“I don’t question Genie,” Kristi told him, grinning. “Uncle Jed told me never to micromanage, and never to fix what isn’t broken. You’ve kept me along the straight and narrow, so...”
“You can join me out here for a tart!” he told her.
“Will do.”
Upstairs, she locked herself into her room—making use of Dallas’s makeshift scarf alarm, as well. She set the book on the bed, and paused for a minute, looking around.
For a moment, she took a seat in the big chair by the bed. She closed her eyes, wishing that Jedidiah would appear when she opened them again. He did not.
Monty was still standing guard over the bones of his loved one, and Justin was with him.
Trinity had not risen, as Shelley believed.
Her room was silent—and empty.
She spoke softly aloud to herself—as if she were back a bit in time, as if Jedidiah was lying in the bed and they were chatting and figuring about history, as they so often had.
“So, I have a book that almost proves that Albert Huntington killed Monty and his dad and Trinity. It was Ian’s book. But with what Angela had found, it seems that maybe Ian was going to meet with Eliza Malone when she disappeared—and, of course, since he didn’t really have anything, he’d have never thought that she was stopped or taken because she was going to meet with him. But, Jedidiah, Ian seemed to think that you have something. I have Ian’s book, but...what did you have?”
She stood up, looking around the room, and then she dived into Jedidiah’s “tax” drawer, where his papers remained beneath a false bottom.
They were a mess.
He’d kept an accountant, of course, so she hadn’t been left with a pile of legal difficulty, but when it came to his personal collection...
She started to toss things around a bit carelessly, and then remembered that, like Ian, Jedidiah had collected what he thought to be important for years—including letters.
She tried to sort through the new—the water bills, electric bills and more. With those in a pile, she saw a little wooden box, and in that box, she found a pile of letters, neatly bound together with a fraying ribbon.
She carefully untied the ribbon, and began to study the letters.
Jedidiah had just loved people, stories about people and collecting information on people.
She found one that had a note attached to it.
“Must have verification.”
Jedidiah’s writing had been scrawled, weak and barely legible. He had found the letter, apparently, and read it just before he had died. He had never gotten it to an expert to have it verified as real.
Quickly opening the delicate paper, she saw that it was a letter written from the Union officer who had also penned the book she had just read—Emory Huntly.
Her fingers were shaking as she looked at it.
“My dearest Amelia, beloved wife,” it began.
“I pray for the day that this great conflagration ends; I cannot bear the man I have become. I learned to walk under command with hundreds of rifles aimed at me; I learned to dodge and roll from cannon fire. I watched men die, my friends and my foes, and in death, as I saw men clutch crosses and Bibles and Jewish Stars of David, it seemed not to matter which side they had come to defend. But that is battle—strangers kill strangers, and sometimes, in this tragic case, friends face friends, or brothers look up at their brothers, fathers upon their sons. And yet again, such is war. But today, I witnessed what is not war, what is man’s great greed, his cruelty, or, as a few of the men agreed, his desperate need to win, and to appear the victor, no matter what the cost. Savannah is ours, and the house I gaze upon across a beautiful and peaceful square will be ours, too.
“Did we allow this because of fear? Because, after the rigors and horrors of war, we want nothing more than to bide our time here in Savannah, and pray for the end? I don’t know, I will never know and I can never speak, except to you, for we have agreed that we were mistaken in what we saw. We told ourselves that the Rebel drew his revolver, stolen, we told ourselves, from one of our dead fellows off the battlefield. But I must tell you, my love, that what you’ll hear is not the truth of it; the Reb but came to see his father and wife, and perhaps his child, though the child was not here, and for that small mercy, I thank the Lord. But the truth is that the Rebel was here, and he stepped forward on the porch, knowing that we were there, taking his house. But he came out with no weapons raised, and Huntington—perhaps far too ready for the battles we have fought—drew his gun. And, as he did, the lovely lady of the house stepped forward. Perhaps Huntington never meant to fire, but fire he did. And when the lady went down, the Rebel did scream, a most horrendous cry of agony, and guns began to fire, and quickly they were all dead. It was reported as another incident—many of which we had come across in our march through Georgia—when we were fired upon, and there was no choice, and I believe that my few fellows on that foray for a headquarters began to believe what they were told, for it was all so fast, and then there were the dead...and we buried them hastily. Amelia, my dearest love, I tell you the truth here; I beg you, hide this missive, for as the war continues—and perhaps even in the bitter days to follow—my truth might well mean my death. Pray for me, Amelia. Pray that your loving Emory may come home to you.”
Kristi finished the letter, and then sat back on her haunches, staring at it. To her, of course, it was no surprise; the family—with or without being haunted by the ghost of Monty McLane—had never been able to believe that the man, expecting his own death and determined to take a wayward wife with him—had killed Trinity before being gunned down himself.
She carefully rewrapped the letter and replaced it in the drawer. As she did so, she saw one of Jedidiah’s old guest books; to this day, their guests signed in, and they kept a record of those who stayed—nowadays asking for email as well, so that they could send them promotions and enticements to come stay again. She picked up the guest book and flipped through the pages, noting that it covered the past four years.
Had a current guest stayed here before? She hadn’t lived at the house two years ago, but Jonah had been here, and Genie. And they would have surely recognized a return guest.
She flipped through the pages, going back.
It was easy to look for a Murray Meyer or a Granger Knox—but none appeared. It wasn’t so easy to look for a Lacey, Janet or even a Claire—several women with those first names had stayed at McLane House. One of them might have married, remarried, used a maiden name...
She put the book back in the drawer as well, and stood, eager to go down, anxious to speak with Dallas; if not Dallas, at least Angela or Jackson. They could also take what she had—and determine how best to use the information.
She exited her room, pausing again at the door. She hadn’t felt it so much earlier, but now, here, out in the hall, the strange sense of darkness seemed to have settled over the very air again, like a mist of something...
Evil.
She gave herself a shake. Maybe Simon Drake was hidden somewhere near, and he couldn’t manage to show himself at all, to come to her.
Maybe they did need another séance, she thought wryly.
But she hurried down the stairs.
Peeking into the front parlor, she saw the backs of Carl Brentwood’s and Murray Meyer’s heads; they still had to be discussing whatever it was they’d been discussing.
The back parlor was empty; Genie’s delicious little treats sat on the table, along with a bucket for wine, and the tea samovar and the coffeepot.
Glancing out, she saw Jonah bent over a book.
Curiously, the darkness seemed to be growing.
She headed into the kitchen, and then she knew why.
Sydney was slumped over the table; Genie lay on the floor in front of the sink.
“Oh, my God!” she breathed, rushing over to Sydney, and then Genie
, her heart in her throat. Both had pulses; they were alive. She raced for the house phone on the kitchen wall, but there was no dial tone.
Kristi started to race for the kitchen door, and then a scream of pure terror suddenly broke through the darkness and the miasma, and it was coming from the living room.
Kristi grabbed a kitchen knife, the best weapon she could find, afraid all the while that it might be used on her.
The scream came again and again, and then she heard Shelley crying out, “No, no, no...oh, God, help me.”
Kristi tore into the back parlor, barely thinking about the idiocy of her movement, just acting on human instinct to help another...someone not in just distress, but pure terror.
* * *
Dallas had barely gone a block before he received a call from Vickie Preston.
“You’ve got something—already?”
“Well, I told you, I’ve been going back on all these people—when Angela and Jackson left to join you, Angela asked me to keep digging, and so...”
“What did you get?”
“I have two things for you—one of your people started out in nursing school, but then changed their major. I don’t know how important that is, but I’ve also found out who is a descendent of Albert Huntington, and it’s quite a connection.” Vickie gave him her information.
By the time she finished speaking, he was already running.
* * *
Kristi burst into the back parlor, pausing, forcing herself to listen, to wait, to see what was going on in the house.
She looked out the back windows—Jonah was still in the courtyard, slumped over his book.
He must be out—like Genie and Sydney.
What the hell had happened? Had it been something in the tarts? What had Genie put in them? Or had it been Genie? Had she knocked herself out with the others?
She rued the fact that she had left her cell phone in her bag, along with the book. The other house phone was in the front parlor...
“No, no, no... I did all you asked!” she heard Shelley cry.
Moving out to the front room, but holding by the archway in the door, Kristi looked into the living room.
Shelley was in the grips of a man: Granger Knox. He was smiling.
He raised his voice to speak, clearly aware that Kristi was somewhere in the house. “Miss Stewart, I need the letter that your great-uncle had, and, of course, I believe you found the book that Ian Murphy was hoarding, as well.”
Granger had a knife. He had it at Shelley’s throat.
Kristi tried to remain calm, knowing she had her own knife gripped in her hands—and, afraid, of course, that it could be wrested from her and used against her.
“You know, this just has to be the most ridiculous thing in the world, and so truly tragic! I believe you must be a descendent of Colonel Albert Huntington, but at this point in history, sir—who the hell cares?” Kristi demanded.
“Oh, Miss Stewart, you know nothing about politics,” he told her. “How could you know so very much about history, and not realize how a man may be skewered by the past? But actually, no, I’m not a descendent of Albert Huntington.”
Shelley, straining against Knox and the knife, begged her, “Kristi, please...do as he says, please, do as he says!”
“Mr. Knox, you’re not even a descendent—and you’re killing over the possibility that the man be declared a murderer? Seriously, it was war, sir, and many atrocities happened, North and South. And you must realize, Eliza has now been found. The FBI is officially in on this investigation. You killed Eliza—over a meeting with Ian? She didn’t even know anything yet. And you killed Lachlan—how could you? What, did you think that a trainer was going to go on the news and declare you...a monster? And Ian! An old man...”
“Ian is the one I should have killed first. But actually, my dear Miss Know-It-All Stewart, I didn’t kill Eliza Malone. Yes, I am responsible for Ian, but...anyway, with Eliza, something had to be done. She was so active in stopping crime. Once, when I was trying to find out what the old man had, she saw me entering Ian’s house.” He paused and shrugged ruefully. “Illegally entering his house—you know, breaking and entering—and she was going to call the police. Stop crime in the city right away, you know.”
“You’re being foolish. Dallas will be back any moment. Jamie Murphy should be landing soon—and two FBI agents are a block away.”
He smiled. “I only need a few minutes.”
“You’ll be caught,” Kristi told him.
“Kristi!” Shelley begged.
“I won’t be caught. When I have what I want, I’ll just help myself to a pecan tart, too, and they’ll find me on the floor with everyone else. Now, Kristi, I want the letter.”
“You’re going to kill me anyway. Why would I help you?” she asked.
“Because you’re such a good girl, Miss Stewart. And I’ll kill Shelley, too, if you don’t.”
“Kristi, please,” Shelley begged.
“I will kill her,” Knox vowed.
“Well, frankly,” Kristi said, “she’s a serious thorn in my side, and has been for years and years.”
Knox moved the knife; a thin line of blood appeared at Shelley’s throat.
“All right, you want the damned letter—I will get it for you,” Kristi said.
Time, she thought. She had to play for time, because Dallas would come back, because Jackson and Angela were near.
“Do your wife and daughter know about this?” Kristi asked, hearing a noise on the stairway as she spoke.
She spun around. Janet Knox was coming down the stairs. “That dumb girl we made the mistake of adopting almost ruined the whole thing, but...hey, a kid makes you look innocent, you know?” Janet said. She smiled, looking across the room at her husband and Shelley. “Ah, Shelley, longing so hard to be the world’s greatest medium! So pliable.”
Reaching the foot of the stairs, Janet smiled at Kristi. “I know you don’t understand, but we can let Shelley live...she’s a bit in on this, you know. I’m the one who came to stay at the house several years ago—as a young, single redhead. Trust me, I’m quite a good actress. And I’m the one who found out that you silly people with your hospitality—just about anyone might have known where all the keys were. But Shelley did help me and, trust me, she knows that if we should be accused, we’ll make sure she comes down with us for accessory to murder.”
“All right, so Shelley was gullible—but, Janet, you are unbelievable. Your husband is a murderer, and you don’t care?” Kristi asked.
“I’m a far more talented murderer—I took care of that meddling Eliza,” Janet said. “What was I to do? I arrived at Ian’s, and she was making a stink, and she was going to wake the old man up and, at that time, we still needed to know what he knew, and we needed his association with Jedidiah. I should have killed Jedidiah—he was actually the one holding things up. I stayed here, found the key, searched and searched... You see, Miss Stewart, it’s not my husband who is the descendent—it’s me.”
“And I’m going to run for the United States Congress, and soon, the presidency,” Granger said.
His wife went on, “And we’ve known, as we planned this all, that there was just no way Granger could be associated with a Civil War murderer.”
“Better for you both to be killers yourselves,” Kristi said.
“The letter,” Granger said angrily.
“It’s upstairs,” Kristi said. “And, guess what—I didn’t even know about it until very recently. And if you hadn’t done all this, I never would have known about it!”
“Get it!”
At the foot of the stairs, Janet Knox edged back, allowing Kristi room to pass by her to ascend.
She felt Janet following her, almost on top of her.
She had just reached the area where the family portraits were displayed when she felt Ja
net press the point of a knife to her back.
“Drop the knife,” Janet told her.
She had seen the kitchen knife in Kristi’s hand, held close to her thigh.
“Drop it!”
Kristi was never sure how she managed what she did, but she dropped the knife. And, at the same time, she reached for the Civil War photograph of Monty McLane, displayed so lovingly upon the wall. In a sharp, fluid motion, she managed to smash it hard over Janet Knox’s head, and watched as the woman fell flat and screaming upon the floor.
Granger let out a snarl of rage, threw Shelley to the floor and came after Kristi as if he were a rabid dog.
He nearly reached her.
But the front door opened. A whirr of motion was all that Kristi really saw.
Dallas was back.
Flying up the stairs behind Granger, tackling him and rolling down, down, down the stairs with him, until they were on the landing, and Dallas was straddled over Granger.
He lifted a fist furiously, ready to punch the man, but the door flew open again, and Jackson burst in, Joe Dunhill and Angela behind him.
Jackson kept Dallas from beating the man to a pulp, dragging him up and away.
The arrest went to Joe Dunhill. He cuffed Granger Knox while Angela called for several ambulances. Then Dunhill cuffed Janet Knox.
Kristi remained frozen until Dallas ran up the stairs to where she stood, drawing her into his shaking arms.
Epilogue
Dallas stood by the monument to Justin McLane, smiling as he listened to the heartfelt apologies that both Justin and Monty were giving him.
“I might have caused Kristi’s death,” Monty said. “I left... I should have been here, I should have been able to do something. I don’t know... I don’t know if I could ever explain what I’ve felt, what... I loved her so much. It was always agony knowing that she died because of me. I should have returned...and then, so foolishly, I couldn’t leave her bones, and...”
“We’re so sorry, and incredibly grateful that Kristi is okay...that it’s over,” Justin said.
The Summoning Page 30
