Ghost Talker

One of the earliest versions of the Counting Crows Rhyme was published, with variations, in M. A. Denham's Proverbs and Popular Sayings of the Seasons (London, 1846):

One for sorrow,

Two for luck;

Three for a wedding,

Four for death;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for heaven,

Nine for hell,

And ten for the devil's own sell (self)!

Ghost Talker

Robin D. Owens

InterMix Books, New York

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GHOST TALKER

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Robin D. Owens.

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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-41159-3

P
UBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / February 2016

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Buffalo Bill's Grave

Lookout Mountain, Colorado, mid-September twilight

“It's a poltergeist messing with Buffalo Bill's grave!” enthused the sixties-something guy who'd called the Denver police. He'd been told Clare and Zach,
not
police officers, would meet him at sunset. “I've seen the supernatural phenomena occur at sunrise and sunset for several days now! And there's absolutely no one here when it happens.” He waved toward the grave site behind the iron-spiked fence on Lookout Mountain.

Clare Cermak gritted her teeth, had to work to keep herself from shifting from foot to foot in irritation. The annoyance she'd felt at being called out on a waste-of-time case resurged. Even if William F. Cody's spirit had suddenly become active, Clare wouldn't be able to communicate with him, or even see him. The Cermak ghost seer gift worked for a certain time period. From experience, she understood that she could only interact with spirits of people who'd passed away from 1850 through the end of 1899.

Buffalo Bill had died in 1917. He could be tap-dancing and juggling on that grave and all she'd sense was a ghost there. Not who, and not from which era he lived. Or whether Mrs. Cody, who died even later, in 1921, haunted the site. So being here seemed senseless.

She, Zach, and the jogger who'd called the police stood in front of the locked gate. The two graves of William Frederick Cody and his wife lay under white quartz rocks gleaming in the last lingering radiance of the sunset. But there were holes in those mounds where the quartz stones should have set, too.

Those rocks ripped from their settings tumbled over the red sandstone paths around and between the graves. Dirt, dust, pine cones and needles, even coins, littered the enclosure.

Gesturing, the man said, “This isn't how the graves should look. They're kept pristine. But the poltergeist comes as wind, a dust devil.”

Irritation transmuted to anxiety and Clare's heart bumped. Just two days ago she and Zach had destroyed a violent ghost who'd been teeth and claws in a whirlwind. A man had died in that fight, and Zach nearly had. She wasn't ready to battle another evil spirit.

She swallowed and faded a step back in fear. But her lover, Zach Slade, stood solidly of course, ex–law officer that he was. Then she inhaled and straightened her spine. Even if Zach didn't believe the man, and even if she thought the phantom outside her time period, listening to stories and defining the problem always came first. And she could hope the guy mistook the situation.

“Vandalism of a grave is malicious mischief,” said Zach. His blue green eyes had shaded to a flat hue and his expression
went impassive. Clare thought he took the man's account with a grain of salt.

They'd come at the off-the-books request of a police friend of Zach's to see if they could handle the tale-bearer without the authorities becoming involved. Zach had said he believed teens were behind this.

Tapping the face of his wrist computer, the older guy said in satisfied tones, “He—it—the poltergeist came a few minutes before sunset tonight, but it can also appear at close to the time of civil or nautical twilight.” The jogger dressed in expensive wear grinned. “There's an app for that.”

Unfortunately Clare knew that. Time mattered in her new vocation: sunrise and sunset, phases of the moon, and now, apparently, twilight. Heat from the day lingered but she shivered. So many rules she hadn't learned. Working in ignorance weighed on her like a backpack full of stones.

The jogger bounced up and down on his feet. “The poltergeist
could
come back tonight.” He stared at Zach and Clare. “The police don't believe me. I've called several days this week and they still haven't sent anyone official.”

“We're here at your request and the DPD's,” Zach said drily. Reaching into his black aviator jacket pocket, he pulled out a business card. “We're consultants—with the police and for you. Clare and I are associated with Rickman Security and Investigations.”

“Zach's an ex–deputy sheriff with more than a decade of experience,” Clare said.

Zach smiled at her, casually leaning on his cane. The jogger glanced at the cane. He'd seen Zach limp up to the grave with her, take the shallow steps slowly. Accepting the business card, but not glancing at it, he said, “I've heard of Rickman.” With a sideways look at Clare that became fixed, an eager and true-believer smile lit his face. “And I've heard you're the newest ghost seer to Denver and an excellent medium.”

Clare flinched at the twist of pain at her lost career. She wasn't new to Denver. She'd gone to college for accounting here, had been hired and worked at a prestigious firm—until her great-aunt Sandra had died and left her a fortune of millions. And the family “gift” of helping ghosts move on.

Someone else had needed her job more, and the new psychic stuff had complicated her life. She'd struggled not to believe in her new ability, but when the downside of ignoring it was madness and death, she'd accepted the . . . gift.

The older man waved a hand. “I live close by.” No doubt in one of the million-dollar homes. His brows dipped. “While I've been running, I've seen the breeze swirl, a dust devil, starting right here in the enclosure.” He stuck out his chin. “A poltergeist.”

There IS an interesting smell, Clare!
Enzo, her ghost Labrador, enthused, galloping up to them from the far side of the hill he'd gone down to check out a new-to-him place.

In the dimming light as the sun dipped farther behind the trees here and the mountains in the distance, the dog appeared almost solid to her. Spectral muzzle down, he ran back and forth, through the iron spikes and the mounds.
I follow my nose!

He barked and took off again. Zach tilted his head. Usually her lover could hear her ghostly pet. The man had gifts of his own.

Sometimes Zach could see Enzo, too, especially if Zach was touching her—sadly, not now. He stood on the other side of the older man.

“Buffalo Bill's come back at last!” Excitement filled the jogger's tone.

Even with less than a month as a ghost seer, and three solid cases under her belt, Clare doubted that. In the brief research she'd done on her phone as Zach drove them up to Lookout Mountain, she hadn't seen—or
sensed
—any unresolved issues Buffalo Bill Cody might have had.

The jogger-true-believer turned to Clare, dipped his hand into his pocket, and pulled out her business card. On the front, it gave her name and the words “Specializing in Ghosts of the Old West.”

Suppressing a sigh—
she
had not commissioned or distributed those cards—her smile turned tight. The other ghost seer she knew had had the cards made and disseminated them without Clare's knowledge, an action to urge Clare into becoming more public with her gift. Clare wanted to take this whole business slowly, very slowly, while she learned the rules.

“Yes, I've heard of you,” the older man repeated.

She nodded. “I see.”

He held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Cermak, I'm Kurtus Welliam.”

She shook his hand.

Mr. Welliam turned to Zach and the men went through the same courtesy. Then Zach said, “You saw a dust devil inside the grave enclosure this evening?”

Mr. Welliam nodded. “Yes, at 7:08 p.m. precisely. Like I said, I've seen the poltergeist a few times this week when I was running—I keep this area on my route now—I saw it happening again tonight, so I called the Denver Police Department immediately.”

On the Buffalo Bill grave site web page it stated that though Jefferson County surrounded the place, the site itself was one of the Denver Mountain Parks and under the city's authority.

“Since the police haven't been paying much attention, and I knew that both of you have often worked with the police, I requested that they call you.” His shifted his gaze and his feet, coughed slightly. “Then I thought about everything and phoned another medium I know.”

He'd been a busy man. Clare didn't ask about the other medium since he or she hadn't arrived. She focused on the now and what Mr. Welliam might need.

Kurtus Welliam went on. “Of course the museum staff has tidied up the graves whenever this happened before.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said. He scanned the site with a dubious gaze. “At least there's no tagging.”

“Mr. Welliam,” Clare said, “I don't think that Buffalo Bill has returned—”

The wind came out of nowhere, whirling and with a high-pitched whine. Drawing air from around them, forming a tall pillar of detritus around wavery air. Dust dimmed her vision, spitting into her eyes, clogging her lungs as she took a breath. Rocks flew and a pinecone smacked Clare in the cheek.

“Down!” Zach ordered.

Clare flung herself down and hit the ground. Mr. Welliam took a few seconds to fuss with his watch on the ground, then aimed it at the dust devil, his eyes and smile huge.

Zach stood solid and angled his cane as if to fight.

Clare coughed, flinched as white quartz rocks too big to fit between the iron spiked fence of the enclosure hit the uprights and rang. The sound of cracking and splintering stones became a steady percussion. She thought she heard the whip of the cloth of the flags above them, too. And the smack of Zach's cane as he deflected flying stuff, perhaps thrust his cane through the bars of the enclosure around the graves and even into the dust devil.

She
did
feel the presence of a ghost. Not one she could see, or help transition, but the distinct unearthly chill pervaded the atmosphere around her.

Enzo, her dog, stood on—in—Clare, baying furiously.
He will not hurt you, Clare. I promise.

“Is he evil?” Clare sputtered against the ground, her lips picking up bits of dirt. She coughed again, shuddering with the cold of Enzo's paws and legs in her. “A bad ghost?” she asked.

She'd just finished vanquishing her first evil ghost and hadn't intended on going through that again any time soon. She'd left her ghost-killing knife at home. She must rethink that plan.

No
, Enzo replied to her mentally.
He is confused. I will herd him away.
More barking, and the sound of the whooshing wind increased. Narrowing her gaze and peeking through her fingers, Clare saw Enzo nipping at the wind, as if to try and move it down slope behind the graves. The turbulence slowed, dropping more stuff, but the funnel stayed in the tall plinth of the main marker, seeming to defy Enzo.

Her breath left her in a relieved puff when she saw that the poltergeist seemed nothing but a whirlwind, no spectral metallic-looking teeth to fight and bite with. Not like the killer ghost she and Zach had just triumphed over. The one who'd ripped a wound inside her that had yet to heal.

The wind took on a darker, smoky color like bruised clouds, and it hovered too close to Enzo. Maybe Clare
could
help in this situation. She had to try. Clearing grit from her throat, she gathered her breath and shouted, “Stop!”

“Stop!” Zach echoed. He limped around the iron fence.

Kurtus Welliam lay flat, face scrunched up as he tried to see, wrist angled at the action.

Then, as Clare rose to her hands and knees, she heard a man—no, a ghost—drawling,
Let's talk about this, son.

She stifled a sigh as she stood, focusing on the phantom of a man as he stepped toward the small localized tornado. If she could see this specter, he belonged to her time period of ghosts.

Enzo barked and the shadowy form smiled and nodded to the dog. Then the ghost fixed his gaze once more on what—or who—might be in the spinning dust and rubble, and Clare kept her stare pinned on the one she could see.

A tall, lean man who'd probably died in his early thirties, he had a weathered face and wore a small mustache. His dark curly hair didn't quite reach his shoulders. He didn't resemble any likeness Clare had seen of Buffalo Bill at all, not as
a young man or an older one. In one of his gloved hands he held a coiled rope. In the next instant he'd flicked his wrist and the rope unwound into a flying lasso, heading straight into the funnel.

With a small shriek the dust devil vanished.

Clare dusted off her jeans and leather jacket, concentrating on the specter she sensed would be her next major case.

“Thank you,” she said, though she wasn't exactly sure which of them had actually driven the poltergeist away. “And who might you be?” she asked.