Ghost Seer (30 page)

T
HEY WOUND THROUGH
the narrow streets of a shabby trailer park. Now and again off to the left or right were short gravel drives that went nowhere, where there’d once been access to fields that now only showed thrusting grass in faint dirt ruts.

Zach cursed mildly but continually as he wove through the lanes that were more country than town.

There is a sharp turn, here, follow me!
Jack Slade said, indicating the bend, then flickering out. Due to his excitement or some other paranormal phenomenon that she didn’t know about?

“I saw him,” Zach said, and Clare realized she’d left her fingers on his leg, but they’d traveled up more toward the crease in his thigh. He didn’t seem to mind, though she was sure he noticed. A trickle of easy contentment mixed with the excitement churning through her blood. She was so, so lucky to have him with her.

No matter what happened in her life, she needed to remember and cherish this moment. No matter what happened with her and Zach . . . and she hoped they were only on the beginning of their journey together . . . she had to remember what he was doing for her tonight. Not leaving her alone to face her first major ghost laying . . . transitioning . . . passing on into the light . . . heading through the door to the next world or whatever came after death. She’d had little religion or personal spiritual philosophy but figured she’d be developing one soon. Her mouth twisted; she’d have to, it would be a necessity, wouldn’t it?

A bump jolted her from the thoughts she’d wrapped around her like an insulating blanket.

“Damn washboard road.”

They proceeded slowly, but it wasn’t more than five minutes before the ghost appeared again.

“There! There he is, and more distinct than I’ve ever seen him!” Clare said.

“Yeah, yeah. I see him pretty damn good, too.” A slight pause. “Well, crap.”

“What?”

“Look ahead and a little up.”

She sucked in a breath. “A ridge. Full of houses. Some of them with porch lights on.”

“Damn it! All of the huge state of Wyoming with farms and ranches of thousands of acres and the damn site is near a damn suburb of Torrington.”

“The trailer park isn’t that far behind us, either,” Clare said.

“I know it.” Zach turned into dirt ruts that his headlights illuminated. They also caught the shine of white letters on a sign:
P
OSTED.
N
O
T
RESPASSING.
K
EEP
O
UT.

“Well, darn,” Clare said. She was breathing fast. “At least there’s a draw . . . a tangle of bushes and cottonwoods, and it looks like we’ll be below another ridge, maybe hidden a little?” She kept her voice quiet but couldn’t stop the anxious rise in tone.

“Not good enough,” Zach said grimly, killing the lights. He jutted his chin. “Did you see the irrigated field? I betcha anything the damn station will be in the middle of that wheat.”

“Oh, dear.”

He opened the door and she did the same and hopped out, landing on dry grass that crackled under her feet. A mass of crickets went quiet.

“Let’s head on along the bottom of the ridge,” Zach murmured. He rubbed the back of his neck. “At least there’s no moon. It’s a new moon tonight. And let’s do this fast. Ted’s around. I just feel it.”

Clare smiled at him and his heart squeezed. He’d do a lot for that smile. “I know I can trust you.”

She will not be aware of the normal world
, Enzo said in a fussy tone.

All Zach’s muscles tensed; he had to pry his teeth open to say, “What?”

Patting him on the arm, Clare turned on a small flashlight she must have pulled from her pocket. She outlined the continuing dirt rut between the ridge and the wheat field, heading toward a glowing blur a couple of yards away. The thing winked out when she raised her hand from his arm. “I trust you.” She stopped a moment, her face pale but her big eyes wide. “Time to confab with the notorious Jack Slade and send him to his . . . on.”

“To his just reward?” Zach asked dryly.

Clare shivered a little and he wondered if she felt the cold of ghosts. Zach himself felt warm, though the sky began to rapidly cloud over, blocking even the starlight on this night of the dark of the moon.

“I hope there is a great deal of mercy,” Clare murmured.

Zach would second that. “I’ll follow close.” He clicked on his Maglite.

She nodded, said nothing about him being crippled, as usual. She trusted him as backup and he trusted her. She’d do her job to the very best of her ability. And she’d be a good partner, take charge of the situation and spare him what she could.

Some partner he was. He should have asked one of the special forces guys to help them . . . help Clare. He wanted her safe, and he couldn’t protect her the way he could have a few months ago.

The going was rough. He had to watch every step, and each step hurt. He should’ve gotten a goddamned brace. Clare was at least three yards ahead of him.

“Hey, Jack,” she said softly.

From one step to the next, as if she crossed some invisible boundary, the night sliced in two. Instead of the subtle tones of night, the blasting uber-rich color of a hot August day hit her eyes. Instead of fragrant scents of grass and crops and land drifting to her nostrils, horrible odors assaulted her nose—horse poop, blood, and death.

The man slumping on the post before her had voided himself. A pool of dark red liquid surrounded by buzzing flies marked the packed dirt at his feet; two holes on the opposite sides of his head were red, horrific.

She screamed but heard nothing . . . except Jack Slade as he stepped before her, still in his shades of black and white, worry lines dug into his face. He wasn’t the only man there, but the two other cowboys, both vivid in life as Jules Beni was in death, stood with disgruntled expressions, waving at the body and seeming to yell at Jack. Clare couldn’t hear them.

Jack angled to follow her gaze. “They aren’t really present, just part of my torment, the continuing loop. I just told them that they wouldn’t be getting the larger reward for Jules Beni, since he wasn’t alive.” Jack sounded as if he spoke, words forming in air, not mind-to-mind.

The apparition turned fully around to survey the scene with her. His hands rose and dropped in a futile motion. “You know I went to Fort Laramie and told the commanding officer I’d be hunting Beni. He gave me his blessing, such as it was. I’d boasted I’d cut Jules’s damn ears off and wear them, and I had to do it.”

A deeper timbre entered his voice along with an edge. Jack rubbed his chest over a couple of the bullets left in him. “I’d been avoiding Jules as long as I could.” Jack’s lips curled. “Scared then of getting shot and more hurt, like I’m scared now I won’t pass on.” He didn’t look at Clare. “I had to cut off his ears, to keep my reputation, and once I saw him dead, I wanted to. So I did.” He shook his head, sighed, glanced sideways at her. “All right, maybe I was a little wrong about the first part. I didn’t have to cut off his ears.” Jack rubbed his own. “I knew no matter what happened that day, people would say I was the one who killed Beni; my rep woulda been fine without the ears.”

Clare nodded. “They said you tied him to a pole and shot bits of him for hours.” Instinctively, she looked at the dead man again. He’d lived to be significantly older than Jack Slade, and she couldn’t tell how many times he’d been shot because his shirt was so stained she couldn’t separate the fresh blood from anything else . . . but she didn’t think he’d had a six-shooter emptied into him like Jack had.

“I didn’t torture him or kill him,” Jack Slade said simply.

Enzo appeared.
Why are you still here, Clare? The cold is killing you and you haven’t even merged with Jack yet?
The ghost dog asked telepathically.

“I had to tell her my story,” Jack said.

Enzo snorted, glaring at Clare.
You don’t have to listen to their stories. You can’t afford to.

She moved cold lips, answering aloud. “I think I do. To understand my . . . my place in this . . .” So
hard
to lift a hand and gesture, her fingers a tiny flick instead of a wide movement. Alarm flared in her mind and sent a spurt of warmth through her.

Jack sighed and it was more hollow and otherworldly than his words had been.

“Do you have the ears?”

They were in her jeans pocket. She nodded. Her lips turned down. Time to get on with the whole weird business.

Take my hand.
Slade’s voice was back to ghostly thought echoing in her mind.

She knew what that meant; when she initiated contact with the ghosts, the cold was so much worse. Freezing enough to stop a heart. She stared and stared at his hand. For once Enzo didn’t prod. Zach wasn’t near, but he wouldn’t attempt to stop her from doing her job. He understood. She wished she did.

 • • • 

“Just what are you all doing on my land at two in the morning, messing around with my crop?” snapped a weathered older man in a cowboy hat, holding a shotgun.

Zach didn’t answer, more focused on a blurry movement in the brush to his right, the crack of the breaking of dry branches. If he pulled his gun, the farmer might shoot him.

“Well?” the guy demanded.

The tiniest glint on a gun barrel in the draw. Zach leapt forward into the big farmer, knocked him aside, fell himself.

Ted rushed from deep shadows. The bastard had another gun. “You can’t make Jack Slade move on before he tells me about the gold.” He shot but missed Zach since he was already rolling away.

“What the hell!” shouted the farmer.

“I’ll get
her
, slow her down.” Mather panted, pivoted, and aimed at Clare.

Zach reached for his gun, shot.

So did the farmer.

 • • • 

Take. My. Hand
, Jack Slade said.

She was too tense, too wired, all her muscles tight, her nerves quivering through her body, but Clare reached out, grasped the ghostly hand. And it seemed he moved
into
her, slowing her motions, stopping her heart in truth for one terrible second before she, they, took up a stance before the ever-running, looping scene. He settled in her, not as a man, but as a hard ball of ice in her torso.

And she was blazing color, too, seeing the events take place,
feeling
what Jack did, his continual agony of the bullets and buckshot still inside him, his fury at Jules Beni.

She strode up to the corpse and a knife was in her hand, and then she watched as she deftly
cut
the ears off with a couple of slices. “He’s dead right enough,” Jack said, the only words she’d actually heard, though the cowboys had come and their mouths had moved and arms waved in a heated discussion with Jack. He poked a hole in one of the ears and threaded his pocket watch chain through it, the ear now a bloody fob. Then he stuck the other in a pocket. Her gorge rose and she stumbled a couple of yards back.

Got the ears?
the phantom asked.
It’s time.

It’s time, Clare!
Enzo chimed in.

She wanted to rub her arms, but her hands were bloody and one held a knife and the cold numbed her fingers. She could
feel
her energy draining as she swayed.

THE EARS!
both Jack Slade and Enzo shouted.

The gunfighter’s image rose in her mind, his determined expression let her know he wouldn’t let her give up. He’d haunt her for sure, as a mad specter, if she didn’t do this for him, she just knew it. His face began to fade to a skull, then gained substance again . . . repeated the cycle.

Reaching into her jeans pocket, she fumbled to find the opening. She should be able to see her breath, she was so cold . . . dangerously cold.

Clare, Clare, hurry, hurry, hurry. You have to do this fast!
Enzo whined and jumped around her. When he lit on her feet, she could swear she could feel his weight.

Better get it done
, Slade said.
Or we’ll both die . . . or go mad.

Her focus narrowed to one thought, too late to think the whole thing was weird and crazy and unreal. She managed to thrust her fingers into her pocket and touched the earlobes. They felt warm and plump and throbbing.

Z
ACH GRABBED HIS
cane, levered up to his good foot, went over to where Mather shrieked and thrashed. Zach scooped up his gun, then hit the kidnapper’s jaw harder than he had the night before, and Mather lay still. Zach took the handcuffs he’d had attached to his belt and restrained the perp.

“Godamighty,” said the farmer, slower getting to his feet. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a kidnapper,” Zach said.

“He’s a crazy.”

“That, too.”

“And who might you be, Mr. Colorado License Plates?” He examined Zach top to toe. “What are you doing here? And what the hell is she doing?” The farmer turned and stared at Clare. She seemed to be sleepwalking, her fingers curved around what Zach knew was a pair of ears. Zach tensed in case he’d have to hold back the man if he went after Clare.

“Getting rid of the ghost of Jules Beni?” Zach offered.

Scratching the beard stubble on his chin, the farmer’s gaze slid toward Zach. “Is that so?”

 • • • 

She smelled death and lurched forward to the remains of Jules Beni with the holes on each side of his head. No longer dry and leathery, the ears pulsed in her hands, seeming all too real. Hauling in a breath, teetering, her mind fogging with cold, Clare aligned the ears against the corpse’s head.

It vanished . . . and the whole scene drained of color, tinted browns, like shades of sepia.

Jack Slade pulled from her and it hurt, hurt, hurt, ice slicing her guts. She wobbled where she stood.

 • • • 

Mather groaned. Zach looked at the farmer. “I appreciate the help in getting this one.”

“He after your lady?”

At hearing Clare called “his lady,” the adrenaline zooming along in Zach’s bloodstream went straight to his groin. “Yeah. He’s also on the run from the Denver cops.”

The farmer shook his head. “Well, he’ll spend some time here, I reckon. Trespassing, attempted murder. Though I s’pose the sheriff will be glad enough to hand him over to your Denver boys.”

“No doubt.”

“Now why don’t you finally give me your name?”

“Zach Slade, ex–deputy sheriff out of Montana, current private investigator from Denver.” He offered his hand. “I don’t have a card.”

“I don’t want one.” A grunt. “Slade, huh?”

“No relation to Jack.”

“Didn’t think so.” The man tipped his cowboy hat up, scrutinizing Zach. “You look a little familiar, though. You got family around here?”

Zach pulled a face. “No, the family home is in Boulder, Colorado.”

A crack of laughter came from the farmer. He slapped Zach on the back with his free palm. “Not a place I’d feel comf’ble in.” Now he held out his hand. “I’m Mike Gurey.”

Taking his tough-skinned hand, Zach shook it briefly, a firm grip from both of them.

“Boulder is better left to the university and New Age crowd. How did you know we were here?” Zach asked, trying to keep the man’s attention on himself. Clare stood in a trancelike state.

The guy hesitated; his wide flannel-covered shoulders shifted. “Just had a feelin’.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said. He moved wrong and his left foot dragged on the ground. Heat rushed under the skin of his neck and cheeks.

Gurey glanced at Zach’s ankle. “Foot drop, eh? You need more than a lift in your shoe. You need a brace, son,” the man said, not unkindly.

“I’ve figured that out,” Zach said.

A wind whipped in from nowhere, shrieking through the still night. The farmer flinched. “I think I’ll head off my neighbors and meet the sheriff on the road.”

Zach wished he could go, too. “I guess I’d better stay here.”

Gurey clapped him on the shoulder as he gave a last glance to Clare, who was gesturing widely, then wrapped her arms around herself and trembled.

“I’ll be glad when the weirdness is out of this part of my land,” the farmer said, and added, “She’s one in a million.”

“Yeah.” And Zach was damn glad that the man strode away without saying more or giving advice.

He hurried as fast as he could to Clare. He’d be faster and steadier with a brace.

 • • • 

The ghost of Jack Slade stared at Clare, and for the first time the dark lines worn of worry, of drink, had vanished from his face, and undimmed joy shone in his eyes. “Thank you for helping me.” He inclined his torso slightly. “And thank you for being willing to help those, like me, who are trapped. Hello, Jackson Zachary Slade.” He smiled beyond her, then she felt Zach’s strong arm around her waist.

Jack Slade angled his head at Zach. “Those who keep the law are not only the lawmen, you know. Those who find justice for others don’t always wear a badge.”

Zach jolted beside Clare.

Still smiling, the apparition said, “I am whole enough to pass through.” Then the ghost’s head cocked. “Virginia?” He
laughed
. “I hear you, Virginia, don’t scold me for being late, I’m coming!” With a wide grin he dissolved into a shaft of golden light that blinded her.

Euphoria washed through her, just like the golden light. She sighed and tension released. She
had
deeply affected at least one “person” with her gift,
had
helped. She had a new talent that she could use, and a challenge in learning how.

She wouldn’t be a failure, wouldn’t go mad, wouldn’t die.

When her eyes adjusted again, it was night and she heard distant sobbing. She froze. “Do you hear that?”

“It’s Mather.”

She looked at Zach; he seemed more relaxed, too. Well, the woo-woo part of the evening was most likely over. “Ted?” she asked.

“Yeah. He tried to attack you, but between me and the farm owner, we restrained him.”

“The farm owner,” she breathed.

Zach’s arm tightened. He brought her close. “You’re cold.”

“Yes.”

YAY CLARE!
Enzo yelled, zooming around her in circles, leaving streaks of silvery drool in the air, leaping now and then and licking her hands.

“Yay, Clare!” Zach said, and laughed, then laughed some more as she moved from his grasp and twirled around him, mixing in a few Gypsy steps that Aunt Sandra had taught her, flinging her arms up, her head back and wanting, wanting,
wanting
bracelets and necklace and a headband that jingled with coins.

She was free.

Whole in a way she hadn’t been, ever.

Only some of that was due to her accepting her gift, though she felt
right
about that. Most of her happiness was the sheer pleasure of being with Zach. A man who might deny his own sensitivities, but that was all right. Didn’t she know how hard it was to accept the weirdness in your own life? If the consequences hadn’t been so dire and fatal, she wouldn’t have accepted them herself.

Zach would come to acceptance of his own gift, or not. She’d watch for those little odd moments of his but wouldn’t say anything.
His
choice. She wouldn’t push. Yet.

But it had been a long, long time since she’d felt so happy, happy enough to be dancing as twilight smudged into dawn.

Zach watched Clare dance. For sure he’d have to get her one of those Gypsy outfits, unless she had one tucked away he hadn’t seen.

His smile straightened as in the distance he saw the flashing lights of a police vehicle, heard the static of the radio. His jaw clenched. That part of his life was
over
.

“Come on, the authorities”—not him, not ever again—“are here. We have some explaining to do. Don’t mention the ghost.”

She sniffed and took his free hand, linking fingers with him. “As if I would.”

 • • • 

The time with the sheriff of Goshen County and the Torrington police—Clare wasn’t sure who had jurisdiction, but they were both there—went a whole lot faster than her earlier questioning. The farm owner backed Zach up as to the murderous assault by Ted Mather on Gurey, Zach, and Clare. She’d been oblivious. Would that always be the case? She hoped not.

Once the police in Denver got on the conference call, everything went even faster, until they were on the road again, Zach still driving, after breakfast.

Again the trip passed without any great revelations on either of their parts, and they made excellent time.

At the sight of the two small carriage lights on each side of her front door welcoming her home, an upsurge of pure warmth banished the last of the cold of the crazy adventure from her bones. She
was
home, this was home, where she was supposed to be. She understood now that she’d recognized the house.

As she’d recognized Zach, but she’d let that knowledge curl in the back of her head and her heart for now, a cherished secret.

He got out of the car, alternating leaning on his cane and raising his left knee high, higher than a usual gait, higher than
he
usually walked, since he tried to deny his disability as much as he could. He had to be even more weary than she.

When he opened the door of the truck, she slid down smoothly and into his arms. They held each other close and she realized she’d been wrong. Her house hadn’t vanquished the cold, not by itself. Zach had, and more, now he actively provided heat . . . body to body.

She would need that in the future, wouldn’t she?

She’d certainly need Zach, for more than just sex, or companionship, but because of that recognition he was the right man for her. She’d find a way to keep him.

They walked to the door holding hands.

He used the keypad and she the key; once inside, he disarmed the security. Waiting in the hallway was Enzo.

You did really, really good, Clare! We are proud of you!

“We?” asked Zach.

“Don’t ask.”

“Okay.”

Clare, you did GOOD!
Enzo shouted, and tilted his head at her, obviously wanting some acknowledgment.

She wet her lips. “Thank you, Enzo . . . it . . . felt satisfying to help Jack . . . move on.” That was the truth. She might have a strange vocation now, but she was making a difference, and that was vital for her. She’d just never figured on doing it this way.

Enzo looked at her with a doggie frown.
You aren’t going to make me leave, are you? I want to stay!

“No,” she said. “You don’t have to leave.” She smiled at the transparent Lab. “Looks like I have a ghost dog sidekick.”

Enzo yipped and his butt wiggled in pleasure. Zach grunted, turning his head to look at her. “How about a lover? I don’t want to leave, either.”

Lifting her hand to stroke his cheek, she said, “I’d like that,” she said.

“Let’s go to bed.” His smile quirked as he bent down and brushed her forehead with a kiss, then glanced at Enzo. “Beat it, dog.”

With a last bark, Enzo ran through the walls toward the backyard. They took the elevator up, with Zach leaning on her a bit. She liked that. She’d leaned enough on him, too.

They could lean on each other.

When they entered the bedroom, Zach propped his cane on a chair, took off his jacket and let it fall onto the chair, and began to unbutton his shirt, then just stopped. “What’s that?”

“What?” she asked.

“That thing on top of that inlaid bureau. It wasn’t there when we left.”

“Oh. That gleam of gold on top of
your
dresser?”

Zach’s gaze cut to her. “My dresser?”

“It’s empty, for you if you want it.” At his hesitation her shoulders began to rise with tension.

“Sounds good,” he said, casually, and limped over to the bureau. She joined him.

“Huh.”

With him she looked down at a gold coin, a pretty woman’s face on the front.

Zach fingered it. “‘Twenty D’, dollars. Twenty-dollar gold piece, nice.” Then he put it back. His gaze met hers before they both stared at the antique pocket watch, surely gold, though the chain looked more like brass, with stains along it. Zach lifted the watch and turned it over, reading the inscription aloud. “Joseph Albert Slade.” Zach glanced at her. “Probably worth a pretty penny.”

“Put the gold piece and the watch in your dresser, Zach, and come to bed,” Clare said. For once in her life, she let her clothes drop where she stood.

“I think I’ll do that,” Zach said, holding out his hand. She took it and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then smiled at her with tenderness in his eyes. “To the future and us.”

She danced back a step or two and touched a kiss to his lips. “To the future and us.”