Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  “Go Horsemen!” said the clerk, raising a fist. But Maureen began to circle the counter to follow. Jason stiff-armed the door and power-walked to the cruiser. He sped away, splashing Maureen with a blast of ice and snow when she emerged.

  He cursed all the way back up Saw Mill River Parkway, slapping his hands against the steering wheel as the defroster blew a futile stream of heat.

  Hadewych had moved the Treasure, all right. And right before he’d arrived! Jason had missed finding the thing by a half hour. Why hadn’t he broken into the room sooner? Was the timing a coincidence? He doubted it. Had Hadewych known he was coming? No, he couldn’t have. Hadewych hadn’t moved the Treasure to keep it hidden. He’d moved it because—

  Then it hit him.

  Hadewyh had taken the Treasure because he intended to use it.

  At the party.

  Jason felt a stab of terror.

  Someone is going to die tonight.

  A car honked behind him. He scowled and adjusted his rearview mirror. The car behind was a silver Mercedes. It pulled up alongside. Hadewych was driving. He raised one index finger and drew it across his neck.

  Caught.

  Jason drove up Broadway, his mind racing. He stopped for the light at Bedford Avenue, the cruiser side by side with the Mercedes like racehorses at the gate. He’d put together a contingency plan for this, inspired by something Valerie had said on Christmas Eve. He looked at the shoebox on the passenger side floorboards. Hopefully his ruse would work. But what if Hadewych searched his backpack?

  The light changed. On impulse, he hit the gas and raced ahead. The car hit the snowy slope of Gory Brook Road and Jason almost lost control. Fortunately the salt trucks had visited Gory Brook that morning. The wheels found the asphalt and climbed the hill. He slid into the driveway of 417, bounded from the car, shouldered his backpack, and grabbed the shoebox.

  As soon as he opened the front door, a fist came out of nowhere and flattened his nose. Jason dropped to one knee and shook his head, shaking away stars and tweetybirds. Zef loomed over him.

  “What the hell are you doing in my car?”

  Jason stood and crossed the living room, holding his nose. He dropped the backpack into a chair with calculated sloppiness, letting it tumble and roll under the table. He set down the shoebox and led Zef to the kitchen, grabbing a dishtowel and filling it with ice.

  “Answer me. Where do you get the balls?”

  The front door slammed. “Jason!” shouted Hadewych.

  “He’s in here,” said Zef, with a note of expectation.

  Hadewych appeared, face full of wrath. “Explain yourself.”

  Jason pushed past both of them and crossed to the breakfast table. He pressed the ice pack to his nose, giving himself an excuse to accidentally kick the backpack into the shadows as he seized the shoebox. He took a deep breath. Curtain time.

  “What did you expect me to do?” His voice high and ugly. He threw the ice pack at the sink and cubes flew into the air. He tore the lid from the box and brandished a pair of leather dress shoes, shaking them at Hadewych’s face. “Look nice! That’s what you said! Look nice for the party! But you don’t bother to ask if I’ve got any damn clothes! You’re my guardian? I don’t even have a pair of dress shoes to my name! I had to drive all the way down to Revell’s—in the snow—to find some! For your damn party. And now I get punched for it?”

  “You took Zef’s car. That is not appro—”

  “You weren’t here! Neither of you! You turned off my damn cell phone, too.” Jason strode into the living room, knocking the davenport over, making a scene, drawing attention away from the backpack. “A hundred and twelve million dollars! And you can’t pay my Verizon? What kind of craptastic guardian are you?” He kicked over the fireplace tongs, felt himself losing control, no longer performing but really beginning to boil. The long weeks of stress had frayed his nerves and this rant felt good. “Thank God for Valerie! She gave me money for the shoes. You, you turned off my MasterCard! What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I didn’t realize—”

  “Of course you didn’t realize. Because you’re wrapped up in your parties and shit and not taking care of me like you’re supposed to.” Jason pounded his chest. “Why don’t I have a car? Huh? Zef’s got one. Why don’t I? That’s the least you can do. I’m good for it, right? Right?”

  He was at full boil now, flinging his fists about dramatically.

  “Answer me!” he shouted, but cut Hadewych off before he could. “Why doesn’t my grandmother even have a goddamned headstone?”

  He stopped. He’d seen something impossible, something he’d never seen on Hadewych’s face before. A stab of guilt.

  “Apologize, Zef,” said Hadewych.

  “For what?”

  Hadewych gave Zef a small slap. “We don’t hit people in this house. He better not be bruised up tonight. Jason’s the host of the party. Now apologize.”

  “I’m sorry, Jason,” Zef mumbled, rubbing his cheek.

  “No worries.” Jason tossed him a ring of keys. “Sorry I borrowed your car.”

  “And I will take care of the headstone,” said Hadewych. “I will. I have been… distracted. Probate. Death certificates. Paperwork, paperwork. Being executor takes up so much… time.” Hadewych trailed off, staring at a spot of bright red beneath the breakfast table.

  Jason tensed. “Are we done here?”

  Hadewych blinked, sighed, and nodded. “Get dressed. Both of you.” He slithered out of his jacket, hung it in the entry hall closet, and ascended the stairs.

  Jason righted the davenport, hoping he hadn’t damaged it.

  Zef leaned in the entranceway, clapping softly. “Nice performance.”

  “No idea what you mean.”

  Zef produced a dress shoe and turned it in his hands. “These are way too small for your feet.”

  He was right, of course. Jason had bought the largest shoes Revell’s sold, but you can’t buy size seventeens just anywhere. He’d wanted the box. And the receipt, in case Hadewych asked for it.

  Jason shrugged and took the shoes. “Would you look at that. You’re right. I guess I mistook the two for a seven.” He felt guilty for his next words before he even said them but, hell, a sucker punch deserved a low blow in return. He clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “Good catch, Zef. You’ve got a real eye for fashion.”

  Zef darkened.

  Jason picked up the backpack and carried it into his room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “Stone Barns”

  The Mercedes paused at a security checkpoint. Jason rolled down the rear window and gaped up at the place. He had expected a plain banquet hall—some conference center dining room with a dozen fat cats hobnobbing over cigars and wine. What he got was a castle. The Stone Barns Center for Food and Agriculture commanded the crest of a snowy hill. Strings of white Christmas lights picked out the lines of gabled roofs. Two silos of stone thrust up from the back of the building like turrets. The wings of former stables embraced an immense party pavilion erected in the central courtyard. The tent glowed from within, warm and inviting. Stone bridges forded a rocky moat. A handful of farm buildings clustered on the slopes below, like a feudal village. Only the modern greenhouse spoiled the effect: it looked like an airplane hangar. The whole place screamed privilege and power and the divine right of kings.

  “Hadewych,” said Jason.

  “Hm?”

  “How much did you spend on this party?”

  “Not that much.”

  Uniformed butlers met them at the door. The banquet director appeared and whisked Hadewych away for last-minute adjustments before the guests arrived. Zef followed, combing his hair as he walked. Jason checked his coat and wandered the building, stunned and horrified. The halls were wood-paneled and elegant. He found the courtyard and slipped through a slot of plastic, into the heated tent. A stage had been set up at one end, like a dais without a throne. Workmen were connecting microphone cables and pre
-amps. Instrument cases of a small orchestra stood stacked like children’s coffins. An enormous iron antique clock hung overhead, presumably for the midnight countdown. Three rows of cocktail tables encircled the dance floor, flanked by clam and shrimp stations, long tables burdened with lobster and fruit, three open bars, a carving station, a Christmas tree suitable for the White House lawn, and an ice sculpture of Paul Usher’s head. Red, white, and blue balloons hung in a net above. Campaign posters decorated every wall.

  “Hadewych!” Jason cried, startling the florists.

  The tent was just for the reception, he discovered. He ran back into the building and found the main banquet hall, one story up. Thirty linen-draped round tables filled the main hall, set with china and silver and droopy tropical centerpieces.

  Jason noticed a chalkboard with writing and stomped over to it. He scanned the five-course menu, not recognizing the name of any dish, and goggled at the per-person price written in pale green chalk at the bottom.

  His jaw dropped.

  “Can I help you?” A man in a black suit appeared. The blackboard did a backflip in its frame, almost dealing Jason an uppercut. “This information is not for guests.”

  “I’m not a guest. I’m the host. And I’m calling this party off.”

  “And you are?”

  “I am Mister Crane.”

  “Ah. But this is the Van Brunt event. You’ll need to speak with him.”

  Hadewych had entered, noshing something from a linen napkin. Jason dodged racks of gilded chairs and a woman with a vacuum cleaner. The banquet director followed.

  “The party’s over,” Jason said.

  Hadewych sighed. “What is it now?”

  “Are you trying to bankrupt the estate? This is… too much!”

  “It’s hardly a baseline event. People are paying ten thousand a head.”

  Jason relaxed. “Oh. Fine, then. That will cover all of this?”

  “Of course not. The per-person goes to Usher’s campaign, not to us. What do you think we’re doing tonight?”

  “I think we’re pissing away my money on your friends.”

  “You never see the big picture. Tonight is for you.” He opened the napkin. “Taste these cranberry-duck puffs. They’re decadent.”

  “I don’t want any. I want this thing canceled and refunded.”

  The banquet director cocked an eyebrow.

  “There are no refunds,” Hadewych said, putting a hand on the man’s arm reassuringly. “The food is cooked. The band’s engaged. There’s nothing to do now but enjoy.”

  “Excuse me,” said a green-vested worker. He held up a walkie-talkie. “Sir, your guests are arriving downstairs.”

  “Excellent,” said Hadewych. “You may butler the champagne.”

  Jason shook his head and went to the window. A hundred pairs of orbs were drifting up the hill. The headlights of limousines.

  The David Rockefeller Reading Room occupied one of the former grain silos, which were flush to the side of the building and integrated with it. It was an interesting space. The silo was high, cavernous, with dim mood lighting. A long ladder of crude rungs protruded from the wall. Jason could barely make out a catwalk and windows at the very top and access panels—presumably to the building’s attic—about halfway up. At bottom were bookcases and a comfy circular couch. Jason sat there and seethed. He leaned against the curve of the bookshelves and stared at the tiny windows far above.

  He had time to kill while the guests arrived. He wished he hadn’t left his backpack in the Mercedes and thought about fetching it. Maybe he could find a secluded spot to read the Dylan letter.

  Couples passed by the door—men in tailored suits, women in designer finery—checking their coats at the neighboring silo. He watched them enter. He had nothing against rich people, but every person that passed was another stranger he was paying to feed, and frankly, none of Usher’s cronies were hurting for grocery money. A banquet employee stood unobtrusively to one side, tallying heads with a clicker behind his back.

  “But I have to be on the list!”

  Jason recognized the voice. He rose and pushed through the crowd. Joey was arguing with security.

  “It’s okay,” Jason said, tugging the doorman’s sleeve. “I invited him.”

  The doorman scanned his clipboard. “Name again?”

  “Joey Osorio.”

  “You’re not on here.”

  Jason raised a hand. “I’m the host. This is my friend. Can you let him in please?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t, sir. You are?”

  “Jason Crane!” said Paul Usher.

  They turned. Usher stood a few feet behind Joey, watching the scene with amused benevolence. The guests in line applauded. Usher raised leather gloves and nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Jason, Jason,” he said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support tonight.” He clapped Jason’s shoulder and waved backhandedly to the help. “Any friend of Jason’s is a friend of mine.”

  Usher slipped an arm around Joey’s back and escorted him inside. Two security guards followed, men with thick necks and small calibers. Usher shook hands along the coat check line, cut in at the front, and grinned charmingly at the girl who took his grey overcoat and red scarf.

  Jason felt daunted by Usher. He matched Jason in height and far outdid him in musculature. He was movie-star handsome, charismatic, and had chestnut hair that curled like braids of Medusa.

  Usher sneezed and frowned at the coat-check girl. “A little less perfume next time, dear,” he whispered. He straightened the flag pin on his lapel, turned on his heels and marched into the reception tent, met by applause and flash bulbs.

  “Are we ready for this thing?” muttered Jason.

  “I am if you are,” said Joey.

  They walked towards the tent.

  “Pardon me, sir?” said the man with the clicker. He pointed to the floor. Joey had left a trail of muddy footprints across the stone of the entrance hall.

  Joey gave a strangled yip and backed away from the prints, creating more and more new ones. “It’s happening again,” he blurted.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Bathroom?” asked Joey.

  “The men’s lounge is upstairs,” said the clicker.

  Joey ran off.

  “Happy New Year,” said a voice. Kate stood in the doorway. She wore a skintight red dress that hugged her body like paint on a Trans Am.

  “Happy New Year,” he gasped, smiling appreciatively. He crossed to her and, on impulse, leaned in to kiss her cheek. She put a palm on his chest, stopping him short. With a glance at the other guests, she took Jason’s elbow and pulled him into the reading room.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “I’m just glad to see you.” He reached for her hand. “It’s been weeks.”

  She pushed him away, gently but firmly. “Not. Cool.”

  “What’s wrong? Did you get my present?”

  “Yes. Thank you. And that’s what’s wrong. You shouldn’t have sent that to the house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not? Now my dad thinks I’m cheating on Zef. I told you to stay off his radar. Now you’ve got a target on your back. Be very careful tonight. Very, very, careful.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. Now we’ll have to avoid each other all night. And I’ve already lost Zef to Congressman Ass-Pinch of the Yale Selection Committee.” She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for the pendant. Now down, boy. Sit. Stay.” She stomped off.

  Jason didn’t sit or stay. He followed, his eyes on the bare skin of her shoulders and the long seam down her back and her absence of panty line. He followed until he lost her in the crowd.

  He sighed and went looking for Joey. It wasn’t hard to find him: a trail of mud led up the carpeted stairwell and through the door of the men’s lounge. Joey stood at the sink, wide-eyed and panicky. He had his dress shoes off and was rubbing them with paper towels.

  “W
hat’s up with you? It’s just a little mud.”

  “It’s not just a little mud! It’s following me.”

  “Footprints do that.”

  “No, no. Remember the cemetery? The little girl? It’s her. This is how she ‘plays.’ She followed me to Seattle.”

  “She what?”

  “She followed me to Seattle. To my grandmother’s.” Joey twisted the water tap, washing his hands. “Argh. You never listen to your voice mail!”

  “Hadewych turned my cell off. What happened?”

  “It was a disaster. One poltergeist moment after another. I’m like some dirt magnet. Everybody kept saying ‘Joey, you’ve got a spot!’ ‘Joey, wash your hands!’, ‘Joey, what’s on your nose?’ I’ve never had so many old women licking napkins at me! It’s not funny.”

  “Sorry, but that is funny.”

  “It is not.” He unbuttoned his shirt and ripped something from around his neck. He pressed the silver owl talisman into Jason’s hand. “Here. Give this back to Valerie.”

  “No. Keep it.”

  “It’s useless!”

  Jason sighed and slipped the talisman into his pocket. “Did you see ghosts?”

  “No. Maybe. I don’t know. But I think they want to bury me. It’s revenge, you know? For me burying them. First my car, then Booger, now this. Do these shoes look clean?”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got a spot.”

  “Where?”

  “Back of your neck.”

  “Get it, would you?” Joey sloughed off his suit jacket and handed Jason a wet towel.

  Jason went to work on a patch of clay. “What have you been rolling in?”

  “No editorializing. I’m the victim here. Have you got it?”

  “Not yet. I might need a napkin to lick.”

  “Ha ha.”

  The door opened and Hadewych appeared. “How adorable,” he said. “The little monkeys are grooming each other.” The boys pulled apart. Joey straightened his tie and reached for his jacket. Hadewych scowled. “What’s that one doing here?”

  “That one is my guest,” said Jason.

  “Not how it works.” Hadewych straddled a urinal. “Unless digging holes pays better than I suspect. Does he have ten grand to spare?”