Ghost Hunter

by Paige Tyler

  “Oh God,” she breathed. “That’s awful.”

  Trace swallowed hard and gave her another shrug. “He was a good cop and a good dad. Working on the bike is my way of remembering him.”

  Cassidy didn’t say anything. Neither did Trace. Regardless of what he said about being okay with his father’s passing, it was obvious he was still deeply affected by what had happened. She wondered if that was part of the reason he’d become a cop himself, but didn’t ask, and for a long time they were both quiet.

  “I’ve never been on a motorcycle,” Cassidy finally said, hoping changing the subject would help take Trace’s mind off what had happened to his father.

  He looked at her in surprise. “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head.

  He flashed her a grin. “Then I’ll have to take you for a ride once I get this thing running.”

  Cassidy’s heart did a little backflip at the words. It was the first time Trace had mentioned the future, or even hinted they might have one together, and it caught her by surprise. He made the offer so casually she wasn’t sure if he’d said it simply to be polite, but then she realized he was looking at her expectantly, as if he was waiting for an answer.

  She smiled. “It sounds like fun. I’d like that.”

  He’d asked her to go for a ride on his motorcycle, not marry him, and yet as she watched Trace work, she found herself wondering if this thing between them had any long-term potential. Last night she thought she might be falling in love with him. She still felt the same this morning, but while she had feelings for him, she wasn’t sure she was ready for the whole package that came with him. The big, rugged hunter was one hell of a man and damn nice to snuggle up to when the bad dreams came around, but she wasn’t sure she could handle the world he lived in.

  Not wanting to think about it anymore right then, she pushed such introspective thoughts out of her head and helped Trace fix up his motorcycle instead. It was fun listening to him explain how the various parts worked in between talking about his dad. He never mentioned his mother, however. Cassidy was curious why, but didn’t ask. If he hadn’t mentioned her, there was probably a reason. She didn’t want to bring up any more unhappy memories for him.

  The day went faster than Cassidy realized and by the time she looked up, it was almost five o’clock. She offered to make a quick dinner, but Trace suggested going out to eat instead.

  “We should grab some takeout, too, so we’ll have something to eat on the stakeout.” she said as they changed clothes.

  Trace grunted, but didn’t say anything.

  She and Trace went to the café in town where Cassidy had eaten the other times she’d been to Sleepy Hollow. They were just finishing their sandwiches when Trace’s cell phone rang.

  “Yeah, Muncie. What’s up?”

  Cassidy stopped to listen, the glass of iced tea halfway to her mouth. Trace must have realized she was eager to know what he and the other man were talking about because he cupped the receiver and whispered, “Martin left his apartment.”

  Trace pulled out a pen and scribbled an address on a napkin. She leaned over to get a better look and saw it was someplace in Fairfield. The address looked familiar for some reason and after a moment, she figured out why. It was the funeral home she and Trace had gone to the other day, the one that had supposedly cremated Del Vecchio’s body.

  “No, stay right where you are,” Trace said to Muncie. “Don’t go in there under any circumstances. Remember what I told you earlier. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  Trace hung up and dug in his back pocket for his wallet, then tossed a twenty on the table. “Martin went to a self-storage place, then to the funeral home in Fairfield.”

  “You think he has Del Vecchio’s body?”

  “I’m going to find out.” Trace stood up. “I’ll drop you off at my place before I head up there.”

  She pushed back her chair and got to her feet. “I’m coming with you.”

  He glanced her way as they walked out to the Hummer. “I know you don’t want to stay by yourself, but—”

  “I’m not worried about staying by myself.” For a smart guy, he could be thick sometimes. “I don’t want you going alone.”

  Trace opened the passenger door for her. “Cassidy, honey, it’s very sweet that you’re worried about me, but I know how to handle myself. Besides, I won’t be alone. Muncie is going to be there.”

  “Muncie doesn’t have a clue what he’s walking into and it will take half the night to try to explain it to him. He’ll be more of a liability than a help. I already know what Del Vecchio can and can’t do. I’m going.”

  Trace mouth tightened. “No, you’re not. I’m taking you back to my place and you’re staying there.”

  She opened her mouth to retort, but he slammed the door shut before she could get the words out, so she had to wait until he went around and got in the other side.

  “The moment you leave, I’ll be right behind you,” she said as soon as was seated beside her. “I know the address, remember?”

  He gave her a sidelong glance, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “You don’t have a car, remember?”

  Was that the best he could come up with? “No, I don’t have a car. But I have a cell phone, so I can call a cab.”

  This was her life they were talking about, and she’d never been the type to let another person fight her battles for her. Besides, Trace needed her to watch his back. He was prime boyfriend material and that was damn hard to come by around these parts.

  She folded her arms and sat back in the seat. “You should stop wasting time. Muncie isn’t going to wait all night. Sooner or later, he’ll get bored and go snooping around. We need to get moving.”

  Trace stared at her, his jaw tight. He was probably debating whether he should take her back to his place and leave her tied to a chair. She hoped not because she was lousy at untying knots. Apparently he must have decided against it because he put the SUV in drive and took off out of the parking lot with a squeal, rocks flying everywhere.

  Great. Now she’d pissed him off. At least she’d gotten what she wanted. She hoped she didn’t regret it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Trace had known the moment Cassidy looked at the address he’d scribbled back at the café he’d end up taking her along. She was too damn stubborn to stay behind. God help him, it was one of the things that made her so irresistible.

  He only hoped he could convince her to stay in the Hummer when they got to Fairfield. While he didn’t particularly like the idea of leaving her in the SUV, he liked the idea of her being close to Del Vecchio and his depraved partner in crime Martin even less. Something told him Cassidy wasn’t going to agree to wait outside, though. Which meant he was going to have to do his damnedest to protect her because he wasn’t about to let anything happen to her.

  Finding Muncie’s car when they got to the funeral home wasn’t difficult. Then again, the place was in the middle of nowhere, so a lone car parked on the side of the road was kind of obvious. At least Muncie had tried to be inconspicuous and pulled well off the road.

  Trace rolled to a stop behind the cop and cut the engine. He’d just opened the door when he caught sight of a person in the passenger’s seat of Muncie’s car. He frowned. What the hell?

  He got out and shut the door. On the other side of the Hummer, Cassidy did the same. Muncie got out of his car as well, as did the person with him. Trace swore under his breath when he saw it was Muncie’s partner, Dan Simpson. The guy didn’t look any happier being there than Trace was to see him.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” Trace demanded as Muncie approached.

  “I’ve been asking myself the same fucking question,” Simpson snarled.

  Muncie shrugged helplessly. “He’s my partner. I couldn’t pull off a convincing disappearing act without him.”

  “Well, that was stupid,” Trace growled.

  He couldn’t believe Muncie had brought this dipshit with him. If
there was one person he didn’t trust, it was Simpson. The guy was the kind of cop who always played by the rules. Not because he thought it was the right thing to do or because it would close a case, but because it would keep him out of hot water.

  Trace didn’t know why he cared. What was the difference if Muncie brought his partner with him? It wasn’t as if Trace had planned on having the detective go into the funeral home with him. As far as he was concerned, Muncie and Simpson could keep their asses out here guarding the cars. That was exactly what he told the two of them.

  Muncie’s brows drew together. “Now hold on a minute, Trace. You’re not going into that place by yourself.”

  “He’s not going by himself,” Cassidy said. “He’s going in with me.”

  Trace turned to find Cassidy standing beside him, a determined look on her face. “Cassidy, I already told you that you’re not—”

  Simpson cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Oh man, this is rich. Muncie has me on a stakeout the whole fucking day without telling me who the hell we’re watching or why we’re watching him, and now I find out we’ve been watching somebody for the ghost whisperer himself. Then, to top off the perfect day, it turns out you’d rather have a beauty queen for backup than us? That’s a fucking joke. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because none of us are going in there. We don’t have a warrant or probable cause, and we’re miles outside of our jurisdiction. Unless you have reason to believe that creepy little freak in there is having some kinky fun with the corpses, we’re done here.”

  “Oh, get real,” Trace sneered. “The fact that we don’t have a warrant is a handy excuse for you. The real reason you don’t want to go in there is because you’re a coward.”

  Simpson lunged at Trace, his fists clenched and ready to strike. Muncie immediately stepped between them, holding Simpson back. Trace wished to hell Muncie hadn’t done that. He was suddenly in the mood to kick someone’s ass. Simpson’s would do.

  “McCord, you’re a real nutjob, you know that?” Simpson tried to push past his partner, but Muncie wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Dammit Dan, back the hell off!” Muncie gave the younger man a shove that sent him stumbling back. “Nobody’s asking you to do anything but sit in the car. I don’t expect you to go in there with us.”

  Simpson looked at Muncie as if he’d suddenly grown two heads. “What the hell are you talking about, Ted? Why would you risk your career following that jackass into a building without a warrant? That’s stupid.”

  “Maybe,” Muncie agreed. “But Trace says the guy in there is the link to the Stamford Stabber, so I’m willing to take the chance if we can stop this guy.”

  Shit. Muncie was a friend and Trace didn’t want to see him screwed by the same bureaucrats who had taken away his badge all those years ago.

  “Muncie, you’re not going in there, either,” he said. “I asked you to follow this guy and tell me where he went. You did that, now hang tight in your car. Better yet, why don’t you take off? Simpson’s right about one thing at least. You go in that building without a warrant and your career is pretty much shot. No matter how it turns out.”

  Muncie opened his mouth to answer, but Trace’s cell phone interrupted him. Trace didn’t feel like answering it right now, but it was his emergency ringtone, so he figured he’d better. He swore under his breath and dug the phone out of his pocket, then walked toward the back of the Hummer, leaving Muncie and Simpson to argue between themselves. Cassidy followed him.

  “McCord,” Trace said into the phone.

  “Trace, it’s Finley. Glad I caught you, dude. I was worried you’d already gone after that Martin guy you asked me to check out.”

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “A whole hell of a lot. Turns out Russell Martin is a product of the New York foster system. Barone is his adopted family name. They adopted him when he was a kid.”

  The way Finley said it made Trace think he should be familiar with the name Barone, but unfortunately he didn’t recognize the surname at all. “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

  Finley snorted. “Man, you call yourself a hunter? The Barones were New York State’s most famous occult family for most of the 1900s. They dabbled in witchcraft, druidism, mysticism, paganism, you name it. But they were best known for their explorations into the field of necromancy. Most of the family was involved in it to some degree or another. But the worse of the bunch was the patriarch of the family, Reginald Barone. And guess who’s on the paperwork as Russell’s adopted daddy?”

  “Let me guess, good ole Reggie himself?”

  “The very same. Russell lived with him for nine years, from the tender age of six until he was fifteen and the old man died. Russell inherited a good chunk of the family fortune, but split right after the reading of the old man’s will, moved to Connecticut and changed his name back to Martin.”

  Trace glanced at the funeral home. This ghost they’d been dealing with, the ghost that didn’t behave like a ghost, was starting to make more sense now. Russell Martin had to be the one who’d brought Del Vecchio back from the dead. “Anything concrete on whether Martin followed in the family footsteps when it came to the occult?”

  “Not really. But I think it’s safe to assume Daddy Barone wouldn’t have left Russell all that money if he didn’t think he was a chip off the old block, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I get you,” Trace said. “Thanks for calling. I owe you a big one.”

  “No way, dude. We’re still not even yet. Not by a long shot,” Finley said. “You be careful, okay? Necromancers might not be as nasty as some other things out there, but you don’t want to face one anywhere near a cemetery because he’d have a lot of power to draw from, not to mention a lot of corpses to throw at you. Pick your battlefield wisely, dude.”

  As he put the cell phone back in his pocket, Trace looked over at the funeral home and surrounding cemetery again. Didn’t have to worry about a lot of dead bodies around here, did he?

  He turned back to Cassidy, intending to tell her what Finley had said, but Muncie and Simpson walked around the SUV. Simpson looked pissed but resolute, so Muncie must have talked his partner into going into the funeral home, too.

  “So Trace, you going to tell us what the hell we’re up against?” Muncie asked.

  Trace clenched his jaw. This situation was going from bad to worse. He’d expected to quietly walk in on a creepy freak who had stolen the serial killer’s body, scare the guy off, then burn Del Vecchio’s body before the ghost had a chance to make an appearance. Now it looked as if he was going to have to walk in on a practicing necromancer in the middle of the largest cemetery in the county. A necromancer who was strong enough to raise his friend’s half-ghost, half-human essence so a murder spree could continue. As if that wasn’t enough, he had to babysit his stubborn girlfriend, an honest but misguided cop and the guy’s Doubting-Thomas partner. He didn’t suppose he could ask all of them to stay out here and guard the cars, though. Then again, with all the ruckus they’d been stirring, he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave Cassidy out here with the two cops anyway. Borella’s necklace might hide her from Del Vecchio, but he wasn’t so sure about the necromancer.

  Trace swore under his breath and opened the Hummer’s back door. Grabbing one of the gun cases, he pulled out a matching set of pump-action shotguns that had their barrels trimmed down to barely legal length. Without a word, he tossed each of the cops one of the shotguns, then handed both of them a box of shells. The men looked at them as if they were crack pipes.

  “We’ll use our own weapons, thanks,” Muncie said.

  Damn, he didn’t have time for this. “Muncie, I don’t care what the hell you carry. But I’m telling you right now, you walk in that building with only a .38 and you won’t be coming out again.”

  Muncie looked as if he wanted to argue, but he finally nodded and loaded his shotgun with the shells Trace had given him. Simpson, however, was studying the shells in the faint light c
oming from the street lamps in the funeral home’s parking lot.

  “What the hell kind of shells are these?” he asked. “They look as if they’re filled with salt and pepper.”

  Trace was too aggravated to prevaricate. “They’re filled with blessed salt and hematite. The thing we’re going after doesn’t give a rat’s ass about lead, but it hates salt and iron.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, but instead dug out another gun case and opened it to expose two older style break-action shotguns. He would have preferred to carry his trusty pump-action like the ones he’d given to Muncie and Simpson, but he wanted Cassidy to be able to watch him load and shoot in case she didn’t remember the instructions he was going to give her. It was better if she had a simple weapon like the break-action shotgun to operate in the heat of the moment.

  Trace handed her one of the shotguns. “Since I can’t talk you out of this, I’m not letting you go in there unarmed. When you snap the gun closed, it cocks the triggers. The safety is off, so keep your finger off the triggers until you need to shoot. It’s a twelve gauge, so it’s going to kick like a mule, but if you have to fire at something, the adrenaline will be pumping so hard you’ll barely notice. This trigger fires the shell on this side, this one here fires the other one. Fire twice, then push this lever here. Got it?”

  She nodded as he showed her how to break open the gun and pull out the empty shells, then she loaded her pockets with shells as he was doing.

  He closed the back of the Hummer and headed for the funeral home, only to stop when he realized both Muncie and Simpson were still standing where he’d left them. He turned to find them staring at him as if he was insane.

  “What the fuck is going on here, Trace?” Muncie asked.

  Trace walked back over to stand before the two men. The time to wiggle around the facts and talk in half-truths was over. “Okay. Here’s the deal, straight and simple. Cassidy and I are going in that building to find Carson Del Vecchio’s body. Once we do, we’re going to burn it.”