Ghost Talker (12 page)

Texas Jack inclined his head.
It's a shame he has to do so. That boy—the new ghost—has a lot to answer for.

“Yes, the new ghost does have a lot to answer for,” Zach repeated, and Clare knew they'd be taking turns casually
informing Mr. Welliam of what Texas Jack said.

“New ghost?” Mr. Welliam asked.

“Ah.” Clare shuffled, trying to recall exactly what they'd talked about at brunch the day before.

Zach raised a brow. He took his hand from her shoulder, then looked in the direction of Texas Jack, so Clare deduced Zach could still see the phantom.

Leaning a little toward Mr. Welliam, Zach said in confidential tones, “Now that you're a client, we can tell you that the poltergeist is not Buffalo Bill.”

“You said that Sunday morning.” Mr. Welliam nodded, eyes gleaming.

“Well, Texas Jack isn't the poltergeist, but he's a . . . person Clare can communicate with.”

“Yes, yes.”

“He informed us that the dust devil is a new ghost, someone who, uh, just perished, but hasn't uh—”

“Crossed over,” Mr. Welliam provided.

“Right,” Zach said. “This poltergeist is a contemporary ghost.”

Mr. Welliam's eyes widened. “Wow. But how will Miss Cermak—”

“We, and Texas Jack, will help the new ghost transition, but we need more information.”

“Okay, got it.” Mr. Welliam looked expectantly at Clare.

“Have you seen the new ghost lately?” Clare asked Texas Jack.

That I have. He hasn't missed a dawn nor an evening, but he doesn't hang around.

“The poltergeist was active last night and this morning,” Mr. Welliam said at the same time.

“Exactly what Jack told us,” Clare said. She cleared her throat and looked down the path when she heard voices, but the people didn't come closer. Drawing herself up, she met Mr. Welliam's eyes. “This will be quicker if we speak with Texas Jack and don't relay everything he says right now. Later—”

“Sure!”

“You will probably be able to follow the conversation anyway,” Zach said, with a look that conveyed he believed the man brilliant.

Mr. Welliam grinned.

Clare thought she heard a choked laugh from Texas Jack, but he wore a bland expression when she shot him a glance.

“What can you tell us about the new ghost?” Zach asked.

Now Jack frowned.
I got a good look at the guy.
Jack shook his head.
He sorta looks like my old pard.

“He looks like William Cody,” said Clare.

Jack turned to her fluidly, more fluidly than a human could manage, though as far as Clare could tell, the phantom tried his hardest to act human,
keep being
human. Interesting.

That's right. Sort of. But he isn't Bill. This one's my height, and Bill was taller'n me, more muscular than the new ghost, too. His clothes look like what we wear—wore—but not quite.

“Perhaps the clothes look like they're made from different material? And not constructed like they would have been when you and Buffalo Bill . . . rode together.”

Yes.
Jack nodded.
He looks like Bill the way you described him to me, Clare, after he became a great man.
Jack shrugged broad shoulders.
The long white hair, mustache, and goatee, wearing the oddest looking buckskins I ever saw, though. And
—he pointed the cigar at her and Clare could swear she saw a glowing end—
white hair, but unlined face, slim. Moved like a young man. Eyes weren't the right color.

“So someone pretending to be Buffalo Bill,” Zach continued. “A fan.”

Fan?
Texas Jack asked.

“Someone who deeply admires someone else.” Clare smiled. “I'm a fan of John Baker Omohundro.”

Fan.
Texas Jack nodded, then tilted his head, gaze aimed straight at Zach.
Or an actor.

Zach grunted. Clare thought in surprise.

Shaking his head, Zach thumped his chest with his fist. “Sometimes a realization,
the
clue, deduction, solution doesn't come like an inner click of acknowledgment. Sometimes it hits like a baseball bat in the gut. An actor.”

“An actor!” Clare enthused at the same time, looking admiringly at Texas Jack.

“An actor!” Mr. Welliam trotted in place. “That makes so much sense! We have several men in the museum who play Buffalo Bill. For instance, during the roundup there will be several on hand.”

Zach's eyes narrowed and he rubbed a thumb along his jawline. “The poltergeist looks like Buffalo Bill Cody, and he shows up
here.
Maybe he thinks he
is
William Cody.”

“Oh my God,” Mr. Welliam exclaimed. His body angled the same way as hers and Zach's, toward Texas Jack, and he spoke in ringing tones. “Spirit of Texas Jack Omohundro, do you have any idea when this actor might have died? Or what might have caused his death? Can you tell? Was it anything like Buffalo Bill's death from kidney—”

Texas Jack faded and flickered, and Clare heard hollow sounds like wretched breathing.

“Quiet!” Clare snapped at Mr. Welliam. She tried not to mention actual causes of death before a ghost, unless that entity brought it up first. For this very reason. How could she help them transition if they feared her, associated her with unpleasantness? And many deaths were not pleasant. Texas Jack had died in a sick bed of pneumonia.

Mr. Welliam shut up, his eyes shifting back and forth, looking at Clare and Zach.

“Texas Jack, you've been a great help,” Zach said. “Now, do you recall whether the outfit the, uh, impersonator wore appeared anything like an exact copy of something you saw Bill wear, like in a photograph or something?”

“There are plenty of photographs of Buffalo Bill,” Clare added cheerfully.

“That's right,” Mr. Welliam said in a subdued tone. “We have a lot in the museum and on our online database.”

Seeming to ignore Mr. Welliam, and now twirling a lasso with consummate skill, Texas Jack said,
Not that I recall. Wasn't like our reg'lar everyday clothes, I can tell you that. And nothing he wore in
Scouts of the Prairie
, or good clothes either, that we used when we were back East.

“Fake buckskins like the fake Buffalo Bill,” Zach said. “So I don't need to look for stores and tailors carrying the real thing, but places that sell stuff that looks like buckskin. Thanks, Texas Jack. An actor who looks like Buffalo Bill wearing fake buckskins.”

You know, Miss Cermak
, Texas Jack said thoughtfully.
I think that spirit is so churned up that he doesn't know he's dead.
His stare focused on his spinning loop of rope as if he concentrated, working something out.
And I think your man is right. This guy doesn't know who he is.
Jack's dark and otherworldly gaze met hers.
He thinks he's Bill, there
. Jack angled his chin at the quartz-covered graves.
I don't know how that is, that he thinks he's Buffalo Bill when Bill is so long gone, but he does
.

“Thank you, Jack.” Zach nodded at the shade. “You've given me a couple of good leads.”

“Lead?” Jack asked.

“A trail to follow. Think of me as a Pinkerton detective.” Zach smiled back at the phantom.

Clare chuckled. He began to accept her gift more and more, interacting with the ghosts on a personal basis and with details they would recognize.

The two men, one alive, one dead, shared a glance, and the hair on the back of Clare's neck ruffled at being between them—as if they shared a portion of energy. That sounded stupid, but it was more like they shared significant qualities—a need to help, a code of honor, a strength of will. Strength in general. These two men were strong physically, mentally, emotionally. Tough, reliable guys who wouldn't let you down.

She didn't admire anything more, though her Zach tended to brood and be less sociable than Texas Jack Omohundro.

Zach nodded to the phantom. “Now I can really dig into the identity of the poltergeist.”

Yes, Zach and the frontiersman were well on the way to bonding—and leaving Clare out of their male connection. Though she'd imagine that the scout must crave company, and Zach would have made a good companion for the man. She narrowed her eyes. Oddly enough she could envision Zach more as a Native American scout than as an Anglo frontiersman, the trace of his heritage simply that evident, though it had to be several generations back.

And no, she wouldn't be getting solid personal information from Texas Jack this afternoon. The manly man especially wouldn't reveal any weakness before Zach, any personal problem that might be keeping him a ghost.

Enzo, who'd been rambling around the knoll of the hill as usual, rubbed against Texas Jack and said,
The other specter
smells confused. New ghost, young and confused mind.

“And perhaps scared of his current state,” Clare said softly.

The gray dimension is no joke, that is true for sure
, Texas Jack said. He coiled his rope.
And it takes some getting used to.
He raised his face to the sky and the mid-afternoon sun. He met Clare's eyes.
I'm glad to experience a little bit of my old life. I can do that with you being here. Thanks.

Well, maybe he
was
becoming more accustomed to her, and relating enough that he'd let her aid him on to the next step in the cycle of life and death. Dealing with the poltergeist gave them a common goal and time to learn each other, so that may have been a blessing in disguise.

“Anytime, Jack,” Clare said.

“If we have any more questions, we'll be back this evening,” Zach said.

A faint smile curved Jack's mouth.
I'll be here, riding herd on the young one, making sure he don't clobber no one in the noggin.
He eyed the graves.
Not sure I can keep all the rocks from flyin', but I can keep 'em from hittin' anyone.

“That's excellent,” Clare said.

Adios.
A dip of his head in their direction and he vanished.

“Good-bye,” Clare said, a little too late.

Enzo came up and sat on her feet, sending cold throughout her body.
We're going back home now, huh, Clare? Can I ride in the truck bed, huh?

Zach grinned, let his hand drop to casually pet Enzo.
Sure, Enzo.

Clare answered mentally, too.
We'll be glad to have you at home.

Speak for yourself
. Zach's words came whispery, mind-to-mind, as if he talked to her privately and Enzo couldn't hear. A lovely tingle zipped down her spine, along her nerves to spread over her skin.
I'm just glad the ghost dog never hangs around while we have sex, and I plan on plenty of sex tonight.

She flushed.

“Sorry about bringing up the ‘D' word,” Mr. Welliam said, apparently understanding Texas Jack no longer graced them with his presence. “I know better than to mention death, but I got caught up.”

“Not a problem.” Clare gave him her best “reassure the client” smile. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. Texas Jack began to flicker and it seemed we'd reached an important point in the conversation.”

Mr. Welliam nodded. “I understand.” He smiled. “And I think I followed along very well.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Slade—”

“It's Zach.”

“Zach, do you want me to introduce you around at the museum? They would be the ones who would know of any actor wishing to play Buffalo Bill.”

Clare rather thought that Zach had contacted and talked with people yesterday. He cocked an eyebrow at her and said,
“Sure, doesn't hurt to go around with a donor.”

Mr. Welliam nodded, then glanced at Zach's cane, then away. The older man coughed. “If you two plan on coming up here after hours, you should call ahead so they will open the gate for your vehicle.” A smile formed then faded on the genial man's face. “Otherwise you'll have to hike up that trail. It's really only good for one person and, uh, consists of dirt and some rocks that could trip a person up.”

Zach nodded, though Clare saw a flash of irritation at the mention of his disability. For a man like Welliam, who enjoyed using his feet and legs and running, Zach's hurt ankle would hold a certain horror.

Then her lover showed off. He tossed the cane, caught it, twirled it, and did a few other fancy moves she knew he learned from his recent bartitsu lessons. In the same playful Victorian mood, she clasped her hands together and held them to her chest, watching appreciatively.

Mr. Welliam's eyes widened, immediately distracted. “You're more than proficient with that cane.”

Zach turned and did some jabs and blocks. “It's not only an accessory, it's a good weapon.”

“I can see that,” Mr. Welliam said. “Did you, ah, learn that lately?”

And the question made Clare—and she figured Zach—think Mr. Welliam had done a little research on Zach's background, maybe even found news coverage on a video site. The Montana television stations had discussed the various ramifications of Zach's shooting for months, and reported the outcome of a large disability settlement and pension for him.

Of course, Mr. Welliam might have asked Mr. Rickman.

One more impressive twirl of the cane, and Zach put it down and leaned on it, not at all out of breath. “I'm taking bartitsu.”

Mr. Welliam's forehead wrinkled. “Bartitsu? Have I heard of that? I think I have.”

“Sherlock Holmes movies?” Zach prompted. “Bartitsu consists of cane fighting, jujitsu, and boxing.”

“Oh!” Mr. Welliam nodded. “Well, what say I introduce you both to the museum folks?”

Me, too!
Enzo wagged the whole back of his body.

Clare hadn't planned on this, and it would eat up time she could put to better use, but she agreed, and said to Enzo,
Of course, you, too.
It
was
always interesting to see who reacted to Enzo—the cold drafts, his barking, perhaps even a quick sight of him.

She might as well become accustomed to being seen by a lot of people as someone with a psychic gift, and get used to the reactions to her as well as Enzo.

*   *   *

“You handled that very well,” Zach said, leading an only slightly shell-shocked Clare into her house and back to the breakfast bar in the kitchen. He put his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the stool before he went to the bar. “You want wine?”

“No.”

He actually heard her harsh breathing, then she said, “Give me a rum and Coke.”

He raised his brows, but he had noted the fancy rum before and the untouched pack of soda in the refrigerator, so he poured her a rum and Coke and placed it before her.

“I haven't—” she began, then took the short glass of liquor, tossed off half the contents and placed it on the granite bar with a clink. Her spine remained straight, though her hair had gotten a little rowdy and her sundress actually looked a little wilted. “I haven't
ever
had to talk so much about . . . or
listen
so much about . . . my gift . . . and any and all psychic . . . talents.”

“Mr. Welliam likes to chat,” Zach said agreeably, taking off his jacket, shoulder harness, and weapon and hanging them on the upright of a stool back. He snagged himself a beer from the fridge and sat next to her. Then he clinked his bottle against her glass before she took another swig. “To coming out of the closet as a psychic.”

She turned her head slowly to stare at him. “Easy for you to grin. Mr. Welliam didn't trot out
your
precognition for everyone to hear. And judge you.” Her hazel eyes stared at Zach, and though they had shadows and perhaps another secret or two, they also held confusion and hurt.

He set his beer, his favorite brand that she stocked, aside to lay his hand against her cheek. “Clare, I'm very proud of you.”

“I did,” she said. “I did come out of the closet.” She closed her eyes. “It was hard.”

“It took guts to, ah, maintain your regular courteous standards.” He brushed a curl of brown-red hair away from her face. “With Mr. Welliam as well as the museum and gift shop and café folk.”

“Welliam is a client, and he was
right there
, all the time.”

“He did introduce us to everyone, and they were all polite because he's a big-time donor. But the bottom line is that we have permission to visit the grave site at any time, and if the gate is locked, the staff will open it up for you, me, or us if they're there.”