Ghost Talker (25 page)

Then she leaned against him in the morning quiet, listening to the birdsong, and, taking the conversation down a notch, she said, “I think we might need some new equipment for the exercise room, too.” Since she'd inherited that, too, from her great-aunt.

“For sure.”

“We'll go shopping—”

“Nope.” He scanned the graveyard, clasped her fingers, and moved them to the gate of Texas Jack's enclosure, which she opened, then circled with her around the front of the truck. She became aware of the calluses on his hand and the skin of his palm and the feel of his fingers. Strong.

She took a final look at Jack's grave outlined in rocks, three headstones enclosed in decorative iron, and dipped her head. Yes, quite a beautiful area, but extremely far from Lowell, Massachusetts, and the resting place of Giuseppina Morlacchi Omohundro.

Opening the passenger door, Zach put his hand under her bottom and boosted, more for the grope than to help, she thought.

He said, “Nope, we will not go shopping for exercise equipment.
I
will go shopping for exercise equipment. I know what I want and the whole shopping thing will go faster.”

She buckled up, looked at his dear face, the half-smile he wore. “I suppose, since I'm continuing with the classes, I should get some yoga mats and whatever, too.” She leaned and bussed his lips. “I've discovered I like the sound of the fountain in the yoga space. I want one in the exercise room.”

He grunted. “Okay.” And she liked that they seemed to be negotiating about their shared lives in her home. Though he didn't want his name on the deed, he seemed to be personally invested in the house.

She wouldn't tell him that she'd already added him to the deed for the property. Unlike the rest of her family, Zach was here. He knew Denver and Colorado, and he handled his mother's and his own finances well enough. If anything happened to her, she'd be fine with Zach managing the disposal of the house. He'd do a good job and was an honorable man.

Enzo yipped and jumped into the truck bed, stood and stuck his head over the side, tail wagging. Clare waved acknowledgment, and Zach ran a hand along—into—his back before sitting in the driver's seat.

Continuing to be low-key, when he attached his seat belt, she said, “I may want more than one fountain in the house.”

“Okay.” His arm came over to squeeze her shoulders.

Pleasure swirled inside her, lightening her mood as her life shaped into a solid and wonderful normality.

Until they reached the edge of Leadville and the on-ramp of the highway, where a familiar figure stood at the edge of the road, face a whiter shade than usual, dressed in buckskins and moccasins with a big hat on his head and a coiled lasso
in his gloved hand.

Clare set her hand on Zach's shoulder. “To the right.”

“I see him. I'm pulling over at the widening of the shoulder.”

He did, and Clare climbed out of the huge black truck. Every time a vehicle sped past in any direction Texas Jack's jaw tightened.
You got my bone?
He held up his right hand, showing no top to his right forefinger.

“Yes.”

Where are we?

“Just outside Leadville.”

He flinched, set his gaze higher than the road. “
Shoulda recognized the mountains.
” His stance eased, but his glance flicked to Clare and back. His voice grated.
How long's it been since you obtained my bone from my grave?

“About half an hour,” she replied softly.

His spirit shuddered, more like a two-dimensional paper cut-out than she cared for.
Seems like an age. I got lost. I AM lost.

“No, Jack.” Clare stepped into him, felt the penetrating freeze of his ghost form, but kept her mind from his memories. Only for comfort, not for help to move on. She spoke to him mind-to-mind, heart-to-heart.
I've got you, John Baker Omohundro. I won't let anything happen to you until it's time for you to meet your Giuseppina. I promise.

Zach, limping heavily with no cane, put his arm around Clare's waist, his hand on—through—Texas Jack's shoulder.
We've got you, Texas Jack. You can count on us. We won't let you stay in the gray.

Jack nodded.
Thanks, pard.
One side of his mouth lifted.
Jackson Zachary Slade. I know who you are.

Good,
Zach said.

Enzo yipped.
Show him the bone, Clare. So he knows.

Thankfully retreating from Jack's cold, and gritting her teeth to prevent them from chattering, she opened her bag and retrieved the wooden pen case, moved back to Jack and opened it. The top bone of his forefinger lay there.

Jack's chest expanded as if he took a deep breath. His figure intensified into human lines and shapes.
My thanks. To you all.
He petted Enzo.

Jack can ride in the back of the truck with me!
Enzo offered.

Zach took the case from Clare's trembly fingers. “I can secure this in the storage box in the bed.”

“Sounds good,” Clare said between cool lips.

A few minutes later they barreled down the highway at five miles over the speed limit, Texas Jack sitting in the back of the truck, head tilted to see the mountains and the sky that didn't appear to move so fast. Enzo's head lay in his lap.

By the time they reached Clare's place in the afternoon, the phantom had disappeared—or did until she locked the pen
case in the basement safe. Then Jack appeared with a smile, wearing his embroidered buckskin trousers, but a cloth shirt, a cigar in his hand. He smiled and gave her and Zach a nod before fading into the wall.

Clare hadn't had the heart to put the case in the carriage house, where she'd wanted to restrict her phantom clients. She admired Texas Jack too much for that.

She made lasagna for lunch while Zach checked out her dent-free gleaming red Jeep that had been parked in front of her house. He'd taken it on a test drive before she knew it, so she left the dish in the oven while she talked to Enzo about vocational matters that itched at her.

Sitting in her favorite room, the living room with the tall mullioned window that curved outward, Clare sipped from a good glass of pinot noir, then gave a gentle cough and called, aloud and telepathically, “
Enzo?
”

I'm here, Clare!
The Lab rose through the floor.
Texas Jack is settled in.
Enzo smiled.
He is comfortable here and I don't think he will lose himself or time, even, when we are with him.

“Good.” Relaxing back into the cushiony leather couch, Clare said, “Last night you and Texas Jack talked with the actor Darin Clavell and helped him move on.”

BAD poltergeist. New and confused. And Zach helped, too.

“Yes. That's how Great-Aunt Sandra made her medium business work,” Clare murmured. “She had a ghost of her time period—”

John Dillinger.
Enzo grinned, tongue hanging out.

Clare dipped her head. “So you've said. The ghost of John Dillinger stayed close to her in her sessions so he could talk to other ghosts, contemporary ghosts who . . . accompanied her clients.”

That's right
, said the hollow-toned Other who fogged over Enzo's cheerful gaze in an instant.
Sandra Cermak did not live on the gifts the universe bestowed upon her for the use of her gift
. he sounded more than disapproving—downright hostile.

Clare met the being's cold stare. “And when have
you
had to gather resources to ensure your survival?”

None of you Cermaks have had to worry about resources for survival for generations.

Unclenching her teeth, Clare replied, “I will remind you that I did not take any payout from my great-great-uncle Amos's trust, but lived on my accountant's salary.”

The Other gave a long, disdainful sniff.
A slight detail. You accepted Sandra Cermak's wealth. You Cermaks!
He snapped his teeth.

“So, Other, your problem isn't just with me, it's because of my whole line.”

The whole agreement with your ancestress and . . . Us . . . is tainted.

“Hmm. But I suggest you learn to live with it, as I have.
I
was not the original person to agree to this bargain”—she hardened her voice—“and as I'm sure you have realized, I am not pleased with it, either.” She let that sentence hang in the air, then said in a tone as cold as the Other itself, “Did you manifest for any other reason than to snipe at my family and me?”

I wish to know when you will be instituting a mediumship business.

“What's it to you?” She gave him a smile with teeth. “Maybe you should take yourself off to Maurice Poche. You can find him in the hospital, babbling about ghost dogs.”

This time the Other growled along with his teeth snap.
He is a charlatan. He has NO psychic ability at all.

Widening her eyes, Clare said with false surprise, “You don't say!”

I do. And whether you peddle your gift as a business to add to your family's wealth is of great interest to ME because then I will not be constrained to be your spirit guide. Individuals of MY status do not advise those who use their gift for money.

“Some spirit guide,” Clare muttered under her breath, then said louder, “Much as it pains me to say this, I do not intend to use my gift to continue the family business.” She lifted her nose. “I will be investing the wealth I've received; indeed, I have already done so. I will also be learning
how
to become a better investor.” One of the partners of her old firm would point her in a good direction there, if she moved some of her assets to them. “When I'm done with this money, no Cermak will ever have to work.” And as she said that, she reflected on the harm the trust had caused her parents, who hadn't ever had to work. “My own trust will have some stipulations,” she murmured. “But those of us who are cursed with the ghost seer gift will have wealth to help us.” She'd have to write a step-by-step tutorial with regard to learning how to manage the ghost seer gift. She never wanted another family member to be threatened with madness and death due to lack of information.

And you will be training your replacement
, the Other said with just the trace of a lilt in his voice—which penetrated Clare's confidence like a chill finger.

“You said you would warn me of my death. Do you see it coming up?” she demanded, too sharply. But better to know so she could finish getting her affairs in order, perhaps warn Zach.

Not . . . this . . . year
, the Other said.
Unless you continue to take stupid actions and make stupid mistakes. Or continue to ignore past mistakes.
He gave her a dog smirk that looked a whole lot nastier than when her loving Enzo looked at her with the same expression.

“Great,” Clare said. She jutted her chin. “Go away. I don't want to talk to you anymore. Send Enzo back.”

Without another word, she saw the snotty spirit fade away and felt Enzo's cheerful presence pervade the dog ghost.

Hello, Clare! Glad to see you! And you told HIM to go away and asked for me to come. I love you, Clare.
He jumped on her, and his leg went straight through her torso into the spectral wound she carried and tried her best to forget about. Keeping pain from her expression, she smoothed both hands over Enzo's head, accepting the chill. “I love you, too, Enzo.”

I heard some of what you said to the Other.
Enzo tilted his head at her.
You aren't going to be a medium like Sandra?

Twitching her lips into a smile, Clare said sincerely, “There was only one Sandra Cermak.”

True, only one Sandra
. Enzo barked and smiled.
And only one Clare! You are special and wonderful.

“Thank you.”

It is true, true, true.
He leaned forward again and licked her cheek.
But we made the carriage house for clients. You
used it before.

“I'm not going to be a medium for people who want to know about their recently lost loved ones.” She shuddered. That would be even worse than what she did now.

You can help them. Ease their pain.

“No.” Her voice sounded harsh. So she said again, more quietly, “No, not yet. It will take me some time to come to terms with interacting with people who have a fresh loss.” Maybe never. “But I have accepted that I have a . . . vocation . . . to help ghosts of my time period transition. And I
will
help them.”

Like Texas Jack.

“Absolutely.” And she liked Texas Jack. That reminded her that she needed to understand his problem better. She took a breath. “So, I'm going public.”

Going public?
Enzo asked.

“I'm letting people know that if they know of a ghost in my time period who needs to transition, I will help.” Again she smiled, not so humorously. “They can contact me through Rickman Security and Investigations.”

Or Desiree Rickman! I like Desiree, too!
He wagged his whole bottom through the couch.

“Yes, if people talk to Desiree, she'll get them to me.”

Or Mrs. Flinton!

“Or Mrs. Flinton.”

Or Mr. Welliam!

“Or Mr. Welliam.” How quickly she'd become enmeshed in paranormal contacts. “But I'll use the business cards that Mrs. Flinton had made for me.” Clare straightened her spine. “I'm not hiding anymore.”

You're not so sad anymore.

“No.” She paused. “I get satisfaction from helping.” Now her lips curved in a more honest smile. “An emotional charge, even. I am . . . content with my new calling, though I think it will be a while before I'm happy in my job, like I was at the accounting firm.”

That is important
, Enzo said.
That you embrace and love your work.

Clare tensed. “I'm sure.” Her voice was stilted. “I'll get there. Just not this very moment.” Her lips pressed together. “It's only been one month and two days since I first started seeing ghosts.”

You are doing REALLY well!

“Thank you.”

You haven't known Zach long, either, but you love him
, Enzo pointed out.
He has changed your life, too. And you have changed his.

“That's right. I've let him in, let him change my life.”

And me, too. And I love him, too. We are all a team!
Enzo repeated.

“Yes. And it's easy to love Zach.” She bent down and let her lips sink into the space occupied by Enzo's phantom head. “And easy to love you, Enzo.”

YES!
He stood up and hopped to the floor, then gamboled around.

She cleared her throat. “
You
are my spirit guide, and would be the one who would interact with the modern ghosts, those who contemporary people would want to speak with to ease their pain. Do you want to do that?”

Enzo's gasp seemed to suck the whole air out of the room and Clare found herself panting. The room had chilled so she could see her breath, too.

No!
Enzo flopped to his belly, cringing, then crawled to her, licked her feet. At least she wore shoes and socks so his tongue didn't actually touch her flesh. His head still down and not looking at her, he said,
I am not really the ghost of the Labrador dog of your great-aunt Sandra.

As if she hadn't figured that out first thing. Dogs did not talk. Not even ghost dogs.

He wiggled against her legs, and she strove not to shiver or flinch.

I am a lower-level helpful spirit
, he “whispered” into her mind. She wondered what, exactly, that designation was, where he came from, but kept her brain still, those questions to herself.