Wake the Hollow Read online

  “You were at the police station?” He raises an eyebrow.

  Finally, a surprised reaction from him. “Yes, last week when nobody would help me. Remember I told you I couldn’t get into my mom’s house, and the realtor wouldn’t answer? I don’t know where her belongings are. All I have are the papers she left me.” I fight off the pressure building behind my eyes.

  “I remember now. Even if I could get you into the rare collections, you’d have a hard time finding that journal. Few people know this, but it was sent to a private lab in Andover, Massachusetts, called the Northeast Document Conservation Center, to be authenticated.”

  My brain racks itself for a moment, then I remember—my mother’s ID lanyard. “NDCC?”

  “Yes, even the Smithsonian uses them. All they do is authenticate old documents using a video spectral comparator, paleography, IR spectroscopy, other forensic methods. And that page, the one about the double creations, leaked and has been circulating the literary community. That’s how I know about it. Problem is, the original journal never made it back to the library. It’s been missing since May. And the last person to view it…” He watches me carefully. “Was your mother.”

  I can’t move. My mouth solidifies to stone. I knew everyone thought it was her, but I hadn’t known she was literally the last person to see it. “What would she have been doing at NDCC?”

  He shrugs. “No clue. Maybe she had special permission to view?”

  I stare at him. Cold dust devils swirl near our bench. My mother was the last to see it. Who would Mami have known at NDCC? Special privileges. Another displaced vision attacks me—wooden floorboards, ripped and splintered. I rub my eyes.

  Dane rests a hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  “She didn’t take it.” A group of ducks waddles our way. One of them is yellow, while the rest are black. He straggles behind the others and reminds me of my mom, different from everyone else.

  “I’m not saying she did. But she’s a suspect.”

  “It’s ridiculous. My mother might have been flaky, but she wasn’t a thief.” I snatch up pieces of Dane’s sandwich that have fallen on the bench and pelt the other ducks with it. “If she stole it, she would’ve left it for me, like she left the other things. But she didn’t.”

  His face lights up with interest. “Other things?” He blinks slowly, smoothing each of his fingernails patiently.

  “Yes, the reason I’m meeting you. I want to tell you about them, but I’m scared to. I’m not sure I can trust you. Or anyone.”

  “Smart, but I’m not looking to take things that don’t belong to me, if that’s what you’re thinking. If anything…” He pauses, giving his paper cup a turn. “It’s others you shouldn’t trust. People you know better than you know me.”

  “Who?” The only other people I even speak to are Bram, Jonathan, my mother’s co-workers, and Betty Anne. They cut up the floorboards…

  “Think, Micaela.”

  “You don’t mean the Derants or Engers, do you?”

  He might not think twice about stealing someone else’s property. Bram’s words from the day he brought home Coco seep out of my consciousness to warn me.

  My face twists into a knot.

  “You don’t believe me?” He shifts on the bench, then takes my hands gently. “Where have their families worked for the last sixty years?”

  “Historic Hudson.”

  “And what are they missing that originally belonged to them?”

  The journal.

  All this makes me wonder how much Bram and Jonathan know. Do they know my mom had access to the authentication lab in Andover? All of a sudden, I’m dying to question them. And to think I’ve been staying at Bram’s place, even showed him the photo of Mary Shelley. He assured me I could trust him, but one meeting with Dane, and suddenly I’m filled with doubt.

  Dane shakes my hands with emphasis on every word. “Let me be clear. I’m not blaming anyone. I’m only saying, be aware of your surroundings.”

  The ducks fight for the last crumb on the ground. One pecks the other hard in the neck, and it runs off squawking. Dane goes on while all I can do is stare at them. “That journal was found in the walls of Sunnyside in 1952, a few years after the Sealantic Fund bought the house. Washington’s brother, Ebenezer, didn’t want anyone to see it, because it would tarnish his brother’s good name.”

  “So, he hid it,” I say, turning to him. His steel gaze is reaffirming.

  He taps my hand softly. “Yep. But then the house sold, and the journal was found years later. They moved to Historic Hudson’s Special Collections where only longtime employees of the organization could see it, like…”

  “Benjamin Enger.”

  “That’s right. And?”

  “His family.”

  “And?”

  “The Derants.” I stare right past him.

  “Rumor has it there’s a note inside the front cover. Something about keeping it private until his own flesh-and-blood children claim it. They all figured he meant ‘when pigs fly,’ because everyone knew he didn’t have children.”

  “Why didn’t they just display it? It’s been more than a hundred and fifty years since Irving died. No one would care about this anymore. What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that the old families rooted here live and breathe to preserve his good name. It’s their bread and butter. He was pretty much a hero in those times.”

  “But nobody would care now if he had an illegitimate child!” I cry.

  “I agree, which is why I believe there has to be more. A better reason why they’d go to these lengths. If he really did have an illegitimate kid, then, on the contrary, I think he was quite the father to set him up with a good family, even visit him for years. Some men wouldn’t have bothered. People dealt with problems differently back then, but they still had them.”

  So that was why Irving became Ambassador to Spain.

  So he could visit his son.

  “Mary Shelley didn’t have the best reputation. There was no way he was gonna marry her. Can you imagine superstar Irving and his family, and desperate, widowed Shelley, who everyone saw as crazy, living at Sunnyside together? Or the alternative…raising a baby alone in London in 1826 when everyone knew her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, was too dead to be the father?”

  Yes. I recall the words from the photocopied page—already frowned upon as she is; it would mean the end of her. “So instead of leaving her high and dry”—I stare ahead—“he took the child and gave him a good life.”

  “An anonymous good life, yes. The best thing for a kid in his position during those times. He probably even supported the child financially.”

  “Child support?”

  “Exactly. So he’s still a hero, as far as I’m concerned.” Dane looks off across the lake.

  That’s all good and fine for Irving, but what about the grieving mother? The troubling image of Mary Shelley’s spirit desperately chasing down a train comes back to haunt me. “The baby was on the train,” I whisper.

  “It probably did go by train, yeah,” he replies, oblivious to the fact that I know.

  Other than the journal and the genealogical map my mother left me, there’s no proof that their relationship even existed. All it ever says in biographies and history books is that they had a brief romantic liaison. How glossed-over is that? No wonder her poor spirit can’t rest.

  Until flesh and blood claims it. That would mean Mami, and now…me. Why didn’t she tell me all this sooner? It might’ve made understanding her a bit easier. “I have more…” I begin to say, though Bram’s voice filters into my mind. Don’t tell him anything, Mica. But I need Dane’s help. I swallow hard and stare into his clear blue-gray eyes. “A family tree. It mentions Washington Irving with a son named Cristóbal born in 1826.”

  Dane listens, but it almost seems like he already knows, even though he can’t possibly. I just acquired that document myself straight from a safe deposit box. “What els
e does it mention?”

  “That the baby was adopted. The rest of the names are his descendants, from Spain all the way to Cuba.” I leave out the part about how the whole family had come full circle from Spain, to Cuba, to New York, and how it appears as though I’m directly related to Irving.

  “And it didn’t say who the mother was, did it?” Dane runs his thumb over his lips. “That’s quite an artifact. What are you going to do with it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I’ve said enough. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  He smiles. Few of my answers ever surprise him. Like he knows it all, has seen it all, and is anticipating my every move. “Good girl.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Dane, are you sure you’re in town just to tour literary America, and nothing else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  I chew the inside of my lip. Clearly, he’s better at mind games than I am. He props his elbows up on his knees and presses his face into his hands. “Like I said, I’m not here to take anything that doesn’t belong to me. Your instincts are good, but…” He taps me on the knee. “Don’t give anyone else the info you just gave me. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  So there is more to him than meets the eye. Who is he?

  “Micaela, let me just add this, because I really care about you. You’re smart, curious, and all…” His eyes rove over my face gently—experienced, unfazed, protective.

  “But what?”

  “You are being watched,” he whispers. My stomach twists into a dreadful knot when he says it. “So be careful. If I were you, I’d make sure whatever your mother left you is in a safe place. I hope it’s well protected.”

  Holy shit. I knew it. I knew someone’s been following me, and it’s not just voices and visions. “How do you know this?”

  “I just do.”

  “That doesn’t exactly make me feel better.” And now I’m back to trusting no one.

  “No, but it sure as hell will make you more cautious, won’t it?”

  Crap. My papers are all at Bram and Jonathan’s apartment. Assuming they’re still there, I have to hurry over, grab everything, then move it all back to a new safe deposit box with an entirely new password. I stand, almost tripping over my feet. “I’m sorry, I need to go.”

  He takes my hand suddenly. “I know this is a lot to process, and it must sound strange coming from me, but just trust me.”

  I don’t know what it is about Dane, but he calms my soul. I don’t know what to believe, who to believe, or anything else at this point. The pressure of tears forms behind my eyes again. I want to trust him. I do. Where this leap of faith is coming from, I don’t know, but I nod.

  “Good.” He stands, and I wish I didn’t have to let go of his hand yet. But I do, and he pulls a card from his wallet for me. His name, Dane Boracich, and his phone number. “Here. If you need me again, call me. It’s a lot faster than email.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “…what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind?”

  I rush down University Avenue. I’ve never seen anyone’s head explode before, but I imagine it might resemble something like the conversation I just had with Dane. What did I gain from telling him about the very documents my mother dodged danger trying to protect? Information about where the journal was last seen, for one. Confirmation that my mother was the last to see it, which puts me in direct danger, for two.

  Mami slipped in the bathtub? Accident? I think not. My mother might have had some help slipping. But what if Dane is just as interested in finding the journal as the Derants and Engers are? What if he has his own agenda of fame and glory? The journal is still out there somewhere and could be worth a lot of money.

  I sprint through all my shortcuts, hurrying.

  At the apartment building, I fly up the steps to the second floor. When I reach the apartment, out of breath, I turn my key in the keyhole and pause. Someone left the screened window open. Shit. “Coco?” I call, waiting for her to come running like she usually does.

  A quick scan of the apartment tells me that nobody is home. Quickly, I search the entire apartment, anywhere Coco might hide—in the living room, both beds, the couch, under the bed. I even check the kitty litter in the kitchen, then realize she probably… I fly to the open window and tug on the screen frame. Loose in the lower right-hand corner. “Damn it.” I throw down my purse and run outside. “Coco!” The outer veranda is empty.

  Coco will have to wait until I handle my original purpose first. I dart into the apartment again, then the bedroom, and shove my hand underneath Bram’s mattress—the envelope is still there. Thank God! And its contents? I flip the envelope open and riffle through it, looking for the most important pieces. All there. On Bram’s bed, I rock back and forth, hugging the envelope.

  I have to move these items out of here, take it all back to the townhouse. I doubt Nina is coming back anyway—it’s been four days. But for now, because I need to go find Coco, I’ll keep it somewhere safer than the mattress, long enough to search for Coco. “Damn it, cat.” I run into the walk-in closet, reach behind a pile of sweaters on a shelf, and place the envelope way behind them.

  But then, imagining the worst will happen while I’m gone, I quickly pull the envelope back out and take it with me, stuffing it in my purse, locking the front window tightly and leaving the apartment. I search the parking lot, the surrounding woods, and dumpster. Maybe she tried making her way back to my old house. I once read about a cat who walked ninety miles home after accidentally crawling into a neighbor’s moving box. Mami’s house is less than two miles.

  Taking the main street into the heart of town, I stop often to ask if anyone has seen a fluffy white cat. Nothing. After a while, my thoughts turn to Mary Shelley. Is she really my ancestor and spirit guide? I recall the dark look, the tormented face in the photo. Find the proof.

  But how do I do that? Is the journal enough to prove a relationship? What were the results of the authentication in Andover, I wonder? I don’t know that finding the journal again would prove anything, but it would make me the possessor of a very sought-after document.

  But I don’t want fame or glory. I just want to make things right with my mom. Irving asked that only flesh and blood see the document. If I can manage that, Mary Shelley’s spirit might move on to a more peaceful place than where she is now.

  I reach North Broadway completely out of breath. At the fork in the road, I hear the voices. Not the house. It sounds like Mami, but so faint. I close my eyes to listen. We're not there.

  “We,” I whisper. “Who’s we?”

  All of a sudden, I’m hit with a strong urge to follow the road down to the one place in Sleepy Hollow I haven’t visited yet since I arrived, the one place I’ve been scared to go, because seeing her name on a stone will drive it home—the cemetery. It’s the familiar tug from my dreams, only I’m awake and being drawn, just like at Sunnyside. I follow the curved road down Route 9 until finally I reach the cemetery gates next to the Old Dutch Church.

  Grabbing a tourist map from the gates, I cut through the parking lot. The cemetery may have been mentioned in Irving’s tale, but it’s not fiction. It’s as real as the death it contains. Thirty-nine thousand souls lie here. The cemetery stretches for eighty-five acres over rolling hills, knolls, and cliffs. I doubt that Coco is here, but I let the voices guide me.

  The Irving family plot is here—Washington Irving, Ebenezer, and other family members. Not a grand mausoleum either, like William Rockefeller’s, Andrew Carnegie’s, or Leona Helmsley’s. It’s as simple a grave as they come. A short, round stone in a small, fenced-in space.

  Great elms and oaks shade the plots, and perilous, narrow roads snake throughout. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen cars trying to make their way around the plots, come face to face
on a narrow path, only for one of them to back up with limited visibility and nearly clip a headstone with its back bumper.

  Come...

  “Where?” I whisper, reveling in the beauty all around me. Aging tombstones adorned with crosses, stars of David; kneeling, praying angels surrounding me for acres and acres. I pass one angel statue whose arms are draped around the tombstone as if mourning whoever lies beneath, crying silver tears.

  The trees rustle, the wind croons. Houses dot the hillside below me, and the Hudson shines in the distance. When I die, I want to be buried here.

  Perhaps you will, a dark voice creeps in from somewhere.

  I look behind me. “Hello?”

  Nothing here but tombstones and tire-worn grassy paths. Then comes the sound of bubbling water. I must be nearing the Pocantico River, more like a stream. Something flashes in the grass ahead of me. I sprint toward it, checking the ground, but from this angle, it’s so difficult to tell. I jog back to where I’d originally stood and sway back and forth slowly, waiting to catch the same angle of the reflection once again.

  There. Next to that stone. I run up to the same spot again and look down. A small metal disc, half-caked with moist dirt, lies on the ground. I crouch low to pick it up and flip the disc over:

  COCONUT

  (914) 555-3746

  Heaviness washes over me in a hulking wave. I scan the area. “Coco?” Why is she here of all places? I look up, praying I won’t find my cat hanging off a branch from her collar. I bought her one of those breakaway collars for that very reason, yet only the tag has come off.

  Twigs crackle nearby. “Coco? Here, Coco.” I blow kisses and yell, “COCO!” listening to my cries echo all around me.

  Leave, or you're next.

  I whirl around.

  The trees rustle again. “Mami, what’s going on?” I wait for the ethereal replies I’ve gotten used to, but it’s only my own voice that rings in my ears. I walk faster, checking between the stones, searching for white fur on the green grass. “Co-cooo!”