Ghost Killer (9 page)

“Shooting up a town sounds familiar.”

“Yes, like our first ghost, the gunfighter.”

“Wild West,” Zach murmured.

Clare returned to the current project, shaking her head. “Ford came back.”

“And he died.”

Enzo shook his head.
Bad men don’t learn fast. They make the same mistakes over and over again.

“That’s true,” Zach said. “Now what mistake would our current ghost have repeated?
That’s the trigger, repetition of some mistake, issue, problem.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Clare said. “If we need to see Robert Ford’s original burial
spot, I’m guessing it isn’t too far away . . . I’m sure I read about the location—”
Again she touched her cell.

“It doesn’t matter right now.”

“We don’t have a lot of time.” And that thought squeezed her breath in her chest.

I can find the Ford place, I can!
Enzo enthused. He took off running.

“We’ll work on the riddles tomorrow,” Zach said.

“I was hoping there would be a definitive biography of Robert Ford, but there isn’t.
I think the best I can do is something on Soapy Smith since they both were in Creede
at the same time.”

“Right.” Bad men competing seemed to light more interest in his eyes and she thought
he filed the idea away as he turned her toward him and said, “Calm down. Let me help.
You don’t have to do this alone—either figure out the trigger and the core identity
of the ghost, or the phantom’s name, or fight it.”

She let him hug her, closed her eyes and hid from the world, from the dead, with her
face against his chest and listening to his heartbeat instead of the whistling breeze.
She rested there for a while. “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His arms tightened, but he didn’t reply. After a minute, she pulled back and they
walked the gradual incline of the hillside. At the northeast base of the cemetery,
she saw the town expanded with new streets right next to the graveyard. “Who would
want that?” she muttered.

Zach smiled. “Restful neighbors.”

“For you, maybe.”

“An Old West silver mining town without ghosts,” he said, as if thinking.

Clare sniffed. “Just last month I wouldn’t have noticed them.”

“Are you sure? I bet you would have sensed them. Might have sensed them all your life,
but since your drama-loving, always-moving parents bothered you, you just thought
they were part of your life. Maybe that was another reason you became a very . . .
controlled . . . and rational accountant.”

She kissed his jaw. “That’s very insightful.”

“Uh-huh. The gift came through your gypsy blood. From your mother’s side, right?”

“Yes, like yours, another thing we have in common, though you have the Celtic background.”

“Yeah.” Now he sounded rusty, as if he ground out the words. “The damned wiffy Scot-Celtic
blood.” His expression shadowed into one of his regular broods. “
Not
through my father’s Native American blood.” He tramped back toward the car and the
gate, thumping his cane. “Though I know nothing about those ancestors, and don’t think
my father, the General, does either.”

“You are who you are,” she said, projecting calm.

“Would have been really awful if I got a double-whammy of woo-woo stuff.”

“So,” she said. “Here we are, confirming there are no ghosts, not even in the cemetery,
and that we have no clues.”

He gave her a smile that looked too practiced to her. “We have each other.”

“Well, that’s right. Now let’s go get that knife and you can give me lessons or something.”

A fast-moving gray phantom ran up to them, through them. “I think Enzo likes running
through us,” Clare said. “Did you feel him?”

“A little chill,” Zach admitted. “Dogs love to run, of course he’d like going through
us. He knows you don’t like it.”

“Rebellion,” Clare said.

“Teasing.” Zach tugged at a lock of her hair. It had gone completely frizzy in the
humidity. She tried to squish it down with both hands, but, as always throughout her
life, it sprang back up.

“Good thing I brought my best conditioner.”

“I like it this way,” Zach said.

Enzo zipped through them again, leapt and twisted in a move that a normal Lab couldn’t
make, and sat in front of them.
I found the hole where a once-dead person was but who isn’t there no more. He hasn’t
been there for a long, long time.

“All right,” Zach said. He leaned down to pet Enzo, but his hand went straight through
the phantom dog’s head. Enzo wiggled his butt.
I felt that, Zach. Nice warm hand!

“I felt it, too. Cool air.”

Enzo hopped to his feet and rubbed against Clare.
Clare’s touch is BEST.

So she reached down and petted his head, feeling like she stroked dry ice, her fingertips
searing . . . though they didn’t burn red. Still, she’d been the one to touch, so
the cold was worse.

Ooooh, lovely Clare. Thank you, Clare!
Enzo licked her hand.

“You’re welcome.”

Zach angled so he could clasp her frigid fingers in his own. The man’s muscle mass,
lean as he was, still generated a lot of heat in general, and now his hand felt amazingly
warm. He smiled at her. “Enzo’s right. Clare’s touch is the best.”

Enzo trotted in the direction he’d come.
Follow me!

“Across hillsides, I don’t think so, dog,” Zach said. He didn’t raise his voice, but
Enzo stopped and ran back to them.

“No one’s in the grave, we’ll check it out later.” Zach squeezed her fingers and they
turned to walk back to the car.

“Sounds fine to me.”

We are going to look at the knife.
Enzo’s back rippled.
It is a good but powerful thing.

“Sounds like it will kill a powerful, evil ghost, then,” Zach said.

Yes.
Enzo gave Clare big, dark, doggy eyes.
I was hoping Clare wouldn’t have to fight a bad ghost for a long, long, long time.

“You and me both,” Clare said.

As they stopped at the car, Zach opened the door for her, then kissed her on the temple.
“You’ll be fine.”

That he yet believed that boggled Clare’s mind. And that he was the optimist of the
two of them. Just plain odd.

CLARE HAD OPENED
the room-darkening curtains to reveal the view of the town and the hill on the far
side that showed a dotting of houses with their lights on. The rain had started again
and sputtered against the window, making the pine paneling and the earth-toned room
cozy.

Time to really look at the knife.

Zach placed the silk bag holding the knife in its sheath on the end of the bed that
Clare had made before they left for dinner, then he unpacked while she made coffee
for them both. Enzo sat in the chair by the window, keeping an eye out for the evil
revenant, though the phantom dog had told them that he hadn’t sensed the powerful
entity.

When Zach had stretched out with his back against the headboard, holding a thick white
pottery mug that was standard to many hotels and diners, Clare took the cloth tube
in her hands. The new knot Zach had tied was deceptively simpler and took her longer
to undo. Finally the red tassels hung straight and she opened the drawstring, drew
out the sheathed knife.

All her senses ruffled—a faint, high chime at the top of her hearing, the musky scent
of unknown incense, most of all a feeling of déjà vu when she clasped the weapon by
the hilt, as if she knew it better than just the few minutes she’d touched it before.
As if it knew
her
, and what kind of strange thought was that?

She glanced at Zach. He sipped his coffee and held her eyes. “Yeah, I heard the chime,
got the smell, too.”

Enzo had tensed, but he turned his head, snuffling, and projected,
Of course the knife will feel right to you. It is yours from Sandra, and Amos before
her, and Nuri before him, and Simza before him.

“An ancestral blade.” Zach sounded amused.

“Yes.” She continued to look at Enzo. “How did you know all of that?”

I know a lot that Sandra told me, and sometimes, sometimes, the Other will let me
know and say stuff. Not often though.

Clare nodded. “I’d prefer hearing data from you than it.”

That got her a slightly lolling tongue before the wraith Lab turned back to the window.
His body twitched.
I can sense it. The evil thing. Distant, though.

“Then let’s study the blade fast,” Zach said. “Rather take my time, though.”

So would Clare. With her left hand, she touched the intricate enamel and gold pattern.
“Where did this come from?” She aimed the question at her dog.

His back hunched smaller.
Made special for the blade, old, old, old. Too many questions will bring the Other.

Zach’s white cotton-socked right foot nudged Clare’s hip. “We don’t particularly like
the Other,” he said, though Clare thought the being bothered her more than her lover.

“No,” she agreed. “We don’t.”

“Unsheathe the blade.”

Curling her left fingers around the sheath, she pulled with both hands. The six-inch
curved blade came easily and her eyes widened at the ivory of it. “It’s the same bone,”
she said flatly. “But the handle is glossier, smoother.”

“Oils from people handling it more,” Zach said. “Interesting.” He put his mug on the
bedside table and scooted to her. “What kind of bone?”

“Whose bone” is the right question,
Enzo said, not
quite
sounding the Other, though his natural mental tone had deepened.

“Whose bone?” Clare parroted.

The ancestress who consented to be a ghost seer for us.
The Other turned Enzo’s body to face her, sitting up straight, but his dog ears were
lifted and angled as if he still listened for the evil ghost.
It is a blade made from Vadoma’s big leg bone.

“Her femur,” Clare said, emphasizing that for herself.

“The pommel must be the end near the knee,” Zach said.

“Okay, that’s creepy.” She removed her fingers from the hilt—and they came reluctantly
as if her hand liked holding the knife—gave it to Zach to scrutinize and took the
few paces to her coffee that she’d left on the sink counter outside the bathroom.

“Ouch!” Zach said. She whirled to see him staring at a slice on the pad of his index
finger that looked like a paper cut.

“Why did you test the knife with your finger?” she asked, exasperated.

“I didn’t.” He scowled at the blade. “I barely touched it. It cut me. And it sucked
the couple of drops of blood right up.” He made a loud slurping sound.

“Ick.”

The blade is hungry,
Enzo said.

Clare drank coffee that tasted more bitter than it should have. “Why do I think I’m
not going to like this next part?”

You must tune the blade to your personal essence before it will kill ghosts for you,
the Other said.

An atavistic shudder ran through Clare, nearly causing her to spill her coffee. “Let
me guess, the blade is bone and it will need blood. My blood.”

The spectral dog inclined his head.
Soaked in your blood.

“Soaked!” Clare gasped and heard Zach growl a protest.

You must pay that price,
the Other intoned.

“This ghost seer business is getting more and more expensive,” Clare snapped.

We have always paid you well.
The Other turned back to look out the window, dismissing her.
You have not looked at the knife. You should do so. You should know your weapon. The
evil ghost feels the blade, is confused about that feeling. It will cast about before
it understands how to find it. You have, perhaps, twenty of your minutes.

“Hmph.” But Clare marched over to where Zach sat, stared at the leg bone of her ancestress,
and gulped. “Looks in pretty good shape. No dark spots or soil stains or whatever
like . . . like I’ve seen on bones before.”

“Very clean,” Zach agreed.

“Pretty steep curve,” she noted.

It is as we requested her son to make it,
the Other commented.

More ick.

She sat next to Zach, and he lay the blade across her knees. It was pristine ivory,
only about an inch and a quarter wide at the hilt, then was fined down to a blade
that began curving to a point at the end. “It’s a . . . powerful . . . looking knife,”
she said doubtfully.

“Yes,” Zach said.

“If you like that sort of thing.”

“It’s sharper than a bone knife should be, and I’ll bet it keeps its edge well, too.”

“Magic,” Clare stated. “It wants my blood.” She sighed. “I don’t know how I’m going
to soak the darn blade in my blood. Especially here. Maybe if I had a medical person
draw a pint or whatever, but explaining that would be tough.”

“Yeah,” Zach said, though he had a considering expression as if he were several steps
ahead of her in figuring out the process, which wouldn’t surprise her a bit since
he knew weapons and she didn’t.

“I may as well give it a taste,” she grumbled. “Prime it so it knows more is coming.”
She set it next to the outside, fleshy part of her arm, not daring to get it near
a vein in her wrist. Barely pressing down, the thing sliced deeper than she wanted
and she gritted her teeth at the pain and watched the blood disappear around the blade.

“Give that to me,” Zach said roughly. He wrapped his fingers around hers and lifted
the greedy, bloodsucking blade a little.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got a first aid kit in my suitcase.”

Clare sighed again. “The way my cases have been going, I should have thought of that,
but I didn’t. Next time.”

“I hope not.”

The ghost begins to search. Put the blade away now,
said the Other.

“You have a real bad notion of time, Other,” Zach said.

It is smarter than I anticipated. Every time the knife is out of the silk shell, the
ghost will sense it more quickly.

“Come to find it more quickly,” Zach said.

Yes.
The Other stared at them, at her, now, with those depthless, judging mist-eyes.
That will be true of all evil ghosts in your future.

“Joy,” said Clare flatly. She curved her fingers around the hilt and sheathed the
bone blade. Zach took the long knife from her, slipped it back in the silk tube, and
tied the tassels. Clare was glad when she could no longer see it.

The phantom Lab hopped off the chair and onto the bed with them, no longer the Other
spirit, but her companion, Enzo, again. Clare crossed over to the window and pulled
the curtains, shutting out the dark and the rain that had turned to spitting hail.
Shutting her and Zach and Enzo into the warmth of light.

She went back and petted Enzo and he dropped his lower jaw in a slight smile at her,
licked her icy fingers. “You don’t have to stay, Enzo. Go home to Denver. I give you
permission.”

No, I must stay. The Other was very clear. And I WANT to, because we must WIN. We
will NOT be eaten.

Zach stood next to her with a bandage and a roll of gauze. “We’re not letting any
stupid ghost eat you or Caden.”

The Other said it was smart.

“No. An evil being, whether human or not, isn’t smart if it attracts attention to
its crimes. That’s when people come after it to stop it.”

“To destroy it,” Clare said.

To kill it. You will KILL it, Clare.
Enzo sounded more cheerful.

Her mouth dried up. “Yes. Sure.”

*   *   *

The rest of the evening, Clare sat next to Zach and watched football and desultorily
researched as much as she could find on Creede, Robert Ford, and Soapy Smith, marking
dates that she’d like to look up if the archives held the newspapers.

The History Colorado Center and the Denver Public Library, of course, had the most
material and what she found online didn’t seem easily accessed. As much as it pained
her, she’d consider hiring a research assistant if necessary, if she could find a
good one who’d work fast and efficiently.

She needed information before she had to confront and fight the ghost. She needed
the phantom’s name.

Whining wind shook the windows along with eerie shrieks. She couldn’t tell whether
she was the only one who heard it—well, she and Zach and Enzo, who lay draped over
their feet.

After the game, Clare set aside her tablet to charge and cuddled with Zach, who kept
her warm. Even with the lights out, and Zach at her back, she couldn’t sleep. Instead
her consciousness descended into a gray state of not-life. That faded into darkness
until she shook with the sound of a death cry and the seeping of something—water?—that
clogged her lungs then became a flood engulfing her. She saw a thin thread of bright
red blood.

She choked, coughed, woke. Zach lay still and sleeping behind her. Trembling with
fear, with cold, she carefully slipped from his loose grasp, crawled from the bed.
In the dark, a bar of ivory glowed on the television table in front of her—the knife.

Enzo?
she whispered with her mind.

I am under the bed,
he whispered back.
It is not safe for me in the ghost dimension.

Not if there was real red blood adding color to that place.

She heard him gulp.
Are you going out? It is not safe out there. Nowhere in this town is safe.

Clare stopped, finding herself at the door, her hand on the handle, not recalling
moving there. She didn’t even have shoes on, or a robe over her flannel pajamas!

Low, persistent growling came from the courtyard of the motel. The hair on the nape
of her neck rose in atavistic horror. Inside she trembled. Hell, her hand on the door
lever shook. But she
could
sense it, the evil ghost, how it stalked and paused at each door. How it stopped
in front of theirs. Enzo sat
in
her legs and shivered with her. Perhaps she masked him from the ghost. She didn’t
know. She didn’t know too awful much. Universes of things she had to learn before
she should fight this ghost.

Her mouth dried. The handle turned icy under her fingers. In panic mode, she couldn’t
move, frozen in every sense.

High-pitched keening sliced into her mind. Not one muscle twitched.

Then, screaming, human screaming, young boy shrieking came. “No,
no
, NO!”

Whatever threatened outside her door whisked away, zooming in the direction of Caden’s
cries, and Clare wrenched free of horror. “No!” she yelled herself, but it whispered
out.

“What’s going on!” Zach’s rough demand grounded her further.

“It’s after Caden. It . . . it . . . wa-wasss . . . h’r . . . ri-right . . . outs’de . .
th . . door . . . bu-but—” She couldn’t speak for the shivering.

Zach joined her, gun in hand. He looked great, strong, solid, large.

And he couldn’t fight this, not like her. Then he dropped the gun and grabbed the
knife in its ivory silk tube, swept an arm around her waist, and simply lifted her
and moved her aside.

The heat of him snapped her all the way back. She pushed the lever, whipped the door
open, gasped at the cold of the night as well as the lingering frigidity of the ghost,
and yanked the knife from Zach’s hand.