The Betrayed (Krewe of Hunters) (3 page)

“His size scares people all the time,” Mo commented.

“Normal people,” Purbeck agreed. He stood awkwardly for a moment, watching his officers and the crime scene technicians working. “But if you actually
know
the dog, he’s one friendly guy.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Lieutenant—Rollo can be fierce!” Maureen bent down to hug the dog. He didn’t exactly prove her point when he rewarded her with a sloppy kiss. One of her mom’s best friends had bred Irish wolfhounds; the dogs had been special to her from the first time she’d seen them. She and Rollo were family.

“And Richard Highsmith—” She started to turn back to the head on the mannequin but stopped herself. “He was a politician, in from the city. I do have to wonder whether someone decided to kill him and to use the legend to get away with it. Let’s face it, no one can look at this without thinking that a maniac is at work. That could throw an investigation in the wrong direction.”

“I almost hope you’re right.” Purbeck glanced at the effigy and the head—now covered with blue canvas in case the gawkers arrived. And in case media cameras showed up. Given media presence at the convention center last night, Mo was surprised that no members of the press were here this morning—and equally relieved. That was obviously because not many people knew there was a severed head here or that it had belonged to Richard Highsmith. They would soon enough. Police were trying to protect the scene of the crime and, she felt, Richard Highsmith’s dignity. No one wanted the grotesque and heartbreaking image of Highsmith’s severed head appearing on TV or the internet or the papers. “I hope this
is
a political thing. Because if it’s not...”

“You think there really might be someone here...who’s crazy and going after heads?” Maureen asked. “But we have the head.”

Purbeck nodded grimly. “What we don’t have is the rest of the body, and that’s the next order of business. But you—”

Detective Lee Van Camp, a lean man with a thin face and a haggard appearance, stepped over to them, interrupting whatever the lieutenant was about to say. Mo knew he’d be lead man on the case. He worked with Jimmy Voorhaven, a younger detective, and they were probably the two best men in the county. Purbeck was a good commander and usually directed his detectives from his office. Purbeck was here himself because Richard Highsmith’s disappearance—and now confirmed murder—was about as high-profile as it got.

He would remain involved. The media had already gone crazy but news people were being kept at a distance.

She’d worked with Detective Van Camp before. In fact, of all the local cops, she’d worked with him the most. They’d met when she was just a teenager. She hadn’t had Rollo then; she’d had his mom, Heidi. Working with the wolfhounds had been a godsend for her. When she was in her teens, her parents had discovered how effective she and Heidi were at search and rescue, and she remembered hearing them argue about whether they should allow her to continue. They’d decided that yes, if she
could
help, they were morally bound to let her do so.

She’d never really known what Van Camp thought about her and her almost foolproof ability to find the missing. He simply watched her with his dark, unblinking eyes. And he was always courteous.

“Well?” Purbeck asked softly.

“Political execution taken to a dramatic extreme?” Van Camp asked Purbeck. “Or mental case?” He turned to Mo. “What do you think?”

Maureen wasn’t taken aback by the question. And it wasn’t because she and Van Camp knew each other or that they’d worked together before. He’d told her once that he just listened and tested everything he heard; he listened to everyone, taking in what worked for him and ignoring what didn’t. But he didn’t brush off anyone or discount any opinion. Mo liked him a lot. He was an exceptional detective for that very reason.

She took a deep breath. “It’s certainly dramatic. But in the legend, the headless horseman is looking for heads. He takes the heads and leaves the bodies behind.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Van Camp said.

Purbeck narrowed his eyes. “People say there are really no new stories, just new ways to tell them. The headless horseman was an old legend in the area—Washington Irving just wrote it up with literary talent. Whoever this is, they’re putting a new twist on it.”

“If you go by the legend, the horseman is searching for a head,” Van Camp continued. “And he killed old Ichabod Crane with a pumpkin head he’d been carting around. But if you read between the lines, either Bram Bones did in his rival or Ichabod went off to live happily ever after somewhere else. But if you think this is a political assassination, the drama’s an attempt to throw off suspicion. Hard to be sure at this point.” He cleared his throat. “We’ll know more, I’m sure, after autopsy. I mean— Well, we’ll need to know how the head was removed from the body.”

“Whatever the answer may be, I really don’t think we’re looking for a long-dead Hessian soldier still fighting the Revolution!” Purbeck said.

“No, but these days, politics can be close to war,” Van Camp said with distaste. “Poor guy. He sure as hell didn’t deserve anything like this. I hope, I
really
hope that—” He paused again. “I hope it was quick.”

“I want to send Mo and Rollo home. No reason they have to watch all this,” Purbeck said.

Van Camp shook his head. “Mo can’t go yet. We still need her and Rollo.”

“Oh?” Purbeck asked.

“Boss man, hey,” Van Camp said. “We’ve got...part of Mr. Highsmith. We need to find the rest of him.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping to give Mo a break. She and Rollo have already found Richard— Well, his head. I thought we’d search for the rest of the remains ourselves....but, Mo, it probably does make more sense if you and Rollo do your thing, get a head start.” He winced. “Sorry. You okay with doing that?”

“Of course,” Mo said, crouching down by Rollo. “Good job, my friend. But we need more. Are you ready?”

The question was just as much for her. She studied the site. Van Camp had left them. He was speaking with Voorhaven, requesting help to get up on a makeshift hoist for a better look at the head in situ. Gina Mason was beside him, accepting a camera from one of her assistants.

“Mo?” Purbeck asked. “Are you sure you can handle this?”

She nodded, closing her eyes. She envisioned the man in the picture she’d been given hours before.

When she opened her eyes, she looked across the road to the cemetery.

Most people thought the old burying grounds were part of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, which included hills and covered a lot of space. The Old Winchester Burying Grounds was actually a separate entity. At one time, St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church had stood somewhere in the center, although it had burned down during the Revolution. So, officially, this had been a burying ground rather than a cemetery. Traditionally, unlike a cemetery, a burying ground was attached to a church, although over the years the terms had become interchangeable.

Now—be it cemetery or burying ground—the place beckoned to her.

“Rollo,” she said to the dog. “We’re on.”

* * *

Aidan knew this area very well.

Nestled in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by mountains and bordered by the Hudson River, Sleepy Hollow was simply charming. Carved out of Tarrytown and once known geographically and locally by the unimaginative name of North Tarrytown, the village had become Sleepy Hollow in 1996 in honor of its most famous resident, Washington Irving. The entire area was ripe with Revolutionary history, along with tales of the Old Dutch community and legends from the Native Americans who’d once called it home.

The Woman in White appeared now and then, and Major Andre’s ghost was said to roam the area. The dashing gentleman had been hanged as a spy by the patriots. Of course, he
was
a spy, but he’d been handsome and charismatic, and many had lamented his death.

The woods were dense. Creeks and streams danced over rocks and down slopes. At night, when fog wandered in these woods, it was easy to imagine how frightening it might be to roam what would’ve been an eerie landscape in the dark, with only the light of the moon filtering through the trees.

The Old Dutch Burying Grounds by the Old Dutch Church were filled with worn old stones and vaults that had been dug into the cliffs, and it was spooky by moonlight.

Of course, there was also much that was warm and welcoming in Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown.

There were hotels and motels, bed-and-breakfasts and inns, as well as shops that offered the usual T-shirts, souvenirs, handmade arts and crafts, and one-of-a-kind clothing.

And there were headless horsemen.

There were headless horsemen everywhere.

They were on signs that advertised stores and restaurants.

They were on village welcome posts along the roadside—some made of wrought iron and some of wood etchings, and others were done using a variety of other artistic media and techniques.

As a child, Aidan had scrambled up and down the hills and leaped over the many lilting brooks and streams. He and his friends had created their own stories about the patriots and redcoats and traitors, the Indians who had once claimed the land and, needless to say, Irving’s headless horseman.

It had been a great place to grow up. The entire Hudson Valley was, in his opinion, one of the most beautiful places on earth. And, for a boy, it had been filled with adventure. Hiking, fishing, boating, walking with his friends...learning their world and its history.

Richard Highsmith had been one of those friends.

Aidan hadn’t gone to the local station yet. Neither had he headed over to the center where Richard would be speaking. Jackson Crow had called Aidan with specifics about the last time Richard had been seen. In fact, Highsmith’s assistant, Taylor Branch, had feared that he’d just walked out—that he’d suddenly had an epiphany regarding politics and its negative, nasty side. Branch was sure that Richard would realize he was a different kind of politician, one who could bring about change, and that he’d come back. So he’d waited, entertaining the crowd with musicians hired for the event.

Richard had been missing for three hours before Branch had called the police. Then there’d been confusion. Next the place had been shut down and those who’d come to see him speak had been held and questioned, but finally they’d all been allowed to leave.

A search had actually begun last night around midnight. From Jackson Crow’s last call, Aidan knew that more people had been called out at the crack of dawn.

The police had searched through the night. Many of the tourist attractions in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow—like Washington Irving’s Sunnyside and the old Philips Manor—had acres of farmland, surrounded by forest.

The police had called in all kinds of assistance. Officers from the county and state. Bloodhounds and other canine search-and-rescue units, including an Irish wolfhound and his keeper who seemed to have an extraordinary rate of success. Anything and everyone was out there—and now the information had hit the airwaves.

Aidan had decided to go on instinct. On the voices he heard in his head. He hated when that happened, loathed it. But the voices still came now and then. And today...

He’d heard Richard. Heard him when it was too late.

They got me, my old friend. They got me.

He wished he’d heard something different. Like,
I’m in danger, old friend.

Cursing, he began to walk. First he climbed uphill, by the Old Dutch Church. But somehow he knew that was wrong, so he changed course, got back in his car and drove beside the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Finally, he reached the end and parked again.

It was fall; mid-October had just arrived. The day had been beautiful when he’d started driving and even when he’d first parked. The leaves were turning, offering brilliant touches of color here and there. The temperature was cool but not cold.

Suddenly a chilly breeze was whipping around him, and when he looked up he saw that the sky was gray and ominous.

A brook trickled between the boundaries of the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery and Saint Andrew’s burying ground. He hopped over the brook, studying the expanse of trees that flourished everywhere—the plan when the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery was designed had been to make it a serene and beautiful place, a place where families might come to picnic and find peace while they honored their lost loved ones. And it
was
beautiful here. The dead rested between the graceful trees and gurgling water. Nature at its best.

The one land of the dead blended into the next. There hadn’t been a burial at the old grounds for a century while Sleepy Hollow Cemetery still accepted new denizens. But the old burying ground was just as beautiful, though not actually planned that way. Nature, on her own, had stepped in. The grounds were somewhat overgrown, yet that made them more forlorn and more poignant. Crosses rose in high grass; cherubs appeared by tombstones.

Angels wept.

There were vaults dug into the hill where the church had once stood, surrounded by trees and bushes. Tombs had been built above the ground, and these old mausoleums endured within a fairy-tale land where the dead rested and the living might contemplate the beauty of life—and the inevitability of death.

He passed one of the old vaults and crawled high atop it to survey the area. A stone angel knelt in prayer to his left, an obelisk rose to his right. He hurried by them and clambered down an overgrown path to the rise of a second hill. For a moment, he paused. He could hear the tinkle of water and saw where a tree had broken several stones.

The day was darkening; it was going to rain.

The breeze quickened and Aidan felt an urge to hurry. He walked across the hill, looking around. So many graves. So many years of men living in this region—and dying here.

He noticed that a new flag marked the grave of a Revolutionary soldier. He passed a general on horseback—a tribute to the men of the valley who had fought in the Civil War.

He walked over graves and by monuments, past mausoleums and vaults, and then he peered into the distance.

And saw a man. Or the shape of a man. The area suddenly seemed very dark, even though it was almost seven-thirty and the sun had surely risen. The breeze was now a wind; the sky roiled.