Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  The people in the Commodore room were out Jeeping today—four-wheeling—following the Rio Grande to its headwaters.

  For him, too, everything was taking too long, though he was more accustomed to slowly building a case than Clare.

  He rubbed his face. He was getting lines, he knew it. No, he had the lines, they were just engraving deeper. That didn’t matter except it showed the damn case gnawed at him. Not because of the woo-woo stuff. Not because he thought he saw crows at the edge of his vision or winging away, without being able to count them, which turned out to be way more frustrating than just seeing them. Like what were they? Possibilities of the future not set? Or could he only handle a couple of predictions at a time?

  He hadn’t seen any crows since the fulfillment of the four for death that had applied to Linda Boucher. But he had no problem admitting to himself that just the damned possibility of the dreaded four ate at the back of his mind. This case had turned rotten.

  He was simply not scared of his death, and there was a time when living wasn’t worth a good spit to him, though life had turned real sweet for him lately.

  Clare might die, and that notion shivered his heart.

  They’d made a little progress. First they’d found the trigger for the ghost going bad—the murder-suicide—then they’d determined the motive of the ghost—betrayal.

  Blood the knife. Clare had done that and his blood was on the damned vampiric thing, too.

  Discover the core identity. That item was the one hanging them up. They were close. He could feel it in the hairs on his nape, taste it on the back of his tongue like a word that should come but that he’d misplaced. Frustrating thing was, there just wasn’t any solid evidence they could track down of such a person as an anonymous whore in a silver mining town of ten thousand. Em— Somebody. He felt a flare of pride that he’d gotten that much out of the thing.

  Crap—and now he massaged his temples. If he couldn’t get any info by regular means, then it had to be through the unusual and weird.

  He went to their room door, opened it a crack, and glanced at a zonked out Clare, turned toward him and frowning in her sleep.

  She wouldn’t like what he was about to do, as much as he didn’t like seeing the crows. He was, technically, he supposed, trespassing on her side of things. Not that she hadn’t pushed him a few times . . .

  Sitting at the table on the balcony, he took his phone and held it like the good prop it was.

  Quietly, hoping he had this bit right and would reach only the dog and not Clare, he snapped a command in his mind: Enzo, come here!

  The dog appeared, belly crawling across the wood floor with little whimpering sounds. I am here, Zach. I know I spent too much time with Caden, but he needed me. He needed me more than Clare did. I thought. Clare had you.

  Zach said mentally, And Caden and you were less likely to get eaten than Clare . . . or me.

  A small whine. But I did GOOD! I attacked the evil ghost! I DID!

  Yes, you made a bad choice, then a good one. Good dog, Zach said. I want to talk to the Other.

  Enzo gave him another fearful look, but before he could say anything, he sat tall and a different aspect came upon him and his muzzle curled. You wish to speak to Me, man?

  Zach considered him—it—like he would a superior who he had to work with but disliked. Or the General, his father. Yeah—a light bulb went off in his head—the Other and the General shared several characteristics.

  “What are you doing!” Clare stood just inside the balcony door, rumpled and too pale and holding her side, and necessary to him beyond all measure.

  “Talking to a spirit. In private.”

  I am not here for you, the Other said. I observe Clare.

  Clare gulped, but anger flushed her face. She disappeared for a few seconds while Zach and the Other had a stare down. She came back in new sweats that she’d consider barely acceptable for being seen in public. She took a chair closer to the dog than he, giving Zach a look that told him they’d be discussing this.

  “If you’re in on this conversation, you better look like you’re talking to me,” Zach told her.

  Her mouth turned down, but she swung her chair toward him, wet her lips. “I could use coffee.”

  Zach gave her a guileless smile. “Good idea, why don’t you make some?”

  “No.”

  May as well start that discussion with her now, too. “The investigation is stalled. Time to shake things up.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Oh, yeah, he was shaking her up.

  “So why don’t you give us a clue, Other.”

  The dog’s spine straightened a little bit. So the Other liked that alias. Good information to have.

  The Other looked at Clare.

  I am here to observe Clare, not for You, man.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ZACH SLOUCHED IN his chair, fiddled with his phone prop. I bet you know my name, nonetheless. I bet you know more about this situation than you’re revealing . . . and I bet you don’t like being called a “spirit guide.” Well, we haven’t been calling you that, you know, because you aren’t helpful or guiding, but, me, I think that’s part of your duties.

  The Other’s eerie gaze slid away, and Zach knew what that meant, even with creepy supernatural beings. What all aren’t you telling me . . . us? he snapped.

  Forehead knit in a scowl, teeth showing, the Other snapped right back, You must ASK. I cannot tell. There was a hint of a sneer, of a lie.

  Maybe I have to ask, but I think that you could be more forthcoming and you aren’t. Too bad Clare got stuck with a prick for a spirit guide.

  Clare gasped. Zach ignored her, went on in a considering tone. I guess if you reward and punish Clare, and Enzo, that reward and punishment is part of the Big Scheme of Things by your Powers That Be. That there ARE rules. I can’t hope to comprehend you—

  Of course not. The Other’s mind voice was hollow, echoing, and, yeah, the chill that slithered down Zach’s spine showed the intimidation worked, but what the hell, he had a point to make.

  Eventually you, too, will be judged, won’t you? On how well you worked with those you are supposed to guide. Maybe on such things as your help and compassion. Zach flicked a hand. But that’s your business and your choices. Back to what we need now. If this is a . . . balanced . . . universe with rules, there should be a way for us to discover Em’s full name. She should not be able to rampage through a town, through a county, killing with no way to stop her.

  “Hmmph.” That was Clare.

  The phantom dog just stared at Zach with those scary eyes that, yeah, he had trouble meeting.

  Then the dog’s tail thrashed.

  Zach continued, So, there’s a way for us to find this out. But we are running out of time. Give us a hint, dog, where we can find the damn name. Because, ya know, if we don’t find the name in time, we might fail. A lot of people might die. Enzo might die. I might die. Clare might die, and I’m pretty sure that would reflect on your performance evaluation, huh?

  Zach ignored the little noises Clare was making.

  The-Other-in-Enzo sniffed.

  So tell us what you haven’t before, Zach said silkily.

  A long pause. I could give you that information, but it would be best if Clare discovered it herself. Even she is smart enough to see the clue, if you allow her to rest, then to continue with her research.

  The thing just couldn’t control his hubris and haughty manner, a flaw as far as Zach was concerned. He’d never thought the dictatorial worked well.

  It began to fade, both Other and Enzo. So Zach asked the most vital question of them all. Is Clare the only one who can dispose of the ghost?

  The Lab solidified again. And live, the Other said. She is of the Cermak blood and so the knife will protect her as well as be h
er weapon. That is the reason for the blooding and the tuning. So she can extinguish evil beings that plague the world, and live.

  Zach’s throat had dried, but this discussion had to be followed to the end. So others might be able to use the knife.

  A haughty inclination of the head. Yes, those whom the knife has tasted. They can destroy the evil, but they will not live.

  “All right,” Zach said aloud. He waved a hand at the Other in dismissal. After forming the Lab’s face into a scowl, lightning crackled from the spirit’s eyes, then it flashed gone. The superior being vanished, leaving the dog blinking at Zach. You have made it mad, speaking those true things, Enzo said. And making it talk when it didn’t want to.

  “I think it’s piss poor as a spirit guide.”

  “It’s what I have,” Clare said. She rose stiffly and opened the door to their room. “I’m making coffee.”

  He wanted to snag her hand, touch her, but she was out of his reach. “That’s great. Come back out and sit in the sun while we have a chance.”

  She looked sternly at him. “I will, and I’ll bring my laptop so I can listen to Buddy Jemmings’s oral history again.” Her forehead smoothed. “I know there’s something in that.”

  When she returned with the coffee, she placed a mug before Zach, one at her plate, and set down her laptop that had an old-fashioned DVD player.

  She didn’t open up the computer, but sat and stared at Zach. “That was a very interesting conversation you had with the Other,” she said coolly.

  Zach shrugged.

  She stared at him and he could almost see her deciding what issue she wanted to discuss first. “I can’t believe that you think the universe is . . .” she seemed to struggle with the words “fair or balanced.”

  “Like an accounting ledger.” He gave her his best smile.

  She crossed her arms and scowled.

  He drew his chair closer to hers, put his arm around her waist, and leaned toward her. He stayed that way even when she remained stiff and her body didn’t soften against his. Murmuring in her ear, he said, “I believe in justice. In the scales held by that lady. Good and evil. Evil shouldn’t have an advantage.”

  Her head went back and forth in denial, though she didn’t look up at him. “Life isn’t fair. The universe isn’t balanced. Evil isn’t always defeated.”

  He moved a hand up over her lips. “Such an optimist, you are. So let’s see, that is, listen, to the oral history again.”

  He angled the computer toward himself. She’d given him all her codes. But she put her hand over his. “I don’t appreciate you contacting the Other—”

  “Like I said, the investigation was stalled—”

  She raised her voice and spoke right over him. “Without talking to me about it first.”

  He opened his mouth. Shut it. Then said, “Shoot.”

  “Right.” She met his eyes wearing that serious look of hers. “We’re partners in this case.” Her brows came down. “And I’m the senior partner.”

  He gave her his flat cop look. She glanced away, toughened her body, and came back with an adorable scowl he didn’t quite believe.

  “Who’s going to be killing this ghost?” she asked quietly.

  He’d been scheming how he’d do that, but wasn’t stupid enough to say so.

  “I will be killing this ghost,” Clare stated. “Therefore I am senior partner for this . . . project and you will run things by me.”

  Zach kept his cop face on. “I hear you.”

  Her face tightened more, probably since she didn’t hear what she’d wanted from him.

  “I most particularly did not like that talk about people whom the knife has tasted can kill the evil ghost and die.”

  “Clare . . .”

  She turned and stared into his eyes. “This is my case, my job, Zach. I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job, or interfere.” She raised her index finger. “And even if you know how to fight better than I do. This is my case. I can survive the ghost. I don’t want you fighting it.”

  Then she put both hands on his face. “I care deeply about you, Zach. It would . . . hurt me if you got hurt.” She inhaled. “Me fighting this ghost doesn’t mean I don’t want you with me. Teamwork, Zach.”

  “Teamwork,” he echoed.

  Her eyes narrowed, her head angled. “Let me ask you this, Zach, do you have any outstanding crow prophecies? Particularly one that means death? Four for death?”

  He let out his own breath. “No.”

  “Okay then.” She took the computer and logged on; everything came up fast. Glancing at him, she said, “I can probably make you a copy of this and put it on your phone, if you want to listen, too.”

  Slightly conciliatory. He’d go with that. “Sure.”

  That was a mistake. Clare sat out at the table, her face knit in concentration, and he listened to an old and creaky guy’s thready voice fade in and out, rambling about everything—his anger at his old cabin being modernized by his grandchildren, their lack of respect, how quiet Creede was compared to the old days . . . Zach went back into the room and propped himself on the bed pillows to listen to more of it . . . and the drone popped him right into sleep.

  He woke, didn’t think he’d been out long, since the guy still nattered, and decided to get some coffee, and refresh Clare’s, too. He took the pot and limped to the open door to the balcony.

  She was taking a break, too. She moved across the balcony, might have looked as if she were doing tai chi or one of those other exercise programs. She wasn’t. She was practicing knife fighting. Poorly. Not aggressive enough, and that was a problem.

  Her body didn’t move with the suppleness that she should have. She favored her hurt ribs and sometimes put her hand on the wound she’d said the ghost had given her the first night.

  The ghost had nearly gotten her earlier. In his mind’s eye, he could see the stupid fight she’d gone to alone, how the two had hurt each other, but it had sure looked to him that Clare was getting the worst of it. Sure she’d saved Enzo, but at what cost to herself? The whole thing riled him up again.

  He withdrew and made some calls. No more than ten minutes later he went to the door, and saw whatever tiny skills she’d had, had deteriorated. It did look like lame exercising. And who had shown her such stupidity?

  Stuff that could get her killed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped.

  “I was modifying—” Her lips pressed together.

  “Modifying what?”

  Clare stared at Zach, who’d apparently picked up her anger earlier, made it his, and simmered with it until this moment.

  She shifted from foot to foot and knew even as she did that, it was the wrong thing to do. People serious about fighting didn’t do that. Like it would put them off balance or something.

  “Just where did you come up with that lame stuff?” he demanded.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CLEARING HER THROAT, and not wanting to go into an argument where everyone could see, Clare picked up her laptop and came to the door; he stepped back. She closed it behind her and gestured to the body armor atop her suitcase.

  “What’s that?”

  Considering, she thought her promise to Desiree was null. Zach had asked, and there was really only one explanation. “Our body armor.” She gave a little cough; she couldn’t help herself. “Desiree Rickman delivered it and, um, taught me some knife fighting.”

  His blue green gaze arrowed to hers. “You think?”

  “Why are you so upset?”

  “Why?” He jutted his chin. “Because from what I saw out there, you would get yourself killed next time you went up against our favorite ghost.”

  She took offense, though her insides quaked at his opinion. “What? You think a soiled dove from th
e 1890s knows more about knife fighting than me?”

  “Em-whoever.”

  “Emma.” She scowled at him. “Didn’t you listen to the history? He mentioned a prostitute named Emma was in Ford’s Exchange, his business, along with other dance hall girls, when Ford was shot.”

  Zach raised a hand as if deflecting her words, the small clue.

  “We can discuss that later.” His tone was steel. “What we’re talking about now is your extremely limited knife fighting technique.”

  “I thought I did pretty well.”

  “I saw the last of it.” His jaw tightened. Yes, he ground his teeth now. With suppressed feeling that emphasized his words, he said, “I recognized some knife-fighting moves. A few.”

  They stared at each other. She breathed heavily in and out of her nose. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really eating you?”

  “Why, by all that’s reasonable, did you do it by yourself ?!”

  Instead of shifting her feet this time, she hunkered down into her balance like her yoga teacher had taught her. “I was worried about Enzo. He was . . . my responsibility, and time was running out!”

  “Not buying this, Clare. More than an hour ago you talked about teamwork. Going to fight Emma-the-whore alone is not teamwork.”

  “Okay, okay! I had to do something! I just couldn’t sit there, no matter what, waiting and waiting and waiting when I could try and save Enzo! Maybe I couldn’t extinguish the specter, but I could, perhaps, free Enzo. And I did!” She found she was waving her arms and stopped. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d waved her arms. Her knees gave out and she thumped onto the bed.

  He rubbed his eyes. “You broke, you snapped, and I didn’t see it coming.” A slice of a hand. “That’s done and past. I’ve rented a place for your knife-fighting training. Your continued knife-fighting training.” He picked up her body armor and handed it to her. “We may as well try this out.” With complete competence, he put his on, then he came over to her.