Ghost Talker (5 page)

He wondered if she'd feel a little constrained with him in her house. As far as he knew, unlike him, she'd never lived with a man, a lover. There would be modifications—and compromises—as they learned each other's habits, for sure. But he hoped that they'd be able to work out any problems. God knows, the changes in their lives continued to be daily, massive, and occasionally deadly.

His cell rang the generic tune and he rolled away from Clare and grabbed it from the night table on his side of the bed.

Clare popped up to sit. “Uhn,” she said, and rubbed her face.

“Slade,” Zach answered his cell.

“Schultz here,” the police officer said.

“Glad you're still up,” Officer Schultz said, a comment rather than a question. “Hoping to get this situation handled. Here's what I've got.” She proceeded to tell him of her questioning of two staff members, one from the Buffalo Bill Museum and one from the café and gift shop, Pahaska Teepee.

Zach pulled some pillows behind him and leaned back to listen to her—a pleasure since she talked in cop speak, which he appreciated. It made him miss his lost career less. Rickman Security and Investigations operatives usually communicated in military speak. Her discussing the case with him in this manner cued him in that she respected him and his background. Like every other cop he'd met, she'd probably done a background check on him.

Clare frowned and muttered, went to the master bath, and turned on the low bedroom light right outside it, as well as the bright one in the bath. Once inside she kept the door open. Zach barely heard the trickle of water as she washed, so she must have been paying attention to his side of the call, too.

The officer didn't give him—them—any new information than what they'd gleaned from Welliam.

For his part, he sketched in the interaction and conversation with Welliam and told Schultz that he thought the older man wouldn't be calling the DPD again. Instead the guy would interface with him, but more likely, Clare. Zach and Clare would work to resolve the poltergeist situation, and keep Welliam in the loop. That seemed to relieve Schultz.

Zach also advised the woman that another player, Maurice Poche, self-professed psychic medium and obvious con man had appeared on the scene, apparently doing well with the marks of Denver. Schultz didn't recognize the name but disparagingly stated she didn't keep track of the Denver supernatural culture. Zach stated that he'd be looking into the man's background as deeply as he could with his computer and contacts.

As soon as he ended the call, Clare walked in, a damp washcloth in her hand. “What do you think of Janice Schultz?” she asked. Her voice sounded so even it warned him she had misgivings about the female police officer.

He grunted, lifted and dropped a shoulder. “Barely met her, but I liked what I saw.”

“Of course you would.” Another matter-of-fact statement from Clare.

Staring at her, he wondered if she might possibly be jealous, but dismissed it. He thought Clare's grumbles came from envy since the competent Officer Schultz practiced her profession well, and Clare still believed she fumbled with her own vocation.

“Officer Schultz isn't knowledgeable about Poche?” Clare asked.

“No.”

“She doesn't believe in the paranormal,” Clare stated, then washed her face and went back into the bathroom for a moment before returning, hands free.

“Schultz isn't a true believer like Welliam,” Zach agreed. “In her favor, she didn't run when she saw the rocks set on
those spears.” He tilted his head. “I think she might have a hard time with the poltergeist.” He slanted Clare a look, amusement in his eyes. “And she won't like being around you when you talk to Texas Jack.”

“It's difficult for the logical-minded to accept strange events,” Clare replied primly. She lifted her nose. “But I don't anticipate talking to Texas Jack when Officer Schultz is in the vicinity.” She stared at Zach. “She thinks I'm either a con or weird. Probably weird because she admires you and would figure that you wouldn't keep company with a con.”

Zach shook his head. “Absolutely nothing about you gives off con vibes. You exude sincerity,” he assured.

“I'm sure my logical and rational aura is taking a hit, though.”

“Hard to deny when you start talking to people invisible to the rest of us,” he said.

She sniffed again. “I don't have invisible friends.” She puffed a breath. “That is, they aren't
friends
, really.” In a lower voice she grumbled, “Not as if I can deny my gift. I must use it.” Now a full grimace molded her pretty face. “I may as well start wearing those long velvet jackets with fringe of Great-Aunt Sandra's.”

Zach made sure his expression was pained. “Please. Don't.”

The teasing made her smile. Good. He continued, “I like the perfume, but not the clothes.”

“Me, too,” Clare said, studying her lover lounging under a sheet.

Zach looked so good to her, muscular and fit. The way he smiled, like a special smile for her alone, vanquished some of the niggling doubts of self-confidence. This time she kept her sour face to herself. She'd been an excellent accountant and had
no
lack of confidence in that area, but with this odd ghost-seeing, strange-rules-cropping-up-every-darn-day situation, her morale had taken a direct hit. Apparently that had leaked into her self-image as a woman, too. She inhaled deeply and Zach's gaze went to her bare breasts—she did have nice breasts—and she felt even better.

She banished doubts about living with a lover, focused on the physical. Directing her mind to the ghost business, she said, “Do you have any ideas how to move the poltergeist on?”

“Maybe. How about you?” His brows rose.

“Not really, no. I suppose I could ask the Other,” she muttered reluctantly.

“I think Texas Jack could do it,” Zach said. “He can talk to the ghost, right?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“I know you—we—don't like messing with the Other, so let me try my way first,” Zach offered.

“How are we—you—going to find out who the poltergeist is?” Clare asked.

Zach grunted. “He's a new ghost. Someone recently dead with a connection to Buffalo Bill. If I were Officer Schultz, I'd've asked the staff members whether anyone recently kicked the bucket.” He frowned, then stood and stretched, and Clare admired his body.

“Oh.” Clare nodded. “Will that be difficult to discover—”

He flashed her a smile. “I'm good at tracing missing persons. But working from an unknown—” His smile widened and he turned to flex for her. “I like the way you look at me, Clare.”

Her breath had caught in her throat and she cleared it. “I like looking at you.” She gave another little cough. “You were, ah, saying about working from an unknown?”

He stopped his show, stepped up to her and put his hands around her face, and smacked a kiss on her lips that barely gave her a true taste of him, then stepped back. Her gaze wandered to the linen-tumbled bed. She'd also like another round of sex with Zach—something she'd never, ever thought before.

“Yeah. This will be a challenge,” he said with relish. “Usually I start with at least one identity and description and find unknown whereabouts. This time I'll have a location that's important to the person, but nothing else.”

“Did Officer Schultz ask about recent deaths?”

He shrugged. “Not that she said. I'll go back and re-interview. Not sure how much off-duty time she'll want to put in on this case. But enough shop talk.” With a grin, and not bothering to hide his disability—his left foot dropped when he walked—Zach sauntered naked to the bathroom, lifting his left knee high. Of
course
her gaze focused on the flex of his butt rather than the non-flex of his ankle.

Knowing that the moment she entered the bathroom and saw Zach in the large glass shower stall all thought and willpower to resist him would hit, Clare followed the trail of her discarded clothes with her own grin. She picked them up and dealt with each garment, then made sure the elevator doors were closed and ready for use.

Then she hurried to join her lover.

*   *   *

She awoke in the silence of predawn Sunday, needing to get on with her newest case. That necessity coated her skin like a static buzz. If she wasn't careful, the constraint would sink down into her nerves and pinch them until she couldn't sit still or even think.

Though if she reached over and slid her hand down Zach's bare chest to his shaft . . . that would distract her, but not cure the I-need-to-get-on-with-this jitters.

Slipping quietly from bed, not looking at her lover because she wanted to
be
back in that bed, she stretched and stepped lightly across the thick rug to the walk-in closet and dressed in jeans, a cashmere sweater, and took out a light windbreaker. Up on Lookout Mountain would be colder than here in the city.

She and Zach had a standing Sunday brunch date with Zach's landlady, Mrs. Flinton, and her housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, at the mansion the women resided in, and Clare wanted to be back by then. Buffalo Bill's grave wasn't that far out of town and mostly a straight shot, so she should have time for the trip and to speak with Texas Jack. She'd get more details of what he needed so she could help him pass on.

Leaving a quick note for Zach on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, one she
didn't
sign, “love,” she took off.

She decided not to call Enzo, and instead set the stopwatch timer on her phone to discover how long it would take before Enzo showed up. How long it might take him to sense she was in work mode. She was still determining the parameters of his existence, too.

She threaded a route free from ghosts of her time period through near-deserted Sunday morning streets. To keep herself company, she turned on the jazz station and found that she'd tuned in to an hour of Native American music and stories. That winged her thoughts back to leaving Zach in bed, his bronzed body against her cream-colored Egyptian cotton sheets.

As Clare exited the highway and drove the winding loop road up the mountain, she saw light spill over the plains as the sun rose. She let out a sigh of relief that she would have missed any temper tantrum of a poltergeist-ghost she couldn't help. Tough enough to accept that she had to move specters on at all—something her logical accountant mind didn't care for—let alone be at the mercy of ghosts all the time.

Stop whining, stop pouting, stop the pity party.
She relaxed her shoulders, which had gone tense during her drive, and saw that the gate barring the road up to Buffalo Bill's grave site and museum was closed. So she backtracked to the nearby Denver City and County-owned Mountain Parks, put on the hiking boots she kept in the back of her Jeep, and walked up the one-person dirt and rock trail.

Lights shone in the gift shop and café windows, people preparing for the influx of visitors. Her nose twitched at the scent of baking as she passed the building, Pahaska Teepee, that housed those enterprises. She'd already passed the museum. She strode up the asphalt path, a little nervous. The park hadn't officially opened and the gate remained shut. As usual with her cases, she could be trespassing. She didn't like that, but was slowly becoming accustomed to breaking those particular laws . . . and she had Officer Schultz's name to give people if seen, stopped, or questioned.

When she reached the top of the hill, another gate remained shut, so instead of walking directly up the shallow steps to the graves, she had to circle around. The site itself looked a lot like they'd left it last night, with quartz rocks balanced atop the iron fence spears, though many had fallen from inertia or wind. She didn't think the staff had tidied up the place from last night's spectral activity, which she completely understood. If she had been tasked with such a duty, she'd wait until the poltergeist visited during dawn so she wouldn't have to do the cleanup twice.

She lingered to scan the amazing view of the plains and the city in the distance, watched as lights in the skyscrapers winked out. Such a wide expanse of land, all breathtaking, and the sky an equally infinite clear blue dome.

For a moment she tried to just
be
, to enjoy the day and be mindful, like her beginning yoga instructor said during their meditation break. She thought she grasped the elusive serenity of
no thought
for an instant or two . . . then the pressure to follow her new vocation ruffled her nerves once more. Clearing her throat, she said, “Texas Jack, are you here?”

Yes, I am, Miss Cermak
, echoed in her mind, and the tall, broad-shouldered, athletic build of the phantom coalesced before her.

Again he wore leather pants with fringe on the seams, a denim shirt, a long buckskin jacket, a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, and moccasins—and he winked at her as he twirled his lasso, making intricate patterns in the air.

She studied the ghost of Texas Jack Omohundro—an affable ghost, not seeming to be despairing nor frightened, not demanding justice nor monstrous. Not like other spirits she'd helped transition to whatever came next.

So she got down to the business—and her new vocation
was
a job—of determining the rules of this particular ghost.

“Texas Jack, why are you here? From what I know of you and your life, I wouldn't have thought you were the kind of man whose spirit would remain.” A good man, an honorable man who lived life easily. One who'd lived and loved well.

The lasso faded from his hands into thin air, replaced by a cigar in long fingers. He didn't meet her eyes with his fog-like ones, but gazed beyond her.

I died in Leadville, but didn't want to move on when my beloved wife remained alive. Then I got stuck here in the West, and when Giuseppina died in Massachusetts, I couldn't get to her, to go on with her.
Anger thrummed in his mental tones.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly.

I am, too.

She gave a little cough, slid her eyes toward his distinct figure made up of dark and light shadows. “Why do you think you, ah, couldn't get to Giuseppina in the East?” Her brain simmered with wondering where he'd been stopped, whether it had been the Mississippi River he couldn't cross. Didn't spirits have problems with running water?

He didn't answer her question and she pondered that, too. From her research he'd been a very direct man. Perhaps he needed a little time to think about the reason—or perhaps he didn't want to reveal some inner emotion to her, a stranger, a woman, a single woman. Like all the tough guys she'd known, like Zach, Texas Jack Omohundro probably didn't talk about emotions at all and saw speaking of inner conflicts as a weakness. And he wouldn't be weak in front of someone he didn't know . . . yet.