Ghost Killer (14 page)

Following his gaze, she saw him take in the closed bar at the south end of the street,
in what she now knew was the first brick building to go up after the fire in June
1892, and she studied the old buildings as he did, the tourist shops, the restaurant,
all the way up to the next street and to the large, newer construction—the county
building. Which would, of course, house the sheriff’s department.

She sidled closer to him, leaned against his side. His arm came around her, giving
her more warmth in the cool air. No one below looked at them, and she didn’t hear
any sounds from the rooms that shared the balcony with them.

Keeping her tone light, she said, “I bet I can guess what you’re thinking.”

He grunted. They stood another few heartbeats in silence and he looked at her. “What?”

“That you want to go look at the actual site of the accident where the old lady fell
and drowned, not just the stream as we did together.” Clare grimaced, not something
she was interested in. “Then you’d like to talk to the sheriff again.”

“I’d have to talk to someone in the sheriff’s department to find out where the accidental
fall took place, maybe run it by them so I could take a look. But those Paises, elder
ex-sheriff and the younger current sheriff, weren’t welcoming.”

She gave a short laugh. “And you didn’t like that.”

He jerked a shoulder. “Who would?”

“But you want to be accepted by the local police.”

“It sure would make finding things out here a little easier.”

“You think clues in the here and now can lead to our historic ghost.”

“Yeah.”

“All right.” She pointed at him. “And you think that Pais the elder, the ex-sheriff,
would have talked to his grandson about meeting us and given the current sheriff his
observations.”

Zach stared at her, scratched his jaw. “Well, yeah, of course.”

She pursed her lips. “You think we made an acceptable impression on Pais?”

One side of his mouth lifted. “Yeah, despite what he said, despite his threat, once
he really thought about us, I believe he’d’ve revised his impression. I’m sure he’s
curious, and I think that they both will have done a deeper research run on us.”

“Oh.”

He leaned over and kissed her mouth, and she felt the teasing sweep of his tongue
on her bottom lip before he withdrew. “You’re squeaky clean.”

“Except for being thought a crazy psychic medium.”

One side of his mouth kicked up. “Well, yeah, except for that, and that’s relatively
recent.” He slanted her a look. “I wondered why you brought that up with ex-sheriff
Pais.”

She shrugged. “He asked.” Her lips curved in a wobbly smile. “I always stated my profession
up front.”

“You were an accountant.”

“A lot of people find—found—accountants boring.”

“Not me.”

“Thanks. But though I
am
changing, I can feel it, I want to keep some parts of me as much as I was as I can.”
Her smile faded. “If that makes sense. Mason Pais, Jr., asked why I was here and I
gave him a straight answer. One he might not believe, but one that reflected who I
am . . . now.” She sighed. “And I have to become used to being thought a crazy psychic
medium. That’s my life now, people doubting me. Evade or lie to them when they first
ask and later they doubt me even more.”

He kissed her. “You’re one of a kind, Clare.”

Another sigh. “I’ve been hoping that’s not true. In any event, the elder Pais asked
and I answered with the truth. Besides, I needed to emphasize that Caden is in danger
and they should be watchful.”

Zach’s fingers curved around the thin top of the rail, gripped, and released. “I’d
bet good money that the Paises—or people they asked—contacted both Mrs. Rickman and
Mrs. Flinton.”

Clare just sighed, then checked her watch. “It’s way after business hours, maybe a
volunteer from the historical society has contacted me by e-mail and we can set up
an appointment to look at the archives before Friday.”

“That would be good,” Zach said, but his stare remained focused on the county building.

“Go.” She pushed at him. “I can look at those local books I bought, if nothing else.”
She could also consider how to blood her ancestress’s darn bone knife. That was going
to take some planning.

“Right.” Zach pushed away, met her glance and stilled a second, curving his hand around
her face. “Beautiful Clare.” Another quick kiss. “Later.”

“Um-hmm.” She didn’t follow him back into the small room. Instead she wiped off the
damp remaining from the rain, snow, sleet, or the whole combination, from the table
and two chairs on their side of the balcony. Soon she heard the creaky door to the
hotel below her open, then saw Zach stride out with that old-fashioned cane he used.
Because he was studying an old-fashioned cane defense system.

She
would
have to ask him for knife lessons. Darn it.

As soon as he vanished through the side door of the beige one-story county building,
she went back into the room, and the heat of it contrasting with the outside air made
her just stand and soak it up a bit before she marched over to the thermostat. Zach
had turned it up. So thoughtful of him.

She got her tablet and checked the e-mail, nothing. She also checked her telephone
because she’d left a message at the number printed on the notice taped to the archives
window. No return call. Well, the people who helped out at the historical society
with the records would have to be volunteering their time, doing it for a love of
the history of their town and county, so no use getting upset at them for not being
available on
her
schedule.

After taking care of those two small tasks, Clare rose from the table. She couldn’t
sit, couldn’t settle down.

The amount of control she had over this situation was minuscule and she wanted to
be
doing
, even researching, more than just looking at books that might not apply to her case,
or scanning the Internet for more stories that were nothing but fictional legends.

So she paced the small room, arms wrapped around herself. She’d have included the
balcony, but she didn’t want the whole world to see how agitated she felt. Her ribs
that had cracked in her last major case ached, and she could swear that she yet felt
a twinge of where the ghost’s ice splinter had lodged during the fight the night before.

This whole business emphasized the danger of her new vocation. She considered each
of the last few weeks, and her few triumphs, as if it were a ledger sheet and had
a bottom line of whether she’d achieved her goals or not.

First, if she hadn’t accepted her gift, she would have died. She believed that implicitly
since she had been dying, freezing to death in the hottest summer on record in Denver.

She had accepted it and survived. Credit.

Second, if she accepted her gift, but didn’t use it to help ghosts, she’d go mad.

Currently her mind handled the ghosts in an orderly manner, and they appeared . . .
acceptable . . . to her inner vision, dressed in what they wore, or cared to wear,
during their lifetimes. But she vividly recalled when they’d come to her as they’d
died, burned horribly, strangled . . .

Or, even worse, when white wraiths and shredded spirits pressed around her, wailing
in her mind like banshees that wouldn’t let another single thought into her head.
She hadn’t seen or heard or experienced anything except them.

No, not at all hard to go mad under those circumstances. As far as she knew, that
particular circumstance lasted all of her life. If she didn’t use her gift she’d go
insane.

That had been close, but again she’d prevailed.

Worst of all, if she died or went mad and then died, the family gift would go to her
nine-year-old niece, Dora, who lived in Williamsburg, Virginia, and loved all things
of Colonial America. Dora might be more flexible of mind than Clare, but she sure
wasn’t ready to handle the family gift-curse. Clare had spoken to Dora last week and
the girl did want to discuss the gift and learn about it. So Clare could train her,
eventually, not too soon. As far as Clare was concerned the looming gift-curse should
not be allowed to besmirch Dora’s childhood.

Without thought, she walked back to the table and her phone and scrolled through her
contacts. When she reached Desiree Rickman, her finger hovered over the SeeAndTalk
app.

Yes, she wanted to talk to someone. Desiree Rickman was an operative, physically impressive,
both in beauty and the command she had over her body. A woman who could keep up her
end in a fight. Not at all like Clare in that area. And Desiree believed in psychic
powers, even more than Clare. That was a plus.

Most of all, she was the right gender.

Clare touched the app.

Before she could have second thoughts, Desiree’s fabulous face with a curious and
cheerful expression appeared. “Hi, Clare!”

Words fell from Clare’s lips. “Do you know how to soak a knife in blood?”

WITH JUST THE
slightest lifting of her brows, Desiree said, “Hmm. Maybe. Let’s see the knife.”

“It isn’t flat.”

Desiree nodded. “That complicates things.”

It had for Clare. She’d considered the volume she might need to soak the knife. Not
really much if it was just the blade, which was thin, but for the hilt? That was a
good two inches or so. She wanted to give up no more blood than necessary.

“Let’s see the blade,” Desiree repeated.

Clare hesitated. The knife drew the ghost, but how likely was the ghost going to want
to confront the blade? The specter hadn’t liked the weapon the night before; Clare
had sensed that.

As far as Clare knew, apparitions didn’t get any extra-intelligence about supernatural
things after death. Surely the monster didn’t know Clare would have to . . . bloody . . .
the knife before it could really hurt the thing. “Just a minute,” Clare said.

“I’ll wait.”

Going with instinct, Clare opened the blinds behind the windows, pushed back the white
curtains, and let in the sun. Then she stilled and listened . . . or sensed . . .
the whistle of the breeze, the frost-white color of the light snow on the hills, the
feeling of mad evil. The thing was up in the canyon, beyond Bachelor Loop, far up
West Willow Creek.

From what she’d observed, ghosts could move in various fashions—glide, float, appear
from one place to another instantaneously. But in the back of her mind, Clare sensed
that this ghost liked to come with the wind.

She could do this fast. So she moved the tube containing the knife onto the bed and
in the bright autumn sunlight. “Working on this now,” she said, propping her phone
close so Desiree could see.

“Oooh, pretty,” the other woman said. “Nice silk sheath. The blade is sheathed, too?”

“Yes.” Clare untied the first knot in the red tassels. Her fingers were becoming accustomed
to the pattern Zach had made. “Ah, something you should know about the knife, um.”

“What?”

“Um, it’s bone.”

Of course Desiree asked the question Clare had hoped to dodge.

“What kind of bone?”

Heat from embarrassment flushed Clare’s skin and she blinked because it felt good.
Despite the heat of the room, she’d been cold without realizing it, and, under the
circumstances, that sounded dangerous.

“The bone is from one of my ancestress’s femurs.”

Even in the small app, Clare could see Desiree’s eyes widen. “That is so cool.”

Clare undid the last knot, hesitated. “Look closely and quickly because this is a
supernatural knife. It will draw evil.”

Desiree’s brows climbed. “Wow.” Her gaze sharpened.

Quickly pulling on the silk and the hilt of the knife, Clare separated the two, then
yanked the blade from the metal sheath and held it in the sun. Now she saw the blade,
too, carried a slight gloss that shone along it—from hands that had caressed the blade
itself? From blood? From killing evil ghosts?

“Wow. Excellent,” Desiree stated in a more professional tone. “Looks sharp, like it
would do the job.”

Clare jerked her head in a nod. “Yes, it should kill the ghost.”

“Clare, it could kill almost anything else. Especially if it’s supernatural.”

After swallowing, Clare said, “Oh. I understand.”

“And you need to soak it in blood?” Desiree confirmed.

Clare nodded. There’d been no hint of a breeze, but now she saw tree leaves dipping.
“I must put it back.” She grabbed the metal sheath with the mesmerizing blue and gold
pattern, the silk tube, and slipped the knife in it, her fingers working to tie a
knot. Not a very intricate knot. She’d have to study up.

The hair on the back of her neck, on her arms, ruffled. Yes, the ghost was headed
this way but, perhaps . . . the sunshine . . . the lingering hurt from last night . . .
a touch of fear slowed it. And it stopped in a comfortable place, the spar near the
information boards at the confluence of the East and West Willow creeks.

Interesting that the entity considered that spot comfortable. Clare didn’t think it
was coincidence that a murder-suicide had occurred there.

“Clare, honey, are you there?” Desiree said.

Clare jolted away from the sensation of being north of there. “Oh, Desiree. Sorry.”

“With regard to the soaking in blood thing. Whose blood?”

“Mine.”

Desiree nodded. “I thought so. If you want my opinion—”

“Sure.”

“I saw that you removed the blade from a sheath. Have you considered how liquid-proof
the inside of the sheath is?”

Clare gasped. “That’s brilliant.” She tilted her head. “I’d have to find a way to
brace the sheath and get a good flow into it . . . and enough light to see into the
sheath so I don’t let it overflow too much . . . then I’ll work on soaking the hilt.
Thanks, Desiree!”

“Wait, Clare—”

But Clare tapped her finger against the app and Desiree disappeared. Clare had a deep
suspicion that if she even flickered an eyelash that Desiree construed as Clare needing
help, the woman would be on the next private plane here. Clare didn’t need to watch
out for her, too. Regardless of all Desiree’s martial arts or street fighting training
and experience, Clare was pretty darn sure that Desiree would be helpless in the face
of this threat and more a hindrance than an asset.

Desiree saw auras of those who were alive. She didn’t even sense or feel the cold
of ghosts. Her gift was for life. Clare had no idea if the ghost would be more dangerous
to Desiree or not, but Clare sure didn’t want to chance it. Not only was Desiree becoming
a friend, but Clare thought she herself might have a fatal accident at Tony Rickman’s
hands if something happened to Desiree because of Clare.

Just as well both Rickmans were out of town, out of the situation. She sank onto the
bed in the sunlight that was fading from a bright square back to a barely there shade
of gray. Glancing out the window, she saw clouds rolling over the hills again, and
she couldn’t tell if that was natural or due to the ghost. Probably natural. Probably.
Autumn could tip into winter and back and edge into Indian summer.

She let her eyes unfocus, calmed enough to try and clear her mind so she could perceive
the ghost, hoping that the wraith itself was too busy-minded and emotionally wrecked
to pick up Clare in return. Because she was still too close if it moved quickly.

Clare would have to weigh her options—how fast she might bleed into the sheath, something
she had no clue about, though if it were a math problem with volume, she might be
able to figure it out.

Not to mention what kind of tube or other container she might need for the hilt.

She recalled that the bone blade had liked blood, maybe it would speed up things,
since it was supernatural and all. She found her teeth hurt because she’d clenched
them.

But she
wouldn’t
allow fear to overcome her. Breathing deeply and running through famous quotes about
not letting fear stop her . . . she dredged up all the determination she could, headed
for the table with the books she’d purchased, and began another, deeper, online search
about Robert Ford, Creede, and the history of the year of 1892 in the booming silver
mining camp.

*   *   *

Zach had just reached the door to the sheriff’s office inside the county building
when a deputy sheriff and the elder Mason Pais walked out.

Pais inclined his head. “Slade.” The older man stood solidly at the threshold, the
door open a crack behind them.

“Pais.”

The deputy hesitated then left about his business.

“Something I can do for you?” the ex-sheriff questioned.

“Thought I’d ask if I could see the place where Mrs. Tewksbury fell.”

“Not much to see,” Pais said.

Shrugging, Zach responded, “Helps me if I examine the scene.”

Pais’s expression soured and he grunted but didn’t move. Obviously he didn’t want
Zach bothering his grandson, the sheriff.

Zach didn’t move either. Standoff.

The door opened wide behind them, and the younger Pais, the sheriff, stood as tall
but not quite as broad behind his grandfather, then shifted so he could see Zach.
“You working for Tony? Rickman?”

Leaning on his cane, Zach met the men’s stares in turn, first the older, then the
younger who held the authority here, even if the elder didn’t seem as if he completely
ceded it. “That’s right.”

The cop and ex-cop studied him with similar expressions, probably figuring Zach might
be more controllable if he worked for Rickman instead of a loose cannon. One or both
of them might know Tony; one or both of them might have spoken with Rickman. Zach
wondered what Rickman might have said about Clare. No one was going to treat Clare
with disrespect when Zach was around. But he wasn’t going to open that ghost-seer
can of worms.

“There’s not much to see,” Sheriff Pais said finally. “But I wouldn’t put it past
you to follow the creek until you found our tape, so let me give you directions.”

“I can run him out to the scene of the accidental death,” Pais the elder said.

“All right,” the sheriff snapped, then stepped back and shut the door.

Neither Pais nor Zach commented on the sheriff’s attitude when they went to the parking
lot outside the side entrance of the building.

As they walked out of the county building, Pais matched Zach’s stride and they both
eyed each other with the same cop stares. The guy reached the door to the parking
lot first and held it for Zach.

Nothing to do but accept the courtesy and go out. “Thanks.”

Pais paused with Zach, glanced down at his cane and his bum left leg. “I recollected
what happened to you last year. Made news here, too.”

“Especially in certain circles,” Zach said, and he could talk of the incident without
heat now, a plus.

“Cop circles. Yeah.” The ex-sheriff adjusted his cowboy hat. “Reminded us all to keep
on our toes.”

“Got that.”

Loud sobbing came from behind them. Zach turned and pulled open the glass door.

A small blond woman whispered, “Thanks.”

“Hello, Linda,” Pais said, and a note of . . . hesitation? . . . disapproval? . . .
both? in his voice alerted Zach.

“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your sister and brother-in-law.”

The woman made a futile gesture, gulped, and pulled out a pad of tissues from her
pocket. “I’m just here to take care of some of Lucy’s bequests.” She wiped her eyes
and stumbled over the threshold. Zach reached out and steadied her. “Easy, ma’am.”

“Yes. Thank you,” she replied in a suffocated voice and nearly fled from them to a
new silver BMW convertible.

Zach stared at Pais, who kept a stone face. Obviously the guy didn’t want to talk
about the woman, not even an off-hand remark, and that particular attitude from this
particular man sent prickles of interest down Zach’s spine. Something to pay attention
to here, note, and find out more about Linda later.

Pais indicated a big and battered gray truck several years old, a vehicle that might
have belonged once to the sheriff’s office. As Mason Pais, Jr., had.

Zach glanced toward the hotel balcony; empty, no Clare.

In less than ten minutes they were downstream standing within the police tape.

The sheriff was right. Not much to see at the site of Mrs. Tewksbury’s fall. Zach
scrutinized the area, shook his head, rose from his crouch, leaned on his cane. “No
sign of anyone else except the old lady until you all arrived on the scene?”

“You’re right. We got the call–”

“We?” Zach raised his brows.

Pais Jr. flushed. “The sheriff’s office.”

Zach smiled. “I bet you have a police scanner at home.”

The man pulled his cowboy hat lower. “You would win that bet.” He cleared his throat.
“I happened to live closer than any of the men in this instance.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You examine the scene enough?” Pais asked.

“Yeah.” Zach eyeballed up and down the creek in the flume, looked at backs of the
houses that lined it.

Pais jerked his chin at a white house. “That’s where Mrs. Tewksbury lived. No, I ain’t
gonna take you to talk to her companion, her daughter-in-law, who’s all broken up
about the accident and tendin’ to blame herself.”

“Nothing I like more than interrogating grieving people,” Zach said. He went to the
truck, opened the door, and hauled himself inside. The short trip to the county building
passed silently, though Zach noticed a new silver BMW parked on the street near Pico’s
Patio. Lunch . . . and a little investigation . . . sounded good.

He thanked Pais and headed back to the hotel and Clare. When he walked back into the
room, she sat on the bed looking at the big book of old time photographs of Creede.

“I take it no one from the historical society has called,” he said.

“Not yet.”

“So we don’t have an appointment to view whatever offerings the archives and historical
society has.”