Read Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited for Free Online Page A

through the
tape. He keyed in the code on the gate alarm.
    “A real investigation?” Allison repeated.
    “Yes,” Tyler said. “We’re trying to find out if the security’s
been breached and determine whether there’s another access. Also, if there’s
someone who knows the code and has dangerous concepts of history, dangerous
beliefs about this house. That’s why it merits investigation.”
    Allison’s eyes narrowed again as she studied him. “You’re a
ghost hunter.”
    “I’m not a ghost hunter—I’m an agent,” Tyler said. “ Hunting ghosts would be a rather useless effort.” He
forced a smile. “They only appear when they choose to. Inviting
conversation—now, that’s another thing.”
    Leaving her to Adam, he strolled up the walkway. He wanted to
spend some time in the house alone.
    At the front door he once again slit the tape before typing in
the alarm code and using the key he’d received from Detective Jenson to let
himself in. When he entered the foyer, it felt as if he’d stepped back in
time.
    Tyler stood there for a minute. You didn’t need to be a Krewe
member to “feel” a house, a battlefield or any other historic place. He’d seen
the most skeptical, steel-souled Texas Ranger take on a look of grim reverence
when standing at the Alamo. It was a feeling that touched most people on the
battlefields at Gettysburg or in the middle of Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame or
other such historic places.
    This house had it. That feeling. It was a sense of the past, a
past that was somehow still present. Perhaps the energy, passion and emotion of
life that had once existed here lingered in these rooms.
    This was a beautiful house and maintained in a period manner
that no doubt added to the feel.
    Tyler didn’t stay in the entry long. He could hear Adam and
Allison following behind him, Adam explaining that what they investigated was
history rather than ghosts.
    He knew that Julian Mitchell’s death had occurred in the old
study, and he strode down the hallway toward it. He stared at the old maple
desk; blood stained the wood and the Persian rug beneath it where the deceased
man had been found. A few spatters lay on the reproduction ledgers and account
books covering the desk. Initial contact with the blade had caused a spurt, and
the blood had drained straight down. A lot of it.
    Tyler tried to picture the scene as it had been described to
him—the young man seated in the chair, the musket between his legs, the bayonet
through his throat and mouth as if he’d used it to prop himself up. He had bled
out quickly, according to the pathologist who’d first examined him. He hadn’t
appeared distressed and he didn’t appear to have fought with anyone. He had
simply sat down, set his chin upon the bayonet as though to rest on it…and
skewered himself with it.
    Who the hell accidentally put a
bayonet blade through his own chin?
    But he hadn’t cried out. Tourists leaving the premises would
have heard or, at the very least, Allison Leigh would have as she locked up for
the night.
    Tyler remained near the entrance to the room, noting its
location. There was the door that opened off the entry hall, and another that
led from the study to the next room. This meant there were two points of access,
as well as a way to exit.
    But how did you get someone to die on a bayonet in such a
position and leave no sign of a struggle? Talk him
into it?
    He looked at the paintings on the wall, which were authentic
period pieces. Two men had been depicted at somewhere between the ages of thirty
and forty. Beneath one, he made out the name Angus Tarleton; the other was
labeled with the description Brian “Beast” Bradley.
    The eyes of the latter seemed to have an unusual power. The
artist had managed to depict a handsome man—and also a cruel and cunning one.
He’d read that the Mona Lisa’s eyes seemed to follow her viewers. Bradley’s did
the same, apparently focusing on him as he moved about the room.
    He