Ghost Maker

by Robin D. Owens

  “And we’re waiting on information from your sources,” Clare said.

  “That’s right, too.”

  “Later, I can do some more cross-referencing of Great-Aunt Sandra’s journals.” Clare grimaced. “I’ve skimmed through them and didn’t note anything about an older ghost possessing a body, as I recall, but I didn’t know we were dealing with that initially.” She glanced at Enzo. “Do you know if she ever dealt with a case of possession?”

  Enzo shook his head. I don’t know.

  “All right, that’s that.” Clare glanced at Zach, her shoulders shifting, her smile gone. “I’ve got a bad feeling—”

  “I do, too.”

  “—about tonight.”

  “Yes, he kills at night,” he said. When he nodded, he became aware of how stiff his neck muscles were. “Everything might go down tonight, especially if the killer was watching us, knows about us.”

  “What about regular scents, Enzo?” She waved a hand. “Like the different mineral waters. Or, uh, garlic, or perfumes and aftershaves . . .”

  I still cannot smell those, Enzo said.

  “You’ll probably never be able to smell those.”

  The two cases—were they two separate cases?—tore at Zach. Jonathan O’Neill, a ghost who possessed a human. Crap.

  One who liked to capture, starve, and kill children. He believed he fed off energy. Zach didn’t know whether that killer could have done that or not when he’d been alive, but maybe he could now.

  God-awful crap. And Clare was on the front lines, again.

  They would find Jonathan, and the body he lived in. They’d find the guy through research, and from clues the nun ghost had given them. But they had no evidence to bring in anybody but Rossi. And none of them, not Zach or Clare or Rossi, would wait one minute after they found out where the guy held the kids before they moved in to free the boys.

  Good thing he’d brought body armor down. And that they had Rossi as backup.

  Meanwhile, maybe there was something else he could do. And maybe he should encourage his own gift of seeing, of crows, his psychic foresight. If it would save the boys . . . though the thought of seeing four for death cramped his gut.

  * * *

  Zach took off, driving up to Denver, Enzo a pale shadow in the back of the truck. Clare sighed. It had been a while since she was all alone. When a person lived by herself for a decade, she became accustomed to a lot of personal time by herself. She loved Zach, and Enzo. But they’d been overprotective, crowding her, since an evil ghost had bitten her. She rubbed her etheric wound, not as bad as yesterday morning, but still not healed, and she didn’t think it healed much at all on its own.

  She moved to the plaza behind the Fountain Creek, situating herself so she could see the outside area that contained Navajo Spring, waiting for the place to clear of people. Sunlight streamed from under a cloud bank, and she tried to relax in the warmth. Street traffic began to pick up.

  The need for alone time mixed with an edgy alertness for danger. As she did yesterday, she watched the people passing by, focusing on the locals, and seeing people she began to recognize. She sensed no inimical vibrations directed at her.

  Clare also watched the ghosts avoid her. She nearly vibrated with questions she wanted to ask the apparitions about the tough situation she, Zach, Enzo, and Sister Julianna Emmanuel were experiencing. But obviously the phantoms of her time period didn’t want to get involved. Which led her to believe the ghost possessing a human could threaten them somehow, too. Or perhaps they thought it—he—could threaten them and didn’t want to put that to the test. After all, Jonathan O’Neill seemed to have believed that himself.

  Soon the open space near Navajo Spring held no living person and she moved back in.

  Julianna Emmanuel? Clare called mentally.

  The Sister of Mercy protruded a little out of the wall next to the spring, but said nothing.

  I am here by myself, Clare assured her. I want to talk about YOU.

  Oh, whispered the phantom nun.

  Are you all right? Emotionally?

  A slight pause, then, Yes, I believe so. We will triumph.

  Yes, we will, and we will let Zach and Enzo think about and plan how to do that. As I said, I want to speak with you about yourself. Clare didn’t know when Julianna Emmanuel died, though it must have been before December 31, 1899, the last day Clare’s time period covered. She sensed the young woman must have perished a few years earlier, and wanted to confirm that. Clare continued to explore her psychic gift. I visited Miramont Castle yesterday, Clare stated. Did you watch it being built? That had been 1895 and 1896.

  The spirit edged with gold stepped from the wall. Clare did a quick peek around and saw no living person. Excellent.

  Each time Clare met Julianna, the ghost became more defined to her sight. Now Clare could see the folds of her habit, separate curls of her hair.

  The house where I lived, Montcalme, is gone. I do not like Miramont Castle. A tiny sniff. It is too pretentious. She bit her lip, bowed her head. I am sorry, I have judged.

  There are a lot of ghosts, nonreligious ghosts, at Miramont, Clare said. They still think a lot about fashion and status.

  Julianna’s head came up. Yes! They are not so very spiritual. Then her thoughts rushed as she lifted a pale hand. Not that I am so very spiritual, either, but I do not think of clothes or who once was richer than I. But this place . . . She whisked her hand around her. Where I am stuck is not . . . pleasant.

  “Where would you like to stay until you make your transition?” Clare asked.

  Her head turned and raised and she looked west, her whole aspect one of yearning. The front of her habit depressed as if she sighed. The church was founded after I died, but it is a very beautiful place. Very serene, and reflecting the values that resonate with me. She paused. The values of my Christian and Catholic God.

  Clare blinked as knowledge clicked into place. The lovely atmospheric spot they felt when they drove up and down Ruxton Road.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Help, Julianna Emmanuel breathed with reverence. When I can reach those grounds, I know I will be able to be free.

  We will get you there, Clare sent telepathically. Another promise made today that she wouldn’t break.

  After we save the boys, the Sister of Mercy said, her tone resolved, no longer despairing at any perceived past failure.

  After we save the boys. Clare echoed the determination and the hope.

  Her good cheer lasted until she reached the street. She’d become accustomed to the heavy, enveloping feeling of the Manitou ghosts, those present and visible in shades of gray, those invisible except for that sense of suffocation. Now, though, another layer seemed to have been added, like a dark blanketing shroud, sunny day or not.

  Someone watched her. She knew the feeling, didn’t everyone? And since she’d come into her gift, she paid attention to whatever extra senses the paranormal part of her had stimulated, the extra slide of nerves under her skin. Casually she leaned down and retied her right cross-trainer, scanning the area. A shadow appeared atop the rock ridge above the stores across the street, human solid, not gray dimension, but she couldn’t see his or her features. The figure faded back into the stand of evergreens, and began moving toward the path down to the street.

  Her thumb hovered over the panic button. She’d never tested the app, and should have before she considered using it, but couldn’t do that here and now. She didn’t dare push that button unless it was a real emergency.

  So Clare got up and walked across the bridge over Fountain Creek to the plaza in front of the spa building, slightly hidden from the street, but the busiest nearby area.

  When Rossi tooted his horn, she hurried up to the car. This time she got in the front with him. He slid into traffic and she asked, “Did you see anyone who might have been too interested in me?” />
  “Tall guy about six feet, muscular, black hair, dark brown eyes, jogger; middle-aged woman, maybe mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, blue eyes, patchwork jacket carrying a blue tote with several bottles, three full, at least two empty; skinny teenaged boy, dark brown hair, brown eyes; three old guys sitting on the benches near Cheyenne spring shooting the breeze, all looked in their mid-seventies.”

  “Oh-kay.” Tension invaded her body. “Let me tell you what’s going on.” She hesitated. “And when we reach the villa, maybe you can give me a refresher course of, ah, two hours, in knife fighting?”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter 29

  Zach had reached the outskirts of Denver when his phone sounded again—the march designating his boss. Well, it was a workday.

  “Good morning,” said Rickman. “I got the report you filed this morning, a little sketchier than usual.”

  “Just the facts. I’ve received more information since then.” He paused. “Looks like we’ve got a copycat serial killer.”

  A pause, then a grunt by Rickman and his expressionless voice came. “Really? Is that so?”

  “Do you want me to tell you that we’ve discovered an old serial killer who died in the fifties is now possessing someone else’s body and on a rampage?”

  Five beats of silence. “No. No, I don’t want you to tell me that.”

  “All right, I won’t. I’m on my way to Denver to make the rounds of the shelters looking for a kid who said he saw Tyler.”

  “How solid is this?”

  “Hard to tell, but I don’t want to discount it.”

  “Right.”

  “Meanwhile, I want you, and anyone else you’ve been passing on the techniques I taught you, to search a few databases for me.”

  “We can do that.” Rickman sounded confident. The man always would, though Zach could apply the word sketchy to his talent for investigation. “So see if you can get original info, scanned documents, whatever on a certain Jonathan O’Neill, a serial killer in El Paso County in the fifties.”

  “Will do.”

  “Also car accidents up Waldo Canyon in the spring.”

  “We’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “We’ll share the results with you on our private and secure server.”

  “Fine.” At least it would give him a starting point when he got back to business.

  “So you’re up here in Denver.”

  “I’m close. You probably know that we asked Rossi to back up Clare today. And . . . tonight, too.”

  “You think something’s going down tonight,” Rickman stated.

  Zach rolled his shoulders. “Both Clare and I have bad feelings.”

  “Keep me posted.” A pause. “Desiree and I and a couple of other guys will stand by.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Watch your back, then.”

  “Count on it.”

  * * *

  He spent all morning and early afternoon visiting Denver metro area shelters, until he finally found the one he wanted. The people in charge remembered him and his questions, and also knew of the rumors about Tyler, and who started them. Zach got permission to speak to the child.

  As he’d walked into the room he’d accentuated his limp, used his cane, kept his manner ultra casual. The cool breeze of Enzo trailed him.

  The girl, it was a girl this time, had relaxed under his attitude and questioning, and, after making sure he didn’t record her and wouldn’t make any official note of their conversation, she shivered and broke down about Tyler and another boy getting into a gray truck last Thursday. When she’d first seen the truck, she ducked into an alley, so she didn’t observe the driver, though she’d gotten a bad feeling about the whole situation.

  She added that Tyler and the other boy had joked with the driver and didn’t appear afraid. But it just hadn’t felt right to her, so she stayed away. And, yes, she’d picked out Tyler from the various photos of boys Zach showed her. And she’d confirmed he was the younger of the two who’d taken the ill-fated ride. She hadn’t seen him, or the other boy, since. She said she didn’t know the other boy, and though that didn’t ring quite true to Zach, he didn’t call her on it.

  When a counselor checked on them, the girl took the interruption to get up and leave.

  Zach made a donation to the shelter, thanked them, and left.

  Tyler had been taken the night of the new moon.

  * * *

  Enzo abandoned Zach to whisk off to somewhere on his own. Zach had checked in with Clare, who said she’d gotten some exercise and was now working on transcribing her great-aunt’s journals.

  Slowly he let himself sink into the driving mind-set. He’d done patrolling, from big-city streets early in his career to across a Montana county at the end. He could let his thoughts gradually vanish while keeping his senses: sight, hearing, and now foresight focused on the environment outside his vehicle.

  No more than five minutes had passed before the first crow—real or psychic manifestation, he couldn’t tell—winged over the highway.

  One for sorrow.

  Anger flared again. Not helpful. The whole situation oozed sorrow—Clare’s nonphysical wound that didn’t heal, the kidnapped and killed youngsters . . .

  Another single crow flew past. Yeah, yeah, he got the message. What next?

  He shouldn’t be impatient. At the start of this seeing, he’d only wanted a single pointer—dreaded every single instance his gift manifested. Well, he recalled the first time he really paid attention clearly. Four for death had sure gotten his attention, especially when it came true, though he vaguely recalled crows beginning to haunt him right after he got out of the hospital.

  Taking a deep breath, he pulled each hand off the steering wheel in turn and stretched, fingers, hands, shoulders, back.

  Concentration was the wrong way to go, especially mixed in with irritation and a whiff of fear. He let his mind free again, and expanded his senses . . .

  One for sorrow.

  The martial beat from his phone again, and Zach accepted the incoming call from Rickman. “Slade here.”

  “You’re done and on the way back to Colorado Springs?”

  Zach wasn’t sure how Rickman knew, and didn’t care to be distracted by asking. “That’s right.”

  “I want to give you a verbal of our search results. We’ve uploaded our online links for when you open the share file.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, the spring car accident up the canyon.”

  “That’s the right priority. Gotta track the current . . . host . . . of the past ghost, first.”

  “My thought. It was a bad accident, involved five vehicles and black ice. There were three casualties and four survivors. The survivors are all local to Manitou Springs and the canyon, all still living there.”

  Zach let a breath out of his nostrils. Another riddle to sort through. Nothing came easy in this case. “Okay.”

  “Not one of the survivors is in any of our databases.”

  “Okay.” The road opened out . . . and looked relatively empty. “Read me their statistics, so I can think on them.”

  Rickman did. “No brilliant flash of deduction?”

  “Nope,” Zach replied. “So I’ll let it roll around in the subconscious and hope that comes later.”

  “Too bad. Talk to you later. You need any help, let us know. Harry called in, Clare briefed him when he took her back to your villa, and he took a room at the lodge.”

  “Thanks. Later.” Zach signed off. He hadn’t been quite truthful with Rickman. The names had given him a buzz, so he knew he was on the right track. It would just take work. One of the names and vitals would ring the right bell as soon as he looked at the info.

  Two crows cawed as they slanted across his windshield.
/>   Two for luck.

  A spurt of relief trickled through him.

  Until the next singleton.

  Throughout the rest of the drive, he noticed one crow at a time. One, and one, and one . . . but not together in multiples. One at a time.

  He needed more. More help, more guidance. Just. More.

  He tried to relax again. Cops and private investigators often had to clean up messes, so they could be mostly reactive to an initial situation. But they could also be patient, too, and when they had to act, they could and would—swiftly. He would. Right now he was in patient mode.

  Exiting the interstate into Colorado Springs, he used a voice command to log onto Rickman’s site and open the files and listen to a mechanical voice that read out the data, the names and stats of the survivors of the car crash.

  One name stood out. He checked the person’s driver’s license and vehicle registration. He even got lucky with an online weather camera showing the perp had been out and about during his and Clare’s initial meeting with the nun when she’d fled to help a boy . . . die.

  Zach still wanted that omen he waited for desperately.

  Keep the mind clear but the senses sharp. Then on the fence posts as he turned into the resort sat three solid and black crows . . . and one not so defined. As he blinked, they all faded, and he found his throat tight.

  Four for death, but one hadn’t been substantial.

  Zach decided that meant that more death could be prevented—Tyler’s, if the boy had been captured, Clare’s, his own.

  If he was smart and fast enough.

  * * *

  The sun began to lower behind the mountains and dread enveloped her. She knew, just knew, the evil ghost planned on killing tonight. They had to stop him. She, Zach, and Enzo. She didn’t think they could count on Julianna Emmanuel. The minute the bad feeling had raised the hair on the back of her neck, she’d sent Enzo to be with the Sister of Mercy, the ghost dog full of determination to track the nun as the dying child called to her.

  Just the thought of that made Clare’s stomach roil.

  She moved away from the window showing the darkening outlines of the hills and practiced breathing, then took a cup of lemongrass tea—supposed to help psychic abilities—and sat in the recliner.