Sleepy Hollow: Children of the Revolution

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

But then he got to the last word of the spell and the furniture started to shake, the glasses on the sideboard began to rattle, and a hot, fetid wind swirled within the sitting room.

  Serilda held up her hands. “Come to me, Abaddon! Join your power to mine that we may bring glorious chaos into this world that imprisoned you! Your will be done!”

  Another gust of hot wind that smelled like the breath of a rabid dog shoved into Rall’s chest, and he stumbled backward. Regaining his footing, he saw Serilda’s skin darken and thicken, turning into something that looked like leather. Her black eyes now glowed yellow, her fingers curled into claws, her teeth sharpened into fangs. The strands of her brown hair slowly transmogrified into serpents, reminding Rall of a portrait of Medusa he once saw back home on a Greek vase.

  Her arms still upraised, she cackled a mad laugh that echoed throughout the sitting room and chilled Rall to his very bones.

  And then there was a flash of light, and Rall felt the heat of a hellish flame bake his face. He held up his arms to shield his eyes from the glow, and suddenly he wished he had disrobed, as sweat beaded on his brow and he felt so hot in his long red wool coat that it was as if he’d been transported back to Hesse at the height of midsummer.

  It might have been a moment later, it might have been hours, Rall couldn’t tell, but when he finally lowered his arms, the light and the heat were gone. He once again felt the winter chill that even the stone of the house and the fireplace couldn’t keep at bay.

  Of Serilda, there was no sign. All he heard were the echoes of her laughter.

  Turning to look to the window, he saw that it was already morning. The ritual felt as if it were but the work of a few minutes, but hours had passed.

  Piel ran into the sitting room unbidden and cried, “The rebels have taken the main streets of the town!”

  Again Rall was denied a proper rebuke of Piel. “What do you mean?”

  “The rebels’ general, the man Washington, he has come across Baron de la Warr’s river in the night and attacked the Pennington Road outpost after dawn!”

  Rall stared at his adjutant for a moment, then shook his head. “Have the regiment form up at the lower end of King Street. Washington and that collection of untrained merchants he calls an army will not take Trenton this day!”

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and finally read the note Piel had given him earlier. With a rueful shake of his head, he saw that it was a warning that Washington’s forces would arrive in Trenton imminently.

  THE COLD AIR searing his lungs as he rode his white horse, General George Washington led his troops into Trenton. They had faced even less resistance than expected. He had hoped to gain the element of surprise with a predawn attack, but the icy river proved more difficult to pass than he’d hoped. Instead of arriving on the New Jersey side of de la Warr’s river at midnight, they didn’t arrive until three o’clock, and Generals Cadwallader and Ewing were unable to join them due to the inclement weather.

  Under other circumstances, he might have waited until the generals could join him, but he had no time to lose. He had to take Trenton. It wasn’t just for the reason he gave to the Continental Congress. It was true that, after being expelled from New York, the Continental Army desperately needed a victory before the new year and the enlistments ended.

  But salvaging the morale of his troops was sadly secondary to the reason why he had chosen Trenton as his target after his retreat from Fort Lee: he had to prevent the Hessian Rall from summoning Abaddon. The night of the full moon would be the ideal time for Abaddon’s power to be joined with a person, resulting in a half-human creature of enormous power, and enormous evil. According to the intelligence he’d received, the human in question was a witch named Serilda, who ruled over a coven.

  When he rode into Trenton the morning of St. Stephen’s Day, he knew he was too late. The smell of burning sulfur was one he knew well as the residue of sorcery. Abaddon had already been summoned.

  The Hessians who had held Trenton were retreating. Washington saw a man on a horse riding away from him. The man wore the insignia of a lieutenant colonel, and he deduced that this must be Johann Rall, who was one of Moloch’s thralls, just as his father had been. Washington took aim with his musket and fired at Rall. The ball struck the enemy, but his horse continued down the thoroughfare away from Washington. He was one of many Hessians running away, and soon Rall’s form was lost to his sight.

  Quietly he muttered an oath: “May you not live to see the chaos you have unleashed today, Hessian.”

  Tugging on the reins of his own horse, Washington continued to lead his troops to a victory that was not nearly so great as he had hoped.

  FOUR

  SLEEPY HOLLOW, NEW YORK

  JANUARY 2014

  THE ISSUE FOR Abbie Mills was always what to order.

  In the squad room, it had always been easy. After years of arguments and pissing and moaning every time people had to work late, or there was a big lunch order because everyone was in the office because of paperwork or whatever other reason, Corbin had set up a system. If the cops in HQ wanted to do a big takeout order, where they ordered from depended on the day of the week. Monday and Thursday was pizza, Tuesday and Friday was deli, Wednesday and Saturday was Chinese, and Sunday was Japanese, which was more expensive, but if they were working Sunday, everyone was getting time-and-a-half anyhow, so they could afford it.

  One of the things Abbie admired about Captain Irving was that he kept to the “takeout calendar.” Unfortunately, working with Crane had made it kind of difficult to keep to it.

  The biggest stumbling block was the food itself. Crane had never had any manner of Asian cuisine in his life, and pizza as modern Americans knew it didn’t really exist in Crane’s time. The deli provided the only food he even came close to recognizing.

  Eventually, he came around to pizza and Chinese, though it usually was accompanied by a Crane Pompous Rant (patent pending).

  Tonight, after finding precious little online and even less in Corbin’s files on the subject of the Congressional Cross, Mills decided to order a pizza for the simple reason that it was Thursday and they both were hungry.

  “You are aware,” Crane said after she got off the phone with Salvatore’s, “that this bastardized derivation of Greek flatbread only exists because of European expansion to this hemisphere. The tomato derives from the Andes Mountains region and was exported to Europe.”

  Abbie grinned. “Says the man who’s never had white pizza.”

  “Be that as it may, I am boggled by the claim that this is Italian cuisine. I have dined in the region, and there was nothing at all akin to this pizza. As I said, it is far more of a Greek dish.”

  “Then what could be more in keeping with the spirit of the United States? An Italian variation on a Greek dish made with a South American vegetable by Russian immigrants, delivered to a black woman.”

  That got Crane to frown. “ ‘Salvatore’ does not strike me as a name of Slavic origin.”

  “It isn’t, but he didn’t think people would go to a pizza place called Vladimir’s.”

  Crane actually smiled at that, and took a short bow. “I concede the point, Lieutenant.” As always, he pronounced her rank like “left tenant,” which she had thought pretentious at first, but now had come to really enjoy the sound of.

  The door to the armory opened and the captain walked in, holding a large pizza box. “Must be Thursday,” he said dryly.

  Staring at Irving in surprise, Crane said, “I was unaware, Captain, that you had taken on additional employment delivering foodstuffs.”

  Abbie chuckled. “Yeah, I didn’t think the budget cuts were that bad.”

  “You two are hilarious.” Irving put the pizza down on the table next to Abbie’s laptop, which she quickly closed. “What’s the latest from the wacky world of Moloch and his demonic orchestra? Oh, and you owe me fifteen bucks for the pizza.”

  Grabbing for her purse, Abbie pulled out a ten and a five and handed
them over to Irving. Meanwhile, Crane filled him in on the vision from his wife.

  “Wait—what was the medal called that you got?”

  “I didn’t ‘get’ it,” Crane said tartly. “I was merely awarded it. Had I actually ‘gotten’ it, I might be more able to fulfill whatever purpose Katrina had in mind with her warning.”

  Abbie closed her eyes and sighed. She respected Crane a great deal, and he’d become more than a friend over these past few months of craziness, but there were times when she really wanted to just haul off and belt him in the mouth. As she opened the box to the lovely aroma of tomato sauce and melted mozzarella, she actually answered the captain’s question: “The Congressional Cross.”

  “Was it one of ten that were issued by the Continental Congress?”

  “Yes.” Crane sounded surprised. “Are you aware of them? We’ve had a difficult time locating specifics, and I’m afraid that I was not present when my own medal was awarded. I was given a certificate via messenger informing me that the Congress had favored me with the award.”

  “I am aware of them, but only just today.”

  The captain then told them about his trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with his daughter. Abbie was grateful for the independent confirmation that Willett and that asshole van Brunt had received crosses, though she would’ve preferred that Irving had learned who else had them.

  “I don’t like this,” Irving said. “The same day that your mostly dead wife tells you to find your medal, I find out that two of them are missing from their display case.”

  Abbie frowned. “You don’t think they’re out for cleaning?”

  “I did until five minutes ago.”

  Crane turned to Abbie with a raised eyebrow. “Coincidence seems to be the order of the day with us, Lieutenant.”

  Irving shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “I do,” Abbie said. “Coincidences happen all the time. I haven’t gone a week on the job without seeing all kinds of coincidences. But I don’t trust coincidences.”

  Crane walked over to the pizza box to retrieve a slice. Abbie was pleased to see that this was his first time picking up a slice without losing any cheese off the top, nor having long strings of mozzarella tethering his slice to the rest of the pie. It was that kind of little adjustment that had impressed Abbie about Crane more than the bigger changes he’d gone through to fit into life in modern times. His ability to learn quickly was probably the main thing keeping him alive.

  Abbie just hoped that she could keep up with him on that score. While Crane had centuries to catch up on, Abbie had plenty of her own adjustments to deal with.

  After taking a bite of pizza, Crane said, “In my own experiences, coincidences have been harbingers of doom.” The words were solemn, though the effect was muted by the tomato sauce that got caught in his beard. Abbie seriously considered not telling him about it just to see how long he’d go with sauce on his face, but then Crane himself wiped it away with one of the paper napkins they kept on the table. Abbie had to admit to being disappointed.

  “Crane, no offense, but your presence is a harbinger of doom.” Irving reached into his pocket to pull out his smartphone. “As it happens, the insurance investigator who handles the Met is my former partner.”

  Abbie blinked. “Really?”

  Irving shrugged. “Most insurance investigators are former law enforcement. Bethany Nugent and I went to the academy together, and we both humped the same radio car for a year. She got her twenty, and now she’s in insurance. I’ll give her a call.”

  While Irving searched through his phone’s address book for the number, Crane gave Abbie one of those looks that she met with a due sense of anticipation and dread. “I believe I have ascertained the meaning of ‘radio car,’ but I’m not sure of the meaning of the verb ‘to hump’ in this particular sentence. Also, she received her twenty what, exactly?”

  Abbie hesitated. She had a hard enough time explaining regular slang to Crane—explaining cop slang meant going down a road she wasn’t entirely sure she’d find her way home from. Got her twenty referred to her being on the job for two decades, thus vesting her pension, but she didn’t relish the notion of explaining humped a radio car.

  Irving saved her by putting his phone on speaker and placing it on the table next to the pizza box, the tinny sound of a ringing phone coming from the tiny speakers.

  “Sonofabitch,” said a sandpapery female voice without fanfare. “I was just thinking that the only way my day could get worse was if I heard from my old partner.”

  His grin a mile wide, Irving replied, “Well, I’m used to hearing your voice in my nightmares, so I may as well hear it on my phone, too.”

  Crane was giving Abbie a concerned look, but she just held up a hand and mouthed the words it’s okay.

  “You still working in the ’burbs?”

  “Yeah, Sleepy Hollow.”

  “You do remember that Westchester County is where they send the cops who can’t cut it in NYPD?”

  “Yeah, and the ones who can’t cut it in Westchester become insurance investigators.”

  Nugent’s laughter echoed from Irving’s phone. “Touché. All right, you may have nothing better to do in Sleeping Halo, but some of us work for a living, so let’s get to why you called me. Crap, I didn’t forget your birthday again, did I?”

  “No, this is actually a business call. I’ve got you on speaker with one of my officers, Abbie Mills, and a consultant we’ve got in from England, Ichabod Crane.”

  Now Nugent’s tone changed. The time for bantering with an ex-partner had passed and it was down to business. “What’s going on?”

  “I was down at the Met with Macey yesterday.”

  Another tone shift, this to friendly concern. “How’s she doing?”

  “Just fine. She’s getting ready for her SATs.”

  Abbie stared at her captain. The first sentence was an obvious lie, but the second was the declaration of a proud father. She didn’t get to see that side of Irving very often, and she had to admit to liking the look of pride on his face.

  “Oh c’mon, she can’t possibly be old enough to take the SATs. Her ninth-birthday party at Serendipity was only last year.”

  Irving snorted. “You wish. Yeah, I remember the day she was born like it was last week. Come to think of it, I remember it better than last week.”

  “You had a really crappy Christmas, too, huh?”

  Irving looked over at Abbie and Crane. “My whole life has been pretty crappy, honestly. Anyhow, the reason I called was that Macey and I were looking at an exhibit that was supposed to have two medals in the American Wing—the Congressional Crosses that were awarded to Marinus Willett and Abraham van Brunt. Thing is, we’ve got a lead from one of our CIs that somebody might be targeting those crosses.”

  “How—oh, right, suburbs. ’Course you got CIs who can give you intel on art heists. Probably know which wineries are being targeted, too, right?”

  Abbie recognized the stalling tactic. “Ms. Nugent, this is Lieutenant Mills. Captain Irving told us that the crosses were out for cleaning, but I’m guessing by your use of the term ‘art heist’ that the cleaning thing is just for the general public?”

  “Score one for the suburban cop. Look, Frank, I can’t have this getting out. We’ve kept the press, NYPD, and FBI out of it, but—”

  That got Abbie’s eyes to go wide. “You didn’t report it?”

  “Not yet—we think it was someone inside, and we want to try to take care of it internally first. If that doesn’t pan out, I’ll go down to the one-nine myself and fill out the report.”

  Crane gave Abbie another of his patented confused looks, and he mouthed, one nine?

  Abbie held up a hand to indicate that she’d explain later that Nugent was referring to the 19th Precinct of the NYPD, which included the Metropolitan in its domain. She did that a lot.…

  “Don’t worry, Beth, Lieutenant Mills and Mr. Crane are part of a classif
ied task force. They aren’t gonna be talking to anybody about any of this.” Irving punctuated that with a look at each of them. Crane looked nonplussed, but Abbie just gave the captain her are you serious? look.

  “All right,” Nugent said, “let me finish up our investigation here. Give me two days, and if I haven’t nailed anything down, I’ll take a drive up the Saw Mill Parkway, and we’ll compare notes.”

  “Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Beth.”

  “Miss Nugent, this is Ichabod Crane.”

  Abbie winced. It was always dangerous when Crane started talking to people who weren’t part of the craziness.

  “Yeah, the consultant. Nice accent.”

  “Er, thank you. I have a query regarding the crosses. By what means did they come into your museum’s possession?”

  “Both of them were gifted to the museum about a hundred years ago by descendants of the original owners. It was van Brunt’s grand-nephew and Willett’s great-grandson or some such. I could look it up if you want.”

  “No need. My thanks.”

  Irving reached for the phone. “Thanks again, Beth. We’ll talk soon.”

  “You bet. And give that kid of yours a kiss on the head from her old aunt Beth, ’kay?”

  Irving smiled. “Will do. Take care.” He ended the call.

  Crane turned his confused look on Irving. “In the early stages of your conversation, I feared that this Miss Nugent was a great enemy of yours.”

  Abbie was startled by Irving laughing in response to that. Irving hardly even smiled, much less laughed, to the point where she wouldn’t be able to swear on a Bible that Irving had teeth.

  “Yeah,” the captain said, “I can see why you’d think that.”

  “I imagine that your verbal japes derive from the time you spent humping with your radio car?”

  Now it was Abbie’s turn to laugh. “Great, now we’ve got him mangling cop slang. We’re doomed.”

  FIVE

  TARRYTOWN, NEW YORK

  JANUARY 2014