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

by Heather Graham

  He slipped his arms around her, pulling her close. “You make me see the world in a whole new light,” he whispered.

  She leaned against him. The sun was shining down on her hair, which made it look as dark and glossy as a raven’s wing. He had to remind himself that they weren’t on a date—or sightseeing.

  “So, there’s action all around Philly, even after the British occupy the city,” he said pensively. “When they do, our Lucy, who’s friends with a number of fighting men, immediately begins her flirtation with Lord Brian Bradley. Whenever she gains information, she rides out. Sadly, I guess neither she nor any other patriot spy reached this particular battlefield in time. Sounds like it was a horrible massacre.”

  “The Americans repulsed the British at Whitemarsh,” Allison said. “Lucy might have been able to get information to someone about that.”

  “Washington retired with his forces to Valley Forge in December, right?” Tyler asked.

  “December 19,” Allison replied. “We should move on. You can see some of the landscape around there before we meet up with Martin Standish. The old stone farmhouses that were used as headquarters still exist and they’ve built replicas of the wooden huts the soldiers used to survive the winter. You’ve never been there? On a school trip or a family vacation, maybe?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I can tell you the story of the Alamo with every detail and every argument about the deaths of our Texas heroes.”

  “‘Don’t mess with Texas!’” she said, smiling.

  They made the drive to Valley Forge, and once they arrived, Tyler was even more impressed. There had been no fighting at Valley Forge; there were still fortifications and cannon and all manner of defenses. At the time, the Americans hadn’t known the British wouldn’t chase them to the valley.

  But despite the lack of fighting, there had been many, many deaths. Two thousand had died from the harshness of that winter and the diseases that riddled the troops.

  They stopped to see George Washington’s restored headquarters, and Tyler felt humbled as he studied the general’s maps and other artifacts. From beyond the little house and the hill on which it sat, he saw an exceptional view of the Schuylkill River.

  At quarter to two, they came to an old corner brick building, where a small sign announced Standish House: Open upon Appointment.

  Tyler had barely knocked when Martin Standish opened the door. He was a wizened little man with Ben Franklin glasses, wispy white hair and a round belly.

  Indeed, he looked like an older Ben Franklin.

  “Come in, come in,” he said, hustling them inside and locking the door behind them. “No one followed you, did they?”

  Tyler was surprised. “No one knows we’re here, Mr. Standish,” he assured the man. “This is Allison Leigh. You’ve spoken to her online and on the phone. And I’m Agent Tyler Montague, with the FBI. Why are you afraid we were followed?”

  “I received several calls this morning, from people asking to see my collection.”

  “What people?” Allison asked.

  “Young lady, if I knew that, I wouldn’t be so worried. But considering everything that’s happened, I don’t trust too many people. In fact, after you two leave today, I’m going out of town for a while. This is all making me very nervous,” he said.

  “You feel threatened?” Tyler tried to take in the little museum as he spoke. It was really the man’s downstairs living area. But there were display cases on tables throughout; he had remnants of clothing, vests, caps, belts and a number of powder horns and flintlock muskets. The walls were adorned with maps and sketches of generals and the rank and file of the Revolutionary armies.

  Standish was watching him and shaking his head. “What, sir? Agent or not, what are you, stupid?” Standish demanded rudely. “You’ve got corpses at that house. And I’ve got that woman calling me first, and this morning I get three calls, and oddly enough, although the voices were similar, each claimed to be from a different place—supposedly researchers out of Virginia, New York City and Vermont! And what’s happening in Philly around the Tarleton-Dandridge House? That’s scary. Coincidence that a woman dies in a car accident after a fellow stabs himself to death with his costume bayonet? No, I don’t think so. I don’t believe in coincidence, no sirree. I’m getting out of here and not telling a soul except my daughter where I’ll be.”

  Tyler glanced at Allison. “Could you tell whether the caller today was a man or a woman?”

  “Couldn’t tell at all.”

  “I’d like your permission to check your phone records. We can find out where those calls came from,” Tyler said.

  Standish raised his brows. “Sure. If you can do that, great.”

  “It only takes a phone call.”

  Standish seemed to like him then.

  “I don’t understand it. Someone’s worried that the story about the Tarleton-Dandridge House might not be entirely true,” Standish said. “We need to admit our mistakes. I’m referring to the things we did wrong and the stories we got wrong. It doesn’t mean we’re not a great country if we do. Lord, there’s power in seeing the past clearly.” He looked at Allison. “You teach history to our young minds. You know it’s wrong to pollute the past by pretending that the men who came before us were without fault. The media today puts every indiscretion, big or small, out there for the world to see. But can anyone in our society be foolish enough not to realize that men of power have always held a sexual attraction for those around them? And that they’re frequently willing to exploit it?” He made a scornful sound, shaking his head. “Thomas Jefferson! We worship the ground he walked on, but he had an affair with his slave Sally Hemings. Everyone back then talked about it and his mixed-race children—everyone except Jefferson. The man just kept mum.” He wagged a finger in the air. “But the interesting thing is that Sally Hemings was already Jefferson’s sister-in-law. She was the daughter of Jefferson’s wife’s father. People talked about him back then, but he still came down in history as a great man. But scandal isn’t new, is it?”

  “No, Mr. Standish, scandal isn’t new at all. I don’t think most people are alarmed when politicians are human. I think we’re alarmed when they lie and make bad decisions. When we see that a politician lied about an affair and covered it up, we wonder what else he might lie about,” Allison said.

  Tyler cleared his throat. “What’s the lie that surrounds the Tarleton-Dandridge House, Mr. Standish? If we can discover the truth, maybe we can prove that someone doesn’t want history changed—and we can make sure no one else is killed.” He took out his phone and put a call through to Logan, asking Standish for particulars as he requested Logan to get Standish’s phone records pulled.

  “Now, as to Lucy Tarleton! Let me show you….”

  Standish had been ready for them. They weren’t going to have to sort through anything.

  He brought out a safety deposit box. “I keep the museum at a constant temperature of about sixty-eight degrees,” he told them. “You don’t go laminating precious things like this. You don’t cover them with any substance and you don’t use paper clips or the like. And you handle them as little as possible. I have copies, but…” He turned to Allison. “For you, the real thing.”

  Allison thanked him with a grateful smile that seemed to make his day.

  Standish brought over a magnifying glass. “Helps to read that old cursive style with the glass…and there’s a light on it, a mild one. Harsh sunlight and artificial light can play havoc with such valuable pieces.”

  Standish removed a letter from the box and laid it out on a clean glass surface. “There, my dear!”

  Allison didn’t touch it. Standish held the glass and she read aloud, “‘My dearest friend and confidant, my…prayers are with you for your safety always. My father and sister fare well and my own disposition is excellent. The dreary days of pain go on, but I must tell you that nothing puts us in distress. There are galas, which I of course attend; they are the greatest source of pleas
ure for one such as me, and from them I gain my strength. Do not fear for me or my family. The emotions that tug at the heart are one matter, while the truth of the day is another. I remain, most and always, faithfully, your best friend.’”

  Allison looked up at Standish. She smiled and quoted, “‘…they are the greatest source of pleasure for one such as me.’”

  “Greatest source of pleasure,” Tyler said. “Because those parties were where Lucy got her information.”

  Allison spoke excitedly. “If Lucy did write this, she was writing to a friend in the patriot forces. She wanted him to know she wasn’t suffering and she hinted at what she was doing for the American cause. If Lucy wrote it.”

  Standish smiled. He went to one of the display cases and brought out a framed livestock bill. “This is a copy, but it’s a bill that was signed by Lucy Tarleton. You see her signature and her notation that she would like ten more laying chickens. Look at the writing, and then look at the letter.”

  Allison and Tyler both did. The handwriting was almost identical, down to the curlicues on her capital letters.

  “There’s an S on this side of the sheet. I assume she didn’t have access to an envelope. But I suspect Lucy gave this letter to a friend here at Valley Forge and the friend was to give it to S—Stewart Douglas,” Standish explained.

  “She wanted him to know she was doing well,” Allison said.

  “She wanted him to know she was collecting secrets and living in comparative comfort,” Tyler said. “But…it doesn’t sound like a letter one would write a lover.”

  “No!” Standish seemed pleased.

  Tyler was glad. His last remark had apparently improved the man’s estimation of his intelligence.

  “Here’s the second!” Standish said, producing a second safety deposit box. He did love his letters. There was a case for each.

  Allison read again. Once more, the letter was addressed to “My dearest friend and confidant.”

  “‘You may have heard the rumors concerning my health. I am well, no matter what is said. Because you know me, I am certain you will understand. Know I have not and will not betray our cause or that which is expected of me. And if you fail to understand, you will nonetheless have pity and forgiveness for me. We all play our role in the human drama set before us, with its treacheries of flesh and feeling that may become a small part of the tragedy that wrecks our world. Pray, understand. I am a true friend to you and to all that is our dream. However, when you hear about wolves that howl at night and tear at man and creature, do not be deceived. Rumor must start when there is an enemy, even though that enemy be nothing more than human. I pray for your health; beware the diseases that ravage. Stay low, my dear brother, and keep your powder dry,’” Allison read.

  “Yes, yes?” Standish prompted.

  “So, Stewart Douglas wasn’t the great love of her life. She was trying to explain that she set out to seduce Brian Bradley’s secrets from him, playing a role, but she found she enjoyed her role too much—she really cared for the man,” Tyler conjectured. “He wasn’t a beast.”

  “Yes!” Standish said with great delight. “There’s one more letter that bears examination,” he said, bringing out another of his safety deposit boxes. “This one,” he told them, “is from S to L. It has to be from Stewart Douglas to Lucy.”

  Tyler stepped forward. This time, he read aloud. “‘My dearest friend and sweetest confidant, little sister mine. I laugh sometimes when I think of the roles the world would have us play and the roles that Fate gives to us instead. I pray for your safety above all else, because it is a dangerous stage upon which you perform. I had heard they noticed the anxiety upon your beautiful face. Whatever the future may bring, wherever it will take you, do not let it steal away the smile you used to wear. We are but a speck in the grand scheme of God’s great plan. While you may play true to your design, remember that war will end.’”

  “Stewart Douglas wasn’t angry with her. It doesn’t even sound as if he was—or had ever been—in love with her,” Allison commented.

  “You’re the professional historian,” he said, smiling at her, “and I’m just an amateur. But I do know that marriages were frequently arranged at the time.”

  “Yes, of course. They were good friends and perhaps the families expected her to marry Stewart. But he wasn’t out for Bradley’s blood for having taken his fiancée. He understood what she was telling him.” Allison sighed. “But this doesn’t mean Bradley didn’t kill Lucy Tarleton.”

  “The comments regarding her health might have referred to a pregnancy,” Tyler said.

  “Why, yes! That’s possible,” Standish agreed.

  “But if Lucy was pregnant with Bradley’s child,” Allison said, “why would he have killed her?”

  “Maybe in a fit of rage,” Standish suggested.

  “I don’t think he did kill her,” Tyler said.

  “If he didn’t, then who did? It doesn’t sound like it would have been Stewart Douglas. The way these letters read, it’s more like a sister and brother writing to each other,” Allison argued.

  “I made copies for you. You may take them,” Standish said, as if presenting them with the crown jewels.

  “That’s extremely kind of you, Mr. Standish,” Allison said.

  “Yes, indeed, thank you.” Tyler felt the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket, excused himself and answered it.

  It was Logan, and he already had a report on the phone records. “There were seven calls made to Mr. Standish this morning. Four of them were from Ms. Mia Standish of King of Prussia, Pennsylvania.”

  “Mia’s your daughter, I assume?” he asked Standish, who nodded.

  “And?” Tyler returned to Logan.

  “The other three were made from a prepaid cell. It was purchased with cash on Saturday from a Quickie Mart, so no one knows who bought that particular phone. But tracing the satellites, we know the calls were made from Philly.”

  Tyler thanked Logan and assured him they were making headway. He hung up and explained to Standish that they couldn’t trace the calls more precisely because they’d been made from a prepaid cell phone.

  “I didn’t think you’d get the info on that.” He looked at Tyler. “You’re an agent, for real?”

  “I am.”

  “Good. Then you can see me to my car and follow me for a few miles. I’m going north to a cabin I have up in the woods with some old hunting friends. I’m not sticking around to die.”

  “The danger seems to be in Philly,” Allison said gently.

  Standish snorted. “You know, that guide dying in the late seventies might have been an accident, but the rest of the deaths associated with that place? The kid being electrocuted, the heart attack in Angus’s study. And now…another dead guide and a dead board member? Someone is killing people. And I’m going into hiding.”

  “I think you’re doing the right thing,” Tyler said.

  Allison nodded in agreement. Standish gave her copies of the letters and she thanked him again. He locked his place and went into the garage, where he got into a pickup truck with a shotgun on the front seat.

  They followed him for an hour.

  There was a chain hotel on the way as they headed back. Tyler suggested they stop there for the night.

  When they entered their room, he immediately pulled her into his arms.

  She responded with a fiery, passionate kiss, her fingers playing with his waistband and the buckle of his belt. He disarmed himself quickly, fumbling as he unfastened her shirt.

  She pulled back, breathless. “This case is all…falling into place…. Perhaps we should be more, um, try to figure it out.”

  He reached for her again, letting out a groan as his naked body came into contact with hers.

  “I am trying to figure it all out.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re kissing my neck,” she told him.

  “Yes, and if you keep running your fingers along my spine like that…”

  “I should s
top.”

  “No,” he said huskily, taking hold of her face and staring into her eyes. “What better way could there be to figure out—” he paused to kiss her “—what was going on in the minds of a pair of lovers…than to be a pair of lovers?”

  “I like your logic,” she whispered. And proceeded to show him just how much.

  16

  Tyler had just opened his eyes, feeling the warmth of the morning sun through the motel-room drapes, when his phone began to buzz on the bedside table.

  He scrambled to answer it.

  Logan was calling him. “Hey, did I wake you?” he asked.

  “No, I was waking up. Has something happened?”

  “No, but Sean thinks he has the solution to the painting.”

  “Really?” He sat up. Beside him, Allison stirred underneath the sheet. He smiled at her, setting a hand on her hip to reassure her that nothing else—like another horrific accident—had taken place.

  “So what is it?” he asked Logan.

  “It’s not the painting.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He looked at the painting from every angle with his special lights. Studied it in every way he could without ripping into the canvas—which is just canvas—or taking the whole thing apart. And when he was done, he said he had the answer. There have to be two paintings. Someone has a second painting, and there’s light for the eyes and perhaps some kind of recorder to terrify people or divert their attention. He believes that whoever is doing this somehow manages to switch the paintings.”