Ghost Talker (21 page)

With his emotions lighter, Zach limped back up the hill to Buffalo Bill's grave and stared. All the quartz rocks sat in their proper places, the sandstone paths swept clear of any debris. Looking just like it should for all the tourists and Old West aficionados and people who loved Buffalo Bill who'd attend the roundup on Sunday.

He wondered just how many men playing the role of Buffalo Bill there'd be.

Crows flew down and settled in between the iron rods encircling the grave site.

His gift of the sight—foresight—reverberated the number in his brain as he counted—
eight, eight for heaven
. The same amount he'd seen through the plane window, perched on the baggage cart, on the way back to Denver.

Eight for heaven. He'd been sure that had been an indication for Darin Arthur Clavell, which had already come to pass.

Now? Maybe the eight crows still reflected the circumstances of Darin's transition. Who was to say he continued to be processed? Or maybe it referred to William F. Cody—Buffalo Bill gone to heaven. Or Texas Jack would. Maybe even a down-the-line indication for Zach when he passed on.

He didn't know what heaven was; beyond his comprehension.

And he was glad for that.

He took the asphalt path down to the parking lot slowly, let himself limp and use his cane more than he would if anyone watched. He'd put on the brace and the shoes early that morning but it had been a long day, what with the investigation, the trip to the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum.

As he had when he'd left Denver, Zach had arrived early at the airport so security could check him out and he could get dispensation to wear a weapon on a plane. Then there'd been the flight, and now finishing up all this poltergeist business. Yeah, tiring.

He hadn't anticipated all the drama of sending a ghost on, and hadn't much cared for the experience, even though it seemed milder than what Clare went through as a bona fide ghost seer. He'd be glad to leave all the rest to her.

He ached with wanting to see her, be with her. He'd missed her just as outrageously as she'd said she'd missed him.

Breathing in the air, loosening his jaw from its clamp at the pain in his leg, he simply let himself be glad he lived.

When he arrived at the picnic tables, Clare, Welliam, Officer Schultz, and another guy sat on the benches. Zach recognized the man as someone who worked in the gift shop, and probably had closing duties tonight.

The guy glanced up and stood, and the others followed, Clare smiling at him. Zach relaxed. The guy winked at Zach and wore a cheerful expression as Zach joined them.

“Is it done?” demanded Welliam.

“Clare says we might be done with the poltergeist?” the other man asked.

Officer Schultz raised her brows.

Zach nodded soberly, met the others' eyes, then Clare's questioning glance. “Darin Clavell moved on.” He smiled. “We'll know for sure at sunrise.” But he felt the actor was gone for good.

Gift Shop Guy pulled a face. “I've spent a lot of time cleaning up that mess the last week and a half. I'll be glad if it's done.”

“I just checked out the graves. They look great.”

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, the man said, “That's good.” He gave Zach a bright smile. “I'll follow you out, why don't I, and lock the bar behind Officer Schultz's car and Clare's Jeep.”

“Sure,” Zach said.

“Sure,” Clare echoed a split second behind him.

“You guys are such a cute couple,” Gift Shop Guy said.

Clare laughed. “Thanks, Terry.”

“You're welcome. And believe me, if you two got rid of that freaking messy disturbed spirit, you have my deepest gratitude! And I speak for the rest of the staff, too. We really want the roundup to go well on Sunday.”

“How many Buffalo Bills will you have on hand?” Zach asked.

“Oh, about three. One is the official Buffalo Bill as designated by the Colorado Legislature. He'll have the official Annie Oakley with him. This year we don't have any young Bills. Most people like to see the image they are most familiar with, the guy with the long white hair and Van Dyke.” He winked at them again. “You be sure to drop in again, now that you aren't working. Enjoy the ambiance.”

Zach said, “We'll do that.” To his surprise, he meant it.

The guy stepped back and crossed to his truck.

Eyes gleaming, Welliam said, “Come on over to my house and tell me all about it! I want every detail. Everything that Texas Jack said, and you said, and Clavell—”

“It'll be in my report.” Zach moderated his gruff tone with a smile. “Believe me, it's an experience I'll remember for the rest of my life.”

“It's good this situation is wrapped up.” Officer Schultz cocked a brow at Zach.

He nodded. “Pretty damn sure it is. We'll double check at sunrise, of course.”

Nearly hopping from foot to foot, Welliam said, “Naturally you are invited to my home for the, ah, debriefing, too, Officer Schultz. You can give me a ride—”

“Zach's had a long day,” Clare said. She sent him an under-the-lashes look, and when she spoke again a sultry note throbbed in her tone. “I'd like to get him home.”

“Yes, I understand—” Welliam began. Then his watch rang, a nineteen twenties' ragtime tune. Tapping a button, he said, “They did it, Barbara!”

A female squeal and garbled words as quick as Welliam spoke issued through the tiny speaker.

“I don't know anything at all except Darin Clavell crossed over with the help of Zach and Texas Jack—” Welliam flicked Zach and Clare and Schultz a brief smile, and said, “Excuse me.” He took a couple of steps away, and Zach heard, “Yes, I'll be right down.”

“Whew,” Clare said. She stood close and leaned against Zach. Automatically he scanned the parking lot. No one there. He saw no pedestrians on the trails, only a few lights through the trees from the roads on each side of the mountain. No
threat, except for the night and full dark that would fall in the next few minutes.

And he wanted to be home with Clare.

Officer Schultz hesitated, then shifted her balance, looked at Zach. “I think that's it, then?”

“I'll shoot you a copy of the report I file with Rickman for Welliam,” Zach said.

“Thanks,” Schultz said.

“You're welcome to join us before dawn back up here tomorrow morning,” Clare offered.

Schultz inclined her head. “I'll be in touch.” She turned and strode to her personal vehicle and drove away.

Welliam trotted by them to the opening of the trail head at the far edge of the parking lot. Now he had a receiver-microphone clipped to his ear. He waved. “See you tomorrow, Zach and Clare!”

“Sounds like he'll be here at dawn, as usual?” Zach said.

“Yes,” Clare said.

“Okay, that's it for me. Let's head to your place.”

“That sounds fabulous.”

“I'd like to drive your Jeep, get the kinks out.” He drank in the cool air, listened to the quiet—the leaves, a few night birds. “And I'd like to take the back way down the mountain. Nicer. Less traffic.”

“Except for the cyclists. They
love
challenging themselves to go up and down this mountain.”

“More like motorcyclists at this time of day,” Zach said. He'd heard a few of those engines rev. “And it's a Thursday night, not a weekend day.” He held out his hands for the keys she'd drawn from her purse.

Clare gave them to him. “Sure, go ahead, drive.”

Zach got in the Jeep, adjusted the seat for himself, then headed out of the lot and down to the main road.

Terry the gift shop guy stopped behind them and toot-tooted before he exited his vehicle to close, chain, and padlock the gate.

“Nice guy,” Zach said.

“Yes,” Clare replied, turning around to wave at him.

Smiling in the darkness, Zach said, “We can come back and buy you a cowgirl hat at the gift shop, at least.”

She sniffed. “This is a tourist business. I'm sure the prices are far too high.”

“All right, we'll just get a souvenir.” Zach drove, stretching his muscles. “We'll go shopping at one of the Western outfitters for your clothes, including a hat and good boots. I'd still like to pose you in front of that bronze buffalo, all decked out.”

“I don't ride,” she replied primly. “And real cowboy boots are made for riding.”

“We could learn. Probably a good skill for you to have, considering your profession,” he pointed out. “Still a lot of wide open spaces here with fewer roads. We can cover more terrain where your ghosts might head.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

He smiled. “You surprise me.”

Her lips pressed together, then released. “I
am
a ghost seer now. A Cermak with the ghost seeing gift.” She still made it sound like “curse” instead of “gift.” Zach reckoned that would be a tender spot for a long time—that she'd been roped into this vocation just as slick and quick as Texas Jack roped a calf. He put his hand on her thigh and rubbed. “I don't know how to ride well either. We'll do this together.”

“Good.” A decisive nod and a smile.

“Yeah, good. You never know, you might come to love horses, and we'll move out of the city and . . .”

“Not going to happen.” She lifted her chin. “But we could buy horse property—” She stopped, like she realized pretty much at the same time that they were making real, solid plans to be together, stay together. For Clare, buying land or a house with someone would be a big deal, a real commitment.

Hell, it was for him, too.

She changed the subject. “You and Texas Jack truly moved the poltergeist on?”

“Like you would say, we helped him move on.” Zach summarized the whole thing and added, “I'll write a detailed report for your records.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She paused. “I appreciate you, and you being with me, Zach.”

“Nice to know, and ditto.”

“How's Texas Jack doing now?” Clare asked.

“A little sad. He's waiting for you in Leadville.”

She made a distressed noise. “He's a good guy.”

“I think so, too. We could go up tomorrow, after the Lookout Mountain dawn deal,” Zach offered. He didn't shift in his seat, though his butt sure ached from all the damn travel-sitting he'd been doing lately.

She hesitated, then said, “All right. I have preliminary arrangements ready to go for travel to Lowell, Massachusetts. We can leave the day after tomorrow, do this as quickly as possible for Texas Jack.” She frowned. “Since we will be transporting bones
again
, I think we should hire a private plane.”

Zach's eyes widened. “Really?”

Her lips pursed. “If I make all of this a business trip”—her fingers drummed on her thigh—“the plane and trip could be a tax write-off.”

Zach snorted. “I'd like to see you explaining to the IRS a trip to move some bones from Leadville to Lowell.” He paused. “And it's an illegal act, desecration of a grave. Like the incident that started this whole situation.”

A tingle began at the top of his spine, at the base of his neck, more psychological than physical, and spread through his brain, a fine realization. He felt good. Not just good, but damn
competent
. He'd closed a case through good cop work, followed up with some action that didn't result in anyone being hurt or dying. A win, win, win.

He hadn't felt so right, so alive, since before he'd been shot. Even before that, since he'd been on that meth task force
in Billings. Yeah, as he stretched discreetly, he could still feel the braces he wore, but he finally felt like
himself
again. Purposeful, grounded.

And Texas Jack, through Clare, had given him this gift. A shift in his view. As if the last tiny splinter of denial that his former career was over had been absorbed in the reality of his current life.

He was fine.

So he'd live with a foot drop the rest of his life. That was the last price he'd paid for being a cop, and he'd loved being a law officer. Terrible that his own, and another's, stupid mistake had kicked him out of that vocation, but done was done, was finally
done
. No more regrets.

He glanced over at Clare, saw her almost pouty expression. She'd wanted to be in on the action in getting rid of the poltergeist. That showed she'd grown, too. But that world he and Texas Jack and Darin Clavell had inhabited for a few minutes had excluded women. Had been completely and essentially male.

Whoosh! With a rough caw and a flash of moonlight on black feathers, a crow zoomed across the windshield.

Adrenaline flooded Zach, his muscles tensed with high alert. There had been crows on the trees as they'd turned onto the back road—but he hadn't paid attention; he'd been teasing Clare. There'd been crows on power lines, and he hadn't counted; he'd been thinking of Clare and long-term property. Crows had been bobbing across the Jeep's path and he hadn't noticed. Until now.

Zoom! Two.

Another. Three.

Four!

Four for death! Christ.

But another, another, another, three more dive-bombing him.

The lights of a big SUV behind them hit his mirror.

Dammit!

Zach! Clare! Danger!
Enzo yelled, appearing and wedging between them. Zach felt a cool breeze; Clare shivered.

Zach cursed under his breath. He'd hoped to avoid scaring Clare. No chance of that now.

Especially when the sports vehicle hit their bumper, jolting them and sending the Jeep skidding forward.

“What? Who!”

“Poche,” Zach said, entering that zone where time slowed and thoughts crystallized. He recognized the license plate number. “You've ruined his career here. Not only taken away his television deal, but had us dig up his background, exposed him as a con.”

Clare made a choking sound then said in a high voice, “Aren't con men supposed to be non-violent?”

“Most of them. Could be an impulse. He saw us driving this way and decided to take advantage. Be quiet, now.”

“This Jeep is brand new!” she muttered, then he heard her teeth click as her mouth snapped shut.

Zach didn't know this road, had been up it once, but not down. Poche probably knew it a whole lot better. And he was a better driver than Zach anticipated.

Not only had Clare destroyed Poche's career, the man had taken a hit to the ego. Guy must be ready to cut and run . . . but maybe had wanted a scene first, saw them heading down the winding road and thought to get little revenge. Or a lot.

Probably wasn't thinking at all. The adrenaline of action would be pouring through him like it was Zach. Everything around him concentrated into a pinpoint of focus. Take the turns—the nasty, quick S-curves, the steep switchbacks—manage speed. The Jeep had four-wheel drive, Poche's SUV didn't. And Zach had trained in driving and spent a lot of time driving, patrolling, in his career.

Poche would want to bump them off the road on one of the stretches without a guardrail. Zach wouldn't let him. He set
his jaw and tried to forget about his subpar left ankle. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Clare braced.

Could be worse; Clare could be driving. She wasn't trained—yet—for situations like this.

I will see if I can scare him!

“You can't if he doesn't believe in you,” Clare said. “We've proven that.”

“Poche has spent his lifetime convincing people he spoke with spirits,” Zach said, watching the curve coming up, calculating. “Go try, Enzo.”

Yeah, exiting the last curve, Zach saw a stretch of straight road with no guardrail on the right, Clare's side. Only big boulders spaced along the side of the road. To the left, across the oncoming lane, was a high bank. But the straight section wasn't long, going immediately into an S-curve, right, left, then a sharp
blind
right. They wouldn't be able to see anyone coming at them.

If they got that far.

The drop to the right would have them rolling down a rocky hill to land in the switchback road below. The Jeep couldn't handle a real good hit. Zach sped up, but the Jeep jerked with another jolt, shot close to the edge.

Zach braked, controlled the skid and spin, crossed the double yellow, and yanked it back into his lane. Clare's choppy breathing sounded loud.

The SUV shot past them, Poche overcorrected, and the SUV zoomed straight . . . when he should have curved right.

The SUV lurched right, braked, skidded to try and correct the angle of the turn, and didn't make it—hit a couple of boulders, no guardrail, and went down the hill to the left. Metal shrieked, then silence.

Zach pulled a U-turn back to the wide shoulder and parked. Clare turned to him, her face white. Her mouth opened and shut.

“Call it in,” Zach said, ridding himself of his seatbelt, opening the door to see if he could ascertain the damage.

“Wha—?” Clare squeaked.

“Call 911.” Zach glanced around. “Either the City of Golden police or the Jefferson County sheriff has jurisdiction here. Maybe both.” He left her to cross the road, look over the side.
Not
the direction of the switchbacks. Poche, too, had found a section without guardrail.

Zach saw a beam of light, the SUV on its side, and glanced at the steep incline. He could've handled descending that when he was whole, but not now. And he wasn't going down there for Poche. Not when he heard sirens shrill in the distance and coming closer, along with flashing lights, at substantial speed.

He sucked in a deep, deep breath, a great-to-be-alive breath.

In the glare of the Jeep's headlights sat ten crows, like he'd seen before—
the devil's own self
for sure. Danger from that devil.

Zach rubbed his neck. Even with the noise he could hear rough half screams, half sobs from Poche.

He kept a wary eye on the crows and all but two vanished as another car pulled up. His ears noted the thunk of Clare's
door as she left the Jeep. She didn't go far, leaned against the driver's-side door.

Two for luck remained after ten for the devil's own self.

They'd gotten lucky tonight and beaten that devil.

But it had been too damn close.

*   *   *

A few minutes after Poche went over the edge, Clare scrutinized Zach's stark face in the flashing light of the ambulance and police vehicles. Deep pain shadowed his eyes. He hadn't worked as a police officer since he'd been shot, so she imagined he relived that dreadful episode in his mind. There'd have been lights and ambulances and concerned voices; serious, near-grunted orders.

Zach's manner and posture looked a lot like that of a deputy sheriff at the scene of an accident, but she noticed he kept a small distance from them, more distance than he had when he'd interacted with officials throughout the last month. She blinked. He'd done it. Made that mental and emotional switch from law enforcement to private investigator.

The others might not notice, but now Zach was networking, cultivating contacts, acting nearly like one of them, but definitely accepting their authority, not stepping on toes.

She was so proud of him, her lover. Absolutely the man she loved. She walked—more like staggered, her muscles felt cold and stiff—over to his left side and threaded her arm through his, linking elbows.

He nodded and moved his cane to his right hand—a great concession since he used that hand for his weapon—dropped his arm from her, and set his left arm around her waist. Acknowledging they were together, a couple. She shifted so the blanket she'd taken from the Jeep and wrapped around herself would cover his cold left hand.

They waited and watched the rescue crew slip and slide down the slope and open up Poche's SUV.

More minutes passed, a lot of shouting and talking and lights and sounds she couldn't process. Officer Schultz showed up and spoke cop-stuff to Zach and the others, then a uniformed policeman stood with them as they watched the emergency crew haul Poche's stretcher up the last of the incline. When the ambulance staff reached the road, Zach stepped in front of her so she couldn't see, though she heard some mumbling.

“Looney tunes,” the officer said, shaking his head and moving away as Poche was loaded into the ambulance. “Talking about ghost dogs.”

Enzo, who'd been curious about the rescue and had accompanied the workers—one of whom kept shooting glances at him—stopped and barked.

I HELPED! He SAW me. He didn't want to, and didn't think he could, but he DID!

“Huh,” said Zach.

Thank you, Enzo, you did very well
, Clare said mentally, not wanting to be taken for a looney tune herself. Though it would have been better if Poche hadn't been hurt. Her fingers twitched a little at the coldness as she discreetly pet Enzo.

But the officer stared at Zach and Clare from under dipped brows. “Seems to me that I've heard of you two. Always
with the looney tunes cases.”

Leaning a little on his cane, more casual than Clare had ever seen him with police officers, Zach said with a hint of a smile, “We deal with people who believe in the paranormal.”

The officer snorted, then nodded. “Okay, I get that. People on the edge of sanity.”

Clare stiffened. “Desperate people.” What she didn't say was “people with flexible minds.” How her attitude had changed over the last month. Now she couldn't imagine
not
believing in things beyond the normal.

Looking back at a still-carrying-on Maurice, the officer said, “And con men.”

After a deep inhalation, Clare said, “It seems to me that any human who tries to kill another is, by definition, crazy.”

All three of the rest of them—Zach the ex-deputy, Officer Schultz, and the uniformed policeman—stared at Clare.

“Naive,” Schultz dismissed her.

“I don't think so,” Clare said coldly.

Since Clare's Jeep had been towed to the mechanic Rickman Security and Investigations used, Officer Schultz offered to drive Clare and Zach to Clare's home, where Zach's truck was parked. Zach took the passenger seat, of course, and Clare had to climb in the back behind a barrier that bothered her, but she kept her grumbles to herself.

Clare's blood still zipped with nervous pings, repercussions of the accident . . . No, the
attempted murder
 . . . attempted vehicular homicide . . . whatever.

They hadn't actually crashed. Zach had handled the Jeep and danger with his usual efficiency, but Clare remained shaky.

Zach and Janice Schultz seemed perfectly fine.

“So,” Officer Schultz said, and a higher tone in her voice alerted Clare that she was moving from idle law enforcement chit-chat to a topic important to her. “So, two cases solved tonight. Not too bad.”

“Not too bad,” Zach echoed.

“The poltergeist is gone?” Officer Schultz questioned, as if she hadn't asked them earlier.

“Pretty damn sure,” Zach said, his voice holding a smug note that irritated Clare. He continued, “We'll confirm that tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“And we've finally caught Maurice Poche committing a criminal act he'll have trouble wiggling out of,” Officer Schultz said. “Excellent.”

“Good work all around,” Zach said.

Officer Schultz grunted agreement and the policewoman's shoulders relaxed. “The Lookout Mountain situation is all wrapped up and tidy.”

“Not quite,” Clare said.

“Not yet,” Zach commented at the same time. He glanced over his shoulder at Clare and smiled. “Clare still needs to help Texas Jack Omohundro transition.”

“Right,” Officer Schultz stated flatly. Clare heard her inhale. “Still, it's been good working with you.”

“Likewise,” Zach said, though Clare sensed he was just being polite.

“I've, uh, heard that you're the mainstay of the investigative department of Rickman's,” Officer Schultz said.

Zach stared at her. “Pretty much.”

“So is he interested in hiring on other people, do you think? People with backgrounds in law enforcement?”

Understanding burst through Clare.
This
was the ulterior motive she'd sensed from Janice Schultz.

“He may be.” Now Zach sounded a little too casual. “You'll have to ask him yourself.”

The policewoman glanced at him. “I'll do that.” Staring straight ahead, she said, “I've liked law enforcement, but I think I'd prefer the private sector more.”

“Uh-huh,” said Zach. He would never have left law enforcement if he'd been allowed to stay in the field. That Clare knew. She, too, relaxed back into her seat now. She felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the last of the adrenaline crashing her system. She didn't think that Janice Schultz would be a good fit with Rickman Security and Investigations, and Clare did believe that Rickman—or Desiree—would know that.

*   *   *

Clare jerked awake suddenly on a caught breath, her eyes popping open to strange shadows, heavy darkness. Not home. Someone breathing!

Sitting up and shaking off the terrible nightmare of speeding through the night, then her car plunging off a cliff side and rolling and rolling with her trapped and screaming and—
Breathe
.

She'd been practicing breathing, hadn't she? She'd started yoga classes.

And memory came rushing back.

No. Not in her
old
house, but this new-to-her historic one that sang to her heart. She simply hadn't become accustomed to the shadows in her bedroom yet.

And her lover slept beside her, inhaling and exhaling in a steady motion, peacefully asleep with no bad dreams disturbing him.

She matched her breath with his, slow and even, felt her shoulders sag as she relaxed. She swallowed and found tears had coated her throat. Reaching for a tissue on the nightstand, she wiped at her eyes, her cheeks cool with dampness, then snuffled into the softness.

They hadn't fallen or been hurt. Maurice Poche's SUV had rolled, and by the flashing lights of the ambulance, they'd seen him brought up alive, on a stretcher, not covered in a body bag.

Perhaps she should have expected nightmares, but she'd been so weary with the standard and near-endless police questioning at the station, the reviewing and approving of her report, that she'd fallen into bed after the quickest steamy shower on record.

Now, though, she felt more than okay, good. The danger from Poche had been faced and finished. As had the poltergeist
problem at Buffalo Bill's grave. Darin Clavell had moved on.