Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  “I killed her! I killed that woman! She was part of the ghost and I hit her with the knife and I murdered her.”

  “No!” He whipped out the word so she’d lift her face to him and she did. “No, you did not kill the woman. I believe she was already dead when she walked into the place.”

  “Wha- Wha- What?” Clare blew the word out on a breath.

  “She had trauma to the back of her head. I saw it. Definite dented skull.”

  “Eww.” Clare made a disgusted face.

  “Which was what probably killed her. You went at her with a sheathed blade in a cloth cover. Hit her a glancing blow in the side. I’d say you would have bruised her. If she’d been alive. And it will be really interesting to see what the coroner has to say about whether there is a pre-death injury to the side. There was a video.”

  “There was?”

  “You recall our waitress was recording stuff? She’d asked our permission to film us? ‘Getting a pastiche of atmosphere of my summer job to remember it by’?” he quoted the girl.

  Clare took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face, blew her nose. “Yes.”

  “She recorded most of the action. Linda Boucher coming in and yelling and aiming for you.”

  “Oh.” Clare swallowed, drew away from him to settle back in her seat; tension dripped away from her. Her brows came down. “I don’t think anyone heard her call me a ghost seer except us . . . and Enzo . . .” Her voice cracked.

  Yep, that was another sob; more tears ran down her cheeks.

  “We’ll get him back.”

  She nodded but her expression indicated doubt. Hell! Zach’s hands clamped around the steering wheel. He would damn well get that dog back. He would protect Clare, at any cost. Dread and darkness pressed on him. He knew in his bones this case had turned bad, gone to deadly for him and his.

  One small thought gave him relief. He’d caught up with his Counting Crows Rhyme precognition. As of this moment, he’d foreseen no more deaths. He let out a breath.

  Clare cleared her throat. “Zach?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You said that Ms. Boucher was dead when . . . when she walked in?” Clare’s voice went squeaky.

  He nodded. “I believe that.”

  She gulped. “So, like, we’re . . . we’re . . . dealing with zombies now?”

  TWENTY

  HE HADN’T THOUGHT of the situation from that angle. Zombies. God. What next? No damn Counting Crows Rhyme for zombies, unless it was “the devil’s own self.”

  “I didn’t sign up for zombies,” Clare said.

  Clare’s statement flicked his sense of irony at the whole mess of the last month. He snorted. “Clare, baby, you didn’t sign up for any of this. It was thrust upon you.”

  A small pause and a change of the quiet, then a slight giggle. Her lips quirked, and she sent a sideway flirtatious look. “I like your thrusting, Zach.”

  He coughed a laugh, grinned at her. “Ditto.” He hit the ignition. “Want to go back to the hotel and try out more of my thrusting abilities?”

  She gave him a wavery smile. “I want to go home to my wonderful historic house in Denver and up to my lovely bedroom and into the sleigh bed my great-aunt Sandra gave me and slip between my thousand-thread-count sheets with you.”

  “Sounds good to me. We can make it in five hours. Or call someplace now and charter a plane back to Denver from Alamosa.” He put the car in gear and continued southeast through the valley to the larger town.

  Her smile tipped to wry as she glanced at him and folded her hands on her lap. “You don’t know how to do that, order a plane up in a half hour.” Her brows went up and down. “Neither do I.”

  Zach flexed his fingers. “We’ll learn.”

  She sighed. “I’m sure. We both have the money to do that now. And heaven knows I can’t take the wretched knife on a regular flight.” She glared at her purse that lay in the wheel well by her feet and had since before he and Pais had come to question her. To Zach’s relief, she hadn’t mentioned the weapon. “Yes, I want to go home.” Her chin lifted, set. “But I can’t.”

  “We can’t.”

  “We can’t. I didn’t get to eat my food, and I’m hungry.” She put her hand on her stomach, then moved it to her side.

  “Do your ribs hurt?” Zach asked before he realized she’d touched the opposite side of her previous injury. “Damn, that hellish ghost got a piece of you, didn’t he?”

  With a grimace, she rubbed her hand over her side. “Yes.”

  “Dammit. You need a doctor? Maybe we should go back to the hotel and I can look—”

  “I’m hungry, Zach. I want to eat. Let’s go on into South Fork and have a meal.”

  “All right.” He pressed on the gas.

  Lightly, she said, “I’ll look at my side in the ladies’ room, and if it seems bad, I’ll let you look at it, too.”

  “Always a great date with you, Clare,” he said.

  She blinked. “We really haven’t had any dates, have we? We met a couple of times for lunch, and I took tea at Mrs. Flinton’s—”

  “I’ll take you out when we get home,” he interrupted. He preferred not to think of that day at Mrs. Flinton’s when he’d cut off the budding relationship with Clare, didn’t want her thinking of it, either. She was with him now, exclusively with him, and he didn’t want any damn uncertainty in her mind about that. Geez, he couldn’t believe they’d never even eaten out together. Flipping through his recollections, he had to frown. Nope. One time they were on the way, but had decided in favor of sex instead. Seemed like they always decided in favor of sex instead. All fine and good, but he needed to treat her better.

  He asked the navigator system for the best restaurant in South Fork, then used the hands-free phone to call and have them hold a table for them. Clare smiled and ducked her head, then looked up the menu online so they’d be ready to order the minute they walked in.

  As they ate fabulous steak, Zach kept the talk on books and films and a few carefully chosen anecdotes from his past, mostly from his days as an adult. He had a few good childhood memories, as he supposed Clare did, but for both of them childhood had been tough, in different ways.

  Before they’d been served, Clare had checked herself out and when she returned, her manner seemed lighter. She’d said she had surface scratches and some bruising but nothing nasty. Zach would examine her later. They still had gauze and bandages from the first aid kit they’d bought, along with some antibacterial cream. When he was a cop, he’d carried a heavy duty medical kit in his personal vehicle. The way their cases were going, he’d better make sure he had one now, too, as well as Clare keeping one in her Jeep.

  After they’d eaten, they walked out into the night, fingers linked, relieved from the pressure and tension that saturated Creede. Zach felt no threat here that had him wanting to keep his free hand available for his weapon. When they turned back up toward the valley and the canyon, got away from town, the sky burst with stars and a huge moon. Despite the falling temperature, Zach opened the sunroof.

  “Incredibly gorgeous,” Clare murmured, tipping her head back to look. She still seemed at ease, so they’d made the right choice getting away from Creede. “Eeek!” Reaching down for her purse, she pulled out her phone, put in the numeric password—which she’d given Zach—and began tapping. He thought he saw her searching the Internet.

  “What?” asked Zach.

  She looked over at him, the moonlight leeching her face of its golden tone and casting it in dark and shadows and twilight. Zach preferred to look at her in the day, Clare of the sun-kissed skin.

  “You know there’s always a time element with regard to the appearance of ghosts and when they are ready to move on.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So I thought about the moon.”<
br />
  “The moon.”

  “As far as I can tell, the best time for a ghost to move into the next-whatever is specific to an individual—the anniversary of an event, or the time of day, or the month or something.” Disapproval at the variety laced her tone. “So I was wondering about the moon phase when Robert Ford died.”

  “Good idea to check out.”

  She nodded and went back to working on the little screen, shoulders hunched. Not paying attention to the beauty of the night, the moon reflecting on the Rio Grande, the scent of crisp air free of pollution. He understood her need for information, for control, but—

  “Put that away as soon as you have the info and enjoy the moment, the night, don’t go surfing—”

  She glanced up. “You’re absolutely right. Just one minute.” A few flicks of her fingers later, several clicks of screenshots or saved info, and she stuck the phone back into her purse.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Hard to tell, but the day of the full moon in June 1892 was the tenth, two days after Ford died.”

  Zach tilted his head to indicate the moon visible through the roof. “We’re close, too.”

  “The exact time of the full moon is tomorrow morning at 9:15 a.m., but it won’t be visible since it sets before then.” She paused, glanced at his strong profile. “You know what this timing thing means?”

  He spared a quick look and a smile at her. “What?”

  “Despite what we do, the ghost can’t go on until it’s the right time.”

  His mouth flattened. “That sucks.”

  “Yes.” Her own inhalation felt shaky. “So I’m hoping it’s the phase of the moon or something else so we can extinguish it now.”

  “That sounds fine to me.” His head cocked and he looked at the moon through the sunroof. “Looks pretty full now.”

  “Yes, and just plain pretty.” She sighed, and leaned back into her seat, turned and smiled at him. “And, yes, you’re absolutely right. I should enjoy the beauty of the night and being with you. Have I told you how glad I am you’re with me?”

  He felt his face warm. “Thanks. I like being with you, too.”

  Another sigh. “That’s good, because I’m beginning to think I am a high-maintenance kind of woman . . .” She was quiet for a couple of heartbeats. “Or, rather, the situations I’ve gotten into . . . the circumstances of my new career . . . are challenging. Not only for me, but for you, too.”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “I can handle it.”

  “Yes, you’re very capable.” Her admiring tone went straight through his heart and sent heat sliding down to his dick.

  She put a hand on his thigh and he felt sensations from that touch in his favorite muscle, too. He covered her fingers with his.

  Clare felt the strength and the sheer competence in Zach’s hand on hers and more tears stung, so she had to swallow them. She had absolutely no doubt that Zach could handle this case; it was her own puny skill she worried about.

  She’d lost Enzo. The ghost had gotten him and she hadn’t been able to prevent that. Along with the grief of losing her companion, the anxiety about being without a spirit guide, was the fear skittering along her nerves just under her skin that she’d be the next one to be consumed.

  This case had brought out the coward in her, though she thought she had dealt with, could deal with, villainous humans more easily than a ghost. If she had her choice, she’d still be denying psychic powers . . . especially in herself.

  “We’ll get Enzo back,” Zach said again, patting her hand. She liked hearing that but was pretty sure the retrieval of Enzo would be up to her, and that wasn’t a certainty at all.

  She and Zach sat in silence . . . until she saw a shadowy man’s aura in the distance. Her stomach clenched. She shouldn’t see a real man this far away, let alone a ghost.

  “Zach?” Her voice came thinner than she wished. She cleared her throat. She was a strong person, she could do this. “Zach, there’s a ghost up ahead, a cowboy or a rancher or something, leaning against a fencepost.”

  Zach’s fingers tightened over hers. He slowed as his gaze scanned to the left and the valley, back to the road, to the right and the rising land. As usual, there’d been few cars on the road, no vehicle lights either ahead or behind them now. “I see him,” Zach said, slowing even more. “That is, I see a gray smudge next to one of the fenceposts. We’re coming up on Wagon Wheel Gap, right?”

  “Yes. It was settled before Creede.” She paused. “He might be able to give us some information.”

  Zach grunted. As they drew near, the man tipped his cowboy hat to Clare, straightened. Zach made a U-turn in a wider spot in the road, driving up next to the phantom. He was dressed in the clothes of a guy who worked with horses—chaps, sturdy shirt, cowboy hat—all in shades of gray easy to see in the light. Definitely a ghost from Clare’s time period.

  Inexplicably, she was glad to see him—maybe because seeing a regular ghost wasn’t nearly as bad as fighting a terrible one.

  “Stay in the vehicle until I come around,” Zach said, hitting the warning blinkers.

  She’d unlocked her door and had been opening it. Despite his caution, she’d have hopped from the truck, but Zach made her think twice and she reached into the large side-pocket of her purse and took out the knife—a tight fit. If she continued to carry the thing around, she’d have to move up to her next larger bag, one with less compartments.

  He didn’t open the truck door or hold out a hand to steady her for the long step down. Despite the fact that they’d stopped for a supernatural being, he took no chances and kept his gun hand free.

  When she exited, she saw he held his cane like the weapon it could become in his hands. She hadn’t pressed him about knife fighting yet, but she should.

  The cowboy tipped his hat. Glad to see you, ma’am. His torso bobbed awkwardly in a small bow. I’m Chaz Green.

  Clare nodded and walked to him, stopped a little closer than she would with a live human. Zach joined her and put his hand on her shoulder.

  Good evening, Mr. Green, she sent mentally to the ghost. Have you decided to go on?

  He gave a short nod. This is MY place, and I figger it’s purtier’n Heaven would be and shure enough purtier than hell. I been happy here. His chest went out. Been strong and happy enough that I warn’t sucked into that gray limbo most my kind go. He turned his head and spit a stream of dark-looking liquid out.

  An amused sound came from Zach.

  Pardon, ma’am, the ghost said. He sighed and a small chill touched her face from his breath. His gaze went beyond her toward Creede. I been concerned about that nasty one, he said with traditional guy understatement. Then his form rippled as if in the wind. Reckoned it might head down into the valley and get me next. I’ve thought and thought on it and thunk how to figger out who the thing could be—

  Thunder split the air and the snowstorm ghost was there! Fury struck at Clare, whirled her around, nipped at her with sharp teeth. The pain jolted her and she moved into the thing, trying to sense the core. Futility. She sucked in freezing-razor air, stopped breathing. ENZO! she shouted with her mind. Enzo, come to me!

  I can’t! whimpered Enzo. I’m trapped. Get me out, Clare!

  With a snarl on the last of her breath, Clare stabbed with the sheathed knife, thought she heard silk ripping, didn’t care.

  She fought for her dog with her mind, too, sending sharp words. You can’t have him! You can’t claim my Enzo.

  A shrieking giggle of mad laughter. I can have him. He committed THE sin. He is MINE. My doggie. My pet. To torture. Rippling laughter. A dog ghost who is different than human, different taste.

  Clare shuddered. Ice pelleted her body. She swung and struck and blackness gathered as she tried to draw breath and nothing came to her nose, her mouth.


  Bang! Bang! Bang! Zach’s gun roared close. She felt hot fingers on her arm, was yanked aside and air shuddered into her gasping mouth, flowed into her lungs. The night air around her felt volcanic, burning. Her fingers unfroze and she dropped the knife.

  Zach caught it, advanced with deliberate menace, plunging his cane into the snowstorm. The stick whirled away. He stabbed with the knife.

  The cowboy ghost lifted, aimed, and shot a rifle, phantom bullets ripping the quiet, as loud as Zach’s shots.

  Then the apparition of the cowboy shuddered, rippled, became more. He—it—lifted his arms. Begone, foul spirit! Phrases in no language she’d ever heard, words too high to hear but that Clare could feel, peppered the air.

  With an ululating shriek the swirling snow thing zoomed above them. You are mine to eat! I WILL get you. I WILL be back. You can’t hurt me yet!

  The cowboy turned to Clare and Zach, now appearing taller, more muscular, his purple eyes glaring at them with the Other’s disgust. I can interfere only once in one of your years. And I would not have done so but you ABUSE your tool!

  “Wha—” Clare began.

  You FOOL! The Other raged. You will be gone before the night is through. You TORE the silk! The protections will not work! The knife will call the ghost to you and you will die.

  Clare broke. If I do it will be YOUR fault. You give me NO training, NO help, only obscure comments. “Begone yourself!” She swept her knife from Zach’s grip and thrust it at the Other.

  Get the hell out of me! yelled the cowboy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I— BEGAN THE Other.

  Even I know there is rules. I didn’t invite ya to use my shade, and I don’t tolerate no bad-mouthing ladies. You just get outta me and onto your other concerns. Now. The cowboy’s apparition waved as if in a strong wind . . . turned flat and two dimensional . . . faded in and out like electronics on the fritz, then stabilized into the shape Clare had first seen. He grunted, shifted his feet, shook out his limbs and rolled his head. No hint of any ghostly rifle showed.