Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (14 page)

“I’m very curious about the two paintings,” he said.

“The paintings in Lucy’s bedroom and in Angus’s study?” Allison
asked. “They
are
very different. The one in Lucy’s
bedroom is rather surprising, but that’s where the Dandridge family had it, and
supposedly, it’d been there since the British occupation.”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Yes, but we never really know why people do what they do,”
Allison said. “Unless they tell us, and even then…” She started to lift her cup;
it clattered as it fell back into the saucer.

“What’s wrong?” Tyler asked. She’d seen something behind him.
He turned to look.

There were other diners, nothing more.

She stared down at the table.

“Allison?”

She shook her head, then picked up her cup again. Her fingers
were long and elegant with silvery polish on the nails. She held her cup firmly,
almost tightly enough to snap off the handle. “Can we go now?”

“Of course.” He gestured at the waiter, then quickly paid the
check when it came. He escorted her from the restaurant with his hand on her
back. She seemed to want to be touched; again, he wasn’t lacking in
self-confidence, but he didn’t think she was dying to be in his arms.

As they walked, he began to smile. He’d seen it before—he’d
been
there before, right where she was now.

Seeing those he should not see.

Allison was seeing a ghost.

If he suggested it, she’d deny it. She’d give him psychological
explanations.

But she was afraid.

“I went to the hospital today,” he said.

“Oh!” She flashed him a guilty look. “I should have gone by.
How is Mr. Dixon? How’s Haley—and the boys?”

“The boys weren’t there. Mr. Dixon’s condition is unchanged.
Haley seems to be holding up fairly well.”

“I do need to see those kids.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. I know they’d appreciate it. But I believe
Todd in particular will appreciate that you’re going through the house. He’s
convinced you’re the key to making his father better.”

“But I’m not!” She looked at him earnestly. “Tyler, honestly,
how could I help? Even if I were one of those crazy dial-a-psychic people and
thought I could have a conversation with every soul who ever spent time in the
house, how could that help Mr. Dixon?”

“Coma is a complex condition, and it can be brought on by so
many things. Kat is our medical specialist, but she’s the first to remind us all
that, so far, science has shown that the human brain’s capacity is far greater
than we use. There may be scientific answers that coincide with a great deal of
what we consider to be paranormal. Maybe just talking to Mr. Dixon will bring
him back. I’ve heard of cases where someone’s been in a coma for an unknown
reason for years—and then come back. No matter how far we think we’ve gotten in
our technological age, there are many things we have yet to understand.”

“I just don’t want to encourage Todd to believe I can create
some kind of miracle for him.”

“Just assure him that you’ll try.”

They reached the Tarleton-Dandridge House and Tyler opened the
gate and the door, keying in the alarm. Allison followed closely behind him.

“So, shall we go up to the attic?” he asked.

“I guess we should.”

She didn’t want to look toward Angus Tarleton’s study, and he
didn’t blame her. The police would be sending a crime scene cleanup crew in the
next few days, but at this point her friend’s blood still stained the floor.

They climbed the stairs to the second story. Tyler had been
repeatedly drawn to the painting in Lucy’s room; he saw that Allison lingered
just outside in the hallway, studying it.

“He doesn’t look so evil here,” she said. “He
looks…contemplative, or thoughtful, almost as if he’s carrying a heavy burden
and is sorry for what must be.”

“A far kinder artist,” Tyler agreed.

“Which image do you think is the real one?”

“I imagine a little of both. We all know that good people can
do bad things, and people we consider to be
bad
can
do good things. And every human being is a mixture of virtues and faults.”

He was surprised when she grinned at him. “You’re all right,
you know.”

He grinned back. “So you’ve said.”

“No, really, you’ve been exceptionally kind when I was pretty
argumentative or…or strange.”

“Ma’am, my pleasure.”

“Were you a cowboy?”

“My family might have owned cows at one time,” he said, “but I
never had any. I can ride like a demon, though, and I love horses.”

“Straight shooter?” she teased.

“My aim is damned good, if I do say so myself.”

They continued to the attic. For a moment, they paused in the
doorway, examining the wreckage. Then Tyler stepped in, first lifting up the
printer and computer and moving papers so they’d have a place to start.

Allison went down on her knees, trying to gather up the slew of
papers that covered the floor. He knelt beside her, collecting other ones and
giving them to her to sort. “I think these are some kind of reservation sheets,”
he said.

“They are. If you can look for those, I’ll try to gather the
research papers. Oh, and that journal can go back on the desk. It’s petty-cash
payouts. Lord! The tiny scraps all over are receipts for cleaning supplies,
coffee… Things the employees pick up but that the corporation pays for.”

“I’ll get all of that stuff. The research is mostly yours?”

“Mostly. But everyone who works here—or worked here,” she
added, “loved the history and was interested in it. If my coworkers came across
an article or theory regarding the family or the house or even the British in
Philly, they made a point of sending me the link or getting me a copy.”

Tyler found sheets ripped from an educational magazine. The
headline read Lord Brian Bradley. True Beast or Passionate Loyalist?

He sat down to read the article. It began with the basics:
Brian Bradley was from a noble Yorkshire family with ties to the Royal House of
Hanover. His service to the British military and the Crown started when he was
barely out of his teens. He’d been promoted to the rank of general soon after
the beginning of the conflict with the Americans and he’d been ordered to the
city of Philadelphia to control the intelligence slipping out—and gain it for
the British. Angus Tarleton’s house was considered one of the finest in the
city, so it was natural that an important figure in an occupying force should
take the mansion. The Tarletons professed their allegiance to the Crown and were
allowed to host the general and several members of his retinue. It was likely
that the family did resent the fact that the general took over the master
chamber; Susannah Tarleton, Angus’s wife, had died in 1774, but Angus was asked
to vacate his chamber and move into another room in the house. He was said to
have done as requested graciously.

As he read Tyler realized that Allison had grown quiet. He
looked over to see her staring at the door.

“What is it?” he asked her.

She didn’t hear him at first.

“Allison.”

She glanced at him, startled.

“What do you see?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“Are you okay?”

She managed a weak smile. “Fine.”

Tyler frowned, but he couldn’t drag anything else out of her.
He returned to the article.

“While popular legend had it that ‘Beast’ Bradley took
suspected patriot spies out to the woods and executed them,” he read, “there is
no record or proof of this action. When the British fled the city and victory
was at last proclaimed, twenty citizens were charged with treason and two
executed, but by the patriots, not the British. While Bradley was required to
interrogate prisoners, there is no known record of any of his interrogations
causing the death of those questioned, nor does legend name any names. Whether
Bradley did or didn’t murder Lucy Tarleton in her own home is up for debate,
since the story seems to be part of family lore. Therefore, this researcher
finds the popular accepted version of her death suspect. Lucy Tarleton is buried
in the family cemetery on the grounds of the Tarleton-Dandridge House and, not
surprisingly, has been seen ‘haunting’ the property.”

Tyler felt an unnatural stillness around him; he looked up
again. Allison was frozen, staring at the entrance, where the stairs from the
second floor came up to the attic.

He looked in the same direction. There was nothing there.

He set down his reading, rose and walked over to her, reaching
down for her hands, urging her to rise.

She took his hands, gazing up at him blankly and then with a
question in her eyes.

“Break time. How about a walk outside? I haven’t seen much of
the grounds.”

She stood, her knees wobbly.

She nodded. “We can get out for a few minutes,” she said. “It’s
pretty out there. At one time, of course, there were acres and acres. Now
there’s just the kitchen, the stables and the cemetery. The cemetery is nice,
and the family vault is beautiful. There are other burials and entombments out
there, too, and if family members die, they can still be entombed in one of the
above- or belowground vaults. The specs for it are held at the offices of Old
Philly History.”

She seemed to need to speak; she was going on and on about the
property. He set a finger against her lips, looking down into her eyes. “What is
it you’re seeing?”

He thought he heard something. A man’s whisper.

“Tell him. Just tell him!”

Allison groaned.

“Allison, you see someone. I can hear him. Who is it?”

She looked beyond him, to the doorway. Her words were anguished
as she spoke to the person Tyler had yet to see. “Stop it! Stop it, please stop
it, Julian. You’re a figment of my imagination, not
his.
”

Tyler turned to the doorframe. Slowly, he began to see the
figure of a young man. Julian Mitchell had been good-looking with a cocky flair
to his appearance. He leaned into the room casually but in life, Tyler thought
with some amusement, he’d probably practiced his stance in the mirror.

“Allison, come on. I can’t do much about who does or doesn’t
see me. I tried knocking the hat off a nasty old lady who was giving a waitress
grief at that restaurant tonight and it didn’t work—although I did give her a
bit of a chill. But I
know
you see me clearly, that
you hear every word I say,” the ghost told her.

“Yes, don’t you get it? I see you. I’m feeling guilty—though I
have no idea why! I covered for your sorry ass a dozen times, and I always tried
to show up when you had a performance. We were good friends, Julian, you know we
were!” Allison said. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth and turned to face
Tyler.

“I am so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I went to a
shrink this morning, and he told me I’m creating Julian in my mind. Because I
think I should have saved him, or that I might have been a better friend, or…I
don’t know. He’s like a plague! He won’t go away. He was at my house, then he
was here, then he was at Independence Hall.... He’s everywhere! I can’t get away
from him.”

She was so distressed, so fragile and, seemingly, so broken.
Tyler pulled her into his arms and said, “It’s all right. It’s really all
right.”

He spoke to the young man standing in the doorway. “Surely,
there’s a better way to do this! Allison was a good friend to you, and now
you’re doing
this
to her?”

Julian Mitchell’s ghost had the grace to look apologetic.

“I have to, don’t you see? I have to, because I don’t know what
happened, and I’m walking in this new world—this world of death!—alone. But I
didn’t kill myself, and it wasn’t an accident.”

He left the doorframe and walked toward them.

“I need help!” he said, an edge of desperation in his
voice.

Allison frowned at Tyler. “You see him? You don’t have to humor
me!”

Tyler smiled and stroked her cheek. “You didn’t want us here
because you said we were ghost busters. You thought we were all about
sensationalism and cheap thrills. That’s not it, Allison. We try to help the
living—and the dead.”

“And you have to help
me,
” Julian
said. “I was murdered.”

“Who did it?” Tyler asked.

“That’s what you have to find out!” Julian Mitchell shook his
head irritably. He sank down to the floor in his period dress. “I don’t
know
who or how—all I know is that it has something to
do with that god-awful painting of Beast Bradley in Angus Tarleton’s study.”

8

A
llison wasn’t sure whether or not she felt
reassured. According to Tyler, she wasn’t going crazy....

But now it seemed that on the day Julian Mitchell died, she’d
stepped out of anything resembling a normal life—and straight into an episode of
that old TV show
The Twilight Zone.

In the few beats of silence following Julian’s dramatic
statement, they were all startled by the loud and strident ring of Tyler’s
phone.

He fumbled in his pocket and found his cell. “Montague!…Yes,
yes, I’ll be right there.” He clicked off the phone.

“The Krewe members are here,” he said. “I’ve got to run down
and open the gate and let them into the house.”

“Krewe members?” To Allison’s astonishment, Julian began to
vanish into thin air.

“They’re like us, Julian,” Tyler said quickly. “They know. They
see.”

“Are you sure?” Julian asked, his image fading in and out.

“I have to go let them in,” Tyler said again.

“I’m coming with you!” Allison told him, staring wide-eyed at
the place where Julian seemed solid and then not, there and then not.

“Ally!” Julian said, using her nickname in a broken plea.
“Ally, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want help.”

“We’ll all go down,” Tyler said with an exasperated sigh.
“Might as well make the introductions—all of them.”

He headed for the door; Allison started to follow and then
stopped for a minute. Julian was suddenly the same man he’d always been to her.
A little brother, someone with whom she was often frustrated and still cared
about a great deal. He was in costume, a performer as always, in death as in
life. Selfish—he just was!—but not cruel or evil or even aware of the trouble or
aggravation he caused others.

He’d come to her for help a thousand times in life.

It wasn’t so unusual, perhaps, that he had done so now.

“Julian, come on, let’s meet the others. From what I
understand, these are the people who can help you.”

He looked at her and seemed solid again. He nodded. They might
both have found courage at the same time.

Tyler had gone down the stairs. With renewed composure, Allison
followed him. Julian, she felt certain, was behind her. She could
feel
him.

Allison waited in the grand entry while Tyler went through the
mudroom, leaving the front door ajar while he hurried out to open the gate. She
heard easy conversation and the sound of luggage and bags scraping on the brick
walkway and then Tyler’s team started to come in. The first through the doorway
was Tyler; next was a tall, striking dark-haired man of mixed Native American
and European descent, then a tall blonde woman, a tiny blonde woman, a slender
dark-haired woman with a stunning face and another tall man with sandy hair and
light eyes. Tyler began the introductions: Logan Raintree, their team head, was
accompanied by the tall blonde, Kelsey O’Brien, once a U.S. Marshal. The tiny
blonde was Kat Sokolov, medical pathologist, the tall man with the light eyes
was Sean Cameron, computer and camera expert, and the pretty brunette was Jane
Everett, forensic artist.

Allison shook hands with all and greeted them. They seemed very
normal. The introductions were so pleasant she might have been meeting them at a
casual party. She thought they were a group she would have
enjoyed
meeting at a party.

“Sean, the big case is the camera equipment?” Tyler asked.

“Yes, I figured we’d put the computers and the screens
somewhere central, like here in this hallway. I can set up the cameras in
whichever rooms you want,” Sean told him.

“Have you discovered anything? Can you bring us up to speed?”
Logan asked.

“Wait, wait, please!” Kelsey O’Brien held up one hand. “Ms.
Leigh, can you show me the restroom? It’s been a long drive.”

“These guys don’t like to stop once they’re on the road,” Jane
Everett said.

“I would’ve stopped!” Logan protested.

“If he’d actually noticed that one of us was speaking.” Kat
smiled at Allison. “Logan gets into think-mode the minute we’re on our way
anywhere.”

“A public restroom was put in right there, beneath the stairs,”
Allison said, directing Kelsey. “There’s also a small restroom in the break
area—used to be a pantry—and there’s a shower stall in there, too. That’s it—oh,
except for another small restroom out by the stables. We only have the one
shower. But, of course, any of you are welcome to spend time at my house for a
longer shower or a better night’s sleep, if necessary.”

“That’s very kind of you, Ms. Leigh,” Logan said. He looked at
Tyler, slowly arching a brow. “There’s one introduction you haven’t made. Is Ms.
Leigh aware…?”

“Of Julian Mitchell?” Tyler asked. “Julian, I’m pretty sure you
just heard all the intros. Want to become a little more visible?”

To Allison’s amazement, she heard Julian’s voice, almost like a
distorted echo—and almost shy.

Julian! Suddenly shy.

“I’m not that good at this yet,” he said. “But, um, yes, how do
you do? And welcome to the Tarleton-Dandridge House.”

“Hello,” Logan murmured, and the others did the same.

“You’ve been perfectly good at showing yourself to me and
scaring me out of my wits and sanity,” Allison said. “Please,” she told the
others, “don’t get the impression that Julian is any kind of shrinking
violet.”

“Ally!” Julian said. His form began to appear.

“You were killed here, Julian?” Logan asked quietly, glancing
at Tyler.

“Julian and I met just before you arrived,” Tyler
explained.

Logan nodded. “Five-minute bathroom break,” he said. “Everyone
back in here, and we’ll talk to Julian and get set up.”

“Ah, the one benefit!” Julian now appeared fully before them
all, still in his Colonial splendor.

“What’s that?” Sean Cameron asked.

“I don’t need a bathroom break anymore.” Julian tried to say
the words jokingly. It didn’t work.

There was such sadness in his voice that they were all silent.
Tyler stood close to him, setting a hand lightly in the air where Julian’s
shoulder seemed to be. It was evident to Allison that Tyler had known the dead
before. His movement was in no way awkward; his hand didn’t sit there lamely,
but really seemed to touch the spirit of the dead man. “The human body is
fragile, Julian. And with it comes frailty and pain. The soul is on a higher
plane and yet it can still feel the torture of grief and loss, but there’s a
place of peace and beauty, too. We’ve learned that, we’ve seen it. And we’ll get
you there.”

“Please, yes,” Julian said softly. Then he grinned and stepped
back as if embarrassed by his weakness. “Bathroom break! Then I’ll tell you what
I know!”

“You know who did this?” Kelsey asked him.

“Yes—no. I heard a voice and I saw—”

“You saw what?” Tyler broke in.

“The painting. It was Beast Bradley. I saw him come alive in
the painting, and I heard him speak to me.”

Paintings don’t speak!
Allison
longed to cry.

But she remained silent.

“What did he say?” Tyler asked.

“He said, ‘It’s time for you to die, boy. It’s time for you to
die.’”

* * *

Tyler’s team was efficient. After Julian spoke, they
moved about, Kelsey running for the restroom, Sean opening equipment and Tyler
himself directing the others so they could rearrange the foyer in a way that
would allow them to gather there. He thought Allison seemed tense as they
shifted things around; Logan noticed and assured her that they were being very
careful.

She laughed. “We’re trying to solve the death of a dear friend
and I’m worried about historical preservation. I
am
crazy.”

“We respect that,” Logan said with a glimmer of a smile.

Allison, Tyler was glad to see, had relaxed. She’d accepted the
fact that she did see Julian—and that others saw him, too.

That was kind of a pity, he mused. It was nice when she’d
seemed to need him for strength. Now, she had her
self
back. She was confident again. Maybe this was the best scenario; she’d
lost the hostility she’d had toward him and his crew. She was part of the
investigation now, and that was good. They needed her.

Still, it was really nice when she’d clung to him!

He shook off the thought. Sean had nearly completed their setup
of a video monitoring system. And a place where they could all talk had now been
arranged. The sofa Allison had slept on was part of the circle, along with a few
of the chairs brought in from the dining room and a big wingback that stood near
the stairway. Julian Mitchell had chosen that chair. He was either being
courteous or playing his part as a colonist; he waited until the women were
seated to take his own chair.

Logan nodded toward Tyler, since he was the lead investigator
here.

“Julian, what exactly happened? I went to check out the
painting. It’s a strange portrait, done by Tobias Dandridge. He must have been
an accomplished artist, and he also hated Beast Bradley, that’s for certain. But
I didn’t find anything about the painting that would make you think it was alive
or that it had moved,” Tyler said.

“I’m telling you, the eyes were looking at me. Of course, the
way the damned thing is painted, it always seems to be looking at you. But that
afternoon when I sat down, it was…more than that. He was staring at me. And then
I heard him speaking,” Julian said.

“Where the hell had you been all day?” Allison asked.

He shrugged apologetically. “Okay, so there was an audition to
open for a major concert coming to Philadelphia. They wanted a local band, and
we’d made it past the first auditions. I didn’t know until that morning, I
swear!” he told Allison. “So I snuck out after lunch. I came back in at the tail
end of your last tour, and while you were with one of the kids, I went up to the
attic to wait until it was over. I heard everyone leaving and I knew you were
locking up, so I slipped down to Angus’s study to talk to you and apologize and
suck up. If I could get you to forgive me, the others would, too.”

Tyler saw that Julian gazed at Allison with yearning and hope,
praying she’d forgive him, even now. Apparently, she was always the “nice guy,”
the one the others turned to, the responsible one.

“Everyone’s forgiven you every single time, Julian,” she said
quietly. “This time, of course…well, everyone wants to tell you how sorry they
are.”

Julian let out a little sound that was like a sob.

Allison reached over to touch him, but she wasn’t accustomed to
ghosts and her hand fell—heavily—through the air. She flushed and said, “We do
love you, Julian, no matter what. And remember, none of us is meant to stay on
this earth forever.”

“What then, Julian?” Tyler asked.

“I was sitting back in old Angus’s chair, just waiting, and I
saw something in the painting. The eyes were
alive,
and then the painting spoke.... That was when I felt my chin go over the bayonet
and I felt this raw agony. My head felt like it had been hit by a hammer. I
remember trying to scream but it was impossible. I was cold and then I realized
that I was staring at myself and that I wasn’t actually
in
myself anymore… The room was silent and I looked at the blood on the
floor and I knew it was mine. Then everything went black.” He paused for a
minute, inhaling on a deep breath. “I heard Ally scream. And I watched as she
sank against the door. Then she fumbled in her pockets for her phone and called
9-1-1 and just sat there, crying.”

“Did you see anyone else?” Tyler asked. “After your chin fell
on the bayonet and you started bleeding to dea—” He stopped abruptly. “Was there
anyone else in the room with you?”

Julian was thoughtful. “Bleeding to death. I’m dead. No way out
of it. No, I didn’t see anyone. It was as if I couldn’t look away from the
painting.” He frowned. “Wait! I think—I could be wrong—I think I sensed some
kind of movement. Someone…skirting around the desk to the door into the music
room. There
was
someone with me!”

“Any idea who it was?” Logan asked him.

Julian nodded. “Well, I guess it had to be Beast Bradley,
right? I was looking at his picture.”

“Pictures don’t kill,” Allison insisted.

“Nor do the spirits of those who haunt a house,” Tyler said.
“They can create ill will, they can make a place uncomfortable, but they can’t
come out of a painting and force your head down on a bayonet. Not that I know
of.”

“In our experience,” Logan explained to Julian, “it’s human
beings using ghost stories who do the killing.”

“There was
something
about that
painting,” Julian said stubbornly.

“Let’s get the painting,” Allison suggested.

Tyler looked at her, surprised that she was going to condone
taking down a historic piece of art.

Then again, sitting next to a ghost could change a person’s
mind on what was the right thing to do.

“I’ll go get it,” Sean said. “Carefully,” he added, smiling at
Allison.

He disappeared into Angus Tarleton’s study and quickly
reappeared, holding the painting gingerly. He set it against the sofa and
hunkered down to look at it.

“Good piece,” he said.

“But there’s nothing unusual about the painting, is there?”
Tyler asked. He stood beside Sean, studying the work. He knew he was the best
shot in their crowd, that he could bail them out in a melee and that, thanks to
his college years, he also comprehended a fair amount of science and the
preservation of evidence.

But Sean was their expert on visual tricks, film and
computers.

Sean shook his head. “It’s excellently done. The artist was a
master at capturing expression and especially at painting eyes. But…it’s a
painting.”

“I’m telling you, it moved—and it talked,” Julian said. “Or
Beast Bradley did.” He turned to Allison. “I’m irresponsible and I’ve been an
idiot lots of times, but you know I don’t lie or make things up. The man in this
painting moved.”