Ghost Seer

by Robin D. Owens

During the cab ride Clare organized her purse to make sure pen, pencil, and paper were at hand to whisk out when needed . . . and a quarter for a locker if she had to use a special room for research. But surely books on ghosts were more popular and less rare than the materials she’d looked through on her quest to learn about Jack Slade.

  If she was efficient, and she prided herself on that, she could get in and out of the library quickly, before happy hour really got rolling, and be home before downtown locked in rush hour. That was the best timeline, best-case scenario, and now that she’d determined what to do and had a plan, optimism suffused her.

  She logged on to the library’s catalog with her phone and flicked through it, noting with a smile that several of the more than a dozen ghost/hauntings books were in the Western History room. She recalled that Aunt Sandra had mentioned a couple of books on ghosts and psychic medium gifts on her video while Clare had been in shock, but she didn’t remember enough of their titles to look them up. Odd titles she’d cringe to be seen with.

  When the taxi pulled up, she gave the cabbie a twenty and didn’t ask for change. Enzo informed her that he would play in the park. He sounded optimistic, too.

  But as she pulled open the library door, her spirits deflated a little. The place was so cold! Perhaps not to most people, but the air-conditioning reminded her all too vividly of how her health had been declining. How it would continue to decay unless something was done.

  Well, she was doing it. Right. Now. She pulled her sweater around her and buttoned it up, wishing it were heavy wool, no matter how odd that would have looked.

  She took the escalators up to the pretty reading room that soothed her, went straight to her usual table, filled out a couple of call slips for noncirculating reference books, and handed them to the usual librarian who helped her.

  The woman greeted her, smiled, took the slips, and handed them off to a volunteer docent to retrieve the volumes. Clare headed to the stacks, gathered another two books, and took them to “her” table.

  She passed Ted Mather, who seemed focused on his laptop, transcribing notes from a dusty book, though she’d seen how his shoulders had stiffened when he’d caught sight of her, his darting glance to her, and maybe even felt his irritation with her. So she didn’t bother to greet him. Like Mrs. Flinton had said, Clare was on a mission.

  Flipping through the books, she saw accounts of ghosts of Capitol Hill and Cheesman Park. The ones on Capitol Hill were on the far side of the governmental buildings, and not close in distance.

  There were no good maps, and the circuit she traced quickly would take hours to walk, and the way things were, she still didn’t want to drive.

  The docent delivered her books and made a couple of comments about Clare’s area of study changing from legends of the West to ghosts of the West. Clare’s reply felt strained.

  Again she scanned the contents of the fattest book. No maps at all, more of a history of Denver than a lot of ghost stories. She made a note of it, then set it aside.

  When she opened the second book to a flyleaf that had a map of LoDo, she whispered, “I’ve struck gold!”

  She really should have anticipated that LoDo would have a lot of ghosts, since it was logical that Denver’s earliest settlements—Auraria and Denver—would have the most ghosts or hauntings or supernatural activity or whatever in the city, just for being around so long.

  Finally she pulled out a chair and sat. She grimaced as she made notes. Yes, most of the “confirmed sightings” were smack-dab in what she sensed was her primary time period for feeling them, 1850 to 1900.

  If one believed in ghosts.

  But walking LoDo was a definite place to start. She could put her plan into immediate action, take the free mall bus down to the terminus and walk. As soon as she had a list of several hideous places that should give her the most “evidence,” she copied the map twice and annotated one copy, stuck it in the outside pocket of her purse, then rose and stepped back and took a pic of it in its entirety with her phone, then in sections.

  Done! She glanced at her watch. And in good time, too!

  She was down and stepping out of the building before she remembered to call Mrs. Flinton and tell her she’d be taking the bus from one end of the mall to the other—nearly slower than walking, but apparitions didn’t inflict themselves on her nearly as much when on the bus.

  Forcing herself to pat Enzo on the head, keeping her head up and shoulders straight, she strode away, hopefully not to her doom, but if it was, she didn’t think she’d survive anyway, and that might just be a relief.

  SEVENTEEN

  ZACH PULLED BACK into the drive and Clare’s car was still there, which puzzled him. Maybe the old ladies had asked her to dinner.

  Her and the ghost dog, Enzo. Crazy.

  He’d avoid all of them.

  The interview hadn’t gone well. Mrs. Flinton had been right about the housekeeper living to a very ripe old age . . . but her memory hadn’t been great, and the young woman relative—who’d flirted with him and irritated him more since she was blond, blue-eyed, perky, and obvious—hadn’t had any leads for him, either. She stated she’d e-mail her middle-aged parents, who might be able to give him more information about people who might have worked in the household when it dissolved.

  Meanwhile, thinking of Clare had gotten him thinking about money, whether Mrs. Flinton had any sort of financial records about her old home. Too bad Zach couldn’t trust Clare to look at something like that. He hated messing with financial records himself, and if Rickman Security had a financial guy, Zach thought that person would be busy with more pressing cases.

  This time he made little noise pulling up the circular drive close to his side door, opening his car door, nearly sneaking in. He changed into T-shirt and jeans, settled on the couch with the new laptop that was the property of Rickman Security, and began typing up his notes.

  No more than a couple of minutes later, a hard rapping came at the door of his apartment to the rest of the house. Muttering a curse, Zach stood, took his cane, and walked slowly to the door. He opened it to see Mrs. Flinton staring at him with an expression that told him in no uncertain terms that he’d disappointed her.

  “Clare Cermak has decided to face her fears and is going to walk in LoDo . . . where there are quite a massive number of unhappy ghosts,” Mrs. Flinton stated. “Ghosts of the Chinese who lost their lives in the race riot of Hop Alley in 1880, ghosts of despairing and desperate women who were prostitutes in the red-light district, including three who were strangled by a serial killer in 1894.”

  Zach stared at her. “You know a lot,” he muttered.

  Her lips compressed into a thin line before she said, “I know the ghosts of Denver, Zach.” A heavy silence. “Since I believe in them.”

  He raised his brows. “And you think I should.”

  “I think you have a gift—”

  “No.”

  She inclined her head.

  “Are you going to throw me out?” he asked, a pang zipping to his gut. He liked this place. He liked her and Mrs. Magee. He loved the food.

  Her head tilted and expression softened. “Not right now. Especially not if you help Clare.”

  Zach rubbed his face. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Whether you believe in ghosts or not,” Mrs. Flinton said crisply, “you can see that Clare is unwell and should not be left alone to wander by herself.”

  “I guess.”

  Mrs. Flinton’s phone trilled in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the caller, and answered. “Clare, dear. Thank you for calling like I asked.” The warmth that had been lacking in her voice as she’d talked with him infused her tones. “You’re still continuing with your plan?” Mrs. Flinton thumbed the volume up and held it out so Zach could listen.

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Flinton,” Clare said.

  Some
thing tightened inside him—the ache of lost dreams, of a potential that would never be fulfilled.

  “I still strongly advise against this, Clare,” Mrs. Flinton said with that steel she’d used on Zach.

  “I’m sorry you disagree with my plan, Mrs. Flinton, but I am determined to figure this all out. I’m either seeing ghosts or going crazy.” An unamused chuckle. “Or both.”

  “My dear—”

  “I’m leaving the library now. The only map I found was for ghosts of LoDo, so I’ll be going there, taking the mall shuttle down to the LoDo terminal at Market.”

  “Market Street is a main thoroughfare of ghosts,” Mrs. Flinton said.

  “I know that, now.” Another, higher chuckle from Clare roused Zach’s cop instincts that something definitely wasn’t right.

  “I’m sending Zach after you. Why don’t you find a place to wait for him?” Mrs. Flinton pointed to his outside door and made pushing motions.

  Zach hesitated.

  “That’s completely unnecessary, Mrs. Flinton; please, don’t,” Clare said.

  “Clare needs your help. Are you going to let her, and me, down?” Mrs. Flinton demanded of Zach in a low voice.

  “What did you say?” Clare asked.

  Mrs. Flinton glared and pointed to the door again. Stepping high with his left leg, with minimal use of his cane, Zach crossed to the door and opened it. Mrs. Flinton followed.

  The old woman had stabbed him right in one of his most tender and sore spots. It hadn’t been so very long ago that he’d sworn to serve and protect. He believed in that, and the alarm buzzing in the back of his brain told him Clare needed the protection . . . and Mrs. Flinton the service.

  He marched to his car door, got in, and set his cane in the passenger seat footwell, listening to Mrs. Flinton soothe.

  “The ghosts crowd around one on Market,” Mrs. Flinton said. “It’s better if you walk slowly.” She rolled her hand for him to get a move on, but, hell, he didn’t know where the damn bus terminal was, wait, Market and Sixteenth—but he didn’t know the best, the fastest way to get there, so he had to jab at the GPS unit.

  “Promise me you will walk very slowly and listen to Enzo!” Mrs. Flinton said.

  “Oh, all right. I promise.”

  And Zach drove off, clenching his jaw and telling himself he was a damn fool. As he turned between the stone pillars of the drive he saw the shadows, and then the birds: nine. Nine for hell.

  The hair rose all along his body, his neck, his arms. And, damn it, Zach had so rarely seen nine that he didn’t know what that meant. Except Clare was in trouble.

  Too many damn crows in Denver.

  • • •

  Mrs. Flinton was correct about the ghosts crowding. The instant Clare stepped off the bus under the Denver International Airport–like tent covering, specters pressed around her—visions?—but she felt the tension of them near.

  They weren’t the kind of images she’d become accustomed to—shadowy people in old-fashioned dress. No. Not at all.

  Images of tattered, ragged, sometimes decomposing bodies. People charred with burns, with fatal wounds, crushed skulls and broken limbs . . . Some looked like decomposing bodies. She put her hand to her throat and swallowed hard.

  Was fear, or something else, making them look the way they did? Had her mind really, truly, finally cracked?

  CLARE! shouted Enzo. COME WITH ME! She could swear she could feel the pull of his teeth on her skirt, drawing her . . . through the crowd of ghosts muttering that sounded like stormy ocean surf in her ears, rushing so loud she couldn’t even hear the fast throb of her heart.

  She wove in and out of real and imaginary people, managed to cross behind another bus, found herself panting on the other side of the street, walking a full block as she coped with the gruesome and fantastic. She thought she cried, felt wetness on her cheeks but it wasn’t cloudy or raining.

  Gasping, she stopped, fumbled her sweater buttons undone, tied the thing around her waist. Didn’t care how she looked. Except she hoped she didn’t seem like someone on drugs or mentally ill.

  Even. If. She. Was. Crazy.

  Clare, Clare, are you all right? Enzo demanded.

  Her dried lips cracked. “No.”

  BREATHE. Count with me. Breathe in to seven and out to seven, the Peaceful Breath! ONE! Two!

  And she did, and the too-bright glare outlining the shadow people disappeared a little, and the . . . the . . . images . . . turned more . . . normal. And she got a grip on herself and realized she’d gone straight in the opposite direction than what she’d anticipated.

  Slowly, slowly, she looked around—with double vision. Old building faces replaced those more modern, brick with wooden porches and narrower fronts. The street sign didn’t read Market, or the name before that, Holladay—a man who’d been a main person in Jack Slade’s life—but the very first name, McGaa. She continued to steady her breathing.

  Her first normal thought was it was a good thing she hadn’t driven.

  The second was to wonder if that was really Zach Slade coming toward her.

  Sure it was. Mrs. Flinton had betrayed Clare.

  Now she’d be seen to be completely bonkers by a man she admired and whom she’d wanted as a lover. No matter the fortune, this terrible “gift”—more like a curse—had already cost her more than she’d have been willing to pay for the damn money. Cost her her former life. Cost her a man she might have been able to have a relationship with.

  “Clare!” He was there and had an arm around her waist, and she couldn’t stop trembling. Goddammit.

  At least the people looking at her askance, a couple holding their cell phones like they were about to call 911, appeared steadied by Zach’s presence, his handling of her. Obviously a man in charge.

  “Okay, Clare, let’s just move out of the pedestrian traffic, all right?”

  She looked at him with those hazel eyes that now seemed to have little gold glints he hadn’t noticed before. Once more she seemed too pale under the tan of her skin, but when he eased her away from the street, she followed docilely.

  “Ghosts,” she murmured, so low that he could barely hear, though he bent his head. “All around. Even the buildings look different.” She continued to shiver within the circle of his arm.

  They stopped in the cubbyhole doorway of a café, just outside the swing of the red door.

  He stepped back, ready to drop his arm, but paused as he felt a tug on his pant leg. He glanced down . . . and saw a touch of see-through white something. If he squinted it might look like a dog. A Lab. A wave of cold crashed through him.

  “Clare?” he asked.

  She followed his gaze down. “That’s Enzo.”

  Zach heard a bark. “I’m not believing this.”

  Clare shrugged despairingly. “Welcome to my world.”

  His eyes focused over her shoulder at the EZ Loan Check Cashing place across the street. A white haze hung around it. He noted the car with the motor running parked in a loading zone outside the tinted-glass storefront. A nervous guy sat in the driver’s seat.

  Zach’s vision sharpened and all his instincts alarmed. He’d heard on the news that there’d been a series of robberies targeting check cashing services . . . and the vehicle looked right.

  A white haze overshadowed the front window, appearing like an old-fashioned brick building with a LAND OFFICE sign. Zach blinked. The white figure of a cowboy coalesced and waved his hat in long swoops. Robbery! Going on now! The hollow words echoed in Zach’s head.

  Zach dropped his arm from Clare’s waist. The phantom cowpoke vanished. So did the white mist in front of the building. The car and twitchy driver remained, all too vivid. Real.

  He opened the café door and pushed Clare into the little place. “Go to the back of the building. Call 911. Tell them there’s an incident at the E
Z Loan.”

  Her gaze flew to his. She turned to look and he grabbed her. She blinked. “A cowboy,” she said faintly. “He’s yelling that there’s a robbery in progress.”

  Zach’s teeth gritted. “Maybe. Do as I say.”

  “All right.” She fumbled at her purse, took out her cell, punched in a number. “Yes, the EZ Loan.” She gave the address. Glancing at him, her eyes still wide, she said, “They’re on their way.” She stared across the street. “But robbers have been targeting check cashing stores in the suburbs,” she whispered.

  “Yeah, they’ve gotten away,” Zach said, “but they’re downtown today; their mistake.” He opened the door and strode with what he hoped was casual, limping quickness . . . a man in a hurry . . . across the street to the EZ Loan.

  Heart pounding, Clare continued to watch Zach through the full-length windows as she faded back past the tables to the doorway leading to the restroom.

  No longer than a minute after Zach had gone into the EZ Loan did sirens wail, and then shots erupted along with screams. The car in front of the building gunned and jerked into traffic, the front end promptly hit by an SUV in a tearing crash of torn metal.

  “Hey!” The driver of the SUV slammed out of his vehicle. But the other driver was out and running.

  Café patrons pressed to the glass windows, but Clare hung back. More shots, and police cars coming down the one-way street both ways; officers poured out of the cars and proceeded carefully to the building.

  Clare gasped and gasped.

  Zach is all right, Enzo said, as he zoomed into the café through the red street door. She hadn’t seen him leave. Dropping into an empty seat at a tiny table, she had to have confirmation. “He’s all right?”

  Enzo nodded. Zach had already taken two down but the third got really scared, especially when he heard sirens, and shot, BANG. Then Zach got him, too. No one is hurt. Zach really uses his cane well.

  “Oh.”

  “Some cops are going in,” reported one of the diners near the windows. “And the rest are handling traffic and stuff. Looks like whatever happened is over with.”