Crane (19 page)

23

Ichabod

Thick clouds smothered moonlight’s gleam before it could even think to penetrate night’s effective blockade. Voices rose from the Old Dutch Church as the residents of the Hollow engaged in a heated debate over how best to protect their treasured town. Ichabod shifted in his saddle, readjusting the musket laid across his lap. In the distance he watched Irv’s horseback silhouette meld into the darkness. Both men were engaging in yet another lap on their patrol. Irv’s path took him passed the school house and round the shops and dwellings at the south end of town. Ichabod’s designated area consisted of the church grounds and adjoining cemetery, across the Sleepy Hollow Bridge and back again. Each step of the journey he was forced to nudge and coax the stubborn mule—loaned to him by Constable DeMarr’s stable hand—forward. A raven squawked overhead, taking to flight from its perch atop a headstone. That simple motion seemed amplified on the otherwise still night. Ichabod lulled side to side in the saddle, the mule’s hooves squishing into the earth with each trudged step. Those same steps transformed into sharp clicks the moment they found the first plank board of the enclosed bridge. They had clacked across half its the length when a chill skittered down Ichabod’s spine. Pulling back gently on the reins, he pivoted in his saddle, sure he’d heard something slosh through the muck behind him. Nothing but darkness trailed them.

“Perhaps the ground settl
ed.” The explanation rang hollow to Ichabod’s own ears, however he clung to it just the same.

With the heels of his boots
, and an encouraging cluck, he cued the mule onward. Two strides was as far as they made it before the sound returned. Closer now, more definite. His rising tension showed itself in the spasms that pulsated through his arm. Ichabod didn’t have to turn to know there was someone behind him. He could feel the heat of their stare boring into his back. That inkling failed to lessen the shock of Ichabod’s head slowly turning to find a looming figure astride a formidable ebony stallion. Their combined presence filled the entire entrance to the bridge. A cloak was fastened around the rider’s neck. The space above it—vacant. The stallion anxiously pawed at the ground. Its rider raised one gloved hand, blood dripping from the leather. Glowing, flickering shadows danced across the bridge walls, cast out by one of Eleanora’s macabre jack-o’-lanterns that the rider held high.  

Ichabod’s rational thought fought to be heard over the drumming of his heart.
Something about the figure seemed off. His torso—too long to be believable. This was a ruse, all orchestrated by clever costuming. It had to be. Unfortunately, that did nothing to ease Ichabod’s mind. People were dying bloody, horrible deaths in Sleepy Hollow. A Horseman spawned in legend being blamed for the crimes. Any twisted mind with a deadly agenda could concoct a disguise that would free themselves of the blame.

“Whoever you are, I ha
ve no quarrel with you.” Ichabod’s sweat dampened hands tightened around the hilt of his musket.

“
Iccchhhaboddddd
,” a wraithlike voice rasped.

The stallion edged closer
, its wide nostrils flaring, casting puffs of steamy breath into the night.

“Halt! No further!”
Ichabod snapped his gun into position, pushing the butt in tight to his shoulder to thwart its loathsome quakes.

Stallion nor rider gave a moment’s hesitation. Hooves thumped against creaking planks in the steady,
rhythmic beat of a war drum.

Ruse or not, Ichabod couldn’t afford to hesitate. Staring down the sight, he took aim. His finger closed around the trigger, applying the steady pressure needed.
A mere beat before he could fire, his shoulder revolted, bucking hard enough to knock the musket from his sweat dampened hands. The well-sighted shot went rogue, firing as it slammed to the ground. Blood sprayed as the bullet skimmed his mule’s front leg. A wall of grey fur and mane swelled before him, the mule rearing in panicked protest. Ichabod gripped the saddle horn tight, his feet slipping from the flapping stir-ups. Had the mule steadied, Ichabod may have stayed on. Instead, it bounced on its good leg, then arched back to paw at the air once more. Ichabod skidded from his saddle, his hip exploding in pain as he slammed to the ground. The mule took off at a full canter. The smattering of blood that had streamed from its leg was the only thing it left behind with its banished rider.

Biting
back his anguish, Ichabod rose to his feet, inching away from the approaching “Horseman.”

“
Iccchhhabbboooddddd
.” His assailant rotated his wrist, one way then the other, allowing the sharp-angled shadows from the pumpkin’s carved features to waltz and swirl around them.

One wrong step and Ichabod’s back slammed into the sidewall of the bridge
; all hopes of escape lost in the grain of the wood that held him trapped. A snort from the stallion’s muzzle assaulted his face. Ichabod recoiled, pulling himself flat enough to the wood to feel its coarse texture through his thick wool coat.

His lip curled into a snarl
. “Do your worst, demon.”

He
expected to hear metal hiss from leather; to watch the candlelight flicker off a gleaming blade. Of all the ways he anticipated meeting his end, never once did he entertain it being by gourd.
Until
… the cloaked figure arched back, catapulting the pumpkin straight for Ichabod’s head. Bracing for the painful impact, the schoolmaster clamped his eyes shut. It hit with the force of poorly thrown punch, heat having been kind enough to soften the hard outer shell. Seeds and goo exploded in his face, showering him in a layer of their sludge. Ichabod slapped at his head, extinguishing his smoldering hair lit by the candle.

“Sleepy Hollow has no use for
likes of you, Ichabod Crane.” The so-called Horseman’s ghostly tone vanished, giving way to one human in origin … and familiar. “It’s time for you to move on.”

Ichabod’s eyes narrowed as he
scraped pumpkin innards from his shoulder and flung them to the ground. “Brom?”

“
Quite the ruse, wasn’t it, scho—“ Brom’s arrogant boast cut off the moment Ichabod’s hands closed around his boot-clad ankle and yanked him from his horse. The bridge beneath them shook from Brom’s heft as he slammed to the plank boards. His cape fell askew, revealing two pillows tied to the sides of his head acting as makeshift shoulders.

The s
pasms in Ichabod’s arm vanished, chased away by a blind rage. “If you are here,
where is Katrina
?”

For a moment,
Brom’s eyes widened to goose eggs at the anger he saw brewing within the mild-mannered teacher. Then, his usual sneer boomeranged itself back into place. “I told you once before, she is no concern of yours. Katrina is
spoken for
.”

Where
Brom had size on his side, Ichabod had speed and agility. Before Brom could attempt to hoist himself off the ground, Ichabod snatched his fallen musket and lunged. Lodging the barrel to Brom’s thick neck, he put his weight behind it to force the arrogant aristocrat back down. Brom’s mouth opened and closed, gasping for breath. His face blooming from red to purple.

“
You were to keep her safe
!” Spittle foamed at the corners of Ichabod’s mouth as he ranted, “
There is a killer on the loose, you incompetent fool
!”

“Soon … to … be … two.”
Brom forced the words out, his veins and tendons bulging.

Ichabod relaxed his hold, allowing
Brom to gulp an eager breath. “Where is Katrina?” He spoke the words slow and clear, their underlying threat strongly implied.

“I called upon the Van Tassel’s maid, Elizabeth,
” despite his watering eyes, the color quickly returned to Brom’s face, “and asked her to escort Katrina back to Van Brunt Manor. She is perfectly safe. Think what you will of me, yet know I would never allow any harm to come to her.”

“Whoever is taking lives in Sleepy Hollow is somehow connected to Katrina. They left a body in
her
room, killed
her
father. Even so, this very night
you
sent her off without a second thought, so you could satisfy your own vendetta.” Ichabod leaned over Brom, positioning himself nose to nose with the man that had tried, and failed, to run him from Sleepy Hollow. “If she is harmed in
any
way, I
will
come back for you. Trust that you will wish the
actual
Horseman had gotten to you first.”

Ichabod released his hold,
allowing Brom to roll to his side, a deep scowl creasing his broad face. If Ichabod noticed, he couldn’t be bothered to care. With resolute determination in his stride, he collected Brom’s stallion. Seizing the reins, he slid his foot into a stir-up and hoisted himself astride. One firm kick to the horse’s sides and they were galloping into the moonless night. Their set objective? The Van Brunt residence ... and Katrina.

2
4

Ireland

“Most people would hear my dream
of the terrifyingly gruesome and would try to cheer me up. Maybe even buy me a cookie. Not you. You take me on a stroll through a cemetery. I haven’t decided yet if that makes me love you or hate you.”

“Want me to coddle you?” Rip held
the gate at the cemetery entrance open and waved her in. “Stop killing people in your sleep.”

Ireland winced
like he’d slapped her. “Too mean, dude. Too mean.”

Rip’s shoulder rose and fell in a halfhearted ‘what are
ya gonna do’ shrug, his gaze skimming the paper he clutched in his hand for what had to be the millionth time. “Have you given any more thought to what the message the Horseman inflicted upon you might mean? It had to be crucial for him to take such a drastic step.”

“
Not necessarily. He may have just wanted company on his mind trip to Serial Killer’s Disneyland.” Ireland hesitated at a grave, struggling to remember which way they buried people so she didn’t walk on them. Behind the marker? In front of it? Was it too much to ask for a ‘this side up’ sign? Finally, she opted for tiptoeing around the tombstone, allowing the deceased a wide berth.

Rip’s beard bobbed as he gummed at the inside of his mouth.
“In the vision each individual was being tortured in some way?”

Ireland
nodded, all the while focusing on keeping a mental wall up to prevent those horrifying images from playing on repeat. “All four of you were tortured or killed.”

Rip was so intently scouring the landscape for the rise of a mausoleum th
at he failed to see the wreath leaning against a grave marker until it ensnared his foot like a bear trap. Stumbling forward, he caught himself on the neighboring tombstone and shook his leg free. “And why, in the Hessians time, were people normally tortured? Ruling out the odd case of it being for the torturer’s own amusement.”

“
You would know better than I would. Maybe they were viewed as a threat?” Ireland offered her best guess. “Or they had valuable information they wouldn’t give up?”

Rip strode to the door of the first mausoleum they happened upon, d
ry grass crunching under his boots. Ireland doubted it to be the one they were looking for. The ornate angel carving over the door and elaborate vine stonework were still solid and intact. Time and the elements had yet to mar this structure.

Sure enough, Rip double checked
his paper and walked on. “Besides myself, who were the other victims?”

Ireland counted them off on her fingers. “
Other than you, there was my secretary, Amber, one of my victim’s step-mom, Ana, and my neighbor, Noah. Maybe each of you have some sort of information that I need? Anything you’ve forgotten to tell me?”

Whether it was deliberate or not, Rip ignored the question
, choosing instead to press the first knuckle of his fist to his lips in contemplation. “We were all tortured or killed in different ways. Which—unfortunately—may indicate that each person represents an entirely different meaning. We can rule nothing out.”

Ireland
paused for a beat, her glare boring a hole in the back of her fuzzy-haired friend. “Basically you’re saying we still have
nothing
to go on after my trip down the rabbit hole?”

“In the simplest possible terms? Yes.”

“Awesome,” Ireland grumbled under her breath, punctuating the thought with a few of her favorite four-lettered words.

“There’s still the hope
Eleanora may hold the answers we need ...” Rip’s voice trailed off, reduced to nothing more than a low buzz that faded into the background.

She’d forgotten. What kind of monster did it make her that she actually
forgot
? Ireland’s shaking hand rose to stifle the anguished whimper that escaped her quivering lips. Truth, stripped bare to its very essence, stared back at her. Roughly fifty chairs had been lined up across the cemetery from where she stood, all centered around a steel grey casket. Atop it lay a beautiful spray of white lilies, roses, gladiolus, and daisies resting against a bed of greenery. Every chair was filled, with a standing room only crowd of mourners lined up behind them. Noah stood among them, and even he was having a difficult time holding back his sorrow at the loss of a life taken so young.

Ireland ground her teeth to the point of pain, then clenched them harder still.
No matter what she did the remainder of her days, no amount of penance could ever redeem her of this. Her gaze wandered over each person in attendance, taking in their grief and allowing it to feed the all-encompassing guilt that swelled inside her. It had to be Mason’s mother that sat in the front row, her flaxen hair pulled back in an elegant twist, the rest of her consumed … broken by the loss of her child. Ireland guessed the handsomely regal gentleman beside her to be Mason’s father. His dapper façade was battered by the open sobs that shook his shoulders as they tore from his chest. Family, friends, heartbroken teens; all leaning on each other. Be it through laced fingers or a much needed embrace.

All … but one.

Ireland’s sweeping gaze pulled up short, caught by the gripping stare of another. Ana wasn’t dabbing her eyes or giving sorrowful nods to the pastor’s message, like everybody else. Instead, her narrowed eyes were fixed on Ireland. A complex blend of emotions played across her face, jockeying for primary position. Recognition. Confusion. Blame. Contempt. Until finally one won out—abject, mind-blowing terror. Ana’s pink glossed mouth swung open wide. Her blood curdling scream shattering the serenity of the somber event. Bodies swiveled in a wave of concerned bewilderment, turning just in time to see Ana’s knees buckle beneath her.

Ireland’s hand shot out, as if
to catch her from twenty feet away. However, it was Noah, standing beside Ana, who swooped into a low lunge. The cradle of his arms caught her before she crashed to the ground. Even the pastor paused, rising up on tiptoe to see over the buzzing crowd what the ruckus could be.

A
na’s warbled screams raged on as she raised one visibly shaking arm. All it took to condemn the guilty was one finger, pointed straight at Ireland. The crowd moved as one body, following her motion to its target.

Ireland held her breath in anticipation. Maybe here, at the final resting place for one of her victims, they could see her as the monster she truly was. Gulping down her trepidation, she braced herself for the fury they would unleash—that she deserved.

That same breath was expelled through slightly parted lips. Nothing but perplexed stares met her. Whatever infliction struck Ana, it had spread no farther.

“Is … is she okay?” Ireland called out
, cautiously closing the space between them.

Ana’s cries grew frenzied. Her hands clawed at the ground. Scrapping for traction, for freedom
.

“
Ireland, stop
!” Noah barked, his hand raised to halt her. He softened the sting of his tone with a look slathered in apology. “Whatever this is … you just need to go.”

Ireland
’s feet were rooted where she stood. The weight of so many sets of eyes cut into her, dissecting her to her very core. She could feel their judgmental stares weighing her, like a bothersome bur that needed to be plucked away and discarded. If they only knew the half of it, they’d string her up from the nearest tree. Suddenly, she found herself relating to Frankenstein’s monster more than she ever thought possible.

“
I-I’m so sorry for the disturbance.” Ireland struggled to maintain what was left of her quickly crumbling composure. Her voice betraying her by cracking. “My deepest condolences, to all of you.”

Spinning on her heel, she
scurried off to find Rip without looking back. The sooner they could get out of this cemetery, the better.

Rip found her wandering, lost in her own tumultuous thoughts, over the
rise of the second knoll. His cheeks were bright with color. His breath coming in short, excited pants.

“There you are! I located it! We must go now!” Only then did he notice her change of demeanor and lose a bit of his gusto. “What happened?
Where did you venture off to?”

“
I terrorized some nice people in their ultimate moment of weakness,” Ireland stated, her voice hollow, matching the detachment of her stare.

Rip cocked his head in confusion before physically shaking off
the words. “No time for such frivolousness! Come on!”

The mausoleum
matched a standard storage shed in size. Its stone sides and decorative pillars worn and aged by time’s artistry. Fingers of moss and ivy curled up the grey walls, adding the only touch of life to this home of the dead. The front roof peeked in ornately carved vining flowers that centered around a crucifix cut deep into the stone. Two names had been etched beneath.

“
Termaine and Jameson,” Ireland read. “I feel whatever we’re about to do warrants a preemptive apology to them.”

“They will just have to understand,” Rip grunted through his teeth
, struggling to force open the heavy iron door, “that …
huuf
… this is for … the greater …
hunh
… good.”

Throwing his shoulder
into it, Rip yanked until every tendon in his scrawny arms bulged. Still he made exactly zero progress.

Ireland
bit the inside of her cheek to stifle a wry laugh that threatened to escape, despite her somber mood. “Impressive display of strength,
Cal-El
. Mind if I give it a try?”

Rip’s mouth screwed
to the side. Nevertheless, he stepped away and waved her forward with a formal bow. “By all means. If you think you can do better.”

Cold iron chilled her palm as Ireland grip
ped the handle. Her other hand braced against the unyielding stone structure. Stone dragged over stone, the door gradually sliding open. A dry breath of stagnate air sighed out at them.

“After you
.” Ireland turned her hand, palm out, her pretense of politeness thinly veiling her own unease.

“I loosened it for you,” Rip huffed
, before marching inside with his head held high.

Ireland
’s head swiveled, her anxious stare following him in, waiting for some big catastrophic event to befall him. A zombie jumping out and lunging for his flesh. A safe falling on his head. Something. The moment passed without incident. Hesitantly, she poked her head inside. A thick layer of dust covered the two coffins positioned on opposite sides of the room. Five urns, of various sizes and colors, lined the counter-height table pushed against the back wall. Rip took care, scooting each urn aside with delicate hands, before flopping his brown leather satchel down beside them. Without offering a word of explanation, he busied himself pulling the tools needed for his task out and arranging them on the table.

“Need some help?” Ireland asked
and braved her first step within the mausoleum walls.

A
shudder—sizzling and electric—entered through the ball of her foot, coursing through her body. Her heart jerked in an abrupt stutter-start. Its rhythm launched into overdrive, hammering against the wall of her chest with audible thumps.