Ghost Talker (2 page)

The ghost smiled charmingly and answered with words that came to her mind—but did not sound aloud in the air.
Texas Jack Omohundro, at your service.

She rather thought it would be the other way around. She'd be helping him. Her heart seemed to have stuck in her throat and pulsed madly. When would she have more than a few days between cases? And that whine wasn't worthy of her. Understandable, but not a credit to her character. She prided herself on her work ethic, though nine-to-five days had vanished weeks ago.

Nodding to the specter, she murmured, more in her head than with her lips, she hoped, “Pleased to meet you.”

She recognized the name of Texas Jack Omohundro, real name John Baker Omohundro. And actually, now that she studied the shades, shadows, and tints of gray that made up the ghost, she recognized the face and form.

When she'd skimmed the online encyclopedia about William F. Cody's life, under the third sub-heading a sepia picture had popped up that included this man. Three men had posed for it—Wild Bill Hickok, Buffalo Bill, and Texas Jack Omohundro—actors in a play in 1873.

Hi, ghost!
Enzo pranced around him. The dog stopped to stare at Clare.
This is a very nice phantom. He feels really good. But sad.

The shade of the man wavered. Clare thought she heard a ghostly grunt from him, but no denial.

Enzo nodded.
He NEEDS to be out of the gray dimension—

The buckskin-wearing man grimaced.
So he must be our next project
, Enzo concluded, beaming at her as if she hadn't figured that out for herself.

I understand and accept
, Clare said formally. She didn't forget that Enzo-the-spectral-dog also shared space with the Other—more like a tough supervisor of her new profession than a spirit guide. And what choice did she have to refuse? If she didn't move ghosts on, she'd go mad. If she rejected her “gift” totally, she'd go mad, then die of cold.

Zach kept his narrowed gaze on Clare as he helped Mr. Welliam to his feet.

Texas Jack angled to stare at the spot where the funnel disappeared.
You know, that boy is a mischief-maker.

Whether or not she wanted to, Clare had to follow up on this situation right this minute. So she sent another mental thought to her new project.
Is he a boy?

Broad gray shoulders under fringed buckskin shrugged.
A new ghost, for sure. Young that way. Didn't feel like a man.
Texas Jack coiled his rope.
I don't think he's done causing problems here.

Probably not
, Clare said telepathically to the spirit.

After helping Mr. Welliam to his feet, Zach came up and put his hand on Clare's shoulder.

The frontiersman's phantom nodded to Zach.
John Baker Omohundro,
he introduced himself.

“Zach Slade,” Zach said, nodding back.
No relation to Jack Slade of your era.
Clare heard Zach's words reverberate in her head. He could talk to ghosts mentally?

When I'm connected to you, I think
, he said.

She tried to hide the fact that his talking to
her
telepathically freaked her out. She didn't want anyone in her head, not even Zach, or especially not Zach. But she couldn't afford even a small panic attack now.

Zach's lips quirked and his fingers squeezed her shoulder.
We can probably do this only when a ghost is around.

That didn't ease Clare's nerves. Enzo hung around a lot. She steadied her breathing.

Texas Jack eyed Zach.
Didn't think you were related to that legend. He didn't have children. No more'n I did.
Texas Jack shook his head.
I didn't meet that Slade
—he waved at the graves—
but my friend Bill did.

It's a small world
, Zach said dryly.

Mr. Welliam joined them, his head turning this way and that, eyes bright. Enzo, who'd been sniffing around the grave marker, pranced proudly back to them and leaned against Clare's leg, instantly icing it.

Find anything, dog?
Texas Jack asked.

I am ENZO, and the one who whirled around here IS a new ghost.

That meant the man had died recently and Clare wouldn't see him if he didn't carry around his own wind. She wouldn't be able to communicate or interact with him. This specter lay outside her range, thank heaven, and was not her problem.

But Texas Jack stared hard at her and Zach and said,
The youngster will be troublesome. I'm thinking we'll have to work together on this.

Zach nodded back.
You're right.
He sent the telepathic thought.

“I can't,” Clare said aloud.

“What?” asked Mr. Welliam.

Clare snapped her mouth shut. Zach took her hand and pressed her fingers before dropping them. “We'll find a way,” he murmured.

Of course Zach, born to serve and protect, had already accepted the situation as their case.

“You've been speaking to him, haven't you?” Mr. Welliam sounded thrilled. “Buffalo Bill himself!”

“Not quite,” Clare said.

Ignoring her answer, Mr. Welliam rocked back and forth. “You were with me when we saw the poltergeist. You experienced him, too.” Mr. Welliam lifted a slightly saggy chin. “Not to mention
that
!” He pointed at the top of the fence. The iron rods consisted of short pointed spikes and tall ones that forked, curving both forward and back.

Now, atop each rod, small or large, balanced a quartz rock ripped from the grave mounds.

The three of them stared at chunks of rock on the fence points all around the iron enclosure. Since the quartz pieces were large and irregular, Clare blinked at the sight of the balancing act.

Texas Jack chuckled.
Nope
, he said.
That poltergeist isn't my old friend Buffalo Bill. He'd have done something a little
more spectacular.
Jack tilted his head.
Like make an arch or something.

“Of—of course,” Clare squeaked, still staring at the rocks.

“Goddammit to hell!” yelled a female voice down the path from them. “Where'd that wind come from?”

Getting crowded.
Texas Jack jerked a nod toward the slope.
Still think the young ghost ain't done here. You look into the problem on the side of the living, and I'll work on this side.

“Will do,” Zach said aloud.

So long for now
, Texas Jack said. He faded away.

So long
, Enzo said.
I like Texas Jack
, he stated before he left Clare to range wider, following the scent of ghosts.

A minute later, an athletic woman marched up the incline toward them, rubbing at a red mark on her forehead that disappeared under thick honey-blonde hair. Something in the way she moved made Clare think of the law enforcement people she'd met, though the woman didn't wear a uniform, so she wasn't officially on the job.

Clare glanced at Zach and found him standing straighter, holding his cane as if it were an accessory instead of a necessity.

The woman's glance took them in, lingered on Zach, and Clare sucked in her stomach. Coming up to them, the female nodded toward Welliam and Clare, and held out her hand first to Zach. “Officer Janice Schultz, Denver PD, off-duty.”

Zach shook her hand. “Zach Slade, Rickman Security and Investigations.”

Clare liked that he'd offered that matter-of-factly, accepting his status as working privately instead of serving the public, which bothered him.

The woman turned to Clare, who held out her hand, and they shared a firm shake, though she thought the peace officer had been tempted to squeeze her fingers hard. “Clare Cermak,” Clare said, then asked, “You came here to follow up on Mr. Welliam's information?”

The woman glanced at Zach speculatively, then met Clare's eyes, her upper lip lifted slightly as if in distaste. “Yes, the information that Welliam gave us over the phone, thankfully no formal complaint. But we want to keep tabs on this . . . weird situation, so I volunteered to come while I was off duty. There's talk on some of the DPD boards about . . . you two.”

“Zach has friends in your department since he foiled that robbery last month,” Clare said.

The woman grunted, turned away. Clare figured they'd never be friends.

“I came to assess the situation.” Janice produced a professional smile for the older man. “And you must be Kurtus Welliam, who contacted the department.” They shook, too.

“A pleasure,” said Mr. Welliam. “Glad to hear you're taking the poltergeist here seriously.”

Her expression shaped into that impassivity that police could don. She looked past them at the rocks on top of the spikes and the skin around her eyes tightened. Walking close to the enclosure she stared at the quartz, then her gaze slid farther to the graves that showed more holes where the rocks had been.

“I guess you guys didn't do this?” Reaching up, she knocked off a rock and it hit the ground with a clatter.

“No,” Clare and Zach answered in unison.

“It was the poltergeist,” Mr. Welliam said. He held up his wrist, showing his computer. “I got another video of it, this time up close.”

“Right,” said the officer.

Mr. Welliam slanted a glance at Janice. “You don't believe me.”

Clare took refuge in Shakespeare. “‘There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'” Over the past month when she'd begun seeing ghosts, she'd learned that the hard way.

Mr. Welliam shot an index finger at her, beaming. “Exactly!” Then he turned back to look through the bars at the monument straight before them, and shook his head. “Dreadful mess. I'm glad I don't have to tidy it up. You'll report it, won't you, Officer Schultz?”

“I'll let the staff know they've got some cleanup,” she agreed.

“Good.” Mr. Welliam gave a decided nod. “Now why don't we adjourn to my home—not too far from here—and talk this over?” His twinkling gaze fixed on Clare.

The policewoman shot Zach and Clare a glance. “Can you send an unofficial report to me tonight?”

“Yes,” Zach said.

Clare nodded.

“I will, too,” Mr. Welliam added. “In fact, I'll shoot the video over to the DPD right now.” Tapping quick fingers, he did so.

“I can talk—ah, debrief—Mr. Welliam,” Zach said.

“Appreciate it,” said the policewoman. “Have you gotten any information from the staff of the museum or café and gift shop?” Her jaw clenched and released. “I've heard this has been going on for a couple—”

“The poltergeist appeared first on Tuesday evening, so five evenings and four mornings,” Mr. Welliam inserted cheerfully.

“We haven't been inside the gift shop or the museum,” Zach said. “We came directly to the grave site.”

“
Unofficially
, since I'm not from Jefferson County or the city of Golden, the Pahaska Teepee Gift Shop people don't have to speak with me,” Janice Schultz said.

Zach nodded. “It might be better for all of us to keep this unofficial.”

“That's the DPD's take.”

“Really!” Mr. Welliam sounded irritated.

“Really.” Zach gave the jogger a squelching look.

“We'll connect later, then,” Officer Schultz said.

“Fine,” Zach agreed.

Clare didn't like the way the officer said “connect,” and disliked seeing the cop's interest in Zach.

“Word gets around. About you.” Officer Schultz smiled at Zach, then shot Clare a supremely doubtful look and Clare knew word had gotten around about
her
, and her oddness, too. Then the woman turned back to Zach. “It will be good working with you on this.”

“Nice to hear,” Zach said.

With a general nod to Clare and Mr. Welliam, the woman turned on her heel and headed back down the path from the graves to the gift shop.

“You want a ride to your place?” Zach asked Mr. Welliam.

“Sure.”

Enzo?
Clare called mentally.
We are leaving, going to Mr. Welliam's house first, then back home.
She sensed the dog downhill behind the graves.
We can meet you . . .
She didn't know where she and Zach would end up tonight, at his place or hers, or if they'd spend it together. They'd been nearly inseparable for several days. That should have bothered her, but didn't. Thinking that they'd sleep apart did tweak her nerves.

You can find us later.
She ended her mental note to Enzo.

The new ghost DID move around
, Enzo said.
There are many smells here. I love you, Clare.

I love you, Enzo.

Clare, Zach, and Mr. Welliam walked down to the parking lot in silence . . . except for the beeps of Mr. Welliam as he texted and e-mailed on his wrist computer.

More spry than a tired Clare and a disabled Zach, Mr. Welliam hopped into Zach's truck to sit between them. “Thank you for the lift.”

“No problem,” Zach said as he started the engine.

I am in, too!
Enzo yelled.

One of the staff members undid the chain across the parking lot for them and both Clare and Zach waved thanks to him. Enzo barked, but the man didn't appear to hear the ghost dog.

“I jog every morning and evening.” Mr. Welliam chuckled. “I must admit I've changed my schedule to dusk and dawn now that the poltergeist is active. I run the trails, which are a lot more direct than the roads.”

“Good to know,” Zach said. “And you've seen this phenomenon for five nights and four mornings?”

“That's right.”

Zach took him through every detail of each incident, with Mr. Welliam forwarding pics and videos to Zach's and Clare's telephones. When she got Mr. Welliam's contributions and scrolled through them, she made appropriate noises, but listened to Zach's leading questions. He didn't have to say much, because Mr. Welliam loved to talk.