Ghost Killer (28 page)

“Got it.” Zach moved from casual to primed for action. “I should have caught that,
I’m the detective, and I didn’t.”

“The guy bored you,” Clare said.

“Not a good excuse. Witnesses have bored me to tears before. It is different when
I can’t see the body language, though. Do we have any idea whether Jemmings’s cabin
is still in his family? Where it might be located?”

Clare got up and opened the top drawer of the vanity. “Phone book.” She tossed it
to him, came to the bed, and watched as he studied the entries. “One address, in town.”

Opening the DVD tray, Clare looked at it, read the label. “This is the oral interview
of Buddy Jemmings with his granddaughter, Marie Dermot, attending.”

Zach snorted. “So he took a few shots at her during the interview. Dermot, yes, there’re
a couple of addresses in here. One address is to the west on one of the far ridges.”

“Let’s go.” She felt energized.

“It might not be the right one.”

“We can look. He described it in the interview.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Zach said, grinning and pulling his phone off the charger.
“We’re going to call our good friend, the ex-sheriff, Mason Pais, Jr., and confirm
with him that the cabin was Buddy Jemmings’s and make getting into it his problem.”

“It’s nine ten at night.” She stared at the clock; she’d slept a whole lot longer
than she’d thought.

“If we’re awake and up and working, he can be awake and up and working. He dropped
the ball on protecting the LuCettes and Caden’s in the hospital.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” She hadn’t really forgotten the boy’s plight, the excitement
had caught her up in it.

Zach tapped the number. “Hey, Mason Junior . . .” he began genially.

ZACH WAITED WITH
Clare in the truck for Mason Pais Junior to drive up. Zach’d applied a little judicious
blackmail and the ex-sheriff had agreed to meet them and drive them to the old Jemmings
cabin.

Getting a key wasn’t a problem since the place was for sale, and Pais knew the lockbox
code. Zach didn’t ask how that was, but figured it might be the same way the man had
entered their room. For an ex-lawman, the guy had more leeway in his morals than Zach
did. On the other hand, the man probably considered the town,
his
town, and everyone in it,
his
people. And Zach reckoned Pais’s curiosity was just as big as his own.

Enzo!
Zach called.

Clare looked at him, startled. Seemed even more surprised when the dog appeared sitting
between the two of them, weird eyes gleaming, tongue out, quivering with happiness.

We’re on the HUNT!
Enzo said, wiggling.
For the mean thing. To CHOMP her, to EXTINGUISH her.
He turned and slurped a long tongue up Clare’s cheek and she shivered a little, but
Clare could feel Enzo and Zach couldn’t.

A line of worry twisted between her brows. Zach could guess that she was thinking
Enzo had changed.

Zach agreed. The dog had become less domesticated, either by being in the hills with
wild animals, or due to its time with the torturing ghost.

And, yeah, Zach agreed with Enzo, too. He wanted a piece of that thing for hurting
Enzo, taking Caden, hurting Clare. He lusted for her blood—or whatever essence the
monster might have—just as much as Enzo did.

Pais arrived, scowling, and gestured for them to follow him. The huge full harvest
moon peeked in and out of trees, and from behind hills as they wound around old roads.
Having Pais lead them was one of Zach’s better ideas.

Soon they pulled up to a wide one-story cabin. The light, polished pine logs shone,
and the chimney looked new, as did the front porch that ran the length of the front.
A Realtor’s sign sat perched on the rocky ground outside.

Pais got out first and waited for them at the front door. Zach liked his other cane
better . . . well, he was more accustomed to using it as a weapon, knew the flexibility
of the wood, liked the crook at the top to yank legs or arms. He’d just have to cope
with this metal one. It could break bones, but the ghost had no bones.

“Stay with me, please, Enzo,” Clare said, her voice a little shaky. When Zach walked
with her up to the house, he could feel her excitement. Good, focused on the future
and an excellent outcome, as she should be.

“I hope this is worth it,” Pais grumbled, unlocking the door.

They stepped straight into a living room. Pais turned on the lights and Zach blinked.
Before them he could see a door to the kitchen off-set to the left. To their right,
the large end wall looked like one of the photographs of South Park City he’d seen—a
full wall of newspapers behind Plexiglass.

Clare hurried to it.

A cold draft went through his calves . . . and back. Something tugged on his jeans,
Enzo. For reasons known only to the ghost Lab, he wanted to show the clue to Zach
and not Clare.

“Gotcha,” Zach murmured under his breath, leaned a little on his cane since the ghost
dog pulled him off balance as he walked—and how did that happen?

Though he’d noticed that ever since he’d called the Other, he’d been able to sense
the phantom Lab more.

Pais stayed with Clare as she went over to the wall and began reading. Zach limped
toward the opposite end of the cabin. When he reached the hallway, he flipped a switch,
stood with tight shoulders to see if either of the other two had noticed. Neither
of them said a word. To his right was a bathroom and straight ahead an open door revealed
the bedroom—and another wall of papers behind glass.

As he walked toward it, a thump came against the window, a high horizontal one near
the ceiling. Zach saw beady eyes. He shouldn’t have been able to see outside, but
that never seemed to bother his imaginary crows. They sat huddled in a circle on a
large hanging bird feeder. Four sets of eyes.

Four for death.

Enzo made a sound in his throat, looked up at Zach.

“I’m not telling Clare about this,” Zach said.

Enzo nodded.

“Unless she specifically asks,” he added. But she’d wanted to know just that afternoon,
so she might not pry further anytime soon.

The Lab glanced toward the far end of the cabin, and whined in his throat.

“You think Clare’s in danger.”

Enzo rolled his eyes.

“Got it. Of course she’s in danger.”

A whispery mental sentence came to his mind.
The bad, mean, awful ghost wants to hurt her really, really, bad. Extinguish CLARE!
Not caring much about anything else.

Zach’s spit dried. He’d seen what happened when someone got lost in obsessive behavior,
when they cared less about surviving than revenge.

Clare had been game but pitiful in the knife training, as if the only awareness she
had of her body was during sex—and how talented she was then!—or when she dressed
and undressed.

And anger flushed through him. Clare, too, was changing, would have to change, become
aware, maybe even accustomed to violence, and that just seemed wrong to Zach. Not
to mention the fact that he
liked
having a woman for whom the physical wasn’t the be-all and end-all of their relationship,
that working out wasn’t the first priority in her life.

She might not be able to handle the ghost.

He could, but not without cost. Better that he pay the cost than Clare.

He turned on the bedroom light and scanned the collaged sheets of paper. Not just
newspaper here, but other items. As he studied the wall he noticed that about a foot
off the floor was a piece of paper, and stained brown . . . this time not from water,
but old blood. Suddenly a red pawprint appeared on the sheet. Zach suppressed an oath
and walked over and hunkered down.

I showed you,
Enzo said.
Now I go back to help Caden.

“You can do that?”

Yes! I learned how. I am learning more and more how to be a good spirit guide for
Clare.

“Good.”

The dog vanished and Zach scrutinized the paper. “My God,” he said.

Clare ran in. “What have you found?” She came and stooped beside him.

“Ohmygod.” She touched the handwriting at the top of the page. She didn’t seem to
see the red pawprint.

“This . . . this looks like the original Subscription List. The one everything written
about the death of Robert Ford mentions. My God.” Her finger went to the last entry,
Ford’s signature, and the notation “Charity covereth a multitude of sins.”

“It’s a real, valuable piece of history.” She sounded awed.

Pais snorted from behind them. “I wouldn’t give you a nickel for it.”

“Hmm,” Clare said. She put her finger on the line above Ford’s name. “Jefferson Smith.”
Claire paused. “The subscription was for the burial of a prostitute—”

“A whore,” Pais said.

“—who’d died the night before. To get enough money to take her body up to the cemetery
and bury her.”

“One of her friends was taking it around.” Zach kept his voice calm. “Probably others
in her same business were the first to subscribe.”

“Peer pressure would—” Clare began, and stopped. When her voice came it was strained.
“There it is. Twenty-five cents, Emma . . .” Clare stopped before she read the surname,
Romano, aloud. She stood up, leaned against the other wall as if dizzy. “We have her
full name. We can do this now. We can—”

Pais jerked and Clare must have seen him from the corner of her eye.

He put his thumbs in his belt and rocked. “Now I think it’s time that you tell me
exactly
what is going on. You’ve given me bits and pieces, but nothin’ good.”

Zach leaned casually on his cane and shot Pais a big smile. “We’ve told you the truth,
you just haven’t believed it. So. All right, once more. Clare, here, is a ghost seer
and communicator, and she helps them move on. You’ve got an evil ghost here in the
canyon, one that’s killing people, put Caden in the coma. This spirit originally associated
with Robert Ford, probably betrayed him to Soapy Smith. The ghost was already here
but finally gained critical mass when that murder-suicide occurred. The ghost is the
one that’s killing people with rock shards, or having them trip and fall into the
flume, or drop dead in a local restaurant. That’s it.”

Clare rolled her eyes at the casual rundown.

Squinting at them a minute, Pais sighed. “Ya know, I think I finally believe that.
What next?”

“Next we go back to the hotel and prepare to whip the ghost’s ass.”

“I’ll go with you,” Pais said.

“No,” Clare said, at the same time as Zach growled, “I don’t think so.”

“Leave it to us,” Clare said firmly.

“That’s right.” Zach nodded. “We’re the experts here.”

“This is my town—”

“How are the LuCettes doing?” Zach asked. It was a low blow and from the corner of
his eye, he saw Clare wince.

“As well as can be expected,” Pais said through his teeth.

“We’ll take care of this.” Zach used a soft tone laced with the command of back off.
“Stay out of our business.” He curved his fingers around Clare’s upper arm and they
left the house.

As they walked to the truck he heard the feathered beat of crow wings. No, they would
not get Clare. Somehow he had to make her safe. Kill the ghost for her. She wouldn’t
like it, but he wouldn’t be around for her to yell at him, would he?

“I don’t like that expression of yours, Zach,” Clare said when he got into the truck.

“What kind of expression is that?”

“Fierce, but something else—”

She was getting to know him. Now and again he’d faced imminent death and the fierce
determination had hardened in him, set on his face then, too.

“Do you have the knife?”

She reached in her bag, caught her breath. “No.” Now he heard anger at herself. “No.
I left it at the hotel. How could I have done that?”

“Excitement.”

“You have your weapons.”

“Of course.”

Her mouth thinned. “I must learn, too.”

*   *   *

Clare hopped out of the truck nearly before Zach had killed the engine. He’d have
to move fast to keep up with her . . . and outpace her.

Luckily, she had problems with the keys, both in the outside lock to the door and
their room, though she’d taken the stairs at a run.

She’d thrown her purse on the bed and whirled to check out the room for her knife
when Zach came in.

Her hair shone in the light, wild and free. Like he hoped she’d become. And every-damn-thing
clamped inside him at the thought of giving her up. But an image rose in his mind
of her as she’d been that morning after fighting the ghost: pale, unconscious. He’d
thought she was dead.

Next time,
this
time, this fight they were going to, could make her dead.

The crows could be wrong, or not for her. But the predictions had always come true.

He hadn’t yet figured out exactly what they meant. He didn’t entirely trust them anyway,
but if the universe had a slot for a death tonight in Creede, Zach would fill it instead
of Clare.

“Clare.” He stepped to her, into her space, against her, pulled her sweater from her
jeans and slid one hand behind her to the small of her back, so he could keep her
close and tight. His other hand trailed up her midriff to her breast. So full, so
soft, perfect.

His dick was hard and ready.

“Clare,” he whispered, his mouth close to her ear. He dipped his head so he could
taste her under her ear. Clare. He didn’t say it aloud, but let it sink clear through
him, knew with a rightness that she was for him, no other woman.

He
must
protect her.

“We don’t have time for this,” she whispered, even as he stroked her nipple to tautness,
even as her body arched and rubbed him right where he wanted.

“Where’s Emma, Clare?”

“Up the canyon.”

He nodded. “We can make it fast.” He unclipped her front clasp bra. “You ever have
sex with most of your clothes on, Clare?”

Her heart thumped fast under his hand, and if he knew his Clare, she’d match him in
passion but have second thoughts about cleaning up afterward.

His mind emptied of everything but her. Smelling her, feeling her, tasting her.