“I’m not!” Clare’s voice rose. “I don’t see ghosts.”
Another black look. “You fucking lie.”
Fisting her hands, she fought for control, jutted her own chin up, willing back tears and staring at Mr. Creedy with hot eyes. “I cannot help you. I cannot help your wife. And I don’t need your money.”
“Look, woman—” Creedy grabbed her arm.
“You’ll want to let Clare go,” Zach said in a softly dangerous voice.
Creedy stiffened, dropped his hand, and swung around.
Clare hadn’t noticed Zach drive up.
Mr. Creedy flushed and raised his hands. “Fine, fine.” He appraised Zach and dismissed him. That informed Clare the man wasn’t as nearly as intelligent as he thought he was.
Enzo appeared, stared hard at the woman with those unfathomable misty eyeholes. The mantle of the Other was upon him. Tell her it was time for the child to die.
Clare gasped. Are you crazy! That’s . . . that’s horrible. And trite!
TELL HER. I can see what will comfort her. This will work for her.
Shivering with stress and the chill emanating from the dog, more to share comfort in this surreal experience than anything else, Clare sat down and put her arm around the sobbing woman’s shoulders. “It was . . . it was time for your Mary to die.”
The woman’s head came up. “Really!”
God called her to partake in the joy of being with Him, Enzo said.
Clare would never believe such words if something happened to her child, never. She didn’t have such faith.
But Mrs. Creedy’s gaze had latched onto Clare. Being serious was not a stretch, nor was keeping her voice soft. “God . . . God called Mary to partake in the joy of being with Him,” Clare said, and hoped she wasn’t struck down for saying words she didn’t believe, couldn’t understand herself.
Mrs. Creedy’s expression eased.
“You should talk to your minister about this.”
“That’s what Bill says.” Mrs. Creedy turned to look at the men.
Zach stood with deceptive casualness; something about the way he held his stick showed Clare that he wouldn’t hesitate to use it as a weapon.
She stood and urged the middle-aged woman to rise with her. “Well, your husband knows you the best, doesn’t he?” She groped for more words of solace, hated this; it all made her feel fake. Terrible! “You have your husband, too. He is grieving, too.”
Zach’s face paled and his lips thinned. He’d be remembering his brother.
“Cleave to your husband, give and take comfort from him,” Clare said thickly, hoping against hope those were the right words to say. She thought of the photo and how cheerful the little girl had looked, summoned up standard sympathetic sentiments. “She . . . was . . . is . . . joyful.”
“Yes, yes she is!”
Clare straightened to her full height. “Go in peace and with peace in your hearts.”
“Oh, yes! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” Clare had done nothing.
Mrs. Creedy turned and took a stumbling step to the car. Zach set his free hand under her elbow, helped her to the vehicle and opened the door. “Just you sit and rest, now,” he said.
The guy reached into his jacket and came out with a wallet. Clare moved close to him. “Don’t you give me anything. I don’t want it, and I certainly don’t deserve it.”
His eyes narrowed and his head tilted.
“Take care of her. Show a little sensitivity. Don’t bring her back, and don’t give my name to anyone. I’m not in the medium business. Just go away.” She flapped her hands. “Go. Now.”
With a shake of his head, he stuck his wallet back into his pocket and went to the car.
They drove away. Clare sank to the stoop again and put her head in her hands. “No, I am absolutely not doing any darned consulting! That was horrible and I didn’t know what to say and I couldn’t help them anyway!”
“He’s not grieving.”
“What!” She lifted her head and glared at Zach.
“He didn’t abuse his daughter, but he wasn’t interested in her.”
“How do you—cop instincts?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen plenty of loss and I’ve been on the inside of a family who lost a child. I don’t think Creedy wanted the kid, and he won’t miss her.”
“That’s awful.”
Zach shrugged and lowered himself to sit beside her.
“How did they get your name?” he asked.
The question jolted Clare. “I . . . I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms around herself.
Zach put his own arm around her and drew her closer.
“Cold?”
“Enzo . . .” Had she ever told Zach that Enzo wasn’t just a ghost dog? She didn’t think so, and this whole scene made her want to be as normal as possible. “Enzo said he knew what to say to Mrs. Creedy.”
Zach grunted, then repeated, “How did they get your name as a medium?”
Clare winced. “I’m not a medium! I don’t like that word.”
“What do ya wanna call it?”
“Ghost . . . ghost seer, I guess. Would Mrs. Flinton have told them about me?”
“Doubtful. She must have gone through similar scenes.”
Shuddering again, Clare said, “So despairing and desperate.”
“Yeah. You’ve kept your life pretty level,” Zach said.
She pivoted to face him, glare at him. “Have you forgotten all the crap I’ve been through lately?” Flinging out her arms, she said, “This wouldn’t have happened to me without my gift.” Tilting her chin, she said, “And maybe I like my life easy . . . as an adult. And as an adult I can choose an easy life.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, my former life disintegrated around me and I’ll be rebuilding it. I’m dealing with the change. I’m handling it.” She was. “But I prefer to craft it according to my own plans.” That sounded good.
Enzo yipped. You are doing good!
“Thank you, Enzo.” She met Zach’s eyes. “But I won’t be hanging out a shingle as a medium. Not like Great-Aunt Sandra did. And I certainly didn’t get the word out—however the word of something like this spreads—that I was open for business. I don’t want to be, or be seen as, some sort of fraud.”
You are NOT a fraud! Enzo hopped around her. Sandra wasn’t either!
“I want to take this slowly, what’s wrong with that?” Clare demanded.
Respect showed in his eyes, a corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Nothing. Word did get out, though. I wonder if they have your phone number, too.”
Blood simply drained from her face. “I’ve had my cell off.” She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt, glanced at it. “Fifty calls. Fifty!”
His smile became sardonic. “You’re the new sensation.”
“To heck with that!”
“Clare,” Zach said reasonably, taking one of her hands. “Who could have known about you?”
“I don’t know!” She jerked her hand away so she could rub her temples, then dropped her fingers and went back into the house. After Zach came in, she closed and locked the front door, then stomped to the backyard and the little concrete patio and picnic table.
“Who did you talk to about . . . your gift?” Zach asked, taking the seat opposite her.
Enzo barked. Zach looked in his direction, then away as if uncomfortable. The man had been great with the Creedys, but Clare got the idea his patience with paranormal stuff was wearing thin.
So was hers, but this was her life, now.
She turned her mind to the problem. “Like I said, Mrs. Flinton, Bekka, you . . .”
“Not us,” Zach replied.
“The only one I told about the ghosts was Dr. Barclay.”
“I can’t see that guy breaking client confidentiality.”
/> Clare shrugged. “His assistant and receptionist might have heard something while I was coming and going, but I don’t know . . . and I don’t know whether they’d gossip about that or not.
“Pretty juicy gossip, seeing ghosts. And one or the other of them could be a believer . . . unlike Barclay.”
Zach nodded, “Unlike Barclay.”
Clare sighed. “Maybe they thought that me seeing ghosts wasn’t illogical and a mental problem, but a . . . a real psychic gift.” The admission still felt bitter in her mouth.
“Could be.” Now Zach shook his head. “Useless talking to them, they wouldn’t admit discussing a patient.”
“No.”
“Anyone else?” Zach asked.
“I didn’t tell anyone else.” She grimaced. “Maybe someone at the auction house—”
“I don’t think so.” Zach grinned. “You were acting a little strange, but so were other people.”
“Oh.”
“Want some lemonade?” He came around and kissed her.
“Yes, please.”
“Right.”
“Um,” Clare said. “I can’t think of anyone else, unless, of course, the ghosts told someone,” she ended with forced humor.
Zach paused by the door, shook his head, and went inside.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so, either,” Clare muttered, petting Enzo, who closed his eyes and leaned against her.
When Zach came out again, he carried a beer and a glass of lemonade on a small tin tray in one strong hand. “Why don’t we wind down.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Eat in a while, and later . . .” He smiled slowly.
Her heart began to pick up beat. “Absolutely.”
• • •
She was up before dawn, moving what furniture she could and arranging it and organizing her boxes for the local movers to take from this fifties neighborhood to the more charming twenties one across town.
Zach had opted to sleep at his own apartment after another bout of sex, and that was fine with her since she liked to supervise her own way.
If all went according to her plans, her property in this place would be moved in the morning—the real estate agents had been happy to give her the code to her new home as soon as her first cashier’s check had cleared—Clare would attend the closing, and the huge truck bringing her share of Great-Aunt Sandra’s antique furniture would show up at the new place in the afternoon.
Clare hurried to the door and opened it, then set up the box fan, trying to minimize the heat. This would not be pretty, with her and men sweating during physical labor. She hoped the movers actually showed up on time at seven thirty A.M. for all their sakes. She truly didn’t think it would take very long if they were efficient, and they’d promised efficiency, the reason she’d chosen them, since they certainly weren’t the cheapest company out there.
A small square newspaper lay on her stoop, the tiny neighborhood paper. She went out and scooped it up, and hurried into the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker, one of the items she’d take in her car.
As she waited for the brew, she glanced at the paper, froze.
What is it? asked Enzo, just appearing.
She just wanted to point to the headline, but figured even a supernaturally intelligent ghost dog couldn’t read. So she forced her lips to say the words of the banner and first paragraph:
BREAKING NEWS! THE GHOST, WAITING BRAVE, IS GONE!
Two evenings ago, for the first time since our little neighborhood was founded, a member of the local Paranormal Research Society phoned in that the Native American ghost who lingers on Purple Ridge has passed on to his just reward. Apparently, several people note his presence each day, particularly in the evening, and were surprised to find his shade missing Saturday at dusk.
They are right! He is gone, and your work was noted and appreciated, Enzo cheered.
“Great,” Clare said, wiggling as a tingle slithered down her spine. Had someone associated with the local paper told the Creedys about her? She should have asked, but all she’d wanted was for them to go away.
The doorbell rang, followed by knocking on the metal screen door. Clare tossed the paper in the last open box, waiting for the coffeemaker, then hurried to the front and found a big, scowling man with grizzled gray hair. A moving truck stood at the curb. Yay, they were early!
She turned off the fan and moved it out of the way and against the wall, smiling. “You’re early!”
“Boss said there wasn’t any air-conditioning here.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
He grunted, scanning the living room, the hallway, the part of the kitchen in view. “Organized. Good job.”
“Thank you.”
The mover rolled his shoulders. “What’re the big items?”
“The couch and a bed.”
“Huh. Should get this done fast, then.”
“I hope so.”
He turned and called to two other men. “Let’s rock and roll.”
Clare got out of their way.
Enzo followed the guy, tried to rub his legs and the others. No one paid him any attention.
For once, all went like clockwork, and Clare’s old home was closed up by midmorning, she was the proud owner of her new home by noon, and her great-aunt Sandra’s items were moved in and her new house eminently livable by the end of the business day. Amazing.
• • •
She began to be aware of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck . . . they seemed to mark the passing of time. Now and again during the day she’d found herself scanning for Jack Slade’s ghost, dread ratcheting up her nerves. She rather wanted to see him, get on with this task and get it over with so she could concentrate on learning about her new circumstances. To no longer be rushed, not worry that she might do something wrong that would hurt Zach or Enzo, or her. Pressure might drive her totally over the bend . . . the edge of madness that she’d never noticed in herself but knew would always be there for the rest of her life.
The deadline to save Jack Slade was in three days . . . until when? Next year? Next century?
Next year would be so much better.
Jack is a tough and determined man, Enzo said, standing next to her on the sidewalk of her new home. He is MOSTLY a sane ghost. They can devolve over time.
Doggie Enzo didn’t use words like devolve, so it must be the Other. Though her neck was beginning to ache, she kept staring down the street, not wanting to turn her head and look at Enzo.
The apparition of the gunman has been waiting for what you call a ghost seer, a ghost layer. If you fail him this year . . . he might not stay in control. And like the legend he was in his own time, both for good or ill, he could become a legendary problem, rippling and ripping the psychic planes.
Clare thought the older woman who lived across the street and one house up was peeking at her through the curtains. Clare believed she could see the glint of opera glasses. The yards in the neighborhood were large.
She would prefer to think about nosy neighbors, but sighed.
“Ripping the psychic plane,” she murmured, trying not to move her lips. She stretched as if finished with a big job, and pasted on a pleased smile as she turned to her front steps between the bricked columns that marked the opening of her front wall.
Since her back was turned to the woman, she said, “Ripping the psychic plane sounds bad.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
RIPPING WILL CAUSE ALL people discomfort, and attract minor psychics who will try to lay the ghost and get eaten instead.
Her breath sucked in, hard and sharp. “That’s an option? Being eaten by a ghost?”
Yes, but you are strong, stronger than even your great-aunt Sandra, so you should be able to handle a simple devolved ghost in time . . . but eating the spirits of others shatters them and the anomaly becomes bigger and more difficult to banish a
nd—
“I get the idea. It’s best to handle Jack Slade here and now.” She opened the gate and went through, not bothering to lock it because though it was the original gate, several yards down the street was the cut for her driveway and that was open.
Yes, the specter of Jack Slade is eager to move on and helpful, but it remains a dangerous ghost. A good spirit for you to attract as your first major test.
“Great,” Clare said. For sure, the sooner this was done, the better. Where was the gunfighter’s phantom? Would she have to leave a trail for him to find her? Go back to her old house? She was so done with that place.
But she still wasn’t convinced, deep down, that she wanted to see him again, or that she could do this.
A few minutes later Clare relaxed in her new home. One she could envision living in for the rest of her life. The last truck was gone, the heavy furniture set exactly where she wanted, and the boxes for each room stacked neatly against the walls. As she’d suspected, the items she’d received from Aunt Sandra’s home looked perfect in her new house, especially the furnishings she’d chosen for the living room with the huge multipaned and roundly bowed window.
She stood there, since she disliked the specially made window seat pads the former owners had left. Looking out at the green and grassy front yard, the brick wall and iron gate, pleasure welled through her.
Her gaze was caught by a fluttering—a white and misty pulsing—at the window of the second floor of the Spanish-influenced house across the street.
Hand at her throat, she drew back in horror and spun to stare at Enzo, who lay on one section of the wide butterscotch leather couch her aunt had had in her consulting room . . . much as the live dog had done.
“I shouldn’t be able to see any ghosts in this area . . . in this neighborhood . . . it was built too late for my time period, in the twenties!”
Enzo lifted his head, then loped over to the window, hopped onto the semicircular window seat, and stared out.
Clare found her hands in her hair, tugging, as she muttered. “There are rules, right? I need to understand the darn rules!”
There are always . . . anomalies, Enzo said. But you are not experienced enough to handle THAT specter. Maybe in a few years. We should not discuss this, now. He seemed to shiver, then ran back to the corner of the couch and curled into it.
Ghost Seer Page 22
