“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.