He slipped his arm around her and drew her close, kissed her temple. “You don’t need him,” Zach said simply. “You only need me.”
She frowned and he reached over with his other hand and wound one of her curls on his finger. “And, no, you are not dependent on Enzo or me.” He tugged on her hair. “Or not unusually dependent. We’re your team in this.”
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”
One more tug. “Keep it in mind.”
“I will, let’s head to the grocery store.”
But as Zach pressed the ignition, a little niggling thought wouldn’t be silenced that Zach really thought she was part of his team, and he was the captain.
* * *
They were back in the bathroom with gauze, scissors, a plastic tray deeper than it was wide, a funnel, and the knife, when the rest of the inn’s guests trooped in, talking loudly about classic cars and Cruisin’ the Canyon.
Zach smiled at Clare, keeping his body relaxed since she appeared wide-eyed and pale. At least she hadn’t pasted on a fake smile. No pretense from her. He didn’t like seeing fear in her eyes, but that wasn’t nearly as bad as her hiding her emotions from him so he didn’t know what was going on with her. Wouldn’t know how to help.
She continued to stare at him, then her body eased a little, too. Clare believed he was brave . . . and it was true that physical danger hadn’t worried him for years before the shooting, and for months afterward he’d thought that the worst had happened.
Now he knew he’d been wrong. If anything happened to Clare . . . that would be the worst. Dying would be easier.
“We’ll be real careful with the knife,” Zach said. He untied the tassels that were in a much simpler knot than the one he’d done the day before. “You looked at the knife today.”
She stood a little straighter. “Of course. I needed to check the dimensions.”
He grunted, not thinking that might be the whole story, particularly since he figured that she had the sort of brain that could look at an object the first time and be able to make mathematical calculations regarding its dimensions. He said nothing.
The tassels hung free, but the top of the ivory sheath was still gathered. Zach’s nostrils twitched as he smelled the musky perfume and incense scent from it . . . The cloth still protected the knife. He scrutinized the pouch in the harsh light of the bathroom, noticed the odd characters woven into it. Little circles with lines in them that appeared vaguely Chinese, which was strange, since Clare and the ancestress of the femur were of Romani and Hungarian descent.
Then he felt Clare’s gaze on him, realized she waited for him to pull out the knife, and take it out of the metal sheath, too. They’d decided that since he was handier with a knife in anything other than cooking, he’d do the honors of cutting her veins open. Especially since the knife itself seemed a little twitchy.
Oh, yeah, he was sure looking forward to that.
Meeting his eyes, Clare set her left arm on the rim of the old-fashioned sink. Zach’s gut clutched as he saw the tracery of blue lines under her golden skin. So close to the tendon. His jaw clenched. He would have to control the knife.
“Ready?” he asked.
Her lips tightened and she nodded. Then a horizontal line deepened above her nose. “The ghost is far enough away.”
Zach nodded, too. He pulled the weapon from the ivory tube, set the tube on a shelf next to the hair dryer, then snicked the bone knife from the metal sheath and handed the blade to her while he arranged the sheath in a contraption of clamps they’d designed. Inwardly he scowled because the curve of the knife meant the metal sheath had to be wider to accommodate it than if it were a straight blade. That meant more blood going into the sheath.
Clare shifted her balance and the heavy plastic they’d covered the floor with crackled. Zach stuck the small funnel in the top of the sheath, took Clare’s hand and positioned it.
“Do it fast.” She wet her lips, frowned. “I think the ghost is beginning to feel the draw of the knife. I . . . sense . . . it is casting around for what is . . . affecting it.”
“Right.” He took her arm, placed it over the funnel, held out his palm for the knife. She transferred it to him, though her fingers appeared reluctant to let the thing go.
He got another little shock that zipped from his hand to his toes, rocketed up to the top of his head, and left his ears buzzing. He had the distinct impression that the electricity could have killed him if the knife hadn’t already tasted his blood.
Inhaling slowly and steadily, he put the tip of the knife against her vein. A terrible, high-pitched sound pinged, the knife dipped deep, and a stream of blood that seemed propelled from Clare’s vein rushed into the funnel.
Clare had squeaked with pain and Zach didn’t look at her, couldn’t look at her, had to control the knife. With great concentration he pulled it from her skin. The cut was deeper than he’d wanted. He put the knife down on the silk, noted with a sideways flick of his eyes that no blood showed on the blade or the cloth.
Both of them watched as her blood drained into the sheath . . . the gold outlining the blue and green and black pattern began to glow . . . tinted a burnished red. Then the funnel began to fill and Zach drew it up until the very end remained in the sheath. He grabbed a small roll of gauze and put it in the funnel, watched with more queasiness than he cared for as white turned deep red supernaturally fast.
When saturated, he transferred the funnel and gauze to the tray and Clare moved her dripping arm.
This whole procedure took a lot less time than it should have, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the atmosphere began to hum with tension.
No, that was the knife. It hummed.
EIGHTEEN
ZACH STARED AT it. Yes, like the sheath, the knife glowed. . . not ivory, but bone white with a hint of electric blue aura. Maybe. What the hell?
Clare made a choked sound and his head jerked back to her. Under the gold of her skin she was pale. Her pupils wide, even in the bright light, and he noted smudges under her eyes that hadn’t been in evidence before this. She, too, stared at the knife.
IT’S TIME! yapped Enzo, suddenly appearing. Zach flinched and jiggled Clare’s arm, which nudged the funnel. He snatched at it, kept it from falling and spilling the precious roll of blood-soaked gauze.
“Enzo!” Clare cried, sounding relieved.
“Got it,” Zach said. The sink plug was in, so any blood that made it into the basin would not be lost. Zach lifted the funnel, held it in his right hand. With his left he got another roll of gauze, put it in the top of the sheath to siphon up enough blood that they wouldn’t spill any when the blade returned.
That’s enough blood, said Enzo.
“That’s good,” Zach said, over the mental voice of the dog and the continuing humming of the knife. He put both white-edged-with-red gauze and the funnel into the plastic tray.
“Why is it making that sound?” Clare asked, gaze still fixed on the knife, though her head had tilted toward the ghost dog.
It is tuning itself to you, Enzo said. He sat too quietly for the character he was.
“What’s wrong?” Zach asked.
Instead of answering the question, Enzo fixed his shadowy eyes on Clare and said, It must know ALL of you. Every sense. So now it is vibrating to the sound of you.
“Huh,” Zach and Clare said together.
It knows the taste of you already and wants more.
“Uh-huh,” Clare said faintly. She swallowed. “I got that impression.”
Enzo’s head lowered until he couldn’t look at either of them . . . or they couldn’t see his eyes. Did the Other tell you . . . or did I tell you that the knife needs to cut a piece of your hair, too? His tail wagged back and forth, once.
“Cut my hair!” Clare’s voice sounded ne
arly as appalled as she had been when told of the blood deal. She took her arm from along the sink, upended it over the plastic tray, shook it a little so a few drops fell, but it looked as if the thin cut was done with bleeding.
Put the flat of the blade on your puncture and it will heal better and faster, Enzo offered.
“Is that so,” Zach said drily.
The dog turned his head quickly to look at Zach, must not have liked his expression, and returned to a droopy pose of staring at the floor.
Zach braced for the knife, picked it up again, suffered the shock zinging through him, and handed it to Clare. She nodded to him, continued to look at Enzo, sucked in a breath through pursed lips, and lowered the blade. It twisted in her hand, edge down; Enzo yelped, Zach reached for it, but Clare’s knuckles whitened on the handle and she stopped the motion, turned it back. “No, you don’t!” she said through gritted teeth. With a slow and steady hand, she placed the flat of the blade over her wound.
She hissed. So did the knife. When she lifted the blade, a red mark like a singe showed on her skin.
“Dammit,” Zach said viciously. The more he saw of this knife, the less he liked it.
“Please move aside, Zach, so I can get to the sheath in the vise,” Clare said.
Zach did so, moving through the phantom dog, feeling a little chill.
“Enzo, can you move, too?” Clare asked.
Hunching down, Enzo crawled away. Something was wrong with the Lab, but this wasn’t the right time to confront the beast. Instead, Zach watched Clare as she inched to the knife sheath, angled the weapon down. Then her hand yanked forward and the blade slid fast into the sheath. A little distressed sound escaped Clare, her fingers loosened her grip around the hilt, and she dropped her hand.
The bone of the handle turned slightly rosy. And pulsed like a beating heart.
Or some odd vampiric thing that gulped down blood. The slight sound of glugging came.
“I guess we shouldn’t wrap the hilt with the gauze yet,” Zach said. That had been the next step in their plan.
“It’s probably better that we wait until it stops . . . throbbing,” Clare said faintly. She glanced at Enzo. “What do you think, Enzo?”
He snuffled. That’s right, Clare.
“What’s wrong, dog?” asked Zach. Feeling the urge to comfort the Lab, he lifted his foot and pretended to stroke the dog’s back with it.
Enzo heaved a sigh, damp eyes coalesced in his dark eye sockets, and he said, I was sent away. She SAYS she doesn’t believe in me, but even though Caden and I was careful SHE knew I was there. I think she feels me. He snuffled, his ears twitched, and when his voice came again in Zach’s head, irritation laced the echoey tones, I think SHE feels the cold of me and she called me Caden’s imaginary companion and she sent me AWAY! Now the dog sat up, angled his head toward Zach, then Clare. I am NOT imaginary.
“No,” Clare said. “You are a great companion.”
Enzo subsided back onto the floor. I wanted to stay with him, the dog said.
“You wanted to guard him,” Zach said.
The dog’s tail wagged, this time twice. Yes. Clare has the knife and you to guard her and both of you believe in ghosts. The little boy doesn’t have anyone to stay close to him but me . . . and now doesn’t have me, neither.
“I understand,” Clare said.
Zach’s jaw clenched. She continued to put other people’s—being’s—needs before her own. She’d wanted her companion with her, but her spirit guide hadn’t come until he’d been sent away from Caden. She was too generous—generous to others to the detriment of herself. That should stop. They’d talk about it later.
She bent down and petted Enzo, comforting him, even though Zach knew the freezing cold of phantoms was worse when she initiated contact than when they touched her. At least Zach himself could touch her with warmth, give her warmth . . . heat even. They could ignite an inferno between them during sex. Oh, yeah, he always liked thinking of sex with Clare.
She straightened and gasped. Zach followed her stare to see that the bone handle of the knife appeared the slightest hint of—rosy with life? Now that was an uncomfortable thought.
“I think we can wrap the handle now,” Clare said. She swept up the tray with the gauze before Zach got to it. When she slid the blade a little from the sheath, it was white, but shone as if it had been polished. Yeah, damn vampiric knife.
Zach stepped forward, held the metal sheath so Clare could start wrapping the rest of the blade. Being Clare and ultra-cautious, she started about an inch down on the blade, then rolled the gauze upward. Though the edge of the blade was sharp, the knife didn’t cut the gauze. In fact, the edge sucked up the blood fast, turning white before she’d even reached the bottom of the handle.
He watched her circle the gauze carefully, overlapping every round at least halfway. Efficient. Another quality he prized in Clare. Finally she reached the knobs at the end, split the gauze in two, and wrapped them.
They’d gotten enough gauze.
She stepped back, mouth turning down.
Zach smelled the blood, too, more than when she’d shed it, and now the handle looked like a red and raw treat a real-live Enzo dog might like.
Clare wobbled and he stepped up and put an arm around her. “I don’t like this,” he said.
Her mouth kept the downward turn. “I don’t either . . . but duty.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Damn, I wish the bathroom was part of the room and not down the hall.”
“It’s a short hall.”
“Long enough, and the door and lock are flimsy enough that we can’t leave this place while the knife is here.”
She chuckled, stood straighter, and leaned on him. “I think I’d trust the knife to defend itself.”
“Maybe.” Zach glanced at Enzo. “What do you think, dog? Would the knife defend itself?”
Enzo sat up; his eyes went wide and his image wavered. Don’t leave the knife alone. It might get in trouble.
“I don’t like the sound of that,” said Clare, frowning.
“Neither do I,” Zach agreed. He went over to the toilet and sat on the closed wooden top and drew Clare onto his lap. It was sit there or on the floor. “We’ll just wait. Talk to me about your research.”
“Uh. Well, we don’t know everything the archives has, but it’s bound to have copies of the newspaper, the Creede Candle. And I found a story written by the editor of the paper at the time about the murder of Robert Ford in an old book I could download.” She snorted.
“What?”
“You were right about newspapermen. Cy Warman definitely had an angle, an ax to grind. The story, at least, goes off on a tangent on how Ford had threatened him and the staff of the newspaper instead of telling more about the murder.”
“Ha.”
“Of course he wasn’t there. He was across the street in his offices when he heard the shot. Do you know the story of Ford’s murder?”
“I didn’t read up on it, no.”
“The circumstances are interesting,” Clare said.
Zach had discovered that Clare found a lot of dull history fascinating. But this was death and murder, and fell within his notion of interesting, too, so he prepared to listen closely.
“One of the dance hall girls had died the night before and some of the others had started a subscription to get enough money to have her body taken up to the hill in a wagon and buried.”
“Huh.” Zach figured that though Clare had said “dance hall girls,” they were really prostitutes.
“Yes. And the woman with the Subscription List was in Robert Ford’s business tent—you remember the fire had just occurred three days before?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Ford had several tents.” Clare’s brow creased. “From the pictu
res, I think near the parking lot of the county building. Not at the marker we saw this morning.”
“Uh-huh, get on with the story, Clare.”
Enzo yipped. His eyes had brightened as he gazed at Clare and listened.
“Well, she was there with the list, and Ford saw that Soapy Smith had put down that he’d pay five dollars.”
Zach’s lips twitched. “And Ford, of course, upped his amount higher than his rival’s.”
“Yes, he did. He put down ten dollars. And he quoted the Bible. He said, ‘Charity covereth a multitude of sins.’ Then he went back to talking to some other people, friends and girls. Soon after that Edward Capehart O’Kelley came in with a . . . nonstandard shotgun and called, ‘Hello, Bob.’ When Ford turned around, he was shot in the neck and lower jaw. I guess it was a gruesome mess.”
“With both barrels, it would be,” Zach said, thinking of all the ways a shotgun could be “nonstandard,” which was probably Clare speak for “someone-did-something-to-the-shotgun-that-I-didn’t-understand-or-that-I-can’t-remember.”
She grimaced. “Bad enough that they wouldn’t photograph his corpse, like they did for Jesse James and for Soapy Smith on the cover of another book I bought.”
“I’d imagine,” Zach said.
Clare raised her intent eyes to his. “There were a lot of people in the mining camp, and there were people in the tent with Ford. Some people would have stayed and settled here.”
“Some people did, but it’s been over a century, Clare, and we talked about old-timers and their memories.”
“Yes, but I started thinking of stories and history, and thought the archives might have some old oral histories from decades past, perhaps even from an eyewitness.”
“Long shot, but a good idea, and maybe the archives does.”
We will do this! Enzo cheered.
A last, long slurping noise stopped Clare and they both turned to look at the knife. The gauze wrapped around the hilt was white again—even whiter than originally.
“Do you find that creepy?” she said.
“Oh, yeah.”
Ghost Killer Page 17
