Ghost Killer by Robin D. Owens Read Free Book Online Page A

seriously?”
    “No, but I just can’t eat yet, I’m too wired.”
    He set a hand on her face. “You have to fuel yourself.” He blinked, then slid his
     hand down her torso. “How are your ribs?”
    “Okay. Still hurting from that fall four days ago.”
    “Dammit!” He pulled away from her, paced the entry hall and stalked to the kitchen.
     “I don’t like this. Not one little bit. If it was anyone except Mrs. Flinton—”
    “We’d still be on our way. Neither of us is going to ignore danger to a child.”
    “No.”
    A car horn came from the front. Zach scowled. “They’re early.”
    Clare managed to twitch her lips upward. “The sooner we go, the sooner it’s done.”
    Zach just swore under his breath.
    The private plane was amazing. Small and beautiful inside and out. Clare had no problem
     believing the pilot was ex-military; all his movements looked sharp and efficient.
     He told them the total flight would take about an hour, that there was food, beer,
     and wine in a cooler, that Wi-Fi was available for the flight, gave them a two-fingered
     salute and took their luggage to stow.
    Clare sat in the beige leather seat behind the table and brought out one of her great-aunt
     Sandra’s blue journals that should discuss rules of being a ghost seer in it.
    Zach looked at the food and chose a large submarine sandwich, but only sighed at the
     beer and took a cola instead. “I’ll be driving.”
    Clare’s stomach rumbled. “What kind of sandwiches are in there?”
    “Another bacon avocado like mine, an everything, tuna salad, chicken salad—”
    “I’ll have the chicken salad and some fizzy water.”
    “Gotcha.”
    They ate in silence, Zach cleaned up and looked out the window and brooded, and Clare
     pulled out her tablet, set it on the table, and went online to an encyclopedia site
     for a brief overview. “Gee, Creede reads like a who’s who of famous people: Bat Masterson,
     Soapy Smith, Poker Alice . . .”
    “Huh.” Zach stopped staring out the window—she didn’t think he was paying attention
     to the view—and turned to look at her. “Soapy Smith, conman of the West.” He shook
     his head. “The ghost can’t be him, he was killed in Alaska, I think. Shot. Ran a gang,
     though, as I recall, there and in Denver, so he probably ran one in Creede, too.”
     Zach frowned. “Your cases have been about notorious or legendary men.” He reached
     out and took her hand. “And either you or Enzo once mentioned that the ghost would
     be a mass of ‘negativity.’ Who’s the most notorious guy in Creede, or what’s the most
     negative thing that happened?”
    “Good point.” Clare scrolled through the article then simply stopped because her hand
     shook so hard.
    Zach said, “What? Or who?”
    “Robert Ford was shot, murdered in Creede, June 8, 1892,” she recited the info seared
     before her eyes. “Three days after a terrible fire.”
    “Fire, major negativity. How many died in the fire?” asked Zach.
    “I don’t know. Then murder.”
    Zach said, “The name Robert Ford sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”
    “The article said Robert Ford was the member of the Jesse James gang who shot Jesse
     James. He and his brother. His brother committed suicide.”
    “Hell. Murder. Suicide. Murder. What happened to the guy who killed Ford?”
    Clare fumbled her phone and the website back on, scanned it. “He was sent to prison
     here in Colorado, but when he got out, he moved to Oklahoma City. There he got in
     a street fight with a policeman and was shot, but that event is out of my time range.”
    Zach shook his head. “Nothing but murder and suicide in this whole situation.”
    “The timing’s there, but it’s long. Ford killed Jesse James ten years before he ended
     up in Creede. Ford’s brother committed suicide three years after the murder of James,
     seven years before Ford’s death. The death of Ford’s killer is out of my ghost seeing
     time period, in