Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2)

by Robin D. Owens

  “What are you talk—” Clare began.

  Enzo appeared. Hello, Zach. Don’t worry, Zach. Everything’s A-OK. Hello, Clare, you did good, Clare. Xavier and Francis and Sammy are all where they should be. They went on, their ghosts are laid to rest. He licked her hand, and she knew from the chill that her skin had finally warmed to normal again.

  Did you notice, Clare, some of the shadowy shade-ghost remnants have gone away, too! Just from you walking down the street! And some left when Francis and Sammy transitioned! The lower part of his jaw opened in his grin. And I HELPED.

  “I can’t deny that,” she said. “You helped.”

  He pranced along the street with her.

  Zach’s shoulders shifted. “There don’t seem to be as many shadows lingering near the doors of the buildings.”

  “Town does feel different,” Rossi said, but his eyes remained sharp and continued to scan the area. “Easier to see, too, without as many shadows.” Then he seemed to understand what he was saying and snapped his mouth shut.

  Once they reached a bench to one side of the church, which was identical to the one on the ridge, Clare was glad to see another road up to the house.

  “I’m not going back through the town,” she stated. Everyone except herself looked cool and calm and unruffled. Even though she’d been chilled to the bone helping the boy and his mother walk into the light, that coolness had vanished and a sheen of sweat covered her. Or perhaps, it was the melting of the ice that had coated her, turning into perspiration. Her clothes were nastily sticking to her. Her face was probably too flushed. Not to mention her hair, which felt like each curly strand had slipped out of her band and sprung around her head in an aura of frizz.

  “I really think—” Mr. Laurentine said.

  “No,” she said.

  His lips pursed in something close to a pout, and he turned on his colorful snakeskin cowboy boot stacked heel and stared back in town. “Pity two ghosts are gone.”

  She held back the irritation inside from lacing her voice. “It was. A very great pity for them to have to linger in an abandoned town, alone and yearning for each other, for a hundred and twenty years.” Not being able to stand the heat and a trickle escaping from her hairline to dribble down the side of her face, she searched her jeans pocket for a handkerchief, didn’t find one, and wiped her face with the long sleeve of her shirt. She should have brought a hat.

  “Clare?” asked Zach.

  “Are you hot?” she asked.

  He angled his head. “No. Not hot.”

  “I need to get out of here,” she said.

  “Take it easy, Clare,” Desiree said.

  “When I say so,” Mr. Laurentine said.

  With a chuff of her breath, she swung away from the group, too irritated—and too darn sensitive to that irritation—to be with them. They sure couldn’t understand what she’d just gone through! Couldn’t appreciate it. . . . and she was back to the issue of respect.

  She needed respect. She wanted it for her work, as she’d gotten it in the past for her accounting career.

  But it was becoming all too obvious that she wouldn’t be getting it for her vocation in the future, or for her gift, which people didn’t understand or sneered at. That hurt her on a deep level.

  It didn’t help that if she hadn’t had this gift, she’d have done the same.

  She realized her vision was impaired by her swelling cheek, and that was just great. Her ribs throbbed and she couldn’t even relax into a tiny slump because of the ache that would come.

  With a quick pivot on her heel, she headed off toward the road carved out of the hill.

  “Clare!” Zach yelled, and she heard anger. She didn’t care.

  “Clare, please wait.” That came from Desiree Rickman.

  Neither Zach nor Desiree had scorned her for her gift or patronized her, but in the moment, that didn’t seem to matter.

  Clare, said Enzo, moving through her legs, cooling that part of her down, at least.

  She reached down and patted his head and found herself looking into the depthless fog that passed as the Other spirit’s eyes.

  “Oh.”

  Clare, you are not progressing as quickly or as well as you should be, the being, the thing, reprimanded her, and right in her very own mind!

  Tears rose behind her eyes, pressed painfully against her sinuses. I don’t care.

  You should. Try harder. Read Sandra’s journals daily. Then it, and Enzo, flicked out like someone had turned on the burning sun and banished their shadows.

  “Clare, are you all right?” Now Zach sounded a little worried.

  Her lips were too dry to answer him aloud.

  “No, I can see you aren’t. Infection or altitude sickness or heatstroke or something.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ZACH SET HIS arm at her back and bent, and she knew that he meant to pick her up and carry her.

  She pushed at him, shook her head so the buzzing inside it didn’t distract her. “Don’t lift me, Zach. I want to walk on my own two feet.”

  “We need to get you back to the house ASAP. And checked out with Dr. Burns. Again.”

  “I don’t—” but a huge wave of nausea gripped her and she only had time to turn and vomit into the road.

  Desiree came and put a strong arm around Clare, steadying her, and she grunted as her ribs twinged when she tried to hunch.

  Zach’s hand slid along her waist, and she felt him unclip the nasty pink bottle, heard him say, “Laurentine, have someone bring that case of water bottles up to the doctor’s office. Ms. Rickman, can you please confiscate everyone else’s?”

  “Sure,” Desiree said. She whipped out a folded bag from a pocket, whisked it open. Rossi was the first to drop his bottle in it, then the rest did, including Zach.

  “What! You think something was in the water?” the multimillionaire asked after calling and telling the guy in the general store to bring up the crate.

  “Lean on me,” Zach murmured to Clare, then replied to Laurentine, “I’d feel better if I collected all of them, just in case. We need a ride for Clare now,” he snapped.

  Yes, since she seemed to be swaying. He was solid.

  “On that,” Rossi said. “I’ll alert Dr. Burns.”

  “What’s with the water and the bottles?” Zach demanded of Mr. Laurentine.

  “I have the souvenirs delivered to the house, Patrice fills the sports bottles from our well, sends them down to the general store.”

  Zach grunted. “They aren’t tamperproof?”

  “They’re regular bottles.”

  Clare hadn’t wanted the damn bottle in the first place. If she ever saw another one, it would be too darn soon. Her skin had gone clammy with cold sweat. Slowly she straightened, inhaled deeply through her nostrils—and smelled the dust of the town and the past.

  “The vehicle’s in sight,” Desiree said.

  Frowning, Zach looked up the road, at Clare, and then at Mr. Laurentine.

  “Let me help Clare while you discuss this matter with Dennis,” Desiree said.

  His frown deepening into a scowl, Zach muttered under his breath. Clare straightened and stepped away from her lover and began putting one foot in front of the other to slog up the road. Desiree slipped a sturdy arm around Clare’s waist.

  Zach shot out questions, “Where are the bottles kept up at the house? Who has access to them? How does Schangler prepare the water? Why did you give Clare the pink bottle?”

  Clare knew the answer to the last one. “Mr. Laurentine thinks I’m a girly girl,” she said, but didn’t know if the others had heard it.

  “Come on, Laurentine, answer my questions,” Zach snapped.

  “Clare’s right. She wears pink.”

  “I wear peach or coral,” she enunciated. “Because the colors flatter me. Does not mean I want a damn pink bottle.” Shudders ran up and down her nerves just under her skin.

  “Sure,” Desiree soothed. “That color range looks great against your sk
in.” She muttered under her breath, “Men.”

  “Here’s the case of bottles,” the man from the general store huffed as he jogged to them.

  Zach’s voice was cold as a ghost. “You didn’t answer me, Laurentine. Where are the bottles kept up at the house? Who has access to them? How does Schangler prepare the water?”

  “Fuck it, Slade!” Mr. Laurentine said. “How the fuck should I—”

  “Answer the man, Dennis,” Desiree tossed over her shoulder. They hadn’t gotten very far up the road. Clare needed to take bigger steps. In a minute. She paused to catch her breath.

  Desiree continued, “Don’t you know what happens in your house?”

  “Boxes of empty bottles are kept in a storage room. A dozen are on the shelves of the back pantry. I could have drunk out of any of those.” He jerked his chin toward the crate.

  “You gave Clare the pink one,” Zach said. “Would you have drunk out of the pink one?”

  “No. Would you have?”

  Zach didn’t answer.

  “Go on, Dennis,” Desiree prompted.

  “We use well water. We have an excellent well, and the water is filtered.”

  “I’ve seen a cooler of water with citrus fruit, lemons, limes, and orange slices in the dining room,” Zach said. “Would that mixture have been in the bottles?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Mr. Laurentine sounded increasingly irritated.

  “Clare, what did the water taste like?” Zach asked.

  Her tongue just curled up and she swallowed down another upsurge of bile. “I don’t recall. Metallic, maybe.”

  “You tasted hers yourself,” Mr. Laurentine said.

  “She’ll be fine with Burns,” Rossi said. “Give some of Clare’s water to Dr. Burns to test as well as the cops. He’s a better researcher than a people doctor, has a little lab.” Rossi looked thoughtful.

  A two-seater Jeep motored into her range and the driver stopped. Clare had plenty of help getting into the passenger seat. Zach unclipped the bottle from his belt, curved her fingers around it. It felt cool but a little slippery from the sweat on her palms. “Give that to Burns. I want to ask more questions.”

  She nodded.

  He took her phone, thumbed on SeeAndTalk, opened the same on his phone so they were connected.

  “Look at this until you’re in the doctor’s office. I’m monitoring you.”

  She nodded, saw his grim face on her phone.

  He kissed her cheek, then the vehicle took off, zooming along up to the house.

  • • •

  Zach’s heart thudded hard in his chest as he watched the Jeep speed Clare to the doctor. He wanted to go with her but thought he’d better strike with questions here when people were more off guard.

  “A deputy’s coming out from the sheriff’s department,” Rossi said.

  Zach wanted to squeeze every drop of information out of Laurentine. He also wanted to be with Clare. “That’s good.”

  The Jeep disappeared on a switchback behind tall pines.

  “I can’t believe this,” Laurentine said.

  Zach turned back to look at him. Guy wasn’t happy he wasn’t the center of attention. Zach scanned the rest. Rossi, solid, helpful. Hawburton the rancher, faded a little to the background . . . separating himself from mostly city folks? The man with the crate appearing uncomfortable and stoic. Desiree Rickman, holding her bag with the bottles still enough that no clinks came, watchful but with a half smile on her lips. Woman liked excitement.

  In the far distance a siren wailed, rising from the wide valley up the mountains. The sheriff, maybe an ambulance. He hoped not.

  “We had an outbreak of pesticide poisoning—animals—about a month ago,” Rossi said. “Killed a bunch.”

  That riveted Zach’s attention.

  “Pesticide outbreak,” he said with an edge of savagery in his voice.

  “Real old stuff lying around.”

  “Might have given someone a bad idea,” Zach said. His jaw felt tight from clenching his teeth. “As for Burns, is he from a local family, too?”

  “No,” Laurentine said. “He’s from Boston. A good man. Like Rossi said, he prefers to do research. My demands upon him are rarely onerous.” Laurentine sent a sideways glance to Zach. “Until Clare arrived.”

  The man’s attitude stank. Zach didn’t have a badge, but he had his own attitude. He stared at the guy as if he might arrest him the next minute and make his life hell in an interrogation room for long hours.

  Laurentine stepped back until he joined the rancher. So did the guy who still held the box.

  Rossi looked impassive. Desiree Rickman . . . almost perky, an odd expression on a stunning woman.

  “About Dr. Burns,” Zach continued to the bodyguard. “Did you check him out?”

  “Tony checked everyone out before we took this job when Mr. Laurentine approached us three years ago to guard him in Colorado. Tony updated the info before I was assigned this summer.” Rossi nodded respectfully toward the multimillionaire, who eased a bit. Desiree blinked and went to the man, took his arm.

  “Come on, Dennis, let’s walk up to the house. Or do you want to go back through your fascinating town?”

  Laurentine angled his body so he could see the town, and his shoulders lowered as he saw proof of his worth . . . and Zach had to admit that the man had done well in saving the town. Better if he hadn’t moved it and made it his personal property, but too many Western towns were nothing but a few planks or logs, some nails.

  “Mr. Laurentine, why do you have a bodyguard?” Zach asked.

  The man grimaced. “I have a crazy ex-wife and a restraining order against her, but that means nothing to Maria.”

  “No incidents since I’ve been on the job,” Rossi said. Then added without expression, “Except these against Clare. But we think they’re about her and not Mr. Laurentine. She was the one set up for the fall. She’s the one who got sick.”

  “Understood. I want everything Rickman has on all the players, immediately. Nothing held back. Got it?”

  “Got it.” Rossi sent a message on his phone.

  • • •

  Patrice Schangler opened the house door, her eyes stormy in a masked expression. “Ms. Cermak, exactly what did you say about my water or the water bottles?”

  “Nothing.”

  “The sheriff is coming to get the bottles I sent down this morning to be tested for contaminants. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that water.” The woman snatched the pink bottle from Clare’s hand, her mouth curving down in distaste at the color, flicked the top open and brought it to her mouth, then hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” Clare said tiredly. “Prove your point and drink it. I don’t care. Just step aside so I can get to Dr. Burns’s office. I’m sick.”

  “Give me the bottle, Patrice.” The Jeep driver had dropped his hold on Clare and held out his hand. “Let’s not make all of this worse.”

  “What now?” Dr. Burns bustled up, his eyebrows lowered.

  “I vomited,” Clare said. “It might have been the water in one of the DL Ranch bottles.”

  “I was never in favor of those bottles and well water. Better to have clear bottles and use custom water,” the doctor grumbled. “Did anyone save me a sample I can analyze?” His gaze fixed on the bottle and the housekeeper reluctantly handed it over. He stuck it in his lab coat pocket and put his arm around Clare’s waist, took some of her weight, and started moving them at a near jog.

  “You have a lab here?” Clare puffed out with a breath.

  “I’m more of a researcher in microbiology, and the lab is well equipped. One of the staff sometimes helps me out if I need it,” Dr. Burns said. “You’re pale and sweating and have some caked vomit near your mouth that I might be able to analyze, too.”

  Ick.

  He took a wipe from his coat pocket and scrubbed at her mouth, then moved away toward his office, saying, “Excellent. I’ll contact one of the Curly Wolf caretakers to get
a good sample of your vomit.”

  “Wonderful,” she said as she tottered after him. When she went through his door, she sank into a comfortable chair instead of proceeding into the inner examination room and onto the dratted table. She saw the doctor hand off the bottle to one of the female staff and told her to prepare a sample for him. He gave her the wipe, too, and mentioned test strips.

  Then Dr. Burns returned and made her go back into the exam room. “Symptoms?” He took his stethoscope from the counter.

  “Um, hot? But it’s a hot day walking in the sun.”

  The doctor nodded shortly.

  “Nausea,” she said.

  “Still feel sick?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Open your mouth.”

  She did and he scrutinized her throat. Her face twitched and she trembled.

  “Does your face feel numb?”

  “A little.”

  He studied her eyes, her ears, checked her heart and her breathing. He had her go through the whole scenario of what she drank and what it tasted like going down and coming back up.

  “How much of that did you drink?” he asked.

  Clare usually monitored her liquid intake to ensure she was hydrated. She’d always had a bottle of water at her desk at her job and kept it filled. Since she was no longer with the accounting firm, she hadn’t been doing as well. She’d had some sips and some gulps . . . but no prolonged glugging; she’d been too busy for that.

  The telephone on his desk in the outer office rang and he picked it up. “You think so?” he barked after a few seconds. “The thought had occurred to me, too. For pesticide the best thing to do is treat her symptoms as they come along, alleviate them. No stomach pumping. I haven’t looked at the solution yet.”

  When he came back, he asked, “Got any idea how much you had?”

  “I guess not more than four ounces.” She shrugged. Her nerves seemed to have subsided.

  He shook his head. “We’ll watch you closely. I’ll check the solution and I’ll compare the liquid remaining in the bottle you drank from to that of a full one in the pantry.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you have any auditory hallucinations?”