Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) (18 page)

She might find out, since she had to merge with them.

“All right,” she said. “Mrs. Graw, I know that timing matters in when a ghost can go on. What is the timing here?” She had to get some solid rules to go by.

I manifest every day
, the woman said simply.
Every day I want my Sammy, and as the sun reaches the zenith of the sky, I stop listening to him whimper in the dark and come to try and find him in the light
. Her ghostly bosom shivered with a sigh.
But there is no good light, only dimness.

“There’s light now,” Clare said.

The phantoms nodded.

Clare shot a look at the windows and said, “Can you please come to me for your transition? I’ll hug both of you,” Clare said.

They smiled, their features hauntingly alike, and glided to within inches of her.

Clare tried to still her mind; instead it seemed like she’d just dropped a blanket on top of a bed of worries that wriggled under it like frantic puppies. She ignored incipient fear.

She held out her arms; the ghosts surged toward her like flames in a draft. Like the other spirits she’d helped, these wanted to leave, which was all to the good.

Trying not to tense, Clare stepped into them, wrapped her arms around them, both shorter than she. Emotions flashed through her, fear of dying, fear of being alone, loneliness of being lost, then knowing the other survived . . . somewhere . . . and being trapped and prevented from going to son, to mother.

Heart-wrenching longing infused Clare. Body-wrenching cold, cold beyond freezing, cold to stop her blood from flowing, ice forming around her heart to stop it from
pumping
, encased Clare.

She saw the hotel room as it had been, colorful, then everything tinted sepia.

In memory, Sammy’s mother and father leaned over him, worried, sad. She felt the heat of the fever scourging the boy and his determination to stay with the parents he loved and life slipping beyond his grasp. The scene changed to the train station and sitting in the midst of people but alone with heavy grief. Her child was dead. Her husband had dropped a wall between them, and love was gone, gone, gone. Along with the man who had once loved her and whom she had once loved. People milled around her but didn’t speak to her and then pain speared her and she was gone, too . . . and lost.

Clare shuddered from the cold, her arms frozen in position. Summoning all her thoughts, the last of her warmth, she said, “You . . . are . . . to-gether. Go! Go!”

Mrs. Graw gasped and pointed behind Clare, or upward.
Look, look, Sammy! He’s there waiting for us, your papa!

Papa!
yelled the boy ghost and vanished into a swirl of rainbow sparkles that tugged on the woman in the black watered silk dress, who turned into a shower of fireworks and disappeared.

Clare fell over.

“WOW,” DESIREE SAID,
moving toward Clare along the wall and staring at her. “I didn’t see much, but it sure felt like fireworks in here.”

You did it, Clare, you did it, you did it!
Enzo licked the side of her head.
I am going to tell Zach. Maybe he will hear me! I am going to tell the last ghost. Maybe he will want to transition, too!
The dog ran straight out the second-story window.

Groaning, Clare managed to roll over. She hadn’t landed on her hurt cheekbone, but her ribs had felt the shock and throbbed.

Desiree offered her hand, Clare took it, and the smaller woman drew her up easily. Clare had already decided Rickman’s wife was stronger than she looked.

“Thanks,” Clare said, gingerly dusting herself off. The hotel room wasn’t as clean as it had been in her vision in the past. She glanced around. “You know, I think I like the way this room was decorated in the 1880s better.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Laurentine’s voice rose from downstairs. He sounded the tiniest bit threatening.

“Everything okay, Clare?” asked Zach, coming through the door and along the wall. There, just there, finally. He slid his arm gently around her and she let her hand—which had been holding her ribs—drop to her side.

A big sigh echoed up the stairwell, and Clare realized it had come from Rossi. “Yeah, they’re gone. This place, this whole damn town, feels better.”

“What! Two of
my
ghosts are gone?” Mr. Laurentine demanded. “Two items that are special to Curly Wolf and make the town what it is?” He stomped upstairs. “And they’ve left already without me here to watch you? I didn’t think you could—” He stopped.

“Yes.” Clare met his eyes. “Little Samuel Graw and his mother had someplace to be and had stayed long enough.”

Zach snorted and met the man’s eyes. “Yeah, now you’re only left with a sick, drunk guy. If you ask me, he was the most colorful of the three anyway. A lost mother and child couldn’t be too interesting for most of your guests.”

The multimillionaire continued to grumble, his face set in a scowl aimed at Clare. “You’re going to move J. Dawson Hidgepath on next. He’s colorful, but he is a pain in the ass.”

She jutted her chin. “Yes, I will help him leave.”

Mr. Laurentine’s lower lip curled. “And before my party for the beginning of autumn and hunting season.”

“Mr. Laurentine, believe me when I tell you that I have no wish to spend any time here seeing people shoot and kill and bring dead animals back to your house.”

He made a disgusted noise.

“Pity that J. Dawson is such a recalcitrant ghost,” Zach said. “And won’t stay down here in Curly Wolf with his bones.
He
would give you back the character you think you lost when the pitiful mother and son ghosts moved on.”

Pivoting, Mr. Laurentine stomped back down the stairs, obviously put out because two of his tamer ghosts that stayed properly in Curly Wolf were now gone.

He threw back over his shoulder, “I think we need to discuss J. Dawson Hidgepath more.”

“I e-mailed you my complete report of what I found out at the Park County Archives this morning,” Zach said flatly, his arm still circling her waist as they negotiated the stairs carefully, walking around Rossi, who stood guard on the landing, ready to defend from threats above and below.

Clare glanced at Zach from the corners of her eyes. He was lying about including all he knew in a report. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did . . . a slight alteration of the line of his shoulders? Discreetly, she checked out Desiree, Rossi, and Mr. Laurentine. All of them appeared to take Zach’s statement at face value.

Mr. Laurentine crossed the hotel lobby, threw open a door, and strode outside. “I haven’t heard an update from Ms. Cermak,” he snapped.

“On J. Dawson or the Graws?” she asked.

Pausing on the boardwalk, one thumb tucked in his belt, the other still holding the gun, muzzle pointed down, Mr. Laurentine said, “You know more about the Graws?” His lips tightened. “At least we can have them written up in the town’s lore.”

“Frances and her husband—”

“Frances, that is, was, her name?” Mr. Laurentine demanded.

“Yes.”

“And her husband’s name?” he asked.

Clare shifted her feet, scrolling back through her experience, and the fragmented memories she’d sensed from Frances. Frowning, Clare finally said, “Xavier. Frances and Xavier Graw and Samuel. He was eight when he died. Frances was—”

Mr. Laurentine made a cutting motion. “That should be sufficient to track them for now. I expect you to submit a detailed written report to me with regard to this matter.”

Clare nodded austerely. “Of course. Do you want to know what happened to them or not?”

“I’d like to hear the story.” Oddly enough, that came from Rossi.

“Absolutely, continue,” Mr. Laurentine said.

Blinking, Clare ordered her thoughts, hoped saying the data that she’d garnered—more like sensed during Frances’s and Sam’s transitions—would fix the facts in her mind. Though now that the experience was over, all the vague extraneous stuff associated with Frances began to fade, like the details of a dream when one awoke.

“The Graws’ son had died of influenza and been buried here, and Mr. Graw insisted that Frances and he leave,” she said. Everyone seemed riveted by her straightforward and sad story. “Frances, of course, was grieving, and the train was late pulling into this last spur of the line. They’d reached the station, and she realized she didn’t have her son’s favorite hat; she’d left it in the hotel. She began to leave the station and return to the hotel to get it, but she was tired and sick herself, moving slowly. Her husband said he’d fetch the cap.”

Sammy had been wearing that hat when Clare had first, and last, seen him.

“Xavier was impatient with her, and he made her promise not to leave the station. They were respectable people, not riffraff, and she should stay off the streets. He hurried away. The last thing she recalls seeing is watching him stride down the boardwalk toward the hotel. Then she collapsed and died.”

“Huh,” said Rossi, descending the stairs after Desiree.

“Go on,” said Desiree with a gleam in her eyes.

“Frances had promised Xavier that she wouldn’t leave the train station, and she didn’t, though she continued to mourn her son, knew he, um, lingered as a ghost, too, but was unable to go to him, and unable to help him.”

“Very sad,” said Mr. Laurentine.

“Yes,” Desiree nodded. “Until Clare came along and set them both free.” She lifted one beautifully shaped and arched brow at Mr. Laurentine. Apparently he recalled he’d lost a couple of ghosts that added to the atmosphere of his Old West town and he frowned again.

“What happened to Xavier Graw?” asked Rossi.

Clare shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither Frances nor Samuel knew what became of him after he left Curly Wolf.” She gave a little cough, hard because her face felt numb. “Xavier didn’t stay any longer than a day after she was buried.”

“Nice guy,” said Desiree.

Clare shared a look with her, then frowned. “I don’t think he could bear to be here.”

“Oh?”

“He was there for Frances and Sammy,” Clare said.

“Where?” asked Desiree.

Shrugging, Clare said, “In the light.”

“In the light,” Rossi repeated. His shoulders rolled. “In the light. Good to know. You hear things, but . . . good to know.”

“You think they’re both, mother and son, buried at the Curly Wolf Cemetery?” Mr. Laurentine asked.

“They were,” Clare said.

“I recall that, too,” Baxter Hawburton said.

Mr. Laurentine glanced around as if needing a flunky, then said, “I have a list of the graves, I can check if they’re noted.” His eyes narrowed. “You have any idea whether Mr. Graw would have sprung for expensive headstones?”

“I don’t know,” Clare said. Weariness began to creep through her veins sluggishly, slowing her down, and her stomach didn’t feel so good. Her breathing hitched now and then.

“In the light,” Mr. Laurentine snorted and looked toward his bodyguard, who stood next to Clare. Rossi appeared imperturbable.

Clare said, “Let’s go. As I said, I liked the previous wallpaper better up there and in here. This is . . . uninspired.” All right, she wasn’t above continuing to take potshots at Mr. Laurentine.

Mr. Laurentine stepped back into the hotel lobby from the boardwalk, put his free hand on her arm. “Wait, wait, what did the hotel really look like?”

She smiled. “I’ve made mental notes. I’ll put them in my report later.” She passed him and clumped out onto the wooden walk, smiling at Zach, who had his expressionless face on and matched her step for step.

He twined his arm through hers, bent his head close. “Everything go all right with the transition?”

“Fine.”

“You still look a little washed out.”

“Thanks a bunch.”

His smile was brief. “Sorry, I just remember how you handled the gunfighter. Wiped you out.”

“Washed out is better than wiped out, for sure,” she said lightly.

He glanced around, pulled her into an embrace, and kissed her, and she swirled into a dark, heated place, so different from where ghosts dwelled. She tasted him, let his tongue sweep into her mouth and make her knees weak, her whole body weak so she clung to him and cherished his warmth.

His hands went to her hips, turned her toward him so they were heart to heart, pressed against each other. He was her solid set point in a tornado, the man who offered heat to offset the cold that was now her life. And for all the darkness and sadness the ghosts infused in her when she helped them pass on, Zach gave her earthly vitality.

She slid her arms around his neck, steadied them both. Yes, she needed this man, more than she cared to admit.

“Hey, you two, break it up,” Desiree said, and Clare actually heard her stomping down the boardwalk. Someone snickered and Clare thought it might be Mr. Laurentine, and she, at least, was on the job. She’d banished two ghosts for him.

Reluctantly, she drew away, staring into Zach’s deep green-blue eyes, the ones that had the shadows in them that seemed to match her own. More, she’d seen those shadows of pain, physical and emotional, but she’d also seen the knowledge of how to deal with those shadows and overcome them. She’d needed that.

She leaned down and picked up the cane, which she hadn’t heard fall to the ground, and handed it to him, her breathing a little rough, then let her appreciation of him show in her smile, her look that told him they’d make love later. “Thank you.”

His return smile was slow, caressing. “You’re welcome.”

She wanted to ask him always to be there after she’d dealt with apparitions, but that was too close to true intimacy, to admitting she might need him more than he needed her and insert an inequality to their relationship.

Her own smile was a little difficult, her face a little numb, perhaps from the lingering cold of sending the ghosts on, though she’d thought her blood had pulsed fast and hot . . . from the kiss.

They all walked toward the train station. Once again Clare preferred to stay in the middle of the street and Zach accompanied her on one side and Rossi the other. She’d almost gotten used to seeing Mr. Laurentine carry the rifle since this little stroll was turning into such a production, but it made her a bit twitchy. Of all the men there, she’d trust Dennis Laurentine the least with a gun.