The Betrayed (Krewe of Hunters) (5 page)

She loved her home. It was right on a little twist on the river. She could stand in her backyard and see Sunnyside, the home where Washington Irving had lived for many years, and where he’d died. And sometimes, looking across the river, she could see
him.
He was older; he walked with a cane. But he was tall and lean, an extremely attractive older man. Sometimes, when a train went by, he lifted his cane as if cursing it.

Everyone in the area knew how much he’d hated it when the tracks had gone in. The trains blocked his view of the river when they went by, creating a nuisance with their horns and whistles and noise, day and night. After all, the writer had purchased Sunnyside because he loved peace and quiet. He’d added rocks to his stream so he could better hear the rush of the water and he’d built up a mound in front of his cottage so it wasn’t easily seen when visitors—or the curious—arrived via the road.

“Well, Rollo,” she murmured, “why do you think you and I live in a cottage and not a house? It means I’m going to have to look that up, the difference between a cottage and a house.”

Rollo had no answer, other than a wriggle in the passenger seat. She assumed he was trying to wag his tail, but he barely fit in the car.

Her home was surrounded by trees and stood about a quarter of a mile off the road.

It had always astonished her that you could leave New York City and less than an hour later, you’d reach a countryside of hills and vales and streams and trees. The wonder of it had been with her from the time she was a child.

She parked beneath the porte cochere at the side of her cottage. Once, the parking spot had been a carriage drop. She hadn’t closed it in, although sometimes, in the dead of winter, she ended up scraping a lot of ice off her windshield. She just couldn’t bring herself to add clunky garage doors to a spot that was so lovely.

Rollo went bounding out of the car, ready to find a tree of his own choosing.

Mo walked down to the river and gazed out toward Sunnyside. She shielded her eyes against the late-October sun that had risen through the clouds and the mist. And there he was.

Repair work was going on at Sunnyside, with scaffolding up by the porch where Washington Irving had often sat, enjoying the peace of the river—when the trains weren’t rattling by. There was no train at the moment.

Irving wasn’t sitting. He was walking, as if taking a midday constitutional. Shoulders high and squared, he moved slowly but with dignity, handsome in a jacket, vest and cravat. She watched him for a few minutes—and she saw him look down the slight bend in the river to where she stood. She wasn’t anywhere near close enough to see his face clearly, but she knew he was watching her, too. He waved at her, and she waved back.

She doubted he knew yet that his beloved Tarrytown–Sleepy Hollow area had been visited by a flesh-and-blood demon who was killing people—and taking heads.

During his life, people had often asked Irving whether he believed ghosts existed. Irving always said that if they did, and if he came back as one, he’d certainly haunt a place he’d loved. Sunnyside.

And, of course, there were frequent sightings of “the ghost.” He was often caught in “orbs” and “patterns” on film and digital cameras

This amused Irving no end. He’d told Mo once that he derived great pleasure from studying people as they walked around Sunnyside gaping at their photos—and swearing they’d captured his image in a slew of dust motes when he’d actually been standing right behind them as they’d taken the pictures.

She didn’t have the opportunity to speak with him often. It only happened on days when she went back to Sunnyside to walk the grounds and revel in the peace and beauty of the place.

And to shop in the gift store. She loved going in at this time of year; they always had delightfully spooky things for sale. Sometimes, the “essence” of Irving—as he liked to refer to himself—followed her into the store and teased her as she did her shopping. He was quite a prankster and particularly liked making her look as if she were talking to herself—ostensibly driven crazy by the ghosts of Sleepy Hollow.

“Rollo! Let’s go in,” she called to the dog.

He came loping over to her from the woods, where he’d no doubt had a number of good sniffs and marked several trees—an Irish wolfhound was capable of a lot of “marking.” She stooped to give him a massive hug. She’d taught him long ago not to jump on people, since he’d knock most of them to the ground if he did.

In the early 1800s, her home had been a one-room wooden farmhouse. Sometime before the Civil War, the Ahern family had come from Boston and purchased the house. They’d added a wing as well as a second story. During the war years, Sean Ahern had built another wing. He’d had a son killed at Shiloh and had turned his pain into a passion for helping wounded soldiers. He’d taken in many who had been displaced.

The ivied entrance with its small pillars led to a long hallway. The dining room was to the left of the kitchen, which came complete with modern conveniences. A door from the dining room led out to what was still called the “hospital porch.” To the right was the staircase and the parlor, and beyond the parlor was an office/library. Behind that, she had a large family room. The house was filled with marvelous little features—a recessed area in the office for a daybed, a bay window at the front of the parlor and built-in shelving for bric-a-brac and plates and books. The family room had French doors that opened onto the back porch with its view of the river. There were the trains, of course. That was okay. For her beautiful little piece of the world, she could deal with the trains.

She set her keys on the eighteenth-century occasional table by the door and pulled off her jacket, hanging it on a hook. Then she started a pot of coffee in the kitchen, and after that, went to the office to sit at her computer—and stare at it. While Halloween might be approaching, she was working on designs for Valentine’s Day.

His nails clicking on the hardwood floors, Rollo came down the hall and settled in her office, next to her desk. She tried to focus on the screen. She’d been working on a verse for a pop-up card she’d designed that revealed a cherubic cupid pulsing with sun rays when the card was opened. He was aiming an arrow with a heart for a tip, and so far she’d written, “Roses are red, violets are blue, my world is brilliant, since I have you.”

Mo loved what she did. She’d been a visual arts major, and while still in college she became fascinated with pop-up cards. She’d worked for a number of card companies, but eventually she’d started working at home. She did the artwork and the “paper engineering” on the cards before they were sent off to be replicated in large numbers.

She made a decent living from her art. She and Rollo never accepted money for working with the police; to her, it wouldn’t have seemed right.

“What do you think of my latest card, Rollo? Simple and sweet. Gotta tell ya, this isn’t easy when...”

She could still see that first horseman—with the head of Richard Highsmith on it.

Mo heard the slight creak of old floorboards and turned around. Rollo was already at her feet so she knew it wasn’t the dog moving.

Her heart quickened for a moment. She had just seen two people who’d been decapitated. Noises in the house didn’t usually bother her. It was old; it was constantly settling. And, of course, she had several resident ghosts—some better than others in their abilities to make floorboards creak and cause solid objects to move.

This time it was Candy Lewiston who had come to see her.

Even as a ghost, Candy was rivetingly beautiful. She’d come to the house through the Underground Railroad during the Civil War. Her heritage was mixed—African-American, European and Native American. She had large, dark eyes, her cheekbones were perfectly sculpted and she moved with effortless grace. Ghosts could appear to float, yes, but Candy moved as if she were still flesh and blood, graceful and lithe beyond measure.

She knew the good and the bad of history. As a child, she’d had a gentle master who’d been happy to spend time with his slaves, attend baptisms of their children and be as generous as a father. At his death she’d found herself the property of a new master; she said he was the cruelest man to ever walk the earth. The daughter of her first owner—who’d been forced to sell the slaves—had actually helped Candy escape, and in their friendship, they’d both realized how wrong it was for any man or woman to own any other.

They’d ended up living at the cottage down from Irving’s Sunnyside, and while Sarah Jane—Candy’s friend—had gone on after death, Candy had lingered. But that was because she’d fallen in love with one of the few Confederate soldiers who’d died here, brought north to be cared for by his brother, who had chosen to fight for the Union.

Colonel Daniel Parker remained in the house, as well. He and Candy were together in death as they’d never been in life.

Candy paused long enough to give Rollo a spectral pat. Rollo knew she was there. His tail thumped on the floor. Smiling, Candy perched on the desk and looked at Mo. “What happened? What did you and Rollo find?”

Mo sighed and gave up on work, leaning back in her chair. “A man’s head without a body, a woman’s body without a head, the man’s body—and the woman’s head.”

Candy stared at her in dismay. “How awful! Do they know, was it the politician from New York they were looking for?”

Mo nodded gravely. “And it’s not...it’s not just that he was dead. He was murdered. Horribly.” She went on to tell Candy about the morning—about everything they’d discovered.

Candy shuddered. “And with the village and all of Tarrytown bustling with our October visitors...that makes it even worse. I hope they find the murderer quickly.”

“Lieutenant Purbeck is running the investigation. At least, I think he is. An FBI man showed up, too,” Mo said.

“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Candy said. She might be a ghost, but she loved watching as time went by, even though—as she’d often told Mo—time didn’t always go by so well. Wars went on; people just didn’t seem to learn. Candy and her beloved Daniel Parker liked walking the grounds along the river—and keeping up with history as it passed.

“Well, Mr. Highsmith was an important man,” Candy said knowingly.

“Yes, very,” Mo agreed.

“And this FBI man, he seems to be capable and good?” Candy asked.

Mo thought about her answer. Then she nodded. “He was serious and seemed to understand that...that Rollo knew what he was after when we found a body that wasn’t the right body,” she said. Actually, she’d liked the man immediately. She wondered if she’d been influenced by the fact he was very good-looking. Tall, dark, blue eyed, altogether striking. If he walked into a room, anyone—male or female—would notice, even if he was in a typical dark suit. He wore the suit damned well. She remembered feeling stunned when she’d fallen into his arms. Just for a split second, of course, but he
had
given her pause.

“He looks capable,” she said.
He looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ,
she thought.

Candy nodded. “So, the police are investigating and the federal government is involved. What happened is devastating—unimaginable!—but you have done what they asked you to do. Now let them handle it. I understand that you can’t forget it. To suggest such a thing would be ridiculous. But let them do their work, and you concentrate on yours. Maybe you should take a vacation, leave this place until they find the killer.”

“I don’t think I can.”

“And why not?”

“What if...?”

“What if what?” Candy asked.

“What if the killer isn’t finished?” Mo wondered aloud. The very possibility chilled her. “What if it wasn’t a political assassination? I—I can’t leave now. Rollo and I might be needed again and if we are, there’s always the hope that we’ll find the next victim still alive. Before he kills him—or her.”

* * *

“Here’s what I have to tell you,” Dr. Mortenson said, leaning against one of the gurneys at the morgue. “The two bodies, when put back together, are definitely two people. Not more, in other words. Thank God. We still haven’t ascertained the identity of the woman, but we’re running fingerprints and searching out dental records.”

“How did they die?” Aidan asked.

Mortenson frowned at him for a minute, as though to say,
They were decapitated. Wasn’t that perfectly clear?

But he quickly understood. He sighed. “I wish I could tell you it was the clean sweep of a sword or one blow from a big ax. A quick death.”

Aidan’s heart sank. He suddenly knew exactly what that expression meant. “But it wasn’t that way?” he asked.

Behind him, Voorhaven sucked in his breath.

“A hatchet job?” Van Camp asked. His tone was rigid. Aidan liked Van Camp; he seemed to be a by-the-book detective, calm, collected, doing his job with dedication and competence. But he had retained empathy for victims.

He was probably better suited for this job than Aidan. Because, like it or not, Aidan knew
he
wasn’t really calm, collected and by the book. He wasn’t just empathetic—he was
involved.

“Yes, but...thankfully, the victims were dead before their heads were removed.”

“How were they killed?” Aidan asked bluntly.

“Strangulation. Manual strangulation. That should help you. Of course, with the chop job—sorry about that—it’s difficult to get a complete picture. But I couldn’t find ligature marks and there was heavy bruising around the neck. Now, the trauma could’ve come from the, er, removal of the heads.”

He paused. “I worked in the city for years and saw just about every form of murder out there, although some sick bastard will always find a new twist. In my opinion, however, they were manually strangled, something that takes a significant amount of strength, especially considering the size of a man like Highsmith. The heads were removed afterward, probably for effect, for theatricality—but that kind of theorizing belongs to you investigators. I’m merely stating the obvious here.”

“Or what appears to be obvious,” Aidan murmured.

Mortenson hiked up two bushy white brows. “Yes, well, as I said, I leave theorizing to you gentlemen.” He walked to one of the gurneys in the room. Both bodies had, mercifully, been covered with sheets.