Ghost Talker (8 page)

“Clare, talk to us,” Zach said.

“Yes, the evil ghost hurt me.” She put a hand over her ribs under her left breast and Zach suppressed a wince. He'd forgotten she'd cracked ribs less than two weeks ago. Her new career had been hard on her.

She stood, then crossed to the coffeemaker in the kitchen, always kept primed, and punched the button. While it took a minute to brew, she paced the length of the living room.

“That's all you're going to say, Clare?” pressed Desiree.

“I don't know anything about spectral wounds,” Clare said tersely. “I don't know how they heal or how long they take to heal, I don't know how or what or who can mend them.” She jutted her chin at Desiree. “You, and Mrs. Flinton, and Mr. Rickman for all I know—because I know he has some sort of psychic gift, too—might all know a whole lot more than I do.” For an instant, she clasped her hands tightly in front of her. Zach would have preferred to see his gypsy lady wave them around. She still needed to loosen up. He'd work harder on that.

“Good points,” Zach said mildly, focused his attention on Desiree. “Neither Clare nor I know about such wounds, though Clare can feel it and you can see it. How much more do you know? What are the consequences of such a wound? Can she live with it for the rest of her life, just a little rip in that etheric body you mentioned?”

Desiree sat up straight. “Not sure.” She hesitated. “I'm sure my husband doesn't have such information either.”

“Uh-huh,” Zach said.

The comforting scent of strong coffee wound through the room along with the sound of liquid decanting into a four-cup pot. Clare returned to the kitchen, got down another DPD mug Zach kept there, and two fancy flowered cups of thin china for herself and Desiree. When she brought them in on a little tray, he understood that she knew how Desiree liked her coffee, too. Another sign the women were close.

“So,” Desiree said, after Clare had settled into her chair. “Shall we ask the dog?” The woman's eyes gleamed.

Before Clare could answer, Zach did. “Sure.” He raised his voice along with sending a mental shout. “
Enzo!
”

Two seconds later the Lab sat, tongue dangling from his muzzle in a happy grin, just in front of Zach. Clare smiled at the dog. Desiree gave no notice he was there.

“Hey, Enzo, can you take a look at Clare's spectral wound for us, please?” Zach asked. To his surprise, the ghost mutt sort of hunkered down and slunk around in a turn.

Enzo shot a glance at Clare, then back to Zach.
It's still there
, he nearly whined. Then he hopped to his feet and headed over to Clare, sat
beside
her and not on her feet as usual, and just did one quick lick of her bare calf in loving support. Then he lowered his head, whined even more,
I'm sorry I got caught and you had to rescue me and got hurt, Clare! I'm SO sorry!
The phantom even faded a bit.

Clare rubbed Enzo's head. “It's not your fault I got hurt,” she said aloud for Desiree's benefit.

“Do you know anything about spectral wounds, Enzo?” Zach asked.

The ghost Lab wagged his tail halfheartedly.
No, I don't, Zach. I don't know about hurts like this, Clare.

We could ask the Oth—
Zach began mentally.

No
. Clare snapped the word through Zach's mind. Enzo flinched.
I do not wish to speak with the Other. He demands things of us—favors and such—every time we call on him.

Not exactly true, but Zach let it go.

Clare put down her cup on a coaster on the table next to her chair, and angled toward Desiree. “I'm sorry,” Clare said quietly. “Enzo doesn't have the knowledge to help in this way.”

“It's your health,” Desiree insisted.

Zach frowned, but wounds did take a while to heal. Perhaps this was no different.

Sighing, Clare said, “It hurts, but it's not bothering me too much.”

Uh. Huh. Zach watched her. She tried to convince herself as much as Desiree and him. But he wouldn't push, not in front of Desiree. He'd wait.

“I
must
continue with my, ah, standard process, fulfill the demands of my gift and calling.” She aimed a considering gaze at Desiree. “Do you think you could do a little research for me on spectral wounds? After all, you are the one who can see them.”

Desiree swigged down her coffee, set it aside on the thick rounded arm of the couch. Clare nearly winced. Good thing the sofa was rugged brown leather.

“You're right, the spectral wound falls in my purview.” A decided nod from the woman, and her brow lined slightly. “And since you and Zach are so busy with this case, I can ask Barbara Flinton to help me with the ghostly or spectral side of this matter.” She rose.

“Oh, Desiree, thank you!” Clare jumped to her feet, rushed over, and hugged the smaller woman. “Thank you. You relieve my mind.” Truth throbbed in Clare's tones.

Zach stood and walked to the short hallway at the end of the living room that led to the door to the rest of the mansion. He opened it wide and gestured to Desiree Rickman. “Go get 'em, tiger.”

Desiree grinned at him as she hurried out.

Closing the door quietly and firmly, Zach turned back to Clare. She'd returned to her chair, sagging against it, her hand at her side.

Zach stood loosely, as if anticipating a fight. Not a physical bout, but he'd be going head-to-head with Clare. Well, their arguments kept life interesting.

She continued to rub her side.

“You lied,” he stated flatly. He let his face fall into the most intimidating cop expression he had, and rumbled with his
most menacing tones—an expression and voice he'd never pulled on Clare, that he'd never thought to use on her, would ever use on her. “You lied to Desiree and you're lying to me.” He rolled a shoulder. “I can tell from the way you're acting that the wound is giving you trouble.
Is
it getting worse?”

“I—” She dropped her eyes.

“Don't lie to me, Clare. Not now, not ever. And don't you try and hide problems from me again. If you do, we're over.
We are a team.
”

She paled. A stricken, guilty look washed over her face, then her hazel eyes turned more amber than green and flashed fiery emotion at him. She tossed her head and though he thought she meant her tone to be as icy as any ghost, her words throbbed with hot passion. “Turnabout is fair play, isn't it? Didn't we nearly break up because
you
couldn't let me in to help?” She stabbed a finger at him and he actually rocked back on his heels, but managed to keep his cop manner on. The one that should have disquieted her, but didn't.

Because she knew him too well, knew he wouldn't, couldn't hurt her, and he wouldn't walk away? No. He'd fight for her, insist on fighting her problems with her.

Knew he loved her, though he hadn't said the words.

“Not a good thing, to lie to your lover,” he said softly. “I thought we had an unspoken agreement that we wouldn't do that.” He paused three beats. “Because we're both honorable people.”

She swayed. Then, to his horror, her eyes filled with tears. He'd rarely seen her cry, and she didn't use tears as a weapon.

“What, I'm not allowed to be weak?” she snapped, and dashed more tears from her eyes. “Not allowed to be scared and confused? It's only been
twenty-seven
days since I first started seeing ghosts. Since my life fell apart around me. I don't adjust that well. You think I should be totally accepting of the destruction of my life in a month?”

“We've managed. Together, we've managed. When I've . . . faltered, you've been there, and you can count on me. Just don't lie. What's going on, Clare?”

She sat back down. Her face had gone more masklike than he cared for, and she picked up her cup with both hands. “My wound hurts, especially around ghosts.” She patted Enzo's head twice. The phantom dog whined. “I can't really tell whether it's healing or getting worse.” Lips compressed, she shook her head.

Keeping his gaze on her face, Zach said, “We should talk to the Other about this.”

She made a disgusted noise. Zach understood she didn't want to, but of all the beings involved, the Other might have the answers they needed. Zach stood, unyielding, for a full minute.

Clare drank more of her coffee, then said, “Very well.”

He walked over to her, not hiding his limp, leaned against the arm of her chair, and stroked his hand down her wavy brown hair as her head bent.

“You're a brave woman, Clare.”

She shrugged.

And we are a team
, Enzo said. Zach felt a slight coolness near his legs, looked down, and noted Enzo sat on his feet, much of his body in Zach's lower legs. Yeah, he could see the Lab now, even without touching Clare, but experienced no icy touch the way Clare did.

“We need to speak with the Other, Enzo,” Zach said, looking into the foggy depths of the dog's eyes.

Enzo tilted his head toward Clare.
You think so, too, Clare?

“I suppose,” she muttered, then she sat straight. “No, that's hiding some more. Yes, by all means, let us further discuss this matter with the Other.”

The density of the dog increased and it moved away from Zach to sit in the small space in the middle of the room, head lifted arrogantly, nostrils flaring.

I didn't think it would be long before you called on me
, the Other said with extreme snottiness in his voice.
Since I sensed that you received your next project and you can't seem to handle even the easiest transition without bothering me.

“Will I continue to receive cases every few days?” Clare demanded.

Time has little meaning
, the Other said sententiously.

“That's not an answer,” Clare said. “As far as I'm concerned, my cases are coming too quickly.”

The Other's derisive snort echoed throughout the room.

“That's not why we requested you come,” Zach stated. He didn't care for the stiffening delineation of the Lab's muscles, the larger than usual teeth as the Other lifted its upper lip when it glared at him.

You are still with Clare?

“Tell us about Clare's spectral wound,” Zach said.

Glancing at Clare, then fixing his focus back on Zach, the Other said,
I don't know why you, Clare, can't peruse your great-aunt's journals on such matters instead of importuning me.

A quick catch of breath from Clare and she angled her body toward the Other. “Did Great-Aunt Sandra have such a wound, too?”

The dog's body rippled, neck to butt.
So I believe. Such harm can be incurred when dealing with recalcitrant ghosts.

“Oh.” She sighed, long. “Ohhh.” She leaned back in the chair, shoulders sagging with relief. Clare's great-aunt had lived a good, long life. Sounded like good news to Zach, too, but he wanted more details.

“How long will it take to heal?” Zach asked.

The teeth appeared again.
Time has little meaning.

“Will it get worse as Clare interacts with ghosts? How can we speed the healing?”

I do not answer to you, man
, the Other said, and vanished.

“Wait!” Clare called, a second too late. Enzo rose to his feet and wagged his tail, his eyes a paler shade of smoke.

Clearing her throat, Clare said, “Enzo, do you have any lingering notion of what the Other was thinking before he left? Any more information?”

I'm sorry, Clare, no.

“But Great-Aunt Sandra had a wound at one time.” Clare rubbed her temples. “Another thing I need to find in her journals. I haven't had as much time as I wanted to transcribe them and organize them, let alone cross reference the entries.”

Enzo crossed over and sat next to Clare.
I wasn't with my friend Sandra then. Or if I was, I was only a live dog, and didn't know nothing about ghosts.

“That's okay, Enzo. I love you.”

I love you, too, Clare. And I love you, Zach.

“Likewise,” Zach said, but the discussion with the Other irritated him. “We don't know enough.”

“No, and I doubt if I—we—summoned the Other again, he would come, or if he came, he would say anything useful.” Clare stood, took her and Desiree's cups to the kitchen, and washed them.

Maybe I can ask around about hurts like yours
, Enzo offered.
Maybe Caden's new spirit dog in Creede knows more than I do. I haven't had time to talk to her much.
Enzo pranced around, through furniture.

“Her,” Zach murmured.

“Go ahead.” Clare waved southwest in the general direction of Creede, about a five hours' drive away.

Enzo blurred into a gray-and-white streak as he left.

Clare smiled after him until she noticed that Zach blocked the doorway from the kitchen to the living room. “I don't like this whole spectral wound business,” he said.

“You think I do?” She put her hands on his shirt, rubbed up and down once—like she had with Enzo?—and pushed, so he stepped back.

“All I can do right now about that wound is look through Sandra's journals. Again. If you recall, her experience with an evil ghost amounted to a half-page story. Not a lot of help last week. There's no knowing whether whatever she wrote about non-physical wounds inflicted by ghosts will be at all useful either.”

“I get it,” he said, and moved restlessly. “But I don't like letting an issue like this drop.”

“Desiree and Mrs. Flinton will look into it for me—us.”

“I don't trust them as much as I do us.”

“I hear you.” She paused. “But we've done all we can for now.”

“And you're tired of the topic.”

“That's right. It's a relief that Great-Aunt Sandra once had a wound like mine, too.”