Ghost Talker (20 page)

One last look around showed Zach that there were people near the lookout viewers watching the lights on the plains and in Denver wink on.

The whirling dust, now including a couple of pine cones and a whisk of needles, flew closer, though as Zach narrowed his eyes, he saw it hop around unsteadily.

Well, from what he'd learned of Darin Clavell, he hadn't been a steady sort of guy.

He's close!
Enzo barked and Zach heard him clearly.

Zach stuck his fingers into the cool flow of air of spectral Labrador, murmured, “Come on, dog.”

Yes, Zach! I am glad you can see me now and can see other ghosts when you touch me! I feel really good because the Other gave me some juice! And even better 'cause he's gone!
Enzo wiggled away from Zach's hand and vanished, then came back to Zach's touch and looked up at him with a lolling tongue.
It won't last long, but I am glad we are together now because we are a TEAM!

“Yeah,” Zach muttered. He and Enzo and Clare became more of a team every day. Sometimes the concept gave him a good rattling of the nerves, especially when tinged with the emotion of love. Sometimes the idea comforted, felt right.

Tonight seemed a little in-between. Dark sky, a sprinkling of none-too-bright stars, two ghosts—one an okay guy, one weird and not in control of his violent side like Zach and Texas Jack were.

With a gesture toward him and the juiced-up Enzo, Texas Jack moved away from the grave site, into a more sheltered area of pine needles and cones under tall pines and spruces. He drifted to a small area of level ground and sat cross-legged. Turning a sigh into a grunt, Zach lowered himself near a tree and used the trunk for a backrest. He set his cane beside him. Enzo lay panting next to him. Zach stroked the dog's head.

Zach didn't look directly at the slight swirl of dust denoting Darin Clavell, but it, too, subsided onto the ground. And calmed. Slowly, slowly, a shape coalesced in the silence. Lighter—less dense—than Texas Jack. Because the guy had been less substantial? Was a lot newer as a ghost than Omohundro? Who the hell cared?

Clare would, and Zach could almost feel her sulking down near the parking lot. No, not sulking, but irritated, for sure. He smiled faintly. She'd begun to not only accept but embrace this vocation of hers and now she was sitting it out. She'd argue, of course, that she'd need all the information she could get. Which was the truth. So Zach better stop this mind-wandering and gather data for her.

For an instant, he saw Darin Clavell's too-immature-for-a-guy-in-his-forties-face before the archetypical mustache and goatee belonging to Buffalo Bill Cody decorated it. Though the dark-fog eyes seemed blacker—like the man's eye sockets had been deeper than Bill's.

“Hey, pard,” Texas Jack said easily. A gesture from that phantom's hand had the illusion of a large crackling fire blazing
between them, along with the accoutrements of a camp.

“Good to meet up with you again, Bill,” Jack continued, smiling at Clavell.

“Hey.” A pause. “Texas Jack?”

“That's right.”

Clavell stared at Zach, lips nibbling at his mustache, something Zach would have bet hard cash that Buffalo Bill hadn't done. The actor angled his chin at Zach. “Who's that?”

Yeah, Zach still had on his slacks, a good shirt, and a jacket that covered his holstered weapon.

“Dunraven,” Jack said laconically.

“Dunraven?” Clavell scowled. But he should have known the name. Zach did and he wasn't nearly as into the research as Clavell must have been.

Still, Zach felt mildly insulted. The pics and drawings he'd seen of Earl Dunraven—not the Earl
of
Dunraven, which is how he'd have said it—showed a pale, thin, twiggy man, even if he'd been an excellent shot. No way could Zach fake some sort of upper-class British accent, let alone one from the late eighteen hundreds.

“Earl Dunraven,” Zach said. He whisked a hand toward Enzo. “My dog, Tweed.” The guy
had
brought a dog along on his hunts in America, though a Labrador looked nothing like a collie.

Zach inclined his torso. “Thank you for your services in guiding me and my hunting party.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“You're a real man's man, Dunraven,” Texas Jack said. Then he turned to watch Clavell as he fidgeted, and Zach did the same, waiting until the poltergeist settled down. Guy didn't have the patience of the real Buffalo Bill, or Jack or Zach—all hunters.

The silence of the high hill and park worked on them all. The visitors were gone, and whoever kept the gate open for Clare must be down in the parking lot, too.

Yep, pure male company, no need for talk, an atmosphere of unspoken communication they all understood.

Enzo dropped into a snooze with an occasional snore. Zach let his body sink into relaxation and the trappings of the camp, accepting the illusion, though he kept a portion of his brain on alert. He and Texas Jack hadn't discussed this operation, but he thought they both knew how to play it. And Texas Jack had, like Darin Clavell, been an actor. During investigations Zach had learned to drag on a persona or two also.

There was something primal about sharing this time, this space with two other men.

After a minute, Jack gave a low laugh and shook his head, smiled at Clavell. “Well, pard, you recollect that first hunting trip we guided for English nobles?”

Clavell frowned. “I . . . I . . . Yes.”

Zach wondered how much time Clavell had spent horseback. Zach had been born in Colorado but of a military family. He was raised on bases all over the country and would be hard-pressed to ride a horse.

Clavell's sharp gaze softened as Texas Jack went into storytelling mode.

“You recall that mustang I rode? The one that could kick the hat off your head while you were on his back? What a laugh.” And Texas Jack's head tipped back and his chest expanded as he laughed, just charming Zach and Clavell as the man had done with others so many times before.

Zach heard the wind through feathers and tensed, then forced himself to relax and glance casually across and up at a tree branch. Two crows sat there. Two for luck. He let his breath whisper out. They could do this.

“Yeah, I . . . remember,” Clavell said, but dark lines in the pale specter's face showed as he frowned.

“What was the name of that bronco?” Texas Jack asked, his smile broad but his gaze penetrating.

More frowning from the present-day spook.

“Do you really remember, Darin?” Zach asked. “Or do you remember driving a car? The Chrysler you bought last year? Do you remember that?”

“Wha—” Clavell shook his head in confusion.

“Darin Clavell.” Zach lowered his voice, instilled command into it. “Remember who you are!”

“What—” The actor surged upward to his nonexistent feet.

Zach pinned him with a pitiless gaze. They couldn't afford pity. “Remember who you are, Darin Arthur Clavell. You are
not
Buffalo Bill. You are an actor. You do
not
remember hunting—”

“Wapiti,” Texas Jack inserted, rising to his six foot height, a little shorter than Zach and inches taller than Clavell. With better control of his ghostly body, he strode over to Clavell. “We hunted wapiti, which are, sir?” Jack demanded of the actor.

“I . . . I . . . should know.”

“You don't know because you aren't Bill. You don't recall the mustang's name I rode because you aren't William Frederick Cody.” Texas Jack flung a gesture up the incline to the quartz rocks glinting behind the iron enclosure. “That ain't your grave up there.” Texas Jack seemed to take on an angry glow. Obviously the guy had switched to being the bad cop in this scenario, which left Zach with taking the gentler role, not comfortable to him.

Texas Jack turned to Zach. “Where is this imposter's grave?”

Clavell shuddered, rippled, began to break up. Texas Jack speared him with a glance. “Get ahold of yourself, boy. Show some control here,” he snapped.

The new ghost solidified into light and dark shadows. “My . . . my grave?” he nearly squeaked.

“Your urn rests in Longview Cemetery,” Zach said, coming up to stand next to the man's shade. Zach kept his voice soft but steady. “Your cousin George saw to that. You died of smoke inhalation in an apartment fire. You'd been drinking and doing drugs and smoking. You recall the Johnnie Walker you'd been drinking?”

Clavell's gaze had fixed on Texas Jack. “A man's . . . a man's got a right to drink whiskey when he wakes up, doesn't he?”

“You didn't wake up,” Zach said gently. “You fell asleep and died.
Look
at yourself.”

“No, no, I am
not
dead. I
am
Buffalo Bill.” Clavell began to disintegrate, the dirt beneath him started to spin.

Texas Jack jerked his head at the ghost. “It's time for you to move on, son. Stop worrying the living with your presence. That isn't helping no one. Not you. Not them.” Jack pointed behind Clavell. “Look to the light. Go into the light.”

A rectangular golden doorway appeared to Zach's eyes. He didn't know what the others saw, whether his imagination had shaped it, or Texas Jack had.

The eddy of pine needles whisked up to where Clavell's knees should have been. “I can't. I'm afraid. I accomplished nothing in this life.” A trickle of dampness appeared on his visage. “I'm a failure.”

“No,” Texas Jack said. “You're just a man. And you ain't a coward. Turn and go into the light.”

Zach found himself saying one of Clare's phrases. “You did the best you could with the resources you had.” To his credit, he meant it.

He thought he saw Clavell's phantom blink. “I did,” he whispered, more of a sighing of a breeze than human. “I did.” The air under him slowed, then settled.

Enzo, who'd come to his feet when Zach had stood, barked.
I can help you. I will walk with you to the light, Darin Arthur Clavell!

More staring by the contemporary ghost.
A dog! A Lab. I had a Lab as a kid.

And he'll be waiting for you
, Texas Jack said as Enzo bounded to Clavell's side, nudged the man's hand until the ghost petted him.

Let's go!
Enzo said, leaning on the guy's leg, then nudging him to turn.

Clavell pointed to Zach.
What about him? Will he walk with me, too?

He's alive and we aren't, son
, Texas Jack said.

Clavell's wraith shivered again, but he remained humanoid.

What about you, Texas Jack?
Clavell asked.

Pain twisted Jack's face.
I can't go on yet.
Again he angled his chin.
You go, now, say adios to this planet.

With a solemn nod, and brushing against Enzo, who appeared solid against the ghost, Clavell turned. Zach heard his gasp as he saw the bright door. Everything around them stilled for a minute, as if the stars themselves had stopped.

Then, with a yell, Clavell ran to the doorway and through, Enzo barking at the same time.

The moment popped.

“He's gone,” Zach said, more to himself than the dog or Texas Jack.

That's right
, Omohundro said, his expressive voice toneless for once.
A good end to a bad business.
He shook his head.
Well, that wasn't much fun.
He stretched and his spectral form thinned in spots.

“Thanks a lot for your help,” Zach said. He held out his hand.

Gaze still serious, but lips curving, Texas Jack, John Baker Omohundro, came up and clasped Zach's hand. Or rather, his fingers passed through Zach's like a cool breeze.

Enzo barked and trotted back to them, tongue hanging sideways out of his muzzle.
We did it! We are a GREAT team. We sent the ghost on, just like we were Clare!

Not really. Clare had other rules she had to live by, and Zach
hated
to see her step into a ghost and take on his or her memories, the sorrow that bothered the spirit the most, and shudder with the ice that flowed through their veins. From what he'd read of her notes, she'd never seen a doorway of streaming golden light, either.

We did fine
, Texas Jack said as he looked down at Enzo, his lips quirking.
Guess I'll head on back to my own . . . to Leadville.
He nodded at Zach, reached down, and scratched Enzo.
I'll be seeing you soon.

“That's right,” Zach said.

Good. That's good.
He looked up the hill and shook his head, his smile broadening into a grin.
And we got this done before that big party on Sunday.

“Buffalo Bill's Western Roundup,” Zach said.

Texas Jack adjusted his hat until it sat at the jaunty angle he preferred.
Ain't that something, that my old pard would be so well-respected and important. Couldn't have happened to a better guy.

Zach figured it should have happened to Texas Jack—then wondered if Clare had told him. Jack began to fade.

“Wait!” Zach called.

Omohundro's spirit solidified and he glanced over his shoulder, brows raised.
Yes?

“Do you know that you're in the Cowboy Hall of Fame?”

What?

“Your relatives applied for you to be in the Cowboy Hall of Fame, the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum.”

Jack grinned.
Well, isn't that fine of them.

“You got an award named the Wrangler.”

Nodding, Jack continued to smile.

Zach cleared his throat. “You're, ah, in the Hall of Fame for . . . actors who play cowboys. Or who were cowboys, too, but also—”

Jack threw back his head again and laughed long and loud enough to ring in Zach's ears from the inside out as he vanished.

That felt good.

Enzo barked and ran down toward the parking lot,
through
trees and rocks.