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

by Heather Graham

  “We’ll certainly be looking into that. What I need to know from all of you is whether you have any idea why someone would be searching for something in that attic. And what that might be.”

  He surveyed the table. They all stared back at him.

  “I can’t think of anything,” Cherry said. “The house has had a thorough history done, which was easy because it went from the original family directly into the hands of the Old Philly organization.”

  “An oral history,” Tyler said politely.

  Cherry sat up very straight. “Would you suggest my family were liars, Agent Montague?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Addison,” Tyler assured her. “But oral history can be like the whispering game. Tell a friend, who tells a friend, and by the time they’ve told several friends, the story has changed. Don’t worry, I’m not implying that’s the case.” He rose; he’d been hoping to learn something he didn’t know or couldn’t access in his files. They were all looking to him for answers when he’d just arrived and was still figuring it out.

  “You don’t think our guide—Ms. Leigh—might have, er, helped Mr. Mitchell die, do you?” Cherry asked.

  Tyler was startled by the question. Maybe he shouldn’t have been. Despite Allison’s obvious grief at the loss of a colleague, the police had questioned her long enough.

  He reminded himself that he barely knew Allison Leigh.

  But he also had a good sense of people; he was seldom fooled.

  “No, I don’t. Julian Mitchell was a physically fit man. It’s unlikely that even as a friend, joking around with him, she could have forced his chin down on that bayonet,” Tyler said.

  Nathan frowned. “Cherry, that was horrible! To say such a thing.”

  “However,” Ethan said, drumming his fingers on the table, “whoever trashed the attic might have been looking for Allison’s research.”

  “Ethan, don’t be ridiculous,” Cherry said, waving a beautifully manicured hand in the air. “Her so-called research sheds no new light on anything. She’s found a few quotes and notations we didn’t know about. She has nothing new.” Cherry paused. “She did mention to me that she wanted to take a research trip to Valley Forge. She’s been communicating with some professor there who claims he owns letters written by Lucy Tarleton. I highly doubt this and I warned Allison he’s probably a fraud or the letters were faked, but I believe she still meant to investigate.”

  Cherry didn’t exactly roll her eyes, but her opinion of the unnamed professor’s research was evident.

  Tyler stood and said, “Well, Mrs. Addison, here’s the thing about history. It belongs to everyone and it’s not immutable. History changes when new facts emerge or when attitudes change—views on slavery being an obvious example. So I assume Ms. Leigh will follow where her research leads. Thank you all for your time and your faith. We’ll keep you advised of every move we make and, of course, anything we’re able to determine.”

  Oxford and Pierson stood politely when Tyler did. He could tell they were going to talk about him when he was gone. That was all right; he’d learned from them what he could.

  The rest of his Krewe would be arriving by nightfall. He returned to the house and did an inventory of the employees’ work area, not wanting to infringe on anyone’s private property, but figuring out the best way to make the place habitable. There was a small refrigerator, a microwave and a coffeepot. Not much, but it would do, especially since they were located in the heart of the historic district, which placed them in the middle of restaurant heaven.

  Making a mental list of a few supplies to pick up, he left the house and walked over to Allison’s, about half a mile away. Passing through the historic district, he listened to the sounds of excitement from parents, couples and children, all thrilled to see the famous Liberty Bell and walk through Independence Hall.

  He understood Allison’s deep passion for Philadelphia and its history. He often felt that the greatest achievement of American democracy had been freedom of speech and of the press, freedoms that could be abused at times and yet were necessary for a true government of the people.

  With that thought in mind, he found himself thinking again of the two different paintings of Beast Bradley. It was remarkable what one man saw that another didn’t. And each had the right to his own views.

  He tried Allison’s door; she didn’t answer. He tried her cell phone next but got her answering machine. He left a message, asking her to give him a call.

  After that, he stopped at the hospital. The children weren’t there today but Haley Dixon was sitting by her husband’s side, holding his hand. She didn’t see Tyler at first and he felt a hard tug at his heartstrings—no relationship in the world was perfect, he knew that. But the love and tenderness in Haley’s eyes as she watched her husband, her hand curled around his, was beautiful.

  He prayed that Dixon would recover even as he wondered whether the man’s condition could possibly have anything to do with the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

  Haley Dixon must have heard him then because she turned toward him. Her eyes were damp, but she smiled. She gently released her husband’s hand and walked over to join him at the door.

  “Any change?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “They’re still waiting for the test results.”

  “How are the boys?”

  Haley shrugged apologetically. “Todd’s convinced that a ghost did this to his father. But he’s also convinced that Ms. Leigh can do something about it, and he believes in you.”

  “I wish I could promise you that all we had to do was talk to a ghost and everything would be all right. But I can promise you that I have a team coming in tonight and we’ll do everything possible to find out if there were any factors at the house that could have caused this.”

  She nodded. “All the other tourists and docents are okay—” She broke off and grimaced. “Except for the young man who died, of course. Do you think there could be some kind of toxin? Mold in the walls, lead, anything that might be responsible for this? Something Artie’s allergic to, maybe, that doesn’t affect most people?”

  “Government regulations are pretty stringent, but you never know what might’ve been missed. We’ll keep at it.”

  She suddenly stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his cheek. She flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that a lot of people would think we’re ridiculous for believing the house could have caused any of this, and I want you to know that I—we, all of us—are grateful for your concern and anything you can do.”

  “A kiss on the cheek is never anything to apologize for,” he told her. “I’ll check back with you tomorrow.”

  Leaving the hospital, Tyler headed to the police station. So far, the police had gained nothing from their forensic investigation of the house or the attic. The prints they’d lifted all belonged to those who worked there and, presumably, tourists. There’d been an abundance of prints with no matches in the databases. The medical examiner had yet to make a ruling on Julian Mitchell’s death, and it might be several days before he was able to do so.

  Detective Jenson looked sad as usual, a little world-weary, but like the faithful old bloodhound he so resembled, ready to take on the world. “I would’ve given you a call in the next hour or so. I’d asked the board of directors to keep everyone out of the attic until we’d processed some of our information, but now we need someone back in there. Someone associated with the house. It might just have been mischief, but the only way we’ll discover who created the mess up in the Tarleton-Dandridge attic is to discover if anything’s missing. Everyone I’ve spoken with is totally mystified. Nathan Pierson said he was pretty sure no one would find any illegal substances. Now, as I say, I’d like to get one of the historical staff back in there. To be honest, it wouldn’t be much of a priority for the department if it weren’t for the dead boy—and the fact that the medical examiner hasn’t made any kind of statement.” Detective Jenson paused for a moment. “I’m surprised they’ve got the feds on something lik
e this, although I have heard a little about your group. Got to admit I don’t quite understand it.”

  “Don’t worry. Those of us involved don’t always understand it, either, but we get results,” Tyler said. He liked Jenson and liked dealing with him. The man didn’t seem at all territorial and didn’t argue with someone else taking care of a crime that might have been a prank and a murder that might have been an accident.

  “I’ll bring Ms. Leigh back in to start putting the attic in order. She’s apparently more or less in charge of the other guides,” Tyler told him. “She can decide whether to bring in her coworkers.”

  Jenson nodded. He glanced down, his expression strange, and then he looked up at Tyler again. “It was the damnedest thing. Finding that young man—it almost looked as if he was resting his chin on the musket except that the bayonet had gone through his chin and there was blood everywhere. His eyes were still wide open and he was staring at the wall. I have to tell you, I’ve seen a lot in my years on the force here, but that young man…” His voice trailed off and then he focused on Tyler and shrugged. “Nothing wrong with the feds taking over on this, not the way I see it.”

  Tyler thanked him for his help and left the station. He called Allison’s cell on his way but she didn’t answer.

  She’d probably seen his name on her caller ID.

  After going to the store, he’d stop by her place before returning to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

  * * *

  Allison went to Starbucks and ordered a latte with two extra shots, since it might not be easy to stay awake today.

  She hovered there, wishing she’d had the presence of mind to bring her laptop or iPad, anything she might have played with so she could have joined those casually enjoying their coffee.

  There was only so long she could linger. She felt restless.

  What she needed was a shot of courage, not just caffeine. She’d seen Dr. “What do you think?” Blount and now she really had to go home.

  But despite her stern resolution, she parked her car in the driveway at her house and then wandered the historic district, staying away from the walk down Chestnut that would bring her back to the Tarleton-Dandridge.

  Hovering near Independence Hall, staring up at the redbrick building that still brought her a little thrill every time she saw it, she heard a teenage boy talking to another.

  “Me! I’d be Patrick Henry, if I was a founding father! He was cool. He was so fierce. He stood right in that building and said, ‘Give me liberty or give me death!’”

  Allison winced, wondering if she should play the eternal teacher and tell the boy that Patrick Henry had indeed said those words but not at Independence Hall. He’d spoken his fiery rhetoric to the Virginia Convention at St. John’s Church in Richmond.

  She was startled when the teen shivered as though he’d felt a sudden blast of cold air. Then he turned and stared at Allison, not as if he’d known she was there, but as if he’d been searching for someone—anyone—to be near him.

  He seemed about sixteen, a handsome kid, the kind teenage girls would definitely find appealing.

  “Hi,” he said, frowning as he looked at her. The brother or friend he was with seemed troubled, as well.

  “Hi. Where are you from?” Allison asked him.

  He made a face. “Indiana.”

  She laughed. “What’s wrong with Indiana?”

  “I live in a cornfield.”

  “Well, we need corn. By the way, I was listening to you, and I’m a huge Patrick Henry fan, too. But guess what? Although I love Philly and I’d like to think most of our brilliant quotes come from speeches here, he said those words in Richmond, Virginia.”

  “Yeah?” The boy didn’t seem angry about being corrected. “Maybe that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “The cold.”

  “The cold?” she repeated.

  “Yeah, I felt something cold touch me when I said it. Hey, maybe Patrick Henry is running around here!” he said happily. “Maybe he’s a ghost, and he didn’t like that I’d made a mistake.”

  Allison shook her head. “He’s buried at Red Hill, in Virginia, his family home, the last place he lived. It’s beautiful there. If I were Patrick Henry and still running around, I think I’d be there. He really loved Virginia and, back then, they were ‘statesmen.’ The events at Independence Hall turned the Colonies into states and the states into a nation.”

  “I heard about that,” the other boy said. “I heard the politicians fought back. That Thomas Jefferson had a hard time writing the Declaration of Independence and that he had to word it so all the representatives from all the colonies would be happy.”

  “Yup. Can you imagine trying to do that today? Back then, there were only thirteen states. Now we have fifty,” Allison said. She was surprised the boys were listening to her, and she was happy they were old enough to be exploring on their own—and that they seemed to care about history. She also liked their companionship at the moment. She found she could even smile and say, “Hmm, maybe if anyone’s running around here, it’s Gouverneur Morris.”

  “Governor who?” the younger one asked.

  “Not governor. Gouverneur. That was the man’s name,” Allison said. “He was born in New York City but he spent a lot of time here, helping to form the nation. While Thomas Jefferson was drafting the Declaration of Independence, Morris was busy working on the Constitution. He was an interesting man, if you want to look up one of the founding fathers who isn’t as well known as Jefferson or Patrick Henry. He lost out a few times for trying to create a more centralized government. While many of the others were thinking mostly about states’ rights, Morris already saw that we needed to band together to really make things work. He was antislavery, as were most of the founding fathers, but that was one issue they were afraid to touch just then. In his later life, he was a peg-legged old curmudgeon, but he was pretty remarkable.”

  “I’d like to be in government,” the younger boy said. “First, I’d make a law that everybody has to be nice to everyone else, no matter where they came from. Because the United States is made up of people who came from other places, right?”

  “Yes, and that’s very commendable.”

  “Then I’d stop them from killing whales and wolves and baby seals, and I’d make people use their blinkers when they’re driving!”

  Allison started to laugh at that, but the laughter died in her throat. She blinked. Someone was strolling across the grounds, coming toward Independence Hall, wearing a period costume.

  It was Julian Mitchell. She could see him plainly, just as she’d seen him in her home and at the Tarleton-Dandridge House.

  He stood behind the boys.

  “I really have to talk to you,” he said. “Please, Allison.”

  She felt herself growing dizzy, darkness encroaching. She fought the feeling.

  “You’re not there,” she whispered. “You are a product of my stressed-out imagination.”

  “Huh?” the boy said. “I’m right here. I’m Toby Gray. This is my buddy, Hudson.”

  The kids looked at her, visibly frightened.

  Of course. There was a dead man standing behind them.

  No, the kids were afraid of her!

  “I’m Allison,” she said, trying to be polite. “Nice to meet you.”

  She turned and hurried in the direction of her house.

  She felt the cold follow her.

  Allison began to move more quickly. By the time she got home, she was running. She’d left the gates to the driveway and the front walk open, and she tore along the path, nearly tripping up the steps to her porch.

  Her fingers shook when she put the key in the lock. She burst into the house, slammed the door and leaned against it. A sigh of relief escaped her as she looked toward the plush wingback chair in her parlor. There was no one there.

  For several long moments she continued to lean against the door, breathing hard. As last, she walked toward the kitchen. Her han
ds were shaking when she took the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. Pouring a shot, she drank it down in a flash.

  And then she saw him again. He walked through the door. He didn’t open it to come in; he just appeared inside, coming toward her once again.

  She poured another shot. The whiskey dripped over her fingers and sloshed around in the glass. She managed to get some in, and swallowed the second shot.

  “Allison, please.”

  “You can say please all you want. I don’t see you! You are a product of my imagination, of your terrible death—what the hell were you doing, Julian? No, I don’t see you. I can’t see you. I don’t mean to be cruel but you’re dead and you’re lying in the morgue and they won’t even release your body yet.”

  “I know.”

  “So, quit talking to me! Get out of my mind. I was good to you, Julian. You were a jerk and I’m a nice person and I covered for you. We all did. I’m so sorry you’re not going to live to be a rich and famous drummer and lead vocalist. Maybe you can do that in someone else’s mind. Please, please, get out of mine.”

  “Allison—”

  She poured another shot of whiskey, staring at him, gulping it down.

  Ignore him. Just ignore him.

  She walked out of the kitchen, stumbling against the wall. He only existed in her imagination, of course, but she gave him a wide berth, circling around him. Going over to her entertainment system, she turned on the television. She hit a Philly educational channel that was showing a reenactment of a meeting at Independence Hall.

  The people in it were all dressed like Julian. She changed the channel, and then flicked it to music, playing a classic Beatles CD.

  That done, she felt her knees grow weak. Her stomach was burning, her head spinning. She didn’t drink that often and now three large whiskies were shooting through her with wicked repercussions.

  Julian took a seat in the wingback chair again.