Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  He walked as silently as he could, looking into the conference room and then the offices, his sense of alarm growing with every footstep.

  He could find no one.

  He turned and hurried back across the entry toward the climate-controlled room. Squinting through the ribbons of plastic, he saw nothing except for the sarcophagus. It lay on the steel table, as it always had, and the larger outer sarcophagus hadn’t moved, either.

  He started to walk by, but then waited. He made his way through the layers of plastic and found himself striding toward the sarcophagus. His heart seemed to rise in his chest as he did.

  He almost tripped when he reached the other side of the table.

  The mummy of Amun Mopat lay on the floor—on top of Jane Everett.

  In the sarcophagus itself lay Kat.

  He began to reach in for her, desperate for her to be alive. The sound of gunfire startled him; he heard and felt the thunk of bullets as they hit the wood of the sarcophagus. He ducked down low, skittering around to the other side of the table. For a split second, he was distracted. The way the mummy had fallen, it was almost as if the wrapped eyes were looking right at him.

  He couldn’t tell the direction of the gunfire, except that it seemed to come from the far side of the climate-controlled room, from behind other layers of plastic. He noticed then that there was a trail of blood.

  And Kat’s Glock lay on the floor.

  She’d gotten a shot off! He stared at the plastic, searching for movement.

  “I see you,” he said. “I see you through the eyes of Amun Mopat. I have held the scepter, and it has given me visions you cannot imagine.”

  He heard a whisper. “He’s got the scepter!”

  The plastic moved.

  “Don’t be an idiot! He doesn’t have the scepter. We saw him come in.”

  Another shot shattered the silence, this bullet burying itself in the sarcophagus, as well.

  Will rose and shot back; he didn’t dare do anything else. He didn’t know if the women were alive or dead. If alive, they needed help. He didn’t dare think about the way Kat lay, like the dead….

  There was a scream of pain. Suddenly, the plastic went flying outward. Sherry Bertelli, her face set in a mask of hatred, came at him, gun blazing. Will ducked and then straightened to return her fire, emptying his cartridge into the woman who came after him so hell-bent on murder.

  He caught Sherry dead center in the chest. Still, she whirled as she went down, screaming all the while, more in rage, it seemed, than in pain.

  Before he could reload, he heard Jon Hunt screeching in fury. He turned; the man had gotten his hands on Sherry’s cast-aside pistol and was rising to one knee to shoot.

  He heard something…from the sarcophagus. It was Kat, struggling to rise.

  She gripped the edge, crying out, “Jon! Turn around. He’s here, do you see him? Amun Mopat is here, and he’s furious with you. He wasn’t evil, he wasn’t evil at all. He never used his scepter for evil purposes. He used it to pray that the rains would come and that people would live.”

  Jon Hunt just stared at her. Then, slowly, he turned. He stared at the figure Kat began to describe.

  “He was young by our standards, Jon. He wasn’t even forty when he died. He spent his life trying to feed those who had nothing, and trying to guide the pharaoh to rule justly. He urged others to help the lepers and the sick and the lame. He never wielded that scepter in cruelty. Can you see him, Jon? He’s walking toward you and he’s so angry. He’s furious with you!”

  Will wasn’t sure if Jon saw what he saw, or if Kat’s description created the illusion, or if the ghost of Amun Mopat, historically wronged, had stepped through the veil between life and death to save him and Kat. He saw the priest, tall and straight, slim and regal, walking toward Jon. He saw him reach for the man—and send him sliding across the slick tile of the floor.

  Will jammed a new cartridge into his service Glock. He rose and walked over to Jon, pulling the gun from his hand. He’d never realized until he’d seen him in a rage just how powerful Jon might have been.

  He hunkered down beside him. “The cops will be on their way soon, Jon. Now, I’m going to go tend to my friends. If I were you, I’d stay there. I’d stay very still. Because do you know what’s real? The human soul’s quest for justice. You thought you could have all the power you ever hoped for in your strange, sick mind. I’m pretty sure Sherry was in it for the money. That doesn’t matter anymore. What does matter is that if you move, Amun Mopat will strangle the life out of you, slowly and with malice.” He gritted his teeth and managed a shrug. “And if not, may you rest in a urine-stained mental ward for the rest of your life!” Taking out his phone with one hand, he dialed 9-1-1, his eyes still on Jon Hunt. It seemed that he’d hardly hung up when the police came rushing in and he knew they must have heard the shots.

  He and Kat, they were going to be all right. Jane, too.

  He rose, jerking the cartridge from Sherry’s gun and breaking it on his knee, then throwing the gun to a far corner of the room.

  He couldn’t help it; he rushed to Kat first. He helped her crawl from the sarcophagus and, before he could let her go to aid Jane, he held her for a second. “You had my back,” he whispered.

  “And you had mine.”

  “Jane?” he asked.

  “Concussion,” she said. “She needs an ambulance.”

  “And so do you.”

  “He hit me with the death mask. It wasn’t really hard enough to do much damage,” she told him. She pulled away, kneeling by Jane. Even as she did, Jane groaned. Her eyes began to flutter open and, in a minute, she was looking at Kat.

  “Is it—”

  “Over,” Kat said. “It’s really over.”

  Will found that he was studying the mummy that lay discarded and broken on the floor.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. He could hear sirens blaring through the streets of Chicago. He thought they might sleep well that night, neither of them troubled by visions or dreams.

  * * *

  “Creepy, creepy, really creepy!” Kelsey said. She still shuddered when she heard Kat talk about having been laid out in the sarcophagus.

  “It’s just a box, nothing more,” Kat pointed out. She pulled a loose thread off the robe that Kelsey was wearing. “You look great.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Kelsey said. “I should run around in Egyptian robes every day.”

  “It’s going to be nice,” Kat told her. “We’re doing it for Dirk Manning. Come on, he can’t live with us forever, you know.”

  “True.”

  “Is everyone prepared?” Dirk Manning came into the parlor area of the Egyptian Sand Diggers’ mansion. He seemed rested and relaxed for the first time in weeks. “Tonight, we set free a soul so that it may soar with the wind and ride the sun in the heavens,” he said. “If everyone will follow me…. Those of you who will speak as the Egyptian gods and goddesses, please be ready.”

  They walked through the maze again.

  Samantha was ahead of Kat in the procession; Kat had the feeling that she’d be taking on a bigger role with the society. She read her part in a clear, dramatic voice.

  Others read, too, including Will. He winked at her as she recited her part. Kelsey, drafted into the ceremony at the last minute, did well, too.

  “We, the Egyptian Sand Diggers of Chicago, wish peace and comfort to a man much maligned by history. A man who seems to have proven to all of us that he had nothing but a devout desire to help others. Around him, there were men, misled or filled with greed, who sought to steal his riches—riches they thought meant power, but his power was really the strength of his soul. Tonight, we swear to do the research to right his reputation in history. And we pray that his soul will find the heaven he has always sought.”

  Will came to stand by Kat, placing his arm around her. “Look!” he said softly. “It that my imagination?”

  Kat squinted, looking past the altar and the obelisk, just behind
Dirk Manning.

  It seemed that Amun Mopat was indeed there, watching with approval. And at his side was Austin Miller. As if he was a guide, trying to explain the modern world to the ghost who’d been silent for centuries. Whose body had lain at the bottom of the lake for all these years.

  Dirk Manning lit an incense burner, and smoke and scent rose into the air.

  The Egyptian and the elderly American seemed to disappear in the smoke.

  If they’d ever really been there…

  * * *

  They stayed and enjoyed the after-party at the Sand Diggers’ manor for a while, but then Will and Kat slipped out early.

  They had tickets to Second City, and then planned to enjoy some really great jazz.

  The show was hilarious, and they were treated to an hour of the wonderful music for which the city had long been famed.

  They drove back along the lake and stopped to look out on the water. “One day we’ll come back and dive the wreck,” Kat said.

  He stood behind her, wrapping her in his arms. “Hmm, one day. But Simonton’s Sea Search is now going to work with the new experts brought in by the Preservation Center’s board. The filming will continue. But since the research and salvage will be managed by Andy, we may not be welcome for a while.”

  “I don’t think he was that angry. In fact, he seemed fine when I spoke to him a couple of days ago.” Kat reached up to stroke his face. “They were all in on it—Amanda, Jon, Landry and Sherry.”

  “All of them.” Will nodded. “Jon was the least involved, I think—but, of course, he was the craziest.”

  “Obsessed,” Kat agreed. “To the point of insanity.”

  “I think Amanda was kind of a patsy. She wanted a real friendship—and she wanted glory. Her relationship with Sherry seemed to be something she needed in a sad kind of way.”

  “On the other hand, Sherry just wanted money. From what she said that night, I believe she’d watched what was going on for a long time—and that she was the ‘brains’ behind the operation, if that’s the right word. I’m sure Landry thought he was in charge. Sherry might have been a better actress than I gave her credit for,” Kat said.

  “I agree, Sherry was in it for the money—and she played sweet, innocent and dumb extremely well. I think she learned a bit about high living when she went places with Landry, and that meant she needed cash to support the lifestyle she aspired to. Landry wasn’t going to divorce his wife and Sherry wasn’t going to play second fiddle forever.”

  “And Landry wanted the rights to dive the wreck,” Kat said. “It all worked for them—for a while.” She turned to look at him. “Murder does make for the strangest associations, not to mention bedfellows!”

  “Murder and greed,” Will added. “I’m not sure they actually wanted anyone to die. What they wanted was the Jerry McGuen. I just don’t think they cared who had to die so they could get what they were after. Brady Laurie was so passionate about the ship and his work—he’s really the one who was in the way. Knowing the truth now, it’s easy to see how they created their plan. Amanda and Jon provided what was needed on the research end. Landry killed Brady, while Sherry played the mummy every time—and poisoned Amanda when she was afraid Amanda might start breaking because of our investigation.”

  “That’s what Sherry told me, at any rate.”

  “Boy, she’s the one who makes me shiver the most. She was stone-cold.”

  “Yep,” Kat agreed. “She shot her lover without a second thought.”

  “Sad, truly sad. So many dead…”

  “And, remarkably, it’s over,” Will said. “Bastet has a home with Dirk now. The research work will go on, and so will the documentary. There’ll be pieces to pick up, and some people will still insist it was the curse written on Amun Mopat’s tomb. In a way it was—a curse carried out through the living.

  “Enough of that for tonight…” He swung Kat around to face him. “You know what we haven’t done yet? The Shedd Aquarium and the Field Museum. The Field Museum, which has a really good Egyptian display.”

  “You’re teasing me, and I know it! But guess what? Tomorrow, I think we should do a whirlwind shopping spree down Michigan Avenue, visit the Shedd Aquarium—and, okay, the Field Museum.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve actually acquired a fondness for mummies!” she told him.

  He kissed her. “And tonight?”

  “Let’s get back to the hotel. I’ve actually acquired quite a fondness for you, as well,” she whispered. “I thought I might show you just how fond I am.”

  He tilted her chin up. “Nice. Because I’ve acquired an adoration for you.” He grew serious. “You do know I’m in love with you.”

  She smiled. “And you do know we’ll work it out.”

  He nodded, turning away.

  “Will?”

  He laughed. “Well, come on, then! Let’s start working it out.”

  She laughed and followed him.

  The breeze was warm. The lake was sparkling like a sea of diamonds beneath the moon and the stars.

  God, she loved Chicago!

  * * * * *

  The Uninvited

  Heather Graham

  Prologue

  It was a beautiful time of day, close to dusk, at a beautiful time of year, early fall. Philadelphia’s Tarleton-Dandridge House sat back from the street, majestic and stately, in the light that had just begun to fade, as fine and poignant as an old building could be, a proud remnant of an era long gone, yet ever remembered.

  Julian Mitchell almost felt guilty. Almost. He couldn’t quite manage guilt; he was too ecstatic over his day, still pumped with enthusiasm and the beat of the music he’d been playing. He enjoyed being a guide at the Tarleton-Dandridge, but today he’d had to ditch it. The audition had been important and, much as he loved his job, he loved the idea of working full-time as a guitarist more. Sure, it was great dressing up and playing with the band in Old Town, but he had dreams of being a real rock star. Now, however, he had to slip back into the house—and suck up to Allison. She was their unofficial leader, head of the guides or docents at the Tarleton-Dandridge, and if she forgave him, the others would, too.

  He saw that one group of guests had already entered the house with their guide and that another, the last group of the day, was assembling just outside the main door. He could see Allison Leigh to the side of the house near the gate, welcoming those who were gathering for the final tour. Allison was dressed in the typical fashion of the Revolutionary era—the typical high fashion of the Revolutionary era, since female guides wore clothing along the lines of that which would’ve been worn by Lucy Tarleton, the martyred heroine of the house. The male guides dressed as Lord Brian Bradley, the British general known as “Beast” Bradley, who had occupied the house.

  They all looked pretty cool in their clothing, he thought. But especially Allison. She was beautiful to begin with, even if she was kind of a nerd. A real academic. But she did bear a resemblance to the heroine she played, Lucy Tarleton. They’d all remarked on her resemblance to the painting in the house and those in various museums, but there was no evidence that she was a descendent of the woman. And if anyone would know, Allison would, since she was a historian. Maybe it was the clothing that gave her the look.

  Allison wasn’t even glancing his way, so he quickly jumped the old brick wall that surrounded the house.

  He was still in his period clothing from the morning shift; he hadn’t sneaked out until after lunch. Luckily, his band’s audition had been to open for the new “it” group—rockers who liked to dress up like Patrick Henry and friends—which meant he hadn’t had to worry about auditioning in his work outfit.

  Of course, he hadn’t asked for the time off. He’d decided that in life it was generally better to do and ask forgiveness later than it was to beg for permission and get a big fat no! What guilt he did feel was because one of his colleagues had to take the tour group he should have led.

  Still, he had a plan.
He’d wait until the last group had gone through, and Jason and Allison had finished for the day. He winced; he realized Annette wasn’t at work. She’d made an appointment for a root canal. But he knew his fellow docents as well as they knew him. Jason would leave before Ally. Julian just had to wait until Jason had left and Allison was alone, checking as she always did that the doors were locked and the alarm system was on. She would come down to Angus’s study—ye olde study, where that poor bastard Angus Tarleton had died, supposedly of a broken heart—to make sure no kids were hiding under the desk to spend the night in the “haunted” house. He’d wait for her there. When Ally showed up, he would beg and plead and he could honestly tell her they’d probably get the gig, and he’d do anything to compensate for the time he’d missed. And he’d promise her backstage passes to the first concert.

  He tiptoed to the front door and listened. Once Jason’s tour had moved into the social rooms to the left, he hurried up the stairs. But when he reached the second-floor landing, he heard conversation and footsteps coming down from the attic. He dodged into Lucy Tarleton’s room. He’d forgotten the board was meeting at the house that day. He’d have to wait until they were gone.

  At last, they were. He heard the foursome going down the main stairway. As usual, they were bickering among themselves.

  “Cherry, you may be a descendent of the family, but this place is owned by Old Philly History now. We’re only the board.” She started to speak, but Ethan Oxford interrupted her. “Yes, it’s privately owned and operated, but there’s a charter. The house was donated for the preservation of history.”

  Old Ethan Oxford was the senior member of the board. Cherry’s mother had been the last of the Dandridge family. Cherry would probably have eschewed her own father’s name to take on Dandridge, Julian was certain, except that her husband, George Addison, was becoming a very well-known artist, and she liked the prestige that came with being Mrs. Addison.

  “No one knows this house like I do,” Cherry insisted.

  “Really? You never lived in it. It was handed over to Old Philly History long before you were born.”