Ghost Killer (5 page)

“No.”

A car horn came from the front. Zach scowled. “They’re early.”

Clare managed to twitch her lips upward. “The sooner we go, the sooner it’s done.”

Zach just swore under his breath.

The private plane was amazing. Small and beautiful inside and out. Clare had no problem
believing the pilot was ex-military; all his movements looked sharp and efficient.
He told them the total flight would take about an hour, that there was food, beer,
and wine in a cooler, that Wi-Fi was available for the flight, gave them a two-fingered
salute and took their luggage to stow.

Clare sat in the beige leather seat behind the table and brought out one of her great-aunt
Sandra’s blue journals that should discuss rules of being a ghost seer in it.

Zach looked at the food and chose a large submarine sandwich, but only sighed at the
beer and took a cola instead. “I’ll be driving.”

Clare’s stomach rumbled. “What kind of sandwiches are in there?”

“Another bacon avocado like mine, an everything, tuna salad, chicken salad—”

“I’ll have the chicken salad and some fizzy water.”

“Gotcha.”

They ate in silence, Zach cleaned up and looked out the window and brooded, and Clare
pulled out her tablet, set it on the table, and went online to an encyclopedia site
for a brief overview. “Gee, Creede reads like a who’s who of famous people: Bat Masterson,
Soapy Smith, Poker Alice . . .”

“Huh.” Zach stopped staring out the window—she didn’t think he was paying attention
to the view—and turned to look at her. “Soapy Smith, conman of the West.” He shook
his head. “The ghost can’t be him, he was killed in Alaska, I think. Shot. Ran a gang,
though, as I recall, there and in Denver, so he probably ran one in Creede, too.”
Zach frowned. “Your cases have been about notorious or legendary men.” He reached
out and took her hand. “And either you or Enzo once mentioned that the ghost would
be a mass of ‘negativity.’ Who’s the most notorious guy in Creede, or what’s the most
negative thing that happened?”

“Good point.” Clare scrolled through the article then simply stopped because her hand
shook so hard.

Zach said, “What? Or who?”

“Robert Ford was shot, murdered in Creede, June 8, 1892,” she recited the info seared
before her eyes. “Three days after a terrible fire.”

“Fire, major negativity. How many died in the fire?” asked Zach.

“I don’t know. Then murder.”

Zach said, “The name Robert Ford sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”

“The article said Robert Ford was the member of the Jesse James gang who shot Jesse
James. He and his brother. His brother committed suicide.”

“Hell. Murder. Suicide. Murder. What happened to the guy who killed Ford?”

Clare fumbled her phone and the website back on, scanned it. “He was sent to prison
here in Colorado, but when he got out, he moved to Oklahoma City. There he got in
a street fight with a policeman and was shot, but that event is out of my time range.”

Zach shook his head. “Nothing but murder and suicide in this whole situation.”

“The timing’s there, but it’s long. Ford killed Jesse James ten years before he ended
up in Creede. Ford’s brother committed suicide three years after the murder of James,
seven years before Ford’s death. The death of Ford’s killer is out of my ghost seeing
time period, in 1904.”

“Still a helluva string of events stretching back and forward.”

“Yes.”

“We still need more info,” Zach stated.

I suppose I must help you a little more,
the Other said disapprovingly.

SINCE ZACH STIFFENED
in the luxurious chair beside her, Clare knew he heard the Other, too. Whether the
spirit’s voice echoed hollowly in his mind like it did hers, she didn’t know.

“Thank you,” she said aloud and humbly, trying to
feel
humble and squashing all irritation. The Other could read her emotions easily.

In the form of Enzo, the Other stalked up and down the short aisle, appearing more
interested in its surroundings than Clare or the project.

It snapped its head toward Clare in no move a living dog would make, pierced her with
its icy gaze. The phantom dog nostrils widened as if she smelled bad.
Listen closely. You must discover the ghost’s core identity and address it by name,
so that you can destroy it. You must find the trigger that caused the core identity
to reach critical mass and begin to devour other phantoms.

“Core identity?” Zach asked.

But the Other turned to mist and dissipated, not even leaving Enzo.

“Well, that was weird,” Zach said.

Clare sighed. “Yes. Short and not so sweet, but at least we have goals.”

“Tell me about this core identity business.”

She tapped the blue journal in front of her, one of her great-aunt Sandra’s. She’d
spent time flipping through the pages of loopy penmanship to find a half-page story
about an evil ghost Sandra had easily dispatched with the knife in a couple of hours.
Clare reckoned she wouldn’t be so lucky.

“I’m still not sure about the nature of ghosts,” she said slowly. “How much of the
real spirit of deceased people is really there.”

Zach grunted. “The previous ones you helped, Jack Slade and J. Dawson Hidgepath, seemed
like real people.”

“Yes, but there are also fragments.” She waved a hand. “That might not matter. Anyway,
from what I understand, a powerful evil ghost is a magnet of negativity, perhaps a
challenged individual—”

“No political correctness crap,” Zach interrupted. “I believe there are bad people,
evil people.”

Clare lifted her chin. “There are also confused people who make bad choices.”

“And some of those bad choices can make them into vile folks, irredeemable, who like
doing horrible things to good people.”

She swallowed at that thought—because Zach had sure seen a lot more of such people
than she.

Clare said, “All right. I agree.” Like all the other conversations this morning, this
wasn’t a discussion she cared to have. “Whether the person was evil or not, sometimes
the worst of a person can linger, and the ghost can turn bad—”

“I remember that was a concern. Will it always be a concern?”

“I think so. Because the . . . limbo . . . that ghosts survive in is awful.”

“Got it. Keep going.”

“The original ghost or negative shade—”

Zach snorted.

“—acts as a magnet for all sorts of other stuff and gets bigger and bigger—”

“Like a wad of flypaper.”

“I suppose so.”

“All right. I think I got it. So there will be a bunch of ghosts, probably from your
time period, and we’ll have to figure out who was the first.”

“Or just one ghost with layers, but we must discover his name.”

“Huh. As for the trigger, Caden gave it to us.”

“He did?”

“He mentioned a murder.” Zach shook his head. “But I don’t think it could be that.”

“Why not?”

“Creede has been around for at least a century, right? No matter how small and sleepy
a town is, it probably had a murder in all that time—at least in the general area
of the ghost.”

“I suppose.” She thought. “Caden said, ‘a murder-suicide.’”

“Yeah, I recall, but I’m thinking that might not be enough to trigger something that
eats little boys, either.”

“No?”

“People kill, people commit suicide. Why? What’s the motive? I bet if we can put a
finger on the exact motivation for a murder-suicide, say the ‘core reason’ for the
deaths, the basic, uh, sin—though I don’t believe in sin—we might get somewhere. Say,
like the seven deadly sins: greed, anger, pride, lust, envy, sloth, and gluttony.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a person killing due to gluttony,” Clare said.

“Maybe not.”

“And that’s an interesting list, or rather, how you listed the sins, the self-indulgences,
the emotions that control you and that you don’t control.”

“Yes, it’s a matter of control, self-control and discipline,” Zach agreed.

“So you listed them, how? The ones you think could be the basis of murder or suicide?”

“Yeah, I guess I must have.”

“Uh-huh. And how would you order that list for your own weaknesses?”

“If I’m going to bare my soul, woman, I want you on my lap.” He unfastened her seat
belt and lifted her to sit on his thighs. Nice.

“And I expect the listing to be mutual.”

She nodded. “That’s only fair.”

“So . . . anger first. Still pretty angry about losing my career. Pride. I admit I’m
proud.”

“Don’t like to ask for help,” she murmured. That had been the cause of a bump in their
relationship the night before.

“I suppose,” he said. “Envy that others are doing what I can’t anymore.”

“Reasonable.” She patted his chest.

“Lust, greed, sloth, and gluttony,” he ended.

“You’ve managed your lust well.” She kissed him and he opened his mouth under the
brief press of her lips, his tongue dampened her own lips, and, yes, she felt lust
uncurl inside her.

He drew back and said, “Now, you.”

“Well, I want to say that I haven’t seen any sloth or gluttony in your makeup.”

“Sloth is a big deal for you.” He stroked her hair.

“Yes, I think so. Or refusing to be responsible, or putting self-gratification over
every other thing, because my parents do that. See the world, experience whatever
piques them, move on a whim.”

“And drag their children along when they do that.”

“Not anymore,” Clare said.

“Your list, Clare? Your weaknesses?”

“I’m sure you could guess,” she said primly.

“Probably as well as you would have guessed mine.”

“Probably.”

She said, “All right. Hmm. Envy first, for the reason you gave. I no longer have my
career, my life as I shaped it. Pride, lust, anger, greed, gluttony, sloth.”

“I haven’t seen you be gluttonous.”

“You haven’t seen me with a bag of chips and any kind of dip, salsa, guacamole, hummus,
chutney, soft cheese—”

“I get the picture.”

“Chips do not last long in my house.”

His arms slipped under her thighs and he lifted her. “Nope, I’m not feeling the gluttony.”
He looked over at the cooler. “There were chips in there.”

She salivated. “Really, what kind?”

“Um, barbeque, I think.”

“I don’t care for flavored chips. I think even more chemicals are coursing through
your body than usual with them.” She paused. “Though I will eat them in a pinch.”

He squeezed her, whispered in her ear. “Then we’ll have to use our mutual lust to
work off your gluttony.”

She laughed and relaxed, almost feeling normal. “Sounds good to me.”

*   *   *

In Alamosa they picked up the rental truck that Rickman had arranged, Zach changed
clothes into something more casual, and they were on their way. Like most of the trips
they’d taken together, they didn’t talk much, and Clare let Zach sink into his preferred
driving mind zone.

Within a few minutes of passing the foothills of the Rio Grande Valley, they drove
into winter. First rain splattered against the windshield, then as they rose in elevation
the precipitation turned to misty snow. No one else seemed to be moving in the entire
world.

“The valley and the river are a whole lot wider than I thought,” Clare said.

Zach smiled. “Well, it
is
the Rio Grande. You’re just used to creeks and close canyon walls on both sides like
those in the Front Range near Denver.”

She shifted in her seat, tired of sitting. “That’s true, but the rock-faces look a
lot alike.” Tall and jagged on her right. And they passed one of the standard “Falling
Rock” signs.

Zach slammed on the brakes. The seat belt grabbed Clare as they fishtailed, then slowed
to a crawl.

“What?” she asked.

“You don’t see them.” Now Zach’s tones flattened.

“No.” She wet her lips. “Crows? The ones only you see that are a prophecy? The psychic
trait from your grandmother?”

“Yeah. Four. According to the Counting Crows Rhyme I was taught as a child and that
matches the predictions, four is for death.”

“Oh. Not good. You’re sure?”

His hands ran up and down the wheel, then the car picked up speed. “Just before I
met you, when I first came to Colorado from Montana, I saw four crows.”

“Death followed?” Clare asked in a small voice.

“Yeah.”

She let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” He paused a minute, then she felt his glance. “You never looked me or my
shooting in Montana up on the Internet, did you?”

“No. You told me about it, why should I?”

Shaking his head, he said, “Every other woman I was involved with would have.”

Her stomach sank.

“Every other woman would have wanted to see the whole damn thing, followed the whole
story—that my new partner and I pulled over an ex-cop from Plainsview City.” His lips
thinned. “My partner wasn’t like you, she was sloppy.”

Clare wasn’t sure why he’d changed the subject, but stayed quiet. Surely that last
bit was complimentary. She didn’t tend to be sloppy.

“My partner was a local, she knew the guy and his family, she went up to him and asked
him to step out and he did. She was offering to drive him home when I came up. I’da
let him in our vehicle, let her drive him home. But she hadn’t checked him for weapons.
I didn’t either.” Zach stretched his shoulders. “The guy had a gun and I saw it and
we scuffled and he shot me. An investigative television reporter from Billings was
there for another story, close enough to hear the shot, apparently.” Zach’s twitch
of the lips upward wasn’t a smile. “It was a circus. I was shot, the sheriff’s department’s
training and processes and practices were scrutinized. Some of the guys I worked with
had never liked me and this made it worse.” Another shrug. “So it goes.”

Clare put her hand on his steel-like thigh. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. Then added,
“We all make mistakes.”

His smile turned sardonic. “Truth.” He exhaled, long, but not a sigh. “I was on my
way out of Montana when my partner came to apologize. She seemed to have to do that
like every other week. She was with her new partner, one of the guys who didn’t like
me.” Zach’s gaze cut to Clare again. “As backup. Now
that
woman was dependent. Always needed backup.”

Clare got an awful feeling she knew why this story had come up at this time. “Was?”

“Yeah. I saw four crows as they left.”

“Four for death.”

“Yeah. The sheriff called me—he’s a stand-up guy—apparently I was the last one to
see them before their car crashed in a bad thunderstorm.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t heard all the details before.

Nicer to look at Zach than the wet asphalt, the snow coming down, though they were
still in the valley. If
their
car went off the road, they had a couple of yards before they ran into the rock cliff
on their right, and even longer to the drop-off to the river on their left.

“So the Crow Rhyme prediction was right in that instance, and you anticipate it being
correct now.”

Zach made a sound, then cleared his throat and said, “You—and Mrs. Flinton and, hell,
my own Gram when I was a kid—seem to think I have a thing.”

“A psychic power of precognition.”

“I know that word, too.”

“Well, if your precognition and the Counting Crows Rhyme is true, we’ve been warned.
We’re ready, and we’ll see if that prophecy is immutable,” Clare said.

“Uh-huh.” Zach picked up the speed.

A few minutes later Clare looked at the nav and unclenched her fists. “We’re coming
up to Wagon Wheel Gap.”

“Ghosts from your time period?”

“Yes. It’s been blessedly ghost free so far.”

Zach sped up further. “No one’s on the road.”

“I noticed. Absolutely no rush hour traffic.”

“That’s a good thing, for sure.”

They passed a few houses, and Clare looked left beyond Zach to the wide valley and
dimly sensed there could be an apparition or two at a couple of tourist ranches they
passed by. To their right was the canyon wall and another “Falling Rock” sign.

Soon they turned off the main highway to Creede and Clare shifted in her seat. “The
valley narrows from here. There was a series of towns, down around here was Amethyst
and South Creede, then Jimtown or Gintown, which is the current business district,
then up the canyon was Stringtown and old Creede itself at the convergence of East
and West Willow Creeks—”

“—where Caden said there used to be a scary feeling,” Zach added, breaking into her
factual delivery. So she liked facts. Facts were logical. They didn’t change. Well,
they shouldn’t change, though she’d learned historical facts were more mushy than
others. Definitely more amorphous than nice, clean bookkeeping figures.