Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited (13 page)

“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 hands 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.

She looked at him and picked up a magazine. “I do not see you.
You will go away.”

She forced her attention onto the magazine. She felt a chill, a
movement in the air, and something seemed to touch her knee. She finally raised
her head.

Julian crouched in front of her, one hand resting lightly on
her knee. Mesmerized, she gazed into his eyes. Julian had been a good-looking
young man with deep green eyes and dark hair that curled over his brow—perfect
for new-age rock music
and
for performing as a
historical interpreter. When she wasn’t annoyed with him, she’d always cared
about him as she would a younger brother.

“Please, Allison, who else can I turn to? Please, see me. Help
me.”

Her tone was husky. “Julian, I can’t help you. You’re dead. I
would’ve done anything. I was ready to perform CPR, but I could see from the
doorway that…that you were gone. I could see the blood—oh, God, Julian, you hit
a vein or an artery. There was so much blood. But you were staring at the wall.
And you…”

She couldn’t go on. Tears stung her eyes. Maybe that was it.
She hadn’t been able to really mourn a friend. Maybe she did feel guilty; maybe
she felt she could have done more for him in life or prevented his death.

“Julian, how can I help you now?” she wailed.

“You
will
help me. I know you,
Ally. Something in the house isn’t right—and I
know
you’ll figure out what it is!”

7

T
yler was surprised when Allison answered
his next call, and more surprised when she said she’d go to the
Tarleton-Dandridge House and start straightening up the attic whenever he
wished. If he thought she needed help with that, she could call Annette or Jason
or both.

She could have walked over but he was out, anyway, and had the
car; he said he’d pick her up. She agreed.

He was a little shocked when he arrived at her house.

He tended to think of her as tall, elegant, classically
beautiful, but reserved in many ways—as academics were often assumed to be. Of
course, he’d first met her when she was costumed and in disarray and
exhausted.

But tonight…

She opened the door with a strength that sent it banging
against the wall. She watched it happen, then stared at him and grinned.
“Whoops.”

“Are you ready?” he asked her.

She looked all right. She was wearing jeans and a tailored
shirt with a casual jacket; her hair was brushed—except for a few strands that
seemed to be standing straight up on top of her head.

“I am so-o-o ready to get out of here!” she said.

“Okay.” He nodded slowly.

“Oh! I should get my bag.” But she remained standing there.

“Yes, you should,” he said.

She turned to head back into the parlor. She bumped into the
wall as she did.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Allison, are you okay?”

“Fine. Oh, yeah, just fine,” she said cheerfully.

He caught her by the shoulders when she’d picked up her purse
and had come back to join him. “It’s not that I know you well, but…you really
don’t seem to be
you
this evening.”

“I’m the new me,” she proclaimed.

It hit him then. Not the odor of booze, but rather the potent
smell of a minty mouthwash.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“We all drink. Water, staff of life. Wait, maybe that’s
bread.”

“I think we should start in the morning,” he said. “You should
go to bed.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I shouldn’t go to bed. I should go
with you. Too bad it’s the Tarleton-Dandridge House—actually, too bad it’s
anywhere in Philly at the moment. But no, not staying here. Not tonight.”

She was different. Very different.

Afraid.

He was thoughtful as she looked up at him hopefully.

“Really, I have to leave here. Now,” she told him.

He didn’t answer.

“Your people are coming tonight, aren’t they? Your people!” She
laughed. “I guess I made that sound as if you’re all part of an alien nation or
something. I didn’t mean that. I meant, your coworkers are coming tonight.”

“They’re driving up. They’ll probably get here late.”

“I can’t wait to meet them. Lots of people, right? Or several,
at least.”

“Yes, several people,” he said. Tyler thought about the
situation, somewhat amused. She wasn’t exactly drunk, but she was pretty darned
tipsy. He had a feeling it wasn’t a condition with which she was really
comfortable, and he wondered where she’d been or what she’d been doing to bring
her to such a state.

She’d found a dead friend. That would do it for most people.
She’d spent the night after finding Julian at the police station, being
relentlessly questioned. Surely, her behavior now, her reaction, was quite
normal.

“Yes, we’ll go—first to a nice crowded restaurant with a coffee
bar, and then to the house. How does that sound?”

She blinked and then smiled. “Restaurant, yes, that would be
great. Food would be good. Oh, yes. Food.”

He escorted her out onto the porch. “Allow me, please,” he said
politely, taking her keys to lock the house.

“Thank you,” she said with great dignity.

“I have my car. I was shopping,” he told her. “I’ll have to
stop by the Tarleton-Dandridge House to drop off a few perishables.”

“Okay.”

When he got to their destination, she was looking straight
ahead.

“Do you want to wait in the car?” he asked.

She raised huge frightened eyes to his.
“Alone?”

“Well, yes—if I’m leaving the car and you’re waiting in it,
you’d be alone.”

“I’ll come with you.”

She stepped out of the car as he reached into the backseat for
the one plastic bag that held butter, milk, cheese and eggs.

She stared at the house.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Sure.”

She followed him up the path to the house and waited behind him
as he opened the door. She kept looking around nervously as if she expected
someone to pop out from behind the closet door in the mudroom and shout,
“Boo!”

Inside, he started to tell her he’d only be a minute. But she
was right behind him, so close, in fact, that she was nearly touching him. When
he walked into their employee room and bent down to open the refrigerator door,
he nearly pushed her over by accident.

He reached out for her when she stumbled.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Just fine.”

She was standing by him with her eyes closed.

“All right, we’re leaving now.”

“For the restaurant.”

“Yes.” He started to walk. She followed. She’d opened her eyes
but only a slit—just enough not to crash into walls or furniture.

He decided to let it go for the moment. He felt her behind
him—almost on top of him—as they exited the house. “You okay to walk to the
restaurant?” he asked her.

“Of course!” she said with the indignant tone of one who wasn’t
really okay at all.

He took her arm. She didn’t protest.

“There are so many places around here,” he said.

“So many.”

“Do you want to go to your friend’s pub?” he asked.

She shook her head, flushing. “No, um, somewhere different
tonight.”

“Okay.”

He knew it didn’t matter where they went; she just wanted
people to be there. He’d seen an Italian place that looked interesting down a
side street and he headed toward it.

“Luigi’s,” she said.

“Is it any good?”

“Sure! Warm, friendly, always busy.”

There were a number of people at the restaurant, but the staff
seemed to handle the bustling activity well. They didn’t have to wait more than
a minute or two before they were seated at a table with a red checkered
cloth.

He didn’t give the waitress an opportunity to offer them a
cocktail or wine. “Two coffees and waters please.”

Allison didn’t argue. She told him they prepared an
extraordinary eggplant.

When the bread came, she was happy to devour a piece.

“Did you eat at all today?” he asked her.

She thought about it for a minute. “No.”

“I don’t want to tell you how to run your life or anything, but
if you’re going to swig booze, you really should add food to the mix.”

She threw him an evil glare but didn’t deny his words.

“What brought this on?” he asked.

“What brought what on?”

“Your apparent affair with a booze bottle.”

She stiffened. “I’m twenty-eight, nearly twenty-nine. A
responsible, voting citizen often charged with forming the minds of the coming
generation. I am certainly entitled to a drink if I choose.”

“Yes, you are. But I get the impression you don’t drink heavily
that often.”

“I didn’t drink heavily,” she told him. “I drank quite casually
and lightly.”

“Alone?”

“Now that’s rude and personal.”

“So, all alone, you decided to get smashed.”

“I am
not
smashed.”

“True—I’ve seen worse. Actually, at various times in my life,
I’m sure I’ve
been
worse. It just doesn’t seem to be
you.”

“Ah, but you don’t really know me!”

“The only thing I can tell you is that booze isn’t going to
make it go away.”

“Make what go away?” she asked, frowning and intense.

Their server arrived; Allison ordered chicken with broccoli and
ziti, while he chose the lasagna. He was glad to see that Allison quickly drank
down the water. She set the empty glass on the table and picked up her
coffee.

Tyler leaned toward her, placing his hand on hers. “It won’t
make the demons in your mind go away. They only get more vicious.”

She jerked her hand back. “I have no demons in my mind. I lost
a friend, okay? I was distressed by his death. I’m just having an off moment—or
an off hour, or whatever. I’ll be fine. And I don’t know what you want at the
Tarleton-Dandridge House. You can’t change the past.”

“No, you can’t. But you
can
discover the truth about it and sometimes the truth about the past can change
the present or the future.”

She sipped her coffee again, then pressed her fingers to her
temples.

“After we’ve eaten, if you want, I can walk you back to your
house and you can get some sleep,” he said.

“No,” she said firmly. “I want to be where you are.” The last
words were tremulous, and somehow, the tone of her voice seemed to seep into his
bones, his bloodstream. She was a beautiful woman, tall, slim, elegant. The blue
of her eyes seemed like a deep sea, sparkling as if it lay beneath a brilliant
sun. He couldn’t help being affected.

Tyler raised his brows, studying her. He knew he was attractive
to the opposite sex, but he was sure she hadn’t suddenly decided that she cared
for him and would be lost without him by her side. Something had unnerved
her.

And he realized that he yearned to help.

“Okay. You want to be with me.”

She wagged a finger at him. “Your Krewe is coming.”

“Yes, they are.” He hesitated. “I think you’ll like them. Logan
Raintree heads up my unit. He’s an ex-Ranger like me. He’s now officially
engaged to Kelsey O’Brien, who used to be a U.S. Marshal. Kelsey has a cousin on
our Krewe, Sean Cameron, who’s a whiz with cameras and special effects. We have
Jane Everett, an artist, who can take a spoken description of someone and turn
it into something that’s almost an absolute likeness. And…” He shrugged. “Our
last Krewe member is Kat Sokolov.”

“She’s an artist? A vocal recognition specialist? A forensics
guru?” Allison asked.

“She’s…a medical examiner,” Tyler said.

“Will she see Julian?”

“Yes.”

Their meals were put before them and Tyler thanked their
server. Allison picked up her fork, pushing her food around.

“You really should eat,” he told her.

“Yes, I’m eating, I’m eating!” she said, spearing a piece of
broccoli as if to prove it. She was beginning to sound fine again.

When she’d finished—consuming everything on her plate—he
offered her a few ibuprofen caplets to minimize the headache that seemed to be
coming on.

She took them with a second glass of water and then sipped her
third cup of coffee.

Again, he set a hand on hers. This time, she didn’t pull away.
“I can help you,” he said.

She nodded. “You’re a decent person, and I appreciate it. But I
have to help myself.” She sat straighter, appearing more controlled than she had
been, her tone suggesting it was business as usual.

“Well, if you want any of us to help you in any way, just say
the word.”

She smiled—a real smile. A sincere smile. “Thank you. I do feel
much better. You’ve helped me already.”

“So, what would you be doing if we weren’t investigating the
house? If it was your day off?”

“Since I’m not teaching right now, you mean? Research and
writing.”

“About the house?”

“Academics need to publish.”

“I know. You’re working on the history of the house?” he
asked.

“Not the house itself. Well, in a way. I’m doing a study of the
British occupation, and the social and political ramifications. The situation
between Lucy Tarleton and Beast Bradley and his relationship with the
Tarleton-Dandridge family are an excellent example of the complex political
climate at the time. That we won the Revolution was pretty much a miracle, you
know. The British had the finest fighting forces, on land and sea. Taking
nothing away from George Washington’s abilities—he had no money, deserting
troops and he was facing horrendous firepower—we were losing more battles than
we were winning. That’s why I admire the founding fathers. Signing that
declaration made you a dead man if you were apprehended, but so many signed it,
knowing they were up against unbelievable odds. I wonder if I could have done
it,” she admitted.

“So the work you’re doing is on Beast Bradley.”

She picked up her coffee cup. “I started researching him more
or less by accident. The story that we know has been handed down, more oral
history and even legend than anything. Oh, the foundations are fact—Beast
Bradley did take over the house, the Tarleton family did pretend to be Loyalist
during that period and Lucy Tarleton was murdered there. But I couldn’t find
anything written about the event that wasn’t secondhand. I realize Lucy couldn’t
have told the story herself, but Angus never wrote about it. The first person to
put anything on paper was the first Dandridge to own the house—Sophia’s husband,
Tobias.”

“There have to be more records somewhere, letters, something,”
Tyler said.

“I’m sure there are. They just have to be hunted down. I had
figured I’d try to get to a few places where they’ve preserved letters and
journals from the period. I’d thought about taking a trip to Valley Forge and
maybe one to Saratoga. I was hoping I could find more information, particularly
at Valley Forge. I’ve been in touch with an amateur historian there who’s really
interested in this period. We know Lucy went from the house to Valley Forge
several times during the occupation. She must have been acquainted with a number
of the men there. She was being a patriotic angel of mercy and brought through
anything she could—shoes, bandages, blankets—things that were desperately
needed. Of course, her main mission was to provide information, so what she
could sneak through the barricades was limited. She must have been a truly
heroic and sympathetic woman.”