Ghost Layer (The Ghost Seer Series Book 2) (9 page)

SHE LANDED AT
the bottom of the stairs, gasping, shuddering with fear and adrenaline pumping through her, huddled on her side in a nearly fetal position.

Clare!
Enzo was there, staring down at her with a deeply concerned doggy expression. She turned her head, relief flooding her that her neck worked.

Then Enzo’s muzzle shut and depthless eyes surveyed her, the Other spirit.

Panting, spots swirling before her eyes, she tried to rip her gaze from the entity’s, and couldn’t.

Clare Milena Cermak
, the bass tone rumbled through her brain, and her eyes widened more than she’d ever thought they could go. She wanted to wet her lips but couldn’t even move her tongue and her mouth was dry, dry, dry.

It is not your time to die. We have much for you to do.

A tiny niggle at the back of her mind wondered what this “we” business was. Her thoughts coalesced enough for her to shoot him a question.
Not my time?

No.
A slow and stately nod of the ghost dog’s head that Enzo could never manage.
One of the conditions of the pact we made with your ancestress when we asked you to help was that we would advise you when your death was imminent, as we did with Sandra. Do you wish this?

Yes
, she replied without thinking . . . not that she was doing much thinking, her vision was going dark. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even flop around like a fish, and she needed air!

BREATHE!
the Other commanded. The ghostly Labrador’s mouth opened and touched her own. Warm, sweet-meadow-summer-flowers air pushed into her: throat, chest, lungs, bringing with them a serenity she’d never felt before, such a lovely feeling that tears welled from under her shut lashes.

Breathe, Clare, BREATHE!
It was Enzo again, licking at her with a cold, cold tongue. She sucked in cool air, then the harsh dry stuff of the great room, tinged with wood and fire . . . and the scent of furniture polish. She shuddered, began to straighten her legs inch by inch. When she had enough breath, she screamed.

In less than a minute the lights of the great room brightened, making her blink. Then a crowd gathered around her, most talking, questioning her. She saved her breath to inhale and exhale, steady herself, put aside the Other’s revelations until later.

“What’s going on!” demanded Mr. Laurentine.

The crowd of people—six? ten?—moved aside for him and Rossi, who followed, scanning the area. Clare choked. Mr. Laurentine wore an old-fashioned nightshirt. It looked like the finest ivory linen, and draped over his knees. His hair had a case of the frizz. She coughed and this time her tears were amusement.

Then she realized he probably hadn’t contacted her to discuss something.

“Not an accident,” she gasped. “I was set up.”

“That so?” asked Rossi. Now he held a gun in one hand and he gestured to someone else to investigate.

“Oily spot, top of the stairs,” Clare said.

“This is Dr. Burns. Move aside.”

Again people parted. She noted most were in nightwear, pajamas or nightgowns. Missy Legrand wore a slinky red sliplike “gown.”

“A doctor?” Clare squeaked.

“Of course I have a doctor on hand; the closest hospital is in Leadville or Frisco. Not bad if it’s summer, but tough when it’s winter,” Mr. Laurentine snapped.

“Move your toes for me, please,” Dr. Burns insisted.

She flexed her feet, both feet, thinking of Zach, who couldn’t do that with his left foot, and swallowed tears. She
needed
him, someone she could trust absolutely.

“Good,” Dr. Burns said. “Where does it hurt?”

“All over.” She put her hand to her ribs. She’d had a cracked one before and knew the pain.

“How’s your neck?”

“Okay, I think.”

“All right, we’re moving you.”

“Uh-huh.” She concentrated on Mr. Laurentine’s cool blue eyes as a focal point when hands clasped her ankles, went to hip and shoulder. and rolled her to her back. “I guess you didn’t call me to discuss my consulting contract with you?”

His groomed brows winged up. “At this time of night?” Missy moved close to Laurentine and snugged her arm through his.

“I don’t know your schedule,” Clare bit out with a hiss of air and put both hands to her right side. “Oh, man.” She winced. “Cracked ribs for sure.”

“Found the oily spot up here,” someone said from above her.

“An accident . . . or not?” Mr. Laurentine said thoughtfully, still staring down at her. “Interesting.”

“It appears as if someone doesn’t want her here,” Rossi said.

“And someone doesn’t care if anyone else might take a bad fall,” Dr. Burns snapped. He was feeling her limbs, didn’t poke at her rib cage, for which she was deeply grateful. “We can move her on a stretcher. I can examine you in my office, but if you’d like to be taken to the Leadville hospital, about forty minutes away, or Frisco, over an hour—”

She stared at the doctor and did her own internal survey. She didn’t seem to have any broken bones, except the bruised or cracked ribs. Her head hadn’t hit anything hard . . . and Leadville and Frisco, both mining towns, would swarm with ghosts. She thought Leadville was especially haunted. “I’ll stay.”

As soon as she was placed on the stretcher, Mr. Laurentine said, “So has this scared you away, Cermak?”

“I’ll have to think on it,” she managed.

J. Dawson Hidgepath materialized near her head, overlapping into a burly guy Clare didn’t know and who didn’t seem to notice the apparition. The shade’s expression was mournful and he held stems of drooping, ghostly daisies.
Now you know what it feels like
, he murmured in her mind, shaking his head.
But you were lucky. Please don’t go, Clare. I need you to help me.
The spirit looked around, the flowers in his hands disappearing as he took his bowler off and held it against his chest.
And it seems to me that my death casts a long shadow, might somehow be affecting your present events.

Do you think so?
she asked.

Why else would someone hurt you?

But why?

I don’t know.

Mr. Laurentine snorted. “You’re going to let someone drive you away from fulfilling your job?”

Clare’s lips thinned. “I don’t consider this a job for you.”

He laughed with disgust, a man accustomed to buying anything or anyone he wanted. “What do you consider it?”

The words
a higher calling
sat on her tongue, especially since Enzo whined near her and J. Dawson walked along as she was carried to the doctor’s suite. She closed her eyes, tried to relax all her tension-tight, fall-stiff muscles, surely making every ache worse. Her lips curved. “Your bodyguard might get hazard pay, but I don’t. And furthermore, I don’t need your job or your money or this house or even the town of Curly Wolf for access to J. Dawson Hidgepath.” She opened her eyelids to see Mr. Laurentine’s eyes blazing with anger. Whoops.

She shrugged and hissed in a breath at the pain in her ribs. “I’ll think on this situation
in the morning.
”

Probably a real mistake to dismiss the multimillionaire, but truly, what could he do? Smear her name in his social circles? She didn’t travel in those. Denigrate her as a psychic? She didn’t want that business either. As far as she was concerned, he needed her more than she needed him.

She wondered how many times the man had been told no.

•   •   •

Zach sat in the back garden of Mrs. Flinton’s house, tired but unable to sleep. He’d had dinner with the elderly ladies and had told them of his progress on the old murder of J. Dawson Hidgepath. Mrs. Flinton considered herself so close to her godson, Tony Rickman, that she was an honorary member of the business.

She wasn’t . . . though she’d sure blabbed about Clare to the guy.

Now it was midnight and he couldn’t sleep. He’d tried. But he’d seen the damn crow behind his eyelids, even had one of those stupid flashbacks to the shooting that had crippled him.

And another flashback. Gone
way
back to the worst day of his life, when he was twelve. His parents had promised him that he could leave the base alone next time they moved. That was before his father got an early promotion. When they’d hit the new base, he’d wanted to explore the city outside and was shut down. He’d taken off anyway.

Though pissed, Zach
had
stayed inside the gates. Unfortunately his brother Jim hadn’t known that and had left the base, searching for Zach.

And gotten killed in a drive-by shooting.

Horrible. Zach pressed his hands to his head. Yeah, that was when he’d stopped believing in that little gift he thought he and Jim had shared.

Because Jim shouldn’t have been looking for Zach off base. Jim
should have known
where Zach was. But he hadn’t, so whatever extra sense Zach had thought he and his brother shared had been wrong.

So he didn’t have a special gift, and Jim hadn’t either. Because Jim had died.

But Zach had been seeing crows. Since Clare.

No, since he’d been shot.

Couldn’t trust anything like that.

Around and around his thoughts went, and the image of the crow loomed large.

So he pulled on pajama bottoms, made a few cups of the despised decaf coffee, and wandered, then sank into the lounge chair. The evening cool was turning into a cold night that he welcomed after the hot day.

His phone rang and his gut twitched. Late-night calls never brought good news. Whatever happened had happened, but fear twisted his nerves and sweat popped out on his face, his neck, his chest.

Clare. He stared at the phone as it pinged a standard tone. No number. Shrugging, he answered and said, “Say it fast.”

“Clare had a fall. She has two cracked ribs. The Park County sheriff is on the way,” came the measured words of Rossi.

“She’s okay?”

“Laurentine’s doctor has checked her out. Only bruises otherwise.”

“What kind of fall?”

“Slip and fall down the main staircase.”

Not outside on a mountain trail like J. Dawson Hidgepath.

“Looks like some furniture oil had pooled on the wooden stairs,” Rossi continued.

Why anyone would want a wooden staircase without carpet, Zach didn’t get. Furniture oil. Clare had said the housekeeper didn’t like her. “Why’s the sheriff coming?” Zach asked.

“A little suspicious. Laurentine is bandying around the words
attempted murder
.”

Zach snorted. “Damn stupid way to kill someone.”

“Slade, it’s pretty evident Clare was targeted by a phone call.” Rossi ran through the whole thing for him, in detail, then ended with, “The deputies took her cell.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Figured.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“She’s being seen by the in-house doctor.”

“Gimme Clare.”

“Hang on a minute, I’ll take the phone to her.”

Zach paced, heard Rossi shout orders to a couple of guys to watch Laurentine until he relieved them. Noises came of opening and closing doors, a pedantic tone that might be from a doctor.

“Zach?” Clare sounded a little breathless, was all.

“You okay?”

“Pretty much. I have a couple of cracked ribs.”

“Why aren’t you at a hospital?”

“I’d rather not be transported . . . and the choice was Leadville or Frisco.”

“I’m coming up. Now.”

“You don’t have—”

“I’m coming.”

A sigh. “All right. I’ll wait up for you.”

“Stay with people, Clare.”

“I’d rather go to bed.”

“Stay with people.”

“All right.” A pause. “Thank you, Zach.”

“No problem.” He cut the call, hustled into his apartment, dressed fast, and threw clothes and extra ammo in his duffel, trying to keep his mind from running on a hamster wheel.

Clare was hurting. He needed to ease her pain.

Clare was a target. He needed to protect her.

Clare was too damn far away. He needed to be with her.

Glancing around the room, he saw the tiny sample perfume bottle he’d taken from her closet sitting on his dresser. Two strides and he closed his hand around it, felt the glass, the edges of the bottle hard against his palm. He lifted his hand and caught a whiff of the scent, Clare’s fragrance. The fear lessened and anger was burning under that, but he couldn’t afford to let that out now.

He tucked the perfume bottle into an inside pocket of his bag, swept his gaze around his bedroom. Nothing more he needed. His other weapons were in the gun safe.

After he switched off the lights, he strode into the living room, stepped near the small passage to the open kitchen, and flicked on the night-light stuck in a wall socket. For some reason the ladies liked it on when he was gone. Even after so short a time living with them, he had begun using it as a signal that he’d be away during the night or, like now, several days. Hell, he supposed he should leave them a note.

At the dinner they’d insisted he share, he’d told them he’d be going up to Park County to do some research and might stay with Clare. He’d just say he
would
stay with Clare. If Laurentine wouldn’t accept him as a guest at the DL Ranch, Zach would take Clare the hell out of there . . . maybe he should anyway, though he usually liked keeping an enemy close . . . and he didn’t know what Clare wanted. Yet.