Chapter 18
Ihave to do something. I know Ichabod is innocent. The thought settles deep in my chest, heavy with injustice. I can’t let him be accused of these crimes while the real killer, the Horseman, roams free around Sleepy Hollow.
Without thinking, I start walking, following the direction of the police car towards the station. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I get there. I don’t really have a plan, but I have to try. There must be someone I can talk to. To plead his case.
Luckily the town is small, and the police station is only a short walk.
The building is squat, an old stone structure with flickering lanterns casting weak pools of light onto the street.
I don’t pause when I get there. I push through the heavy door and step inside.
The front desk sergeant, a man with a thick beard, glances up from his paperwork.
“I need to speak with someone,” I say, my voice sounding more sure than I feel. “About Ichabod Crane.”
He shuffles some papers together. “Are you a relative?” He sounds almost bored.
I hesitate. “No, but…”
“Then I’m afraid we can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with you,” he says, turning to deposit the papers in a tray behind his chair.
I grip the edge of the wooden counter. “But I saw him being arrested. And you’ve got it wrong, he didn’t do it.”
The sergeant sighs, picking up yet another stack of paperwork and continuing his filing. “Miss, I can see that you’re upset, but we have our procedures.”
“If I could just talk to Ichabod? Just for five minutes?”
The sergeant finally stops shuffling his papers and looks directly at me, sighing again. “No, miss. I can’t let you talk to the main suspect in an ongoing case either.”
Frustration bubbles in my stomach and I take a deep, steadying breath.
My mind races. What if I try a different tack?
When Brom had told me about the Headless Horseman legend, it was because I had been holding the town history book.
Some people must believe it’s real, for it to be written down, published and sold.
What if this officer is one of those people?
Maybe if I tell him the truth, maybe he’ll listen. I can only try.
I steel myself. “Look. I know Ichabod is innocent. Because, what’s behind the killings — it’s the Headless Horseman. He’s real, and he’s back.”
The desk sergeant had been filling in some kind of form, but now the pen stills in his hand. He lifts his gaze slowly, studying my face.
He hasn’t laughed me out of the waiting room. Or shouted, like my father. That’s a good start.
I press on. “The beheadings aren’t just some gruesome coincidence. It’s him, the Headless Horseman. That’s why the victims have all been killed the same way. Ichabod didn’t do it. The Horseman did.”
The sergeant stares at me for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he leans back in his chair, letting out a dry chuckle. So much for not being laughed at.
“Do you really expect me to believe that, Miss Van Tassel?”
I’m momentarily thrown that he knows who I am.
My pulse pounds in my ears. “But it’s the truth!”
He shakes his head, clearly unimpressed. “Please lower your voice, miss. You’re causing a disturbance. Either calm yourself or leave.”
I grit my teeth. “You’re making a mistake.”
“We don’t deal with ghost stories here, love, just facts and the law,” he says. “If you don’t stop and leave now, you can spend a night in the cell yourself to calm down.”
I want to keep arguing, but I can see it would be pointless. He won’t listen.
Tears of frustration sting my eyes as I turn and push out of the station, stepping back into the cold air. The streets are eerily quiet, the gas lamps flickering as it starts to go dark. Ichabod is locked away for something he didn’t do, and I am powerless to stop it.
The heavy wooden doors of the police station slam shut behind me, the force sending a small gust of night air against my back.
I lean against the rough stone wall, taking short, sharp breaths.
I don't know what I expected. Of course they wouldn’t just let Ichabod go because I said he was innocent.
Of course they wouldn’t believe me about the Headless Horseman. But I had to try.
There’s an open window to my right, and muffled voices from inside carry into the cool evening. My pulse quickens as I pick up a snippet of conversation.
“Get him ready for transfer,” the desk sergeant says, his voice low but clear.
I stay still, straining to hear more, but I only hear footsteps walking away.
I know they must be talking about Ichabod. But transfer where?
I press myself flat against the wall, hoping no one will notice me loitering outside the station.
I try to think it through. Ichabod has been accused of committing three murders, and by definition, of being a serial killer.
They must be planning to move him to a larger facility, a real prison, maybe outside of Sleepy Hollow completely.
But something about the sergeant’s tone unsettles me.
I don’t know where they’re taking him, but I can’t let it happen.
The evening light has started to wane, and the glow of the streetlamps jump in the breeze, casting long shadows across the cobbled street.
Each second stretches into an eternity as I wait, unsure of what my next move should be.
I’m also intensely aware that all the times I’ve seen the Headless Horseman have been after dark.
I’m not happy about standing out here as dusk falls, but I can’t leave Ichabod in there on his own.
And then I hear it, voices and commotion inside. There’s the unmistakable clink of handcuffs, followed by hurried footsteps heading towards the entrance.
I shuffle down the street, keeping my back against the wall until I turn a corner. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and I want to stay out of sight, but I also need to see what’s happening. Slowly, I peer around the stonework.
I feel a bit ridiculous.
The same two officers I’d seen before emerge from the station, flanking Ichabod between them. His hands are bound in front of him, and he stoops over as he walks, as though he’s struggling to hold up his own weight. His coat is rumpled, and a faint bruise darkens the side of his face.
But I don’t have any time to process that, as the sound of crunching tyres draws my attention. Out of the thick shadows, a sleek black Audi glides to a stop in front of the three men.
My breath catches. I know that car.
Ben.
My father’s driver steps out of the car, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He moves to open the back door of the Audi without a word, and the officers guide Ichabod inside. He doesn’t struggle or put up any kind of resistance while the officers work with cold, mechanical efficiency.
What are my father’s car and driver doing here? Why are they being used to transport a prisoner?
I have no time to dwell on it. The moment the car door slams shut, the Audi pulls away from the curb, snaking down the road. The two officers turn back inside the station.
I don’t think, and as soon as the station door closes, I set off after the car.
I push off the wall and follow, my boots pounding hard against the pavement. Here in the town, the Audi keeps a steady pace. Perhaps Ben is trying to avoid attention. Despite the dark night sky, it’s fairly easy to keep them in my sights, even though I’m breathing hard.
The road winds through the town, past shuttered storefronts and darkened houses. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts, my mind spinning with questions. The air is thick with the scent of damp leaves and autumn chill.
The car turns onto a more open road and begins to accelerate.
I can’t run any faster. My chest burns. The Audi pulls away from me with ease, speeding into the night.
I slow down, trying to catch my breath in the frigid night air.
Even though I can’t see them anymore, I try to keep up a steady jog as I follow the road.
I have a sinking feeling that I know exactly where they’re going.
I trust my instincts and keep moving. The night is eerily still. The gnarled trees lining the road are covered in dark birds, silent and watching. The yellow moon hangs low in the night sky.
As I round the final bend, my destination looms into view.
The university.
My stomach tightens.
A pair of heavy iron gates stand open, as if waiting for me. I slow as I pass through them, keeping to the shadows. Finally, I come to a stop and bend at the waist, hands on my knees, gasping for oxygen. My breath fogs in the crisp night air.
But there it is. The Audi is parked directly in front of the entrance to the grand, ivy-covered building.
I straighten up. Although this is what I suspected, I still don’t have a clue what’s going on.
I’m still hugging the shadows, but no one is around. They must have already gone inside. I take a steadying breath and then sprint across the university lawn.