Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  His hands swept under her sweater, flicked open the back of her bra and freed her breasts. He palmed them, caressed them, stroked until the feel of the soft brush of her sweater on her back and sides, his tougher skin on her nipples and breasts, made her quiver with need and her panting matched his.

  She had barely enough thought for her fingers to go to the top of his underwear and yank them down. He moan-laughed in her mouth but didn’t stop her as he lifted his knees, and one of them insinuated itself between her thighs and pressed on her needy, melting sex and then he was naked. Her hand curved around him and she held tight, pumped a couple of times until he broke her grip, spun her, and she fell on the bed.

  “My. Turn.” She thought those were the words he said; her mind had fogged and his voice rumbled.

  Then his hot hands were at her jeans and they came off along with her panties and socks and tangled around her shoes, trapping her feet—ah, how she ached for him, but he slid away from her hands as he dealt with her shoes and socks. A few seconds later he pounced. His hands opened her thighs, and he plunged into her and filled her. And completed her.

  Her fingers pressed into those fine, fine shoulders; his hands went under her butt and tilted her up, and the sweet, sweet, sweet friction had her whimpering with yearning for the hovering orgasm. She circled her hips, rocked with him, and her ears cleared when she heard him muttering her name. “Clare, Clare, Clare.” He lunged into her again and again and then release hit her, spun her through space and time and the universe and he was with her.

  He groaned and shuddered and then lay atop her, breathing roughly next to her ear, and she became aware of her cashmere sweater bunched between them, recalled the sensation of it against her skin as they’d loved together, and trembled. She hoped that had pleased him, too. “Cashmere,” she said, and her mind did a loop of that-came-out-of-my-mouth.

  “Yeah, excellent.” Zach stroked her side and she felt his fingers through the thin material.

  “Ooooh,” she purred.

  He lifted away from her, and she frowned at the loss of him. Then her sweater was stripped off and she thought it went flying—no way to treat a—her bra, thankfully, was untangled and dropped, the sheets were pulled down, and she was stuffed in between them.

  “I don’ haff to sleep. I’m not—”

  “Shh. We had an active night and a stressful day. Just rest your eyes.”

  “Rest my eyes. I’ll be up all night if I sl—”

  “Rest,” he crooned.

  Slipping into sleep should have been warm relief, but a black and roiling threat tinted the soft clouds billowing around her.

  Clare woke up when Zach turned the bedside light on. She propped herself on her forearm and glanced at the curtains, but they were room darkening and she couldn’t tell the time of day by the light. “I’m starving,” she said, then noticed Zach staring down at his basic black piece of luggage and the bone-handled knife on it.

  “Okay, you want to look at the knife now.”

  He shook his head. “No, I want to shower.” His mouth turned down. “I’ve already checked the shower out, it’s part of a tub, not a separate enclosure. Sex might be iffy.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Fine. I shower and dress, you shower and dress, we find a place to eat, then return and look at the knife.”

  “Maybe you show me some fighting moves?”

  He eyed the room. “Maybe. And maybe we should find someplace outside to practice.”

  Enzo appeared sitting right on top of Zach’s bag. The knife will draw the ghost.

  “Crap,” Zach said.

  Clare jackknifed to sit. “Uh-oh.”

  Again Zach looked around, expression grim. “What must we do to confuse the ghost—”

  If the knife is out of the silk bag, it will draw the specter. Enzo curled over and licked the sheath.

  Eww, frigid ghost drool on something she’d be handling. She thought she saw frost form on the metal. Surely that couldn’t be good for it.

  Zach picked up the hilt, grabbed the bag, and stuck the knife in it, though he didn’t tie the tassels. Now that Clare squinted at the ivory material, she saw small round circles containing different patterns of solid and broken lines, perhaps some kind of protection? “Is there a particular knot that we must use, like the one I untied?”

  Sandra knew three. Enzo’s forehead furrowed. But I think there are more. His head drooped. The Other will know and could teach you.

  Clare looked at Zach. “You know any fancy knots?”

  His face went stony. “No.”

  She sensed he lied, and considered the circumstances of their relationship.

  He wanted exclusivity and so did she. He wasn’t done with her and she still wanted him, and more than his body, and they were getting pretty darn intimate. She remained cautious about taking more than she gave, becoming dependent on him. She’d always firmly believed in equality in relationships, and with her previous lovers, that hadn’t been any problem.

  But if she propped herself up on him because of his strength and courage in the face of all this unusual stuff going on and he walked away, she could fall and fail and die. So she couldn’t do that. She’d have to equal his strength and courage, and that felt like a huge challenge.

  The issue right here and right now was whether she’d call him on his lie. “Okay, Zach, hand me the sheath and I’ll tie it the best I can. And do me a favor, don’t lie to me.”

  His lowered lashes flicked up, surprise showing on his face.

  “If you don’t want to talk about something, say so. Just don’t lie. And I will give you the same courtesy.”

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “My brother and I practiced some knots together.”

  “I understand.” She rose and walked to him, hand out for the bone knife.

  “I’ll do it. You go take a shower.”

  “All right.” She walked into the bathroom containing simple fixtures . . . and lush towels.

  A few minutes later she’d dressed in jeans, shirt, and thermal vest and Zach was taking his shower. She stared at the red tassels that were knotted even fancier than before. She stroked the multilayer Chinese-looking knot and thought of Zach, and his grief for a lost big brother hero that never went away, and was awed at such love.

  Her family seemed to love more lightly.

  Walking to the window, she peeked out between the curtains. Clouds had rolled in again and the sky sleeted small bits of white. Seemed like late afternoon to her, and her stomach rumbled. She definitely needed to eat.

  Zach came out of the bathroom, wet hair sleeked against his head, and giddiness flushed through her that this virile man desired her.

  She said, “I think after we eat, instead of returning here, we should drive up and down all the town streets, those on the hillside, too. Like you said, get a feel for it.” Her lips thinned. “Not only the old and historic portion but what’s here now. What the evil apparition threatens.”

  Zach nodded. “Good idea.”

  * * *

  The hamburger at Pico’s Patio was one of the most delicious Clare had ever eaten, probably because she was so hungry. As she ate, Zach studied the diners. He was better at judging who was a tourist and who was a local than she.

  Back in the car, they drove through the gray evening, up and down the three long streets in town and those on the ridges, and found the road to the airport and the medical center in the south of town. They admired some incredibly beautiful and unique homes that often occurred in small mountain towns, and came across the turn to the cemetery.

  Zach took it, and a simple white church came into view, as well as the road up a gentle slope. The hillside cemetery was easy to spot with the two wooden poles and a top plank announcing it, old and new gravestones, and a minia
ture white church. The prairie grass, still summer yellow, hid the muddy ground.

  He stopped. “Shall we walk?”

  “Seeing if there are no ghosts or apparitions or specters or shades here, too?” she grumbled.

  But he’d gotten out of the car and circled to open her door, held out a hand. “It’s peaceful and pretty and I haven’t been in an old cemetery for a long time.”

  “Day before yesterday?” she reminded.

  “I didn’t walk around that one, and it was for a reburial, not the same,” he said firmly, taking her hand with the one that didn’t hold his cane. Since Clare didn’t see another person, Zach might also figure they were safe. Well, at least safe because they’d just hit town and people hadn’t heard of her or what she could do. In this particular case, unlike the last one, he wouldn’t be on the lookout for a hunting accident. Yet.

  “Enzo,” she called. She could use some cheering up.

  I am here! He gazed around, tail wagging. It’s pretty. Though the hills are not too steep so I can run through them and sniff bones.

  Clare gasped and coughed. She was getting better about the collateral stuff she dealt with in her new . . . vocation.

  Oooh, look! A dog house just for me in the cemetery! He headed straight for the small white church with a red roof.

  Zach chuckled. “What a dog.”

  She angled a glance at her lover. “You can see and hear him well, even without contact with me.”

  “Yeah.”

  They walked and looked at new and old tombstones, some of wood that wouldn’t last, some overgrown slabs, some graves in little fenced in areas.

  “Nothing?” Zach asked.

  “No.”

  * * *

  Enzo zoomed up to them, his expression sad. No. No lingering tiny bits of personalities at ALL. They have been EATEN. I will be eaten.

  “No, you won’t,” she and Zach said together. Enzo moved close to Clare. So close he was inside her right leg, chilling it.

  “Nothing of Robert Ford?” Zach asked.

  Clare blinked. “You were looking for him?”

  “Sort of.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “His remains were exhumed?”

  “Yes, and taken somewhere else. I remember that, though I don’t recall where. Missouri?” She reached in her jacket pocket for her phone and Zach squeezed her hand. “No need.”

  “And they didn’t bury him here either.”

  “What? No?”

  “No. The rumor on the Internet is,” and until she looked at original sources like the contemporary newspaper, the Creede Candle, whatever was on the Internet would be suspect, “that the good town people didn’t want him buried with them in the cemetery, so his gravesite was somewhere else. It seems he shot up the town and the new streetlights and was run out of town. He came back a couple of months later and was killed soon afterward.”

  “Shooting up a town sounds familiar.”

  “Yes, like our first ghost, the gunfighter.”

  “Wild West,” Zach murmured.

  Clare returned to the current project, shaking her head. “Ford came back.”

  “And he died.”

  Enzo shook his head. Bad men don’t learn fast. They make the same mistakes over and over again.

  “That’s true,” Zach said. “Now what mistake would our current ghost have repeated? That’s the trigger, repetition of some mistake, issue, problem.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Clare said. “If we need to see Robert Ford’s original burial spot, I’m guessing it isn’t too far away . . . I’m sure I read about the location—” Again she touched her cell.

  “It doesn’t matter right now.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time.” And that thought squeezed her breath in her chest.

  I can find the Ford place, I can! Enzo enthused. He took off running.

  “We’ll work on the riddles tomorrow,” Zach said.

  “I was hoping there would be a definitive biography of Robert Ford, but there isn’t. I think the best I can do is something on Soapy Smith since they both were in Creede at the same time.”

  “Right.” Bad men competing seemed to light more interest in his eyes and she thought he filed the idea away as he turned her toward him and said, “Calm down. Let me help. You don’t have to do this alone—either figure out the trigger and the core identity of the ghost, or the phantom’s name, or fight it.”

  She let him hug her, closed her eyes and hid from the world, from the dead, with her face against his chest and listening to his heartbeat instead of the whistling breeze. She rested there for a while. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  His arms tightened, but he didn’t reply. After a minute, she pulled back and they walked the gradual incline of the hillside. At the northeast base of the cemetery, she saw the town expanded with new streets right next to the graveyard. “Who would want that?” she muttered.

  Zach smiled. “Restful neighbors.”

  “For you, maybe.”

  “An Old West silver mining town without ghosts,” he said, as if thinking.

  Clare sniffed. “Just last month I wouldn’t have noticed them.”

  “Are you sure? I bet you would have sensed them. Might have sensed them all your life, but since your drama-loving, always-moving parents bothered you, you just thought they were part of your life. Maybe that was another reason you became a very . . . controlled . . . and rational accountant.”

  She kissed his jaw. “That’s very insightful.”

  “Uh-huh. The gift came through your gypsy blood. From your mother’s side, right?”

  “Yes, like yours, another thing we have in common, though you have the Celtic background.”

  “Yeah.” Now he sounded rusty, as if he ground out the words. “The damned wiffy Scot-Celtic blood.” His expression shadowed into one of his regular broods. “Not through my father’s Native American blood.” He tramped back toward the car and the gate, thumping his cane. “Though I know nothing about those ancestors, and don’t think my father, the General, does either.”

  “You are who you are,” she said, projecting calm.

  “Would have been really awful if I got a double-whammy of woo-woo stuff.”

  “So,” she said. “Here we are, confirming there are no ghosts, not even in the cemetery, and that we have no clues.”

  He gave her a smile that looked too practiced to her. “We have each other.”

  “Well, that’s right. Now let’s go get that knife and you can give me lessons or something.”

  A fast-moving gray phantom ran up to them, through them. “I think Enzo likes running through us,” Clare said. “Did you feel him?”

  “A little chill,” Zach admitted. “Dogs love to run, of course he’d like going through us. He knows you don’t like it.”

  “Rebellion,” Clare said.

  “Teasing.” Zach tugged at a lock of her hair. It had gone completely frizzy in the humidity. She tried to squish it down with both hands, but, as always throughout her life, it sprang back up.

  “Good thing I brought my best conditioner.”

  “I like it this way,” Zach said.

  Enzo zipped through them again, leapt and twisted in a move that a normal Lab couldn’t make, and sat in front of them. I found the hole where a once-dead person was but who isn’t there no more. He hasn’t been there for a long, long time.

  “All right,” Zach said. He leaned down to pet Enzo, but his hand went straight through the phantom dog’s head. Enzo wiggled his butt. I felt that, Zach. Nice warm hand!

  “I felt it, too. Cool air.”

  Enzo hopped to his feet and rubbed against Clare. Clare’s touch is BEST.

  So she reached dow
n and petted his head, feeling like she stroked dry ice, her fingertips searing . . . though they didn’t burn red. Still, she’d been the one to touch, so the cold was worse.

  Ooooh, lovely Clare. Thank you, Clare! Enzo licked her hand.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Zach angled so he could clasp her frigid fingers in his own. The man’s muscle mass, lean as he was, still generated a lot of heat in general, and now his hand felt amazingly warm. He smiled at her. “Enzo’s right. Clare’s touch is the best.”

  Enzo trotted in the direction he’d come. Follow me!

  “Across hillsides, I don’t think so, dog,” Zach said. He didn’t raise his voice, but Enzo stopped and ran back to them.

  “No one’s in the grave, we’ll check it out later.” Zach squeezed her fingers and they turned to walk back to the car.

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  We are going to look at the knife. Enzo’s back rippled. It is a good but powerful thing.

  “Sounds like it will kill a powerful, evil ghost, then,” Zach said.

  Yes. Enzo gave Clare big, dark, doggy eyes. I was hoping Clare wouldn’t have to fight a bad ghost for a long, long, long time.

  “You and me both,” Clare said.

  As they stopped at the car, Zach opened the door for her, then kissed her on the temple. “You’ll be fine.”

  That he yet believed that boggled Clare’s mind. And that he was the optimist of the two of them. Just plain odd.

  NINE

  CLARE HAD OPENED the room-darkening curtains to reveal the view of the town and the hill on the far side that showed a dotting of houses with their lights on. The rain had started again and sputtered against the window, making the pine paneling and the earth-toned room cozy.

  Time to really look at the knife.

  Zach placed the silk bag holding the knife in its sheath on the end of the bed that Clare had made before they left for dinner, then he unpacked while she made coffee for them both. Enzo sat in the chair by the window, keeping an eye out for the evil revenant, though the phantom dog had told them that he hadn’t sensed the powerful entity.

  When Zach had stretched out with his back against the headboard, holding a thick white pottery mug that was standard to many hotels and diners, Clare took the cloth tube in her hands. The new knot Zach had tied was deceptively simpler and took her longer to undo. Finally the red tassels hung straight and she opened the drawstring, drew out the sheathed knife.