Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  “Yeah. I saw four crows as they left.”

  “Four for death.”

  “Yeah. The sheriff called me—he’s a stand-up guy—apparently I was the last one to see them before their car crashed in a bad thunderstorm.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t heard all the details before.

  Nicer to look at Zach than the wet asphalt, the snow coming down, though they were still in the valley. If their car went off the road, they had a couple of yards before they ran into the rock cliff on their right, and even longer to the drop-off to the river on their left.

  “So the Crow Rhyme prediction was right in that instance, and you anticipate it being correct now.”

  Zach made a sound, then cleared his throat and said, “You—and Mrs. Flinton and, hell, my own Gram when I was a kid—seem to think I have a thing.”

  “A psychic power of precognition.”

  “I know that word, too.”

  “Well, if your precognition and the Counting Crows Rhyme is true, we’ve been warned. We’re ready, and we’ll see if that prophecy is immutable,” Clare said.

  “Uh-huh.” Zach picked up the speed.

  A few minutes later Clare looked at the nav and unclenched her fists. “We’re coming up to Wagon Wheel Gap.”

  “Ghosts from your time period?”

  “Yes. It’s been blessedly ghost free so far.”

  Zach sped up further. “No one’s on the road.”

  “I noticed. Absolutely no rush hour traffic.”

  “That’s a good thing, for sure.”

  They passed a few houses, and Clare looked left beyond Zach to the wide valley and dimly sensed there could be an apparition or two at a couple of tourist ranches they passed by. To their right was the canyon wall and another “Falling Rock” sign.

  Soon they turned off the main highway to Creede and Clare shifted in her seat. “The valley narrows from here. There was a series of towns, down around here was Amethyst and South Creede, then Jimtown or Gintown, which is the current business district, then up the canyon was Stringtown and old Creede itself at the convergence of East and West Willow Creeks—”

  “—where Caden said there used to be a scary feeling,” Zach added, breaking into her factual delivery. So she liked facts. Facts were logical. They didn’t change. Well, they shouldn’t change, though she’d learned historical facts were more mushy than others. Definitely more amorphous than nice, clean bookkeeping figures.

  “Yes,” she agreed. The GPS beeped and told them their destination, the LuCettes’ motel, was coming up on the right.

  “Let’s head clear through the town to the former scary place,” Zach suggested.

  Clare’s teeth clenched and she had to loosen her jaw before asking, “Why?”

  “Best to see the layout of the town, what’s here and now.”

  In a stifled voice, Clare said, “All right. I’ve already programmed it into the system.” She changed the destination.

  He reached out with his right hand and slipped his fingers behind her head, massaged the knotted muscles of her neck. “Easy, Clare. How’s the ghost situation?”

  She tried to relax so his fingers would do a better job, and glanced around. “It’s . . . it’s okay.” She frowned. “I don’t sense anything.”

  “Not even Enzo?”

  “No, he hasn’t been with us since we got in the car.”

  “Though he got in the car, too.”

  She shook her head, liked the tug of some of her hair caught on his fingers. “I still don’t know much about how ghosts travel, especially Enzo.”

  “We might need to find out how fast ghosts travel. Especially how fast the evil phantom might get to the motel with Caden from the confluence of the Willow creeks,” Zach said, slowing at the stop sign. He angled his chin at a sign in front of them. “Historic Creede, here we go.” He took a right.

  Clare tensed, and he tugged her hair. “I’m driving, you don’t have to deal with ghosts pressing around the car, and the minute they get too bad, we’ll turn around.”

  She pulled her head away from his fingers and he put both hands on the wheel. “I don’t know how I’m going to do this, get rid of a threatening ghost,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know nearly enough.”

  “But you packed some of your great-aunt Sandra’s journals.”

  “Yes, one where she destroyed a ghost that drove people mad.” Clare swallowed. “We know such ghosts have that negative core.”

  “Probably was murdered, committed suicide, or was a bad dude in life,” Zach said.

  She found her hand twisting a strand of her hair. She’d never done that under pressure as an accountant. Not even at eleven fifty-five p.m. on April fifteenth.

  “I’m extrapolating from what Enzo told me, getting it straight in my mind.”

  Zach’s lips formed a half smile. “Getting the rules down, so we can plan.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “We’ll figure the whole thing out,” he said. His voice was steady, but his jaw flexed as if he had doubts, too. “There, straight ahead, see the cliffs that all the postcards show? We’re coming up on the business district, historic Creede.”

  He drove slowly, and Clare stared; more, she extended all her senses and felt . . . nothing. Rolling down the window, she let in the snow-fresh air. It had melted away and left wet streets. She stuck her head nearly out the window.

  “What,” asked Zach.

  She wet her lips. “Nothing. I feel nothing. No ghosts at all. No lingering shadows or shades of emotions from ghosts that have left, no ghosts out of my time period . . .”

  Zach’s hands flexed on the wheel. “That’s not good.”

  “No.”

  Uh-oh, said Enzo, his head resting on Clare’s right shoulder.

  SIX

  ENZO CONTINUED, THERE ARE no ghosts. It’s eaten ALL OF THEM! He howled, a long and lonely, despairing howl that raised the hair on the back of her neck. Zach’s shoulders hunched.

  I AM THE OOOOONLY GHOST IN TOWN!

  “Stop it,” Zach snapped. “You don’t want to attract its attention.”

  Enzo leapt through the seat and Clare—no mistaking when a ghost passed through her—and huddled in the passenger seat well, draped all over Clare’s feet and lower legs and her tote bag. Her feet chilled and even the outside air seemed warmer. She rolled the window up and braced herself to pet her ghost dog.

  When she touched a ghost, the chill was worse—at least double, maybe even quadruple—she didn’t know the multiplier. Cold, cold, cold. When she’d helped previous ghosts on she’d had to initiate contact, merge with them, and it had been a race to send them on before the cold froze her heart.

  She leaned forward and petted Enzo’s head. He nuzzled her palm and licked her hand. “I only need you to answer some questions, then you can return to Denver before dark, if you like.”

  I am your companion. I will stay with you.

  “We’ll protect you,” Zach said.

  We will protect each other, Enzo replied staunchly.

  With a last pat on her phantom Lab’s head, Clare withdrew her numbed fingers and turned to Zach. “You hear Enzo well, then?”

  “Yeah.”

  He didn’t seem to want to talk about that, either, so Clare let it lie. She met her dog’s big eyes. “We’ll protect each other,” she agreed.

  His tail stirred chill air in the car. Yes, you will kill the big, bad ghost with the big knife!

  Zach’s gaze cut to her. “Knife?”

  She cleared her voice. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.”

  “Big knife.” Now he smiled.

  “I’m also hoping that you’ll help me with defensive moves or something.”

  His smile stopped and
his expression turned grim. “A knife. For killing evil ghosts, right, Enzo?”

  Yesss. A hiss that went outside the range of her mental hearing and hurt her head.

  “Where’d this knife come from?” Zach asked.

  “I didn’t know I had it,” Clare said. “It was in a secret compartment in Great-Aunt Sandra’s work chest. The Other showed me how to find it. I haven’t looked at it yet.”

  It is a very powerful weapon, Enzo assured.

  “The Other, huh. He say anything else?”

  In a small voice, Clare replied, “Only that there was a price to pay to use it.”

  Zach growled, “Of course there is.” She heard a definite inhale and exhale from him, then he continued matter-of-factly, “There’s always a price to be paid for killing.”

  Just that told her that he’d killed, probably in the line of duty when he was a peace officer. “I’m sure.”

  “The confluence was where Caden said the murder-suicide was. Huh.”

  “What?”

  “Most murder-suicides are usually in the home. Personal. Private. Intimate.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sharp kid, he’s given us solid background to work with.”

  “Yes, that’s a help.”

  They got into the canyon proper and Zach’s breath caught at the same time hers did at the striking rock formations.

  “Amazing,” Zach said.

  “Yes. Incredible rocks and gorgeous views, even more so with the aspen turning gold.”

  They drove past the firehouse built into the side of a hill, the mining museum, and the community center—also underground—passed ponds on their right where Willow Creek was, then bushes masked the running water. The asphalt road gave way to packed dirt with some sharp rocks and Zach slowed, taking more care.

  “This was Stringtown,” Clare said. “It was up against the canyon walls, though I think the stream moved some. There was both a fire and a flood in 1892, the year of Robert Ford’s death, and the fire took out most of Jimtown.”

  “Jimtown?”

  “Jimtown or Gintown.”

  “I’d suspect the latter was the first name, then it slid into respectability.”

  “Probably. We’re heading for the Bachelor Historic Driving Loop. It starts where the creeks join.”

  “Lots of history. Still no ghosts?”

  “No, and it’s creeping me out.” Because there should be plenty in such a mining town. How soon she’d become accustomed to catching sight of shadows from the corners of her eyes.

  Ahead of them the road split. On the right above the confluence of the streams, it became a large parking area before snaking up another canyon. On the left, it narrowed and headed around a rocky cliff.

  “This is it,” Clare said at the same time the nav did. She turned it off. The roads were sparse enough that they wouldn’t be needing it.

  Zach pulled into the lot where the point of the cliff twisted into a spar, thrusting into the sky. He parked near the three covered tourist information billboards, farther away from the triangle of land piled with rocks that dropped off into the junction of the streams. Where Caden had said the scary spot had been.

  Zach got out and so did Clare. Drawing in a big breath of cool and misty air that had nothing to do with ghosts and everything to do with oncoming winter, Clare stretched. Naturally, she’d gravitate to the billboards, but she set her shoulders and followed Zach toward the point of land in a Y with the arms embracing them. Mid-sized sharp boulders were stacked near the drop-off, no doubt in an endeavor to keep people from standing at the very edge and falling into the shallow but tumbling stream.

  Bushes mostly concealed East Willow Creek, the one against the canyon wall.

  “Feel anything?” Zach asked, swinging his cane a little like he might be dowsing, sensing energies or something.

  “Do you?” she shot back.

  His smile was quick, sincere, lethal. “I asked you first.”

  So she gingerly walked around, closing her eyes now and again.

  “Don’t do that,” Zach said roughly. “Not when I’m here to help you.” He took her arm and began to walk her around and she kept her eyelids shut. “Stop. Here.” She scowled. “Just the faintest tingle.”

  He let go of her and when she opened her eyes he was several feet ahead of her and squatting. They were behind the billboards. “Look here,” Zach said. “No grass here and there should be. Patch of bare ground, probably a lot of trampling went on.”

  Clare’s stomach dipped and her throat tightened. “You think that’s where the murder-suicide took place.”

  “That’s right.” He stood and walked back up to her. “Let’s look at this outcropping.” So they did. Straight on it blended against the rest of the cliff; from the east side it wasn’t too imposing, just part of the cliff. And when Clare looked at it at one particular angle, when it was framed between two other jutting rocks, it appeared to be a triangular witch’s hat.

  “If I were an evil ghost, I’d hang out here.”

  She answered through cold lips. “If you were stationary. From what Caden says, it’s not stationary.”

  Zach’s brows raised. “It isn’t here right now?”

  “No.”

  “Damn good. I don’t want you confronting it until we know more.”

  “Thanks.”

  At that moment a police siren screamed for several seconds, then cut off. Zach’s head had jerked up, his nostrils flared. “Another unit has joined a previous one.” He turned away from the east entrance to the Bachelor Historic Tour, angled his chin. “It’s up the other road. Not too far. What’s up there?”

  Clare shook her head. “The other end of the loop. Some famous mines.”

  “Let’s go.” He waved toward the car door, but didn’t take her arm. Keeping his gun hand free.

  “Are you sure—”

  Without glancing at her, he said, “I’m sure that if there’s been a death that the damned Counting Crows Rhyme predicted, I want to know about it. I want that relief. God help me, I hope it’s already happened.”

  “Oh. Yes.” Clare swallowed and got back in the car.

  They hadn’t gone more than a half mile before Zach stopped where two silver full-sized trucks blocked the road. Definitely a death scene. He could feel it in the strained atmosphere even inside his cab.

  A sheriff’s deputy glanced at them and began to walk toward them. Zach swung out of the truck and matched the deputy in gait and attitude. The man relaxed, then frowned a little at Zach’s cane.

  “The road is closed,” the younger man said.

  “I can see that. Just curious.” He scanned the area, couldn’t see much, but the setup had him shaking his head. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

  The guy grunted. Zach handed him his card—one of his cards from his former life, hoping that it would prompt the man to talk. “I retired a month ago.”

  “Zach Slade from Montana, eh?”

  “Yes.” He offered his hand.

  “I’m Johnny Linscomb.” He shook Zach’s hand.

  “What’s up?” Zach asked.

  Linscomb removed his hat and ran his hand over his buzz cut. “Terrible accident.”

  “Accident?”

  “Yeah. Falling rock. Happens. Plenty sharp.” He looked at the cliff and Zach followed his gaze, then around the road. Yes, many shards of rock splinters.

  “Helluva thing.” The deputy shook his head. “Hit one of the guys in the head . . . spike to the brain. The other died of a fragment straight through the carotid artery, God. Freak accident. Really weird. What are the odds?”

  Clare might know them, but Zach sure didn’t. He shook his head along with Deputy Linscomb. “Most I’ve ever seen rockfall kill is when a
boulder hits a car.”

  “Weird.” The deputy liked the word.

  Strange, unexplained deaths while an evil ghost was on the loose? Zach didn’t believe in this coincidence. “When did it happen?” he asked. He had to know if the damn Counting Crows Rhyme still had good radar.

  “Not too long ago, an hour, maybe. They were found quickly. We aren’t that slow around here.”

  “So,” Zach leaned a little on his cane, trying to frame the words he wanted to say. Something had triggered the evil ghost; could this incident be tied in with all the other weird woo-woo? Negativity seemed to be the snag. “Are they upstanding members of the community who’ll be missed?”

  The deputy looked startled. “Funny you should say that. They’re from out of state and were poachers.”

  “Poachers?”

  “Yeah, they had a small game hunting license, for bobcat—or rather the owner of the group license did. He’s not here. We called him and he’s on his way. Apparently these two left on their own, said they were going to view the mining museum or something. Not hunting season yet.” The man’s lips thinned. “They got a lynx, a protected Canada lynx.” He spit out the words. “Not a bobcat.”

  Zach blinked. “Lynxes have long ear tufts and bigger paws than bobcats.”

  Linscomb slanted him a look. “That’s right. You know that. I know that. Did these dim bulbs? Dunno. But they weren’t on the up-and-up, that’s for sure.”

  Shaking his head, Zach said, “Tough job. Sorry you have to do it.”

  “That’s the work.” His gaze went to Zach’s cane, then away as a man walked with even more authority toward them. “Can I help you?” he asked in a peremptory tone.

  Zach toughened his own stance into one that said he’d been on the job. The guy’s eyes narrowed, he dipped his head. He was a couple of inches taller than Zach and thinner and younger. “Or do you think you can help me.” Not a question.

  Zach figured talking about an evil ghost would get him nowhere. “Sorry to interrupt your work, Sheriff,” Zach said, offering his hand. “Zach Slade, in town for a while.”

  “Mason Pais. You’ll be here how long?” The man’s grip was firm, the shake was short. His fingers felt a little cool.