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 thevictims 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 unmistakableclinkof 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 tohold 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.
