Ghosts of Manhattan (7 page)

Sighing, he laid the envelope neatly on the seat beside him. "You can tell the Roman that, whilst I appreciate his offer, my memory is in good working order, and I'm sleeping just fine." He took another long draw on his cigarette, listening to the sound of the paper crackling as he pulled the nicotine into his lungs. There was silence for a few moments, save for the hissing sigh of the steam vents at the rear of the car as it slid along the road.

Finally, Gideon Reece spoke once more. "I'm not sure you fully understand what's being offered to you, Inspector Donovan. This is a gift. To refuse it would be to, well ... to fail to show respect." He paused, sucking thoughtfully on the end of his cigar. "We've already discussed the importance of respect. Landsworth had no respect." Another pause. He turned to regard the inspector and his eyes flashed with menace. "I'm sure that makes things clearer for you?"

Donovan didn't answer. He understood only too well what was being intimated. He was being presented with an ultimatum: take the money and dine with the devil, or end up dead in a backstreet, or worse, with his pants around his ankles in a hotel suite like that poor bastard Landsworth. He knew it wasn't an idle threat. But somehow that only worked to strengthen his resolve. Now it was him or the Roman. And what was more, he knew they were getting nervous. Why else would they try to buy him off?

Donovan glanced out of the window. They were in his neighborhood. He met the other's penetrating stare with a steady gaze. "Can I think about it?"

Reece laughed again, a cruel, terrible laugh. He spread his hands in a placatory gesture. "Of course, Inspector. Of course." He waved his fat cigar beside his head, as if somehow plucking thoughts out of thin air. "But if I may, I'll leave you with some well-intentioned advice. Don't go against him. He's been at this game for a long time. A very long time. Longer than you could possibly imagine. He knows how to get what he wants." He smiled, leaning back in his seat. "I'll need your answer by midnight on Friday."

Donovan nodded. "Then you can let me out here, Mr. Reece. This is my neighborhood, and I'd be thankful for the walk."

Reece nodded and rapped on the glass. The vehicle swung toward the sidewalk and pulled to an abrupt stop.

Donovan glanced at the brown paper envelope, and then, without looking back at the other man, pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The cold air hit him like a rush.

He turned and clicked the door shut behind him, and a moment later the car swerved away into the road and growled off into the night. Donovan watched it go.

He had four days to get something concrete on the Roman. Four days to find his way out of this mess. He'd spent weeks on the case already and hadn't even got close. But now it was different. Now he finally had a lead: Gideon Reece.

Donovan pulled his overcoat tight around his shoulders and set off for home. He needed some sleep, and he wanted to see Flora. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to see his girl.

he Ghost flung his apartment door open and pushed his way inside, leaning heavily on the doorjamb. The drawing room was dark, the only light leaching in through the wide panoramic windows that looked out across the city far below. Shafts of silver moonlight pooled on the soft carpet, casting everything in a strange, ethereal glow.

He was breathing heavily. His ankles were bloody and blistered and he was finding it painful to walk. He'd made his escape across the rooftops, crossing four or five buildings before he'd had to force open a fire escape and swing down to street level, five stories below.

The Roman's men-or what was left of them-clearly hadn't chosen to give chase. In that he'd been lucky: the moss golems had been slow and lumbering but effectively unstoppable, at least with the weapons he'd had at his disposal. He wondered where they had come from, what was controlling them. He'd never seen anything like them before. Automata, yes-but these were something different, something dangerous and new. Twice during the encounter he'd thought he was finished, and if the fight had continued, he knew it would only have been a matter of time. Tiredness would have seen him off. Tiredness and ineffective weapons. He needed to do something about that.

He'd hobbled the rest of the way back to his apartment building, being careful to stick to the shadows. The streets weren't busy, but he knew that in this city there were prying eyes at every corner, behind every blacked-out window. At one point, half-delirious with pain, he'd stumbled out in front of an oncoming car, its headlamps cutting wide channels in the gloom. The vehicle had skidded to a screeching halt, the driver leaning out to shout abuse at the strange, shambling figure in the road. The man had probably assumed he was dealing with a drunken bum. In some respects, he wouldn't have been far off. He certainly intended to open a bottle of whisky, just as soon as he'd cleaned up his wounds. The entire evening had been a less than successful enterprise.

Pushing the door shut behind him, the Ghost limped across the room, pausing by the window. Outside, from this height, the night looked still and silent, but the city was still shimmering with bright electric lights. The distant trails of biplanes crisscrossed the sky. He glanced at the clock on the wall. It was early, only ten o'clock. He was meant to be somewhere else. But the stinging pain at the back of his legs and the tender flesh where he'd received blows from the moss men meant that any thoughts of other activity that evening had to be put aside.

He turned away from the window and stumbled toward the bathroom. He had blood on his hands. He laughed at the irony of that thought. There was no redemption for him now.

This time, however, it was his own blood, from a gash in his palm. He must have sliced it as he crashed through the window.

He grunted as he pushed the door open with his shoulder. The lights blinked on, triggered by an automatic sensor, flooding everything in harsh electric yellow. He winced at the sight of himself in the mirror. He was still wearing his long black coat and hat, but his face was smeared with blood, his bottom lip split and still bleeding. His chest ached as if he'd cracked a rib, and he didn't dare consider what state the backs of his legs would be in once he'd managed to strip away the ruination of his boots.

He swept his hat off his head, casting it through the open door into the drawing room, not bothering to note where it landed. Then, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink, he cranked the hot tap. Water spat into the basin, swirling around the plughole. He thrust his hands into it, watching the red stains mingle with the running water and disappear, leaving a long, puckered cut across his palm.

If only it was that easy.

He knew that not all blood could be washed away like that. He thought of the war, of what had happened to him out there, in France. Those events had come to define him, to forge the shape of his future life. The anger still burned deep inside him. He doubted it would ever be quelled. Time had not done it. Perhaps this, perhaps the fight would help? Perhaps it would be enough to still the maelstrom at the center of his being?

In truth, however, he doubted it. He'd never be able to scrub the stains of that time away. They were indelible now; a part of who he was: a burned-out old soldier with a grudge.

He looked up, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. For a moment he didn't even recognize himself. The eyes of the man looking back at him were haunted, and the face was pale and unfamiliar. He no longer knew who he really was. He wasn't the Ghost-that construct of the reporters and their overzealous headlines, as useful as that moniker had proved to be-and he wasn't that other man, either. That character was just as much a construct, a proxy; he existed only in the same world as the Ghost. He only existed at all because of necessity.

The Ghost sighed. Only one person had seen to the core of him, and he couldn't even be himself with her. The irony was not lost on him.

He lowered his face to the sink and splashed water over himself. Then, gingerly, he set about stripping his clothes. He unbuckled the straps that tied his flechette gun to his forearm and allowed the weapon to clang noisily to the floor, the barrel skittering away across the smooth ceramic tiles. He looked down at his feet. He was going to have to bandage his ankles. And, he laughed to himself, wincing as he began peeling away the scorched leather, he was going to need to invest in some new boots.

An hour later the Ghost lowered himself into an easy chair by the window and broke the seal on a bottle of illegal bourbon, sloshing a generous measure into a glass and downing it in one long motion. He shuddered as the alcohol did its work. He poured himself another glass, studying the amber liquid as he held it up to the moonlight. It would numb the pain. All of it.

On the table before him sat a large device. It was the size of a wireless receiver, but looked more like a miniature holotube terminal; three large glass valves were set into an old wooden case, arranged like a crown of glass teeth around a small mirrored chamber. A series of buttons and dials on the front of the device were unmarked. A wire trailed from the back of the unit, snaking away to disappear into the corner of the room, its destination lost in shadow.

The Ghost downed his second tumbler of whisky and placed the glass on the table with a clink. Then, turning to regard the strange device, he reached out and twisted one of the dials. The unit gave an electrical buzz and flickering blue energy crackled to life inside the three glass valves. The device began to hum as it warmed up. After a moment, the Ghost flicked another switch and a small holographic image shimmered into being inside the mirrored cavity. It was a woman. She was standing beside a microphone, her hair pinned to one side of her face, wearing a long, flowing dress. Her makeup accentuated her features, and the dress accentuated her hips. The backdrop was fuzzy and indistinct, but it appeared to be the inside of a nightclub.

The Ghost reached for the bottle of bourbon and moved to pour another measure into his glass. Then, changing his mind, he sat back with the bottle in his fist and took a long slug from it. He stared for a moment at the unwavering image of the woman. Then, like some sort of mysterious god, he twisted another dial on the machine and imbued the woman with life.

The Ghost fell back listlessly in his chair. The woman swayed slightly from side to side, clasping the microphone stand, and then the music started, the faint strains of a piano, tinny through the imperfect speakers of the improvised recording device.

The woman-Celeste Parker-parted her lips and sang, and her voice, even relayed through the fizzing static of the holograph machine, was a thing of beauty. The words were immaterial. The cadence of her voice carried all of the emotional significance, all of the necessary sentiment. It was a lament for lost love. It was raw, and it was true.

The Ghost stirred, taking another long pull on the whisky bottle. He knew those emotions, knew what it was like to lose someone. Knew what it was like to feel unrequited love for another.

He glanced at the holograph. What the hell did she see in that buffoon, Gabriel Cross? How could she stand to be around him? He only hoped that she could see something others could not, that her perception of the man was different from that of those hordes of partygoers who gathered at his Long Island home to pay homage to their debauched leader. He was a libertine, yes, but he was also a fool, an emotionless caricature of himself. The Ghost could not understand how Celeste could bring herself to endure the man's company, let alone his bed.

He watched her as she continued with her plaintive song. It was a private performance, just him and the machine, but all the while it felt to the Ghost as if there was more than one man in the audience.

Presently, the song ended and the holograph stuttered to a halt, the image frozen once again, a moment captured in time. He considered starting it over, then held the bottle of whisky up to the light. It was half-empty. Enough.

Carefully, he swung his legs down from the footrest and tested them with his weight. It was painful, but he could walk. The bandages would hold. The burns had looked worse than they were-his boots had taken the brunt of the scorching. His ankles were badly blistered, but he'd be able to carry on. He pulled himself to his feet.