Ghost Killer (24 page)

CLARE’S TIMING WAS
good. She got to the empty parking lot on the far side of the bar, Tappings, as a
large, dark gray four-wheel drive van pulled in. The engine cut, and Desiree popped
out of the cab, waved to Clare, then went around to the back, opened it up and leapt
up into the rear space.

“Help me get this out,” Desiree said, sliding out a metal ramp that Clare helped angle
to the ground. The woman unlocked the wheels from its rack. Clare stood near the top
of the ramp and rolled it down with her.

“What is it?” she asked. It wasn’t that she didn’t know, she just didn’t believe it.

“Motor scooter,” Desiree said with satisfaction, and shot her a glance from under
enviable-long lashes. “You seem like a scooter kind of girl. It would get you to Alamosa.
It’s city and highway friendly.”

“You brought me a motor scooter.”

“And helmet.” She gave Clare one that looked newer than the scooter, in a pattern
of a universe with colorful galaxies and bright stars. Then Desiree dusted her hands.
“Let me ask you this, Clare. What happens if Zach takes off in the truck?”

Clare glanced around the town, filling up with people for Cruisin’ the Canyon, but
still dead—no, not that word, never that word again—quiet. She couldn’t imagine asking
anyone for a ride. “Good point,” she said.

Desiree jumped from the back of the van and sent her a serious look. “You have to
remember to have
personal
backup plans.”

If that was the woman’s philosophy, no wonder she drove her husband crazy.

“I suppose so,” Clare said. “I
am
an investigator, sort of.”

“Yeah.” Desiree swung out a bundle larger than the scooter seat storage compartment.
“Here’s your and Zach’s body armor.”

“Thank you.”

“You can tell him it was couriered to you.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Sure.” Desiree narrowed her eyes and scanned Clare up and down. The woman’s lips
pressed together and she jerked a head at the bar. “Let’s go in and get a soda or
something. I want to look at you closer.”

Clare’s heart began to beat harder. She put her hand to her midriff. “You see it?”

“I see something. Some damage to you . . .” Desiree squinted and tilted her head.
“That is also affecting your aura.”

That didn’t sound good.

Desiree shut the door of the van and locked it. Clare dropped her hand from her body
and the inner wound, and fell into step with Desiree. “But the bar’s closed.”

“Tommy knows me. He lives behind it, he’ll open it up for us.” She smiled and looked
even more beautiful. “He won’t even mind if I don’t buy liquor because I’m driving.”

“I’m sure,” Clare murmured.

“We’ll leave him a large tip.”

“That reminds me. How much do I owe you for the scooter rental?”

Desiree knocked on a door, hard, then whistled four notes and Clare heard stirring
inside. Desiree gave her wide eyes. “I didn’t rent it. I borrowed it.”

Clare froze. “You borrowed it. Did you let the owner know you were borrowing it?”

With a cheeky grin, Desiree shook her head. “He’s out of the country. It will be back
in his garage in perfect shape by the time he gets back.”

“I’ll make sure of that,” Clare said repressively. She had a creeping feeling that
associating with Desiree Rickman would, on the whole, be expensive.

The door opened on a ripple of Desiree’s laughter.

That was the last shared humor they had. A silent man with a belly, Tommy, grunted
a greeting to them as he gave them a liter bottle of lemon-lime soda and two gin glasses
as they sat at a table near the door. Then he retreated behind a huge and lovely bar
to do set-up tasks.

They sipped their drinks in silence and Desiree scrutinized her. Then the smaller
woman made Clare stand up as she circled her, humming to herself and tapping her lips
with her forefinger. Finally she subsided back into her chair and took a large swig
of pop.

“Well?” asked Clare, seating herself and keeping her hands still when they wanted
to tug on a piece of her wildly curling hair.

“I haven’t seen anything like it,” Desiree admitted. “It looks like a nonphysical
hurt, but a hurt all the same.” She shrugged. “Not sure what to do to heal it, so
we should hope it gets better on its own.”

“Thanks.”

Desiree frowned. “Do you know how it happened?”

“Maybe when I attacked a monster ghost trying to eat a little boy and it ripped through
me.”

Wide-eyed, Desiree nodded. “That could maybe do it. Be more careful.”

Since Clare wasn’t at all sure that she was going to survive, and that in trying to
survive she’d have to risk everything, she just said, “Yes.”

“So, can I see your knife up close and personal?” Desiree asked.

“It’s back in the hotel room.”

Desiree appeared shocked. “You don’t carry it around with you?”

“No.”

“You should do that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really,” Desiree insisted.

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m not exactly accustomed to weapons.”

“We
will
work on that.” Desiree paused, said casually, “So how did the whole ‘soaking in blood’
thing go?”

“Surprisingly easy.”

“Excellent.”

“I just need to learn how to fight with it,” Clare grumbled. A pressure at the top
of her spine seemed to radiate warning throughout her body.

“Easy enough,” Desiree said cheerfully.

Before she knew it, Clare stared at two wicked-looking blades on the table before
her. She hadn’t really seen Desiree move, let alone retrieve the knives from her person.
They were smaller than Clare’s weapon, but appeared more lethal.

Desiree smiled, and gestured to the wide space in the room, left for a band and dancing,
Clare thought.

“We can do that right now.” Desiree smiled. “The sooner the better, right?”

Clare frowned at her. Had Desiree heard Clare say that? Heaven knew, it was a phrase
she often used.

So she wouldn’t be distracted, she turned off her phone.

For extra space, they pushed back a few tables and chairs as Tommy watched them from
behind the bar, continuing to work.

Clare faced Desiree with a knife and knew the smaller woman could slice her to bits,
but wouldn’t.

“I’m coming at you, Clare, we’ll practice defensive first.”

Clare didn’t really want to; she’d rather go on the offense, attack instead of wait.
She’d been waiting too long, trying to gather information so she’d be prepared for
the final fight when she
could
destroy the ghost. But she learned a few defensive patterns, then stepped back and
held up both hands.

“Um . . .” she said.

Desiree lifted her brows. “Yes?”

“Um.” Clare glanced at Tommy sideways, then circled her finger in the air. “Um, the,
um . . . what if my enemy came at me in a whirling motion?”

“Huh.” Desiree stared at her.

Deciding to lay it all out on the line, Clare said, “You see auras, right?”

Desiree said, “Sure.”

“Can you, um, expand your aura as if it were a sphere?”

The other woman’s eyes widened. “Interesting concept.” She tossed her head. “I can
just about do anything with auras.”

“Ah, okay. Then, could you, perhaps make it layered—” Like the evil ghost was layered . . .
with other ghosts, with air, with supernatural stuff or whatever . . . with the nasty
razors or teeth. “—and teach me how to penetrate each layer of your aura.”

“While I’m whirling.”

“Yes, while whirling.”

“Wow. We can experiment.” Another big grin.

Several minutes later Clare had learned the most effective way to thrust, slash, cut,
and slice, moving ever closer to Desiree’s body. And she and Desiree worked out a
couple of sequential steps and patterns of attack.

Desiree’s phone alarm beeped. She stood. “I have to leave in fifteen minutes to be
back in Denver in time to meet Tony.”

“I understand. Thanks for delivering the armor and the scooter, and most especially
for helping me with knife fighting.”

“I want to see you on the scooter.”

“Okay.” Clare left a fifty on the table, and Desiree gave Tommy a blinding smile that
had him returning a melting grin.

Tommy and Desiree watched her take the scooter for a spin around a couple of blocks
south and west—
not
near the county building. The vehicle handled just fine, though Clare didn’t think
she’d do well on an hours-long trip. But it was wheels, and enough to tool around
town. Oddly, it gave her a sense of freedom she hadn’t expected, as if in the back
of her brain, she’d been anxious that she didn’t have transportation of her own.

And her inner wound felt better, too. She thought part of that was because of the
long, tight hug Desiree had given her. Clare had also sensed the woman sending her
warmth and energy, and the thought of having a new, good, and supportive friend made
Clare’s eyes sting.

Then Desiree stood tip-toe to kiss Tommy on the cheek and got into the van. Clare
waved good-bye to her and watched the vehicle turn back onto the road leading to the
highway.

When the hefty guy led Clare to a shabby lean-to where she could store the scooter,
he said, “You are two strange bitches.”

That surprised a laugh out of Clare. She’d wondered what he’d thought of the whole
thing, and now she knew.

He scrutinized Clare up and down. “Cute, but strange.” He went back into his apartment
without another word.

Since Desiree had asked for Clare’s silence about her little side-trip—unless Zach
specifically asked Clare—she left the scooter in Tommy’s shed. The walk back to the
hotel was only two long blocks, and the body armor was cumbersome, but not too heavy.
Yet she grumbled as she walked up the steep stairway.

Once inside, she put them on her suitcase, which lay on the luggage stand.

Then she turned on her phone and saw that Zach had called three times and finally
left a message. “The sheriff would like to speak with you regarding your statement
of the events last night and this morning.” Irritation laced his tones. “Please come
ASAP. And bring the knife.”

*   *   *

Time pressed on Clare. She’d been aware, in general, of a clock ticking in the back
of her mind. Now she thought she felt every second, and not in an experience-and-treasure-every-moment
sort of way.

She’d brought the knife, let the sheriff handle it. Filled out a permit form to carry
it in her purse and gotten it approved. She’d told her story of last night at Pico’s
Patio, read the report, and approved it. Still they weren’t done. She had to go through
the events again and again.

She’d kept scrupulously to the truth, but hadn’t told him of her gift, what she was
doing here.

Neither Pais the elder nor Zach had mentioned that either. Some people just wouldn’t
listen, and Pais the fourth was one of those.

The longer she spent at the sheriff’s office, answering questions that
couldn’t
be rationally explained, the more she resented it. With each minute her nerves frayed
until the fourth go-round, she lost it and stood. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take this
anymore. I have no additional information for you.”

Zach gave her a dark glance, but one more minute and she would have said the words
that would have made everything worse: “I’m calling my lawyer.” Not that she had a
lawyer that she could call in this sort of matter. She had consulted one for her will,
and setting up a trust of her own, but nothing else. Another issue she’d have to address
when she got home. If she got home. She’d ask Desiree Rickman for a name.
When
Clare got home.

The sheriff’s expression fell grim. She didn’t let that affect her. He grumbled and
sighed, then waved toward the door. He looked at Zach, who somehow lounged in an old-fashioned
wooden barrel–back chair, and Zach said, “Since you continue to believe you need more
detail, sheriff, I’ll stay.”

Clare gritted her teeth, then added, “If you men and law enforcement guys had decided
to accept my original statement and leave me out of the loop earlier, I would have
appreciated it.”

“Sorry, Ms. Cermak,” the sheriff lied.

She couldn’t leave the sheriff’s office soon enough. Literally. She nodded coolly
and, head up, marched from the department and the building.

As she stood on the curb for sporadic traffic to pass, her phone vibrated and she
checked it, saw it was one of the archives volunteers. He had to cancel the appointment
this afternoon; a family emergency had occurred and he was very sorry, but he wasn’t
even in Creede. He sounded apologetic, so maybe gossip about her and Zach hadn’t affected
him. She sure hoped that he wasn’t related to any of the people the ghost had killed.

She asked if one of the other volunteers could meet her at the archives for just a
few minutes, because she had the name of the man whose oral history she wanted to
listen to.

The guy hesitated, asked the name. She gave him Buddy Jemmings, and the archivist
let out a breath. He’d have another volunteer pick it up at the archives and run it
by the hotel. Convenient for the both of them.