Free Ghost Talker by Robin D. Owens Page A

and disappearing before it hit the path.
    â€œHello, Enzo,” she said. She lowered her hand and stroked it through him.
    â€œWho do you speak with?” asked Poche, looking at her askance.
    â€œMy guide.”
    Enzo’s back end wiggled madly.
I AM your guide. I AM a help.
    Yes, Enzo
, Clare replied mentally.
    â€œShort guide,” Poche said.
    No. She wouldn’t tell him Enzo was a dog. Poche already thought her a brainless sucker. But, as usual, she couldn’t resist a little rebellion. Again she petted Enzo, her fingers turning numb with cold. When she initiated contact with a ghost, the cold was always worse. When she stepped into a phantom to help the spirit pass on, she had to take care that her heart didn’t stop as ice imbued her. Right now, she wanted to confound Poche.
    Lifting her hand, she offered it to him. “I’m running late. Thank you for your . . . concern.”
    He grasped her fingers and shock flashed in his eyes. With her non-petting-Enzo, much-warmer hand, she covered their clasped fingers. “Very good of you.”
    A strangled noise issued from him. He stepped back, up the incline, pulling his hand from hers. His eyes narrowed and she got the idea that he wanted to shake his cold fingers, but believed that to be a weakness.
    Yes, they played games with each other, and that behavior was childish and beneath her.
    Poche drew himself up. “And now I should see if there is any lingering sense of Buffalo Bill. Perhaps discover”—he touched fingers to his temple—“why William F. Cody is disturbed enough to resort to poltergeist activity.” He turned around as if to scan the area as a professional. Shaking his head, he said, “A beautiful area.”
    She heard that lie, too. He hated the hills, the expanse of the sky and plains and distant mountains, the tall pines. He preferred Denver, was a city creature.
    â€œThough no ghosts seem to be resonating with me. It is a . . . serene . . . place,” he intoned.
    Clare decided that he really meant “desolate,” though most found the panoramic view gorgeous. She nodded. “Serene is right.”
    He cleared his throat. “I prefer helping modern ghosts cross over.” His face took on a soulful expression. “Helping people who need me now.”
    Who could pay him good money now. She didn’t see the universe rewarding Poche for his efforts in assisting spirits reach whatever new destination awaited them, like the material objects she’d received after every one of her own cases.
    â€œDenver’s past phantoms are few,” Poche said dismissively.
    Clare stared at him. “I haven’t found that to be the case.” She couldn’t even drive through certain parts of Denver, the oldest settled portions, because ghosts crowded around her, shouted at her mentally. She straightened her spine. “On the contrary, Denver is teeming with old-time ghosts, and always has been.” He might not have done his research, not even on her, but she’d done hers—and she trusted Zach to check out Poche.
    She smiled. “Even in 1874, the newspaper, the
Rocky Mountain News
, said they wouldn’t publish any more stories on ghosts because they were becoming altogether too common.”
    â€œHuh, interesting,” said someone behind her. She jolted, swiveled on her heel to see a man with a digital video camera that looked professional . . . So did the man himself. “Is that so?” he asked.
    â€œIt is very so,” Clare confirmed.
    Poche’s stance rigidified and his face took on color. He nodded to Clare, and even as she stepped out of what she hoped was camera range, the medium blocked her from the video. Absolutely fine with her.
    Enzo ran around and through the new arrival, down the path to another man walking up and through him, then back and straight through Poche. Not one of the men reacted