Ghost Killer

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Ghost Killer Page 23

by Robin D. Owens


  And her inner wound felt better, too. She thought part of that was because of the long, tight hug Desiree had given her. Clare had also sensed the woman sending her warmth and energy, and the thought of having a new, good, and supportive friend made Clare’s eyes sting.

  Then Desiree stood tip-toe to kiss Tommy on the cheek and got into the van. Clare waved good-bye to her and watched the vehicle turn back onto the road leading to the highway.

  When the hefty guy led Clare to a shabby lean-to where she could store the scooter, he said, “You are two strange bitches.”

  That surprised a laugh out of Clare. She’d wondered what he’d thought of the whole thing, and now she knew.

  He scrutinized Clare up and down. “Cute, but strange.” He went back into his apartment without another word.

  Since Desiree had asked for Clare’s silence about her little side-trip—unless Zach specifically asked Clare—she left the scooter in Tommy’s shed. The walk back to the hotel was only two long blocks, and the body armor was cumbersome, but not too heavy. Yet she grumbled as she walked up the steep stairway.

  Once inside, she put them on her suitcase, which lay on the luggage stand.

  Then she turned on her phone and saw that Zach had called three times and finally left a message. “The sheriff would like to speak with you regarding your statement of the events last night and this morning.” Irritation laced his tones. “Please come ASAP. And bring the knife.”

  * * *

  Time pressed on Clare. She’d been aware, in general, of a clock ticking in the back of her mind. Now she thought she felt every second, and not in an experience-and-treasure-every-moment sort of way.

  She’d brought the knife, let the sheriff handle it. Filled out a permit form to carry it in her purse and gotten it approved. She’d told her story of last night at Pico’s Patio, read the report, and approved it. Still they weren’t done. She had to go through the events again and again.

  She’d kept scrupulously to the truth, but hadn’t told him of her gift, what she was doing here.

  Neither Pais the elder nor Zach had mentioned that either. Some people just wouldn’t listen, and Pais the fourth was one of those.

  The longer she spent at the sheriff’s office, answering questions that couldn’t be rationally explained, the more she resented it. With each minute her nerves frayed until the fourth go-round, she lost it and stood. “I’m sorry, but I can’t take this anymore. I have no additional information for you.”

  Zach gave her a dark glance, but one more minute and she would have said the words that would have made everything worse: “I’m calling my lawyer.” Not that she had a lawyer that she could call in this sort of matter. She had consulted one for her will, and setting up a trust of her own, but nothing else. Another issue she’d have to address when she got home. If she got home. She’d ask Desiree Rickman for a name. When Clare got home.

  The sheriff’s expression fell grim. She didn’t let that affect her. He grumbled and sighed, then waved toward the door. He looked at Zach, who somehow lounged in an old-fashioned wooden barrel–back chair, and Zach said, “Since you continue to believe you need more detail, sheriff, I’ll stay.”

  Clare gritted her teeth, then added, “If you men and law enforcement guys had decided to accept my original statement and leave me out of the loop earlier, I would have appreciated it.”

  “Sorry, Ms. Cermak,” the sheriff lied.

  She couldn’t leave the sheriff’s office soon enough. Literally. She nodded coolly and, head up, marched from the department and the building.

  As she stood on the curb for sporadic traffic to pass, her phone vibrated and she checked it, saw it was one of the archives volunteers. He had to cancel the appointment this afternoon; a family emergency had occurred and he was very sorry, but he wasn’t even in Creede. He sounded apologetic, so maybe gossip about her and Zach hadn’t affected him. She sure hoped that he wasn’t related to any of the people the ghost had killed.

  She asked if one of the other volunteers could meet her at the archives for just a few minutes, because she had the name of the man whose oral history she wanted to listen to.

  The guy hesitated, asked the name. She gave him Buddy Jemmings, and the archivist let out a breath. He’d have another volunteer pick it up at the archives and run it by the hotel. Convenient for the both of them.

  Clare accepted warmly, and made a note to send the Creede Historical Society a donation . . . and if the Buddy Jemmings oral history helped her, she’d consider adding them to a trust she was setting up for charities.

  She was absolutely tired of waiting, and it didn’t appear like she’d be able to initiate any positive steps soon.

  Intolerable. Yes, her patience had definitely evaporated. She’d broken. Just plain snapped. She would do something. Now.

  Enzo suffered, and she couldn’t accept the failure to save her loving companion before time ran out.

  She’d seen him in that thin capsule, so she tended to believe the Other, who had no liking for her.

  It had occurred to her that the Other could lie. Or be mistaken? She kept hope alive in her heart, sent blessings to Enzo, prayers to Whoever might listen, and prepared to take action, to carry the fight to the ghost.

  Perhaps she couldn’t extinguish the specter, but Clare intended to save her dog.

  She’d watched the town, the tourists, and picked the spot for her stand, near the canyon wall on the far side of the flume and to the north. That area, and the two old rental cabins, seemed empty.

  So she passed behind the hotel, crossed over the open bridge, holding the handrail, and strode beyond even the farthest building. Not much space, but sufficient. And deserted, and not easily seen. That was important. She had a little qualm that Zach would not look for her here if anything happened to her . . . but if she died, it wouldn’t matter, and if she freed Enzo, he could summon Zach. She preferred not to think of a middle ground, that she might live but not free Enzo . . . but Caden might be able to sense her, or Zach himself.

  She studied the area, damp rather than dry from all the precipitation lately, with scrubby wild grass that grew in clumps. She checked to see that there weren’t any dangerous-looking rocks around. Of course the whole canyon wall loomed beside her, but scrutinizing that, she didn’t see any outcroppings to be easily broken off and dropped on her head. She hoped.

  Yes, she would free Enzo!

  Rolling her shoulders, stretching and loosening her muscles, she untied the knotted tassels of the ivory sheath with one jerk. That worked well. She scrunched the tube down and off, stuck it in her pocket, and looked at the metal sheath in the outdoor natural sunlight, just beautiful. But she hesitated to completely draw the bone knife. If she drew it, she’d have to use it, and she wanted to save the blade as a surprise for the final fight . . . after they knew the woman’s name.

  So she breathed deeply, sent her senses questing for the killer ghost, found her at the confluence of the Willow creeks, and yelled with her mind, You BITCH!

  That felt good! YOU BITCH!

  She didn’t have to shout it again.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE STORM WHIRLED down the creek, the flume, onto land and straight for her. Incredibly fast! Quicker than she’d imagined, than she’d truly prepared for.

  Crap.

  Why hadn’t she practiced more?

  Because she was afraid.

  Fear flooded her now, as the snowstorm bit and whipped and moved toward her. Forget that!

  She shut her eyes—good grief, she could see it better, experience it—with her eyes shut, and plunged into it. A maelstrom of ghosts whirled and wept and shrieked around her like tattered banshees, mouths open, crying, crying, crying. Pleading for her to help, to set them free. A thick, black, monstrous negative-energy oily spot pulsed black in the middle. Hard
to reach. Maybe.

  And teeth bit her, claws scraped her side, but she ignored them, looking for Enzo. She must get him.

  There! An encapsulated being, a dog, barked at her, pawed at the shield between them. Once he got his paw through it, the dark being snapped out and he took his foot back, dripping silver stuff, and cowered in his capsule—a capsule that showed cracks, and thin areas—like the one she now saw Enzo pushing his paw through.

  No, Enzo. Be still.

  Clare! You have come for me! He panted, turned his head toward her, and as he whizzed past in the funnel she saw huge, sad eyes. Not hopeful.

  Go back, Clare! It WANTS you.

  She didn’t answer, set her feet, clenched her teeth, and remembered a knife-work pattern Desiree and she had done and began cutting, timing her strokes to when Enzo’s capsule would circle to her.

  She dismissed the creeping cold, standard when working with ghosts, though she sipped little panting breaths so her lungs wouldn’t freeze.

  One. Two. Three, and Enzo flashed near. Again she leapt, straight for him, slicing into his capsule, grabbing him—yes, she got him! She threw him from the storm, watched him fly free of it. The dark one moved toward him.

  Opening her mouth, she screamed her own anger and fear in a war cry, continued with the stabbing, the weaving, the cutting . . . other spirits flung themselves at her, onto the knife. Yes, even sheathed it freed them!

  They wailed as they vanished, hurt, but gone from this time and place. No longer tortured or finally absorbed by the central ghost.

  That one whipped out nasty black tendrils. Those couldn’t touch the knife. But they could cut Clare.

  More and more ghosts thickened between her and the primary apparition, trying to impale themselves on the knife and move on from this hideous torture.

  Clare took one step back, another. Heard the roar of loss from the monster in the middle as some of her chained ghosts vanished. Slowly, the core entity coalesced into female shape.

  Think! Clare wouldn’t last too long. She brought her hands together, stretched numb fingers to find the sheath, pulled the blade out. It stuck a moment, then freed a little and she saw an inch of red, red blade. She gasped; her mind seemed to crackle as thought broke from icy slowness. Then one of her feet, next her calf, felt autumn sun. Enzo pulling on her jeans.

  And she was out of the whirling snowstorm, but continued to jab with her blade.

  The specter compressed into a tight funnel, into a streak of gray-white-flashing-lightning. It shot up into the blue sky and was gone.

  Clare fell. Enzo stood over her, his front paws in her. She felt nothing.

  Zach comes! he yelled. Then he licked and licked and licked her face numb. You SAVED me, Clare. From the big, evil, ghost thing. You can do ANYTHING!

  A large black shadow fell over her and instead of feeling even colder or more fear, she knew it was Zach, and it warmed her.

  Then she passed out.

  * * *

  She came to consciousness when her stomach kept jostling against a hard surface. All her blood had rushed to her head and she found herself laid over Zach’s shoulder as he limped with her back to the hotel.

  “It’s hard enough to keep my balance,” Zach said through gritted teeth. He sounded steamed. “Keep still!”

  “I can walk,” she protested.

  “Let’s just get this done.” He threaded through buildings and rocky ground to the closest open metal bridge over the flume.

  He did have good balance as it was, even over the uneven ground. She tried a tiny shift.

  “Stay still so I don’t drop you on your hard head.”

  Just before they reached the hotel’s back dining area, he lowered her, saving her the embarrassment of being seen like that, at least.

  She knew her face was red, but he flushed with ruddy color, too.

  “You scared the crap out of me. What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  What spurted from her lips was, “Leave no man behind.”

  He sent her a fulminating, disgusted look. “You’re not a damn marine. Or a ranger.”

  Enzo barked.

  Zach froze.

  Staring at the gamboling Lab, who didn’t seem much hurt, Zach said, “You got Enzo back.”

  “I did.” She nodded and took a step and had to lean on Zach.

  “That does it. One damn fight too many for me. I’m taking you to the medical clinic to be checked out, and you’re letting me.”

  Her mind swooped and spun in slow circles. Her face and body stung as if she had slashes. Her breath came too slowly.

  “The knife helped,” she said. Her fingers still clamped over it.

  Propping her against his good side, Zach said, “Looks like the ghost ran away and is hiding and brooding, as usual.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, managed around cold tongue and lips. “I had to take action.”

  She thought she heard his teeth snap together, wasn’t at an angle where she could see whether his jaw flexed. Then his body loosened a trifle. “I didn’t see your breaking point coming. Shoulda.”

  “Eh. The ivory tube is in my pocket.”

  “See that, got it.” He plucked it from her front pocket, wrestled the knife from her tight grip—and her fingers remained curved after it was gone. He stuck the knife in the sheath, tied the tassels, and placed it in a zipped compartment of her purse, which she realized she still wore with the strap across her body. Amazing. She hadn’t given it a thought during the battle, and it hadn’t bothered her during the fight, thrown her off balance. That was good to know since it made her better coordinated than she’d believed.

  At the clinic, both Zach and Enzo stayed with her as she was treated for cuts, bruises, and scrapes. The nurses seemed to think she’d taken a tumble down a hiking path. Naturally, neither she nor Zach contradicted them, though one of them kept glancing at Enzo, then away. To take her mind off the pain, Clare wondered absently if that nurse had noticed when the regular ghosts had gotten gobbled up. And if she had, whether she’d liked that fact or not.

  The nurse in charge gave her some antibacterial cream and recommended over-the-counter painkillers. As for Clare, she yearned for a nice hot shower.

  She and Zach had a late and quiet lunch at the hotel that for both of them seemed to be nothing more than stoking up fuel. Enzo lay on her feet under the table. At the end of their meal, the hostess delivered the oral history Clare had been waiting for. It was on an old-fashioned CD.

  When they went up, Clare headed for the shower, dragging butt. Again, Enzo followed, as devoted now as he’d been when he’d first come to her. Occasionally he whuffled, or licked her ankle, and always he watched her with adoring eyes. When she’d gently asked if he should go to Caden, the dog flickered wildly. You SAVED me, and you are my companion. I didn’t do my duty. He lifted his head. And the bad ghost got me because I was bad. Not gonna be bad again.

  At that she bent down to pet him and reassure him. “You’re absolutely wrong. Caden needed you.”

  You wanted me with you.

  Well, she couldn’t deny that. “Yes, I was selfish, and I love you, so of course I wanted you with me. But you came when I blooded the knife, and I’m glad and grateful for that. And the reason the ghost caught you was because you were defending me from the zombie. You were a hero.”

  I WAS. And you are a hero TOO! We will be heroes together!

  “Yes, we will.”

  I will stay with you. But that ghost is really, really mean and scary and crazy and I think you’ve made it MAD.

  “I’m sure I have. I love you, Enzo.”

  I love you, Clare.

  She’d already told Zach she’d need a nap to recharge, and he’d agreed. What was going on in the man’s head, she didn’t quite know, but s
he figured he, too, had begun to reach the end of his patience and a breaking point.

  She stood under a hot shower for a long time, wishing for even a built-in tub, and would have given a thousand dollars for a dip in a hot whirlpool. When the hot water began to cool and she realized guiltily that her indulgence might impact the rest of the guests, she hurriedly turned the water off, toweled dry, slipped on the robe, and headed for the room.

  Once there, Enzo jumped on the end of the bed and she chuckled. She ignored the sunshine, Zach’s shadow on the window shades as he stood at the rail outside on the balcony, and slipped between the sheets and then into the darkness of sleep.

  * * *

  After they returned from the medical center, Zach paced back and forth in the room until he couldn’t take it anymore, then opened the balcony door and went out to stand near the rail in the sun to observe people, and to think.

  He kneaded the tightness at the back of his neck. He should have seen Clare’s break coming, but, so far, she’d been the most patient of women, proceeding slowly and steadily step-by-step in learning her new craft. Moving from one idea to the next when she felt totally sure of the solidity of the previous conclusion.

  But she’d blindsided him with her actions. He’d forgotten the fiery gypsy in her.

  She’d scared him spitless, especially since he was running to her, following an inner sense of where she was that had vanished the one other time in his life when he’d needed to depend on it.

  He’d only seen a couple of minutes of the fight as he gimped to her, and they would sure talk about that, her moves, when she was recovered.

  Gripping the square rail made his hands hurt, so he released it and, aware of any eyes watching, let himself lope to the end of the balcony and back. The far room of the three that shared it with them, the Jackpot, was empty. Zach sort of thought that they hadn’t liked last night’s unusual storm, which had hit the hotel and nowhere else in town. That had been the main buzz of a packed dining room at breakfast.

 

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