Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

  “Extraordinary,” Clare said.

  Yes. I was also good with risk, when sober.

  Enzo, who’d been sniffing around the old pump, galloped up faster than a live dog. Clare is not a risk-taker.

  “No joke,” Clare muttered. “Let’s get this thing started. I want to be out of here. I’ll go get the spade”—she wished she’d purchased some sort of sturdier shovel—“and some liquid.” When the phantom began sinking into the ground, maybe loosening the soil, she turned hurriedly away so she couldn’t see the strangeness, caught herself, and sauntered back up to the car, though her body had tightened with nerves. Quick movement caught the eye.

  And she’d have to pray that no one else wanted to visit the station while she was about her business.

  This was her life now. Doing things she didn’t want at the beck and call of wretched ghosts.

  Or going mad.

  She got the camp shovel out of the back of the car along with all the liquid she had. She could always stop somewhere on the way home and buy more.

  It is as soft as I can make it, Jack Slade said in her mind. He inclined his torso. And I thank you for your help.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she muttered.

  She emptied her water and her iced tea, then poured the beer on the ground, ignoring Slade’s wince.

  With one last scan of the area and seeing no one in sight, she crouched down and levered up the dry grass and some soil, working at it slowly, carefully trying to spread fresh and damp earth along the ground near her instead of piling it. She fell into a rhythm and stopped when her body began to protest the activity. Standing, she walked toward the cool shade cast by the building and surveyed the land. Still no activity at the ranch; perhaps it was one of those deals that did most of its business at certain times during the year. The stream appeared cool and flowing and lovely.

  She rolled her shoulders, wiped her face and neck and palms with her bandana, and headed back to her hole. Just a little longer, she hoped.

  Grunting as she stooped again, she continued with her task, keeping an eye out for people on the ranch. It was down the hill, and some buildings might block her, but she felt far too vulnerable.

  “The least you two can do is tell me if anyone is watching or coming.”

  Jack Slade shook his head. Not fond of risk.

  “No.” And here she was, talking aloud again, had been all morning, to no one anyone else could see.

  You must take some risks, now and at Cold Springs. Jack Slade drifted a little, hesitant. Cold Springs is on privately owned land.

  Cold Springs sounded wonderful right now, a nighttime trip, driving under a huge sky of rarely seen stars and maybe the Milky Way, which couldn’t be seen in Denver . . . the pretty images ground to a halt. “Privately owned land. I’ll have to trespass.”

  Yes, Slade said.

  You can do it! I will be with you! I can keep watch! Enzo barked.

  “You both do know that ranchers in Wyoming have guns?” Clare said.

  Slade’s nostrils widened as if he snorted.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know you’re the original badass gunman, Slade, but I’ve never even held one.”

  It is too bad that Zach won’t be with you, Enzo said.

  The springs are gone, along with the old station house. It is now very close to a farmed field.

  “Yes, I’ll miss Zach,” Clare snapped, more hurt than she cared to admit even to herself. She dug deep with her spade. “Farmland, great. Even Wyoming farmers have guns.”

  Clink.

  You’ve got it! Enzo bounced around her.

  “I think so,” Clare said, digging more carefully now, widening the hole around the angled bottle made of dark glass. Five minutes later she’d retrieved the thing. The bottle was dark green bordering on black and nine inches long. She brushed clinging dirt off it.

  “I can’t see through it!” she said, frustrated.

  The ear is in there, Jack Slade said.

  Enzo poked his face into the bottle. Yes, it is there, a human ear, a little shriveled and almost whole.

  “Eww.” She laid the bottle in the grass, took her blue bandana from her pocket, and wiped her face, then the object of her quest. Gently, she shook it, thought she felt a little shifting dirt. As far as she was concerned, the ear was good enough for now.

  We did it! We did it! We did it!

  “Yes,” Clare said, tiredly.

  She spent long minutes putting the dirt back in the hole, arranging the grass again, making the evidence of disturbance minimal.

  When she returned to the car, all she wanted was a bath. She toyed with driving into Fort Collins and renting a room, but she ached to be in her new home with her belongings. That was the payoff for her gift to see ghosts, and it was almost sufficient.

  Wrapping the bottle in paper towels, she maneuvered her car seat back and forth to wedge the bottle safely under the wonky seat, not wanting the filthy ear-holding object in her cooler. Desultorily she ate a couple of small chicken strips and an egg and wished she had a drink to go with her food.

  “Leaving now,” she muttered, knowing that both Jack Slade, who’d disappeared into the station where he’d lived, and Enzo, amusing himself by passing through the large jumble of rocks, could hear her.

  Slade didn’t appear, but when she passed the rocks on the way out of the gate, Enzo slipped inside the vehicle and sat upright in the passenger seat, and it didn’t even faze her. He looked at her, his head wrinkling. There are graves behind the rocks. Not many, but one of them was a baby.

  “What a wonderful thing to hear. Any ghosts?”

  No, they are long gone.

  “Fabulous.”

  • • •

  Oddly enough, the Flinton case looked like it would break wide open, with the newer bunch of leads on the furniture and antique silver. Clare’s examination of the books, particularly the receipts, showed whom many of the items had been sold to. And though they’d been lost for decades, Zach felt an urgency to find them, give Mrs. Flinton closure, at least.

  But throughout the day he felt a persistent itch between his shoulder blades and thought about the argument he’d had with Clare.

  When he was downtown working, he got hungry and avoided both restaurants he’d met Clare in . . . but he bought an e-copy of the main and massive biography of Jack Slade that Clare had a half dozen bookmarks in.

  Interesting reading. The story drew him in, though he skimmed it since he knew the general details of Slade’s life. He paid particular attention to Virginia Dale. There were no pictures of the place in the book, but he found some online.

  As he closed his tablet and finished his drink, he tilted his chair back and considered what he’d read. Joseph Albert Slade’s story was tough in so many ways. Yeah, he might have suffered from PTSD, but the guy sure hadn’t handled himself.

  A trickle of pride welled in Zach. He’d done better, all around. Might never be the success the original Jack Slade had been in his heyday as a division manager of the stagecoach and Pony Express, but Zach wouldn’t be shooting up saloons, begging for forgiveness, and strung up by a vigilante committee either.

  By early afternoon he wanted to call Clare. Not really to apologize. More like just to make sure the trip had gone okay.

  And had she found the ear?

  Yeah, sure, that was truly a burning question.

  But they’d made a deal not to check up on each other . . . words that echoed hollowly in his mind from a couple of days before. So it would be pushy if he called, especially since though her words bugged him, maybe even really got under his skin and stuck like barbs in his brain, he didn’t want to talk about it.

  And that deal was Before. Before she dumped him. Before he left and accepted the dumping.

  An hour later he’d found Mrs. Flinton’s antiques, about three quarters of th
em along with the silver set. So he met with her and Rickman in Rickman’s office.

  They sat in a well-appointed conference room that looked out over the mountains. Only Zach glanced at the panoramic view of brown hills and gray peaks that held tiny streaks of snow on their faces—the weather had been hotter than usual up there, too, though not as bad as in Denver.

  “Zach?” rumbled Rickman, obviously wanting backup for a quietly sobbing Mrs. Flinton. “Why don’t you go over it again?”

  He’d given one report, and he didn’t think Mrs. Flinton could hear him well over her “happy tears,” but he limped over to the conference table and the pics Rickman had printed from Zach’s phone.

  “Clare found notations in one of the ledgers that seven pieces, including the silver set, were sold to a family friend. And those stayed together for a couple of generations. I found them in a garage. Sorry the photos aren’t great.”

  Mrs. Flinton swallowed and lifted tear-blurred eyes to him. “They look like they’ve been cared for.”

  “In general, yes, but the lady I talked to said they’d been her mother’s and grandmother’s and those ladies had used them.” He cleared his throat. “The Arvada neighborhood is upper middle class, and the woman didn’t seem to know what the items were worth.”

  Rickman rubbed his new buzz cut. “The sale looks to Clare like it was legal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After blowing her nose in a fancy handkerchief, Mrs. Flinton lifted her chin and said, “I want them back.”

  “I think a check would make the current owner very happy. Neither she nor her children want the furniture, but keeping it together might mean something to them.” Like her great-aunt Sandra’s had meant to Clare and her brother. All still in the family.

  Sitting up straight, Mrs. Flinton nodded. “And they’d know where the pieces were and that they’d be cherished.” She blinked. “Do you think she’d welcome an appraiser?”

  “If you paid for it,” Zach said.

  “You think she might shop around for another buyer if we sent an appraiser?” Rickman asked.

  Zach leaned on the table, glanced at the grainy photos. “She’s a nice lady. I don’t think so. They’ve just been sitting in one side of her triple garage for a couple of years. I’m sure she’ll run it by her family, though, her husband and her three girls, but I anticipate they’d sell. I was up front about the whole deal, seemed a case to be that way.”

  Mrs. Flinton took out her smart phone from her bag, scrolled through her contacts. “I have an appraiser I trust. You can contact him and the lady and set up the appointment?”

  “Sure, we can,” Rickman said. “You don’t want to be there with the appraiser?”

  “No.”

  “I think we can get this done in the next couple of days,” Zach said.

  “That’s lovely.” Mrs. Flinton pushed back her chair. Zach helped her and steadied her while Rickman got her walker. But she held out her hand to Zach. “Thank you, Zach. I’m so pleased.”

  “Good job,” Rickman said gruffly.

  Zach shrugged.

  “And give my thanks to Clare, too,” Mrs. Flinton said. Canny old lady, she knew something was up between him and Clare, but he wasn’t about to confirm that.

  “We can give her a finder’s fee, standard rate,” Rickman said, moving to the door to open it.”

  “I don’t think she’ll want that,” Zach said. “She doesn’t need the money.”

  “A laborer is worthy of her hire,” Mrs. Flinton said. Zach thought that was from the Bible. “You can tell her that. She’s a sensible girl.”

  Yeah, she was, even with her new “gift.”

  • • •

  The drive home seemed endless, traffic heavier and slower, the light brighter even against her sunglasses, Enzo either chirpily offering comments, noting ghosts in buildings as she drove through towns, or a little too quiet.

  By the time she pulled into her driveway, a headache raged between her temples and she yearned for the cool dimness of the house and a tepid bath with fragrant herbs and soothing music. She fumbled for the garage door opener, but it didn’t seem to work.

  Crap! So hot and weary and not nearly as pleased at a task well done as she would have been after a good audit. This ghost bit was tiring and strained her mind and imagination . . . not to mention her sore body, especially her hands. Working with figures was so much more personally rewarding.

  She turned off the ignition and sat a moment. She’d only have a couple of minutes before the heat in the car became insufferable. No, she wouldn’t deal with the darn bottle and its contents right now—whatever shape the thing might be in. She’d leave bottle and all tucked under her seat. It was safe enough under her seat since she had problems moving the darn thing back and forth.

  Getting out of the car and walking to the narrow side house door nearly hidden by ivy, she was barely able to think, her neck was so tight and her head ached so much.

  Clare, watch—

  Something hit her head and pain exploded, taking her into hot darkness with it.

  THIRTY-TWO

  BY LATE IN the afternoon, Zach had made some decisions on a personal front. He’d leased a truck and ordered a hooked cane recommended by the bartitsu guy. He’d signed up for some private lessons in the mixed martial art.

  He missed Clare. He’d liked knowing she’d be there for him with sweet serenity when he’d finished his day. And though he hadn’t liked her words, he’d liked her fire, the passion he knew she locked down. Liked that he could bring that out in her, that she felt passionately about him.

  And he had to acknowledge the bottom line. The bottom line was that he had made a mistake and paid a tough price for it and his life had damn well changed.

  Clare’s life had changed because she’d been born into the wrong family. Nothing she could have done about that . . . except, from what he’d overheard in conversations between her and Enzo and seen in her notes, read in the journals of Sandra Cermak he’d peeked into . . . Clare had a choice of dying or accepting her gift, going mad or accepting her gift.

  Not a choice he’d have to make.

  • • •

  Hearing a noise, which turned out to be her own whimpering groan, roused Clare. Her whole body felt stiff and she thought she lay on a cot.

  What was going on?

  She’d heard Enzo yell mentally, and then her head had gone from miserable ache to magnificent piercing pain. She touched it: a huge bump and—yikes!—tender.

  She sat up groggily, hot and sweaty, her mind muddled. Her stomach roiled, but she squeezed her eyes shut and forced it to calm by sheer will. More sweat leaked from her pores at the effort, and the drying of it cooled her slightly but felt like it left a film over her skin.

  Where was Enzo? He could keep her cool.

  Or the apparition of Jack Slade.

  They weren’t here right now; she’d sense them even with her lashes shut.

  Rubbing crust from her eyes, then just plain rubbing her eyes, she opened them to see the small back bedroom in her old house that she’d used as an office. Enough time had passed that twilight shrouded the room. Again her stomach tightened and did the roll thing and she had to concentrate on not vomiting.

  Increment by increment, she set her feet under her and rose and wobbled the few paces to the door and tried the knob. It was locked. She swung around too fast and had to lean a shoulder against the wall. Then she stumbled to check the two vertical windows and blinked. The rectangles of light showed bright in the darkening room and she could see that the cranks to open the windows had been removed.

  Crap! She’d been kidnapped and was locked in a room of an empty house.

  A house everyone knew she wouldn’t visit.

  She breathed slowly through her nose, examined the room. She’d done a quick surface cleaning but the
service she’d hired for the deep cleaning wouldn’t be coming for days; they’d been backed up. Arlene, the agent who’d be handling the sale, wouldn’t be checking on it for a week or so, and wouldn’t be checking on Clare for a couple of days. Arlene had dropped by to see how the move was going and left five gorgeous bouquets for individual rooms along with effusive thanks.

  Clare’s mouth dried, and she tasted bile and swallowed the burn back down. Her breathing turned fast and ragged. Weakening knees had her staggering back to the cot, sitting again and rubbing her head—her temples, touching the bump, owie!—and pushing her fingers through her hair. She tugged, trying to clear more fogginess from her mind.

  Think!

  Panting, she worked through who would miss her and how soon. Zach. No, they’d broken up. Wait, wait. She’d told him that she’d finish the ledgers and messenger them to Rickman.

  Her mouth turned down. She hadn’t told Zach how close to done she had been with the records; he might expect them in two to three days.

  She sucked in a shaky breath. Time to effing figure out what was going on. Again she swallowed hard, wished for some water to rinse out her mouth, and stood.

  The door opened.

  She rushed forward, met outstretched arms that shoved her to the floor, and her mind began to whirl again. Oww! A couple of seconds passed before she croaked, “Who . . . who?”

  A snort, and simply the sound of it clued her in.

  “Ted Mather!”

  “That’s right.” He stood at the threshold of her room with shadows clinging to him, but unlike the ghosts she’d been communicating with lately, Ted was all too dreadfully solid. “Get back on the cot.”

  “But . . . but why?”

  A sound of disbelief. “You are slow, aren’t you.” His head tilted. “Though I s’pose the hit on your head didn’t help. Sorry about that,” he said cheerfully.

  Clare rose painfully and sat on the cot. She eased her fingers through her hair, ran into some clumped blood near her wound. Ick.