Ghost Killer (11 page)

When he’d offered to get her bags, he’d thought he’d grab some small amount of breathing
room, of thinking room, for himself. Now he wasn’t sure if she really understood he
was in the same room as she.

Putting the mug of water back on the small coffee tray on the vanity, he stepped up
to the bed and took the wipe from her, sat next to her, and cleaned her left foot,
too. They were scraped from running across the gravelly sidewalk to the LuCettes’.

When her soles were as clean as he thought they’d get without a shower, he pulled
the covers down and encouraged her to tuck herself in. Then he turned off the lights;
took off his shoes, socks, braces; and spooned against her.

God. He’d almost lost her. The thought cycled around and around, churning his whole
system. They’d become too close; he couldn’t lose her now without damage to himself,
and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

The four-letter “l” word hovered in his mind, but he shied away from forming it even
mentally. Too soon. Too quickly.

But he couldn’t lose Clare.

She worried that she was dependent on him. That she wasn’t an equal partner in this
relationship. That he didn’t allow her to help him, and that made her lesser, or him
more stubborn, or something.

Just last night they’d argued and he’d had to do some heavy thinking about his past
and
his
psychic woo-woo Counting Crows Rhyme predictions thing . . . and his lost brother.
Tough relationship stuff. But, by God, he’d take all that gut-twisting emotional relationship
business instead of this ghost killing crap any day.

He
needed
Clare . . . needed her support . . . needed her to help him make sense of the supernatural
world, hers and his, that they lived in now . . . and thinking of that, he opened
his eyes to see a faint ivory glow from the vanity, emanating from the cloth tube
of the knife.

Tonight had scared him shitless. Those awful sounds, rumbling growls as if some beast
hunted, the child’s screams. Clare’s actions.

He didn’t think he’d been so scared in his life—at least not since his childhood when
his brother Jim had been shot in a drive-by because Jim had thought Zach had angrily
gone off from their new home on the military base.

No, Zach didn’t want to think of that. When he’d depended on that sixth sense he and
Jim had shared, knowing where the other was, and that had failed. Except
that
memory loomed in his mind and his heart, echoed in his body as his first big mistake,
his first failure.

His parents had promised him that the next time they moved quarters to a new base,
he’d have permission to leave it. They’d reneged. Angry, he’d left—but hadn’t gone
off base, though he said he would. Jim, older at sixteen,
had
gone off base.

Zach had thought the psychic link he’d shared with Jim would let his brother know
where he was. But it had failed. Then came a long and agonizing wait until they learned
Jim had died. Their family had been smashed to smithereens.

Yeah, his first whopping life mistake.

The second one had gotten him shot and crippled earlier in the year.

He would
not
fail to protect Clare, would
not
lose her.

When he closed his eyes, etched on his inner vision was that whirling mass of
something
. He’d felt the evil, the awful hunger to
feed.

He didn’t know what Clare had seen, heard, sensed. To him, it had looked like a whipped-up
white-out ball of a snowstorm, rotating fast with bits of sharp-edged rock, big like
the spike that had gone into the throat of one of the hunters, and small like gravel,
and shiny bits of pointy metal, razors . . . or teeth. Maybe teeth, supernatural teeth.

And maybe he was letting his imagination get the better of him. Who’d ever heard of
metal shark-like teeth in a ghost, or a snowstorm?

But now he heard the wind pick up outside . . . wailing like a lost soul . . . like
many ghosts that had been eaten by one voracious spirit.

Clare shivered in his arms, and he took a soft, small feather pillow and put it over
her ear and hugged her closer, until they touched.

He was so scared his dick was limp, a first this near to Clare.

And he hadn’t told her of the crows he’d seen on their short journey from the LuCettes’
place to here in the middle of the night. The one crow—sorrow—he had plenty of sorrow
and worry for Clare and Caden and all of Creede right now. Check one prediction off
the list.

Two sets of four crows.

Four for death.

He shivered at that one.

Clare murmured and wiggled closer and he wrapped his arms around her and felt her,
warm and alive. She’d be back to her vibrant self tomorrow. He hoped.

He wouldn’t allow death to take her. He’d find some way to protect her, no matter
the cost.

ZACH WOKE EARLIER
than Clare, but still kept her in his arms. The morning was too quiet, even for the
deserted business district of a small town soon after dawn. No birdsong. Clare’s house
had trees and birds greeting the sun in the morning. So did his apartment at Mrs.
Flinton’s.

No birds here, and there should have been. The inn was barely two stories with trees
along the south side of the building and one in the front, close to their west-facing
room.

They hadn’t paid any attention to the thermostat when they’d come in, and the room
felt too cool. And if it was too cool for him, it would be chilly for Clare, who’d
be sensitive to cold for the rest of her life.

He rolled from the bed and Clare grumbled, her expression scrunching. Her arm flailed
as if searching for him, then tucked in under the quilt. He liked that she wanted
him near, but it made his heart squeeze at how close they’d become. Even in the low
morning light, an ominous feeling lingered.

Padding over to the thermostat, he turned it up, then eyed the 1905 room dimensions.
Small, with small furnishings. The room held only the double bed, the vanity, a table
and a chair, and an antique wood and porcelain wash basin next to a screen in the
corner. The television was mounted on the wall over the table. He dragged on a pair
of jeans and, moving quietly, he opened the outside door to the balcony just enough
to step into the more than bracing air. Since it was only a few degrees above freezing,
he couldn’t stand out here long. The steep hills shadowed the empty street, and Zach
sensed the shade was more than thick clouds blocking the rising sun. The crazy ghost
had smudged the town. He blinked and thought he saw ominous layers, as if last night
had just been another coating.

Nope, no birds. And, thankfully, no crows.

Goose bumps rose and his nose twitched at an odd smell . . . maybe a hint of sulfur.
He didn’t think it came from him, but hell, he needed coffee and a shower for sure.
Sliding back into the room, he welcomed the heat. With a last glance at Clare, he
put on some clean sweatpants, took the bathroom key and his kit, and headed for the
shower.

Zach knew small towns. He’d worked as a deputy sheriff in lightly populated counties
for more than half a decade, moving west from the eastern seaboard cities where he’d
started his career as a cop.

There’d be a place where the locals would gossip during breakfast of the events of
the night. Both this place, the Jimtown Inn, and the LuCettes’ motel offered breakfast
along with night stays, and the restaurant here was open to the public for all meals
until next month.

The chef here had a better rep. If Zach were local, he’d come here . . . unless rumor
and gossip were rampant about what had gone on in the early morning at the LuCettes’.
Then folks would go there to get the scoop.

Interesting that the LuCettes hadn’t called the sheriff while he and Clare were there.
But Zach’s gut clenched at the thought that Caden’s parents really hadn’t experienced
much other than their boy’s screaming from a nightmare and Clare and him coming to
their door looking wasted.

Could the LuCettes’ senses be that dull?

Even in his prior career, even before the shooting, he’d been aware that inexplicable
stuff happened. Weird stuff.

Now it looked like he was becoming an expert on weird stuff.

Maybe none of the people staying with the LuCettes had noticed anything unusual either.
When he’d driven away, he’d counted twelve cars. Be interesting to see how many were
there this evening.

While he considered things, he wondered where the local cops—Mineral County sheriff
deputies—ate to keep their ears to the ground, their fingers on the pulse of their
town. Even better would be to know where they traded info, but Zach figured that would
be in the county building—the courthouse and sheriff’s department—diagonally across
the street from this hotel, where he couldn’t easily eavesdrop.

When he returned, Clare was up, had made the bed, folded his clothes from yesterday,
and placed them atop his suitcase. She wore the fluffy hotel robe, still looked more
fragile than he wanted. “Good morning,” she said.

Just words. She didn’t think the morning was any better than he did. “Good mornin’.”

She brushed a kiss over his lips, snagged the bathroom key from his fingers, and left.

A few minutes later, he heard several voices in the hallway through the thin plank
door. A couple of them held Texan accents—and Clare responded to morning courtesies
with the other guests.

He opened the room door for her so she wouldn’t have to stand in the tiny hall and
use the key. She walked in, her face flushed above the thick white hotel robe. He
nodded to the two large people as they passed his and Clare’s room and headed singly
down the stairs.

A little nosey, Zach stood by the open crack of the room door. The Texan tourists
spoke of the good breakfast they anticipated and the classic car they’d brought up
for the Cruisin’ the Canyon show. As their voices rose from the nearly vertical staircase,
they commented on how they might want to drive Bachelor Loop and see the old mines . . .
and where the hunters died.

The rumor mill was fast in this particular small town if visitors had already heard
about the deaths. They must have picked up the gossip at dinner the night before,
though Zach didn’t recall seeing them at Pico’s Patio, which he’d figured was where
town people ate out.

He closed the door and turned toward Clare. “You look better.”

“Thanks a lot.” She grimaced. Then she sent him that flirty glance of hers, grabbed
the clothes she’d laid out atop her bag on the luggage rack, and disappeared behind
the screen in the corner. She tossed the robe over the top of the screen and rustling
came to his ears. His blood heated just from imagining her nude. He cleared his throat.
“I think your bedroom at your house could do with a screen. Do you have one?”

Her head popped around the side, showing a shoulder with no bra strap. His dick hardened.
This not-quite-naked, not-quite-dressed tease show really worked. Her eyes sparkled.
“I have three.”

“We’ll, uh, have to check them out.” His mind spun a bit with consideration and input
from his body. “Maybe a thin one, like one of those Japanese screens.” Where he could
see her outline as she undressed and dressed. He swallowed.

“I don’t have a shoji screen.” She walked out dressed in jeans and a tank under another
very soft sweater, probably another cashmere one, in deep blue that showed off the
auburn glints in her hair. “But I have one of those old-fashioned screens with gathered
material.” She tilted her head. “Muslin or linen, perhaps.”

“Uh-huh.” Clearing his throat, he said, “You really want to go down to breakfast?”
Though it would be better for her than sex. Really. She still looked pale to him.
He told his dick to subside. It didn’t listen. Good thing his jeans were old and a
little loose.

“I’m hungry, and the Jimtown Inn Restaurant is supposed to have great food. We paid
for breakfast, I’m sure, and there are probably specific hours we can eat.” She pulled
the robe off the screen and hung it on a hanger from the short wooden pole with a
shelf above that stood in for a closet. She turned and blinked at the door next to
the window as if she hadn’t seen it before. “What’s that?”

“Door to the balcony.”

Her face lit. “We have a balcony?”

“Yeah. We share it with the other two rooms that face the front, the Commodore and
the Jackpot. We can look out on the busy nightlife of Creede.”

“Nice.” But she didn’t check it out. Instead she came and kissed him on the lips.
He smelled her ginger-orange travel shampoo and mint toothpaste. Perked his dick up
more. Hell with it. He pulled out his dark blue flannel shirt and let it hang outside
his jeans; the bottom was square cut, no tails.

Clare raised her brows and gave him a cheeky grin. “Let’s eat.”

He nodded and picked up his cane, opened the door for her, and let her precede him
into the hall that barely held two people side by side. She went down the stairs first,
then through the door to the restaurant that had been locked when they’d come in the
night before. When he caught up with her, he put a hand on her arm to slow her down
before she was much into the big, empty outer dining room so he could check it.

The chamber appeared to be the original hotel lobby, converted to a more profitable
room as part of the restaurant. He kept their pace slow as they moved toward the chatter
coming from the wide doorway to a second room, dipped his head to murmur in her ear,
“I want to sit near where the locals congregate.”

Her eyes showed surprise, then she nodded. They walked into the second large room,
this one with tablecloths, silverware, cloth napkins, and juice goblets at the ready.
The Texan couple sat next to one of the windows. Closer to the back of the room and
the huge carved wooden bar was a large round table that held several people who seemed
less touristy in dress and attitude.

The hostess came up to them. “You must be the Slades in the Holy Moses Room.”

“That’s us,” Zach said. Clare frowned but didn’t contradict him. Zach indicated a
table next to the one that held residents and the waitress led them there.

They’d no sooner ordered the morning’s special omelettes before a man walked through
the front door of the restaurant. The locals focused on the newcomer who wore dark
jeans, a plaid red flannel shirt, and an insulated vest. His expression raw, the man
took the seat that his friends had saved for him.

He folded into the chair, ran his hand through his thinning silver hair. “Christ,
what a morning. Day’s already shot to hell and gone.”

“What’s up, Bill?”

Bill’s mouth turned down. “Pais wanted to see me.”

“The sheriff?”

“Yeah, about my group hunting license for bobcat.”

Another man in a gray plaid shirt grunted. “Envied you that when you got it in the
draw.”

“Yeah, thought I was lucky. They jerked the license,” Bill said with bitterness.

“Jerked it because of those jerks Ross and Burk,” added a third man, thin with a wrinkled
face and an edgy smile.

“Yeah. Christ. Now I can’t even use it when hunting season starts.” Bill rubbed his
face. “I can’t believe Ross and Burk went out.”

“Wanted to see how their new rifles worked, most likely,” said a solid woman who’d
just nodded to Bill when he’d come in and continued knitting some pink thing. She
pursed her lips and shook her head. “Heard them talking about that at Pico’s Patio
night before last. Not to speak ill of the dead, but Ross and Burk cut corners, all
five years they’ve been coming up here, Bill, and you shoulda known that.”

“City people,” gray plaid sneered.

“Yeah, yeah.” Bill flipped over a coffee mug and someone slid a carafe to him. He
poured the drink and chugged it. With a sideways glance at the knitter, Bill said,
“Not to speak ill of the dead, but, Jesus, they really screwed me over.” More glugging
of coffee. “Didn’t wait until my license was good and got one of those damn Canada
lynx that were just reintroduced instead of a bobcat. What a cluster—” He stopped
abruptly when the middle-aged waitress appeared with a pad. “I’ll take the huevos
rancheros, Pearl. Sorry for the language, ladies.”

“Everybody’s on edge,” the knitter said. Her needles stopped a moment and she rolled
her neck. Zach heard the pop of vertebrae from where he sat. His gaze cut to Clare
and her wide eyes showed she listened, too.

“Did you hear the wind last night?” The woman shivered. “I don’t recall the wind being
that rough at this time of year ever before. Really cold, especially after such a
warm summer.”

Gray plaid grunted. “No wind in Wagon Wheel Gap.”

“Fierce and nasty in town,” the thin guy said. “Didn’t like it at all.”

“Me neither,” said the waitress. “Anyone want anything else?”

A chorus of negatives.

“I’ll get those eggs. Sorry about your trouble, Bill.” The waitress paused. “I heard
Ross’s and Burk’s deaths were strange? Rockfall splinters.” She shuddered.

“Fu—, shoot, yeah,” Bill said. He rubbed his face. “One in the head, the other in
the throat. I’ll remember that for a long time. Glad I don’t have to deal with their
wives. Don’t think I’ve ever had a decent conversation with the women. The sheriff
is handling that, thank Christ.”

“Strange,” repeated the waitress.

The knitter stopped, swept a glance around the table. “Lotta strange stuff going on
lately.” Her shoulders hunched. “I don’t like it. Maybe I’ll go see my folk in Grand
Junction.” She glanced at the thin guy. “What do you think? Shall we go see my sister
in Grand Junction?” He shifted in his seat, scowled, then finally said, “After Cruisin’
in the Canyon.” Mumbling, he added, “If stuff gets worse.”

“Speaking of strange,” gray plaid said, “I heard that the LuCette kid had screaming
nightmares bad enough to make a couple of people check out in the middle of the night.”