Ghost Killer (2 page)

Clare did, sitting thigh-to-thigh with Zach. She thumbed on the app and held it so
they could both see.

“Hi, Great-Gram,” a blond-haired boy with Mrs. Flinton’s eyes whispered.

“Hello, Caden,” Mrs. Flinton’s voice came.

The boy glanced around. “I gotta be fast.” His expression tightened, pinching his
features. “They don’t believe me, Gram! I tell them, and tell them, but they
won’t
believe. They say I’m making it up.” He gulped. “I’m not, Gram.”

“What’s wrong, Caden?”

“There’s a ghost here in town. A real bad one. I think it was lurking or . . . you
know that scary place where East Willow and West Willow Creeks meet? Near the bottom
of the dirt Bachelor Loop road? The place where Mrs. Treedy killed her husband and
herself last month—”

“How do you know about that, Caden?”

“I know I wasn’t s’posed to hear, but all the kids did. That scary spot isn’t sitting
there no more. I think it mighta been a crazy ghost and got stirred up.” He shivered.
“I went there and now it’s like a nasty old oily spot and feels like dirt and gravel
in the wind.” He began hyperventilating.

“Calm down, Caden, and tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Gram. There’s a ghost! A big, bad ghost and it’s out to get me!”

“Get you how?”

The thin boy shuddered. “Suck my soul out of my body and eat it.”

A harsh breath from Mrs. Flinton. “Caden, love?”

His lower lip thrust out, his brows came down. “I can
too
see ghosts. I told you. And you said you believed me!”

“I said that, and I meant it,” the woman assured.

“Well, I
do
see ghosts, though usually not old, old ones like this one. And I don’t see this
one as much as feel it, and it feels really awful. As if it has teeth, crunch, crunch,
crunch, and wants to eat me. My bones, crunch, crunch, crunch. And my, my inside spirit
or . . . the rest of me.”

Clare jerked. Zach’s arm came around her and Enzo trotted over and laid chill on her
feet.

“All right, Caden—” Mrs. Flinton began to soothe.

“Gram!”

“Shh, Caden,” Mrs. Flinton said. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

The boy bobbed his head.

“You can’t live in fear. And the best way to stop doing that is to live moment to
moment. Just concentrate on getting as much joy out of every minute you can. Do you
understand me?”

“Don’t worry about the future?”

“That’s only making you more afraid, so don’t do that now. I’ll be sending you help.
I promise.”

That is good advice
, Enzo sent to Clare mentally.
We must remember it.

Yes, it fit in with Enzo’s character well, and Mrs. Flinton’s, not so much with Clare’s.
But with all the situations she’d been experiencing in her new career, she should
consider it a motto to strive for.

“Caden?” called a young woman’s voice on the recording.

“Gram, Mommy and Daddy don’t believe me.” Tears began to trickle down his face. “It
comes most at night. I’m afraid to sleep. Help me, Gram.”

“Caden, where are you and what are you doing?” called the younger woman.

The screen went black. Clare glanced up to see Mrs. Flinton’s shoulders hunched and
shaking as she wept into her handkerchief. Her muffled voice came. “It’s hard to enjoy
every moment when you fear, but I
do
fear. I did my best so Caden wouldn’t.” She uncurled, dabbed at her nose. “He trusts
me, I must take care of him.”

Zach cleared his throat. “When did Caden’s call come in?”

Mrs. Flinton wiped her eyes and blew her nose and her spine straightened to ramrod.
“This morning. I checked with my granddaughter, Caden’s fine and at school.” Her breath
rasped in and out. “I knew I could count on you, Zach, and on Clare”—Mrs. Flinton
sent her a look of appeal—“to help me. So I waited for you. As long as I could. I
have a favor to ask you—” Mrs. Flinton began in a shaky voice.

The door from the mansion opened and Tony Rickman, Zach’s boss at Rickman Security
and Investigations, walked in carrying a large tray holding covered dishes. Clare
smelled bacon and eggs.

“I’ll take care of this, Godmama Barbara,” Mr. Rickman said, striding the few paces
to the coffee table and lowering the tray. He then turned to Zach and Clare. “I have
a case for you both.”

“WHEN I CALLED
you, Tony, I didn’t mean for you to interrupt your workday and come over,” Mrs. Flinton
said with starch in her tone.

Mr. Rickman went to her and kissed her cheek. “I’m here to take charge—take care of
my godmama.” His mouth flattened. “And young Caden. We don’t know all the particulars,”
the man stated flatly. “This case could include a physical threat as well as . . .
ah . . . non-physical. As your other cases have, Clare.”

She nodded but wasn’t reassured. Her insides continued to tremble with the thought
of facing an evil spirit.

Zach raised his brows at Clare, his expression calm. She’d always been wishy-washy
about “consulting” for Rickman Security and Investigations and using her psychic gift.
Was a little wary of Tony Rickman, too. Bad enough that The Powers That Be, the universe,
whatever, dropped cases of ghosts that needed to move on in her lap, let alone another,
human source. She also didn’t want her name to get out as a medium. The more people
who knew she could communicate with ghosts, the less a secret it was.

“Do we accept this case?” Zach asked.

Clare shrugged then said, “You don’t have to pay us—me—Mrs. Flinton. You saved my
life . . . or at least my sanity.”

“I agree,” Zach said.

“You work for me, you get paid,” Mr. Rickman said. “And you will both work for me
on this.”

Zach leaned down to whisper to Clare, “He’s a control freak.”

Thinking back to the few things she’d read in her great-aunt Sandra’s journals—the
previous holder of the “gift”—Clare said, “I’m not sure there
will
be a physical element to this . . . or . . . whether regular people are in danger.”
She rubbed Enzo’s back with her foot.

Enzo thumped his tail.
Bad ghosts CAN hurt people! Especially people who can see them, like you and Caden.
It will try to get your spirit and eat you first.

An image from him brushed against her mind—that she didn’t think he meant her to see—of
some screaming clawed being ripping the spirit from her body, and, yes,
eating
her with dozens of razor-like teeth.

She shuddered, swallowed hard, then swigged some coffee to wet her mouth that had
gone dry. “So bad ghosts can hurt people,” Clare repeated aloud. “But that doesn’t
mean there’s a human villain, does it, a physical threat?”

Enzo sat up.
Ghosts can influence people.

“Ghosts can influence people,” Zach repeated. So he heard Enzo.

“We need you to go to Creede, Colorado, today,” Mr. Rickman said, taking control of
the conversation again.

“That’s where Caden is?” Clare asked.

“Yes,” both Mrs. Flinton and Mr. Rickman said in unison.

Mrs. Flinton sniffled.

Mr. Rickman pulled out a big, square handkerchief from his trousers pocket and handed
it to her, shot a glance at Clare and Zach. “Eat,” he ordered.

Zach leaned over and took off the silver domes. Sure enough, thick bacon, soft scrambled
cheesy eggs, and buttered English muffins sat on two plates. Zach lifted one and shoveled
the eggs in his mouth.

That was a man of action for you, ready to fuel up at a moment’s notice while her
throat was still dry and closed from fear. Clare savored her coffee.

Tony Rickman arranged his big body in the chair near them.

Mrs. Flinton said, “I called my granddaughter and asked if Caden could spend some
time with me, get him out of the town, and was politely told to keep my nose out of
their business.” She sighed and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “They have serious ideas
about how to raise their son, and it doesn’t include any ‘fancies or fantasies’ I
might ‘put in his head,’” Mrs. Flinton stated calmly, though her hand trembled a little
bit as she drank her tea.

Beside Clare, Zach stiffened. He had a marine general for a father who probably held
the same beliefs. Those Clare herself had recently cherished until she’d been violently
shown that psychic powers, and ghosts, existed.

“Godmama Barbara’s right.” Tony Rickman stared at Clare and Zach. “The LuCettes won’t
send Caden here to be influenced by her without supervision.” Now Mr. Rickman gave
a wintry smile. “And they won’t send Caden to me because they don’t want him around
a military man, and they distrust my wife Desiree, thinking she’s a flake.”

Clare rather thought that, too.

“If I go down there, I’ll only alienate them . . . more,” Mrs. Flinton said. The older
woman’s mouth pursed, showing fine lines. “They wouldn’t welcome me.” Her lips pressed
together and she shook her head as she gazed at Clare. “My own psychic power is not
strong enough to help.”

Tony Rickman grunted, “Good.”

Placing her teacup on a side table, Mrs. Flinton said, “Caden is right.” She sighed.
“His parents won’t believe him. Will only think he’s having nightmares, which is how
they explain his gift. I
do
believe him about a threatening ghost. Do you?”

“Yes,” Clare and Zach said at the same time.

Yes!
Enzo hopped to his feet, paced and circled the room, tail thwapping the air, sending
a chilly draft through the room. Mrs. Flinton and Clare watched him, Zach ate, and
Tony Rickman crossed his arms over his chest and studiously avoided looking at the
spectral Labrador.

Enzo came back and sat near Clare’s feet, but mostly in the coffee table, looked sorrowfully
at the food, then back at her.
This is dangerous, Clare. Every spirit the bad ghost eats makes it bigger and eviler.
I don’t want it to eat a boy. We must protect him.

“I don’t want it to eat a boy, either,” Clare said.

Zach crunched down his bacon. “We won’t let that happen,” he said with complete assurance.

Clare didn’t know how they could prevent it, didn’t know enough, but Zach was used
to acting fast, thinking on his feet, and solving problems. She sent a thought to
Enzo.
I don’t know how to MAKE an evil ghost move on. Do you?

His color cycled from substantial grays to nearly translucent.
Maybe.
He looked up at her earnestly.
We will try and we will do it!

She blew a breath out, glanced around the room. Zach was totally on her side, she
knew that, and he might be able to come up with scenarios that would work if—when—she
shared what she knew. Her shoulders had tensed when she realized she didn’t think
she could do this without him.

Keeping her tones light, she asked, “Mrs. Flinton, can you give me any tips for sending
a ghost on?”

The older lady shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I see ghosts, of course, and communicate
with them occasionally if they please, but I can’t help them transition to their next
life.”

Clare nodded. She hadn’t thought so. Her gaze swung to Mr. Rickman, who looked sterner
than ever. His jaw flexed and his gaze drilled into hers. “Terminate it with extreme
prejudice,” he said.

Even she knew that meant “kill.”

“I’ve never done that,” she said.

He jerked a nod, but from his attitude he expected her to learn how to do so.

They locked stares until Mrs. Flinton said, “Creede is a four-and-a-half-hour drive.
If you leave now, you could reach it mid-afternoon, well before dark.” Her chin set.
“That’s important. I want Caden protected, and they won’t let me take him, and they
won’t come visit me as a family. My granddaughter and grandson-in-law have a motel
in town, and they live on the premises. This is a busy time of year for them.”

“Major hunting season’s coming up,” Zach said.

“Yes. And Michael also has a business for processing game. They make a good bit of
money this time of year.”

“And not so much during the winter,” Clare said. “When the tourists are mostly gone.”

“No. Many businesses close during the winter. But Michael and Jessica are stubborn
about self-sufficiency, among other things.”

“Self-sufficiency is important. Even for those who have family money or trust funds,”
Clare said.

“They love their life,” Mrs. Flinton said.

Lucky them.

“And that’s important.” Mrs. Flinton managed a slight smile. “Loving your live and
living each minute.”

Rickman stretched his big body and stood and Zach rose a millisecond after his boss,
still holding his coffee mug. “We’ll get right on this,” Zach said.

Clare got to her feet, too. “I need to go home and pack.”

Mrs. Flinton pressed her hands together. “How long do you think it will take for you
to . . . move this thing on?”

Destroy it,
Enzo said.

“Destroy it,” Clare muttered, tensing all over again. “I don’t know. You know I have
very limited experience.”

“This ghost is probably subtly affecting the whole town, Clare, influencing people
to more violence. More sensitive folks will have nightmares and hear . . . experience . . .
things. Awful,” Mrs. Flinton said.

Mr. Rickman rolled his hand. “Give me a shot at how long this will take, Clare.”

“It shouldn’t take more than”—she looked at Enzo—“two weeks.”

The dog’s forehead wrinkled but he didn’t contradict her.

Clearing his throat, and looking out the front window, Mr. Rickman said, “There’s
a big tourist event, car show—Cruisin’ the Canyon—Friday through Sunday in Creede.”
He rolled a shoulder. “I have a classic car, thought about attending. Gonna be a lot
of tourists in the town this weekend . . . to be influenced by this monster, maybe
in danger.”

So soon! All the blood drained from Clare’s face. She felt it going, along with her
knees that wobbled, then gave out, so she plunked back down on the couch.

Zach lowered his coffee mug. “If a supernatural murderer is anything like a regular
one and looking for a big score—” He shrugged.

“A lot of people to play with.” Her lips had gone cold. “Maybe even deaths to feed
him,” she whispered.

This is not good
, Enzo said, then steeled himself and gave a determined bark.
We are a TEAM, we will do this. We will stop the ghost and be HEROES!
He hopped up and down.

His cheer overcame her fear . . . for a few seconds.

“How soon can you leave?” Rickman asked. “Or do you want us to charter a flight, arrange
a car?”

“I can do that.” Mrs. Flinton’s chin lifted. “Money can’t buy everything, but it can
make things a whole lot easier. And it sounds as if every hour might count.”

Mr. Rickman grunted, looked at his highly engineered watch. “It will take a little
time to set everything up, make all your travel arrangements.”

“Creede has an airport?” Zach asked.

“Yeah,” Tony Rickman said.

Zach narrowed his eyes. “How populous is the town?”

“About four hundred full-time residents,” Mrs. Flinton said.

Angling his head at his boss, Zach said, “A private charter arriving and the people
on it would be news for a small town.” He looked at Mrs. Flinton. “News that would
reach the ears of your granddaughter and her husband, would let them know we’re coming
and piss them off. Better if we went undercover, at least at first while we get the
lay of the land.”

“You’re right,” Tony Rickman said. His mouth flattened. “Alamosa is about an hour-and-a-half
drive from Creede. We can fly you into Alamosa and rent you a car there.”

“Sounds good,” Zach said.

Mr. Rickman turned on his heel. “I’ll have my assistant set it up: the flight, the
car, the stay at the motel. Hopefully they aren’t booked for the weekend.”

“I must finish this by Friday, the weekend at the latest,” Clare said through cold
lips. All of her was cold. Again. As usual. She’d had eight days to help her first
ghost transition . . . on. Then had helped her second in five days.

Yes. She’d kept track. Three and a half days to destroy a ghost-seer-eating ghost.
The process of which, the whys and wherefores, the
hows
she knew nothing about.

“Clare, how soon can you leave?” Tony Rickman repeated.

She jerked from dread-filled thoughts. Blinking, she shrugged, looked at Zach. “An
hour?”

He gave a quick negative shake of his head, a motion she thought Mr. Rickman and Mrs.
Flinton missed. Since Zach didn’t want to speak up, she trusted him and amended her
answer. “Sorry, more like two hours.”

“Right. We’ll send a car to pick you up at your place in, say, two-and-a-half hours.”

“All right.”

Mr. Rickman’s hand went to his inside suit jacket pocket and he pulled out a wallet
and a platinum credit card, and offered it to Zach, who put both of his hands on the
curved handle of his old-fashioned wooden cane. “Sorry, can’t take that.”

“It’s a business card for you and your expenses,” Rickman bit off.

“So it has ‘Rickman Security and Investigations’ on it,” Zach pointed out. “Which
the family—what’s their names?—would recognize. All the locals might.”

“All right.” The card went back into wallet and pocket. “The family is—”

“Jessica and Michael LuCette,” Mrs. Flinton said as she rose and moved toward them
with her walker. Now she appeared calmer, close to her old sprightliness. She angled
her head at Tony for a kiss on the cheek. He bent and complied, put an arm around
her thin shoulders and squeezed. “We’ll handle this,” he said in a grim tone, meeting
Zach’s gaze.