Ghost Talker Page 5

  She lingered to scan the amazing view of the plains and the city in the distance, watched as lights in the skyscrapers winked out. Such a wide expanse of land, all breathtaking, and the sky an equally infinite clear blue dome.

  For a moment she tried to just be, to enjoy the day and be mindful, like her beginning yoga instructor said during their meditation break. She thought she grasped the elusive serenity of no thought for an instant or two . . . then the pressure to follow her new vocation ruffled her nerves once more. Clearing her throat, she said, “Texas Jack, are you here?”

  Yes, I am, Miss Cermak, echoed in her mind, and the tall, broad-shouldered, athletic build of the phantom coalesced before her.

  Again he wore leather pants with fringe on the seams, a denim shirt, a long buckskin jacket, a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, and moccasins—and he winked at her as he twirled his lasso, making intricate patterns in the air.

  She studied the ghost of Texas Jack Omohundro—an affable ghost, not seeming to be despairing nor frightened, not demanding justice nor monstrous. Not like other spirits she’d helped transition to whatever came next.

  So she got down to the business—and her new vocation was a job—of determining the rules of this particular ghost.

  “Texas Jack, why are you here? From what I know of you and your life, I wouldn’t have thought you were the kind of man whose spirit would remain.” A good man, an honorable man who lived life easily. One who’d lived and loved well.

  The lasso faded from his hands into thin air, replaced by a cigar in long fingers. He didn’t meet her eyes with his fog-like ones, but gazed beyond her.

  I died in Leadville, but didn’t want to move on when my beloved wife remained alive. Then I got stuck here in the West, and when Giuseppina died in Massachusetts, I couldn’t get to her, to go on with her. Anger thrummed in his mental tones.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  I am, too.

  She gave a little cough, slid her eyes toward his distinct figure made up of dark and light shadows. “Why do you think you, ah, couldn’t get to Giuseppina in the East?” Her brain simmered with wondering where he’d been stopped, whether it had been the Mississippi River he couldn’t cross. Didn’t spirits have problems with running water?

  He didn’t answer her question and she pondered that, too. From her research he’d been a very direct man. Perhaps he needed a little time to think about the reason—or perhaps he didn’t want to reveal some inner emotion to her, a stranger, a woman, a single woman. Like all the tough guys she’d known, like Zach, Texas Jack Omohundro probably didn’t talk about emotions at all and saw speaking of inner conflicts as a weakness. And he wouldn’t be weak in front of someone he didn’t know . . . yet.

  So much for helping him transition quickly, though that wouldn’t solve the problem of the poltergeist, and she believed they’d need him for that. She sure couldn’t talk with a modern ghost.

  Yet, she’d have liked one of her major projects to be easy.

  So she let drop the topic of what might have anchored him in the gray nothingness in between life and death.

  “And why are you here at Buffalo Bill’s grave?” She waved her hand at the mounds of William Cody’s and his wife’s graves. It was unlikely that Texas Jack was a phantom tied to a specific place since the man had been buried in Leadville, Colorado, and here he was. If he couldn’t move around as a phantom he’d have stayed in Leadville, ninety miles away.

  He was my pard. Jack frowned, looked at his cigar. Though he’s long gone. Jack sounded wistful. I guess I sensed that something was happening here, some distress that eddied around his name, and I followed that disruption and ended up here. He glanced around. Pretty place; can see the mountains and the plains.

  “Yes, a lovely place. Do you intend to stay here on Lookout Mountain?” she asked softly. “Or will you come to Denver to talk to me? I have a comfortable carriage house I meet clients in.” She meant ghosts. She didn’t care for them in her new-to-her historic house built in the 1920s, her sanctuary and the reward she’d given herself for accepting her “gift.”

  Jack stood facing the plains—the delineation and large shadow of Table Mountain, the tall buildings of Denver jutting into the sky.

  Shaking his head and not looking at her, he said, I think that city would be hard for me. Too much has changed as I . . . slept. He turned in a circle, as if scanning the plains, the evergreens around them, the satellite antennas, the city buildings below.

  I mostly slept all these years. Didn’t much like the nasty grayness of nothing. Now his impassive expression faded and deep grief creased his face. Didn’t like being without my Giuseppina.

  “I understand the grayness is bad.”

  Nothingness. No sensations. Yes. The cigar disappeared from his hand and he stretched as if feeling the sunshine, turned his face toward the sun. I can range over the land, up to Yellowstone where I led hunting parties; here, of course; down to Texas; and all along the Chisholm Trail. But nothing much west of that.

  Clare would have to look at a map. At least she’d garnered a little information from this conversation. “I hear you,” she said, hoping to keep him talking.

  He jerked his head toward the graves. And right now, I’m riding herd on that young ’un who’s showing up. He just peeked in this morning, but left running when he saw me. Sure isn’t staying to confab.

  “Thank you for your help in the matter of the poltergeist. We appreciate it.”

  You’re welcome.

  “It may take a little time for Zach to discover the identity of the lost ghost.”

  Got nothing but time right now. Jack seemed to contemplate the quartz crystal rocks that had been pried from the graves and tottered on the fence. And the young, lost ghost is interesting. He smiled. That’s all I ask, an interesting time.

  At that minute Enzo loped up to them, barking. Clare touched the stopwatch of her phone. He hadn’t appeared at all this morning, and since she’d left her house it had been a good hour and seven minutes and fifteen seconds.

  Hi, Clare! Hi, ghost! He nearly skidded into Texas Jack, who laughed and rubbed his head.

  Good-looking dog, he said to Clare. Is he a good hunting dog?

  Yes, I AM! Enzo said, wriggling under Jack’s ghostly fingers.

  A dog that talks, Jack said with a quirk of his mouth. Isn’t that something.

  With a quick glance to see that no one else had arrived, Clare replied aloud, “This is my companion, Enzo.”

  I don’t recognize the breed, Jack said. So Labs must have been introduced to the States after his death. Clare made a note to look the fact up for all her future cases. If Jack didn’t recognize the kind of dog Enzo was, not many other ghosts of her time period would either. So far no ghost had balked at working with Enzo, but that could happen.

  “It’s called a Labrador. Very popular as, um, companions.” She didn’t want to call Enzo a pet. She frowned a little. “I’m sure they were developed as hunting dogs, because dogs usually were.”

  Jack nodded. I’ve hunted with dogs. They can be valuable assistants.

  She looked at him, thought of the man she’d learned he’d been, cleared her throat, and said, “They can be good companions, too.” Tilting her head at Enzo, she said, “If you want to stay here with Texas Jack and spend some time with him, that’s all right with me.”

  But Jack was shaking his head. He doesn’t have to. His gaze went to the plains again. It’s true that I was often in company—my wife’s troupe, or my combination show, or the hunting parties. I like people, but I often scouted alone. I know how to be alone. He shifted to a hip-shot stance. I’ll be here until we get that new ghost sorted out, but he comes around sunrise and sunset, so I usually sleep in the meantime. He nodded to her. It’s enough to know that you’ll be helping me move on to whatever comes next when you’re done with the poltergei
st.

  “I promise,” Clare said. “And, like you, I keep my word.”

  I can tell. You got that shine to you.

  Clare blinked. “Shine?”

  Texas Jack appeared a little embarrassed, shrugged. It’s a color around you. I can just tell you’re an honorable woman.

  “Thank you.”

  He dipped his head. Like my wife. And I’ll be glad to get back to her again. Pain welled in his eyes. It will be good to see her again.

  Clare thought he meant more, to hold her again, and she returned his nod. “I know about you now,” she said. “And I care about your . . . situation. We’ll get you where you need to go.”

  My wife and heaven will be good enough. His smile flashed beneath his mustache. You’re a determined woman; I can tell that, too. So I’m sure we’ll work fine together to get me out of here.

  I can help! Enzo offered.

  “Good,” Clare said. She cleared her throat and gave a dignified nod to Texas Jack, along with an offer she’d never made to a ghost. “You call me, or Enzo, if you have need.”

  Jack’s face stilled beneath the pleasant expression, and she knew he was the kind of man who wouldn’t ask for help easily. He’d suffer loneliness and whatever else without complaint before he called her.

  But if he called her, she knew he’d need her, so she’d come running.

  Voices drifted to her ears. She glanced down the hill to see people who must be staff members. A hint of grumbling laced their tones, and she thought they might be coming up here earlier than usual to tidy up the site.

  You call me, too, Mr. Texas Jack, if you want me to hunt with you! Enzo gamboled around the man.

  Pretty place, Jack said again. He angled his chin toward the buildings down the path. What are those?

  “The gift shop and café,” she said without thinking. Would Texas Jack know of gift shops? Well, self-evident, really. “And the museum.”

  Museum? Jack looked surprised. Bill’s got a museum?

  Chapter 6

  Clare lifted her brows. “He was a Congressional Medal of Honor winner for his bravery as an Indian Scout.” She gestured at the grave marker. “That still means something.”

  Lighter gray eyelids lowered over the dark smoke of Jack’s gaze. He’d been a famed Indian Scout, too.

  Texas Jack grunted. I was in that same skirmish. Bill got a scalp wound. It appeared as if he studied his cigar and when he spoke his accent went pure Virginian. I fought for the wrong side in the Civil War. He glanced at her, his jaw flexing. I needed special dispensation to get me back on the U.S. payroll as a scout because I fought for the Confederacy.

  “I know,” she said softly. “But, ah, that isn’t really why Buffalo Bill is famous.”

  The dime novels?

  “You had dime novels, too.”

  Now Jack chuckled. That I did.

  “Buffalo Bill became a legendary showman. He put together Buffalo Bill’s Wild West, with Indian fights and stagecoach raids and such.” Clare shrugged. “The show even toured Europe several times.”

  His whole mood lightening, Jack snorted and laughed hard. Imagine that. He made such a long career of show business, when I recall talking myself tired just persuading him to stay with the play that first year.

  “I guess he found his rhythm,” Clare said, wishing she could find hers. She cleared her throat. “His image of flowing white hair and white Van Dyke mustache and beard is iconic.”

  Though Texas Jack mostly wore a mustache, he’d occasionally sported a Van Dyke like his friends Buffalo Bill and Wild Bill Hickok.

  Again pain radiated from Jack. White hair, he murmured, and he stood there, tense, with no props, not his rope nor his cigar.

  Clare wet her lips. Texas Jack had been nearly the same age as Buffalo Bill, and had died at thirty-three. Of course he’d never seen his friend with white hair. He’d want her to ignore his hurt, so she did, rushing into speech before the staff arrived. “Anyway, he told people in Denver that he wanted to be buried up here when he passed on, and the city obliged.” A little more complicated than that, and he and his wife rested under ten feet of concrete because people from the town of Cody, Wyoming, had once mentioned stealing the man’s casket. “He died at seventy.”

  A ripe age, Jack said, standing casually again, his expression smooth.

  “Yes.” She paused, and hoped that this last bit of conversation made him more easy with her . . . building rapport with the client, a ghost instead of a person needing an accountant. “I’m honored to meet you.” She wouldn’t say anything more about helping him. “And I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” Truth.

  He swept off his hat in a flourishing bow. I can say the same.

  Enzo appeared. And me, too. Good to meet you, Texas Jack.

  Likewise, dog—uh, Enzo. Texas Jack narrowed his eyes. Now that I look at you, I see you’re more’n a ghost dog, more like a helpful spirit.

  Enzo pranced around the graves. Yes, I am. I help Clare a LOT! And sometimes Zach, too.

  Repositioning his hat on his head, Texas Jack said, And I see a density to you, too.

  Probably the Other spirit, something Clare didn’t want to explain right now. She stepped closer to the phantom of Texas Jack, until she could feel the chill emanating from him, and angled her head to look into the drifting cloud-like ghost eyes, and sent mentally, I’m glad we conversed and I hope you feel more easy with me, since we will be working together to send you on to where you need to be.

  His face took on a slightly darker color. A pleasure, ma’am, he replied stiltedly, then his gaze went beyond her to the plains and his smile returned. Texas Jack shook his head. Imagine Bill becoming one of the great showmen of the world, and his grave a place to be visited and a sight to be seen. Jack turned, examining the area, once again staring at the long view across the plains. Pretty place to be laid to rest, though Leadville is nice, too, and I’ve a hankering to see it and wander a bit there. He tipped his hat. We’ll talk some more later, Miss Cermak. Then he faded away.

  At that moment four people rounded the last curve of the path, then marched up to her, and Clare realized how it might appear that she’d been busy messing with the grave site. Raising her hands, she said, “I didn’t do this. It looked like this when I walked up Buffalo Bill trail.” Clearing her throat, she said, “This actually occurred last evening at sunset. Zach Slade and I were called by the Denver Police Department to—”

  “She’s right. The vandalism happened last night,” a young, lanky man with wavy black hair and warm light brown skin said. “Toby, who closed up the Teepee last night, e-mailed me pics of the site. Those I just showed to y’all?”

  Clare let her arms drop, turned to glance at the balancing rocks she’d actually forgotten about, and shook her head. “I’m not skilled enough to set those rocks on those spear tips.” She faded back a couple of paces.

  “Hello, Clare,” called Mr. Welliam. Every single person facing her flinched at the sound of his voice.

  Enzo ran down the path, through him, and back up, his doggy brow wrinkled. He has no gift. He can’t sense me. The Lab stood next to her. One of the women stared at Enzo, wide-eyed, then hustled around to the far side of the grave enclosure and began taking down the quartz and stacking the rocks.

  “Good morning, Mr. Welliam,” Clare replied.

  He continued jogging cheerfully up the path, and with every even breath, greeted the four people by name. She wouldn’t have been able to speak that well when running. She stifled a sigh. She definitely needed to get into better shape.

  As the older man joined them, the others spread out to take the remaining rocks off the posts. One held the keys to the enclosure and, staring at her, opened it.

  With a sweep of his glance, Mr. Welliam said, “I don’t think our poltergeist made another appearance this morning. Did he, Clare?”

&nb
sp; “Not that I saw,” she said.

  “Me either.” He beamed. “This is my second circuit of the mountain paths.”

  “I think we’re distracting these people from their work,” Clare said. “Let’s head back down the trails. I parked in Lookout Mountain Park, across the way.” She began walking down the asphalt path to the parking lot, where she’d pick up the trail. Enzo headed downhill, too, though not with them on the path.

  “All these people are excellent at their jobs,” Mr. Welliam stated loudly. No one looked at them.

  She threw out a lure. “I’ve accomplished what I need to this morning,”

  Mr. Welliam trotted up to her, his gaze sharp. “And what might you have wanted to accomplish, Ms. Cermak?”

  “Call me Clare.”

  “Fine. Please call me Kurtus. And just what did you accomplish this beautiful morning, Clare?”

  “Pretty much what you did,” Clare said. “I saw that the poltergeist didn’t do any additional damage at dawn . . . all the shades of dawn.” And she’d established contact with Texas Jack, perhaps even gotten him to trust her a little, though she sensed it would take more conversations to have him easy with her aiding him. When that happened, she’d have to step into him to help him transition. She didn’t think the tough-guy phantom would allow that right now. So, in that, she’d have to proceed more slowly.

  “You saw no poltergeist this morning,” Mr. Welliam stated once more.

  “No activity from him,” she corrected. Hearing voices up at the grave site, she stopped to listen in since trees would screen her eavesdropping self. The staffers grumbled about cleaning up the graves again. They carefully removed the rocks balanced on the points of the short rods and the curvy ones. The oldest person muttered about having to contact quarries to replace the rocks since the broken quartz didn’t fit in their old spots of moss-covered crumbling concrete.