The Uninvited (Krewe of Hunters #8)

The Uninvited (Krewe of Hunters #8) Page 19

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 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

Tyler 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.