The Uninvited
Page 51

He rushed back in, grabbing Oxford by the shoulders. “Nathan Pierson. Did he drive here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes,” Annette said weakly. “Yes, he drove.”
Walking toward the hallway, Logan pulled out his phone again and asked Jenson for an alert on Pierson’s car. He ran out the front door again, anxious to see if Nathan was trying to wrest Allison into his car.
But as he raced out, he felt something—someone—behind him.
He turned.
It was Lucy Tarleton. And she beckoned Tyler to the back of the house.
* * *
Allison was perfectly aware of where she was and what was happening.
She was in the apartment above the stables, stretched out on the floor. That faint scent of oiled leather, hay and horses still remained, wafting up from below.
Nathan Pierson was kneeling beside her. He looked amused—and sad.
“Ah, yes, in a few minutes, they’ll come searching for you. They’ll check the crypt, because they’ll be sure that you were spirited away to die on top of Lucy’s tomb. That would be poetic justice, but…I don’t want them finding me. They won’t think of anything as simple as the stables. What’s that you say?” He laughed, knowing very well that she couldn’t answer him. “They’ll search for you everywhere? Yes, they will! Everyone loves you. In fact, I’ve actually been in love with you for years. You knew that, didn’t you? A love-hate relationship, I’d guess you could say. Keeping alive the image of Lucy as a true heroine and not a slut hasn’t been easy. Still, what a sweet, bright young woman you proved to be. Of course, I’ve watched you. I suspected you had to be a descendent, but we had historic records and that baby of Lucy’s was so quickly swept away from all danger that your family remained above reproach. Oh, dear girl! For many years, you were like a beauty on a pedestal that I admired from afar. You loved the house and you told the stories dutifully. And what a scholar! Brains and beauty, Ally. Brains and beauty.”
She would have answered him—if she’d been able to. She could see him; her eyes could move but it seemed that her body was incapable of obeying her brain.
Why? she wanted to ask him.
“Ah, why, you ask?” he said, smoothing back her hair.
He was thoughtful for a moment. “I never wanted to kill you, but since you’ve ruined everything, it seems only right that I explain. I am an American, Lucy. I am a patriot. I grew up going to every reenactment. Now, there are idiots who claim Washington was just a man and Lincoln had his faults. They like to talk about the way the founding fathers owned slaves and fought with one another. We have to stop that kind of talk, Allison. At the Tarleton-Dandridge House, we were true patriots. Lucy was a real heroine—along with her sister, her brother-in-law and the man who should have been her husband, Stewart Douglas. But you—and some of those others—wanted to ruin the image. Don’t go thinking I’m crazy. I’m not. I’m a patriot. A true patriot. All those years ago, that kid. That stupid, stupid kid! He wanted to break in to steal the portrait of Beast Bradley. We need that portrait. It shows the truth—that the British were our enemies. They stole our freedoms and they wanted to kill us. Tobias Dandridge painted that portrait because that was the man who came to destroy his life.”
Allison was able to swallow and work her mouth. She tried to dampen her tongue; the effort was nearly useless but she discovered she could croak out words.
“Tobias. Tobias Dandridge.”
“What?” Pierson demanded. He smiled. “The drug’s wearing off. I didn’t give you enough. Oh, it’s not going to kill you. I’m afraid I’ll have to stab you to death. Like poor Lucy Tarleton. That’s true poetic justice.”
She was glad she couldn’t feel anything. Despite everyone’s determination that she not be alone, she was alone. With a man who meant to slice her to ribbons. And she could hardly blink. She tried to fight the terror. She needed courage.
To do what? Die when she couldn’t move?
Courage wasn’t about not being afraid. Courage was being terrified, and going forth despite the fear.
She struggled. She could move her lips. “Tobias,” she whispered. “Tobias Dandridge was the one who murdered Lucy. That’s what you’re afraid I was going to figure out. We’ve had it wrong for years. Lucy gave the baby away to hide from Tobias. She was afraid. The British were leaving and she knew it. Bradley couldn’t take her with him—and she wouldn’t have gone. She was in love with him, but she really was a patriot. You do her a tremendous disservice, hiding the truth. She was in love with Bradley, but she still carried information to the patriot troops. Dandridge killed her—and convinced her father that Bradley had done it. And he painted the portrait so the world would believe it, believe that Bradley was a monster. He also killed Lucy because it meant Sophia would inherit the house and everything Angus Tarleton possessed—and he was going to marry Sophia. But Sophia suspected the truth, and that was why the other painting was kept in Lucy’s bedroom. I imagine she hid that painting while he was alive. Sophia believed Lucy’s spirit deserved a righteous image of the man she had loved.”
“That’s just a theory,” Nathan said irritably. “The same as any other.”
She was surprised that he could hear her, since she could barely form the words. He leaned close to her—so close. “But I believe it’s the truth,” she told him. “And others might believe it, too. I’m living proof that Lucy had a child. And if she’d had her supposed patriot lover’s child, the baby would have been loved and cherished—even if she’d been killed.”
“You would have written that filth!” Nathan said.
She didn’t respond.
He paused for a minute. “Listen.” He raised his head. “Listen. The sirens are blazing in the night. They’re going to save Annette. But they can’t save you because they don’t know you’re here. They think I’ve kidnapped you and taken you somewhere, and they’ll comb the city. But you’re here. I know this house, I know everything about it. I know how to slip in and around it, how to hide in it. They’ll be searching the city and they’ll think of the graveyard, but never the stables. This is so fitting, you see. Down there—in the stall below us—is where Lucy kept Firewalker, and where she came when she was about to ride out to the patriot camp. This is where she came when she was still loyal. And, Allison, it’s where you’ll die. You’ll die—like Lucy. You’re talking nicely now, but you can’t scream. I’m going to make sure you can’t scream. I really am sorry. I’m going to spill your blood on this property. It’s so fitting,” he said again. He started to reach into his pocket and she knew he had the needle there, ready to shove into her flesh.
“And what will happen when I’m dead? They won’t stop until they find you.”
“Foolish girl, I’ve been getting rid of those who were disloyal for years. I will get away with all of it. I’ve spent the past days—when I wasn’t silencing a few people—at my bankers’. My money is now in foreign accounts. You can’t imagine the number of countries that don’t honor extradition to the United States. I’ll lie low for a few years, and then all will be fine. Don’t worry about me, my dear. So nice of you to think of me at a time like this, though. I do appreciate your concern.”
“How did you kill Julian?” she asked. Her fingers almost moved. “And why?”
“Oh, Julian! That’s easy,” he said. “I left the house, walked back in right behind him and returned to the office and then down the servants’ stairs. I have a very special copy of that painting of Bradley. I’d switched the paintings during the middle of the board meeting. I had a copy of the original done ages ago and a magician in San Francisco did a little altering for me. Seriously, if any of you had come in on me, what would you have said about a board member adjusting a painting?” He shook his head. “Old Angela—I tested it on her three years ago and…well, what can I say? It worked. But Julian, that narcissist! He was so busy posing in the chair he didn’t hear me—not until I had the painting ‘speak’ to him. He never saw me. I was behind the chair by the bookcases. He was so involved with himself that he never heard me, even when I pushed his head down.”
“No, he didn’t see you or hear you. But why—”
“I was afraid of what he’d learned reading your so-called research. I couldn’t trust him. And I didn’t like the way he acted around you.”
“But—”
Nathan Pierson had the needle out. “We can’t chat here any longer. I’m sorry to do this to you and sorry you can’t scream. I believe Lucy screamed when she was executed for her disloyalty to the cause she claimed to love. But I can’t have you heard up at the house. Think about it. All that commotion inside—and here you are, dying…bleeding out in the stables and they’ll hate themselves, but—”
“They see you, Nathan,” she said.
“Who sees me? We’re alone. They’ll rush to the tomb. Then they’ll decide I took you off the property. By the time they run around like ants you’ll be dead and I’ll be long gone.”
“Lucy sees you.”
“Lucy is a ghost story.”
“Lucy is a ghost—not a story. She’s watching you now.”
She made him turn; he dropped the needle and had to reach down to get it.
Then Allison saw that Lucy really was there. She’d slipped into the doorway, and Tyler was behind her.
He was ready, she thought. He had his Glock out as he walked into the room.
Nathan Pierson heard him at just that moment. He rose, drawing Allison’s body against his. She flopped in his arms, twitching in an attempt to regain some motion.
“Let her go, Nathan,” Tyler said calmly.