He walked into the building—as did Enzo—and Clare sighed with relief. She didn’t admit that she missed the dog on the way back through weird white-shadowed Denver.
But both dog and man awaited her in her living room. Her shoulders slumped.
I saw the box! Enzo panted, drool as usual falling and not hitting her shabby rug.
I will see you tomorrow night. Lines grooved in the apparition’s forehead. This costs me much energy, but to be free, I will do anything. Promise me you will get the box!
Enzo barked, You need to do this Clare. For yourself and for him. HE is your first project! PROMISE HIM! For the first time, that Other spirit she sensed also inhabited Enzo’s body came to the fore, looked at her with dark, dark fog moving in the eye sockets, thundered in her mind.
Clare reeled back at the blast of cold, and hit the closed door.
PROMISE, they shouted together—or her own mind insisted.
“I promise,” she said weakly, shivering.
The man vanished.
She went into the tiny second bedroom that held her ruthlessly organized home office, complete with a new computer. Enzo followed, circled and circled again, and when he looked up at her, his eyes were all innocent dog. Then he stared at the notebook.
I know that toy! It shows pictures and places. Let’s look now!
Dragging up a chair, they found the auction house’s website. There was a lot of antique furniture, some in excellent shape that made Clare’s mouth water—but Aunt Sandra’s house had just sold. Clare’s brother was supervising closing it up and dividing the furniture. Clare could expect a truck with her share within the week. Other trucks would go to her brother in Williamsburg, Virginia, and a storage unit in New York.
Rubbing her eyes, which seemed to do nothing but move around grit, Clare zipped through the photos until Enzo barked. I see it!
Clare stared at it dubiously: a puzzle box made of plum wood of unknown origin and date. It didn’t look like much. Pretty battered. At least she might be able to get it cheap. She wrote down all the information, turned off the computer, and trudged to bed, accompanied by the imaginary dog. She should get a real one.
Maybe. When she was sane again.
Enzo looked up at her sorrowfully. You still don’t believe in me.
Clare opened her mouth and shut it, then said, “Not really.”
He shook his head and for an instant he didn’t look like the image of a dog, but a skeleton dog. . . . She wrapped her arms around herself.
Only a little bit of you believes in me. That is not enough, Clare.
The echo behind his voice scared her, as if he were once again more . . . or less . . . than a dog . . . spirit.
She got back into her nightgown, folded her comforter—doubling, then quartering the queen-sized cloth—turned off the lights and curled under the cover.
Enzo blinked down at her, head through the comforter and sheet. You aren’t doing good.
What do you mean? Clare thought back at him, feeling drained of energy herself.
Enzo cocked his head as if listening, then drooped a little and said, If you don’t accept your gift that you can see ghosts, then you will die. And if you accept that you see them but don’t help them, you can go crazy.
Clare sobbed. Exactly what she’d always feared—madness.
• • •
The next morning, Clare couldn’t throw off the night fears, or the fact that she’d made a really odd promise to something that might be an aspect of herself.
Her great-aunt’s death had shaken her, for sure.
But a promise was a promise. Since her parents had casually made and broken so many, she made a habit of keeping all of hers. Even promises to herself—a hot fudge sundae if she said no to overwork, for instance.
Now she had no work, but destiny had rung in her mind and reverberated throughout her body.
And to remind herself of her promise, she took Aunt Sandra’s perfume spritzer and sprayed scent on her neck and wrists . . . and sniffed. It wasn’t too heavy. Tears welled in Clare’s eyes at the fragrance of sandalwood, tuberose, wild berries . . . she’d looked up the mixture once. That dark and mysterious fragrance that meant “Aunt Sandra” to Clare, in all her weird kindness. The perfume that meant Gypsy to Aunt Sandra.
Clare gulped, shook the thought away, and moved on. She decided to buy a larger house, move to one of the more charming areas of Denver. She’d always liked the ambiance of Cheesman Park, but nothing would get her there now. She completely dismissed that idea. Everyone knew Cheesman Park had been a graveyard, and when they’d added the parking garage to the Botanic Gardens they’d found more graves.
Even if she didn’t believe in ghosts, she didn’t want to be in an area with a lot of dead people that was right in the time period now haunting her. . . . She did a quick check on her tablet computer. Yes, burials at Cheesman began in 1858. No way, nohow was she moving there.
Much of the Capitol area and LoDo had been built in that time period. Then there was the area around the Molly Brown house, but most residential homes around it had been demolished.
Looked like she’d be going to the Western floor of the Denver Public Library after all, just to find out what area might be . . . safe. And—she nerved herself at the thought—she might have to put in some hours driving around the city to find out where she could live. Even the suburbs and the plains might be touchy—Indians roved and camped on the plains.
Yes, she’d be doing some research.
With a huff of breath, she admitted she might as well research the vision of the man.
She needed to move fast since even at a high-end price, Sandra’s house had been snapped up. Clare could put the items she wanted in her new house, instead of the storage area she’d planned. Finding a home would be a project to take her mind off her poor mental health.
She felt better after the decision. She’d always prided herself on her quick decision making—unlike the rambling conversations of her parents discussing all their options that had driven her crazy in her childhood.
Just one of those personality traits she didn’t share.
She figured out exactly how much she wanted to spend on a house and had made a list of three columns: one of things she MUST have, like a landscaped yard; one with the features she’d prefer; and the last, “extras.”
Before heading off to the library, she organized her briefcase with pen and paper, tablet computer, and her new top-of-the-line smart phone. This time she called a cab to drive her downtown. She wouldn’t have to deal with traffic, parking, or apparitions who got in her way.
Or handle any imaginary figment other than Enzo, who ran through the house and the door of the cab, barking all the way.
Clare gritted her teeth. She would not talk to him, no matter what outrageous thing he said.
So, where are we going? Are we going to find the ghost man? We are going back into the city? I LIKED the city. Will the ghost man be there? Those remnants of ghost squirrel energy are YUMMY! Will you take me to the park again, huh, huh?
I AM GOING TO THE LIBRARY FOR THE REST OF THE MORNING. YOU CAN PLAY IN THE PARK! she “shouted” mentally.
Hurt doggie eyes. He turned and seemed to look out the window. She wouldn’t feel guilty.
Once inside the clean and organized library with exceedingly helpful librarians, Clare felt more in control. Since the fifth floor housed the genealogical section as well as the Western collection, there were more people there on a weekday morning than she’d anticipated.
From the quiet conversations around her, she learned there were people researching their family trees, students, a writer or two, and a couple of research assistants of local professors.
She approved, smiling at the lovely environment. Imaginary Enzo had remained in the park.
She set up her tablet computer with Wi-F
i keyboard and accepted from the librarians the basic biographies on men who’d been in Colorado more than 150 years ago.
Instead of just flipping through the works for old photographs—or the drawing she half recalled—she sank into the stories.
And found Jules Beni, the founder of Julesburg, Colorado, who was not her guy.
But his killer was.
The infamous Jack Slade. The Jack Slade whom Mark Twain and Sir Richard Burton had written about. The first bad guy who defined all other American West bad guys. But not one most people knew.
Jack Slade, a man who could be considered a hero, with admirable qualities—setting up a whole division of the Pony Express and Overland Stage on time and on budget, ensuring the safety of the riders and drivers and stage passengers. But, as the vision had told her, he was definitely a bad and mean drunk.
Not the kind of guy she wanted anything to do with. Still, she ordered all the books the library had on him . . . some of which were reference only, not to be removed from the building. While she waited, she did a basic Internet search. There was a lot of information on Jack Slade, some that didn’t sound right, too wild and fantastic—myth and legend.
She scowled. She preferred hard facts.
Most of the data was based on the stories Mark Twain told. Mark Twain, one of the greatest spinners of tall tales of all time.
Sighing, she began to make notes of what might actually be factual.
“I’ll deliver those, Mary, while you help this customer.” A loud voice broke into Clare’s thoughts. She glanced up to see a tall, paunchy man, the research assistant. He appeared to be retired, but still middle-aged. Smiling, he gave her the books. “You know Slade was the mastermind behind the Overland Stage Company robbery at Virginia Dale in 1863. Sixty thousand in gold, never recovered. That would be millions today. Missing treasure, just like the Reynolds gang’s bank robbery and the Lost Dutchman mine.”
Clare frowned at her notes and the Slade timeline she’d found. “Wasn’t he somewhere else in 1863?” And she was pretty sure that if he’d had a lot of money, or access to a lot of money, he wouldn’t have been in financial straits when fired by the Overland Stage for shooting up a saloon.
The man chuckled, shaking his head. “Slade remains a shadowy figure, both larger than life and obscured by the stories and legends surrounding him. Nothing is solid about him, including his whereabouts at a particular time. And, like I said, he masterminded.” The guy wiggled his own neatly curved brows. With another smile, he settled back at his own table.
An hour later, stomach rumbling, she put aside the materials she couldn’t take home and picked up the books she’d check out. The library was great, but food sounded good.
As she walked out of the large entrance, she saw the research assistant and the other patrons pounce on her research books. She sniffed. There couldn’t be anything more fruitless than treasure hunting.
• • •
“We’re consultants,” Tony Rickman, private investigator, a large man behind the equally large desk, said to Zach. His fingers were interlocked, a uniquely engraved wedding ring on his left hand. “We handle a variety of cases—security advice and audits, bodyguards, missing persons.” A shrug of blocky shoulders. “Most of my operatives carry private investigator licenses. Not necessary in Colorado, but I prefer that.”
Some undertone Zach caught in the man’s voice, an edgy shadow in Tony Rickman’s eyes, kept the Not interested lying on Zach’s tongue from escaping his mouth. He shouldn’t be interested in going private, serving for money instead of for the public good, working for an ex-military man. Instead, he questioned, “Most of your operatives?”
“There are . . . miscellaneous cases that don’t need great physical abilities, but investigation, a good pair of eyes, and a sharp brain. You could use your skills. Be an asset.”
Zach grunted. The man hadn’t said legs. “No running?” Zach said sardonically.
Cool gray eyes met his. “No desk.”
That was a point.
Rising smoothly with the help of his cane, Zach nodded. His lips didn’t curl as they’d wanted to when he walked in. “I’ll consider the info you gave me.” The consulting fee Zach would earn was nearly obscene. Private paid well if he could swallow being in that area.
“You do that.” Rickman unclasped his hands. “And consider this: Justice and honor matter to this firm and every one of my operatives.”
Zach nodded again and left. A military man usually spouted stuff about justice and honor, in his experience, but the General’s and most of his buddies’ notions of those concepts had rarely lined up with Zach’s.
For his father, justice and honor were for his friends and his class first, then others might be considered.
But . . . Zach had felt comfortable with Rickman, and Zach respected his old boss, the sheriff, and the sheriff’s take on things. Maybe Rickman wasn’t blowing smoke. Zach shrugged, still uncomfortable with the whole notion of going private. He’d figure it out later.
Right now he could use a beer. He smiled. For the first time he was glad to be back in Denver. Plenty of beer choices here: local microbrews, imports.
To his surprise, he liked being in the bustle of the city. A city with people with all different slants on life, much more so than the homogenized Plainsview and Cottonwood County, Montana. Taking the job there had seemed like a good move at the time. Tough luck everything went bad.
As soon as he came to the corner at the Sixteenth Street Mall and a restaurant with an open area, he moved in. For just after one P.M., the tables inside weren’t crowded, though the ones behind the rail on the sidewalk were full.
A single woman just inside the restaurant sitting by the window caught his attention. Her conservative gray suit and the clean head-hugging cut of her thick brown hair with gleaming red strands showed that she considered herself a serious professional.
This impression was contradicted by the fact that she appeared to be talking to herself—or, perhaps, reading aloud from the book open in front of her.
He was a sucker for lovely contradictions.
“Jack Slade!” she announced.
Sounded like “Zach.”
He walked in and gave her a slow smile, moved up to the square two-top. “Yeah? You called?”
FIVE
THE WOMAN LOOKED up, flushed with embarrassment. “Sorry, I was reading about the, um, historical figure.”
Zach stopped a grunt, held out his hand, and replied, “I got that. I’m Zach.” She was attractive enough, and he was interested enough, to give her the rest. “Jackson Zachary Slade.” He smiled. “No relation to the gunfighter.”
She blinked, lifted her slim, elegantly shaped fingers, and put them in his own. “Clare Cermak.” Then she glanced down at the open book. “Jack Slade wasn’t all bad. He had post-traumatic stress disorder, you know.”
Anger flared inside Zach, fiery and hot, and probably showed in his eyes, because she withdrew her cool hand and leaned back in her chair, away from him.
He said, “I’m tired of hearing about that. Anything bad happens and the perpetrator is excused because he has post-traumatic stress disorder.” And the docs had stuck that label on Zach, too.
Her hazel gaze flicked down to neat handwritten notes, then back up to meet his and remained steady. “I’d say getting ambushed and shot with a six-shooter, then having a shotgun emptied into you, then being taken by wagon over rough trail for a hundred and sixty miles, operated on there, suffering for weeks, and then being sent by train to St. Louis for removal of more bullets, might cause post-traumatic stress syndrome. All this in 1860.”
Zach winced. His one bullet had been bad. He didn’t recall his time in the ambulance but knew the drive was only a few miles to the medical center. His stay in the modern hospital had been hideous. He didn’t know what an old-time hospital might have been l
ike, but it couldn’t have been good. “Maybe you have a point. You sure know your stuff,” Zach said, gestured to the chair opposite her. “May I sit?”
She nodded, her glance sliding to his cane, but she said nothing about that or his awkwardness. Another point in her favor.
She said, “You know about the original Slade?”
He shrugged. “Happens when your name is close to an infamous—or famous—guy. You’ve been studying Jack Slade?” He angled his head toward the book. It looked well worn.
“I’m reading about him. This is from the library; I’ll be obtaining my own copy. The man was a very interesting character.” She set a bookmark into the pages, closed the book, and put it in the outer pocket of a leather computer bag. The middle compartment showed four other books.
She tucked her cell into her bag, pulled out a portfolio and slipped her notes inside, returned it to the tote, and moved her coffee cup from his side of the table and sipped. Her eyes studied him over the rim.
The waitress sauntered up and Zach ordered a Tivoli beer.
Zach’s telephone sounded the sheriff’s classical notes. Had he spoken already with Rickman about Zach? Had Rickman double-checked Zach’s references? The taste in his mouth went sour.
He glanced at Clare, who’d placed her cup in her saucer and watched him with a gaze that he suddenly noticed had shadows. She wasn’t as simple as he’d thought. Again, interesting.
She nodded at his cell. “Go ahead.”
Grimacing, he said, “Former boss.”
She flinched; a smile formed on her pretty lips and vanished. “I have one of those, too.”
The lady presented more puzzles.
Zach picked up his phone and thumbed it on, “Slade.”
Clare’s gaze flicked to her bag with all the books on the other Slade.
“Zach, did you talk with my deputies Lauren Aguirre and Larry Pickman lately?” the sheriff asked.
Warning bells went off in Zach’s head, but he kept his voice easy. “Yeah. Lauren and Larry caught up with me the day before yesterday at the diner.”
Ghost Seer Page 4
