Текст книги "Ghost Seer"
Автор книги: Robin D. Owens
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THIRTY-EIGHT
ZACH GRABBED HIS cane, levered up to his good foot, went over to where Mather shrieked and thrashed. Zach scooped up his gun, then hit the kidnapper’s jaw harder than he had the night before, and Mather lay still. Zach took the handcuffs he’d had attached to his belt and restrained the perp.
“Godamighty,” said the farmer, slower getting to his feet. “What’s going on?”
“He’s a kidnapper,” Zach said.
“He’s a crazy.”
“That, too.”
“And who might you be, Mr. Colorado License Plates?” He examined Zach top to toe. “What are you doing here? And what the hell is she doing?” The farmer turned and stared at Clare. She seemed to be sleepwalking, her fingers curved around what Zach knew was a pair of ears. Zach tensed in case he’d have to hold back the man if he went after Clare.
“Getting rid of the ghost of Jules Beni?” Zach offered.
Scratching the beard stubble on his chin, the farmer’s gaze slid toward Zach. “Is that so?”
• • •
She smelled death and lurched forward to the remains of Jules Beni with the holes on each side of his head. No longer dry and leathery, the ears pulsed in her hands, seeming all too real. Hauling in a breath, teetering, her mind fogging with cold, Clare aligned the ears against the corpse’s head.
It vanished . . . and the whole scene drained of color, tinted browns, like shades of sepia.
Jack Slade pulled from her and it hurt, hurt, hurt, ice slicing her guts. She wobbled where she stood.
• • •
Mather groaned. Zach looked at the farmer. “I appreciate the help in getting this one.”
“He after your lady?”
At hearing Clare called “his lady,” the adrenaline zooming along in Zach’s bloodstream went straight to his groin. “Yeah. He’s also on the run from the Denver cops.”
The farmer shook his head. “Well, he’ll spend some time here, I reckon. Trespassing, attempted murder. Though I s’pose the sheriff will be glad enough to hand him over to your Denver boys.”
“No doubt.”
“Now why don’t you finally give me your name?”
“Zach Slade, ex–deputy sheriff out of Montana, current private investigator from Denver.” He offered his hand. “I don’t have a card.”
“I don’t want one.” A grunt. “Slade, huh?”
“No relation to Jack.”
“Didn’t think so.” The man tipped his cowboy hat up, scrutinizing Zach. “You look a little familiar, though. You got family around here?”
Zach pulled a face. “No, the family home is in Boulder, Colorado.”
A crack of laughter came from the farmer. He slapped Zach on the back with his free palm. “Not a place I’d feel comf’ble in.” Now he held out his hand. “I’m Mike Gurey.”
Taking his tough-skinned hand, Zach shook it briefly, a firm grip from both of them.
“Boulder is better left to the university and New Age crowd. How did you know we were here?” Zach asked, trying to keep the man’s attention on himself. Clare stood in a trancelike state.
The guy hesitated; his wide flannel-covered shoulders shifted. “Just had a feelin’.”
“Uh-huh,” Zach said. He moved wrong and his left foot dragged on the ground. Heat rushed under the skin of his neck and cheeks.
Gurey glanced at Zach’s ankle. “Foot drop, eh? You need more than a lift in your shoe. You need a brace, son,” the man said, not unkindly.
“I’ve figured that out,” Zach said.
A wind whipped in from nowhere, shrieking through the still night. The farmer flinched. “I think I’ll head off my neighbors and meet the sheriff on the road.”
Zach wished he could go, too. “I guess I’d better stay here.”
Gurey clapped him on the shoulder as he gave a last glance to Clare, who was gesturing widely, then wrapped her arms around herself and trembled.
“I’ll be glad when the weirdness is out of this part of my land,” the farmer said, and added, “She’s one in a million.”
“Yeah.” And Zach was damn glad that the man strode away without saying more or giving advice.
He hurried as fast as he could to Clare. He’d be faster and steadier with a brace.
• • •
The ghost of Jack Slade stared at Clare, and for the first time the dark lines worn of worry, of drink, had vanished from his face, and undimmed joy shone in his eyes. “Thank you for helping me.” He inclined his torso slightly. “And thank you for being willing to help those, like me, who are trapped. Hello, Jackson Zachary Slade.” He smiled beyond her, then she felt Zach’s strong arm around her waist.
Jack Slade angled his head at Zach. “Those who keep the law are not only the lawmen, you know. Those who find justice for others don’t always wear a badge.”
Zach jolted beside Clare.
Still smiling, the apparition said, “I am whole enough to pass through.” Then the ghost’s head cocked. “Virginia?” He laughed. “I hear you, Virginia, don’t scold me for being late, I’m coming!” With a wide grin he dissolved into a shaft of golden light that blinded her.
Euphoria washed through her, just like the golden light. She sighed and tension released. She had deeply affected at least one “person” with her gift, had helped. She had a new talent that she could use, and a challenge in learning how.
She wouldn’t be a failure, wouldn’t go mad, wouldn’t die.
When her eyes adjusted again, it was night and she heard distant sobbing. She froze. “Do you hear that?”
“It’s Mather.”
She looked at Zach; he seemed more relaxed, too. Well, the woo-woo part of the evening was most likely over. “Ted?” she asked.
“Yeah. He tried to attack you, but between me and the farm owner, we restrained him.”
“The farm owner,” she breathed.
Zach’s arm tightened. He brought her close. “You’re cold.”
“Yes.”
YAY CLARE! Enzo yelled, zooming around her in circles, leaving streaks of silvery drool in the air, leaping now and then and licking her hands.
“Yay, Clare!” Zach said, and laughed, then laughed some more as she moved from his grasp and twirled around him, mixing in a few Gypsy steps that Aunt Sandra had taught her, flinging her arms up, her head back and wanting, wanting, wanting bracelets and necklace and a headband that jingled with coins.
She was free.
Whole in a way she hadn’t been, ever.
Only some of that was due to her accepting her gift, though she felt right about that. Most of her happiness was the sheer pleasure of being with Zach. A man who might deny his own sensitivities, but that was all right. Didn’t she know how hard it was to accept the weirdness in your own life? If the consequences hadn’t been so dire and fatal, she wouldn’t have accepted them herself.
Zach would come to acceptance of his own gift, or not. She’d watch for those little odd moments of his but wouldn’t say anything. His choice. She wouldn’t push. Yet.
But it had been a long, long time since she’d felt so happy, happy enough to be dancing as twilight smudged into dawn.
Zach watched Clare dance. For sure he’d have to get her one of those Gypsy outfits, unless she had one tucked away he hadn’t seen.
His smile straightened as in the distance he saw the flashing lights of a police vehicle, heard the static of the radio. His jaw clenched. That part of his life was over.
“Come on, the authorities”—not him, not ever again—“are here. We have some explaining to do. Don’t mention the ghost.”
She sniffed and took his free hand, linking fingers with him. “As if I would.”
• • •
The time with the sheriff of Goshen County and the Torrington police—Clare wasn’t sure who had jurisdiction, but they were both there—went a whole lot faster than her earlier questioning. The farm owner backed Zach up as to the murderous assault by Ted Mather on Gurey, Zach, and Clare. She’d been oblivious. Would that always be the case? She hoped not.
Once the police in Denver got on the conference call, everything went even faster, until they were on the road again, Zach still driving, after breakfast.
Again the trip passed without any great revelations on either of their parts, and they made excellent time.
At the sight of the two small carriage lights on each side of her front door welcoming her home, an upsurge of pure warmth banished the last of the cold of the crazy adventure from her bones. She was home, this was home, where she was supposed to be. She understood now that she’d recognized the house.
As she’d recognized Zach, but she’d let that knowledge curl in the back of her head and her heart for now, a cherished secret.
He got out of the car, alternating leaning on his cane and raising his left knee high, higher than a usual gait, higher than he usually walked, since he tried to deny his disability as much as he could. He had to be even more weary than she.
When he opened the door of the truck, she slid down smoothly and into his arms. They held each other close and she realized she’d been wrong. Her house hadn’t vanquished the cold, not by itself. Zach had, and more, now he actively provided heat . . . body to body.
She would need that in the future, wouldn’t she?
She’d certainly need Zach, for more than just sex, or companionship, but because of that recognition he was the right man for her. She’d find a way to keep him.
They walked to the door holding hands.
He used the keypad and she the key; once inside, he disarmed the security. Waiting in the hallway was Enzo.
You did really, really good, Clare! We are proud of you!
“We?” asked Zach.
“Don’t ask.”
“Okay.”
Clare, you did GOOD! Enzo shouted, and tilted his head at her, obviously wanting some acknowledgment.
She wet her lips. “Thank you, Enzo . . . it . . . felt satisfying to help Jack . . . move on.” That was the truth. She might have a strange vocation now, but she was making a difference, and that was vital for her. She’d just never figured on doing it this way.
Enzo looked at her with a doggie frown. You aren’t going to make me leave, are you? I want to stay!
“No,” she said. “You don’t have to leave.” She smiled at the transparent Lab. “Looks like I have a ghost dog sidekick.”
Enzo yipped and his butt wiggled in pleasure. Zach grunted, turning his head to look at her. “How about a lover? I don’t want to leave, either.”
Lifting her hand to stroke his cheek, she said, “I’d like that,” she said.
“Let’s go to bed.” His smile quirked as he bent down and brushed her forehead with a kiss, then glanced at Enzo. “Beat it, dog.”
With a last bark, Enzo ran through the walls toward the backyard. They took the elevator up, with Zach leaning on her a bit. She liked that. She’d leaned enough on him, too.
They could lean on each other.
When they entered the bedroom, Zach propped his cane on a chair, took off his jacket and let it fall onto the chair, and began to unbutton his shirt, then just stopped. “What’s that?”
“What?” she asked.
“That thing on top of that inlaid bureau. It wasn’t there when we left.”
“Oh. That gleam of gold on top of your dresser?”
Zach’s gaze cut to her. “My dresser?”
“It’s empty, for you if you want it.” At his hesitation her shoulders began to rise with tension.
“Sounds good,” he said, casually, and limped over to the bureau. She joined him.
“Huh.”
With him she looked down at a gold coin, a pretty woman’s face on the front.
Zach fingered it. “‘Twenty D’, dollars. Twenty-dollar gold piece, nice.” Then he put it back. His gaze met hers before they both stared at the antique pocket watch, surely gold, though the chain looked more like brass, with stains along it. Zach lifted the watch and turned it over, reading the inscription aloud. “Joseph Albert Slade.” Zach glanced at her. “Probably worth a pretty penny.”
“Put the gold piece and the watch in your dresser, Zach, and come to bed,” Clare said. For once in her life, she let her clothes drop where she stood.
“I think I’ll do that,” Zach said, holding out his hand. She took it and he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them, then smiled at her with tenderness in his eyes. “To the future and us.”
She danced back a step or two and touched a kiss to his lips. “To the future and us.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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!
DENVER, COLORADO, SECOND WEEK OF SEPTEMBER
ZACH 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.
After a few seconds, the big man smiled and took a few steps toward Zach, half the distance between them. Zach came the other half and offered his right hand that he kept free for his sidearm under his own jacket. Both of them were carrying and Rickman probably had a weapon in easy reach.
“Good to meet you,” Zach said.
“Likewise,” said Rossi. A quick, hard grip and then they retreated at the same time.
“Rossi works mostly as a bodyguard,” Tony said.
Zach nodded. “Looks good for that.”
Rossi gave a quick grin, ostentatiously adjusted his shirt cuffs.
Returning to his chair, Zach said, “I don’t think Clare needs a bodyguard . . . yet.”
