She was still not convinced he was sane. There was a very good possibility that Ichabod Crane was an escaped mental patient with a delusion that he was born in the 1700s. She had stared into an open grave in that cave and been shot at by a monster without a head and she still doubted his sanity. Or maybe she just didn't want it all to be true.
She sat across from Dread Pirate Roberts in a chain restaurant adjacent to the motel where she intended to stash his skinny ass as soon as humanly possible. He wolfed down a bacon cheeseburger like it had been a couple hundred years since his last meal, somehow managing to inhale his food in a gentlemanly fashion. "That was most delicious, Miss Mills," he said, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. "Thank you for suggesting it."
She smiled as she pushed aside the remains of her chicken sandwich. Her head hurt where Andy had hit her and rummaging through her purse, discovered she was out of Advil. There was a Walgreens across the street. Once she got Crane settled, she would run over and pick up a few things. Crane would need some personal items, anyway.
God, she was exhausted. It was barely six o'clock and she would kill for a hot bath and a good night's sleep. They'd spent hours rehashing the events of the past days with Irving: a headless man who wasn't slowed down by fact that his skull was in a glass jar, three beheadings and one broken neck. Individually, the details were unbelievable. Taken together, they were insane. The morning's adrenaline rush behind her, Abbie was running on fumes and she suspected the man across the table was too.
"You folks ready for dessert?" Their waitress couldn't stop staring at Crane. Well, he was a sight, all tangled hair and scruffy clothes. The scrapes on his cheek and forehead gave him a raffish air. "Our coconut custard pie is the best."
Abbie would have been more than happy to pay the check and go, but Crane looked so hopeful at the prospect of dessert.
"Do you like coconut custard pie?" Abbie asked him.
"I like custard," he said. "And coconut is a rare treat, indeed."
How could she say no to that? She ordered pie and coffee and tried not to cry because it reminded her of Corbin.
Crane took a bite of his pie. His expression was one of pure bliss. It helped her reconcile the ragged sigh of resignation he'd let slip back at St. Gregory's. Hearing that had nearly broken her heart. The thing was, whether he was a resurrected Revolutionary War solder or just plain crazy, Crane felt alone in the world and bewildered by everything around him.
They finished their meal and Abbie paid the check. The sky was pink and purple as they left the restaurant and walked across the parking lot to the Days Inn. "This does not look like any inn I have ever seen," Crane said, eyeing the two story stucco building. "There was usually a tavern downstairs."
"It's called a motel. This was the best I could find for what the department will pay. Sorry-no tavern."
"I'm Lieutenant Abbie Mills with the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's department," she told the desk clerk as she showed her badge. "I need a room for this gentleman."
"For how long?" the young man asked, with barely a glance at Crane. The clerk's disinterest was a blessing.
"Let's start with three nights for now." She handed him the department credit card Irving had given her.
"Smoking or non-smoking?"
"Non," she said. The clerk tapped the keys on his computer, squinting at the monitor. He slid the credit card along a slot on the keyboard and then drummed his fingers on the desk top, waiting for the charge to clear.
"I need you to sign here," he said, drawing an 'x' by a line on the form. When she'd scrawled her signature, the clerk marked another 'x' further down on the form. "And him, too, down here." She handed Crane the pen and watched while he signed his name in elaborate script. Finally, he handed Abbie two card keys. "Room 222, second floor facing the road."
Abbie pocketed one key and gave the other to Crane who looked at it like she'd handed him a snake. She thanked the clerk; Crane gave a nod of the head. They climbed the metal stairs to the second floor and found the room. Abbie showed Crane how to use the card key. "Slide it in and take it right out. Wait for the light to turn green, and then turn the handle."
Crane held the card key up with disdain. "In my day a door had a proper stout lock, not some flimsy bit of nonsense."
She pushed open the door and reached in to turn on the lights. It was a typical motel room, generic furniture, ugly floral bedspreads. Crane looked around, hands clasped behind his back. "There are two beds. Will someone else be sharing this room?"
"Nope," she answered. "It's all for you. Microwave, coffeemaker, refrigerator—all the comforts of home." Crane's eyes were wide with confusion and Abbie realized he was in sensory overload. "Don't worry about it," she said. "I'll explain everything to you."
"I must confess I am quite lost. I appreciate your patience."
"It's nothing," she said as she crossed to the bathroom. It looked clean enough. There were two little bars of soap and miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner on the sink.
"It is most certainly something," he said, as she returned to the bedroom. "I don't doubt that you think me mad, certainly mad enough for an asylum, yet you rescued me. You've been so kind-arranging this lodging, helping me navigate in this very strange world. My head spins with confusion."
"If you're crazy, then maybe I am too," she said, smiling. You'll get your bearings soon enough."
"I most fervently pray you are right," he said with eyes cast up.
"I'm going to the drugstore across the street. I'll be back in a few minutes. Do not leave. I mean it." She looked around the room. "And don't touch anything you don't recognize until I get back and can show you how stuff works."
As Abbie walked to the pharmacy, she put in a call to the sheriff's office, arranging for an officer to come to the motel and stand guard outside room 222. She was positive that Crane wouldn't like that one bit, which was why she wasn't going to tell him. No point in stirring up Mr. Indignant. With luck, she'd be back in time to release the officer before Crane found out.
First order of business in the drugstore was finding the Advil, as her headache continued to pound away. Toothpaste, toothbrush—she dropped them into her basket. She picked up a package of floss and promptly put it back on the rack. She didn't have the energy tonight to explain floss to a man who probably cleaned his teeth with twigs. She picked up a comb, hoping he'd be able to tame that hair.
She couldn't think of anything else that he'd need tonight as she walked through the aisles. Abbie found herself in the stationery section. She tossed a package of sticky notes and a felt tip pen in the basket and walked to the register to pay. By the time she returned to the motel, the officer was outside the door.
"Hi Mike," she greeted him, her voice low. "Our witness might be sleeping." She was glad it was Mike. He was easy going and less likely to ruffle her big bird's feathers.
When she entered the room, she found Crane really was asleep, stretched out on the bed, the Gideon Bible open on his chest. One hand lay atop the book, the long fingers beautifully shaped, fingernails clean and trimmed. This surprised her after 250 years in the grave.
He'd pulled off his boots and draped his coat over the end of the bed. His body seemed ridiculously long, his feet nearly at the edge of the mattress. Abbie noticed a small hole in the toe of one of his socks.
His face was relaxed in sleep, the tension knot between his eyebrows smoothed out making him look younger. When he was awake, she found herself noticing his agitation, his intelligence, but she could see he had really nice features.
She took his coat from the bed, surprised at how heavy it was. The wool was soft under her fingers, not scratchy as she thought it would be. There were patches of dried mud here and there and it smelled loamy, like the woods and like dirt. It needed dry cleaning, or at least a good brushing. She hung it in the alcove that functioned as a closet.
Abbie wished she could just curl up on the other bed. She hadn't slept more than a couple of hours in the last two days. Coupled with her headache, she could barely function. Thank God for the miracle of Advil. She went to the bathroom, and swallowed a couple of miracles.
She understood a lot of what Crane was going through. It wasn't just the "everybody thinks I'm crazy" thing-it was much more. Years of foster care had taught Abbie all about being a stranger in a strange land. Each foster home had its own set of rules, both the ones they told you about and the unspoken ones. You had to figure out where things were in the fridge and if you were even permitted to take stuff out and eat it. You had to figure out how the TV worked, but first, you had to figure out if you would get yelled at for turning it on.
In one foster home, the TV was controlled by one of the "real" kids, and he loved science fiction shows, so that's what they watched. The shows scared Jenny, and Abbie found them boring, but one recurring theme struck a nerve. The landing party would go to a new planet and everything would be different. The sky would be purple or green and the inhabitants would look all freaky. Somebody would get burned by touching an innocent looking flower, or killed by spores. That was what life was like for Abbie every day in foster care—treacherous and unfamiliar. That had to be what this strange new world felt like to Crane.
She removed the toothbrush and toothpaste from the shopping bag. Would he even know what to do with them? She pulled out the sticky notes and pen, wrote out instructions and stuck them on the toothpaste and brush. Then she looked around the bathroom and realized that every damn thing in the room was likely to be a mystery to him. She wrote out instructions for the hair dryer, the dials in the shower, the toilet paper. Hopefully, he'd been shown how the toilet worked at the precinct, or at St. Gregory's. Her head hurt trying to imagine what had been going on if that were not true. She scratched out more instructions and stuck them on the commode.
Abbie next looked around the bedroom, at the staggering number of objects that would puzzle Crane. She couldn't make any assumptions. Sticky notes in hand, she stood in front of the TV and wondered how the hell to explain it. Finally she wrote "Television—it's like theater."
Lamps, microwave, alarm clock, thermostat—she left instructions on everything. She filled the coffeemaker with water and coffee and left a note on that. At least Crane could have something hot when he woke.
Abbie turned the lights off, leaving the room dim with the illumination of one small lamp. She went over to the bed, gently lifted Crane's hand and slid the Bible from his chest. She was tempted to leave him sleeping but remembered how disorienting it was to wake up in a strange place. She needed to let him know she was leaving.
"Hey, Crane, wake up," she said shaking his shoulder.
His eyes flew open, startled with some ancient soldier reflex.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he said rising up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes. "I found a Bible in the drawer. Who are the Gideon's?"
She shrugged. "All I know is they leave Bibles in hotel rooms," she said. "Listen, I'm going to head home and get to bed. I'll be back in the morning after I check in at the precinct."
"Good night, Lieutenant," he said swinging his legs off the bed. As she left the room, she caught a glimpse of Crane untying his shirt.
She spotted Mike outside the door and drew him a few feet away. "I'm heading home. Call me if you have any problems."
"Is the witness hostile?" Mike asked.
"No. No, not hostile. Maybe a little testy-he's been under a lot of stress. But he's a good guy."
As she walked to her car, Abbie thought there was precious little she was clear about. This headless horseman, Armageddon, end of days stuff was just insane. A man buried 230 years ago in a cave, waking up, brushing some dirt off his clothes and getting in the middle of their investigation—even more insane. She didn't even want to think about the whole "witness" thing.
Abbie's experiences had taught her early how to read people and do it fast. Her police training had honed those skills-the ability to instantly size up suspects had kept her alive. Maybe the jury was still out on whether Crane was crazy but she had no doubt on one account. Crane was a good guy.
A/N: This story came about because I always wondered about the sticky notes. Abbie spent a lot of time and effort to make Crane feel comfortable and she barely knew him. There had to be a story behind that. I am so grateful to Donna who pushed me to tell the story and who had such valuable input. And to Amanda who gives crackerjack beta.