She entered the security code and used her keys on the two locks, then looked up at him. “Do you think two locks are enough?”

“The security’s good, not great. I’ll look at it more later.”

“Okay.” She kissed him now. “Be safe and come back soon.”

But as he was closing the door behind her, he heard, “I’m not packed. I need to pack food and drink for the trip, and some clothes in case we decide to stay over . . .”

He checked the locks and the keypad and drew in a shaky breath of his own, letting a little of his control crumble. Fuck, he’d been scared for her! It had taken all his willpower to act cool in front of the other cops, to not wrap his hand around her wrist and keep her with him at all times. He knew they’d seen his strain, but, hey, no man was completely cool when someone threatened his woman. And, for now, Clare was his woman. He wasn’t nearly finished with her . . . out of bed or in it. Not that he could see where this thing with her was going. Hell, he couldn’t visualize past tomorrow and the trip to Cold Springs.

And he’d better get his ass in gear, even though his jeans pulled tight across his groin and his semi-erection as he hauled himself into the truck. He scrutinized the block, but it was darker than the neighborhood Clare had lived in before, with large lots set back from the street, and more discreet porch lights. He saw nothing.

Pulling his door shut, he hit the ignition and drove across town to Clare’s old neighborhood, preparing to hunt for a dead ear. Much as she might not like to admit it, Clare needed that ear to get on with her life, so he’d fetch it for her. Feeling really stupid, he cleared his throat and said, “Enzo, are you here?” A riot of loud barking came from his right.

“Okay, okay, I hear you.” He paused. “And don’t tell Clare I said that . . . or Mrs. Flinton, either.” Who knew where a ghost dog could go, how fast, and who it might talk to?

A cold nudge on his neck had him nearly jumping from his seat. “I guess that might be you.”

The cold spot slid a couple of inches. He’d been slimed.

“Keep your damn nose to yourself,” he said, then heard a doggie bark-chuckle.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not Clare, I don’t have to be nice to you.”

He thought a very chilly breeze ran over his crotch. “Cut that out!”

Another yip, this one definitely amused.

Zach had a one-sided conversation all the way to Clare’s old place, and hoped he didn’t sound too crazy. He didn’t feel crazy. He didn’t even feel too awkward like Clare obviously did.

He parked on the street. This one appeared quiet, too. The neighbors had all either gone to someone’s house to talk, or retired to their own homes. Either way it looked like he had a good opening for a little contamination of a crime scene—if the lab folks hadn’t already done their job, which he thought they might have.

“It’s going to be in and out, mutt. Let’s get this over with ASAP and back to Clare.” A spot between his shoulders tingled. He stopped but heard no whir of wings, no caws. Too dark to see crows unless they were pushily evident.

Sliding from the truck, his foot didn’t work properly and he jarred it, bit off a curse at the pain. Maybe he’d go back to a damn car, or the standard Colorado vehicle, an SUV. He didn’t like SUVs, too prissy. He shut the door quietly and limped as lightly as he could up the driveway. And there, like a small, irregular oil spot, was the ear.

A flurry of barking and cold slipping through his legs. “I see it, already.” He bent down and scooped the ear up, stuck it in his pocket.

Like the first Jack Slade, Joseph Albert Slade, this Jackson Zachary Slade carried an ear in his pocket. Zach smiled, slid his gaze around in another quick exam of the neighborhood, and returned to his truck. He pushed the speed limit all the way back to Clare.

And found her in the kitchen, cooking. The food and her damp hair and pearly skin smelled perfect when he put his arms around her and kissed her. But he made sure he frowned when she looked up at him. “You didn’t rest.”

“Not just yet.” Her body stiffened. “I just want to—”

“Clare, it’s been a hard day. You need some downtime. I put the ear with the other in the box.”

“Thanks. I’m still a little jittery.” She turned in his arms and hugged him tightly.

He closed his eyes at the feel of her, soft. Exhaustion hovered in a red tide at the back of his eyes. He didn’t dare keep them closed. “We’re going up, now.”

“We’re?”

“Yeah, we’re. And no tempting me, woman. Sleep . . . first.”

Clare chuckled and, needing that flavor of him again, kissed him. “We’ll see.” She linked arms with him, but as she walked with him, her jitters diminished; just having him here helped.

They’d no sooner gotten to the bedroom, disrobed, and settled under a sheet when the ghost of Jack Slade came screaming through the bedroom windows. “It has to be tonight!” The phantom streaked through the master suite, all white and raggedy, not at all human.

She sensed even Zach heard something . . . a whistling of the wind in the night. She moved closer and put her hand on his lightly haired thigh.

“What?!” she and Zach demanded together.

This is the day, this is the day. I intended to follow you back to Denver, but was jerked back and trapped the rest of the long day in Wyoming. Reliving the horror of my old actions.

“I can’t see you!” Clare shouted, unnerved by the flying thing.

It—he—coalesced into an extremely transparent human.

“You said September first,” Clare panted.

I was wrong, it is today . . . we have only a few hours left . . . just enough time for you to do this . . .

“We can’t possibly get there before midnight,” Zach said flatly.

No, no, no, no, noooooo. The ghost disintegrated to a skeleton, then a white and tattered specter. I shall go maaadddd.

For a guilty instant, Clare felt a niggle of relief. Maybe he’d vanish and go mad somewhere else and she wouldn’t have to deal with another ghost until she was more experienced.

“Small plane, helicopter,” Zach said.

Clare flinched at the expense of it all. “How do we arrange—”

“Gotta bring Rickman in on this. He has men,” Zach said roughly. “And guys who are proficient in black ops, who won’t talk.”

She set her jaw, not ready to agree to exposing herself any further, still hoping to be a little honest about the whole darn thing.

Wait! said Enzo. The telepathic word compressed the air in the room . . . made it vibrate . . . since the ghost dog housed the Other in his body. The witching hour is four A.M. . . . That is a good time for spirits to transition. We have no later than dawn, which is a little after six A.M. now. If we get there before dawn, he can move on.

Everything in Clare tensed again. “Did you hear that?” she asked Zach.

He scowled, “Unfortunately, yes. But at least it gives us the option of driving.”

“That’s good.” Clare sucked in a huge breath, releasing it in little choppy pants. “Let’s do this, then.”

THIRTY-SIX

“NOPE. YOU NEED to nap.”

The human specter solidified. You will be there? The hope in Jack Slade’s voice, a man’s voice again, made Clare blink fast. “Yes.”

Zach heard another bark, then watched as the dog—whom he hadn’t seen, only heard—became visible and went over to lean against the phantom of Jack Slade. The guy was nearly concrete now. Zach could only see vague lines of one of the bureaus behind him.