Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  “Sit with me?” said Jessica.

  “No. What do you want?”

  “To apologize.”

  “For?”

  She sat on the bench, crossed her legs, and lit a cigarette. “Leaving. I was stupid. And… it cost me everything.”

  Hadewych had expected anything but this. What was she up to? “You made your choice.”

  “It was all so… unnecessary.” She pressed a mitten to her face.

  “Why is that?”

  She blew smoke and a haze of blue and white drifted through the hanging hearts. “Paul told me about your Gift.”

  Hadewych turned away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She took his hand, reeled him in, and drew him to sit beside her. “Don’t worry. You won’t curse me.” She nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

  He stared at her as if she’d dropped from Saturn. “Since when?”

  “Since the beginning. I’m a telepath.”

  Hadewych jumped to his feet. “I knew it! I knew you were hiding a Gift from me.” He circled the bench, obliviously trampling the plastic roses.

  “How?”

  “Too many things didn’t add up. You knew all the same legends I did, for one. The Gifted, The Great Curse. The witch who cast it. And—I don’t know…” he reached up and flicked a candy heart with his finger. MAKE MAGIC bounced and spun. “I just… felt it. My grandmother was right. The world is full of…”

  “Wonders.” She plucked a rose, unbent its wire stem, and pushed it back into the ground. “I hated hiding it.”

  His mind was reeling. “Then why even marry me?”

  She shook her head. “Because I thought you had a Gift too.”

  “No. I was just—”

  “Normal.”

  He frowned. “In my own extraordinary way.”

  “But, see, you knew everything about our world! I thought you were trying to tell me you were one of us! And… the last descendant of Brom Bones. That’s—”

  He thought of Usher. “Supernatural provenance.”

  “Exactly. Most couples in our world are introduced by mutual friends, so there’s no danger. But we didn’t share any of the same people. And I loved you. I thought we’d find some way to tell each other. Eventually. And—” She looked away, crossing her legs in the opposite direction. “And, actually, I did tell you once.”

  Hadewych sat. “I don’t remember that.”

  “Our first anniversary. I made that Dutch scrapple thing you like?”

  “Balkenbrij.”

  “And we had some wine after. I got drunk and thought, go for it. So I told you. You were excited. Giddy. We had no secrets from each other.” She grew wistful. “I think we conceived Zef that night. And we lay there after and I asked what your Gift was. And you said, ‘Oh, I’m sure I’ll find it someday.’ You slept and I just lay there all night, crying, scared out of my mind that I had cursed you.”

  “I have no memory of this.”

  She faced him. “You almost died. The next day. At work.”

  “The engine block.”

  “You almost got squashed.”

  “And that was the Curse…”

  She nodded. “The Great Curse. I almost got you killed.”

  “But I healed. It was just a broken leg.”

  “It might have been your life.” She looked shaken, as if it were happening all over again.

  He put an arm around her, feeling oddly protective. “Let’s go back to the house. It’s too cold.”

  “I need to say it all.”

  “All right.” His hand closed on her shoulder. “Go on.”

  “So. You were normal… I didn’t want you to die. The spirits would never quit trying. Not if you knew what I was. So I…”

  “What?”

  “I took your memory away. Everything I’d told you. With my Gift. You were asleep in the hospital, stoned out of your mind. I snatched the whole conversation out of your head and stepped on it. As far as you knew, it never happened. You didn’t know what I was anymore. And that probably saved your life. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “It was the only thing I could think of. Afterwards… I felt foolish. Foolish for marrying you. I’d condemned myself to a life of hiding. But I’m no good at secrets. I would have spilled the beans again. I knew that about myself. My mother told me to leave, right then.”

  “Of course she did. Martha hated me.”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s not why. She cursed my father, you know.”

  “The car wreck?”

  “And after her dementia started I needed you more than ever but… I wanted to stay. Not just for me. Not for you, either. But…” Her hand trailed to her stomach.

  “For Zef.”

  “For Zef.” She flicked the cigarette into the street. “I prayed for a girl. But I had a boy… that’s when I knew I would leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Boys usually take after their fathers. They get their father’s Gift.”

  “Or lack of one.”

  “Or lack of one. So now I had two to hide from. Hell, even if I’d had a girl I might not have been able to keep to myself. Not until her Gift came and I could be sure. Chances are I’d have killed my whole family.”

  “I wish I could have known.”

  “I bore it as long as I could. I lasted seven years. But I took it out on you. I blamed you. I thought you’d tricked me into marriage.”

  A realization hit him and he withdrew from her. “That’s why you had the affair.”

  She nodded.

  He drummed his knees, waiting. “Who was he?”

  “You didn’t know him. A man I met, a man with a Gift who I didn’t have to hide from. It was more about that. More about the honesty than the sex.”

  “Who was he?”

  “It’s not important. The past is past. Don’t you see? I don’t blame you any more. I blame myself. A good wife—a good mother—would have found a way. I should have stayed and helped you find your Gift. However you finally found it.” She took his arm, turned his palm upward. “Show me what you can do?”

  He considered. He’d stood naked in front of this woman, countless times, but he hesitated to reveal this. His Gift had come to him by an evil road.

  “All right,” he said.

  Jessica opened her coat to shield them from the street. They huddled together, away from prying eyes. Hadewych made a tiny bonfire, warming them both. The light of it lit her cheeks and she looked lovely. She pressed her forehead to his.

  “I want to come back,” she whispered.

  He broke from her and shook away the flame. “That’s impossible.”

  “Why?”

  He felt outrage and embarrassment, as if she were trying to barge into his hoard of trash. He searched for a reason, any reason. “You could still curse Zef.”

  “No, actually I wouldn’t. I can tell him too.”

  Hadewych’s brow knit. “What do you mean?”

  “I found out at New Year’s. He doesn’t take after you after all. For some reason, he takes after me. He’s a telepath.”

  Hadewych felt a lump rise in his throat. He couldn’t speak immediately. When he did, his voice was hoarse and solemn. “A telepath.”

  “A natural charmer. He doesn’t know it yet, but… our son has a Gift. For that matter, so does the Crane boy.”

  “Jason?!” Hadewych wiped his cheek and leaned forward. “What makes you think so?”

  “Paul told me. He has a man named Mather who can—”

  “What Gift does Jason have?”

  “No idea, but he’s a Pyncheon so probably another telepath.”

  Hadewych’s mind raced through the implications. The last thing he wanted was for Jason to hear his thoughts. That might ruin everything. Could he? Could Jessica?

  He stared at her. Can you hear me right now?

  She saw him staring. “What?”

  “Can you read my mind?”

  “No. Only other Pynch
eons. Why?”

  Hadewych relaxed. “Just… trying to get a grip on all this.”

  Jessica put her head on his shoulder. “Look, let me spend time with Zef. I can teach him to use his powers. We could be a family. Even if you and me are only ever friends. We could still be parents.”

  “I don’t think so.” He stood and walked away.

  She rose and followed. “Give it a chance. Maybe there’s a reason you never filed those papers. Maybe this was supposed to happen. Why not?”

  Hadewych had been thinking of the reliquary, the red face. He’d almost killed this woman, only six weeks ago. He’d wanted her dead! Beheaded in the snow for the crime of not loving him! But what if she had loved him, after all? What if she still did? What if—

  “Tell me what you’re feeling,” she said.

  “I don’t know!” He whirled and held up both hands, stopping her. “Back off.”

  She didn’t back off. She knocked his hands aside, stepped forward and kissed him. Her hands drifted to the sides of his head. Immediately, the scent of her enveloped him. Her lipstick didn’t taste like damnation now. It tasted like wine. He felt as if a 40-kiloton arrow had struck them both with a blast of… mutually assured destruction.

  She broke the kiss. He leaned forward to recapture it.

  “Wow,” she said, smiling and wiping her mouth.

  “Wow.”

  She took his arm and led him up the hill. “Now, I don’t want to rush this. I don’t expect sex or anything. And I’ll understand if you can’t forgive me. But—think about it? I’ll be here.”

  “You’re staying in town?”

  She nodded. “I’m a Sleepy-head again. I found an apartment.”

  “Where?”

  “Over by Patriots Park. Nice little place. Landlady’s a bit creepy. She has a tracheostomy valve.”

  “Valerie Maule?” Hadewych looked horrified. “You rented my old apartment?”

  “I know,” she said. “I couldn’t resist. I was curious to find out who had been raising my son. She’s a decent woman.”

  “She’s a liar.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not pumping her for dirt on you. She doesn’t even know who I am. I’m Jessica Stone to her. Don’t say anything. She’d probably kick me out. But the other night she showed me pictures of Zef. His school pictures.”

  “I didn’t know she had those.”

  “I’ve missed so much. I don’t want to miss any more.”

  They reached the house and stood by the mailbox again. Hadewych felt as if he could still see those candy hearts, hanging over her head. LOVE BUNNY and DREAM BIG and BE TRUE. What had he told Zef? The love of a good woman is an amazing thing. It transforms a man. Makes him better. Without a woman to keep us honest, men aren’t worth much.

  “Think about it?” Jessica said.

  He nodded and that satisfied her. She squeezed his arm, turned, and walked away. He watched her go, until she disappeared around a corner.

  Could he start over? He could. He’d promised to. That had been his New Year’s resolution. He could still be good. Couldn’t he? Sunlight broke through the clouds. Spring was on its way. Why not? He didn’t need Usher. He didn’t need that ghastly reliquary. No shortcuts. That’s what his mother had always said. We’ll get there. With work and nothing else. Why not, indeed? He could join the world. He could get a job again. A real job with a desk and a computer and Blue Cross. He could shovel out his bedroom and have clean sheets, warmed by a woman. He didn’t have to plot and plan and steal… or kill. He didn’t need Jason’s money. He could let the Crane boy go, let him be, let him live…

  But Jason still might talk… He considered. If I want to be a good man, I have to keep that little queer silent. I have to deal with him. By whatever means necessary. Then… what’s past is past. I can put an end to it all. The whole bloody saga of the Van Brunts. Zef never has to know about any of it. He deserves a normal life. Children deserve a mom and a dad, and—

  Hadewych remembered something. Eliza’s will had been specific. One particular clause had always been central to his plans. He mulled his options. He had hoped for the entire hundred and twelve million, but…

  If Jason dies… without children… The Pyncheon Legacy “shall be delivered to the nearest Pyncheon relative,” which means to Jessica. And Jessica and I… are still married. So the Legacy would be… half mine if we ultimately divorced. And entirely ours, if we were a couple. So… worst case scenario… fifty-six million.

  Hadewych made his decision. He knew what he had to do.

  Everything would change. He would be good. Not immediately, of course, and not all at once. But soon. Gradually. After he and Jessica were properly back together…

  …and after Jason was dead.

  After all—I must Look to Family.

  Zef sat on his bed with the pages of the letter spread around him. He had paused, trying to take it all in. What struck him most was the hatred Dylan had felt for his father. For Brom. Zef understood that, more than he cared to admit.

  The persimmon tree scratched at his window. He stared at the pages of the letter, at the other endless chicken-scratch. At the tale of horror and death that still pulsed in his own blood.

  And Father knew. He knew all this.

  “What have you done, Daddy?” he whispered. Anger rose. He was suddenly eager to read the rest of Dylan’s tale. After all, he’d just come to the good part. He couldn’t wait to see how his namesake had killed his own father…

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Dylan’s Tale Concludes”

  I knew what I must do. Father was quite capable of disinheriting me. He could write a new will and rob me of the Van Brunt gold and quarry stone, just as he’d robbed me of the book and reliquary. I saw no other way to proceed. The younger Bones would have to slay the elder, and soon.

  It is a difficult undertaking to pursue. How does one kill one’s own father? That is like murdering God. I prayed over it, spending endless hours on my knees at the Old Dutch Church. How could I live with myself should my father die at my hand? I turned to my books, to find what had been written on the question. I found no advice and hardly any examples. Surely the act was not so inconceivable?

  The Bible was no help. Aside from a few tantalizing passages in Second Kings and Isaiah, the subject of patricide was not discussed in the Old or New Testaments, aside from the commandment to “Honor thy father and mother.” Where in God’s Book is a commandment to honor thy own child? It is nowhere to be found. The Holy Writ is rife with tales of fathers who kill their sons. Killing your son is a sport amongst the great men of scripture. God himself kills his son for the sins of all mankind. Is son-killing, then, a noble act? That is what the scriptures intimate. How noble! To take thy son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt offering. How noble to sacrifice your son on Golgotha. But may the son never striketh the father with justifiable wrath? Must a son bear all iniquities and give full measure of his devotion, even when it is not earned or deserved? Even in the face of insults and abuse and disinheritance? Can Isaac never take up the knife himself and lay Abraham on the sacrificial altar?

  I threw the Bible aside, finding no comfort there. Nor did I find any in the tale of blind Oedipus, who killed his father and lay with his mother. Were there no positive examples in all my books? In every tale, the act of patricide seemed an unforgivable sin. But why should that surprise? Fathers pass these injunctions on to their sons, therefore any tale that condones patricide shall necessarily end with the first teller. A master does not teach his slave to revolt. He teaches that revolt is a most heinous crime, else all cruel masters would be overthrown and their works brought low.

  In Rome, the punishment for patricide was to be scourged until the skin fell from one’s flesh; a man would be sewn into a bag along with a ravenous dog, a snake, a rooster, and a monkey. He would be thrown into the Tiber to die, torn by the thrashing of the terrified beasts. This punishment sym
bolized the un-birthing of the sinner who had rejected his parent and it was considered the proper end of the man who turned against the source of life.

  No! I must not kill Father. Why entertain the notion? Brom is old, growing more enfeebled daily. Wait. Let Nature work upon him. Let the ox turn its wheel. All men are ground to flour in time.

  But what of my inheritance? What of my gold and the quarry? Would I be robbed of these? On whom would Brom settle his estate if not myself? The answer came to me in an instant. Brom would give all his wealth to the Church. Imagine! To see the Van Brunt riches squandered on the little balding domine! To see the minister counting silver coins on the altar—a modern Judas—he who had done no labor, he who had never sweated at the brick-ovens, he who had never choked on quarry dust. Imagine the comedy of that useless little man exchanging his proper sackcloth for golden slippers and purple silk while I languish, stripped naked of my rightful due, forced to work for him, should he keep me on, or to beg from him, should he replace me.

  I would not risk being left in such a position, to trade all the comfort of my old age and the future prosperity of my family to buy a few additional years of life for an already enfeebled fool. I would do old Brom a courtesy by killing him! I would save him from senility and all the embarrassments of senescence. Blessed be the son who spares his father the indignity of rot! Blessed be Oedipus, who slew Old King Laius at the crossroads and took his father’s throne for himself.

  And wouldn’t Agathe approve?

  Look to Family.

  Brom must die, I decided, and before he altered his will. But how to do it? Oh, to still possess the Horseman’s Treasure. I attempted to rifle the Van Brunt Tomb but was unsuccessful. How I longed for my servant-ghost, to rest by the fire while old Brom met his end on some lonely road. I wracked my brain to devise some contrivance by which I could stage an accident at the quarry. At inquest, I could claim that a despondent Brom had followed his Katrina to the same fate. Yet Brom never visited the quarry at night and in daylight far too many eyes were present. I considered and abandoned all notions of poison or other device. I knew nothing of these, and father and I never dined together. I settled on the pistol, for I am an excellent shot. I would stalk my father and do away with him at some opportune time, trusting in the credulity of the authorities and in my own cunning.