Ghost Talker (3 page)

They also learned he'd retired early and with substantial funds, did indeed live in a million-dollar home on a large lot, and he had joined a couple of local paranormal, psychic, and new-age groups.

As he began to wind down, he glanced more often at Clare, like he wanted to ask her questions. But they turned into
the wide three-car concrete driveway up to Mr. Welliam's home, which seemed a whole lot less charming and more standard than the man. They passed a parked Mercedes and Zach stopped in the driveway.

Mr. Welliam's watch buzzed and he exclaimed, “I have a text. Oh, will you
please
come in?” He smiled, eyes still bright and manner yet energetic. “Perhaps for a cup of coffee.”

Clare said nothing. Zach hesitated.

Waving his wrist, Mr. Welliam said, “I can play the videos of the poltergeist on my new big screen, and we can see and experience every detail.” His brows went up. “In slow motion, even.”

This poltergeist hadn't been like the previous evil ghost. Enzo had said it was “confused,” not malevolent. Though those large quartz rocks he'd tossed around could be deadly if slammed against a head with enough force. And from experience Clare knew this entity could devolve, become more evil, learn to like killing and draining energy.

She didn't understand how she could help the modern specter when she could only communicate with ghosts of the Old West, but Texas Jack, and Zach, too, expected her to try. And she
would
have to help Texas Jack move on. She'd recognized her next case when it showed up and said
howdy-do
.

“Seeing everything on a large screen might be helpful,” Zach allowed. He added, “I could use some coffee.” Clare thought that he might have a few more questions for the older man, and perhaps would endeavor to lead him away from continuing to call the police. She wished Zach luck with that.

“Excellent. Come on in!” Mr. Welliam invited.

Clare opened the truck door and hopped down, and Mr. Welliam zipped past her. He touched his watch and the garage door opened. While it rose, he jogged through it to the door to the house.

Clare laughed at his continuing energy and looked at Zach.

He shook his head with a resigned look, though the lines around his eyes had deepened with weariness. “Shut your door. I want to turn around.”

“In case we have to leave quickly?”

“Exactly.”

Clare knew Zach, as a man and an ex–law enforcement officer, always preferred his vehicles positioned to leave in a hurry, if necessary. She glanced in the truck bed, but Enzo had vanished to go about his own ghostly doggy business.

*   *   *

Zach made sure Clare's door had locked and gave the area another scan. Light had faded until the day tipped from sunset to deep twilight. He turned on the headlights so they'd be ready when he and Clare finally ended this stretching-ever-longer day. Pulling his truck around for a straight shot down the driveway, he turned off the engine and the lights went out. He'd parked his vehicle facing away from the expensive house. Nice place, modern, but he had no intention of staying any longer than it took to get a feel for the man in his home, and nail down a couple of more points.

With a little luck, he could convince the guy to cooperate with him, not make any more waves. Welliam seemed a
law-abiding man.

And Zach sensed the older man might want to hang around Clare, who wasn't exactly interested in working with him or other people pushing her about her new vocation. Zach got that. He didn't much care for his own new career, though he liked the people he worked with just fine. He shifted his shoulders. Working for clients who thought they could buy justice instead of in the public sector was just . . . difficult.

But he could finesse this both ways, use Welliam to get Clare accustomed to enthusiastic believers in the paranormal—people who weren't demanding from her any terrible answers about the deaths of their loved ones. And have Clare educate the man about real psychic gifts.

He got out of the truck, but before he turned to follow Clare into the huge garage, caws resonated in his ears. He slid his gaze toward Clare. She proceeded like she'd heard nothing.

His own gift was seeing crows that seemed to indicate future events. So maybe the caws hadn't echoed out loud, but in his mind. The hair on his neck rose, but he looked up to a power line. He counted the crows.

Six crows. The crow-counting rhyme that shaped those premonitions—the crows as omens—rolled through his memory. Six for gold. With the house as a benchmark, Zach figured old Welliam had plenty of gold. Wouldn't be surprised if the guy had a vault in the basement and some real gold bars, either.

Then one crow dropped down and zoomed close to his shoulder with a flash of staring, beady eyes, the whiff of dusty feathers, and the brush of a breezy passage against his cheek. Sure felt real.

The crows cawed again. He scanned the line and counted five. Five for silver. From gold to silver. He got it, and found himself nodding to the birds.

He joined Clare at the connecting door to the house. As she opened the door, Zach punched the button to close the garage door, closing out the night and any black birds silhouetted against the last of the twilit sky.

He and Clare walked side by side. Tonight was one of those times where he'd have liked to touch her, but had to use his left hand for his cane and wanted to also keep his right hand free for his weapon in the event of any danger. Only when he believed nothing threatened could he take her hand.

Following the sound of voices, they entered a great room done in beige and earth tones, with a Native American motif, the whole area furnished with understated wealth. A man aged about fifty or fifty-two spoke with Welliam. Five eleven, a portly two-hundred-and-forty pounds, he wore a tailored black suit, white linen shirt, and dark blue tie.

Zach had never seen such an obvious con man. Like most of his ilk, he wasn't armed with a gun, and Zach didn't think he carried a knife either.

Welliam had been talking to the guy, hands waving. “Thank you again for coming, Maurice. I'm glad you made yourself at home,” the older man said more loudly than his usual tone, no doubt repeating the words for Zach's and Clare's benefit.

Maurice inclined his silver-haired head. “Always a pleasure, Kurtus.” Slowly he turned. His gaze went first to Zach, like any person who operated on the wrong side of the law would. Maurice's eyes shuttered. His dignified stance went tense. And Welliam didn't notice. Clare did, though. Zach felt her stiffen beside him.

Meanwhile, Welliam continued, aiming his stream of words at Clare now. “Maurice Poche is
the
psychic and medium to see in Denver.”

Con. Man. Preying on those who believed in his no-doubt false abilities.

Welliam continued to burble. “Maurice's reputation is first-rate. I wanted him to know about the latest appearance and activity, too.” Smiling up at the bigger man, Welliam said, “I believe I got
the
best video of the poltergeist yet!” He glanced around. “You didn't bring the television crew?”

Crap. The DPD wouldn't like this. Zach would have to contact Schultz about this new development.

“No,” the man responded in rich tones. He obviously used his voice as a tool. Zach's fingers tightened on his cane.

Maurice said, “As you know, the local station has not quite decided I'm the right man for their show. I want to be sure of any phenomena I place before them.”

Would prefer to set them up
, Zach heard.

“But a poltergeist at Buffalo Bill's grave! It's a real story!” Welliam protested.

“Very true,” Poche said. His glance flicked once more over Zach, then the guy's gaze focused on Clare. “And this delightful young woman?”

“Oh, of course.” With a flourishing gesture, Welliam said, “Maurice Poche, I'd like to introduce you to Clare Cermak, the up-and-coming medium.”

The con artist's expression stayed cheerful, his lips curved, but his blue eyes had sharpened to cutting ice shards. He wasn't at all happy to see Clare. Zach drew a little closer to her so she'd feel his support.

“I'm not a medium,” Clare said in that cool, precise tone of hers that reflected the accountant Zach knew she still wished to be.

“Always a pleasure to meet a colleague,” Poche lied. He gestured to the huge state-of-the-art video screen. “Shall we see that video?” Now a small lilt in the tone of his voice indicated interest—in how he could profit from a poltergeist messing around with Buffalo Bill's grave.

A couple of minutes later, Zach and Clare shared one end of a long sectional couch with the other two men spaced out from each other.

Zach sipped from a cup of excellent newly ground coffee that a man older than their host—maybe early seventies—had brought in and given to him. Clare got one, too, and she'd smiled at the aroma. Her pleasure had made the server stand a little straighter as he left the room without a word.

About the only thing Zach saw in the video that he'd missed in real life was when the quartz lifted to the tops of the fence spears enclosing the graves.

Welliam had caught Clare's preoccupation with Texas Jack, though that individual, of course, did not show up on the screen. From the corner of his eye, Zach noticed Poche lean forward, and a sizzle of warning ran down Zach's spine.

Janice Schultz came on screen and spoke.

“Who's that?” Poche demanded.

“The Denver Police Department
finally
listened to me and sent an officer to check things out.”

Not quite the truth, or a fib. The DPD was aware of the case but wanted to keep it off the books, especially since neither Welliam nor anyone at the grave site had filed an official complaint. But Schultz would keep an unofficial eye on things.

Zach wondered if that would have Poche cutting his losses on this project once and for all, and hoped so.

Clare looked at Welliam and said, “We're here to help, too.” She rose as the video stopped in the middle of Zach's conversation with the off-duty policewoman.

Crossing to their host, she held out her hand. “A pleasure meeting you.” To Zach's surprise, she sounded sincere. She
smiled. “We'll keep in touch.”

Welliam leapt to his feet. “Of course.”

When Zach joined them, she took his hand, squeezed his fingers—he supposed she'd read that surprise the way lovers could. She let his hand go and nodded formally to Poche. “Nice to meet you.”

The con man rose with smooth grace.

“Always satisfying to meet a colleague,” he repeated.

Zach met Poche's gaze, then Welliam's. “Thanks for the coffee.” He shook Welliam's hand, and he and Clare were out of there and driving back to Denver in under five minutes.

Clare let out a sigh as she settled into her seat.

Zach said, “I guess it will be up to me to research Poche—”

“A charlatan,” Clare said.

“That's right.”

“And try and find the poltergeist. A new ghost, Texas Jack said?”

“Yes, so he's present-day.”

“He?”

Clare frowned. “You heard Texas Jack and Enzo. Texas Jack referred to him as male. And as a young 'un.”

“Just wanted to make sure I heard what you did.”

He caught Clare's wary glance, saw a shudder ripple through her. Nope, she wasn't happy at all that they could occasionally communicate telepathically. And what a rush that had been! Touching her mind.

Obviously she didn't feel the same way, but Clare didn't care to reveal her emotions, thought of that as a weakness.

Like Zach's father did, and heaven knew Zach loved to be contrary to any of his father's rigid rules—which was why Zach remained interested in people, and how they dealt with their emotions.

Having Clare a little wary of him added spice to their relationship. Discreetly he stretched his muscles as they drove through the black night of the hills and back to the shining lights of Denver.

Clare said, “We need to find the poltergeist before he devolves. We don't want to deal with another malignant ghost, and he's already destructive.”

Zach put a hand over both of hers, that seemed locked together in her lap. Too soon after their big case for her.

Clare preferred negotiating to fighting. But her gift meant she'd have to become a fighter, change her life even more, and Zach understood that loomed scarily before her.

“You—
we
can do it,” he assured her.

A faint smile curved her lips. “We're a team, that's what Enzo keeps saying.”

“And we are. Where's the dog?” He didn't see the wavy-aired presence of the ghost Lab in the rearview mirror, and he would be able to if Enzo was there and Zach looked hard. He also didn't see any more crows, which was damn fine with him.

“We haven't been in the foothills much since this whole ghost seer thing started.” She gestured with a lot less tension in her hands. Good. “He said he likes the smells.” Then she looked out her window and grinned, and Zach thought Enzo ran—or whatever—beside the truck and had commented to her.

“He says there are
many
ghost chipmunks here, and real ones, too. That it's a beautiful night and he wants to run. Go run,” Clare said indulgently, then let out an audible breath. “A new case. I like Texas Jack but am worried about the poltergeist.”

Zach patted her thigh. “You worry too much.”

“I know. I'm learning to live in the moment, but I'm still such a beginner at this that every case is a new experience to master, not something I've done before.” She bit her lip. “I wonder how long that's going to last.”

“How long did it take when you first started your profession as an accountant?”

Her head turned and she blinked a couple of times. “It's not the same.”

He shrugged. “I think it is.”

This time she let out a gusty sigh. “A year to a year and a half before I felt competent and comfortable.”

Chuckling, he shook his head. “I don't think you should plan on feeling comfortable in this career for a long time.”

She scowled and crossed her arms. “Great-Aunt Sandra was comfortable, I know that.”

“She wasn't you.”

“And she'd been a ghost seer for years before I was even born.”

“We're a team,” Zach reminded her with the words that usually helped her.

“Yes. I'll have to talk to Texas Jack, whom I don't know much about except that he was a friend of Buffalo Bill's and died in the time period to which I am sensitive.”

“And I'm pretty sure that Welliam is going to stick with us. He's given us something to start with, at least, though I think I'll have to talk to him some more. But that can wait until later. Poche first.”

Clare stared at Zach. Of course he'd be more interested in going after the con man first. She nodded decidedly. “First items of a plan in place.” Suppressing another stupid and futile sigh, she pulled out her phone to do basic research on Texas Jack, a quick skim of online encyclopedias.

Zach drove in silence as she told him the biography of the man. Her lover nodded and commented, looking interested. Yes, a military scout and frontiersman would intrigue him. Perhaps even the business aspect of Texas Jack's life. Though Clare was sure that the showman and Jack's acting career didn't engross Zach so much.

Too late by far for a library to be open, but she took screenshots of the books she might need from there and the History Colorado Center library. She also ordered the one and only biography of Texas Jack in hard copy from an online bookstore, and bought and downloaded an electronic copy of a book written in 1917 by one of the English noblemen Texas Jack had guided on a hunting trip.

Zach turned onto one of the main streets of Denver and Clare relaxed a little when she realized that they were driving
to her house to spend the night.

Tears of relief prickled behind her eyes, as foolish as her previous sighs. Zach would stay with her tonight at her home of two-and-a-half weeks. She must remember she had such blessings in her life now. A fabulous and sensitive lover, though he'd hate that word; new and interesting friends; a beautiful historic home; enough money to never work again. She
wouldn't
concentrate on the downsides of this new vocation. The past needed to remain in the past.

They'd barely made it through the front door and set the security, when he spun her back to the door and pressed his big body against hers as he took her mouth, plunging his tongue into hers so she could savor the taste of him: coffee and male arousal. Oh, yes.