Ghost Seer (31 page)

This is a work of fiction and I am a romantic, so I have placed the absolute best light on the historical figure of Joseph Albert (Jack) Slade, his character, and actions and the events of his life.

Some small discrepancies: I could not discover the exact date of the death of Jules Beni (aka Jules Reni), so I chose August 30, which falls in the general time period.

I completely made up both the puzzle box (which was one that would have existed at the time) and the bottle (circa 1880s) and their locations.

The coin Zach found on the dresser is an 1861 Double Eagle, Coronet Paquet reverse. There are three in existence and they are valued at about four-point-four million dollars (and the story of why there are three includes the Pony Express and the San Francisco Mint). How Clare and Zach are going to explain where the twenty-dollar gold piece came from will be a challenge.

I did visit Virginia Dale (though in May), which is available for tours and is being rehabbed; many thanks to Sylvia Garofalo for the tour and all her information.

Please, if you want to support the efforts to restore this building, the last original stage station in Colorado, the last station of the Overland Stage, on its original site, you can contribute here: Virginia Dale Community Club, 844 CR 43F, Virginia Dale, CO 80536, or by PayPal online here: virginia dalecommunityclub.org/howyoucanhelp.htm.

About Cold Springs . . . I believe there were at least three places of that name; this is the one in southeastern Wyoming, near Torrington. A couple of original sources called it “Cold Spring” or “Spring Ranch.”

It took me weeks and help from librarians in Colorado and Wyoming and many e-mails to find the exact location of Cold Springs Station. I was helped by a fellow writer friend (thanks Liz Roadifer!) and the Wyoming Library Roundup, which happened to be published at just the right time and led us to wyomingplaces.org.

As to the place itself, I went close to Cold Springs Station, the location of which is on private property. The building and the corral no longer exist. The owner of that farm in
Ghost Seer
is completely fictional.

Many, many thanks to Calvin and Isabel Hoy, who welcomed me to Tea Kettle Ranch Bed and Breakfast outside Torrington, Wyoming, a wonderful and serene place to write and see storms and meteor showers: teakettleranch.com. Thank you also for the maxim: Stay overnight at Cold Springs and you’ll be back.

Photos of these places are online on my Pinterest page: pinterest.com/robindowens.

As I write this, I am in the midst of revamping my moribund website, robindowens.com, but you can catch me mostly on my blog: robindowens.blogspot.com, and if you want interaction, I’m frequently on Facebook: facebook.com/robin.d.owens.73.

Thank you to Dan Rottenberg for his definitive work,
The Death of a Gunfighter: The Quest for Jack Slade, the West’s Most Elusive Legend
, and his help regarding the robbery question and the Cold Spring/Cold Springs issue through e-mail. Mr. Rottenberg has an excellent website on Jack Slade here: deathofagunfighter.com.

Also thanks to Roy Paul O’Dell and Kenneth Jessen for their biography
An Ear in His Pocket: The Life of Jack Slade
.

Richard Francis Burton and Mark Twain/Samuel Clemens are beyond mortal thanks, but their works were interesting if not very helpful. Burton went off on a rant about a “Bloomer” woman at Horseshoe Creek Station instead of describing Slade. Twain’s account was entertaining though mostly a tall tale. . . . Twain wrote his brother nearly ten years later asking what Orion Clemens recalled of Slade on their trip west since Twain wanted to put Slade in
Roughing It
. Then Twain went with his own description instead of Orion’s memory.

Thanks to Kevin Pharris for
The Haunted Heart of Denver
, a fun book that helped me with Clare’s traumatic episode and will be of use in the future.

More thanks to the librarians at the Denver Public Library, and those of the History Colorado Center.

And thanks to Dr. D. P. Lyle for his expert opinion that the objects of Clare’s quest would still survive and for helping me with Zach’s disability.

Thank you, as always, to my critique groups and beta readers, especially Paula Gill for her medical help.

Finally, there are reports that Jack Slade’s ghost just may be where he died—in Virginia City, Montana.

As for what is coming up for Clare and Zach . . . have you ever heard the tale of the amorous miner whose bones appeared in various beds, J. Dawson Hidgepath, and the town of Buckskin Joe?

TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF THE NEXT BOOK IN ROBIN D. OWENS’S GHOST SEER SERIES

GHOST LAYER

COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

D
ENVER,
C
OLORADO, SECOND WEEK OF
S
EPTEMBER

Z
ACH SLADE’S NEW
cane had been delivered when he was gone, a better weapon. The hook handle could snag and yank a leg. Though, of course, it wasn’t large enough to fit around his new lover, Clare, and bring her to him for a kiss . . . or more.

The box the cane had come in leaned against the gray rough-cut stone of the mansion where he rented the housekeeper’s suite. Sticking both old and new canes as well as the box under his left arm, he unlocked the side doors to the great house. Since he’d been shot below the knee, which severed a nerve, and his left ankle and foot didn’t flex, he lifted his knee high to simply walk into his apartment.

Yeah, he was disabled. Had foot drop. His career as an active peace officer, his most recent job as a deputy sheriff, was over at thirty-four.

Instead of wallowing in anger, move on to damned acceptance. He wouldn’t slip back into denial again. He’d finally gotten beyond that. Maybe.

He let the heavy security door slam behind him. Cool air flowed over him from his apartment, and he realized how sticky he was from the long two-day drive from Montana. At least his clothes fit better. He’d finally packed on some more muscle after his weight loss due to the shooting.

Zach tossed the box and his old cane on the empty surface of the long coffee table in front of the big brown leather couch in the living room. Then he slashed the new wooden cane through the air in some fighting moves. He was learning bartitsu, the Victorian mixed martial art that featured cane fighting.

There’d been no bartitsu studio in Montana, where he’d testified against the parole of a serial killer he’d put away a year and a half ago.

He held the cane in both hands, tested it . . . yeah, he could snap it if he wanted; his upper body strength had increased, what with being on crutches for three months.

The peace of his apartment wrapped around him. It had come furnished for a man, except for the small twenty-inch TV screen. Big, long couch he could sleep—or make love—on. A couple of deep chairs, the sturdy coffee table, and a thick old rug with faded colors that must have been expensive at one time.

A floral scent teased his nose and he saw a colorful bouquet of fresh flowers on the dark granite counter of the breakfast bar separating the Pullman kitchen from his living space. He didn’t need flowers in his apartment, but guessed both the old ladies—the housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, and the wealthy owner of the mansion, Mrs. Flinton—thought he did.

He’d pushed the drive because he’d wanted to see Clare, even though those weeks had been the weirdest in his life. More weird than when he’d gotten shot a few months ago. That had just been stupid and devastating.

Right now all he wanted to do was sluice off the travel grime and rest a little so he’d be in prime shape for Clare.

After a quick rap on the door between his apartment and the rest of the mansion, Zach’s elderly landlady, Mrs. Flinton, opened the door and glided through it with her walker. She’d taken him under her wing when he’d arrived in Denver a couple of weeks ago, insisted on renting him this place at a nominal fee.

“Zach, it’s so good you’re back,” Mrs. Flinton said.

He grunted, then realized he wasn’t among his former cop colleagues anymore and had to actually respond. “Good to see you, too. Good to be back in Denver.” And the helluvit was, that was the truth. He’d left the scene of his ex-job and the shooting in low-populated Plainsview City, Cottonwood County, Montana and traded it for big-city Denver, and remained okay.

Mrs. Flinton stopped close and tilted her creased cheek as if for a kiss. So he gave her a peck. She smelled better than the flower bouquet, her perfume fresh and perky. “Have you called Clare yet?” she asked.

He leaned against the back of the couch. “Not yet. I just got in ten minutes ago.” And the time with Clare had been so intense that week . . . then he’d been called back to Montana, and now . . . he just didn’t know.

Scowling at him, Mrs. Flinton poked his chest with a manicured, pale pink fingernail. “Did you two talk while you were gone?”

“We texted some,” he mumbled. Then he rubbed the back of his neck. His hair had grown longer than he’d ever kept it as a deputy sheriff. But his neck, and his fingers, and the whole rest of his body recalled intimately Clare’s fiddling with that hair, how she liked it shaggy.

“The week with Clare before I left was pretty extreme,” Zach told the older woman. Yeah, extreme with events, and incredible sex, too . . . and startling intimacy. A whole week had passed since the end of her first case and he still hadn’t forgotten much of anything.

His body yearned for Clare.

Mrs. Flinton tsked and shook her head. “You’re doing the rubber band thing.”

“Wha?”

“Coming close together, then drawing back.”

“It’s not only me!”

She sniffed. “Clare needs support during these first weeks of learning her new ghost layer gift, as I know from my own experience.”

“She’s got that damn ghost dog, Enzo, to help her,” Zach said.

Another finger poke and a steely gaze. “That’s not the same.”

His phone buzzed, and he welcomed it, paused when he saw Clare was calling. Mrs. Flinton noticed, too. Suppressing a sigh, that his first call with Clare after he’d returned to town would be overheard, he answered, “Zach, here.”

“Hi, Zach,” she sounded like the former accountant she was, cool and professional. Her voice still zinged down all the nerves in his body.

“I just received a call from your boss, Tony Rickman. . . .” Zach lost the rest of the sentence at the pang that he was now working as a private investigator for money instead of in the public sector to serve and protect.

Mrs. Flinton elbowed him, bringing his attention back to the call.

“Sorry, missed that, say again?” Zach asked.

“Zach, do you know why Rickman would like to meet with me?”

That made him blink. “No. He didn’t say anything to me about that. When did he ask you?” Zach’s thumb skimmed over his phone, hovered on the icon for video calling. Wasn’t ready to push it and see Clare’s face if she was on visual, get slammed with more mixed feelings.

“Rickman called not more than ten minutes ago and wants me there within the hour.” Her words were crisp.

“Meet her there,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“I’m sorry?” Clare asked. “I didn’t hear that.”

Now Zach rubbed his forehead. “I just got back from Montana. If you want, I can meet you there at the top of the hour.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t tell her when you were coming home?” asked Mrs. Flinton.

“Zach?” Clare asked.

“No, Mrs. Flinton,” Zach said loudly. “I didn’t tell either of you when I’d be in. Wasn’t sure of the drive myself. Get over it.”

Mrs. Flinton pouted, then angled closer to Zach’s phone. “Hello, Clare, you and dear ghostly Enzo-pup need to come over for tea again.”

“Oh.” Just one small word and Clare sounded confused, wary. Just like Zach. He smiled.

“Do you want me to meet you at Rickman’s?” Zach asked.

A small pause. “All right. I’ve never met the man and can’t understand what he wants. I only did that little accounting job for him.” Clare sighed. “The ghosts have been bothering me more lately, especially downtown, I’ll call the car service.”

“That sounds excellent, dears,” Mrs. Flinton said.

“Gotta clean up. Later,” Zach said, bending a stern look at Mrs. Flinton. She just smiled and sashayed out of his apartment. He understood why the housekeeper, Mrs. Magee, preferred to live in the carriage house. At the moment, a little space between him and the mansion would be welcome.

Zach rubbed his neck again, limped over to close the door behind his landlady—he only had his orthopedic shoes on for driving, not his light brace for his left ankle and leg to prevent the foot drop—and headed to his bathroom.

A few minutes later when he left his apartment and his ass complained at hitting the seat of his truck again after driving for so long, he just grumbled under his breath. Then he looked up and saw crows sitting on a power line, half a dozen of them, quiet in the heat. His jaw clenched. He hadn’t seen any of the damned birds in Montana, but here they were.

As always the Counting Crows rhyme his maternal grandmother had taught him ran through his mind.

Six.

Six for gold.

He ignored their beady eyes as he exited the circular drive.

 • • • 

Clare Cermak changed clothes just because she’d be seeing Zach. She didn’t care what Rickman—whom she’d never met—or anyone else at his business thought of her . . . except Zach, her newish lover.

They’d gotten so close when she’d thought she was going crazy. It turned out that along with her Great Aunt Sandra’s fortune, Clare had inherited the family “gift” for seeing ghosts and helping them move on to . . . wherever. She still had a shaky grasp on that, particularly since she preferred rationality in her life. Her now exploded past life as an accountant.

Hello, Clare! We are going OUT?
Enzo, the ghost Labrador dog, sent mentally. He’d materialized from nothing to sit panting at her feet, gray-white shadows and shades.

“Yes. Zach’s boss, Tony Rickman, wants to see us for some reason.”

We are seeing Zach?
Enzo hopped to his feet and his whole body wiggled front to back.

“Yes, apparently he’s back from Montana.” She frowned, not knowing exactly how she felt about that. She’d missed him outrageously in bed. No, scratch that thought, she missed him outrageously, period, darn it. She wanted him . . . and she’d forever be grateful that he’d helped her during the time she’d had to deal with her first major ghost. Did that make her dependent on Zach? She didn’t think so. They had a lot in common and he was just plain fabulous in bed. . . .

CLARE!

She thought back to what Enzo had asked. “Yes, we are seeing Zach.” Grudgingly, she added, “You can come with me.” Not that forbidding Enzo would make any difference. He materialized and vanished as he pleased.

I would like to see a new place with new people and maybe some ghosts?

“A highrise downtown.” All right, she admitted she was curious about Zach’s place of employment. Frowning, she glanced at the old map of Denver she’d hung on the wall of the tiny bedroom she’d designated as her “ghost laying” office in her new home. “There might have been buildings there in the late eighteen hundreds,” she said to Enzo.

The dog itself—himself—had told her that the human mind could only comprehend ghosts from slices of history. From her experimentation this last week, she’d determined that her period was from 1850 to 1900. She seemed to specialize in Old West phantoms.

A toot in the driveway announced that the car service she now had on retainer had arrived. She couldn’t drive in heavily ghost-populated areas anymore, it was too dangerous when apparitions rose before her or pressed around the car, or invaded it.

She locked up, greeted the driver, and sat in the back of the Mercedes, heart pounding at seeing her lover again.

 • • • 

Zach arrived at Rickman Security and Investigations before Clare, shoved through the heavy glass doors—wouldn’t surprise him if they were bulletproof—and into the lobby area. The walls were pale gray, the reception station dark gray stone with a glossy black top, and black computer and phone accessories.

He nodded to the receptionist before heading straight to his boss’s door. Zach stood with his hand on the lever until the electronic lock buzzed to let him into his boss’s office, decorated in gray and cream.

Two men watched him with military assessment as he entered. The craggy-looking man in his late forties with a buzz cut and salt-and-pepper hair wearing an engraved wedding band was his boss, Tony Rickman, who sat behind his dark wooden desk.

The guy standing near the desk, six-foot-six, two hundred seventy five pounds, pale white or blond hair in another buzz cut, light brown eyes, had “ex-special-ops” written all over his body and attitude. He wore expensive black trousers with knife-edge creases, dull but not scuffed shoes, a black silk shirt, and a lightweight black jacket.

“Hello, Zach,” Rickman said.

Zach nodded and spent effort to keep his walk as smooth as possible, even with his cane and brace, as he headed for the far left of the four gray leather client chairs. “Hello, Tony.”

“Clare Cermak called you?”

“That’s right.”

“Obviously, you’re back from Montana.” A note in Rickman’s voice told Zach the man had expected Zach to check in.

“Just arrived a half hour ago.” He sat and stretched his jeaned legs out, propped his cane against the chair.

“Make yourself at home,” Rickman said.

Zach smiled. “Thanks, I will.”

“I don’t believe you’ve met another of my operatives, Harry Rossi. Harry, this is Zach Slade.” Rickman gestured to the guy, who scrutinized Zach and his threat level. Zach stood, studying Rossi with his flat cop stare. Wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the guy had broken into a few places. Something—shadows—in the man’s eyes showed he’d had to kill. Zach figured that showed in his own eyes.