of the porthole room. He collected it. It was undamaged, but the severed head shut up after that.

  Jason clutched the reliquary as he hurried down to the third floor, then to the second, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached the dead end of the locked door at the bottom and had nowhere else to go. He crouched and pushed the reliquary through the doggy door, a little too hard. It rolled away, out of reach unless he made it through himself. Which… was impossible now that his shoulder was no longer dislocated.

  He cursed, pushed his head through the hole, and tried to drag the rest of himself through. The rain had slickened his body, but his shoulders got stuck as they always did. He lay there like Winnie the Pooh in some cartoon—half in and half out. Great. He would die like this. In this stupid position. Unless the Horseman chopped him fine enough to spill through at last.

  The reliquary lay about four feet away, just inside Hadewych’s little apartment. With a stab of anger at himself, Jason realized he might have bled into it and commanded the Horseman to stop his attack. But now he couldn’t reach the thing. “Damn it damn it damn it!” The Horseman’s severed head was laughing at him again, exhaling spiders from its nose. Jason wriggled and pushed, bracing his legs, and bashed his shoulder against the metal.

  You popped it off once. You can do it again. Come on. Pop it off. Pop the damn thing off. Come on! COME ON! PLEASE!

  He heard heavy footsteps approaching from above. The Horseman was on the stairs now. He had to get through. He had to. He had to. He—

  COME ON!

  He bashed his shoulder against the edge of the doggy door again. And again. And again.

  Pop.

  Jason’s right arm lurched out of its socket, un-dramatically, painlessly. His hand went numb, prickling, and—like a baby at the climax of labor and with one last push—his shoulders cleared the opening. His wet skin helped him along and he began to wriggle through, drawing blood as the metal scraped his arms.

  Almost there. Almost there.

  But the Horseman grabbed his leg.

  “No no no no no no no!”

  Jason kicked, lost a sneaker, and left his sweatpants behind like a shed skin, wriggling away in his underwear, pulling himself into a fetal position on the far side. A hand shot through the doggy door, searching for him, fingers clutching the air, balling into fists, but it withdrew.

  Thump!

  The Horseman had begun hacking at the door.

  Jason tottered to his feet, breathing hard, his right arm dangling uselessly again, his right palm completely dark. He snatched up the reliquary with his left hand and stumbled down the last steps to the first floor. He ran to the door, desperately yanking at the metal latch. Locked, of course. He broke into sobs, spinning, beginning to lose his reason to terror. This room was larger than all the rest, ringed with alcoves of red brick piled high with firewood. A cast iron stove sent its stack up between the beams. Something silver dangled there. Jason dropped the reliquary to the floor and snatched the object down.

  His silver owl talisman.

  It wouldn’t turn aside the Horseman, but it was something. He pulled it around his neck and felt heartened by it.

  Thump! Thump!

  The Horseman battered the door above. He would get through any second.

  Jason looked for something to cut himself with, to feed the reliquary. Nothing. He tried to gather blood from his scraped skin, flicking it at the vents of the reliquary, but gathered only a few drops.

  Thump!

  Jason gave up on the lantern, seized a piece of firewood, and beat on the rusted metal, in time with the Horseman’s hatchet chops on the door above.

  Thump! Thump!

  Thoonk! Thoonk!

  Thump! Thump!

  Thoonk! Thoonk!

  “Help! Help! Help!”

  Jason beat the door like a wild thing, like a man left caged with a scorpion or a cobra, or a swarm of tarantulas. He just wanted out. Out. Out. Out. Out!

  “Please. Please. Please!”

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Thoonk.

  “Someone help!”

  Thump!

  Thoonk! Thoonk!

  “Oh, please help!”

  Just as the door above broke and slammed the brick, just as the Horseman’s heavy footsteps sounded on the last stretch of stairs… someone turned a key outside.

  Jason stepped back. The bolt on the door lurched.

  It’s Hadewych. Hadewych’s come at last. To shoot me in the head. But better him. Better him than the Horseman. Better a bullet than a beheading.

  The door flew open with a crack of thunder and wind. The sound of the black horse’s screams rose in the distance. A figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted, its clothes whipped by rain. Jason raised his firewood club, but tripped backward over the reliquary and fell sprawling.

  The Horseman rushed in from above, hatchet high.

  The newcomer raised a hand and muttered a string of indecipherable syllables. The Horseman froze, struggling, and fell to one knee, just above Jason, close enough to drip rainwater on the boy’s cheeks. His hand stretched out, reaching for the reliquary. The head inside the lantern groaned, as at the return of a lover from war. The figure in the doorway chanted louder. The Horseman’s hand went to his own throat and…

  … and a head began to grow there.

  J
ason watched, appalled but fascinated. The nub of spine lengthened, growing like a stalk, vertebra by vertebra. Cranial plates blossomed around a grey tangle of brain, then closed around it like petals at twilight, fusing together. Hair and skin sprouted, an anatomical diagram of red striations becoming a familiar human face. The face of Eddie Martinez, panting and agitated.

  The banshee horse screamed again in the distance. The figure in the doorway approached, her features swimming into view, catching the light of Jason’s raised palm.

  “Kate?” he whispered.

  “Guess again,” said Hadewych, entering behind her, his arms around a bundle.

  The girl who was not Kate knelt and gathered the reliquary to her heart. “What’s the matter, boy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “What are you looking for?” Zef asked, hurrying in Mather’s wake, the silver sword still clutched in his hand.

  Mather’s men had begun scouring the Gory Brook house, opening cupboards, cutting into cushions, throwing the place into even more chaos than it had been in already, if that was possible.

  “Not your concern,” said Mather. He stood in the trash-strewn living room and dropped onto the davenport, struggling to fix his inside-out British flag umbrella. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Trying to get answers.”

  “I’d like a few myself. Where have they gone?”

  “I told you. I didn’t see.” Zef was in no mood to confide in Mather. He had to ditch the man and go save Jason at the lighthouse.

  Mather managed to flip his umbrella, flecking Zef’s face with water. “Why are you covering for them? You must have seen how they left.”

  “You were gonna murder my dad in front of me?”

  “I told you to leave.”

  A rifleman snatched up a bulging trash bag and shook its contents onto the floor, like a trick-or-treater inspecting his haul after a long night of mischief.

  “What are you looking for?” said Zef.

  Mather rose and kicked the davenport over, with uncharacteristic rage. He sighed and touched the arm of the kneeling man, a burly fellow with a bent ear. “We need to hurry. We’re due at Lyndhurst. Keep looking without us.”