Ghost Killer (10 page)

WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!
demanded the Other, who’d taken over Enzo.

She didn’t bother to answer, just rushed over to the LuCettes’ living quarters where
lights went on. Caden continued screaming, and some massive gray white swirling mass
with
black
lightning roiled around the door.

SHE SHOULD YELL
herself, let out all her fear and her anger and her determination in some war cry.
She didn’t know one. She leveled the knife, silk tube and all, and charged at the
thing, speared it on one of its frayed edges. Darn it, she must do better!

HURT! Hurts! What is this? Ghost . . . layer . . . ghost . . . killer. NO!
It whirled to her, the mass hit her, the freezing, blinding snowstorm of it.

Must. Keep. Moving. She couldn’t feel her feet, her hands. Pretend they were there.
Slash! Stab!

Don’t do this!
the Other thundered in her mind, all rolling and roaring, drowning out the faint
mind wisps of the thing she battled. The whispers that slid across her skin like slime,
speaking of sin. Of hunger. She thought she felt the nibble of little sharp teeth
gouging into her.

The door to the apartment opened! Oh, no!

“What’s going on!” This shouted in male and female voices.

Zach cursing, really cursing, using words she hadn’t heard from him before. The knife
swept from her hand.

No! No!
This time a high-pitched Enzo, pushing out the Other? Would no one shut up so she
could fight this thing?

I will bite it. I will!
Enzo jumped into the nightmare snow whirl. Black lightning struck around him, struck
him.

Clare surged into the thing, too, hands clawed. She fought and breathed in ice, and
since her mouth was open and snow fell into it, she
bit.

Loud, hideous shrieking or sobbing. Maybe Clare’d hurt it again! The storm moved
through
her, worse, worse, worse than any ghost she’d felt before. One voice became a multitude,
whimpering or furious, or screaming. She doubled over as a sharp shard-like a hook
dragged through her. Just closed that visualization down, blanked her mind. The specter
wasn’t going to use her own fears on her.

“Robert Ford, we know you!” Zach’s harsh voice impinged on Clare.

The icy hook ripped as deep, wild grief flooded her—emotions from the ghost . . .
then . . . guilt?

Then the thing was out of her and she shook, head to toe, and as she did, small icicles
fell from her.

Her vision cleared enough for her to see Caden collapsed on the floor, hands over
his ears, shuddering.

Alive.

A man scooped him up. Square body type and rawboned, red blond hair cut short, he
was younger than Clare and Zach.

“Clare.” Caden held out his hand to her, tear tracks showing on his face. “Clare,
you saved me.”

Just breathing hurt; standing was a challenge.

“Clare?” snapped the man.

“We
will
talk, Ms. Cermak,” a pale Mrs. LuCette said. “Come in.” Her round chin set. “Bring
Mr. Slade and that . . . that . . . thing he is carrying.”

Clare shuffled in. Zach’s arm came around her waist and it felt like a hot iron bar.
Not quite searing, but uncomfortable. Slowly she straightened her spine, bit by bit
until she no longer stooped and she could move a little faster, away from Zach.

Mrs. LuCette indicated a country-style sofa of blue and white plaid and Zach helped
Clare control her fall to it.

“She came to help me. And she
did
. She made the evil ghost go away.” Caden cried, his tears shading his eyes all the
bluer and magnifying them. Snot ran from his nose. Poor child.

“What are you talking about?” Mr. LuCette asked.

“Gram sent them. Sent Clare, who sees ghosts like I do and
fights
them! I’m glad she’s here.” He stuck out his bottom lip.

“I thought we agreed we wouldn’t talk about this anymore.” Mrs. LuCette frowned.

“No. You told me I couldn’t. I didn’t say I would. That’s not the same.”

Caden’s parents glared at Zach and her. Clare could feel the heat of their anger.

“Is it true my grandmother sent you?” demanded Mrs. LuCette.

Clare managed to drop her chin and heft it up again in a difficult nod.

Zach said, “That’s right. Mrs. Flinton’s worried about Caden and we believe she has
cause.”

“We don’t,” rasped Mr. LuCette. “We don’t like her interference in our parenting,
and we don’t like her odd notions.”

Zach said, “Something strange is definitely going on in this canyon—”

“You’re wrong there,” said Mr. LuCette. “Nothing happened, but Caden had a nightmare
and went screaming to the door, and you were outside.”

Clare could feel Zach’s irritation, too—as if some of her normal senses had shut down
or been scorched away—her hearing went in and out—but other, unusual, senses had kicked
in.

“You mean the number of deaths here lately is usual.” A statement, not a question
from Zach.

“I don’t think we need to talk about this before Caden.” Mrs. LuCette and her husband
shared a glance.

“We’re asking you to leave,” Mr. LuCette announced. “We don’t want you staying here
in our establishment.”

“I should have a say in this, too,” Caden protested. “I like them and I want them
to stay.”

“You’re seven,” Mrs. LuCette said, “and not an adult, with an adult’s
mature
judgment.” Obviously she didn’t think Clare or Zach had mature judgment.

Zach waited a few seconds before he answered. “I think you should take time to consider
your choices. Send Caden to his grandmother, leave town yourselves . . .”

“No,” Mr. LuCette stated.

Caden began weeping.

“He’s overtired. I’ll put him back in bed,” said Michael LuCette. “Don’t be here when
I come back.”

“Consider us gone,” Zach said in a hard voice. Then he softened it and said, “Good
night, Caden. Hasta la vista.” He stood. Clare didn’t think her knees worked, like
so much else in her body. “We’ll be at the Jimtown Inn.”

The world swooped around her as Zach picked her up. Wow. He carried her outside and
to the car—she didn’t know how, but his gait did feel odd—opened the door, and stuck
her in. “You just sit here. I’ll handle everything.”

“I . . . can—”

“Sit. Be quiet.”

He hopped in the driver’s seat just enough to turn on the car and heater.

So cold. So scared. The cold would fade; Clare thought the scared would live in her
bones forever. Such a coward, she was. She closed her eyes, but saw the white and
swirling mess again, and this time in the jagged black lightning flashes—or light-eating
streaks—heavily lashed brown eyes stared at her. Creepy.

She heard Zach coming back, rolling two bags. So he must have put on the shoe brace
and the ankle and leg brace and wasn’t using his cane. The trunk opened and a few
seconds later closed and he came to her again. He took her foot in his hands and slipped
a sock and shoe on it, did the same with the other, then threaded her arms through
her jacket.

“Thanks,” she said, or meant to. Her mouth formed the word but nothing came out.

He kissed her forehead, put her tote in next to her feet. She saw her purse in there . . .
and the knife. He swung her legs around. She had to snap out of this, contribute,
be an equal partner,
not
be dependent. But reality seemed one pace away from the mists moving around her,
as if she’d stepped into the ghost no-where and could look out, but not get out. She
had to think.

Nothing came to mind.

Zach shut her door and joined her in the front. “I repacked your suitcase, so it won’t
look like you did it. Double-checked that I have everything of ours. We’re ready to
roll.”

Okay.
But she’d only thought that and hadn’t said it.

They drove through the streets that were punctuated with few lights from homes and
businesses along the way. Clare’s continual trembling calmed to a shudder now and
then. She tried, tried again, and said through cold lips, “I don’t know what’s wrong
with me.”

“Shock.” He sounded furious.

“Oh.” A thought shimmered. This felt a lot like when she’d been denying her gift and
going mad as scary ghosts haunted her . . . and like freezing to death. Yes, that
was the downside of her gift. If she didn’t accept it, she’d die. But she had! A spurt
of anger heated her. She had accepted that she had a gift to see apparitions, to help
wraiths move from this world—this gray featureless world—and onto whatever was next.

And she’d
worked
at her new, unwanted, vocation. She
had
helped ghosts pass on. Yes, the downside of
not
helping was to go mad. No choice in any of that, but she’d come to value her gift,
and she’d certainly done the best that she could. She should not be sitting here,
stressed to the max, like a bump on a log. She should be acting.

Zach stopped in the business district just below the canyon and helped her from the
car, slid her tote over her shoulder. She couldn’t turn her head to see it. Her vision
had narrowed too much. Must still be in shock. Get over it! But though her mind struggled,
it couldn’t quite leave the gray.

She managed to leave the truck under her own power, stood, and followed Zach past
a lavender door and up an extremely steep flight of stairs wide enough for only one
person. Yes, she recognized a turn-of-the-twentieth-century hotel when she was in
one. They took the first door on the left, with the name “Holy Moses,” . . . one of
the local mines.

Zach opened that door, too. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “This is the only room available,
and the bathroom is down the hall.”

Clare looked down the hall, not more than fifteen feet away. There were only five
other doors. Small hotel.

“No problem,” she squeaked.

Zach’s smile lit his eyes and triumph seeped warmly through her. She’d accomplished
a two-word sentence, very good.

Clearing her voice, she entered the small room. “How did we get this room so fast?”

“There was a mix-up I didn’t tell you about. Samantha, Rickman’s assistant, booked
the most ‘atmospheric’ hotel for us. This one. But even though it was built in 1905,
it’s on the site of other buildings that were here earlier. Noted for its ghosts.
By the time Rickman corrected her error, and told her to get us reservations at the
LuCettes’, it was too late to cancel, so I let it stand.”

“Uh huh. Getting to know you, Zach. Having this room was also backup.”

“And we needed it, didn’t we?”

Nodding was easier now. There was an old painted wooden vanity with a mirror in a
curvy frame immediately to her left. She put down the tote. “Another place I couldn’t
usually stand because of spooks, huh?”

“That’s right. I’ll get our stuff.”

Clare thought of the nearly vertical stairs. “I don’t need anything tonight.”

Zach’s face hardened as if he thought she tried to spare him the truth. “Nothing else
but you,” she said. She tried a weak smile. “We’re already dressed for bed.”

His stance eased. “Right. No one’s here at the hotel to check in with.” He nodded
at the vanity. “They left the outer door and this room door unlocked for us.” He shook
his head. “Trusting folk, but all the businesses around here are closed. It’s too
late.” He looked at the bed set into an alcove just its size and grunted. “Double
bed.”

“All the better to be close to you,” Clare said. Yes. Thank heavens, her mind was
coming back online. She leaned over and pulled out her purse.

Zach walked over to take it from her and she wouldn’t let him. “I need it.”

“Why?”

She sniffed. “My feet must be filthy. I have damp wipes.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped in and wrapped her close. “My God, Clare. My God.”

“You saw it, too,” she said.

“I’m not sure what I saw or felt. But there was some
thing,
and damn, I fought it, too.”

They stood for a few minutes until she shifted foot to foot. “My feet feel grimy.”
She pulled away.

Zach plucked the purse from her loose grip and handed her the wipes. Then he poured
her a mug of water from one of the bottles he’d pulled from her tote, glad that his
hand was steady.

A splash of water hit his shoe. Nope, his hands were shakier than he’d thought. God.
He’d almost lost her. Lost Clare. Panic sweat began to dry on his body. Regular sweat,
too. And the standard exertion sweat when he fought the—thing, the snowstorm from
hell—when he’d strained his physical limits to run with his disability, to carry Clare
when his foot didn’t work right.

The panic sweat had come first, because of his fear for Clare. “Are you sure you want
to sleep in those pajamas?” Knowing her, she should have another set or a nightgown
or something in her bag. She wouldn’t pack just one thing, even for five days. Though
he figured she
could
close the case in five days—four now, counting all day Friday—she didn’t have that
faith in herself. And packing was one of the few things she could control in this
whole situation.

“Clare?” She sat, pasty white with an overlay of her own drying sweat, scrubbing and
scrubbing at her right foot as if she’d started the action and couldn’t think of anything
else to do. This was not his Clare—dull, unresponsive.