Ghost Seer (28 page)

“You’re right.” He pouted. “I’ll have to work with a knife first, I suppose.”

H
E TURNED AND
left, not even closing the door, but Clare was busy holding her hands over her mouth swallowing and swallowing again. She should just upchuck and get it over with, instead of fighting to be mannerly, civilized, decent. Belatedly she lumbered to the door, found it blocked by Ted.

Again he shoved her back and she landed on her rump and winced, and then her eyes went to the gleam of a knife in his hand.

“I should maybe start with a knife. I have handcuffs and ropes and stuff, too, but I wanted to be nice about this.”

Her heart thumped hard, her pulse in her temples drowning out everything else.

 • • • 

Around sunset, after a workout and shower and dinner, Zach got so twitchy that he couldn’t stay in.

The bartitsu studio was having a class that he’d been invited to observe and he decided to do that, dressed in old jeans that had plenty of give and a T-shirt.

As he exited his apartment, his scalp tingled and his hair rose. He heard a caw and instinctively his shoulders hunched. Didn’t matter that he couldn’t see the damn crows, he knew they sat on a power cable above and behind him. He could almost imagine the number of them . . . No. No, he couldn’t. So he’d have to turn around and look.

He let his shoulders sink, gripped the handle of his cane, and pivoted around.

Seven. Just like a few days before.
Seven for a secret not to be told.
Hell, he was in the business of secrets, ferreting them out. Shouldn’t he have expected this more often?

Then two more crows joined their friends. Fear skewered Zach. Nine.
Nine for hell.

The last time he’d seen nine had been when he’d gone to help Clare and had noticed the bank robbery. Clare’s secret, the bank robber’s secret, whichever had pulled him had been . . . dire, hellish.

Not just run-of-the-mill secrets like who bought Mrs. Flinton’s antiques.

And he knew deep down in the marrow of his bones, in the ache around the damn titanium, that trouble had found Clare. Again.

If he went to her, he’d be admitting her insights were right, wouldn’t he? That he really had to accept the changes in his life, move past the denial part of the stages of loss that the shrink he’d talked to had laid out.

He’d passed right through the bargaining, not his kind of deal, and hard to bargain when you usually figured you’d lose, especially when you couldn’t control your own damn foot. Not hard to show the anger part, but he’d faked the acceptance, hadn’t truly gotten out of the denial phase. Deny, deny, deny. Change his venue so he could continue to deny.

Usually he didn’t let his mind play tricks on him, but he had now. He wasn’t
ready
to accept that his previous career was over, that his life had changed.

Crap. Where had his balls gone? Emotional courage. He’d always thought of himself as strong in every way, but he was nothing but an emotional coward.

Disgust at himself rolled tsunami-like through him, threatening to overwhelm. He could just go under. Prove himself weak, a lot weaker than his father. The thought of that man flashed anger that buoyed Zach. Like always, he wouldn’t ever be less than the General.

As far as Zach was concerned, the guy knew nothing about emotions. So Zach hurt, in his ankle and his mind and his heart. He damn well
grieved
for the life he had lost.

He stomped to his new vehicle, lifting his knee high so there was no chance of dragging his foot.

Yeah, he’d been avoiding the gut knowledge that Nothing Would Ever Be the Same. Because he sure didn’t want to wack out like Clare had.

She was better now . . . and his father, who’d stuck his always-vestigial emotions into the deep freeze when Jim had died . . . Zach didn’t want to be anything like General Slade. Better to hurt and suffer and . . . be a whole man. So he wouldn’t lie to himself anymore. He might not be able to admit, aloud and in words, that he hurt, but that was different.

Time to find out what danger threatened Clare.

He opened the door and stepped up into the truck, bumped his ankle and sweated and swore as his vision went white with pain. Then he set his jaw and went on, hit the ignition, exited from the drive, and turned onto the street. He glanced up at the line of crows. They were gone. He kept on swearing as he drove to Clare’s new place.

She wasn’t at home, the security was on, and there was no sign of her car. As far as Zach knew, she could have decided to keep on going to Cold Springs.

Wait, wait, she hadn’t taken the puzzle box with the other ear. He was certain of that. He’d left after her, and the box had been on the fireplace mantel in the living room. He’d noticed because it was the only object on the mantel.

He looked at his watch: after seven. Naturally he’d checked out the trip time, and she should have been back midafternoon at the latest, even with the worst traffic streaming into Denver.

A cop hunch about trouble skittered along his spine. He’d just have to find her.

 • • • 

Clare moved to the cot, sat with her feet together and her hands in her lap.

“Such a good, quiet girl you look,” Ted crooned. “Ready to reconsider?” he asked.

Through stiff lips she said, “What will you do to me if I do tell you whatever you want to know?”

“Let you go . . . if it’s soon. You don’t want to make me
too
mad.”

As far as she was concerned, he already was mad in the crazy sort of way.

“Let me go? That’s it?”

He chuckled. “You wouldn’t go to the police about this.”

“Yes, I would,” she shot back before she could think better of it.

Shaking his head, he said, “You’d sound crazy . . . some guy kidnaps you because he wants you to talk to ghosts?”

She swallowed. “I’m not the crazy one.”

His lips tightened and his hand holding the gun quivered a little bit. “Maybe not. But you’re getting a rep as a medium. The cops don’t care for frauds.”

“I’m not a fraud!” She jumped to her feet and the knife jerked as he followed her movement. She wrapped her arms around herself.

He waved the knife again and she couldn’t prevent a shudder. His smile widened to the crazy grin she distrusted. His creaky cackle of a laugh rasped her ears and her nerves. “Tsk, tsk, Ms. Cermak.” He shook his head. “Such a liar you are, about being a psychic medium, about being able to summon ghosts and talking to them, about everything!” He sliced air with the knife. “About not knowing of the gold robbery. Especially the gold robbery.”

Nothing she could say would make a dent in Ted’s obsession; she was doomed.

“I—”

A timer dinged. “Ah, my pizza is done,” Ted said.

Clare stared. “You used the
oven
in the house?”

“Yes, the heat is incredible; I thought it might add incentive.” With a glance around the bare room, he said, “This bedroom sure holds on to the heat, doesn’t it? But I think I’ll have some food and a nice cold drink now.” Smacking his lips, he shut and locked the door.

Instants later the smell of hot cheesy dough and pepperoni seeped through the cracks in the bedroom, making her mouth water, though she still felt queasy.

Clare got to work on trying to inch the window open; it moved about a sixteenth of an inch a shove. She’d become more and more aware of her bladder until she shifted from foot to foot. This bedroom shared a wall with the bathroom; so close and too far!

The cot had wooden legs. She could lift it and break the window glass, then set the cot down and try to climb out through a narrow window jagged with glass. But she believed it would take more than one jolt and neighbors wouldn’t notice the noise. Ted would hear it and run in with his knife and his gun and rope or chains or whatever else he might want to use on her.

So she grunted and pushed and pushed and . . .

A chain rattled. How could he eat so fast? Would he torture her with food and drink?

Yes, he would. He stood in the doorway, with the gun, snarfing down pizza and making yummy noises, all the while watching her.

If she’d had any outrage left she’d have spit at him.

Think and think again!

Her car was out front. He’d said so. All she had to do is get out, run away. She might be able to do it. Outrun a bullet? Her inner critic laughed and laughed. But Ted wanted something from her; he wouldn’t shoot to kill, would he? Any shot in this neighborhood would be heard and reported. She could run faster than he. She was younger and probably fitter. She hadn’t ever seen him move at more than a walk. And she didn’t know what kind of shot he was. Was it worth the risk?

Yes
, said Enzo, materializing next to her. He sat and offered a paw as if to shake.

Where have you been!

With Jack Slade. There are problems, he is devolving.

I have effing problems, too!

Enzo cocked his head.
Yes, you should leave. We should leave.

Can you help? Distract him somehow?

The Lab barked loudly, circling the room at a run. Ted showed no sign that he saw or heard the dog.

Maybe if I talk to you . . .

I don’t think that would be good, Clare.

She huffed a breath.

Enzo went up and sniffed Ted.
He doesn’t smell sane, Clare.

And Enzo knew sane and insane, she reminded herself.

I can’t affect him. He believes in ghosts in his broken mind, but not in his gut. It’s the gut and instincts we can work with only.

Clare slid a glance at Ted. “You know, I dug up something. I didn’t have time to fully examine it.” A lure, a temptation . . .

He bit.

“What was it? I couldn’t see.” He sounded petulant.

She wet her lips. “A bottle.”

“A bottle?” His eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t decide whether that information was interesting.

“I couldn’t tell whether there was anything in it.” She widened her eyes, jerking a little as if she regretted her words, and shook her head. “No, nothing more than a bottle.”

“It didn’t look like a strongbox . . . but all reports said the strongbox was broken and the gold gone.”

“I’m sure the bottle came
later
. Nothing to see. Really.” She smiled too brightly, wondering if the simple reverse psychology she was using would actually work. She didn’t think it would on a non-obsessive normal person, but Ted wasn’t normal.

“Maybe I should go see,” he said.

“Oh. All right.” Just as she knew this house, she knew her car. The bottle was jammed under the seat and the seat didn’t move easily . . . a little back and forth manipulation of both automatic and manual levers would be necessary to retrieve it. She was
sure
getting the bottle out would frustrate Ted. Perhaps he’d want her to do it. Let her out to do it.

He pivoted in the doorway and she thought of jumping him since he held the gun loosely, but then he took another step into the hall and she’d missed her chance. Zach wouldn’t have. Zach wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped in the first place. Stop thinking of Zach and concentrate on
herself
.

The door slammed shut and the knob lock clicked.

Next time she had to be prepared. It would be so good if he’d let her pee.

Meanwhile her stomach pinched and the lingering smell of pizza didn’t sit so well with her.

His footsteps stomped back and he flung the door open, scowling, now holding the gun with some purpose. “I can’t get the damn bottle from under the seat.” Gesturing with the gun, he took a few steps back.

Clare scuttled forward, past the threshold, and all she could think of was getting out, forget the bathroom for now.

Near-suffocating heat wrapped around her, but
fresh
air came from the open front door, along with the last smudge of twilight before real night. That would make shooting harder, right?

I have a plan
, she sent to Enzo.

Y
ES, YES, YES!

At the right minute, I’m going to run for it.
And pray that she didn’t end up as a ghost herself. No, she wouldn’t. She had few regrets . . . even Zach . . . she’d said what had to be said. She put all thoughts but her plan aside.

If you—or the Other—can give me any help, please do so.

Enzo didn’t answer that comment.

Ted motioned her to the door with the gun, looking all too serious. She magnified a cringe. The hole of the barrel of the gun seemed gigantic, as if it could swallow her. As if it would shoot a cannonball to shatter her into a thousand bloody bits. She opened the front door and went into the front yard and sent her gaze up and down the street for anyone, any hope, to no avail.

The driver’s-side door of her car remained open. She glanced back at Ted; he was walking toward her. A key was in the ignition—so the automatic seat control would move. Could she possibly drive away? Maybe . . . then the gun touched her back, like nothing she’d ever felt, but unmistakable against her spine. Perhaps she could bend, kick him, or something . . . but she wasn’t a very physical woman.

“You try to sit in the seat and I’ll shoot you,” Ted said.

“You need me.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But there are other mediums. I just hadn’t thought of that angle.”

“Or you could actually do research,” Clare said bitterly.

He backed out of hitting and kicking range.

She bent down. She kept a tidy car, not a loose pen or even a paper clip to throw. Only the spade, and if she tried to heave it at Ted and hurt him, she just knew she’d fail.
Forget acting impulsively and stick with the plan.
A little toggle here, a touch there, and the seat rose. As it tilted forward, she yanked out the paper-towel-wrapped bottle with a grunt, got a good grip on the neck.

“You have it?” Ted asked.

She hesitated an instant, then answered, “Yes.”

“Bring it out.”

She did, straightening and slamming the car door. That sound wasn’t as loud and didn’t travel as far as she liked, wouldn’t upset the neighbors . . . should she have turned on the radio, blasted music? She’d have been blasted herself.

Ted stood a few feet away, gun aimed at her middle; she forced her gaze away from the hole in the barrel.

I know what you’re going to do, Clare. It will work!
Enzo cheered.

This time she hoped he had preternatural knowledge, or precognition, and it wasn’t simply empty encouragement.

“Hold the bottle up so I can see it,” Ted commanded.

He should have turned on the porch light. No hint of any contents was visible.

She hefted it in her hands, frowned and put it to her ear, then shook it a little. “Huh.”

“What is it?” Ted insisted with the ring of desperation in his voice.

Clare studied it. “There might be something in here,” she whispered. She flung it at him and he squealed like a young girl, hopping back as the thing shattered at his feet.

She grinned, with teeth. “There’s an ear.”

He screeched, high and clear, and she took off running. She could make it a few blocks to a local bar and safety.

Then she heard the shot, saw chips of concrete fly from the sidewalk no more than a pace ahead of her.

“I’ll shoot again!” Ted threatened.

“Take the ear,” Clare yelled, feeling reckless, running harder. “It’s worth something, I bet.” But her body began to stress how physically hard the day had been. Her wind was poor.

He shot again, and she tripped, turned her ankle, and went down.

“Clare!” Zach shouted.

Zach. Her ankle sent spears of red-hot pain, her head throbbed, the world wavered around her. She mewled.

Rapid footsteps, a whoosh, thunk, and yell of pain—from Ted—and then Zach was there.

Clare threw up, just missing his shoes.

 • • • 

Zach had taken Ted’s gun and hit him, but the guy had a hard head because while Zach helped Clare, Ted escaped.

She cleaned herself up in the bathroom as he called the police, which was unnecessary since everyone on the block had, and now popped out of their doors and milled around the dark street punctuated by porch lights and headlights from the police cruisers. When an ambulance came, Zach strong-armed her into going to the hospital. At that time, Enzo winked out. He said that the ambulance smelled of too many dying and dead and he couldn’t keep himself together, which clued Clare in that he wouldn’t be visiting her in the hospital, either. She hoped her insurance would take care of this, it was so expensive.

She also fretted about the bottle glass, the ear, and most of all, the spade with dirt in the back of her car. What would the police say? Would they confiscate the ear?
Then
what would she do, especially since Jack Slade’s ghost was devolving? Would they arrest her for going to a historic place and . . . defacing it? Stealing from it?

Her blood pressure was high and she said it was from the stress of being shot. They hydrated her with a tube in her hand, wrapped her ankle, checked out her head, and gave her a little something, she didn’t know what, that settled her stomach immediately. It turned out that she had a sprained ankle and a mild concussion and she should rest.

Then Zach and the cops were allowed in. He looked comfortable and happy in cop company. She sent a speaking look to Zach and when he didn’t say anything, she tugged at one of her earlobes. He shook his head.

Relief surged through her in waves as she realized no one was going to charge her with anything. No trip to Virginia Dale, old bottle glass, or dirty spade was mentioned.

Someone in the neighborhood had been in their side yard watering when Ted fired the first shot. So there was an eyewitness to his attempted murder. Clare had to sip from her water at that. The witness had also seen Zach and Ted’s scuffle—Zach’s word, though he frowned heavily and Clare sensed that he was wishing he’d hit Ted harder, put him down and out. She reached and took his hand, held it, and said simply, “I’m glad you stayed with me.”

The police had found the knife, ropes, and a pair of handcuffs that Zach smirked at, so she thought they must have come from a sex shop.

She told them everything she knew about Ted, letting her confusion show with regard to the man and his madness, repeating again and again that treasure hunting was foolish. The fact that she still sat straight and looked like an accountant—she visualized herself wearing a sober suit and treating the policemen like her most straightlaced client—and had
been
an accountant, only quitting her job a week before because she’d come into an inheritance, helped a great deal.

So did Zach. He didn’t mention anything regarding “seeing ghosts” or his own “hunches.” The police recalled him from a few days before, and he had an easy manner with them, adapting to their rhythm.

They let her ramble until she got to the kidnapping, then asked for more details.

And then they told her he’d gotten clean away. She stared at the cop in charge for a long minute as shock rolled through her. “Got away?”

“He’s not using his own vehicle,” Zach said. “And he gave notice to his professor that he was quitting his job immediately this
A.M.
” Zach squeezed her fingers. “We’ll find him, and until then, I’ll stay close.”

She drank a mouthful of water, she was so dry. A few seconds later she straightened her spine and shoulders. “All right.” She tried a smile; it didn’t feel too shaky. “After all, we’ve beaten him so far, haven’t we? He missed me both times he shot at me.”

Zach said gently, “You tripped, Clare.”

Again her mouth dried. A shudder rippled through her. “Oh.” After clearing her throat, she said, “Can I leave now?”

Apparently a doctor was in the other curtained-off space. He strode in and took out the tube in her hand. “We’ll release you. Watch that ankle and take care of yourself.” He shot Zach a look. “You help her take care of herself.”

“I will,” Zach said.

She looked at the policeman who’d introduced himself, but his name escaped her. “Thank you,” she said.

“Just doing my job,” he said, smiling, and wrinkles showed around his mouth and eyes. “I hope not to see you again, Ms. Cermak.”

“Well,” she said, “not in the line of duty, though if you’re friends with Zach, it may be another story.” She smiled and concentrated on getting off the exam table.

“Thanks for your cooperation,” the policeman said. “Zach, later.”

“Sure, Phil,” Zach said as the guy left.

Clare let her shoulders droop and put on the clothes she’d throw away as soon as she got home. “Thank you for coming for me, Zach.” She looked him in the eyes. “I don’t know how you found me.”

“It wasn’t too hard. You weren’t at home and I had a hunch. . . . Anyway, the only two people I could think of who were associated with you now were Barclay and Mather. Barclay was clear. I looked into Mather’s whereabouts, learned he’d quit precipitously, and his car was found on your block. Your new block. Yours was missing. Just used logic after that.” He shrugged and took her hands. His mouth turned down. “I know we have to talk about—stuff. But not here, okay? Meanwhile, get used to the fact that I’ll be with you.”

He pressed her hands, his eyes going darker. “And you were right about . . . other things.”

The comment made her flush, hold tight to his hands, too. He didn’t show any stress at her hard grip. “You’re a hero. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself.”

“But I fell, and sprained my ankle. I might not have made it, been able to follow my plan.”

One side of his mouth quirked up. “You’d have thought of something.”

She sighed. “I suppose so. Can we really get out of here?”

“I’ll take you home.”

“And stay with me?” She hadn’t told him last night, but her bedroom had a low, masculine-looking dresser that she’d hoped would prompt him to leave more things at her place. She felt a little wary about mentioning it now, but perhaps soon.

“I’ll stay.” He remained stern-jawed until they reached the parking lot and a big black pickup truck.

He opened the door.

“This is yours?”

“Yeah. Leased it today. A patrolman will bring your car around to your new place when the cops are done with it. Might even be there before you get there.”

She shivered but didn’t want to mention her fears aloud.

He opened the door and helped her up. She stopped an instinctive comment about having such a vehicle with his hurt leg.

“Black’s not great in the summer heat,” she said instead, closing the door and pulling her seat belt on. The truck smelled new, too.

He grunted. “It’s good for nighttime, for, say, driving to a scene to trespass.”

There was that.

“It gleams,” she pointed out, then said, “Oh.”

He slanted her a grin. “Yeah, it won’t by the time we traverse a few dirt roads to Cold Springs.”

“It’s pretty big.”

“Tell me, Clare, you think a big black truck will stand out in Wyoming farm and ranch country?”

“Well, no. No, I don’t.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She waited until he was out of the parking lot to say, “Where’s the ear?”

“Jack Slade’s ear?”

“That’s the one.”

“We didn’t find it.”

“It was in the bottle that was shattered on my old driveway.”

“
In
the bottle?”

“I got the idea teenaged boys goofed around at some point in the past and stuffed the ear in a bottle.” She sniffed.

He kept his face bland. “Ah.” Then he said, “Did you see the ear?”

“Yes, but just for an instant. It made Ted scream and I took off. We’d better go back and find it.” How could she help Jack Slade move on with only one of Jules Beni’s ears? How would that affect the ghost, the procedure, the rules . . .
her
?