Sleepy Hollow: Bridge of Bones

by Richard Gleaves

  “And the brook ran red with gore.”

  “That’s the myth. But let’s stick to facts. Both sides were decimated. To the man.”

  “No. There were two soldiers left. One of them was my ancestor.”

  “I didn’t know you were related to William Crane.”

  “Yeah, he was…” Ichabod’s father, he almost said, but thought better of it. “…he was a distant relation.”

  “I’m impressed. I don’t know about any second survivor, but William Crane is our only witness.”

  “And the Hero of Gory Brook.”

  “According to his own account, anyway.”

  “What do you mean ‘his own account’?”

  “His account is the only one we have. He claimed to have survived an ambush and to have single-handedly killed an entire company of Howe’s best. But there was never any corroboration of his story. People just… took his word. It was a different time. A few celebrations were given in his honor, here in Tarrytown, and when Washington crossed the Pocantico and sheltered his troops at the Old Dutch Church, William Crane rejoined the army and marched off to New Jersey.”

  “Did he ever come back?”

  “Not that I know of. After the war, he probably went home—wherever he came from. Why?”

  “I thought… I thought he died in Tarrytown.”

  “No. What gave you that impression?”

  The Nightmare, Jason almost said. So it wasn’t William that the Horseman killed at the bridge? Then who did the Horseman kill? “You think that this map was carried by one of the soldiers that night?”

  “I’d say so.”

  Jason flipped it over. “And the German…”

  “That’s obvious, isn’t it?” Smolenski turned to an illustration: men riding horses, wearing black fur hats and coats of blue wool. “Howe wanted to keep his main army together, so he sent out parties of…”

  “Hessians.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why not Redcoats? Why Hessians?”

  “Hessians were hired mercenaries. They were vicious. They were bloodthirsty.” Smolenski shrugged. “And they were expendable. What you have here…” He put the paper in Jason’s hand. “…is a map of the Gory Brook area…” He flipped it over. “…and the handwriting of a Hessian soldier.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “Patriots Park”

  Jason and Joey began their after-school jog at the offices of the graveyard.

  Graveyard. A far more appropriate word than “cemetery” now. The headstones and sepulchers bled sinister rust-streaks, black lichen tormented the locust trees, and wooly spider-web veiled the faces of the statuary so that, even in the middle of spring, the grounds emanated autumnal menace.

  “My dad’s sick over it,” Joey said as they jogged. “People take one look and they bail. Nobody wants to be buried here.”

  “Why do you sound so happy?”

  “It’s a load off. Every loved one we bury is another spirit I’m delivering into slavery. Adding to his army. I’m the Horseman’s damn recruitment officer. The fewer burials, the better. But I can’t tell my dad that.”

  Jason waved the air. “Is that pesticide? It stinks.”

  “Wait ’til we fertilize again.”

  They jogged past the receiving vault, skirted the spot where the pumpkin felled Joey, and gave a friendly wave to the white nub of Irving’s headstone. They gained speed, sprinting downhill towards the tilted stones of the Burying Ground. Neither spoke along this stretch. Both thought of Halloween, of the growing evil they still faced. They kept their guards up until they reached the Old Dutch Church and circled to the front, out of sight of the Horseman’s grave.

  Jason pointed to the Crane Foundation sign alongside the church steps and rolled his eyes. “I have an idea about this.”

  “Hit me.”

  “Brom and Katrina were married at this church. Right? And Dylan was christened here.”

  “So?”

  “So… Come on.”

  They reached the south cemetery gate and jogged in place, waiting for the light. They crossed over to the millpond side of Broadway and paused at the north end of the Horseman Bridge. Jason pointed to another green sign.

  “Agathe worked at the mill when she was a girl. Later on this was Cornelia Beekman’s property, her rival’s, and Agathe was jealous of it. The Van Brunt quarry was just north of here. It’s Fremont Pond now. It’s got a Crane Foundation sign too.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And… bear with me. Race you to the top.”

  They sprinted across the Horseman Bridge and struggled up the steep hill. Jason reached Beekman Avenue first and tagged the town clock.

  “Damn, Jason, you’re fast!” huffed Joey.

  “Lots of practice.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  “Fine. All that time in bed did me a favor.”

  Jason thumped the small green plaque bolted to the pedestal.

  Landscaping underwritten

  by the Crane Foundation.

  “Seeing a pattern?” Jason said.

  “Hadewych’s been a busy boy.”

  “And it’s all specific places. South of the Manor was Beekmantown, another thing named for Agathe’s rival. That’s all this modern area. Sunnyside has a plaque too. Before Irving owned it, it was Woolfert’s Roost.”

  “The Van Tassel farm.”

  “Which came into the Van Brunt family after Agathe killed Baltus. North of that was Knoll, the manor house Brom was building.”

  “You said he never finished it.”

  “He didn’t. But it was built. By somebody else—Paulding. Knoll is—”

  “Lyndhurst Manor? I’ve been there. Weird old place. Like Quasimodo’s summer house.”

  “I bet we’d find Katrina’s grave in the woods between them. And I checked. Lyndhurst has a plaque.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that all these places were significant to…”

  “The Van Brunt Family Singers.”

  “Right. Symbolic. Places with an emotional attachment. You know how Hadewych is with all this ‘Look to Family’ business, right? His ego is off the charts. The very first night I met him, he was griping about there being ‘no Van Brunt Street.’ ‘No Bones Boulevard.’ He’s in a pissing match with the whole world. He needs to mark his territory. If he could, he’d buy all these places with my money and slap his own name on them. But he can’t. He’s got to make it look like it’s all for me. That’s why all this Crane Foundation stuff. He’s using my money to get control of these places.”

  Joey scowled. “That… asshole.”

  “I think he’ll kill me eventually and then just… change the signs. That’s his plan, and then this whole town will read ‘Van Brunt Foundation’ from one end to the other.”

  They jogged on, passing the Horseman Restaurant, approaching the high school.

  “Have you said anything?” asked Joey.

  “What can I say? I don’t control the money. We met with Piebald. He says the expense is legitimate and the amounts are reasonable. I can’t prove it’s anything but civic philanthropy. Everybody around here thinks Hadewych’s a model citizen and I’m a reformed vandal. They want to pin a medal on both of us. I hate it. I hate owing my new popularity to—” Jason stopped and pointed. “Oh crap. Speaking of Quasimodo…”

  Eddie Martinez worked at the Mobil station now. He was building a tower of tires beneath the winged red horse logo. He saw the joggers, balled fists black with oil, and pursued. Joey slapped Jason on the back and they sped down an alley, dodging cars and weaving through back yards. They caught a glimpse of Eddie turning circles at the top of Depeyster Street, searching for them. At last Eddie scowled, whirled, and stomped back to the station.

  “I thought we were rid of him,” grumbled Joey. “He’s such a freaking stereotype. Like he stepped out of an eighties John Hughes movie and wants to rumble us.”

  They stopped at a water fountain
and strolled into Patriots Park. “There’s another one,” said Jason, pointing at a plaque that stuck up from the grass like a golf flag.

  “What’s the connection here?”

  “No idea.”

  A scattering of daisies dusted the green slopes. They crossed a stone bridge over a brook. The water flowed from an immense culvert beneath Broadway and dribbled through the center of the park. The culvert looked like a severed artery spilling rusty blood. Its walls were lined with red brick. Dylan’s brick? Was that culvert part of the aqueduct system? Was that the connection?

  “I think I know,” said Joey. “See here?” A statue of a man in colonial dress commanded the top of a marble pillar. “It’s the captor’s monument. That’s why this is Patriots Park. It’s where they captured Major André. The hanging tree was here. Center of Broadway. I guess it’s gone now. That’s the connection. This is the André Brook.”

  Jason watched the cars whizzing through the ghost of the hanging tree. “So this… is where Ichabod first saw the Horseman… Where Absalom and Dylan faced him down.”

  Joey nodded. “Wildey Swamp. In fact…” He pointed southward. “Wildey Street’s down that way. Never put the two together before.”

  Jason turned and wandered onto the grass, wondering where Absalom’s head had been found. He heard cries of Make the Bridge! Make the Bridge! rippling the wind, thin and distant, mingling with the laughter of nearby children throwing their Frisbee. Wildey Swamp…

  “What’s wrong?” said Joey.

  “History.” Jason shook his head. “It’s just… overwhelming sometimes. Look at everybody. That couple over there. These kids. The woman with the dog. Doing their thing, driving their cars. And all these stories are layered under it all. Right under their feet. I bet not one in a thousand know where these names come from, what they mean. And this is just a couple square miles of Westchester County. Joey—the whole world’s like this. It’s overwhelming.”

  Joey put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “And you can feel those layers, can’t you?”

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You’re closer to them than the rest of us.” Joey repressed a smirk.

  “Are you giving me shit?”

  “No. I agree with you. We see eye to eye.”

  “What are you giggling about?”

  “We’re completely eye to eye. In so many ways.”

  “Okay, what is it?”

  Joey was barely holding it together. “You know, I don’t remember you being this short.”

  Jason frowned. He and Joey were eye to eye, though he was far taller. He looked down. His legs ended in stumps. His feet had sunk into the ground, like quicksand, into the… the dirt…

  “Joey!”

  “Something wrong, Jase?”

  “Not funny!” He tried to grab Joey’s shirt.

  Joey jumped away, half in hysterics. “I just wanted to help you.”

  “Get me out of here.”

  “Why? Can’t you feel the layers? All the layers under our feet?”

  Jason pivoted, lost balance, and made circles with his arms. “You can’t use your Gift in public!”

  “Don’t be such a stick in the mud.” Joey laughed even harder.

  “Oh, you better start running.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch. Okay. Watch.” Joey raised his hands and closed his eyes.

  “No. Someone might see.” The ground spit Jason with enough force to launch him backwards and onto his ass. “Ow!”

  “Sorry. I’m still getting the hang of it. There’s a learning curve.”

  “That was stupid. You could have cursed somebody.”

  “Lay off, Dad. I’m no good at hiding stuff. ‘Out’ is my middle name.”

  Jason shook dirt from of his left sneaker. “I’m serious.”

  “What good are superpowers if we can’t use them? Look, up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s—ugh!” He mimed strangulation. “And half of Metropolis drops dead.” He fell to his knees, gasped “Rosebud,” and collapsed onto the grass.

  “Get up.” Jason nudged him with his foot. “We’re not superheroes.”

  “We ought to be.” Joey rose and leapt the André Brook with a single bound. “You should be at the hospital, using your powers to cure people’s cancer. And I should be… doing dirt-power stuff.”

  Jason followed via the bridge. “You know why we can’t.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Joey threw a rock at the water. “The Great Curse sucks.” He turned to go. “I’m heading out. You still coming over to watch the meteor shower? My dad says you can.”

  “Nine o’clock? Sure.”

  “See you later, then.” Joey loped away.

  “Hey!”

  Joey turned. “What?”

  “It’s great you want us to be heroes. I think it would be cool too. We’ll do what we can. Just don’t start sewing costumes yet. Deal?”

  “Deal. But I will be submitting designs.”

  “Nothing too gay.”

  Joey considered. “I make no promises.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  “The Meteor Shower”

  Kate stretched out on a lawn chair in her backyard, ready for the big show. Tonight’s meteor shower was forecast to be one of the grandest ever seen over Westchester. She didn’t want to miss it.

  She thought of Jason. He’d probably be watching the display tonight, too. She considered calling him. Or Zef. But… No.

  I don’t feel like seeing anyone. I’m too depressed.

  She’d been feeling listless, ever since her father left. Ever since she’d hiked up to Spook Rock and done her stupid naked dance. Sometimes she wondered if she’d danced herself into a low branch and had knocked herself out. She’d awakened the next morning in the cemetery, in the back seat of her parked car with her sweater on backwards. The memory embarrassed her. What had she been thinking?

  She’d been sleeping a lot. Falling asleep and having… little blackouts. They worried her. She was too young for a sleep disorder. She’d chalked it up to the shock of finding out about Zef, to her sadness over losing her Gift, and to the time of year. She’d always dreaded spring, ever since the Easter her mom had prophesied her coming cancer.

  Kate could see the seven sisters on the horizon, just barely. She’d always associated them with her mother, partly because of that silly Star-Maiden legend mom told, but also because the Pleiades die at springtime. April, May… and they vanish from the sky. The sisters vanish at Easter and rise again in June… chased by Cancer the Crab, nipping at their heels.

  Kate could only see six of the Pleiades. The last, the seventh sister, was invisible but still there. Kate had known their names, once…

  Asterope, raped by Ares…

  …and Celæno, seduced by Poseidon…

  …and Electra, pursued by Zeus…

  …and Taygeta who gave birth to the founder of Sparta…

  …and… and Maia… the oldest and most beautiful…

  …and Alcyone… the… the fat one in the middle…

  …and… and, oh, I’m forgetting one… the seventh sister… the invisible one… her name is… oh… her name is…

  “Her name is Agathe.”

  A spirit came out of the darkness, enveloping Kate. Moments later, the meteor shower began, bright as tear-tracks down the face of the night, but Kate was no longer there to witness it.

  Eddie Martinez picked up a fifty-pound barbell and did a few warm-up curls. The porch light threw his shadow across the grass of his back yard. A few sparks lit the sky. He’d heard about the meteor shower on the news but that sort of thing didn’t interest him. He didn’t lift outside in order to see stupid lights. He lifted outside because he had to. His dad had kicked Eddie’s weight sets and circuit machine out of the basement and had set up a home theater system instead, saying that Eddie wasn’t an athlete anymore so why should he have a home gym.

  David Martinez was right, of course. This had been Eddie’s last season a
s a football player. He wasn’t going to any stupid college, not with his grades and expulsion. Nope. His time on the field was over, unless he wanted to climb the fence at the high school and throw a few in the dead of night, performing for an audience of empty risers.

  He still needed to lift, though, and he couldn’t use the school gym any more. He would always lift. It was a part of him, like breathing. He didn’t want his body to go to hell. Look at his dad. His dad used to be strong but had let his muscles go as flat as his ass, sitting all day and eating simple carbs. He wasn’t a donut-stereotype cop yet, but he was getting there.

  Eddie had moved the circuit machine to the garage but he barely used it. Not enough elbow room to do back, and he could already do the full stack on triceps anyway. He made do with his rack of dumbbells and a rubberized mat. He kind of liked it this way. He liked the smell of car exhaust and garbage from the alley. Couldn’t explain it. The stench made him feel energized, like a soldier on a field of corpses. When the wind changed and the stink of the alley floated through his set, it was like lifting weights during a mustard gas attack.

  He sat on his bench and did some shoulder presses with the fifties. Three sets of twelve. He glared at the framed photo that sat a few feet away on a cinderblock, the photo he’d taken from the trophy case, his supposed friends, his “teammates.” He gritted his teeth and thought about hurting them. Frankie Valli sang “Walk Like a Man” through Eddie’s earbuds.

  He was doing hammer curls when the meteor shower really started. He didn’t like to do arms and shoulders in the same set, but he was trying to get maximum pump before his dosage wore out. His dad wouldn’t pay for his gear anymore either, and Eddie had to make every CC count. He’d probably have to skimp on estrogen at the end of the cycle too but he’d never had gyno before and thought he’d be okay.