CHAPTER THREE

. . . .

. . .

As one, they left the hall and returned to the sitting room without exchanging another word.

Juliet was cold inside and out now. She didn't know what was happening, but if it was an elaborate prank it was definitely working. By three a.m. she would be really pissed off about it, but right now she was too busy being terrified.

They watched the Grays, although Juliet couldn't concentrate on anything outside the room she stood in now.

"Carlton," she whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Before tonight, did you believe in ghosts?"

He didn't answer at first, but she knew he would.

"I believed… there were things which couldn't be explained, but not for me." He glanced at her. "That is, ghosts were for other people."

"That's more open-minded than I thought you'd be."

"Eh. Age." He jammed his hands in his pockets. "Thing is, we see all of this stuff in the movies. Most of what's happened here tonight could be—"

"Don't you dare say imagination," she warned him.

"No. But faked. The temperature, the door, the lights—even what you saw in the mirror."

"And the painting?" He couldn't have a rational explanation for that.

But he nodded. "Maybe. It'd be a complicated scam, but it's not like we saw it changing right in front of us. Truth is, almost everything we've seen could be a setup."

Juliet watched him, noting his diffidence. "But."

He let out a breath. "But that hand on my shoulder. That was real. That wasn't my imagination, it wasn't any damned muscle spasm, and I can't explain it."

She shivered, remembering his expression as he bolted from the room. "I always believed they were possible—ghosts. Houses being haunted by people who couldn't let go for some reason. But I guess, like you, I thought most of it really was imagination. The mind seeing what it wanted to see. And people are messed up, Carlton. They seek out this stuff and sometimes it backfires on them."

"The only trouble I seek out is provided by the living," he said flatly.

"I hear that." She shivered again, from the inside out this time. They stood in silence by his window—she wasn't going to get any farther away from him than that now—and watched the Grays.

"Hurry it up, Findley," he muttered. "Sooner you come back with your stolen goods, the sooner we can get out of here."

She agreed completely. "And you thought having to talk to me would be the scariest thing about this evening."

Carlton gave her a speculative look.

"What?"

He shook his head.

"Carlton, what?"

It came out in a mutter. "Makes me wonder if this is how you planned it."

Her jaw dropped. "Oh, now, I know you're joking."

He shrugged. "Maybe you knew there'd be something about this freaktastic house you could work with."

"I don't need to invent apparitions and have someone switch out paintings to make you talk to me." When he glanced at her again, she added coolly, "I have a service weapon for that."

He arched one brow. "Threatening an officer of the law is a criminal offense, O'Hara."

"So is refusing to cooperate with an officer of the law."

"Oh, you're accusing me of obstruction now?"

"Absolutely. All I want to do is discuss an incident which we really need to discuss, and you keep refusing."

He glared out the window. "Because it shouldn't be discussed."

"Can we discuss why it shouldn't be discussed?"

Carlton let out a frustrated breath. "No, because that's self-evident."

"It's not." She felt as frustrated now as he sounded. "You kissed me, Carlton, and then you walked away. No: you ran away. And I want to know—"

"I know what you want to know!" He was fierce, turning his glare to her now. "You want to make sure it's not going to happen again, that it's not going to be a problem, that you don't have to do anything about it. Well, you don't. We don't need to talk about any of that because I already know."

Juliet stared at him in consternation. She'd feared this was his mindset. "You don't know what you think you know."

"Where am I wrong? We're partners. I screwed up once before, and you don't want me to screw things up for you too. So if we just drop this pointless 'conversation' now, you can stop worrying about all of that and we can go back to doing our jobs."

"You don't know anything," she retorted. "You keep telling me what I think but you're wrong. You're so sure your negative view of everything is the only view that you're missing out on something really important."

He stepped nearer, supremely annoyed. "Our partnership is really important, O'Hara, at least to me. I don't intend to be the instrument of its destruction."

"You won't be, and our partnership is important to me too, and stop calling me O'Hara when you think I'm getting too close!"

"It's habit!" he protested. "And I didn't say it wasn't important to you; I just said—"

At the other window, the camera and tripod fell over with a crash, hitting the wingback chair, pieces scattering.

Juliet lost it: she yelled at the room, "Stop interrupting!" She felt Carlton staring at her, but she barreled on, "Every time we start to get somewhere with this stupid argument, you interrupt!"

There was silence. Deep cold silence.

"Okay," Carlton said slowly. "That was int—"

He stopped, and she understood why.

It was the glow which brought him up short.

A deep, dark red glow.

Maybe it was only shadows so black they seemed red. Juliet couldn't interpret what she was seeing.

But the shadow—deep and black—expanded and moved and shifted in a way that no shadow should behave.

It took the form of… a person? All shadows, no substance.

Next to her, Carlton had frozen, but then so had she. They were both unable to look away from the… living… shape, which shifted and morphed some fifteen feet away near the window, almost but not quite lit by the moonlight beyond.

Breathing, she forced herself to remember, was necessary.

Yet it was incredibly difficult when even her lungs felt like blocks of ice.

"Right," Carlton suddenly snapped, grasping Juliet's arm. "We're getting some answers now."

Given his tight grip, she had no say as to whether she followed him or not, although certainly going with Carlton was preferable to remaining here alone.

In the doorway, he turned to the dark and living shadow and said, "We'll be back, gasbag."

The flicker of triumph she felt faded fast, because they didn't get far.

They couldn't.

The black/red shape/shadow thing was in the hall between them and the stairwell.

The chandelier was behind it, far too dim now, and Juliet could see through the shadow, and that was terrifying too.

It wasn't like smoke or fog.

It was alive.

It was evil.

Carlton slid his hand down to clasp hers and she felt his solid thereness and even though she knew he was terrified too, they were together.

"The painting," he whispered.

It was as if her head weighed a thousand pounds: she could barely move it.

The Pumphrey mansion was dark and foreboding and the skies were murky and there was no one standing beside the dog.

No one.

Cartavious was no longer in the painting.

Juliet couldn't hear her own heartbeat anymore: it had stopped. Surely it had stopped.

The shadow whispered.

It was half-groan, half-hissing… something cold and dark and from a faraway place of desolation.

There were no words she could understand, but she picked up the feelings.

Anger. Betrayal. Hate. Sharp, acrid and alive.

Alive.

The only warmth in her body now, the only warmth at all, was where her hand was locked tightly with Carlton's.

The living shadow moved… twisted… took on a more definite shape, and she didn't have to wonder what shape it would be. She already knew.

A man.

That man.

The man missing from the painting.

And in the next instant, he was coming at her.

. . . .

. . .

Here's what he knew.

He knew this couldn't be happening.

He knew Cartavious Pumphrey III had been dead a hundred years.

He knew people didn't vanish from paintings.

He knew strange black mists which weren't smoke and weren't shadows didn't move from room to hallway without warning and certainly couldn't physically hurt a living person.

He knew he was terrified. With the second-to-last part of his working brain, he knew his terror was about to incapacitate him.

But Juliet was at his side, and her safety, and her life, and her whole being, was the treasure in his world.

So the most important thing he knew—with the last part of his working brain—was that when the pulsating shadow solidified and launched itself at Juliet, she was the one person he would absolutely always do his utmost to protect.

Keeping his left hand firmly wrapped around hers, he raised his weapon and fired straight into the middle of the advancing evil.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

Silence.

Empty air around them.

Just their breathing. No other sounds.

Heartbeats thundered. Lungs labored for air.

The temperature… rose.

Carlton turned and looked at the painting.

The scowling young man was back at the dog's side.

Without a word, Carlton shot the painting. Aiming unerringly for Cartavious' heart, he shot the oil portrait which had hung in this house for nearly a hundred years.

Twice.

The painting shuddered a moment before falling to the floor with a crash, and somewhere around them they heard a long, drawn-out sigh, or a gasp, or… a giving up.

. . .

. . . .

. . . . .

He pulled her down the hall the rest of the way to the stairs, not speaking. His grip on her hand was as exactly as tight as her grip on his, and they remained thus as they swiftly descended to the first floor.

She wanted him to stop and tell her what just happened, even if it was a cranky disbelieving claim of denial. She wanted to hear his voice telling her—dismissively if necessary—that she'd just imagined nearly being swallowed up by some… shadow…

Halfway down the stairs, within sight of the first floor landing, she made a sound, the best she could approximate as "Wait."

He stopped, one step below her, his gaze raking her over. "Are you okay?"

"No."

Carlton did the perfect thing: he reached up and touched her face and said, "You will be."

That single touch to her cold cheek—his hand impossibly warm and gentle—soothed her immensely.

"You will be," he repeated. "But we need answers."

He tugged at her hand again, down the rest of the stairs and in the direction of the Pumphreys' bedroom.

Franklin was approaching in the hallway, his eyes wide and startled. Charity trailed behind him looking terrified; both of them were in their robes and looked to be freshly and unwillingly awake.

"I thought I heard shots," he started.

Carlton interrupted brusquely. "What in the hell is the history of this house?"

Franklin blinked, and Juliet watched him exchange looks with Charity. "What happened?"

"You tell us," Carlton shot back. "And tell us now."

The man sighed, running a hand through his wispy white hair.

"It's complicated," Charity said uneasily. "It was such a long time ago."

Juliet felt a flash of anger. "No, it's now. Just now. Upstairs. Tell us."

"Let's sit down." Franklin made sure Carlton was going to let him pass (Juliet wasn't sure she would have), and led the way to the kitchen, where Charity began bustling around starting the kettle and getting mugs for tea.

Carlton sat—only then releasing her hand, which she immediately missed—and rubbed his temples. Juliet figured they were at the same level of psychological exhaustion, because she was wiped out.

"Tell me about the gunfire," Franklin pleaded as he sat across from them.

"Tell me about that psycho in the painting."

Juliet was about to add 'don't screw with us when we're testy,' but Franklin must have figured it out on his own. He tightened his robe belt, sighed again, and sat back in the chair.

"I assume you… dammit, I hoped… it'd been awhile and I hoped he'd leave you alone. I'm sorry." He sounded plaintive. Embarrassed.

Carlton just gave him the classic icy blue Get On With It stare.

"He died in 1920. He—"

Juliet cut in, speaking to Charity. "You said that was when the painting was commissioned."

Charity fumbled with a potholder. "Yes. He… died just a few weeks after it was completed."

"How did he die? No, let me guess." Carlton's tone was acid. "It involved a large amount of blood on his shirt."

Franklin let out another sigh. "He was murdered."

"It wasn't murder," Charity protested. "That girl was defending herself."

Juliet shivered, because she already knew who the girl was. "The maid?"

Now Franklin looked surprised. "You saw her?"

"Everyone sees her." Charity set the mugs down sharply. "Everyone who ever goes up to that floor sees her."

Carlton turned his blue glare on her. "You might have mentioned this a few hours ago."

She huffed. "It's not exactly something you bring up in casual conversation."

"Because this approach is better? Good call, lady."

"Please," Franklin intervened. "Let's stay on point. Cartavious was a troubled young man. He had problems with his temper and by today's standards, I think he'd be called bi-polar. His brother was my grandfather." He waited for Charity to give him his tea before adding, "He was the last person to bear the name Cartavious."

Which is no big loss, Juliet thought, and suspected Carlton was thinking it too.

"It's good it died with him," Charity snipped most uncharitably.

Franklin held up a hand to stop his wife from saying more. "He was… disturbed. From the age of ten until his death, he was mostly confined to the third floor. He wasn't good in mixed company, but his father, Cartavious the second, wanted to keep him at home as long as possible."

Carlton looked into the mug of tea Charity gave him as if he'd much prefer it contained whiskey. "The room we're using was his favorite?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I really thought he'd leave you be tonight. I thought with two of you there, he'd stay away."

Juliet was surprised at the chill in her own voice. "Exactly how 'active' is your great uncle?"

Charity sat down with her own mug, sliding one to Juliet. "He's busiest at night. He never ventures lower than the third floor."

"And you didn't think cops doing night surveillance would need to know about him?"

"How do you bring it up?" Franklin asked helplessly. "Pardon me, but our house is haunted? You might have thought we were in cahoots with the Grays."

Her mouth opened but nothing came out. The idiocy…

Carlton had words, however. "Your reluctance to deliver potentially embarrassing news just cost you three bullet holes in your precious house. Two of them in the damn painting, and I don't care how long it takes me to pay that off, it's already worth it."

Franklin was shocked. "You shot the painting?"

"The bastard went after my partner," he said tightly.

Juliet heard the conviction in his tone. She heard it in her heart as well as in the air around her and she thought two things in order: one, this really happened because he saw it too, and two, he took down Cartavious for me.

Not because they were partners, but because he was hers.

The last of her inner chill dissipated like mist as the sun comes up, and she reached over and put her hand on his, in full view of the Pumphreys, and screw anybody who said a word about it.

"It was an evil painting." Charity was defiant. "That young man was evil."

"He was troubled," Franklin argued.

"What happened? Who killed him?" Carlton turned his hand to clasp hers, his grasp possessive in a way she liked very much.

Franklin countered, "What happened up there?"

"Doors slamming, lights going off, the temperature roughly ten below zero, stuff falling over. Somebody touched Carlton, I saw the maid in the mirror, and the painting—" Juliet's testy reply faltered.

Carlton glanced at her, squeezing her hand. "The painting kept changing, and he… he came out of it." He stopped, taking a breath, but went on impatiently before they could speak. "You probably already know all his tricks. It was a busy night. Now stop jerking us around and tell us what in the hell happened to him!"

Franklin swallowed.

Charity answered instead. "What I heard was that he terrorized the maids, and most of them refused to go up there. But one day he tricked a new maid into bringing him something to eat."

"Ebbie Crider," Franklin said softly.

"Yes. Cartavious attacked her, but she fought back and ended up stabbing him in the chest with the knife from his own dinner tray." She sipped her tea slowly, as if bolstering herself.

"It broke her, my father said." Franklin pushed his mug away, restless. "All these stories got handed down within the family but we don't talk about them outside. Ever. You'll respect our privacy, I hope."

"You didn't respect our right to be prepared for this," Juliet retorted.

Carlton persisted, "What happened to Ebbie?"

Charity repeated her husband's words. "It broke her. She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in and sobbed for hours until the police finally forced the door open. She was sixteen and very sensitive, she'd just killed the grandson of the wealthiest man in town after he attacked her, and she couldn't cope."

"She ended up institutionalized," Franklin said sadly, "and was dead before she turned twenty."

Juliet felt goosebumps, and Carlton squeezed her hand again. "So the memory of… her anguish… is sort of imprinted on that room."

Charity nodded. "That's what I think. And Cartavious, well, he spent his whole life here, and the third floor was his kingdom. He didn't like to share, he craved attention, and he was an evil little son of a bitch."

They all blinked, and Franklin gave her an admonishing look.

She was again defiant. "Well, Ebbie wasn't the only maid he attacked. You just don't like to talk about it."

"Of course I don't like to talk about it! He's been dead ninety-three years, Ebbie's been dead nearly that long, and what's the point of rehashing old trouble? Anyway, who knows? With today's therapy, he might have been rehabilitated!"

"Franklin Boniface Pumphrey, you are a silly old man, and I do not…" Charity cut herself off, grumbling into her mug.

He was unfazed. "I just thought with you there…"

It took a second, but Juliet realized Franklin had directed his plaintive remark to Carlton. "With him there?"

"I thought you'd be safe if he was there."

They both looked at him.

Charity again spoke for her husband. "You said he came out of the painting. We heard that once before, from guests a long time ago. A pair of young women, friends of our daughter's." For all her boldness a few moments ago, now she was the one hesitating. "They slept in separate rooms and Cartavious appeared to the one who'd chosen his old bedroom. She was… she was traumatized. She left the house the next morning and never spoke to our daughter again."

"We thought you'd protect her if there was trouble," Franklin said, as if that made everything all right.

Carlton said flatly, "I did. But assuming none of us are insane, and all of this is real, there's no way a bullet through a… a shadow, or a painting, is going to stop some… spirit who's been hanging around for a century."

Franklin rubbed his face. "We've tried everything. Priests, shamans, mediums. He won't go."

"We should burn the place down." Charity stood up and turned away, but the tone in her voice made it clear she was dead serious.

"We're not doing any such thing. We'll seal up the third floor before we do that."

She grumbled something about that being a good idea too.

Juliet drank tea and tried to absorb everything from the last half hour, but there was too much. She was safe now, and so was Carlton, and concentrating on those facts would have to do.

Carlton got up, gazing down at Juliet. "I'll go get our gear. We're done here tonight."

She was on her feet in an instant. "You're not going up there alone."

"You're not going at all."

Glaring at him, she said, "If the word 'partner' is a shield, then we'll both use it."

His large blue eyes reflected uncertainty and then gradual acceptance.

To the Pumphreys, she said decisively, "You stand at the bottom of the steps and listen for any signs we're in trouble. You got it? No cowering down here waiting to see who wins. If we need help, you get some. Stat."

They nodded, looking much older than their years, and she and Carlton—hands clasped—went up the stairs, back to Cartavious' domain.

It really was warmer now. There was no sense of dread anymore.

At the top, Carlton turned right instead of left. "Let's get these lights off."

They stayed together, looking in each room, turning off the lights as they went.

In front of the door that was closed, Carlton hesitated.

Juliet knew, somehow, that it had been Cartavious' bedroom, and she knew that right now, he wouldn't be in there in any form. Still, she couldn't help but draw in a sharp breath when Carlton abruptly grasped the knob and pushed the door open.

The darkness inside, deep as it was, held no implied threat this time. Nothing moved, nothing whispered. A sliver of moonlight through the drawn drapes showed everything still and simply… old.

Now that Cartavious had retreated, it was startling to realize how much dread had been there from the beginning, from the moment they'd first set foot on this floor hours ago.

But now, this was just a dark, dusty bedroom.

"Good," Carlton muttered as if she'd spoken the words aloud, and they moved on.

With only the hall lights and stairwell chandelier left, they returned to the southeast sitting room.

The painting, with its broken frame, still leaned against the wall on the floor. Juliet went toward it, but Carlton pulled her back. "Don't. Don't touch anything of his."

But he went closer, pulling a penknife out of his pocket and digging the bullets out of the wall, knocking bits of plaster down and onto the dusty surface of the painting.

"They should leave it just where it is," she said, and it felt perversely good to suggest what amounted to disrespect.

"Doubt they'll be running up here to check on it."

Probably not.

The sitting room felt… normal. Juliet went to pick up the debris from the fallen camera and tripod, taking a moment to retrieve the light bulb from the floor and replacing it in the lamp Cartavious had preferred lit.

Carlton was at the window, where he paused to watch the Gray house. "Hey, get your camera going. Findley just came back."

He was already taking pictures, and with the video camera running as well, the two of them—with a curious sense of detachment, because the job which had brought them here was simply an inconvenience now—caught Sabin Findley handing what appeared to be an antique carved wooden box to Geoff Gray, who inspected its contents while Findley in turn inspected the contents of a large manila envelope. The envelope appeared to be full of cash. The box appeared to be full of bags of white powder.

Getting out his cell phone while the two men had a pleasant post-transaction chat, Carlton called in his recommendation that someone pick up Mr. Findley before he got too far, and sit on the Gray house before Mr. Gray could dispose of the cash.

Juliet felt utterly bemused. According to her watch, it was just past eleven p.m.

Three hours in this house. In Cartavious' playground.

She went back to collecting pieces of the tripod and Carlton packed up his equipment, and as he zipped the camera bag, he said, "You were right, by the way."

"About what?" She stood up, brushing off her slacks.

He stood at the window, half-lit by the moon. "I didn't think there could be anything more terrifying than talking about that kiss."

Ohhh….

Carlton looked across at her, silent.

This was a much better variety of goosebumps.

"What do you think now?"

"I think maybe it's time for me to let you tell me what you think."

She'd been about to tell him when Cartavious interrupted that last time.

Stepping over the bag, Juliet went closer. He was utterly motionless, but the fear radiating off of him was the kind she could manage now.

"I think I'd like you to kiss me again, Carlton."

He swallowed. "Is that what you were trying to tell me I didn't know?"

Juliet nodded.

Carlton was still motionless. "I'm not drunk, but I could be under the influence of post-traumatic stress."

"Then we're on equal ground," she said softly, and took the final step into his arms. Reaching up to cup his lean face, she drew him down. His hands went to her waist but he didn't move.

This could not be paralyzing him. Not after what they'd just been through.

Juliet kissed him, and broke the spell, for as soon as her lips touched his, he opened himself to her. She felt it, in the way all those open doors had poured light into the hall earlier: Carlton was not resisting. He was finally letting his heart talk to hers.

Their first kiss had been about surprise and ohhhhh I want more but this kiss was about already having more and merely accepting it.

His arms encircled her tightly, and his mouth on hers was both a completion and a beginning, as well as wickedly delicious.

She would never have expected the room she'd been terrified in to be the same room where her future lover's kisses were making her want to be naked in his bed… or here in the wingback chair.

Carlton's hands were in her hair, and his tongue was driving her mad; sweet explorations had turned to fiery need almost instantly.

Their bodies were fused as she kissed his hungry mouth voraciously and when he groaned out her name against the skin of her throat, the pure ardor in his voice nearly made her knees buckle.

"He wasn't going to take you from me," he said hoarsely, and Juliet stilled herself.

She could feel his heart pounding, they were wrapped so closely together.

"I didn't even know you were mine, but I wouldn't let him take you."

Juliet kissed him hard. "I wouldn't have gone anywhere without you, partner."

Carlton squeezed her, sighing into her hair.

"But let's get out of here, okay? We have more talking to do after we get the photos and video turned in."

He agreed, and they parted slowly to put the room to rights and gather the bags.

In the hall, approaching the stairs (giving the fallen painting a wide berth), he looked at the stairwell wall.

She followed his gaze. His gunshot into Cartavious' black and evil shape should have put the bullet somewhere in that gold and blue paper.

Without even speaking, they set everything down and began searching; given where they both knew they were standing, the bullet's trajectory could not have strayed from a fairly small area, and certainly not down the hall—although Carlton searched anyway.

After some minutes, they looked at each other.

"It's not here," she said.

"It has to be. He was… gas," he finished helplessly. "A shadow with substance, but not the kind of substance which could be stopped by a bullet."

"You aimed at his heart." Or where his heart would have been, if he'd had a heart at all. "And you don't miss."

Still he protested. "It was a shadow's heart. That bullet is here somewhere." He pulled the other two out of his jacket pocket. "Like these."

Juliet felt a certainty which surprised her. "By the time he was back in the painting, there was nothing left for you to destroy."

Carlton's expression was hard to read. His natural skepticism was coming back, and he was beginning to doubt what she knew he couldn't deny even to himself.

"We don't have to understand it, Carlton." She touched his arm. "We just have to accept it's true."

The blue of his eyes deepened, and she felt those good goosebumps again. "Like you wanting me to kiss you?"

Juliet smiled, and the goosebumps did not fade. "Exactly. Now let's go, so you can give me what I want."

"Here's an hors d'oeuvre," he murmured, and scooped her nearer suddenly, his mouth closing over hers in a hot and possessive kiss which again weakened her knees and left her gasping.

It was difficult to pick up their gear again after that, difficult to concentrate on getting down the stairs without falling.

Neither of them noticed the sitting room door slowly closing before they were even out of sight.

And down in the Grays' driveway, moments before the first of several police cars arrived, Geoff Gray looked up to the Pumphrey house just as a light went on in the southeast corner of the third floor.

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