Ghost Killer (4 page)

You are really going to do this, Clare?
he asked.

She inhaled a quick breath, let it out choppily. “I am not going to let a boy be eaten
by an evil ghost.”

Her phantom dog rose and trotted up the stairs.
You will need the big knife, then. I will show it to you.

“Knife!” For one brief instant, courage blazed inside of her. A weapon, she’d have
a weapon! Then her stomach jolted and her throat closed again. She had no clue how
to use a big knife.

But Zach would. If the knife was, say, a long dagger, it might be used as a sword.
Zach used his cane as a weapon; he could teach her cane moves, couldn’t he? She was
sure he knew how to use a regular knife.

“Is the knife . . . supernatural?” she asked Enzo, following him up the stairs, turning
right toward her bedroom. Perhaps if the weapon
was
supernatural, all she’d have to do was hold it and let it lead her to the evil ghost
and dispatch it. Like the fairy tales Great-Aunt Sandra had told her as a small child.
Fairy tales. Fiction.

Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. And in fairy tales, the prince or princess had
to overcome great obstacles. And if you weren’t the
right
princess, you could die. Clare bit her lip.

Her gift passed through the family, too. And her successor to the awful thing was
her niece, Dora, who wasn’t quite as young as Caden LuCette. Like him, Dora was untrained
and, unlike Caden, Dora
would
experience the Cermak’s gift—deadly cold, the threat of insanity and death if she
didn’t accept her psychic power. Though her parents, Clare’s brother and sister-in-law,
would probably accept Dora and her gift.

Clare! Focus! You can’t daydream! We can do this. The knife will help!

Clare shook herself to find she stood in the tiny office she used for her ghost seer
cases. Atop the battered desk lay her old laptop from two years ago. She’d framed
maps on the walls: a huge one of Denver on which she’d shaded the worst areas for
ghosts of her time period; one of Colorado; and one of the United States. Some smaller
maps were reproductions of old ones, Denver in 1887, 1890, 1893, 1903. Those last
three years were later than the time period she was sensitive to, 1850–1900, and ghosts,
the American West . . .

CLARE! You MUST pay attention.
Enzo had hunkered down near Great-Aunt Sandra’s large carved chest, a gorgeous piece
of various woods fanning out on the front around a small half-circle that had always
seemed like the sun and rays to Clare.

Enzo pointed his paw at the chest. His eyes appeared to be more liquid . . . and he
hadn’t been as much of a cheerleader this morning.

He seemed to have recognized the danger and mixed in a too-real determination with
his optimism. That was
so
not a good sign. He’d always been a happy dog, even when she’d been going insane . . .
even when she’d been dying because she refused her gift.

After drawing a big breath in through her nose, she went to the chest. Once she opened
it, incense would waft from the box and more grief would come at the sight of the
colorful cut-velvet scarves and caftans of her dead great-aunt.

She lifted the top, saw the richest of Sandra’s “working” clothes, smelled incense
and the spicy perfume that both Sandra and Clare herself loved, and tears backed behind
her eyes.

Sandra had been a ghost seer like Clare. Unlike her, Sandra had had a psychic medium
business. The portion of the fortune Sandra had inherited from the previous ghost
seer, and the riches she’d made herself from her work, the gifts of the universe after
a successful closed case—transitioned ghost—and investments, had gone to Clare, along
with the family psychic gift.

On the whole, Clare would rather have remained a midlevel certified public accountant
in a solid Denver firm.

Clare had packed up a closetful of such clothes and sent them to her sister-in-law
in Williamsburg, Virginia, for costumes, until told to quit. Now Clare lifted the
folded garments, feeling the soft brush of velvet against her palms, and she swallowed
the tears. Her childhood had been so drama-ridden and crazy and always-on-the-road-to-
somewhere-else
with her parents, that when she’d set up her normal life, she hadn’t visited “weird”
Great-Aunt Sandra. Clare deeply regretted that.

Especially now that she’d be facing something that could eat her spirit and she had
less than sixteen days of training. Carefully she stacked the clothes aside; these
were heavier, beaded, more embroidered, better for blocking the unearthly cold generated
by phantoms.

Snuffles came and she turned to see Enzo pawing at the clothes, sticking his whole
head into them, and disturbing nothing. Clearing her throat, she stared at the pale
wood of the bottom of the box and said, “The knife’s in here?”

Enzo sat back and nodded, a slight excitement in his eyes.
It’s hidden. Like a puzzle box, Clare. You know about puzzle boxes.

She nodded. She’d liked them once, before her first ghost seer case. She knelt before
the hope chest, leaned over, and swept her hands over the wood bottom, then the sides,
but saw and felt nothing. No ghostly vibrations or emanations.

Sinking back on her heels, she stared at the front’s fancy wood inlay, the carving
around the lip, and at all four elegant corners of the chest. “Hmm.”

A frigid nose ran up and down her arm, along with a smear of ice. Enzo. She glanced
at him from the side of her eyes. His shadows had solidified a bit, settled into the
multi-gray aspects of ghost Labrador instead of a flat gray. Maybe he was coming out
of his funk, which would be great, because his humor really helped her since she had
a naturally serious personality.
I could give you maybe a little hint.

She raised her brows and smiled. “Maybe.” Her hands went to the front of the chest
first, the fan of many woods from the small light wood half-circle at the center of
the bottom. Nothing except the slight feel of the seams. She pressed the “sun.” Nothing.

Enzo sat beside her, radiating pleasure, his muzzle slightly open. Good. Letting her
vision go slightly out of focus, she checked the bottom carving, found a slightly
worn spot and worked her fingers around it, under it, pulled, and heard a click. Looking
into the chest, she saw bundles of papers . . .

Love letters,
Enzo said sadly.
Before I was with her.
Enzo had been Great-Aunt Sandra’s dog when Clare had been a tween. She’d gotten the
impression that he’d stayed with Sandra as a companion, but hadn’t been her mentor
or spirit guide. Apparently that had been John Dillinger, since, according to Sandra’s
journals, she had specialized in ghosts from 1905–1939.

Clare looked at the letters tied with a ribbon, set them aside. Older, dark brown
leather colored books made her breath catch. “Journals?” she asked. “From Great-Great-Uncle
Amos?” With a smile she turned to Enzo, and found the Other.

They might help. We have encouraged those of your blood to record what must be,
the Other said,
but not many are in English, mostly Hungarian.

“Oh.”

The thin red one is of the weeks that the gift descended upon Orun, your great-great
uncle Amos’s older brother. Orun refused to BELIEVE and died from the cold.
The Other’s smile twitched Enzo’s muzzle in a not-doglike scary way.
You remember that.

“Since it was three weeks ago, yes, I recall that part of this inheritance.”

The Other snorted.
Time grows short before people come. You must get the knife.

“Is the knife supernatural?”

The Other’s back rippled as if in a shrug.
You will see. But you cannot kill an evil ghost of your time period without it. There
is a price for using it.
He paused and actually clarified,
You may ask me when that time comes.

When, not if. Clare’s mouth dried.

And it must always be kept safe and hidden and with you, or Our agreement with you
is broken. You would not like what happens if the bond is broken through your carelessness.

“Oh. Oh!” Rules, good. More pressure, terrible.

She was
cold
, more from the icy touch of fear she got when looking into his eerie eyes than the
freezing waves emanating from him. A loud click sounded, the top of the chest opened,
and an ivory silk bag about fifteen inches in length fell. Clare shot out her hands
and caught it and the hidden panel of the chest sprang back shut. Probably the Other’s
doing.

She could feel a metal sheath in her hands and the hilt of the knife looked lumpy
through the cloth. Even as she reached for the faded red tassels that tied the top
of the silk cover, her doorbell rang.

Hide it, Clare!
Enzo was back, staring at her with worried eyes. She ran to her bedroom walk-in closet,
grabbed the piece of luggage she used for a week’s trip, and shoved the knife in the
main pocket. Good thing they’d fly by private plane. Looked like she’d have to book
chartered flights in the future to dispatch evil ghosts.

Her door knocker pounded. Hurrying to the door of the small ghost seer office, she
closed the room off, went to the hall intercom, fumbled, and then pressed “front door.”

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“It’s me,” said a woman’s voice with an accent she’d never been able to place. “Desiree
Rickman.”

Tony Rickman’s wife. What was she doing here?

“I consider you a friend, Clare.”

Clare wasn’t sure she felt the same way.

“I’d like to talk to you before you leave. I’m worried about you, Clare.”

She wasn’t the only one.

CLARE WENT DOWN
the stairs, grumbling. She hadn’t changed clothes, hadn’t taken a shower, and now
she’d meet the most stunning woman she knew all disheveled and with the feel of dried
sweat on her skin.

She arranged her face in an acceptable curious expression, looked through the peephole,
saw the smaller woman and no one else, and opened the door.

Desiree Rickman gave her a smile loaded with charm. “What a fabulous house.”

“I just moved in two weeks ago.” It seemed like yesterday . . . or a year ago, so
much had happened. Her gorgeous Tudor-style brick house built in the 1920s cost her
more than she’d ever thought she’d pay for a place. She absolutely loved it. Stepping
back, she said, “Come in.”

“Thanks. I won’t be here long. I just brought your plane and car rental papers.”

“Oh.” Clare led the way to the main living area with a tall and beautiful curved window
made of many small panes,
the
main selling point for her . . . though she’d liked the bedroom balcony, the lovely
backyard, the remodeled kitchen. 

Desiree, a dazzling mixed-race woman, wore sunshades and moved in that prowling way
that Clare began to understand belonged to professional operatives. The woman went
toward the window. She was totally aware of her body and what she could do with it.
Clare still had trouble with her beginning yoga lessons.

“This is wonderful. And we’ll be able to see when Tony arrives.”

“Your husband is coming? Wait, that’s the wrong question. Mr. Rickman doesn’t know
you’re here?”

Desiree winked. “No. I took the papers from his receptionist-assistant.”

Clare just stared at her. “You people have my e-mail. Don’t you think it would have
been perfectly fine to send me the documents and I could download them to my tablet?
Or, if necessary, print them out?”

With a chuckle, Desiree said, “You sound like Samantha, his assistant.” Then Desiree
sobered and the skin around her eyes tightened. “I heard there’s trouble in Creede
with Godmama Barbara’s family.”

As usual, Clare couldn’t figure out how much to say to Desiree. Clare didn’t even
understand where the puzzle piece of Tony Rickman’s wife fit into the whole picture
of Rickman Security and Investigations. “Yes, there’s trouble in Creede.”

“I wanted to offer my help, in case you need me. Is your ghost dog around?”

Here I am, Desiree.
Like most male beings, he fawned around her legs, but Desiree stayed focused on Clare.

Aww, she can’t see me, or feel me,
Enzo said.

“No, she can’t,” Clare said and decided Desiree could handle blunt. “I’m not sure
how helpful you’d be if you can’t sense ghosts.”

Desiree went still and hard. “Are you discounting me because I see auras?”

A month ago Clare would dismiss anyone who hinted they had psychic powers. Today she
simply said, “No.” After a pause she added, “I’m resentful because Enzo, my phantom
dog, says yours is a gift of life and living.” Another pause. “And mine is a gift
of the dead and death.”

“Awww.” Desiree moved quickly and hugged Clare. It felt good, comforting. The woman
released her and said, “Point me to your dog so I can try to see him again.” Clare
just knew Desiree would persist in trying something forever. For a beautiful woman,
she was a little goofy.

Clare gestured to Enzo who stood, head up, tongue hanging out in his grin.

Desiree squinted, then walked straight through him and back and shook her head. “Nope.
No aura. No coldness. He
is
cold, isn’t he, like all the literature says?”

“Yes. And I think your husband senses ghosts, at least he acted that way when Enzo
and another one was in his office.”

“Oh, that’s rich!” Desiree zoomed in with another hug. All right, maybe Clare could
get used to this. And she
did
need friends. Most of her other friends had been from work, and those had faded when
she’d been going back and forth to settle her great-aunt’s estate in Chicago. Then
she’d inherited those tidy millions and decided someone else could use her good job.
The ghost seer thing had hit . . . and she’d understood that her work friends wouldn’t
deal with it any better than she had, would think she was crazy if she tried to explain
her new life.

“Thanks,” Clare mumbled, patted the smaller woman on the back. Clare was five foot
seven inches, and she thought Desiree might be five four.

Desiree retreated an arm’s length. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”

“I am, too.”

“But, Clare, honey, your aura is all squidgy.”

“Squidgy,” Clare repeated.

Frowning, Desiree scanned her. “Very tight to your body. Some muddiness in your colors,
not as clear. Are you frightened?”

“I’m scared shitless a ghost will eat me and I’ll become part of it and do terrible
evil.”

“That’s a possibility?” Desiree asked.

“Yes. I don’t know how long you’ve been able to see auras—”

“All my life.”

“But I just came into my psychic powers twenty-two days and three hours ago.” On the
way to the airport in Chicago, after finishing probate on her great-aunt’s estate,
preparing that house for sale, and dividing the furniture and planning how it would
be moved.

“Oh, dear. That’s . . .” Desiree’s mouth opened and closed, then she finally said,
“Tough.”

“Yes.”

“I absolutely want you to call me if you need me.”

Clare didn’t know what the woman could do against a supernatural foe . . . if her
psychic power could be used offensively as her body could.

“Thank you,” Clare said.

“Tony’s here!” Desiree nearly sang. She glided from the room toward the entry hall
and the front door. Clare followed her. Desiree opened the door without a thought
of security . . . probably because she believed she could handle anything out there.
Clare joined her in the doorway.

A black Mercedes with dark tinted windows parked in Clare’s driveway on the other
side of her car, and it
was
Tony Rickman. She thought that he often ran after his wife, whom Zach called a loose
cannon. The car door closed and Mr. Rickman walked around the vehicle. Clare couldn’t
read his feelings. He strode up to them. “Clare. Desiree, I thought I asked you not
to come.”

“Clare’s my friend, Tony.”

“Right, but she treats me like her boss.”

“With respect,” Clare said stiffly.

“Call me Tony.”

Clare hesitated, then nodded. She still wasn’t sure at all about working for him,
even as a consultant.

He nodded back to her, then said, “We can bring the car around to take you to the
airport sooner. One of my guys will be flying the plane.”

The latter was rather interesting, but didn’t Tony notice Clare wore the same thing
she had earlier? “No,” she said. “I haven’t packed yet.” She hadn’t even
showered
yet.

“Where’s Zach?” Tony asked.

“He’s not here,” Desiree said.

Clare wondered how the woman knew. Desiree smiled at her. “He’d have been down, protecting
you from me. You don’t need any protection from me.”

“Of course not,” Tony said drily. “Clare is not the sort to go on harebrained quests.”
He stared at Desiree, still expressionless, but like when she’d seen them together
before, she thought they loved each other deeply.

“Where
is
Zach?” More demand than question.

Clare straightened her spine, stared into the lenses of Tony’s dark glasses. “He’s
visiting his mother.” The Rickmans were in the security business and had hired Zach,
they’d have checked him out before offering him a job and discovered his mother was
in a mental health facility in Boulder.

“Oh,” said Desiree in a sad little voice.

“Oh,” echoed Tony. His shoulders rolled as if releasing tension.

“Zach doesn’t think the . . .” Clare struggled for a term “. . . leave taking . . .
will go well. I’d rather you not be here when he returns. And I have a lot to do before
then.”

“Understood,” Tony said, reaching out and curling his fingers around his wife’s upper
arm. “We won’t impose. You got all the papers?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Desiree smiled. “It should be a good week for the fall color, the drive
from Alamosa isn’t hard, and you should pack for winter, as well.”

“I know.”

“Have you ever been to Creede?” Desiree asked.

“No.”

“We go there a couple of times a year.” She elbowed her husband, who showed no indication
that he’d felt her. “All work and no play makes this guy a grumpy man.”

Fleetingly Clare wondered what he—they—did for play.

Desiree grinned. “We rock climb.”

That was just crazy.

“All the restaurants and hotels should remain open through the end of the month.”

“That’s good.”

“It is. More options.”

Tony tugged at his wife, gently. “The car will be here in a while. You make sure you
call, Clare, if you need any help.”

She still didn’t think there was anything he could do. “I will.”

Before they left, Desiree planted herself in front of Clare, the woman’s expression
turning serious, perhaps even deadly. “I want you to call me every day,” she stated,
slipped a card from her pocket. “My numbers are here.”

Clare tried a smile and took the card. “I’m hoping it will be only four days.”

Desiree nodded. “I understand you want to send the ghost on before Friday and the
beginning of the Cruisin’ the Canyon event.” Desiree shrugged. “But who knows how
long it might take? We all know, though, that plans turn to shit.”

“We haven’t done much planning,” Clare grumbled, disliking that part. It was pretty
much find the ghost and kill it somehow, all too vague.

Enzo appeared, sitting and panting beside her.
I am sorry that she is not coming with us. She might maybe be able to help.

Interesting the phantom dog might think so, but Clare wouldn’t put anyone she liked
in the way of an evil ghost, especially if they could only “maybe be able” to help.
She was torn as to whether she wanted Zach with her. Well, she definitely wanted Zach
with her, but didn’t want him hurt at
all
.

Desiree still watched Clare with concern. “You take care.” She held out a hand.

Clare took it, caught the slight unfocus of Desiree’s eyes. No doubt she scanned Clare’s
aura again. The other woman nodded, appearing more satisfied than she had before.
But this was a female operative, who’d faced death—probably often. Clare set her shoulders.
She’d faced death, too, twice, in each of her previous cases. Of course, only death
had threatened, not some spirit-sucking-evil-turn-you-evil-too thing. She swallowed.

“One last item,” Tony Rickman said. He tipped his sunglasses down, stared at Clare.
“You know Creede is the only town in Mineral County, so it’s the county seat. If the
ghost manages to eliminate Creede . . .”

“But no pressure.” Clare raised her hands palms up.

Tony barked a laugh, slid his glasses back on. “You’ll do, Clare Cermak.”

Desiree hugged Clare. “Call me if you need me.”

The couple turned and walked back to the Mercedes hand in hand and Clare’s heart twinged
at the thought she might never see them again.

*   *   *

Clare had showered, tidied up the house, prepared it for her being away, and packed
before Zach arrived, looking tense. He bussed her lips, glanced at his watch, and
said, “The car will be here shortly, are you ready? Get any time to research Creede?”

Since he seemed to want to avoid talking about his mother, Clare said nothing, but
she took his wrists, opened them wide, and stepped up to him, hugging him. Yes, his
muscular body thrummed with tension. He grunted and air escaped him and his arms came
around her, holding her gently. “I’m not fragile,” she murmured into the top of his
chest. Not like his mother.

His hand slid over her head. “No, you aren’t.”

She looked up at him. “I’m actually very strong.”

“I know it.” He dropped his head, sniffed at her. “You smell great.”

“I’m clean.”

“And you’re wearing that great spicy, exotic, woodsy-whatever perfume we like.”

“Yes. And no to your earlier question, I had no time to research Creede.”

“Right. Got a beer?”

“Absolutely. Do you think they serve food and drink on the plane?”

“Probably. I had a good breakfast, did you eat?”

“Not much.” She patted her tote. “I have granola bars in here.”

“That’s going to be sufficient for you, seriously?”

“No, but I just can’t eat yet, I’m too wired.”

He set a hand on her face. “You have to fuel yourself.” He blinked, then slid his
hand down her torso. “How are your ribs?”

“Okay. Still hurting from that fall four days ago.”

“Dammit!” He pulled away from her, paced the entry hall and stalked to the kitchen.
“I don’t like this. Not one little bit. If it was anyone except Mrs. Flinton—”

“We’d still be on our way. Neither of us is going to ignore danger to a child.”