Ghost Talker

by Robin D. Owens

  Perhaps it was the military versus law enforcement. She had no doubt that Rickman held a strong code of honor . . . but his code of honor and his actions might slide more into gray moral areas than hers—and Zach’s. And she didn’t forget that he’d already managed to sign her on as a consultant more than once, and he’d hired Zach, an ex–deputy sheriff who hadn’t much wanted to go private instead of serve the public good.

  Despite Rickman’s rough-hewn features and his rather direct manner, the man was slick.

  “I suppose you’re thinking of representing me again?” she murmured.

  His smile widened and he dipped his head. “If you need me to.”

  “Uh-huh.” She ladened the comment with wariness.

  He smiled. “I like that you see more than the average businessman, Clare.”

  She flinched. “I do see more.”

  Rickman sobered. “I understand.” He added softly, “You have more insight than some of my operatives, too.”

  Because she sensed he, too, had a psychic gift . . . as well as being aware that he always calculated angles.

  But Clare didn’t think that had always been so. She’d been efficient with her own clients and those of the accounting firm. Watchful enough under a pleasant manner to judge whether or not they might be fudging their numbers . . . or by how much. Almost everyone did, but a lot of people felt so guilty that their padding was negligible in the overall scheme of things.

  Taking her hands as if to reassure her of his support, Rickman frowned. “Your hands are too cold.”

  “Cold hands are one of my occupational drawbacks,” she replied lightly and let him chafe hers for a few seconds before drawing away to sit in one of the gray barrel chairs in front of his desk.

  With a prowling step, Rickman leaned against the front of his desk, facing her. His eyes narrowed at her as he stared.

  Clare refrained from brushing at her face for unlikely crumbs, or tugging down her suit jacket. Her spine did automatically stiffen and tension strung between her shoulders. “What?” she asked.

  To her surprise a slight flush painted his cheeks. “My wife’s . . . Desiree’s hands are warm. Especially when she, ah, concentrates on using her gift.”

  “Desiree deals with the living.” A tendril of old resentment, like a nasty black worm, wriggled through Clare before she crushed it. Desiree saw auras of the living, couldn’t even sense Enzo. Clare was stuck with ghosts who touched her with chill fingers, and the whole icy experience worsened by double or triple when she touched them. Not to mention the close calls she often had when sending a major phantom on. Clare’s smile felt as sharp as an icicle. “I don’t deal with the living like Desiree, or you.” Another thing she didn’t mention was that she knew Rickman could sense ghosts—or the energy flux or whatever—when specters hovered near.

  Yet being irritated at the man helped nothing and no one. She let some tension out with a sigh. “You’re a good businessman. I’ll rely on your judgment in dealing with the television station owner.”

  Rickman’s gaze remained fixed.

  “What?” she asked again.

  The skin at the corners of his eyes tightened. “I would hate seeing ghosts.”

  She got the idea that he looked into his past . . . his violent wartime past, and wondered briefly if the phantoms of friends or enemies might concern him most.

  Pushing away from his desk, he moved his torso in a slight bow of respect. “You’re a solid and good woman, Clare Cermak.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he rounded his desk to his expensive executive chair and sat. The fingers of his right hand did one quick tattoo on the wood before his manner smoothed again, as if he’d packed memories away.

  Then he tapped his desk and a large screen protruded from the floor. “We’re teleconferencing now,” Mr. Rickman said.

  The program, SeeAndTalk whirled into existence, then showed a bland hotel room. Clare’s heart jumped in her chest when she saw the man sitting at a desk.

  “Zach?” Clare asked. He seemed to be eating a not-too-appetizing sandwich.

  After swallowing a bite, he said, “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Why?” Clare asked.

  “The producers requested it. I was at the parapsychological association meeting, too.” Zach drank some soda, then grinned. “They noticed me, know we’re a couple, and believe I can influence you.” He raised and lowered his brows.

  “You can. But not about this.” She knew he disliked publicity himself, and didn’t think much of reporters, especially television investigative reporters, who had made a huge controversy regarding the circumstances of his being shot.

  Clare disagreed with him in not respecting all reporters. Certainly journalists exposing corruption were important, but with regard to non-hard-news programs like those popularizing her psychic gift, any psychic gift, no.

  The receptionist’s voice came. “Mr. Bourke is here, boss.”

  Chapter 24

  An electronic buzz and the handle-less door opened and a tall, thick-bodied man with thinning iron-colored hair marched in and introduced himself as Porter Bourke.

  Since he held out his hand to her, Clare stood and shook it, disliking the dampness.

  He looked at her with profit in his eyes. “I want to build a show around you, Ms. Cermak. An entertainment psychic show.”

  “I thought you were interested in Maurice Poche?”

  The man shrugged large but soft shoulders. “Seriously? He’s a middle-aged man. Granted, he exudes charisma, which is a good thing. But look at you. Young, sexy, female.”

  From the screen Zach straightened from his casual, not-paying-much-attention lounge, and angled to look at the producer.

  Mr. Bourke made a wide gesture and continued, seemingly oblivious of Zach’s focused gaze. “Gypsy heritage. How cool is that? And a generational medium. You come from a psychic family.” His brows went up and he grinned. Clare thought that he’d have liked to have rubbed his hands in satisfaction, especially if he signed her to a good contract.

  She stared at him, hoping her face held an impassive expression.

  “Of course I had my assistant do a background check on you. That great-aunt Sandra of yours, so familiar with Chicago gangster ghosts . . . claiming to have John Dillinger himself speaking in her ear to help her. Christ, how can you beat that! Even before that, the Cermaks were known to be mediums, I think, since they arrived on these great shores.” He jabbed a finger at her. “You’re perfect for me. Much better than pouchy Poche.” Bourke laughed.

  “Not. Interested.” Clare circled around him, nearer to the door. “Go back to Mr. Poche.”

  Bourke’s eyes hardened. “Playing tough, huh?”

  “No. I really don’t want to be on television.” Inwardly she cringed at the notion. Not only flaunting her curse-gift but making money from it.

  “Tell you what. I’ll negotiate with this guy.” Bourke jerked a thumb at Rickman, who wore his stone face.

  Clare glanced at her sometimes boss. “I don’t want to do this,” she told Rickman.

  On screen Zach stood, moved as close to the camera as he could. His body looked loose, so he expected no trouble—or trusted Rickman’s office security and the man himself to protect Clare from any physical threat.

  Zach’s projected voice held amusement. “Clare’s shy.”

  Clare didn’t disagree, though she thought her pride and sense of fairness in service to others, not to mention her valuing simple privacy, had more to do with the distaste she felt in being a television personality than anything else.

  “Shy. We can help you with that. Media training, for sure.” Bourke lumbered back a couple of feet, scanned and scrutinized her. “And a makeover.”

  She thought that other mediums had Big Hair. Clare definitely couldn’t deal with Big Hair. “I’m not a medium,” she stated. No, she
was a ghost seer and a help-souls-cross-over person. “My specialties lie in other areas.”

  Gaze still narrowed, Bourke rocked back and forth, heel-to-toe. “‘Specializing in Ghosts Of The Old West.’ That’s what’s engraved on your business cards. Is it true you spoke to the gunman Jack Slade—”

  “More sinned against than sinner,” Clare said.

  “—and lover boy J. Dawson Hidgepath?”

  Clare couldn’t help but smile when thinking of J. Dawson.

  “Bones,” Zach muttered. “That guy kept moving his bones around.”

  “And Robert Ford, the member of Jesse James’s gang who killed him, then was murdered in turn?” Bourke demanded.

  He sure had a lot of information. “I never spoke to Ford,” Clare said truthfully.

  “You know, I don’t think your project is the right fit for Clare,” Zach said. She got the idea he didn’t appreciate all the data Bourke had spouted regarding her either. When she looked toward him, he’d locked gazes with Mr. Rickman.

  “Yes,” Clare said. “Time to go.”

  “Wait! Poche has always been an iffy proposition, but you, Clare Cermak, you’re gold!” Bourke assured her.

  Clare looked at Rickman. He met her eyes and dropped his chin in an infinitesimal nod. He’d keep Bourke out of her life. Good.

  A minute later she had exited Rickman’s business suite and her cell rang Zach’s edgy tune. She answered the SeeAndTalk summons.

  “Really don’t want to be a local TV celebrity?” Zach teased.

  “Truly don’t,” she agreed.

  “Didn’t think so, but you might want to check with Rickman later and listen to the numbers Bourke is probably giving him.”

  Enzo popped into sight as she walked to the elevators. Hello, Clare! Hello, Zach!

  “Hi, Enzo,” she said.

  “Hey, Enzo,” Zach said.

  Enzo barked, then yelled, I missed the meeting! He zoomed past her and into Mr. Rickman’s offices.

  “And I miss you.” Clare stood still, smiling at Zach.

  “I miss you, too. I can wrap this up this afternoon and be back on that evening flight.”

  “That’s good to hear. I’ll pick you up.”

  Then she flinched with cold as Enzo ran back through her, yipping all the while. I do not like the soft man, Enzo said. He smells bad.

  “What did Enzo say?” Zach asked as Clare punched Lobby on the security pad. Rickman had told her that one of his cars waited for her in a loading zone outside the building.

  “You can hear Enzo over the phone?”

  Zach shrugged. “Vaguely, and I know your tone when you’re talking to him.”

  “Enzo said Bourke—”

  Soft person!

  “—is a soft person and smells bad.”

  “Smells bad like a bad person?” asked Zach.

  Enzo sniffed. No, smells like stinky lake-bottom ooze.

  “Oh,” Clare said, relaying the information.

  Laughing, Zach said, You got that right.

  The elevator doors opened and Enzo pranced in, ears lifted. He opened his mouth and his slightly-darker-shade-of-gray tongue hung out, spilling a line of drool that vanished as it reached the elevator floor. Now we go down into busy streets of the town. Into streets that have ghosts! Fun!

  Clare grimaced. Downtown Denver did have ghosts.

  “Ghosts, huh?” Zach asked, obviously guessing her concern.

  “Yes.”

  “Let Enzo play. We’ll be together soon.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” Zach stretched. “I’m ready to come home.”

  * * *

  The next call Zach got told him his connections had come through—not only the DPD, but his former boss, too. Apparently the detective who’d investigated Clavell’s death knew the sheriff of Cottonwood County, Montana. Zach was only a little surprised that the sheriff had helped him out. After all, Zach had seen his former boss not quite a month before. And the guy had recommended Rickman Security and Investigations to Zach—and Zach to Rickman. Zach began to understand that Sheriff Walder had spiderweb contacts throughout the country, and Zach could only admire that and hope he was building his own web as well, strand by strand.

  He considered his own net of contacts—the three departments he’d worked in before Cottonwood County, and the law enforcement people he’d met and cooperated with this last month when he’d been with Clare—the Denver Police Department; the City of Torrington, Wyoming, police; as well as the sheriff of Goshen County, Wyoming. And now in Colorado, the Park County and Mineral County sheriffs. Though he wasn’t sure the Mineral County sheriff would ever care to lay eyes on him again. Troublesome when Zach considered that the only town in Mineral County—Creede—would be a perfect getaway for Clare and him since the small former mining town had no ghosts of Clare’s time period. Zach had been considering buying a house they’d visited there.

  Yep, Sheriff Walder had come through. Zach went to the precinct, where Detective Flynn, the man who’d worked Clavell’s case, met Zach after he passed through security.

  As they walked back to a small cubby of a private room, Flynn said, “Why are you really here? Some officer of the Denver Police Department”—and the guy sort of sneered at that title—“gave me a song-and-dance performance about a damn poltergeist, for Chrissake.”

  Zach met the detective’s eyes. This was not a man who would ever believe in anything irrational or paranormal. Flynn probably barely believed in cop intuition. More likely he prized hard work and logical deduction during his investigations. Zach shrugged. “There’s an angry and disturbed relative of Clavell’s who’s been perpetrating vandalism at Buffalo Bill’s grave site,” he said. True enough from a certain slant.

  Flynn grunted and replied, “That’s more like it.” He gestured to a file on the built-in desk of the small room. “Here’s the case. Not much to it.”

  Zach sat down and studied the pages in the thin file. “Came in accidental death?” He’d wondered about that since he’d heard.

  “Yeah.” The man jerked a big shoulder. “Cause of death was either accidental death or suicide. Hard to tell. The guy had enough liquor and drugs in him to have gone that way, too, but the smoke inhalation killed him first.”

  “Uh-huh,” Zach said.

  “Easier for all of us to put down accidental death,” Flynn continued. “Doesn’t raise any religious problems for the family.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Zach said, and noted from the corner of his eye that Flynn relaxed a bit.

  “Think that might be a motivation for your vandal?” Flynn asked. “That people might believe Clavell committed suicide?”

  “I think the perp’s a very confused individual.”

  Flynn made a disbelieving noise and his face set in heavy lines, his mouth bent down. “Desecration of a grave. Bad business.”

  “Yes.”

  “And of a Congressional Medal of Honor winner.”

  Zach gave Flynn a half smile. “You know more than usual about William F. Cody.”

  “All that shi— stuff in Clavell’s room. Ran across info.”

  “Right.”

  Zach spent the next twenty minutes studying the file, but learned nothing new, only confirmed that Darin Clavell had had a serious obsession with Buffalo Bill. Zach studied the photographs of the burned apartment, the detritus left behind at the scene after fire, smoke, and water damage.

  He made a couple of copies of how Clavell had looked before he’d sunk into the persona of William F. Cody. Definitely not a young man, but an immature one, soft expressions and features, few lines on his face for a man of forty-two. In that way Texas Jack had been right. Enzo and Texas Jack had been correct as well with regard to the fact Clavell remained a new ghost.

  The idea of being a ghost fea
thered through Zach’s mind and raised the hair on the nape of his neck. He sure didn’t want to hang around when his time came. He glanced out a window, but saw no crows, so the weird moment must have been simple atavistic horror.

  After he’d finished, Zach again thanked Detective Flynn for his time and cooperation, then left the building, not at all reluctantly. That was new. Usually he liked to prolong his time with other law enforcement types, but little by little, his identification with them as one of them wore away. Now he eagerly looked forward to getting back to Clare.

  But this whole particular aspect of this case had been sad. One crow for sorrow.

  Darin Clavell had wasted his potential and life trying to be someone other than he was. Clare would be sorry about that, too. Nothing she disliked more than waste.

  Zach had a couple of hours before he needed to be at the airport, so he visited the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum, formerly the Cowboy Hall of Fame. Texas Jack Omohundro had been inducted into the Hall of Great Western Performers posthumously in 1994, something a distant great-nephew had pressed for.

  As Zach walked the beautiful halls he could only shake his head at Texas Jack being featured among such guys as John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Ronald Reagan, and Clint Eastwood.

  Naturally, to Zach, Texas Jack’s fame should have been as a frontiersman, a scout, a real cowboy—and heaven knew Clare had read the article on The Cowboy that Texas Jack had written to Zach more than once. The man should be acknowledged more for those occupations—even as a hunting guide for European nobles, or a hero of dime novels—rather than as an actor. But Clare would say Zach was prejudiced. Didn’t matter. John Baker Omohundro had contributed more to life, to the United States, as a scout and frontiersman than as an actor. And he’d argue so again with Clare.

  Zach couldn’t wait to see her. The need for her lived pervasively under his skin. He didn’t like being away from her or missing her.