his gun in its small holster he went to the door to get his newspaper. He still liked reading the Times in its old-fashioned form.
When he picked up the rolled bundle, he saw the headline: Highsmith Missing!
It suddenly seemed that his blood really did run cold—a physical impossibility, of course, but for a moment he felt frozen in place. He felt a distinct chill coursing through his body.
Then his phone rang.
And, of course, he knew that call presaged a hell of a day. Just as he now realized that the voice he’d heard had been that of Richard Highsmith.
“Mahoney,” he answered, aware of how terse he sounded.
From the caller ID he’d seen that it was his new unit chief, Jackson Crow. He liked Crow, all right, and working for him wasn’t going to be a problem. But...
He’d known Richard since they were kids. Once, they’d been great friends. But time went by, people got older. Life and work intruded. Obligations kept old friends from being together, kicking a ball around or playing video games, but that didn’t change the fact that a few hours grabbed for a football game or a quick dinner wasn’t damned good. And yet even those occasions became less and less frequent.
Richard was missing.
This was going to be about Richard.
A phone call from Crow was new for Aidan. He’d been working as an FBI field agent out of the largest office in the country—the New York City office—for the past ten years. He’d worked briefly with Crow on a case that had included the D.C. offices. Then they’d gone in different directions. Now, Crow was heading up a special unit—and that unit was opening new offices in NYC.
Aidan hadn’t asked to transfer to the new unit. He hadn’t wanted it. And when he’d received a call from the director of the bureau, he’d known he could refuse the transfer. If he did, however, his career with the agency might well be at stake.
But this call? He was almost certain it would be about Richard. He wanted to work Richard’s case; he desperately wanted to find his old friend. And find him alive.
He was afraid he wouldn’t.
And he still wasn’t sure about the new coworkers he’d wind up with on the case.
Aidan reassured himself that they’d be fine. He’d been afraid they’d be a bunch of freaks bearing crystal balls. The truth couldn’t have been more different. The new offices in a small Federal building just down the street—closer to St. Paul’s and Trinity—was state-of-the-art. Five seasoned Krewe members had been sent to help with the setup.
They certainly seemed normal. They’d read all the books, gone through all the rigors of training. They’d passed the academy classes. Everyone he’d met seemed bright, efficient, competent. Nice. He’d liked them all.
But they had a reputation for being called in on the weird cases. And weird was an area he’d rather avoid.
The new base for the NYC Krewe unit had only recently come into existence. Before Aidan had seen the paper today—heard the voice!—he hadn’t expected to be in the field anytime soon. He’d been told by his old superior that Jackson Crow had been watching him, noting his methods and his work, and had specifically asked that Aidan be brought in when the Krewe’s New York office was formed.
Aidan was still getting to know his new unit, accepting that he was part of it.
“We’ve got some serious trouble,” Crow said.
Yeah, Aidan thought. Richard’s dead. But he didn’t speak.
“The New York office got a call from the sheriff up in Westchester County,” Crow said. “The director called me—since you’re part of the Krewe now. You’re the man he wants. I understand you’re from the area. Plus, he’d like to cover all the bases—the usual aspects of an investigation into a disappearance like this...and, shall we say, the unusual ones.” There was a brief silence. “This one could be described as unusual in that Richard Highsmith apparently disappeared into thin air. He was in Tarrytown for a fund-raiser yesterday. He disappeared around dusk. He was there—at the center where he was scheduled to speak—and then he wasn’t. He still hasn’t made an appearance and his staff is worried sick.”
“The locals are on it?”
“They’ve been on it. They did a lockdown at the center for several hours. They questioned everyone there before letting anyone go. His car was in the lot, and there was security all around.” Crow was quiet for a moment. “If he was your average Joe, they wouldn’t even have a Missing Persons report on him yet, but...”
“But it’s Richard,” Aidan said quietly. He probably should have told Crow right then that Richard Highsmith was more than a rising politician to him. The reason he didn’t was that he wanted the assignment.
He chose not to mention that he knew Richard well. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure about his new position with the agency, but he knew one thing. He was not going to be pulled off this case, and while he didn’t want to be dishonest, he wasn’t going to tell his new supervisor about his friendship with the missing man—yet.
“Yes. And it’s hitting the news this morning,” Crow said. “Tarrytown’s about an hour away from here—”
“Less,” Aidan told him. At this time of morning? Hell, yeah, he could get there fast.
“Then go. I’ll call your cell with any particulars we have. By this evening, I’ll have a few more agents assigned.”
“Consider me gone.” Aidan hung up, drained his coffee and started for the door.
They got me, my old friend. They got me.
He was going to find Richard Highsmith.
And the saddest thing of all...
Aidan knew he was going to find him dead.
It was a horrific sight.
And, bizarrely enough, one that might be missed, at least in Sleepy Hollow. Here, and in the surrounding villages and towns, images and effigies of headless horsemen were common.
A pole had been stuck into a man’s likeness created from wood and stuffing and plaster and cotton—a likeness that ended at the neckline. Right where the Revolutionary-era jacket and shirt left off.
And Richard Highsmith’s severed head had been stuck onto the pole.
It was bloody, and the midlength, salt-and-pepper hair was matted and dark. The face might once have held character and dignity.
Maureen Deauville stood with her enormous wolfhound, Rollo, and stared at it. For a moment, she felt as if she’d been teleported back to medieval times. The breeze rustled through the trees and the sounds of traffic from the road seemed to fade. She might have been standing in distant woods, viewing the results of a gruesome execution carried
