Ghost Maker

by Robin D. Owens

  The. Next. While. Zach drew in a deep breath. “I did the ‘think positive’ thing yesterday. But you want me to be more like you? You’re the cheerleader here.”

  Enzo beamed and licked Zach’s face again. Exactly.

  “You may have to keep me on track.” He meant it as irony.

  A whippy tail wagged fast. I will, Zach!

  “Great.”

  He inhaled the crisp air again, thought he felt a localized chill prickle the stubble of beard on his jaw and cheek, Enzo licking him. Then, as the dog’s outline showed against the window, he saw the Lab jump through it. We are a team. We will help each other! trailed back to Zach’s mind from the ghost dog.

  And as he watched, a splash of golden sunlight hit a treetop. The clouds in the west appeared as if they thinned to white streamers, too, and achingly blue sky showed above them. The sun had come out. Had to be a good omen.

  And let’s face it. He dealt in omens.

  * * *

  Snow lay like a thin crust on the dark blue mountains later when Clare blinked at the view outside the windows of the villa’s bedroom. Her stomach tightened at the thought of heading into Manitou Springs again, trying to find and speak with the nun. Most of the ghosts she’d dealt with in her short career could move around geographically, were not bound to a certain place.

  So, once again, she’d search for the good Sister of Mercy who could heal her injury. The gash didn’t feel as mended this morning as in the middle of the night when the Other had smacked her. But then, though the Other might be a higher-level spirit, she certainly couldn’t call him good. So if good spirits could heal, it might not be in his toolbox.

  She rose, a little stiff from sleeping in a different bed, in a cooler room. She hadn’t packed a large suitcase, so hadn’t included her robe, but the resort one was plush. She took it off the towel-warming rack and wrapped it around herself, closing her eyes at the opulence. Yes, this first winter as a ghost seer would be a challenge. She knew that all the way to her marrow, and she wondered if she’d see the spring.

  With thoughts of mortality swimming in her head—at least all her affairs were in the absolute best order she could get them—she walked into the living room–kitchen to see Zach watching the local news and munching a breakfast burrito at a small round dining room table.

  Love for him flushed her skin, then an uneasy fear for him threaded through her, shimmering down her nerves. They’d been lucky, so far, that neither of them had died on her cases or his.

  “Where’d you get the food?” she asked.

  He gestured to the small black refrigerator. She refrained from saying that the burrito probably cost five times the amount it would at the grocery.

  Swallowing, he said, “It’s organic.”

  All right, ten times the amount.

  She saw the full coffeepot and her nose twitched at the smell of freshly ground, no doubt equally organic, beans. She poured herself a cup, stirred with a honey stick, and got a burrito herself, zapped it in the microwave.

  As she moved to the table, she heard cawing. Zach flinched.

  They both glanced out the window, five crows. By now, Clare knew Zach’s version of the Counting Crows Rhyme by heart. Five for silver.

  “I saw them,” she said, understanding Zach also saw birds that no one else did. She put her coffee and dish on a placemat at a right angle to him, kissed his temple. “And I was thinking about the cost of the food, so that’s what ‘five for silver’ might mean.”

  He grunted.

  She drew in a breath and returned to a previous topic that bothered her. “Did you make your will?”

  He frowned.

  “You are the primary financial caretaker for your mother and her trust, right? And you have your own considerable disability settlement and pension—”

  “Enough pestering, Clare.” He raised a hand, matched her stare for a good thirty seconds, then said, “Yes, I made my will. I consulted with my mother’s family attorney in Boston, got the damn thing e-mailed to me, supplied the info that needed to be filled out, got it notarized by Samantha in the office, and sent it back.” His chest compressed with a breath. “The case with Texas Jack and the new poltergeist made me think.” His lips quirked. “Texas Jack, the responsible; the new phantom, the irresponsible, so I did the right thing.”

  She sat next to him, a smile of pure approval on her face. “Excellent.”

  “So you’ll stop annoying me about this?”

  “Absolutely.” She paused. “About investments—”

  “No one likes a nag, Clare.”

  “So I guess you haven’t made those yet.”

  He leaned over and kissed her quiet, his tongue stroking hers, his mouth lingering on hers.

  Sniffing, she said, “While we searched for the healer ghost yesterday, you pointed out that you were better at tracking, et cetera. I’m better at financial planning, so you could listen to me.”

  “I haven’t been nagging at you about taking more self-defense lessons, or anything else in my area of expertise, Clare, yet.”

  Truth. “All right,” she conceded.

  Then he stood and stretched, cleared his plate and washed it, and headed back to the bedroom.

  Clare savored her coffee and meal, let herself soak up the luxury of beautiful fabrics and furnishings—a little too modern and neutral in color for her tastes, but wonderful nonetheless, and nothing she’d have to dust or clean or care for.

  From the threshold, Zach said, “You only have to rest and relax and get better. Concentrate on finding the healing nun and letting her help you.”

  Pursing her lips, Clare said, “She’s probably my next major project. After she heals me, I help her transition.”

  “Probably,” Zach agreed. He carried his new, sleek, bronze high-end computer in his hand and held no cane. Then, as he scrutinized her, his stance eased. “You’re looking better.” He grinned, then winked. “Well, you always look good to me, but you look rested and healthier.”

  “I’m glad.” She stared at his brightly colored computer. “You have work?”

  “Yeah. And Desiree picked out the new computers.”

  Clare waited but he said nothing disparaging about Desiree, didn’t even frown.

  “You seem preoccupied.”

  Now he scowled. “Tough case.”

  She raised her brows.

  He looked away from her, then back. “I can’t tell you the details, but an at-risk runaway kid is lost on the streets of Denver, thirteen years old.” Zach’s mouth soured. “He’s been gone four months.”

  “Winter’s coming,” Clare whispered.

  “Stupid family deals,” Zach muttered, his jaw setting. He’d suffered from an autocratic father in the military even before his family had been shattered by the drive-by shooting death of his older brother when Zach was twelve.

  Clare nodded. Her growing up had been the complete opposite of Zach’s, her parents able to live and roam on her mother’s trust fund, careless of their children, only believing in chasing their own pleasure. Dysfunctional families, she and Zach both came from them, but so did a lot of other people. “Stupid family deals,” she echoed. “Any chance of finding him before . . .”

  Zach shrugged. “Always a chance.”

  Her breath caught and she stilled her suddenly trembling lips. The day had definitely smudged on her with this knowledge. “But you don’t think so.”

  Another shrug. So he didn’t want to put doom into his words, but he did reply, “Not finding him at first pass. And I don’t have any contacts with the homeless or street kids in Denver.”

  “I suppose there weren’t any homeless or street kids in Plainsview City?” He’d turned in his deputy sheriff’s badge in Cottonwood County, Montana, and left there two days before they’d met.

  “Oh, we had them, but we pretty
much knew them all, too. I knew some of the street people in Billings when I was on that meth task force, but that’s been a while.” He grunted. “Not my favorite work.”

  He limped heavily over to her, something he usually didn’t do, though he hid his disability less and less. Not that she cared about how he walked; she never had.

  Giving her a kiss, he said, “Though I could pass among them a whole lot easier now that I’m crippled.”

  “You’re not crippled. You have a disability that you’re managing.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, yeah.” He pivoted on his good right heel and headed to the second room in their suite. “I set up the office and put your computer and tablet in there.”

  She followed him to the pretty but small room with two desks. She hadn’t worked in the same room as someone else for a long time. That might be a challenge. And time to address her own disability. “Zach, I need a car.”

  Chapter 16

  His shoulders stiffened at her words. Without turning around, he said, “What if I promise not to try and take a hit instead of you, like I did before? And tell you that I’ll take you to Manitou Springs whenever you want?”

  “First, trying not to take a hit instead of me isn’t acceptable. You think before you place yourself in danger for me! All right?”

  He met her gaze with a cool, flat cop one. “Protecting you is my number one—uh, is a priority.”

  Her nostrils pinched. “That expression right there shows me that you’re more accustomed to danger and thinking on your feet than I am. You had time to decide to sacrifice yourself last month. Don’t damn well do it again.” She never cursed, and Zach rarely did, but she had to now to make her point.

  He looked shocked. Clare jerked her head in a decisive nod. “We’ve had this conversation. We stick to our agreement.”

  His head dipped a trifle, and Clare figured that was all the concurrence she’d get, but she needed more, so she stilled, endeavoring to sense the emotions she felt radiating off him. Yes, that bone-deep protectiveness, but also the knowledge that he understood that quality of his and could control it. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t act if necessary, just not be as extreme. She said, “I think you’ll always be heroic.”

  His expression turned grim. “I almost got us all killed.”

  She closed her eyes for a few seconds, her stomach clenching as she recalled the wild fear and the ride through the dark. “We all made our decisions that dawn, including Enzo.” Coming up to Zach, she put her arms around him. His muscles had tensed. “I love you the way you are, and I know you won’t strand me again. And I won’t strand you.”

  He held her tightly, his breath warm in her hair as he murmured, “No. I won’t strand you or abandon you.”

  Her own breath sifted out on a long “No.”

  They stood like that, embracing for a couple of minutes, until she shifted and he dropped his arms. So she stepped back. “As for driving me around when I need to do my research, you have important work, and must pursue it.” Duty and work came first, and that went triple when it involved a child. “But I need a car.” She grimaced. “No, I’m wrong. I need a car service for Manitou. It’s too thick with ghosts; I don’t think I could even bike around. I could get there, though, I’m sure.”

  “If you keep on the highways as much as you can, maybe,” he rumbled.

  “Thank you for finding this lovely sanctuary for me.”

  “For us.”

  “I can check on the old maps and discover the newest roads, trace out the streets I can drive safely on.”

  “You can’t do Manitou Springs on your own. It’s not like Creede where there were no ghosts.”

  “Walking should be fine,” she stated firmly. “Now that I know from yesterday what I’m facing.” She sighed. “Though it could be draining and limit my time. But you’re right; for fast transport, I’ll need a vehicle.” She leaned against him. “And neither of us knows Colorado Springs or Manitou, so I’ll give Mr. Rickman a call.”

  Zach squeezed her. “I’m glad you’ll talk to Rickman. He won’t steer you wrong.”

  A thought occurred and she perked up. “I think I’ll ask Samantha, his receptionist, for recommendations. Yes, that will work.”

  “She’ll tell Rickman of your inquiry.”

  “Yes, but I won’t have to deal with him, or any attempt he might have of sliding me into another case of his.” Smiling up at Zach, she said, “I’m enjoying working on my own.”

  “I can see that.” This time he kissed her with more than affection, until her mind went foggy and her body sagged.

  Then he took a pace back and crossed to his desk with a more jaunty step, less of a limp. Controlling his stride more instinctively, Clare thought. His working out paid off. She knew he did some martial arts as well as bartitsu, a Victorian cane fighting discipline.

  Again she looked around the room and suddenly wished for home. Wanted to be whole so she wasn’t her own client. Wanted to be . . . like she was two months ago, normal. Dwelling on the past! Get over it.

  Okay, she’d occasionally backslide into regret; she was human, and needed to stop blaming herself for that, too. The best she could do was normal for now. But suddenly she wanted her own older neighborhood of tree-shaded streets and not open plains and new furniture. “We’ll be here . . .” She pressed her lips together. “. . . longer than I’d anticipated.”

  “My efficiency-loving and time-conscious Clare,” he teased, looking up at her after booting his computer. He seemed easy with himself and his disability, at least.

  “Nevertheless, it’s the truth we’ll be here a while. Does the Springs”—she referred to Colorado Springs as most people in Colorado did—“have a bartitsu studio or club or something?”

  He waved his free hand. “I’ll call my instructor and ask. No doubt I’ll miss some of our sessions—”

  “That you’ve already paid for.”

  “He’s a good guy, he won’t charge if I cancel ahead of time, but he doesn’t like me missing.” Zach stretched, and she sure did like his body. “But this resort has pools and exercise rooms, of course.”

  “Of course,” she said without enthusiasm.

  “And probably yoga lessons.”

  “Oh! That’s good.” Another new pastime she was getting the hang of. She looked through the two windows, but neither showed the main resort building. Zach seemed to read her mind without Enzo being present.

  “I keep telling you, no one who teaches yoga is going to judge your skill.”

  She narrowed her eyes, swept her gaze around. “This is an upscale resort. I’m not so sure.”

  He chuckled. “Give it a shot.”

  Better than exercising with weights, she supposed. But the place seemed to be more of a cage, no, a workplace, than a retreat now. “I didn’t pack my yoga clothes.” In that she hadn’t been as efficient as he thought, but she’d anticipated a standard one-room place in a motel.

  “There are shops. Or do you want to call Mrs. Flinton and Desiree Rickman and have them pick some stuff up at your house and messenger another suitcase or bring one down here?”

  She stared at him. “I haven’t given anyone a key to my—our place. Did you?”

  He snorted. “Clare, Rickman and his staff are special ops. They can get in your house before you could say ‘Emma Crawford Coffin Races’, if we wanted them to, authorized them. If you asked him. Doubt if he’d take my word for it. I’d remind you, though, that both Flinton and Desiree are nosy women. We wouldn’t want to leave them in the place alone.”

  She grumbled under her breath. “I’ll look into shops in this part of town, where there aren’t many ghosts. This resort might have some, too.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  Opening her mouth to comment on the price, she shut it.

  Zach said, “Thank you.”

>   As he logged onto his computer, she asked, “Are you sure you don’t need to go up to Denver to work?”

  His expression revealed nothing, but sadness showed in his eyes. “It would take me too long to go undercover with the homeless and get them to accept and trust me. I’ll have to rely on my contacts within the Denver PD.”

  “And since the southern part of Colorado Springs is the most historic, and we’re in the north, it’s only a little over an hour home.”

  He slanted her an ironic look. “Not counting construction and traffic, here and in Denver.”

  “True, but doable. Under two hours.” She’d keep the relative closeness of home in mind. If she had to run away.

  * * *

  Zach stared out his window toward the plains and city of Colorado Springs. He’d left the desk near the window with Pikes Peak square in the center to Clare. He’d probably told Clare too much about the case, though he’d keep the fact that Boutros had hired him to himself.

  He and Clare had shared their cases, often working on the same one. It didn’t sit right with him to keep details from her. Abruptly he decided that he’d have to make that clear to Rickman . . . but later, for their cases in the future.

  Once again he read through the file on George Utzig, a poor excuse for a person, double-checked that the first databases he’d accessed didn’t have any new info on Tyler. The last charge on George’s credit card had been about three weeks before, and the bad feeling he had about the case worsened.

  An e-mail that morning from Rickman stated that Zach had passed additional security checks and now could access some higher-level databases. He wanted to do deep background on the Utzigs. Find out the source of their money, the personalities of the clan, let the knowledge and the feeling he got from them sink into his back brain so that he might get an idea of George and Tyler. And where Tyler would go—or avoid. He’d contact all the other shelters again by SeeAndTalk or phone.

  So Zach worked all the networks he could—and now he’d been cleared for quite a damn few—keeping an ear out to listen to Clare’s calls. She did call Samantha, and got the name of a car service from Rickman’s receptionist. Then Clare interviewed the owner over the telephone. Zach figured that if she—or he—had gone through Rickman, that man would have gotten to the guy first and clued him in about Clare, her wealth, and her gift.