Crane (7 page)

Brushing her hand
s off on the legs of her yoga pants, Ireland rose to her feet and cast the flashlight beam out for one last sweep of the small space. Her gaze locked on the last remaining mystery—the candle. If it weren’t for that she would have no problem closing this room back up, like the time capsule it had become, but … someone had been in here. If she ever wanted to be able to close her eyes or shower in this house, without feeling like the walls were watching her, she was going to have to call Noah over for a quick inspection. Instantly, that thought filled her with a new kind of dread.

“Dammit, why can’t
he be an old, fat guy? It would make life so much easier,” she grumbled under her breath as she crossed the cramped space with determined steps.

Her false
sense of security blinded her from the heavy, grey eyelids that snapped open behind her. Just as her lips pursed to blow out the candle, a cold, bony hand closed around her calf.

8

Ireland

“Wha—what happened?”

“You grabbed my leg and I whacked you with my flashlight.
” Ireland let the flashlight handle rise and fall, smacking it against her palm in an open threat. “You picked the wrong house to break into, pal. You don’t mess with New Yorkers, we mess back. Now, you need to tell me who the hell you are, and you better
pray
I like the answer.”

Internally
, Ireland winced, shocked by the hostility in her tone. Then again, it wasn’t everyday she found a creepy little troll living in her basement.

“The s
leeping spell! It’s broken! That must mean …” Dull grey eyes, encircled by a yellowish-hue, gaped up at Ireland like a meteor was about to strike directly behind her. “
Was there a beheading? Has the Horseman returned?
”

Ireland’s flashlight wielding arm pulled back defensively.
“Whoa! How did you know about that? Did you have something to do with that man who was killed?”

“So, it’s true then
,” the scraggly, bearded man mumbled to himself. “If he’s risen, that must mean,” his panicked stare locked with hers, “you’re a Crane?”

“Yeah, I’m a Crane,” Ireland hissed through clenched teeth. “
Who the hell are you
?”

“I am … did you tie my hands and feet?”

“Damn skippy, I did.”

He tried to sit up, which proved challenging with his hands tied behind him. “
May I ask why?”

“
Maybe I had a surplus of zip ties after securing a bookshelf to the roof of my car when I moved.” She let one shoulder rise and fall in a shrug that would’ve appeared casual had in not been for the murderous gleam in her eyes. “Or
maybe—
and go with me on this one—it’s because you
attacked me
in
my friggin’ basement
!”

His bushy,
unkempt eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “To the roof of your what? What year is this?”

Ireland’s lips
twisted to the side as she folded her arms over her chest. “Seriously? You’re gonna play that angle? Dude, if this is some sort of drug thing and you’re coming down from a bender, you should
really
look into clean living.”

“No toxins can be blamed for my state, miss
,” the filthy stranger clarified, tugging against his restraints. “A sleeping spell was cast, meant to preserve my body so I could carry out an important task.”

Her eyebrows
disappeared into her hairline as Ireland stared down at the scrawny, smelly man hogged tied on her couch. “You might wanna look into getting your money back for the preservation part.”

“My name,”
he pushed on as if Ireland hadn’t spoke, squaring his shoulders to the best of his ability despite his awkward position, “is Rip Van Winkle. If I’m awake, it can only mean that the Horseman has returned to Sleepy Hollow, and we are all in very real danger.”

“Wow. That’s impressive in a delusional, bat-shit
, crazy kind of way,” she deadpanned. “Exactly how many books did you weave this fairytale from?”

“You must listen!” The p
lea in his eyes trumped that of his tone.

Ireland’s forced brave front was getting harder to maintain by the moment. This man seemed truly sick,
the kind of illness that required a straitjacket and padded room. There was no telling what he was capable of. This idea, of dragging him upstairs and playing vigilantly while she questioned him, had turned into colossally bad judgment on her part. She should’ve called the cops immediately while he was unconscious. Now, all she could do was pray those ties held. “The only thing I
must
do is steam clean that couch to get your funky smell off of it.”

“You keep up that cavalier attitude and you’ll be dead!” Rip yelled with enough force to
make the tendons of his wrinkled neck bulge.

Ireland
didn’t recall grabbing the box cutter off the coffee table. Yet there it was, clasped in her white knuckled grasp as she lunged for him, the blade stopping millimeters from his throat. “Don’t even think about threatening—”

Her ultimatum was cut off by
Rip’s eyes rolling back and his body slumping against the couch. The only sound left in the room was his rhythmic snores that could rival a hibernating grizzly.

“Huh
.” Ireland’s hand relaxed as she retracted the blade. Her first slap, which landed against his bristly bearded cheek, was a tentative one. The second packed a bit more of a wallop. “Hey. Hey! Wake up!”

Rip came to with a start, bucking hard enough
beneath her to send the box cutter flying and Ireland reeling back. “Wha—what happened?”

“Do you say that every time you wake up? You’re kind of like that little blue fish in th
e Disney movie.” Ireland bent to retrieve the box cutter, her voice calm and steady.

“I didn’t understand half of the words you just spoke. Please, just tell me, did I fall asleep again?”

“You did, actually.” Ireland turned the box cutter over in her hand, admiring the sharp angle of the blade. “Rip, would you mind if I performed a little experiment real quick?”

“What kind of—
oh! Please, no
—zzzzzzzzzzz.”

In retrospect
, leaping at him with the knife poised probably wasn’t the most ethical course of action, fortunately it
had
led Ireland to the answer she was looking for. Her smelly little friend seemed to suffer from stress induced narcolepsy. That greatly diminished any level of threat he
may
have been. It did make the issue of what to do with him of greater concern. Much as she wanted to, and she
really
did, she couldn’t bring herself to call the cops on him. She’d watched enough movies to know the horrendous things that could happen to an old guy in prison that was never conscious to defend himself. Her chest swelled before she released a begrudging sigh. Not too long ago, before her life got turned upside down, she had wanted to adopt a stray from the pound. Suddenly, that idea was seeming far less appealing.

Crouched beside the couch, Ireland
sliced Rip free from his restraints.

W
hen the old man came to yet again, she anticipated his first words before he opened his mouth to croak, “Wha—what happened?”

“Alien attack.
Don’t worry, I stopped them shortly after they probed you.” She glanced up … and her attempted smile faltered on her lips.

The color drained from Rip’s face
, and the whites of his eyes bulged from their sockets. His gaze locked on Ireland’s exposed forearm.

“
Where did you get that
?” he asked in a hollow, ghostly whisper.

Ireland glanced down at her arm, searching for what she was missing in this troubling equation.
“My tattoo? An artist in Manhattan did it for me.”

Rip shifted
to the side to dig a medallion, threaded on a silver chain, from the pocket of his grungy slacks. “
This
is the talisman of the Headless Horseman, an object created and prayed over by the most powerful holy men and shaman in the world. It is the
only
thing that can control the Hessian. The very existence of this artifact has been carefully and intricately concealed for centuries. I have been in possession of it for … a
very
long time. It has been
my
will that kept the beast at bay, confined to his purgatory prison.” His gaze traveled to her face, where he searched for answers to questions he had yet to voice. “And you, my dear girl, have somehow found yourself branded with this
exact
same symbol.”

Rip’s dry, calloused hand encircled Ireland’s wrist a
s he deposited the silver-dollar sized medallion onto her open palm. Ireland ran her thumb over it, not trusting her eyes or even the ridges beneath her touch. It had to be a coincidence … after all, pirate swag and sugar skulls were all the rage. That had to be it—just a blind stroke of luck—that explained how the skull design she held so perfectly matched her own. While her tattoo contained a bit more detail, there was no denying that the core image—a skull set against a crossed sword and axe—was exactly the same.

Nothing more than a coincidence
, Ireland reiterated to the sudden pounding of her pulse.

“I was meant to teach you the techniq
ues and methods to control the Horseman and stop the carnage.” Rip’s voice rose in intensity with each word. “But to find this?
His
talisman branded in your skin?” His head fell back, as he pleaded to the plaster ceiling, “Heaven, help us all! I … I don’t know what this means! I don’t what to—”

The desperate plea cut
off as he slumped back against the couch, instantly drooling.

After about twenty minutes of watching Rip snore and twitch
, and numerous less than kind attempts to wake him, Ireland figured out that the degree of the scare must play some part in how deep and long his naps would be. Whatever it was he believed about her tattoo had rattled him straight into hibernation. Which then left her with the annoying dilemma of what to do with him. He sure as heck wasn’t staying in the house, or continuing to squat in her basement. Those weren’t even options. A little creative thinking became mandatory. The shed in the backyard was by no means the Ritz Carlton. However, after adding a flashlight, sleeping bag, a couple of old pillows, and a picnic basket full of snack foods, Ireland felt she was doing a good deed by giving this vagabond a comfortable-ish place to rest and eat before she booted him out of her life forever.

Her
hands encircled his scrawny ankles. “Ugh, buddy, you smell like week old Tai food and sour milk.” She dry heaved, trying to cover her nose with her shoulder as she forcefully yanked him off the couch; her hope being that his cranium bouncing off the floor might jar him awake. The thump shook the floor beneath her feet and rattled the glass of the front bay window. Unfortunately, Rip had no problem at all sleeping through mild head trauma.

“You’re not going to work with me even a little bit
, are you?” she groaned at her splayed guest who had long since out stayed his welcome.

Hating life in a major way,
and inventing new expletives to demonstrate that, Ireland hooked her arms under Rip’s pits … there by getting more closely acquainted with the pungent flavor of his stench than she cared to. Years of hard living had reduced him to little more than bone. Yet, dragging what she guessed to be around a five-ten, limp frame from the living room to the dining room, and around the table to the sliding glass door, proved to be no easy task.

Ireland slid the door open
, letting the rush of cool air that swept in refresh her sweat-dampened skin, and peeked out into the night. Her nervous gaze flicked one way then the other, to ensure her neighbors were nowhere in sight. Briefly, she paused to commit a giant no-no and scratch her fresh tattoo, which was irritated by the rough polyester of Rip’s shirt. Ireland then adjusted her grip to get a firm hold, and made a mad dash outside. His thick-soled boots scuffed across the deck boards, thumped down the stairs, and rustled through the grass, providing a soundtrack of realism to Ireland’s act of insanity.