Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (7 page)

“I doubt that anyone is as familiar with the house or its
history as you are.” She caught herself studying the color of his eyes. They
were a mixture of blue and green, a kind of aqua she’d never seen before. He was
a very striking man.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she was staring and that she
needed to reply.

“There
have
been some tragic and
terrible incidents at the house, but I don’t think something that happened years
ago could have any bearing on what happened yesterday.”

He shrugged, smiling wryly. “That’s what we’ll find out.” He
exited the car and walked around to open her door.

She remembered that she was supposed to get out.

“Thanks,” she mumbled.

“Are you sure you’ll be right alone?”

“Yes, thanks. We’ll, um, be in touch.”

“Thank you,” he said with a nod.

Awkwardly, she started up her front walk. She knew he was
watching her, and when she fit her key into the door, she turned around to wave.
He waved back, then got into his car and eased out onto the street.

Inside the house, she closed the door and leaned against it for
a moment. She’d wanted to be alone.

Now she didn’t.

But she walked in and dug out her phone before tossing her
purse on the sofa and sitting down next to it. She had to start returning
calls.

But even as she decided that she had to call her mother first
and then the board and her coworkers, the silence in the house seemed to weigh
down on her. She got up and turned on the television. A news station was
playing, with a reporter standing in front of the hospital. Mr. Dixon’s strange
fall into a coma was being added to the tragic news about musician and tour
guide Julian Mitchell.

She changed the channel. The speculation on the “evil” within
the house on
news
stations struck her as
overkill.

With a comedy repeat keeping her company, she looked at all the
calls she’d ignored while she was with Tyler Montague. She called her parents,
who’d gone to their home in Arizona for a few weeks, and made a point of being
calm and sad and completely in control. As much as she adored her mom and dad,
she didn’t want them coming back here because they were worried about her.

They’d met Julian a few times and offered their condolences,
but when they questioned her safety, she made it sound as if the media were
going wild—which they were—and described what had happened as a tragic accident.
She assured her mother that as a Revolution-era woman or even as Lucy Tarleton,
she didn’t carry a musket with a bayonet.

Next she spoke to Nathan Pierson. She told him she was fine,
and he promised he’d be there for anything she needed with the police or the
house. He’d talk to the rest of the board, too. She didn’t have to call anyone
else, he said; she should just relax.

Nathan was the easiest member of board to deal with. He was a
good-looking man who had never married. She wasn’t close enough to ask him if
there was a long-lost love for whom he pined, but if so, it didn’t seem to
affect his dating life. At various functions, she’d seen him with different
women, all of them beautiful and elegant. He was unfailingly polite and
courteous to her. Sometimes he teased her, claiming that he was waiting for her
to notice him and ignore the age discrepancy; he teased a lot of people, though,
and he had a way of making his words sound like a compliment rather than
licentious.

He was the solid rock of the board, in Allison’s opinion. Ethan
Oxford was like a distant grandfather, Sarah was like the family old-maid
aunt—even though she’d been married. She was high-strung. And Cherry was…Cherry.
She always considered herself a cut above the rest of the world.

Allison was grateful that Nathan was going to speak with the
other board members, but she did have to call Jason Lawrence and Annette
Fanning.

Jason still seemed stunned by the whole thing. She told him
about the attic but said they were keeping that information from the media.

He, too, wanted to make sure she was okay.

After that she called Annette.

Annette was smart and fun and usually logical, so Allison was
shocked by the tremor in her friend’s voice and the view she seemed to be taking
of the situation.

“It’s not surprising, is it? Oh, Allison, I thank God for that
root canal, and I never thought I’d say that. I wonder what happened. Did Julian
freak out? One toke too many? But he’s never been out of it at work. That’s just
the heavy-metal image he likes to portray. It’s the house, Allison. It terrifies
me! I can always feel it when I’m there, like…like the house itself is
breathing. I mean, when you’re out on the street, the windows seem like eyes,
watching you. Maybe so much evil did happen there and it continues, on and on.
Like something malevolent that waits and—”

“Annette! No! The house is a pile of brick and wood and stone.
It’s a
house.
Horrible things take place everywhere.
We go through life grateful when they don’t happen to us, and either sad or
broken when they do.”

“Well, I for one am glad they’re closing it down. No, wait—do
we get unemployment or anything? I’m out of a job! I don’t think they’ll be able
to pay us—there won’t be any money coming into the house without the tours.”

“We’re not out of work, Annette. They’re closing it temporarily
for an investigation. I’m sure they’ll provide us with some kind of
compensation.”

“The house needs an exorcism!”

“No, Annette, it doesn’t. The house isn’t possessed. Or evil.
And if the house could feel anything, it would be grateful to us for keeping it
alive. Annette—”

“Ohhhhh,” Annette broke in. “You have another job. I don’t. In
fact, you have a cool job, a real job. You’re a professor.”

“Annette, you
do
have a real job.
The house will open again. It’ll just be closed for a few weeks. They’ll shore
up the alarm system, and we’ll be bombarded when we reopen because people are
ghoulish and they’ll want to stare at the place where Julian died. Besides, you
work at the tavern as a singing waitress sometimes.”

“Yeah, thank God! I was there last night. I went for a drink
after my root canal and to hang with some of my friends. I can ask for a few
more nights.”

“The house won’t be closed that long.”

“Are you alone? Oh! You’re not still at the police station, are
you?”

“No.”

“I saw some government guy on the news—not an interview, just a
shot of him talking to the police. The U.S. government is in on this, Allison.
It’s scary, scary. But, hey, have you met him? My God, he’s gorgeous! Whoops,
excuse me, Barrie heard that. Barrie, he’s not as gorgeous as you, just, um,
pretty gorgeous!”

“Annette, pay attention. Those guys are here because of Adam
Harrison. You know, the nice elderly gentleman who’s been to a few functions at
the house.”

“I remember him. Maybe there
is
going to be an exorcism! I heard that his people look into strange stuff. Like
paranormal events.”

“Annette, if Barrie’s there and has the day off, please go and
spend some time with him.”

“What kind of friend do you think I am? I’ll be right
there—”

“No, no, please! I’m fine by myself. I’m going to try to get
some rest. Okay?”

Annette was silent. “I’m not sure you should be alone.”

“Annette, I’m fine. I promise. I’m going to curl up on the
couch and try to doze off.”

“Call if you need me, Ally. I can be there in five
minutes.”

“I will,” Allison said. “Thanks.”

She was able to hang up at last. Setting the phone down, she
rose and headed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She really hoped she
could doze off for a while, and hot tea and an inane comedy on TV should help
her quell some of the thoughts and images racing through her mind.

She loved her new pod machine; a cup of English Breakfast tea
brewed as swiftly as a cup of coffee. Mug in hand, she left the kitchen and came
around the counter—and froze.

She wasn’t alone in the house. There was someone sitting in the
chair by the sofa.

A dark-haired young man in Colonial dress.

It was Julian Mitchell.

She blinked.

He was still there.

The cup fell from her hand. She heard it shatter on the tile
floor.

Then she followed it down. She was vaguely aware that a few
body parts hurt but not for long.

Mercifully, the world went black as she passed out cold.

4

T
yler stood in the attic of the
Tarleton-Dandridge House looking at the disarray.

Someone had been searching—for what?

He wanted to straighten up the room; it was far easier to
figure out what was missing when everything else was in the right place. He’d
need to involve others with that, which he didn’t want to do quite yet. He’d had
offers from the board to come in and help, but he’d turned them down. He’d
actually lied to Nathan Pierson, telling him he preferred to wait until he was
sure the police were finished with their forensics before bringing anyone else
in.

The police
were
finished. And after
speaking with Detective Jenson, he knew they weren’t expecting to find anything
useful, unless by some unlikely chance they were to lift foreign prints—those
not associated with the four guides or the board members, whose prints they’d
already taken. If they were
really
lucky, they’d
come up with prints belonging to someone with a criminal record.

He wanted to work with Allison Leigh for the obvious reasons.
She was the one who’d found the body and who knew this house backward and
forward, along with the history. He’d gone through the biographies and résumés
of the employees and the board, and there was no one better qualified to help
him than Allison. She was in denial right now; he assumed that would change.

So far, although he had a sense of being watched in the house,
Tyler hadn’t seen a single movement, felt a brush of cold air or even heard an
old board creak.

The house was waiting—or those within it were. Waiting and
watching.

He left the attic and walked back down to the second floor,
taking a few minutes to go into every room. He’d been glad to hear from Nathan
Pierson that there was no plan by the board to give up the house. It was on the
national historic register, of course, so there was virtually no threat that it
would be bulldozed. Meticulously restored, the Tarleton-Dandridge House was one
of the finest examples of early Americana he’d ever seen. It would be a shame if
it was closed to the public to become the offices of an accounting agency or a
bank.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s room. He walked inside to look
at the painting of Beast Bradley.

Here, as Tyler had observed before, he was portrayed as a
thoughtful man. He appeared to be strong, but almost saddened by the weight of
responsibility. He’d been a man with well-arranged features, handsome in
youth.

Interesting.

Next he studied the painting of a young and innocent Lucy
Tarleton, a woman as yet untouched by death and bloodshed. He noted that there
was something about Lucy’s eyes that made him think of Allison. There was
definitely a resemblance, although it was true that many young women, dressed as
Lucy, might look like the long-gone heroine.

Tyler stood very still, allowing himself to
feel
the house.

Again he experienced the sensation of being watched, but there
were no sounds from the old place, nor did he see anything or notice any
drafts.

He headed down to the study where he’d left his briefcase with
his computer and the records Adam had arranged for him to receive.

They recorded many instances of normal life and death—many
births had taken place in the house, although sadly two of the mothers had died
in childbirth. A number of people had died in their beds of natural causes, one
Dandridge at the grand old age of a hundred and five.

During the War of 1812, Sophia Tarleton-Dandridge and her
husband had owned the house; they’d taken in a wounded soldier and he had passed
away. He was buried with the family in the graveyard behind the stables. A
family friend had come to the house after the Battle of Gettysburg. He was also
buried in the family graveyard.

Sad and tragic deaths due to warfare, Tyler thought. Not
unexpected and not the kind of thing that would produce anything terrible.

But then, Beast Bradley had been the terror that touched the
house....

Looking further into the family history, Tyler saw that another
death had been that of a young Dandridge girl in 1863. He wondered if she’d been
in love with the Civil War soldier who’d died. She’d taken rat poison and killed
herself soon after his death.

He shuddered. Hard way to die, rat poison.

And another hard way to die—a bayonet through the chin. He
tried to imagine how it had happened. Julian had sat down, his musket held
between his legs. He’d leaned forward and set the soft flesh behind his jawbone
on the blade of the bayonet. Then he’d lowered his head with enough force for
the blade to go through that soft flesh and his throat? It seemed almost
impossible.

Unless he’d been helped.

Fascinating though the historical events were, Tyler was more
interested in Julian’s death and the deaths of people who had died closer to the
present. There’d been several of those, starting in the late 1970s.

One of the docents, Bill Hall, had been found at the foot of
the staircase. While closing up at night, he’d apparently tripped and fallen
down the stairs, landing at an angle that had snapped his neck.

Eight years ago, a college student, Sam Daily, had told friends
he was going to break into a historic house and rearrange a few items as a joke.
It hadn’t gone so well; he’d tried to dismantle the alarm and a wire had shorted
out, sending electric volts shooting through him. He’d been discovered on the
ground near the back door the following morning.

Tragically the joke had been on him.

Just three years ago, another of the older docents or tour
guides, Angela Wilson, had been found dead in Tarleton’s study. She’d been
sitting in the same chair, in the same position, as Julian Mitchell. She had
died of a massive heart attack.

One death from a fall, one from electrocution and one from what
might well be a perfectly natural cause for someone of Angela’s age, a heart
attack.

And now a man dead of a bayonet shoved through his throat—as if
he’d set his own chin atop it for the blade to run through.

Tyler drummed his fingers on the desk.

He was here because of Adam Harrison. Adam had a love of and
connection to various historic properties. Technically, the Krewes were Adam’s
teams, so they went where Adam Harrison requested they go. Everything that had
happened here
could
have been natural or
accidental.

But Adam had a knack of knowing when things weren’t right.

Add in the trashing of the small office in the attic….

Someone had been looking for something. What? And why?

And how did any of it relate to the fact that Artie Dixon was
in a coma?

Tyler pulled out his cell phone and called Logan Raintree, one
of his best friends, a fellow Ranger at one time, and now the head of their
unit.

“Is it something—or nothing?” Logan asked. “Do you need the
rest of the Krewe?”

“Something,” Tyler said. “And yes. I’d like you to come
here.”

“Any idea as to what’s going on?”

“Nope. But the house has been closed down for the interim. I
think we should set up here.”

“We’ll be in tomorrow night,” Logan promised him.

Tyler hung up and put through another call. When he reached
Adam Harrison, he asked about keys to the attic.

“The board members all have a key, and so does Allison. There’s
also a key in the small pantry or storage room, where the employees have their
lockers and keep their street clothing. It’s always hung on a peg there.”

“Is the pantry locked during the day?” Tyler asked.

“No, not from what I understand. The employees slip in and out
when they have a break or need to get to their own belongings. No member of the
public goes into the house without a docent or tour guide, and they’ve never had
trouble before.”

“I’ll see if that key is still in place, but a lot of people
have keys. They could have been used—or copied at a previous date.”

“How are you doing?”

“I lost my guide,” Tyler told him.

“I can call someone else.”

Tyler hesitated. Maybe that was the right thing to do. Bring in
someone who
hadn’t
discovered a dead friend at the
house. Someone who wasn’t derisive of the investigation.

But he realized he didn’t want anyone else.

And as far as her attitude was concerned… It didn’t matter if
you believed the world was round or not, because it was round regardless of what
you believed.

Eventually, Allison would accept the fact that something
existed in the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

And as Todd had suggested,
it liked
her.

“Thanks, Adam. I’ll move along on my own for a bit, see if Ms.
Leigh begins to show some interest. I’m sure her heart is in the right place.
I’ll give her more time. The rest of the team will be in tomorrow night, and
we’ll see where we are then.”

Adam agreed with him and they hung up. Tyler immediately went
to the guides’ room; the key hung on a peg there, so access to the attic was
ridiculously easy. He returned to the study, picking up the folders that held
information on the board members. Pausing, he looked at the painting of Beast
Bradley.

He’d been perceived so differently by the two artists.

He stood, fascinated by the painting, and walked over to it. A
Plexiglas cover protected it and he saw that, apparently from the time it had
been hung, it had resided on that wall to avoid direct sunlight.

He tried to read the signature of the artist and was surprised
to realize that the name was T. Dandridge. He squinted to find the date; the
painting had been done in 1781. The year the Colonies had finally achieved their
independence.

He smiled. Yes, the artist of this particular likeness had
truly loathed his subject.

Tyler left the study and went up the stairs, back to Lucy
Tarleton’s room, and looked at the painting there. The signature appeared to be
Josiah Bell. The work was dated 1777.

Thoughtful, Tyler returned to the study once more. A truism in
life was that everyone perceived others in their own way. Where one person saw
kindness in someone, another saw weakness. Where one saw cruelty, another saw
strength.

Perception. Always nine-tenths of reality.

He smiled. Sadly, he was certain, Allison Leigh saw him as an
oversize quack. A pretentious hick.

Amused, he considered his own perceptions of her. A woman with
a lot of pride and yet humility. A lover of truth and honor, but stubborn and
determined. Stunning with her pitch-dark hair and bright blue eyes, but
dismissive of her looks. The woman was a scholar, after all, and took her work
seriously.

He hoped she’d come around. There was just something about
her—something in the helpless look she’d given Todd, something that was kind and
empathetic.

And despite the situation—despite her exhausted, annoyed and
bewildered behavior toward him—he still found her…sensual.

The ghost likes her,
Todd had said.
Yes, sometimes ghosts watched a person, and just as the living did, they knew
who they liked—and who they didn’t.

He stared at the painting. It didn’t move, but Todd was right.
The eyes had been well-painted, giving the illusion that the painting could
watch someone moving about the room.

He leaned back in his chair. “I am here,” he said softly.

He was greeted by silence. There were secrets in this house,
but so far, the ghostly inhabitants were guarding those secrets.

Some of his coworkers had known from the time they were
children that they had an extra sense, whether they saw it as a gift or a curse.
They’d had grandparents or friends who’d appeared at their own funerals or
talked to them in the middle of the night, or even showed up in other
places.

Tyler, however, had no clue he had any unusual abilities until
he’d done a stint in the service and then come home to become a Texas Ranger.
He’d loved stories about the Rangers all his life; becoming a Ranger had been a
dream. It was when he’d been a Ranger for a year that he’d first experienced the
unusual.
The situation had been especially
poignant. Drug runners had kidnapped their mule’s younger sister. The older
sister had become a heroin addict, and when she hadn’t been able to produce the
money they’d wanted quickly enough, they’d killed her with an overdose. The
younger sister had been left to rot at the bottom of a cistern out on the dusty
Texas plain. A desperate, state-wide search had been instigated to find the
seventeen-year-old. Tyler was standing in the middle of the sprawling ranch
house where the drug runners were based when the older sister, pathetic, shaking
and twitching, had appeared to him, begging him to help.

He thought he’d been drinking too much; he tried to tell
himself that he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. She followed him. She was next
to him even when he was with other officers. She didn’t know where her sister
was, but he had to help her, she said.

He was trying. He was trying so damned hard.

He stayed on his shift for several extra hours, searching the
house, the barn, the stables, everywhere. He headed back to a bar for the night
and discovered the dead woman on the stool next to him. He went home and she
invaded his bedroom.

The next morning he got up and joined the search again,
quizzing his ghost relentlessly about the property.

In the end, he found the younger sister in the cistern. He
found her alive—shaken and dehydrated, but alive. His crying, grateful ghost
left him, and for months afterward, he wondered if the pressure of the case
hadn’t made him delusional.

Then he’d walked into his office one day to see an old man
sitting by his desk. No one else saw this old man, who wanted Tyler to find his
murderer. Eventually he did.