Ghost Killer (23 page)

Clare came back in and Zach took the other robe. “String of betrayals,” he said, without
thinking about it. He could talk to her about cases, bounce ideas off her. A woman
he had sex with . . . cared for . . . unique in his relationship history.

Nodding, Clare said, “Robert Ford betrayed Jesse James and killed him. The Ford brothers
themselves were betrayed in that they didn’t get the bounty amount for killing James
that was promised. Later, Ford probably felt betrayed when his older brother committed
suicide. Most people think that Soapy Smith set Ford up to be killed.”

“I’d considered that. I need to get up to speed on the legends.”

Clare glanced out the window. “It looks like another mixed weather day.” She gave
him an unshadowed smile. “Always easier for me to read and do research on cloudy days.
We have a meeting with one of the volunteers for the historical society at the archives
this afternoon.”

“I remember.”

Once more when he returned, he found Clare dressed and sitting on the bed, her great-aunt
Sandra’s journal open. He wished Clare would listen to her gut more.

“Reading the story of how your great-aunt Sandra defeated her evil ghost again?”

Her mouth set stubbornly. “Sometimes you see new things.”

“I don’t figure one page can reveal new insights.”

“You’re being difficult.”

“Maybe.” He took off the robe, wanted to throw it on the floor, or the bed, but hung
it on the stand instead. “I don’t want you comparing yourself to your great-aunt Sandra
and finding yourself lacking.”

“I’m not.”

He grunted and began dressing.

“Not much.”

“And you’re not regretting avoiding her, and not learning from her?”

“Not much.”

“Really?” His sarcasm was heavy.

“Not. Much. I’m trying to ingrain the information into my head so all the concepts
feel familiar when I think of them, not something I will doubt in the heat of the
moment.”

“Okay.”

Clare closed the book and tapped it with her forefinger. “Great-Aunt Sandra’s ghost
had consumed two others.”

Keeping his voice soft, Zach slid into the next question. “You know more about the
monster ghost every time you check on it, don’t you? You must have gotten an idea
of how many ghosts it’s taken over. Think, Clare, how many?”

A line twisted between her brows. She tipped her head as if listening. Her lips moved
as if counting.

“Twenty.”

Zach snapped his mouth shut so he couldn’t shout the word, sucked in a breath and
said, “Twenty.”

“Yes, I think. She’s consumed twenty.”

“Clare!”

She jerked a little, looked at him. “Zach?”

“You said ‘she.’
She
consumed twenty other ghosts.”

CLARE’S EYES WENT
large. “I did.”

“The core identity of this ghost is female.”

“Yes,” Clare whispered. “Oh my God. Thank heavens. The ghost,
she
is female. We have something solid to go on!”

She appeared stunned. He finished dressing and came over to sit next to her and take
her hand.

Relief washed through him, too. They had the gender of the ghost. So much easier to
find a person, a historical person, if they had one good fact. And of the ten thousand
people in Creede in the 1890s, a minority would be women. The case was looking up.
Maybe they’d be able to solve it sooner than he’d thought.

They sat quietly for a good minute, then her breath whistled in, and her eyes met
his and their gazes locked. “When we’re talking about women in mining camps, it’s
unlikely that we’re talking about wives.”

“Whores.”

“I don’t like that word.”

“Prostitutes.”

Her lips pursed. “I don’t like that one, either.”

“Geez, what would you call them?”

Her chin lifted. “A phrase of the times, soiled doves.”

“Hell.”

“And only some men, some miners were recorded in history.”

“That’s right.” Zach frowned. “Though the miners and business proprietors could have
records—claims for the miners, at least.”

“But the soiled doves sometimes used fake names, or were given nicknames. We might
not even be able to discover her real name, not to mention just trying to track her
down.” A note of despair entered Clare’s voice, damn it to hell. Yeah, damn the whore-ghost
to hell.

Zach picked her up and moved her to his lap, said the first thing that came to his
mind. “We have more information, just now. So let’s leave it at that. Let it simmer
in our subconscious.”

He kissed her thoroughly, smiled at her. “Live in the moment.”

She appeared a little dazed and he congratulated himself at how well he distracted
her, and ignored his hardening dick.

“Cherish the moment,” she said, and stroked his face.

“That’s right. I’m hungry; let’s eat.”

“Yes.”

*   *   *

The waitress showed up at their table by the window holding a pad and pencil and with
a wide smile that wrinkled her face. She reeled off the specials.

“I’ll have the oatmeal with nuts and dried fruits,” Zach said. Sounded good and stick-to-his-ribs
to him.

That wrenched Clare’s attention from the passersby to him. “Seriously?” She sounded
appalled. Glancing up at the waitress, she said, “No offense.” Clare gave a tiny cough.
“I just haven’t met many adult . . . ,” she stopped when Zach laughed. “All right,
I’m funny.” She glanced up at the waitress. “No offense to the chef.”

“A lady like you who enjoys croissants might not understand the appeal of oatmeal,”
the waitress said comfortably. “I noticed you particularly liked the croissant yesterday.”

She’d noticed that Clare had had designs on Zach’s, but he hadn’t let her have it.

“It takes a properly trained chef to make excellent croissants,” Clare said stiffly.

Clare consumed her
two
croissants relatively quickly, played with her omelette more than ate it. She shifted
in her seat, time and again, and Zach recollected their conversation about the seven
deadly sins. Yes, she usually paid attention to her food. Not this morning. He finished
his excellent oatmeal that Clare had been giving dirty looks. He could have finished
her omelet, too, but the oatmeal was hearty—and tasty—enough.

She’d started pleating her napkin, so he stood, took out his wallet.

“I’ll take care of the tip,” Clare said. She laid cash on the table so fast he knew
she’d had it ready.

“Thanks, Clare.” He saw it was the exact amount he’d given the waitress yesterday.
Clare watched her pennies.

Or, easier to say that she was a generous-spirited woman in other ways than giving
money. She’d be one of those who’d spend a year teaching you to fish instead of giving
you a fish. A bad analogy; he’d bet his whole disability pension the woman didn’t
fish.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The minute he took her hand, he felt the thrumming tension in her, the need to act.
He’d felt that himself before. He slowed her steps, bent his head to murmur in her
ear, “What say we do some knife fighting practice?”

“Our room is too small.”

“We’ll find somewhere.”

She squeezed his fingers. “Then I say let’s do that.”

They took the steep stairs slowly, then opened the door.

There, standing in the middle of the room, studying her bone knife, was the ex-sheriff,
Mason Pais, Jr. Both sheaths, metal and silk, lay on the bed.

Clare lunged for him. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”

As tall as his grandson, taller than Zach, the man held it over her head.

Anger washed through Zach. He controlled it. “Doing a little breaking and entering.
Why?”

The guy shook his head. “Just can’t get a good fix on you, Ms. Cermak. Jackson Zachary
Slade, yeah. But you and that kooky ghost-psychic shtick? Not quite buying it. You’re
not like any kind of gypsy or medium I’ve ever run into.”

“Here in Creede?” Clare said, scathing.

“I did my military duty. Spent some time in Denver. Nope, just not buying it. You
look and act like an accountant.”

Clare crossed her arms. “I am an accountant. I
was
at a very reputable firm, but someone else needed a good job that I didn’t. You asked
what we were doing here, and I told you.”

“And you’re pissed that I don’t believe you’re a flake.”

“That does it.” She reached into her purse, flicked on her phone, looked at Zach.
“Do you know the number to the sheriff’s office here?”

“Yeah.” He gave her the number.

Her thumb moved as she began calling. “I am going to report you.”

“I’ll say you invited me in,” the older man replied affably.

Clare gasped, stopped calling.

“Who do you think my grandson will believe?” Pais asked.

“Us,” Zach said. “He knows you.”

A crack of laughter came from Pais. “Yeah. Maybe. But what do you think he’d do?”

Zach sat on the bed, relaxed casually, signaling to the man that Zach didn’t think
he was any threat at all.

More head shaking from Pais. “You two are a couple of pistols.” He turned the bone
in his hand, glanced down at a fulminating Clare, met Zach’s gaze. “Now we get calls
from hikers and such, and I s’pose you did, too, about finding human remains. But
the fact is, bear bones look a lot like human.” He studied the knife. “Now, me, I
can tell a human bone from bear. This looks like a femur to me.”

“Please let me have it,” Clare demanded.

“There are laws about obtaining and owning human bones, you know,” Pais said genially.
“The bones gotta be antique and . . . well, maybe I should talk about this with my
grandson, the sheriff.”

“You’re right,” Clare said. “It’s an antique artifact. A
family
antique artifact. And I guarantee you that I will make a big fuss, here in Creede,
and all the way to Denver if you confiscate my family heirloom.”

She jutted out her chin, looked at Zach. “We’re not going to let him get away with
this, are we?”

Zach smiled one of his make-my-day-you’re-going-down smiles. With teeth. “Nope. We’re
going to call his bluff.” He sprang from the bed, knocked the guy off balance, and
as he did, he broke the older man’s grip on the weapon and threw the knife on the
bed. Clare leapt to grab the silk sheath on the table even as Pais yelped and began
to swear.

“Goddammit, Slade, you cut me.”

“The knife turned in your hand as I freed it and it took a bite of you. It’s particularly
bloodthirsty, literally. It likes to soak up blood.”

“You bastard,” Pais said. His hand dripped blood on the floor, luckily on the wood
and not the carpet.

“We have bandages,” Clare said. “We’ll take care of you before you and Zach have that
little talk with the sheriff. But I want you to look here.” She held out the pristine
sheath. “Do you think you bled enough on the knife for it to be bloody?”

“Hell, yeah, I did—” He stopped as he stared at the ivory silk unmarred by any stains.
He gulped. “Crap. This is crazy crap.”

“Yes. It is.” Clare smiled coolly. She drew out the knife, slipped it into the metal
sheath, then back into the silk tube and tied a knot more complex than Zach had seen
from her before.

Her head angled and she closed her eyes. Checking on the monster ghost, no doubt.
A tiny sigh relaxed her body. “We’re safe. This time.”

“Crazy crap,” Pais repeated.

Lifting her suitcase to the bed, she said, “You know I had this behind the lining
of my suitcase. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty extensive searching of my property.”
She looked at Zach. “You be sure to tell the sheriff that.”

He swallowed an admiring smile. “I’ll do that.”

With quick efficiency, she had their first aid kit out and Pais’s hand bandaged in
a few minutes. “There, that’s done. Now, as for you, Mister Mason Pais Junior,” she
said in freezing tones. “I give you permission, and the sheriff permission, to contact
the last person I consulted with, Dennis Laurentine. I’m sure he’ll give you an earful
on me.”

“On us,” Zach said easily.

Clare sniffed. “Tell the sheriff that he can e-mail me the report or statement or
whatever about last night at Pico’s Patio.” Her voice hitched so slightly, Zach didn’t
think Pais heard the hesitation. Clare was muscling through grief and fear with grace,
not letting those emotions get her down. “I’ll review the report and return it. If
he needs me to come in, someone can call or e-mail me for an appointment.” She waved
at them. “Take Pais Junior away.”

Zach was sure she wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled out the cuffs he carried and
snapped them around Pais’s wrists. That would be satisfying, but over the top. “I’ll
be back in a while.”

“That’s fine.” She sat down at the table and revved up her tablet, focused on it.
Pais stared at her, but she paid absolutely no attention to them, as if they’d already
left.

Zach stepped toward the door and opened it for Pais. When the guy passed him, Zach
looked at the keyhole. No scratches. Interesting. The ex-sheriff might have a key.

*   *   *

The SeeAndTalk app on her phone jazzed the melody programmed for Desiree Rickman.
Clare picked it up, tapped, saw the lovely woman and immediately felt plain.

“Is Zach there?” Desiree asked, peering as if checking out the room behind Clare.

“No. He’s at the local sheriff’s office.”

Desiree’s brows went up. “Tony will like that. He is very pleased with the law enforcement
contacts Zach is making.”

“Uh-huh,” Clare replied. She didn’t think she’d better go into detail.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Desiree said.

Clare felt her eyes bug. “What!”

“You won’t tell Zach, will you? Tony has a hot case and thinks I’m skydiving today.”

Clare opened her mouth and shut it.

“I flew into Alamosa and rented a van. I have your and Zach’s armor, a gun and wheels
for you.”

Now Clare could see the interior of a vehicle . . . and both of Desiree’s hands steering.
Good.

“I don’t know how to shoot a gun,” Clare said.

“Damn. We’ll take care of that when you return to Denver.”

Clare was glad to hear “when,” and not an “if.”

“I won’t come as far as the hotel. I’ll stop at the cross street a block below and
drive east one block. I’ll meet you in the bar parking lot.”

Clare didn’t even know there was a bar at that location. “Wheels?” she asked. But
the screen went dark.

She opened the door and went out onto the balcony, checking the county building catty-cornered
across the street where Zach was, and the main street to the left, where Desiree would
drive up. No people.

The sun had come out and the aspen on the hillside glittered golden in the slight
breeze against the deep blue of the sky, a perfect autumn day in the mountains. The
breathing exercise she’d learned in her beginning yoga class filtered into her mind
and she stood, relaxed, soaking up the atmosphere, the beauty of the day, the quiet
of the town, the freshness of the soft air against her cheek, and breathed.

Tension seeped away even as her lips curved and she held tight to the sensory input,
saving it as a cherished memory. Living in the moment, something she did all too rarely.

Perhaps a lesson of this case. Another lesson, a gentler lesson than learning how
to destroy a killer ghost. The image of Caden’s scared and tearful face rose in her
mind and her jaw clenched and her shoulders tensed and her breath came choppy with
fear and sorrow once more. Then, Enzo, big puppy-dog eyes lost and suffering, flashed
in her memory.

She turned away and went to meet Desiree.