Ghost Maker

by Robin D. Owens

  Or Rickman might have separated a car and driver from his own services of personal protection and sent them down here. Clare would hate that, though.

  Zach’s mouth twitched up as Clare discreetly tiptoed around the fact that she might be considered a little eccentric, though she didn’t put that into words.

  The guy got confused, then surly.

  Zach stood and crossed to Clare’s desk and took her cell from her hand. “This is Zach Slade, one of Tony Rickman’s operatives.” Though he was the only ex-cop and investigator Rickman had, not ex-military special ops like the others. “Call Rickman or Mrs. Flinton if you need a reference for Clare Cermak. Then have a car around here at the Bubbling Springs Resort in forty-five minutes. Got it?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the guy sputtered, but Zach figured the Rickman name-drop had worked. Zach cut the call and gave the phone back to a glaring Clare.

  “Really, Zach.”

  “You were just making the guy suspicious.”

  She huffed a breath. “What was I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I may be talking to ghosts, including a dog who is a minor spirit and, by the way, phantoms might be pestering me and pressing around the car and screaming and yelling and I often don’t react well to that’?”

  Zach rubbed a thumb along his jaw as if considering. “No, I don’t think that would’ve been productive.”

  “Smart-ass,” she said.

  “You’re doing okay. We’re doing okay.” He liked seeing her so full of vitality.

  But the next call came to Clare from Rickman himself, who said he had a car on the way to their villa.

  Clare accepted coolly and after she disconnected, she turned to Zach. He held up a hand. “No, I did not tell Rickman where we were. He might have gotten it from the car service guy, but more likely that he already knew.”

  Huffing a breath, Clare sank to sit on the rounded arm of the leather love seat. “I suppose I should presume that he will keep track of us.”

  “I think you should expect that,” Zach agreed.

  She hopped up and paced the small room, waving a hand. “Doesn’t the lack of privacy bother you?’

  “Yeah, but it’s also nice to think of having backup available.” The more he thought about their cases, of him working on the Utzigs and maybe leaving Clare alone, the more he liked the idea of backup. He recalled what Rickman had said at the Boutros interview and made a fifty-buck bet with himself as to who’d be driving Clare around. Both he and Clare liked and respected Rossi.

  Her chin jutted. “Well, I don’t like him knowing where we’re staying and what room or villa we’re staying in.”

  Zach smiled wryly. “Rickman and his operatives all have the protective streak, too. You consult for him and are a friend of his wife’s. Until you’re back in the best of shape, he’s going to watch out for you.”

  “I suppose,” she grumbled. She studied Zach’s calm expression and his casual manner, yet he’d be ready to spring into immediate action if, say, a bomb came in through the window. Tough, as all of Rickman’s people were tough. She should probably be appreciating that, since her toughness had just begun to develop and she had the etheric wound and all, but she would really like to sit down in a company break room and have an interesting conversation with a skinny guy in a professional suit about profit and loss.

  Yes, she continued to be a fish out of water with this new man of hers . . . but she loved him.

  She left him to his work and showered and changed into a medium-weight cashmere sweater and her light leather jacket. Natural clothing seemed to insulate her from ghost-cold better, especially outside. Checking her watch, she saw she could expect the car shortly. In the living room–kitchen she paused to change the wall calendar featuring the Garden of the Gods from September to October. A tiny chill snaked down her spine. The month of ghosts. And at the end of the month sat Halloween, the evening of All Hallows’ Day, All Souls’ Day. Would those days be easier or harder on her? Was it true that the veil between life and death was thinner then? Would the gray dimension be closer? Transitions smoother?

  The only way to find out was to live through the days. And not anticipate trouble.

  So she went to Zach, who stared out the window of his temporary office at the golf course and beyond. His computer remained open, beside it lay a list of phone numbers jotted down on a pad, and his cell showed the app SeeAndTalk ready to initiate. As she bent down to kiss him good-bye with a buss on his cheek, he swung the chair, stood, and yanked her into his arms and against his well-built body. His mouth fastened on hers and as she gasped, his tongue swept into her mouth, rubbing against hers.

  Knees weakening, she let herself rest against him as her hands curved around his strong biceps. Nothing in the world mattered except Zach’s taste, the feel of him, strong and vital, the thumping of his heart that matched the throb of her pulse.

  He broke the kiss first, and when her body had steadied, she stepped back and raised her eyes to meet his gaze. He looked as if he’d been kissed hard, and had a nice sexual glint in his eyes. His hands framed her face, also strong . . . and warm. With a jerk of his chin at the door, he said, “Your car must be on the way. But though I can’t go with you, I know you can handle yourself, town full of ghosts or not.”

  She grimaced. “I think so. As long as I don’t drive.”

  Another quick kiss, his tongue wetting her lips, leaving her with the salt of his taste, and he said, “You’re amazing, Clare.”

  With a nod, she turned, felt his quick pat on her butt, and smiled. He’d succeeded in boosting her morale. Since he believed she could face packs of ghosts, her determination stiffened.

  A honk came from outside, so she picked up her tote with tablet, phone, and notes and headed out. She called “Good-bye,” even as he picked up his ringing phone. Yes, she could and would manage ghosts of her time period. She wouldn’t think of the one time her mind had nearly shredded when a mob of mad, tattered, demanding ghosts surrounded her.

  More than a month ago. Her life—she had changed greatly since then.

  But she continued to be resolved that she wouldn’t become dependent on Zach. He’d entered her life at the worst possible moment, and it would have been easy to lean on him. An unequal partnership wasn’t good for either of them.

  Chapter 17

  A black luxury car that looked like it had heavier metal and glass—a personal protection vehicle?—stood outside their villa. As soon as she closed the door behind her, a large man with extremely short blond hair and wearing sunglasses emerged from the driver’s side, came around, and opened the back door for her. She blinked in surprise at the sight of him. The last time she’d seen Harry Rossi, one of Rickman’s operatives, it had been at a debriefing after her second case. He looked sharp, as usual, with trousers, jacket, and shirt that all appeared tailored especially for his large frame.

  I know this guy! Enzo barked, racing across the landscape. She hadn’t seen him this morning, but he now had a whole new area to explore—the corridor between Denver and Colorado Springs and over to Manitou Springs.

  Rossi stiffened.

  Yes, he still seemed to be able to sense ghosts. “Hello, Mr. Rossi.”

  He tipped his sunglasses down, showing light brown eyes. “Call me Harry, Clare.”

  I like this guy! Enzo hopped around them both, raced through their legs. Clare felt the chill, and Rossi’s smile seemed to strain.

  “Thanks for picking me up, Harry.” She decided that she’d have to speak with Mr. Rickman about the cost of Harry’s time and suppressed a sigh. From her own consulting work with Mr. Rickman, she knew none of his people came cheap. “You understand that I simply want to drive through Manitou Springs.”

  “That’s right.” He gestured for her to take a seat in the leather interior of the car. “Stop and go, Tony said, doing a recon.”

  She would never have put it that
way. After sliding in her tote containing her tablet and purse, she entered the car. Enzo followed her, sitting behind the driver.

  “Recon for a ghost,” Harry said, and shut the door.

  Well, he did know that she could see phantoms and helped ghosts move on. Zach and/or Mr. Rickman probably told him about her first case, and possibly updated him about her time in Creede, Colorado, and that last project with Texas Jack Omohundro. She sighed, snicked her seat belt on, and made sure Enzo didn’t sit in her tote and it stayed within her easy reach. Harry pulled around the cul-de-sac and headed out of the resort.

  “You aren’t, ah, providing personal protection to anyone?” she asked.

  Harry met her eyes in the mirror. “Nah, between jobs.”

  “I will probably want some time on my own,” she said. She definitely needed to learn how to handle being alone with ghosts of the Old West on foot . . . and not surrounded by the metal of a vehicle or having a tough guy with her.

  “That’s fine,” Harry said smoothly. His mouth quirked. “I have a lady friend up the canyon from Manitou I can visit.”

  Clare got the idea that Harry had ladies all along the Colorado Springs, metro Denver, and Boulder corridor. His coating of affability didn’t quite hide that whiff of danger he’d have picked up in the military. An attractive man, but she preferred the edgy, brooding, law-abiding type like Zach.

  No, she simply preferred Zach.

  Harry said aloud, “Call Clare Cermak,” and her phone rang with an old-fashioned bell. She added Harry’s number to her contacts.

  As they came to the outskirts of Manitou and gray forms floated around the car—keeping up with the vehicle somehow—her palms dampened and she began counting her inhalations and exhalations.

  “You okay?” Harry asked.

  “Fine for now,” she replied, her voice a little high. She wondered where she might find the nun and kept her gaze sharp and focused on the side of the street that had the most springs.

  “Okay, then.”

  He drove below the speed limit and stopped the minute anyone stepped out onto a zebra crossing. Since it was Saturday, the town thrived with people, even more than the ghosts. The slow ride gave her time . . . to experience the area. She groped to identify sensations that might point her in the right direction, and visualized what she could remember of the Sister of Mercy.

  She’d been shorter than Clare’s five feet seven inches, thinner, less developed . . . because she’d been younger, Clare thought about eighteen. She didn’t recall any sort of specific features; she hadn’t been able to see the girl well. As if the phantom had disappeared into a different portion of the gray dimension, or perhaps because the space near Navajo Spring had been rather busy.

  And as Clare concentrated, she began sense the atmosphere as it pressed on her—more of a feeling of intensity. Less intense in some directions . . . like it would be easier to go that way, that she’d discover something. Whether that was the young woman or just an important apparition Clare could help move on, she couldn’t say.

  Mentally she said to Enzo—who’d stuck his head through the window on his side of the car—Do you feel anything solid about the Sister of Mercy we met yesterday? Then she rephrased, Can you get a good sense of where she is?

  The Labrador’s forehead wrinkled into deeper gray shades. Nooo. He stuck more of himself out the window, angling his nose. Keeping his back to her, he continued, But she is a greater spirit than myself.

  Oh, Clare said. She focused on the shadowy gray dimension as it intersected with her.

  They stopped on the block behind Navajo Spring. Harry trailed behind as Clare went to check out whether the nun remained where she and Zach had found her before. People clumped in bunches in the open space. One side of the wall of a candy shop that also served food held the spring, the rest of the area was defined by a row of red benches, then several rows of mechanical rides for children until the uncovered open plaza.

  A couple of families gathered near the running faucet of the spring.

  She had to get used to this feeling of being pressed around by ghosts, nearly suffocated. She must learn to cope. She couldn’t spend her whole life impaired by this other sense. Steeling herself, she closed her eyes for a moment, decided to try one of the techniques that Great-Aunt Sandra had recommended. Clare imagined she was surrounded by a crystal bubble . . . and that bubble pushed away the apparitions drawn to her.

  She could see through it with no distortion, even the ghosts who lingered . . . one very old trapper, she thought, several women and men . . . about six. They drew away more when she walked through the place, and one woman vanished. At least none of them actually ran, though they kept their dark-fog eyes on her.

  Nor did any turn into wispy and torn wraiths, screaming at her like banshees. Perhaps that was due to the protective bubble; perhaps the apparitions themselves sensed that she had no wish to interact with them or send them on at the moment, she had another specific goal. Only the trapper glanced at her bag, then away. Yes, her ghost-killing knife still sat tucked away in an outer pocket of that bag.

  She moved more slowly than she would have in a ghost-free area, or like a normal person. Yes, she, too, had a disability. Some of the live people watched her sideways. She couldn’t tell if it was because of the way she walked, or because she stirred the gray dimension and affected the phantoms with her presence—and those people might be aware of the ghosts.

  Reluctantly she thinned the crystal bubble where she’d spotted the nun before, near an iron fence blocking access to a stream. No hint of deeper shadows of gray, though when Clare stretched her senses she thought she caught a quick twitch of a habit’s full black skirt whisk away.

  Not here, Enzo said, disappointed.

  Clare let out a quiet breath, formed the larger bubble, thought the spirits who’d loitered began moving around again behind her.

  We will check out the rest of the town to its limits, she told Enzo.

  Enzo ran around the area, and Clare heard a few gasps from people. Maybe she is hiding. But it takes much energy to hide from a powerful ghost seer like you.

  I didn’t even know ghosts could hide.

  Not for long.

  Even if she is hiding, she doesn’t have to do it here. She could be anywhere.

  When she approached the car, Harry moved in front of her, checked out the street, then opened the door for her, nodding, his eyes shaded by sunglasses, his face inscrutable, and finally spoke. “No luck?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “Right, more recon.”

  “Yes.”

  * * *

  Luckily, Zach was able to immerse himself in work as soon as Clare left the villa. He’d gotten in detailed reports from the local hospitals and morgues. Tyler hadn’t been through their hands.

  A good thing to think about. But by this time he should have gotten a whiff of the boy, whether he was alive or dead. Yeah, Zach was that good. In his head no proof had come of anything off, but his gut wasn’t happy with the whole situation, so not much relief.

  He updated his report to Rickman, who’d forward it in part or whole to the clients.

  Zach finally used SeeAndTalk to contact the policewoman he liaised with about the real guy he wanted to talk to, an undercover cop. “Hey, Ginni.”

  She nodded to him. At least he hadn’t surprised her looking irritated as she answered. She had his number now, and probably in more ways than one. She knew he wouldn’t give up on this case, and that he’d just started to dig.

  “Hey, Zach.” She glanced down at her notes, and from what he could read upside down, it was his references.

  “I’m ready to come on up there and meet Jim.” He’d winnowed that much from her; the man who had the info Zach needed was named Jim.

  “He’s not ready for you.”

  Smoothly, Zach said, “I know h
e has his own orders and goals, and that folding in another request into any operation is tough. If I could take care of it on my own, I would.”

  Her face softened. “It takes time to build up trust on the street.”

  “Yeah, and I don’t have it.” Don’t put much pressure on her. Zach didn’t react well to pressure, didn’t think good cops liked being pressured, either, so he wouldn’t use it. Just state a fact. He was finally getting a good web of people to talk to in the DPD and other metro Denver law enforcement agencies.

  She stared out at him from his laptop monitor. “I’ll ask Jim to call you today.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Phone only, no SeeAndTalk. And he’s going to want to keep his identity on the down low. It will have to be at his convenience.”

  “Of course.”

  Ginni hung up and Zach went to freshen his coffee, stared out the window at Pikes Peak and sipped, saw two crows perch on the fence. Two for luck. He’d be grateful for any damn luck he got.

  To his surprise, his phone rang. “This is Slade.”

  A man grunted on the other end. “Jim.”

  “I’m sure you’ve heard what I’m looking into,” Zach said and ran through it again.

  “Gimme a description of the kid.”

  Zach did.

  “Gotta pic?”

  “Sure. Can I send it to this number?”

  “One that ain’t, like, a school pic?”

  “I’ve got a casual one, but boys grow and change.” Zach paused a couple of beats. “Especially when they’re on the street.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Yeah, send it through here.”

  A good thing that he’d filed that photo of Tyler in a casual group setting Zach had found from shelter pics dated a month ago. He pushed it through.