Ghost Killer (27 page)

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 the 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.

“I want to take my sweater off. I don’t want to perspire in it.”

His brows rose. “All right.”

Clare studied him as she removed the cashmere and put on a soft button-down cotton
shirt instead. “You’re also irritated I asked Desiree to teach me a few moves. I think
those helped, by the way.”

He grunted. “They were better than nothing. My advice, don’t even think of modifying
them. Stick to what she—and I—teach you.”

He shook his head. “I’m irritated that we didn’t make the time to train you before.”

“We’ve hardly had the time,” she said. “We’ve been very busy.”

“Well, we’ve slept and gone out for lunch and dinner.”

“We’ve waited on information we couldn’t find out ourselves. We’ve researched and
worked out two of the three things necessary before terminating the ghost. We needed
fuel and to recharge. We’re human.”

“That’s right. I didn’t like that you didn’t tell me that Desiree was coming.”

She huffed. “She called on the way from Alamosa, when you were at the sheriff’s.”

“Which is why you didn’t pick up my call.”

“That’s right.” He’d like it even less if he knew she was keeping the motor scooter
from him. “Have you told me everything that you and the sheriff discussed?”

He gave her a stare of disbelief. “Do you want to know?”

“No.” She really didn’t think he hid anything, and the guys probably discussed aspects
of the case that seemed like minutiae to her, like the hunters’ injuries. “Do you
want me to tell you everything Desiree and I talked about? We really got into auras—”

Zach cut her off with a gesture, sighed, and shook his head. “No.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

“We should have made time for knife training before. I’m annoyed at myself that we
didn’t do so, among the other items we discussed.”

“You don’t really want me in this fight,” Clare said.

“No.”

“Zach,” she reminded quietly, “it’s
my
fight.”

“And we return to cycling around this subject. I don’t want to rehash that, do you?”

“No.” She saw his cup of cold coffee, got it, and drank it down. “I don’t like arguing
with you.”

“I don’t either. I called two venues,” he said coolly. “The community center—”

She choked and fear spurted through her. “That’s north of town. Between here and the
convergence of the Willow creeks where the ghost hangs out.”

“That’s right. It’s underground, too.” His smile was tight. “We haven’t been to the
mining museum next to it.”

When she replied, her voice was a little high to her own ears. “I don’t think it’s
going to have any information on soiled doves.”

He shrugged. “Who knows?” Another quick, unamused smile. “I actually rented a community
room in the chamber of commerce building. It’s very new, modern, and in the south
of town.”

She picked up her purse and inserted her knife. “I’m not leaving my knife unattended
in the room again.”

“I don’t blame you. But I have a couple we can practice with.”

Her mouth flexed. “You and Desiree. Walking arsenals.”

“We’ll have to be careful, though, no mats.” Then he frowned as he looked at her.
“Your ribs are still sore, aren’t they?”

“Yes. I could use help with this armor.”

It took a lot less time to get it on her than she’d anticipated. She went over to
the vanity mirror and studied the armor. Still ugly and flat and black.

This time she shifted her weight to try and get comfortable with the heavy vest on
her. At least it was her own, not Desiree’s that she’d worn a week ago. Wait, no,
not a week ago, four days ago. It was only a week ago that she’d started her second
case.

She sniffed. “The armor smells.”

“It’s new,” Zach said.

“Well, at least it doesn’t smell like Desiree,” Clare grumbled.

“You could spray some of that perfume I like on it,” Zach offered. She thought he
tried to lighten the conversation, move it back from their anger.

Clare made a face and rolled her eyes. “Heaven knows how the perfume would mix with
the smell of this . . . .” She wasn’t quite sure what the armor consisted of. “. . .
stuff.” She reached for her light windbreaker and put it on. She looked rectangular.

Zach zipped up his windbreaker, too. He looked virile. So not fair!

Chuckling, Zach came up to her and kissed her, a nice, deep kiss, though she didn’t
like the squeaky sound of their jackets rubbing against each other, and she couldn’t
feel any of his body but his mouth.

Then he stepped back and said, “Gorgeous.”

She tossed her head and left the room, hung on to the rail as she descended the stairs.
The armor definitely threw off her balance.

*   *   *

“How long did you rent the room for?” Clare gasped, dancing out of Zach’s reach. He’d
shown her some swordwork, canework, knifework . . . ancient patterns of attack and
defense, then they’d settled on a couple of series of movements.

“Two hours.”

“Okay.” She swallowed. “I should have some good basic attacks solid by then, right?”

“One attack. Semi-solid.”

She nodded. “Thank you for taking into consideration my concerns about working with
a whirling, layered attacker.”

His smile was thin. “If Desiree can do that, I can, too. And they aren’t bad moves.”
He paused. “Unmodified.”

“Give it a rest, Zach.”

“I think we have rested, just now. Time to get back to practice.”

“Get back to work.”

“Practice.”

A clatter came, and they looked over to see that her purse had fallen and the knife
rolled out of the center pocket.

“Didn’t you zip that center pocket?” Zach asked.

She gave him a cool look. “That was a rhetorical question, correct?”

“Ah. I suppose it wants to be used in training.” He paused. “That could be beneficial,
you know. Using the weapon you’ll be fighting with.”

It seemed to her that the knife, the ivory tube, the whole of it glowed a little brighter.
And her temper broke again. She marched over and scooped it up. Didn’t bother to take
the blade itself from the silk, and held it so tightly her own knuckles showed bone.
That seemed right somehow.

“A weapon and a protection. The metal sheath, and the patterns on the silk, should
give us some protection. And I stipulate from now on that the knife will only draw
the ghost when it’s completely bare.” She pressed her lips together, nodded with determination.
“It’s logical. It makes sense. I’m believing that.” She inhaled. “And if
I
need to do anything now or in the future to make it
less
dangerous, I will.”

She
sent
that determination and intention to the blade, and held it before her face, speaking
to
it
. “You hear that
knife
, you hear me? You’re crafted from the bone of my ancestress, so you
know me
?” She gave it a shake, continued, “First a ghostly Labrador dog bothering me until
I loved him, a dog to take care of . . . and to lose.” Her voice cracked. “That I
had to fight—and I
did
fight—to retrieve him. Then that wretched, pompous, secretive, condescending—” She
stopped the litany to take another breath. “Then that
Other
, spirit
guide
. More like a spirit dictator. Now a dam—, dam—, darn—,
stupid
bloodthirsty knife. Too many strange, strange things in my life trying to influence
what I do. But listen to
me
, knife. I’m a good researcher and I
will
figure out how to limit you if you do not bend to
my
will, if you do not answer to
me.
” To make sure it understood, she repeated herself in Hungarian, Romani, and a mixture
of the two that her family used. When she’d finished she stuck the weapon back into
her purse and rezipped the compartment.

Turning back to Zach, she saw him staring at her with admiration. “You are magnificent.”

She hadn’t had time to answer when the door pushed open forcefully and Michael LuCette
spewed in followed by the elder Pais.

Michael lunged for Zach, who stepped aside and knocked him down. He leapt to his feet,
chest pumping. “What did you do to him, you bastard?” His hands raised, fisted.

Zach snapped up his stick horizontally, held it out. “What are you talking about?”

“Caden’s hurt!”

“WHAT!” CLARE GASPED.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. Enzo had said the ghost might want revenge and
that had resonated with her. Even as weight settled hard on her shoulders and guilt
flooded her, she glared at the elder Pais. She’d trusted that man to tell the LuCettes
of her and Zach’s concerns. Had he? Her words came out choppily. “Why do you think
it was us? You sent us away. We went. We had
no
contact with Caden.”

Mrs. LuCette stumbled in, tear tracks on her cheeks. “You sent that . . . that
thing
to him yesterday. I know it,” she nearly screamed.

Her husband went to her, put his arms around her, and they both stared at Clare.

Mrs. Lucette said, “Caden won’t wake up! He was tired, so I let him take a nap and
now he won’t wake up! We took him to the clinic, but Dr. Seares says there’s nothing
he can do for Caden. He’s in a coma or something. They’re talking about taking him
to the hospital in Del Norte. We had to talk to you first!”

“Accuse us, you mean,” Zach said. He looked at Clare, lowered his stick and she moved
to him, put her arm around his waist, one couple observing the other.

The elder Pais made sure the metal door that had slowly closed was completely shut
and strolled over to get between them, letting the LuCettes focus on him. “Now, Mike
and Jessica, when did this happen?”

“Just now!” Mrs. LuCette said. “About as much time as it took to find him and take
him to the clinic.”

Mr. LuCette helped his wife to one of the chairs against the wall. They sank down
into them and he put his head in his hands, his fingers spearing his hair up in spikes.
“A coupla hours ago.”

The elder Pais pulled a chair over to them, but set it sideways as if he needed to
keep an eye on Clare and Zach. He cleared his throat. “I—uh—we’ve been watchin’ Zach
and Clare and they weren’t anywhere near your motel. So how could have they hurt Caden?”
he asked gently, taking Mrs. LuCette’s hand in his own, chafing it.

“They said . . . when they came, and when they looked so odd that first night . . .
something would happen to Caden. And now it has,” Mrs. LuCette sobbed.

“And you didn’t believe us. You didn’t believe Caden in the first place,” Clare said
tightly. Her whole body was tight, including her voice, compressed by anger at the
ghost, and her own fear and guilt. She wasn’t sure what more she could have done,
but she should have tried
something.
She swallowed, then said, “Some people find . . . weird . . . stuff hard to believe.”

Enzo appeared in front of Clare, tipped his head back and howled. She, Zach, and Mrs.
LuCette flinched.

“It’s the awful thing!” Mrs. LuCette wailed.

Pais appeared extremely uncomfortable.

“It’s the guardian who tried to keep Caden safe. You sent him away, too.” She looked
at Pais. “So you were watching us. Was anyone keeping an eye on the LuCettes?
We
told you Caden was in danger.”

The ex-sheriff’s expression turned stony.

Now Enzo stalked back and forth, lashing his tail and baring his teeth.
We will get that evil bitch. We will EXTINGUISH her. We can do it!

Clare gritted her teeth.
Let’s talk about this outside,
she said to Enzo. She was done being a display for people who didn’t believe in her
skills. She jerked her head at Pais. “We had nothing to do with Caden being hurt.
You make them understand that.”

Drawing away from Zach, she donned her windbreaker, got her purse, and opened the
door. Zach grabbed his windbreaker and snagged her wrist, but she pulled on it, frowning
at him. With raised brows, he gave in and walked beside her, limping a little more
than usual, showing he was upset, too.

Enzo ran behind her, then breezed like chill winter through her legs and zoomed through
the main doors. She followed and strode around to the side parking lot and stopped,
blinking as the sun dazzled in the deep and cloudless blue autumn sky.

Drinking in a huge breath of sweet, thin, and cold mountain air, she let her shoulders
rise and fall, relaxing the muscles as she did so. She hadn’t realized how tight she’d
gotten, and standing around after the strenuous knife training, not stretching, hadn’t
helped. For the first time since they’d left, she missed her beginning yoga class.

Enzo planted himself in front of her, just touching the tips of her shoes.
I love you, Clare. But I love Caden, too! We must help him.

“We’ve been working on doing that all the time we’re here.” But she wrapped her arms
around herself in guilt that she hadn’t been faster, smarter.

Enzo’s head tilted, his ears raised just a little.
The ghost has Caden, but she hasn’t been able to eat him like she eats ghosts!

“That’s good news,” Zach said.

Enzo whined.
Caden hurts.

Clare shuddered. “We
will
save him,” she promised. Just as she had when they’d first taken the case, though
that vow was to protect him and she’d failed.

Yes, we WILL! I will go sneak and look at her. I will watch.

“Good idea,” Zach said. “Come back if we call you.”

I will!
He stretched from doglike into a streaking gray spirit and zoomed north.

Voices had Clare’s head coming up. Yes, those were the LuCettes and Pais; the couple
had parked in the front. Car doors slammed and they drove away in the opposite direction
so she didn’t have to see them.

Pais Junior rounded the corner, his face hard. He studied them.

“So what are you going to do about this?”

Zach stepped in front of Clare. “What we have been doing about this. Fighting off
the ghost, and working to find out her full name.”

“Say what?”

Clare stepped away from Zach’s bulk so she could face the ex-sheriff herself. “There
are rules to this sort of matter. We have to find out the ghost’s full name. And wait
for the right time. We’re hoping it is the full moon.” She glanced in the sky, but
it wasn’t visible.

“Crazy crap.”

“And we haven’t had much help from anyone here so far.” She was a little surprised
by the amount of bitterness that came into her voice. “We know the ghost is from the
1890s.”

“Wha-what?” Pais sputtered.

She gave him a look that told him she thought he was a slow student. “I wouldn’t be
here if it weren’t in my time period.” She waved that away. “We’re pretty sure that
this revenant ties in with the murder of Robert—”

“Ford,” Pais ended for her, disgustedly. “As far as I can tell, that boy caused nothing
but trouble.”

“Yeah? Well, we have to find the name of the ghost or we can’t terminate her,” Zach
said.

“The archivists have been as helpful as they can be, but they are volunteers, this
is not their career.” Clare paused. “Which reminds me that you are keeping me from
listening again to an oral history that I think has a solid clue.
And
I spent a good two hours this morning in the sheriff’s office instead of exploring
other options online.” A deep breath. “You’ve complicated my task, Pais. So why don’t
you just get out of my way and let me do my job.” She walked away, straight up the
street. The hotel wasn’t more than two miles, and though wind whipped the clouds close
to the sun and the top of the hills, the air was plenty fresh and not too cold if
she kept moving.

She had to keep moving or break down. Again. She had to keep moving forward, period.
Nothing would stop her.

Something Buddy Jemmings said in his storytelling tugged at her. If she heard it again,
she was certain she could follow that thread.

Once Zach had told her that he got a feeling when a case came close to being solved.
She thought she felt something like that now, an itch that if she simply added up
all the figures, she’d come to the right total—the correct conclusion.

Zach caught up with her, put an arm around her waist, and smoothly turned them back
toward the parking lot and their truck.

“We need to eat.”

Clare dug in her heels. “I’m not going anywhere in clunky body armor, and under it
I’m just sweaty and icky.” She eyed him. “You don’t look sweaty and icky.”

“I was teaching, not moving around as much.” He opened the passenger door to the truck.
“Hop on in. We’ll go back to the Jimtown Inn, shower, and order room service.”

“That sounds good.” Clare climbed into the truck. Her stomach rumbled.

*   *   *

After the exquisite trout piccata, Clare and Zach settled against the bed pillows
side by side. Both wore earphones, he listening to the history on his phone, she on
her laptop that lay between them. She had a pad and pencil and her notes, and had
circled the name, Emma.

As much as she wanted to just continue from where she’d left off before the knife-fighting
training—and she glanced at the knife sitting on the vanity, appearing innocuous,
or not glowing anyhow—she knew she had to start from the beginning. And concentrate
harder. Terribly difficult when a young boy’s life remained at risk. Her mouth dried
at the thought.

“Ah’m Buddy Jemmings, an I lived here alla my life—”

She awoke more than two hours later. The windows were dark and a small lamp lit the
room.

Gasping, she sat straight up. Looked at Zach who met her gaze with a compassionate
one of his own. “You needed the sleep. You’re still healing, physically and mentally.”

“Caden?” she asked.

“He’s in the hospital in Del Norte. I spoke with a nurse there not too long ago. No
change. But Enzo reported back from watching our fiend Emma and said that ‘Caden’s
little and slippery and tastes nasty to the ghost and can hide from her ’cuz she’s
not wound so tight and is not thinking right.’”

“Mad,” Clare said. Zach had gotten Enzo’s voice dead on. She winced. Completely right,
Zach had gotten Enzo’s voice completely right.

“You still look tired.” Zach frowned.

Her hand went to her side where it felt inwardly icy, shriveled perhaps, from the
ghost’s freezing touch. She’d ignore that. Stretching from her huddle she asked, “Thanks
for letting me know about Caden. Did you find anything while listening to Buddy Jemmings?”

He shook his head, mouth straight. “I did get the name Emma, the dance hall girl who’d
become hysterical. Or more hysterical than the others. I also got the feeling that
she’d been sleeping with Ford—and he with others, as well.”

“Yes.” Clare frowned. “There’s something else, here. I know it.”

He handed her the earbuds, got up and poured some coffee. The twitching of her nose
told her it was freshly brewed and that the sounds of the making of it might have
awoken her. Clare nodded her thanks at the mug, looked at her notes, and began listening
again.

Two minutes later she stopped.

“What?”

“He’s complaining about his grandchildren moving him out of the cabin he lived in
all his life, making him live with them because they said he was too old to handle
himself, modernizing the cabin.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Zach nodded.

After a sip of the coffee, she set it aside to flip through her notes. “A little later
he said he had some ‘great stuff, some historical stuff.’”

Zach chuckled. “Hate to break it to you, Clare, but most old guys I know have great,
historical stuff they’re hoarding. I got the idea he’d hoarded, didn’t you?”

She sighed. “Yes, but . . .” She frowned, found her notes, pulled up the audio program
and moved through it to the notation of where he began talking about what his old
friend Albert Lord had told him of the murder. She pulled the headphone jack out of
her computer so Zach could listen, too. He glanced at her notes. “You put down the
exact timing, minutes and seconds, of each of your comments.”

“That’s right. I’m organized, and, Mister Slade, it will pay off in efficiency, and
saving time, just you listen.”

“Albert Lord told us, me and Chaz Green, the story of Ford’s murder. He told it many
a time, got meals outta it many a time. And he told it the same and we did, too. Got
it word for word.”

“Yes, that’s semi-reliable,” Zach said. “Whatever inaccuracies that story had, it
was from the beginning, if you could believe Jemmings . . . and Lord.”

Not wanting to suffer through the whole gory story of the killing again, Clare skipped
to another of her notes.

“
Al said he’d picked up somethin’ from the floor, a souvenir.”

“Yes, I heard that,” Zach commented.

Clare nodded, then rushed through most of the interview. “Now, this. Listen, Zach!”

“Those durn grandkids’a mine. Took me from my own place. Didn’t even bring alla my
stuff, an’ I had good stuff. Coupla things I got from Albert Lord. They left them
in the place, purtied up for God’s sake.”

“The souvenir,” Zach said.

“The souvenir. Something that could lead us to Emma.”

“You think because—”

She said, “Because
you
believe the universe is balanced. Because you wrung info from the Other that I was
on the right track, and this is the right track.”