Ghost Killer

by Robin D. Owens

  “I want to take my sweater off. I don’t want to perspire in it.”

  His brows rose. “All right.”

  Clare studied him as she removed the cashmere and put on a soft button-down cotton shirt instead. “You’re also irritated I asked Desiree to teach me a few moves. I think those helped, by the way.”

  He grunted. “They were better than nothing. My advice, don’t even think of modifying them. Stick to what she—and I—teach you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m irritated that we didn’t make the time to train you before.”

  “We’ve hardly had the time,” she said. “We’ve been very busy.”

  “Well, we’ve slept and gone out for lunch and dinner.”

  “We’ve waited on information we couldn’t find out ourselves. We’ve researched and worked out two of the three things necessary before terminating the ghost. We needed fuel and to recharge. We’re human.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t like that you didn’t tell me that Desiree was coming.”

  She huffed. “She called on the way from Alamosa, when you were at the sheriff’s.”

  “Which is why you didn’t pick up my call.”

  “That’s right.” He’d like it even less if he knew she was keeping the motor scooter from him. “Have you told me everything that you and the sheriff discussed?”

  He gave her a stare of disbelief. “Do you want to know?”

  “No.” She really didn’t think he hid anything, and the guys probably discussed aspects of the case that seemed like minutiae to her, like the hunters’ injuries. “Do you want me to tell you everything Desiree and I talked about? We really got into auras—”

  Zach cut her off with a gesture, sighed, and shook his head. “No.”

  They stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “We should have made time for knife training before. I’m annoyed at myself that we didn’t do so, among the other items we discussed.”

  “You don’t really want me in this fight,” Clare said.

  “No.”

  “Zach,” she reminded quietly, “it’s my fight.”

  “And we return to cycling around this subject. I don’t want to rehash that, do you?”

  “No.” She saw his cup of cold coffee, got it, and drank it down. “I don’t like arguing with you.”

  “I don’t either. I called two venues,” he said coolly. “The community center—”

  She choked and fear spurted through her. “That’s north of town. Between here and the convergence of the Willow creeks where the ghost hangs out.”

  “That’s right. It’s underground, too.” His smile was tight. “We haven’t been to the mining museum next to it.”

  When she replied, her voice was a little high to her own ears. “I don’t think it’s going to have any information on soiled doves.”

  He shrugged. “Who knows?” Another quick, unamused smile. “I actually rented a community room in the chamber of commerce building. It’s very new, modern, and in the south of town.”

  She picked up her purse and inserted her knife. “I’m not leaving my knife unattended in the room again.”

  “I don’t blame you. But I have a couple we can practice with.”

  Her mouth flexed. “You and Desiree. Walking arsenals.”

  “We’ll have to be careful, though, no mats.” Then he frowned as he looked at her. “Your ribs are still sore, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. I could use help with this armor.”

  It took a lot less time to get it on her than she’d anticipated. She went over to the vanity mirror and studied the armor. Still ugly and flat and black.

  This time she shifted her weight to try and get comfortable with the heavy vest on her. At least it was her own, not Desiree’s that she’d worn a week ago. Wait, no, not a week ago, four days ago. It was only a week ago that she’d started her second case.

  She sniffed. “The armor smells.”

  “It’s new,” Zach said.

  “Well, at least it doesn’t smell like Desiree,” Clare grumbled.

  “You could spray some of that perfume I like on it,” Zach offered. She thought he tried to lighten the conversation, move it back from their anger.

  Clare made a face and rolled her eyes. “Heaven knows how the perfume would mix with the smell of this . . . .” She wasn’t quite sure what the armor consisted of. “. . . stuff.” She reached for her light windbreaker and put it on. She looked rectangular.

  Zach zipped up his windbreaker, too. He looked virile. So not fair!

  Chuckling, Zach came up to her and kissed her, a nice, deep kiss, though she didn’t like the squeaky sound of their jackets rubbing against each other, and she couldn’t feel any of his body but his mouth.

  Then he stepped back and said, “Gorgeous.”

  She tossed her head and left the room, hung on to the rail as she descended the stairs. The armor definitely threw off her balance.

  * * *

  “How long did you rent the room for?” Clare gasped, dancing out of Zach’s reach. He’d shown her some swordwork, canework, knifework . . . ancient patterns of attack and defense, then they’d settled on a couple of series of movements.

  “Two hours.”

  “Okay.” She swallowed. “I should have some good basic attacks solid by then, right?”

  “One attack. Semi-solid.”

  She nodded. “Thank you for taking into consideration my concerns about working with a whirling, layered attacker.”

  His smile was thin. “If Desiree can do that, I can, too. And they aren’t bad moves.” He paused. “Unmodified.”

  “Give it a rest, Zach.”

  “I think we have rested, just now. Time to get back to practice.”

  “Get back to work.”

  “Practice.”

  A clatter came, and they looked over to see that her purse had fallen and the knife rolled out of the center pocket.

  “Didn’t you zip that center pocket?” Zach asked.

  She gave him a cool look. “That was a rhetorical question, correct?”

  “Ah. I suppose it wants to be used in training.” He paused. “That could be beneficial, you know. Using the weapon you’ll be fighting with.”

  It seemed to her that the knife, the ivory tube, the whole of it glowed a little brighter. And her temper broke again. She marched over and scooped it up. Didn’t bother to take the blade itself from the silk, and held it so tightly her own knuckles showed bone. That seemed right somehow.

  “A weapon and a protection. The metal sheath, and the patterns on the silk, should give us some protection. And I stipulate from now on that the knife will only draw the ghost when it’s completely bare.” She pressed her lips together, nodded with determination. “It’s logical. It makes sense. I’m believing that.” She inhaled. “And if I need to do anything now or in the future to make it less dangerous, I will.”

  She sent that determination and intention to the blade, and held it before her face, speaking to it. “You hear that knife, you hear me? You’re crafted from the bone of my ancestress, so you know me?” She gave it a shake, continued, “First a ghostly Labrador dog bothering me until I loved him, a dog to take care of . . . and to lose.” Her voice cracked. “That I had to fight—and I did fight—to retrieve him. Then that wretched, pompous, secretive, condescending—” She stopped the litany to take another breath. “Then that Other, spirit guide. More like a spirit dictator. Now a dam—, dam—, darn—, stupid bloodthirsty knife. Too many strange, strange things in my life trying to influence what I do. But listen to me, knife. I’m a good researcher and I will figure out how to limit you if you do not bend to my will, if you do not answer to me.” To make sure it understood, she repeated herself in Hungarian, Romani, and a mixture of the
two that her family used. When she’d finished she stuck the weapon back into her purse and rezipped the compartment.

  Turning back to Zach, she saw him staring at her with admiration. “You are magnificent.”

  She hadn’t had time to answer when the door pushed open forcefully and Michael LuCette spewed in followed by the elder Pais.

  Michael lunged for Zach, who stepped aside and knocked him down. He leapt to his feet, chest pumping. “What did you do to him, you bastard?” His hands raised, fisted.

  Zach snapped up his stick horizontally, held it out. “What are you talking about?”

  “Caden’s hurt!”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “WHAT!” CLARE GASPED. She shouldn’t have been surprised. Enzo had said the ghost might want revenge and that had resonated with her. Even as weight settled hard on her shoulders and guilt flooded her, she glared at the elder Pais. She’d trusted that man to tell the LuCettes of her and Zach’s concerns. Had he? Her words came out choppily. “Why do you think it was us? You sent us away. We went. We had no contact with Caden.”

  Mrs. LuCette stumbled in, tear tracks on her cheeks. “You sent that . . . that thing to him yesterday. I know it,” she nearly screamed.

  Her husband went to her, put his arms around her, and they both stared at Clare.

  Mrs. Lucette said, “Caden won’t wake up! He was tired, so I let him take a nap and now he won’t wake up! We took him to the clinic, but Dr. Seares says there’s nothing he can do for Caden. He’s in a coma or something. They’re talking about taking him to the hospital in Del Norte. We had to talk to you first!”

  “Accuse us, you mean,” Zach said. He looked at Clare, lowered his stick and she moved to him, put her arm around his waist, one couple observing the other.

  The elder Pais made sure the metal door that had slowly closed was completely shut and strolled over to get between them, letting the LuCettes focus on him. “Now, Mike and Jessica, when did this happen?”

  “Just now!” Mrs. LuCette said. “About as much time as it took to find him and take him to the clinic.”

  Mr. LuCette helped his wife to one of the chairs against the wall. They sank down into them and he put his head in his hands, his fingers spearing his hair up in spikes. “A coupla hours ago.”

  The elder Pais pulled a chair over to them, but set it sideways as if he needed to keep an eye on Clare and Zach. He cleared his throat. “I—uh—we’ve been watchin’ Zach and Clare and they weren’t anywhere near your motel. So how could have they hurt Caden?” he asked gently, taking Mrs. LuCette’s hand in his own, chafing it.

  “They said . . . when they came, and when they looked so odd that first night . . . something would happen to Caden. And now it has,” Mrs. LuCette sobbed.

  “And you didn’t believe us. You didn’t believe Caden in the first place,” Clare said tightly. Her whole body was tight, including her voice, compressed by anger at the ghost, and her own fear and guilt. She wasn’t sure what more she could have done, but she should have tried something. She swallowed, then said, “Some people find . . . weird . . . stuff hard to believe.”

  Enzo appeared in front of Clare, tipped his head back and howled. She, Zach, and Mrs. LuCette flinched.

  “It’s the awful thing!” Mrs. LuCette wailed.

  Pais appeared extremely uncomfortable.

  “It’s the guardian who tried to keep Caden safe. You sent him away, too.” She looked at Pais. “So you were watching us. Was anyone keeping an eye on the LuCettes? We told you Caden was in danger.”

  The ex-sheriff’s expression turned stony.

  Now Enzo stalked back and forth, lashing his tail and baring his teeth. We will get that evil bitch. We will EXTINGUISH her. We can do it!

  Clare gritted her teeth. Let’s talk about this outside, she said to Enzo. She was done being a display for people who didn’t believe in her skills. She jerked her head at Pais. “We had nothing to do with Caden being hurt. You make them understand that.”

  Drawing away from Zach, she donned her windbreaker, got her purse, and opened the door. Zach grabbed his windbreaker and snagged her wrist, but she pulled on it, frowning at him. With raised brows, he gave in and walked beside her, limping a little more than usual, showing he was upset, too.

  Enzo ran behind her, then breezed like chill winter through her legs and zoomed through the main doors. She followed and strode around to the side parking lot and stopped, blinking as the sun dazzled in the deep and cloudless blue autumn sky.

  Drinking in a huge breath of sweet, thin, and cold mountain air, she let her shoulders rise and fall, relaxing the muscles as she did so. She hadn’t realized how tight she’d gotten, and standing around after the strenuous knife training, not stretching, hadn’t helped. For the first time since they’d left, she missed her beginning yoga class.

  Enzo planted himself in front of her, just touching the tips of her shoes. I love you, Clare. But I love Caden, too! We must help him.

  “We’ve been working on doing that all the time we’re here.” But she wrapped her arms around herself in guilt that she hadn’t been faster, smarter.

  Enzo’s head tilted, his ears raised just a little. The ghost has Caden, but she hasn’t been able to eat him like she eats ghosts!

  “That’s good news,” Zach said.

  Enzo whined. Caden hurts.

  Clare shuddered. “We will save him,” she promised. Just as she had when they’d first taken the case, though that vow was to protect him and she’d failed.

  Yes, we WILL! I will go sneak and look at her. I will watch.

  “Good idea,” Zach said. “Come back if we call you.”

  I will! He stretched from doglike into a streaking gray spirit and zoomed north.

  Voices had Clare’s head coming up. Yes, those were the LuCettes and Pais; the couple had parked in the front. Car doors slammed and they drove away in the opposite direction so she didn’t have to see them.

  Pais Junior rounded the corner, his face hard. He studied them.

  “So what are you going to do about this?”

  Zach stepped in front of Clare. “What we have been doing about this. Fighting off the ghost, and working to find out her full name.”

  “Say what?”

  Clare stepped away from Zach’s bulk so she could face the ex-sheriff herself. “There are rules to this sort of matter. We have to find out the ghost’s full name. And wait for the right time. We’re hoping it is the full moon.” She glanced in the sky, but it wasn’t visible.

  “Crazy crap.”

  “And we haven’t had much help from anyone here so far.” She was a little surprised by the amount of bitterness that came into her voice. “We know the ghost is from the 1890s.”

  “Wha-what?” Pais sputtered.

  She gave him a look that told him she thought he was a slow student. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t in my time period.” She waved that away. “We’re pretty sure that this revenant ties in with the murder of Robert—”

  “Ford,” Pais ended for her, disgustedly. “As far as I can tell, that boy caused nothing but trouble.”

  “Yeah? Well, we have to find the name of the ghost or we can’t terminate her,” Zach said.

  “The archivists have been as helpful as they can be, but they are volunteers, this is not their career.” Clare paused. “Which reminds me that you are keeping me from listening again to an oral history that I think has a solid clue. And I spent a good two hours this morning in the sheriff’s office instead of exploring other options online.” A deep breath. “You’ve complicated my task, Pais. So why don’t you just get out of my way and let me do my job.” She walked away, straight up the street. The hotel wasn’t more than two miles, and though wind whipped the clouds close to the sun and the top of the hills, the air was plenty fresh and not too co
ld if she kept moving.

  She had to keep moving or break down. Again. She had to keep moving forward, period. Nothing would stop her.

  Something Buddy Jemmings said in his storytelling tugged at her. If she heard it again, she was certain she could follow that thread.

  Once Zach had told her that he got a feeling when a case came close to being solved. She thought she felt something like that now, an itch that if she simply added up all the figures, she’d come to the right total—the correct conclusion.

  Zach caught up with her, put an arm around her waist, and smoothly turned them back toward the parking lot and their truck.

  “We need to eat.”

  Clare dug in her heels. “I’m not going anywhere in clunky body armor, and under it I’m just sweaty and icky.” She eyed him. “You don’t look sweaty and icky.”

  “I was teaching, not moving around as much.” He opened the passenger door to the truck. “Hop on in. We’ll go back to the Jimtown Inn, shower, and order room service.”

  “That sounds good.” Clare climbed into the truck. Her stomach rumbled.

  * * *

  After the exquisite trout piccata, Clare and Zach settled against the bed pillows side by side. Both wore earphones, he listening to the history on his phone, she on her laptop that lay between them. She had a pad and pencil and her notes, and had circled the name, Emma.

  As much as she wanted to just continue from where she’d left off before the knife-fighting training—and she glanced at the knife sitting on the vanity, appearing innocuous, or not glowing anyhow—she knew she had to start from the beginning. And concentrate harder. Terribly difficult when a young boy’s life remained at risk. Her mouth dried at the thought.

  “Ah’m Buddy Jemmings, an I lived here alla my life—”

  She awoke more than two hours later. The windows were dark and a small lamp lit the room.

  Gasping, she sat straight up. Looked at Zach who met her gaze with a compassionate one of his own. “You needed the sleep. You’re still healing, physically and mentally.”

  “Caden?” she asked.