Johnny Graphic and the Etheric Bomb (7 page)

“Exactly!” trumpeted Nina. “And if he hadn’t been surprised, he wouldn’t have stopped. And if he hadn’t stopped, the colonel would’ve arrived too late.”

“And the commander might have been killed,” added the colonel.

“And you would have ended up an only child,” said Uncle Louie.

“Your stupid two-dollar mustache saved my life,” Mel said. “In all the excitement I never even felt it on my lip. I was wondering why people kept looking at me so oddly. So, my turn now.” She grabbed her root beer off the table and hefted it high. “To John Joshua Graphic and his exclusive one-year
contract with the
Zenith Clarion
.”

“To Johnny,” Uncle Louie said, “and a lifetime of great photographs.”

“To the eagle-eyed lensman,” Nina chirped, beaming with pride in her best friend.

After the kitchen quieted down, Mel smiled at everyone. “Bed for me, I think. G’night.”

“Remember,” Johnny said. “Lunch tomorrow with Mr. Cargill.”

Offering a nod and a wobbly wave, the pony-tailed etherist vanished down the hallway.

“You know, Uncle Louie, it’s just not fair that we’ve been roped into this bloody business.” Johnny stared into his root beer, now going flat, along with his mood. “I mean, what’d Mel do to deserve almost getting slaughtered by a ghost?”

“Well, John,” answered Uncle Louie, “sometimes life just grabs you by the scruff of the neck and gives you a good, hard shaking. Nothing you can do except try to hold on and make it through. Like when your mom and dad disappeared. You can’t even imagine how you’ll survive something so awful. But you do.”

Johnny’s eyelids suddenly felt incredibly heavy. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been this tired. He yawned and put his head down next to the empty root beer glass. He was asleep before his forehead clunked against the varnished oak.

Chapter 13

Wednesday, October 9, 1935

Zenith

When Johnny woke up, dazzling sunlight was pouring through the window, making his entire bedroom glow. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and squinted at the alarm clock on the bed stand. Holy maroley, he thought, ten o’clock already. And how’d he get here? In his pajamas, no less?

Thirteen minutes later Johnny came trotting down the main staircase—face scrubbed, hair combed, teeth brushed. He had on a brown tweed herringbone suit. He strode into the kitchen and found his sister at one end of the table and Uncle Louie at the other.

“We thought you’d be up earlier, lazybones,” said Mel. “Figured you’d want to see this as soon as possible.” She held up the front page of the
Zenith Clarion
.

Johnny’s eyes practically popped out. He snatched the newspaper out of his sister’s hands, sat down, and examined the front page in detail. It looked amazingly impressive.

In heavy black type the
headlines shouted:

Below the headlines came three stark black-and-white images. One showed Captain Merrick sweating at the Johnson Goose’s controls. The next depicted Mel at the end of her ordeal, a look of utter shock on her mustachioed face. And the last was a photo of one of the damaged engines that Johnny had shot on the aeroboat dock.

Mel’s story wasn’t that long, only about seven hundred words, with a few hundred more from the colonel in a shaded box. The old ghost soldier gave a ripping account of the battle in the clouds and his confrontation with the eyeless Steppe Warrior. At the bottom of the page Miss Beale’s report recounted what the National Police Bureau was doing about the Steppe Warrior attack and the apparent worldwide conspiracy to murder members of the Oskar Hausenhofer Gesellschaft.

“Miss Beale called a couple hours ago,” said Uncle Louie, sipping on his coffee. “The entire sunrise edition sold out by 7 a.m. They’re printing additional copies of the regular morning edition and doing an extra edition for this afternoon.”

“The story’s been picked up by dozens of newspapers and radio stations around the world,” Mel added.

Though Johnny was terrifically excited, Mel didn’t look like she was enjoying the attention of millions of newspaper readers. Which, he thought, made perfect sense. Let’s see. Friends get murdered. You almost get slaughtered, as well. Your mug is on front pages everywhere wearing a fake mustache. She was sure a good sport to let them print that shot.

“Here, this just arrived,” Mel said, handing Johnny a small yellow envelope. “From Dame Honoria.”

He pulled out the telegraph—its printed message taped on the yellow paper—and read the shocking news.

JUST SAW STORY OF YOUR CLOSE CALL. ARE YOU SAFE MY DARLINGS. ARRIVED IN NEUPORT AND ATTACKED BY GANGSTER GHOST WITH MACHINE GUN. BARELY ESCAPED. I AM ALL RIGHT. NOW BACK TO GILBEYSHIRE AND ON TO GORTON ISLAND. TELEGRAPH YOUR NEWS BOTH ADDRESSES. LOVE HONORIA.

Johnny already understood they were involved in a very serious business. But all of a sudden, the gravity of the situation sunk in with deadly earnestness. Somebody really meant to kill all these etherists, including Dame Honoria and his sister. And he had to do everything he possibly could to stop it.

* * *

At Tony Weller’s Café on Superior Avenue, Johnny, Mel, and Uncle Louie were escorted up the staircase by Tony himself, and ushered into a small private dining room. Carlton Cargill, Maude Beale, and a woman from Zephyr Lines had already arrived for the lunch date they’d scheduled the day before.

When Johnny, his sister, and his uncle came down the staircase an hour and a half later, Johnny was still in a daze.

“So does this mean,” he said when they emerged out onto the bustling downtown sidewalk, “that we’re
really
flying around the world?”

Uncle Louie reached inside his jacket and pulled out three folded documents. “Once we sign our contracts here, that’s exactly what it means.”

Mel kept a stone face as they strolled by Freeman’s Book Store, windows chockablock with all the latest best-selling mysteries and romances. Johnny, though, couldn’t help but feel energized.

He could hardly believe it. They were going to investigate as many of the Hausenhofer Gesellschaft murders as they could, and send back their stories and photos. Silver City, Orchid Isles, Tor Chan, Old Continent—
here we come!

The
Clarion
was hiring Mel and Uncle Louie, as well as Johnny. Zephyr Lines would provide a long-range Como Eagle aeroboat for two months. Danny Kailolu—co-pilot of the Night Goose—would captain it. An experienced flying boat aviator himself, Uncle Louie would be the co-pilot. While Johnny took pictures, Mel would write exclusive dispatches. Colonel MacFarlane and his troopers would come. Best of all, Nina got the assignment of running the seaplane’s long-range radio. She was going to positively pop a cork when she found out she was getting out of school for two months to fly around the world. And Johnny would have someone interesting to talk to on the trip.

Of course, Johnny understood perfectly well that Mr. Cargill was funding the trip so he could sell more newspapers. Johnny was only too happy to boost the
Clarion
’s circulation. And along the way, he and Mel might just get at the root of these deadly attacks—and even help end them.

On the walk back to their car, the trio kept hearing
Clarion
newsies hawking the paper on the street.

“Aeroboat tragedy aaaa-voided! Attack of deaaaaadly specters!”

“
Clarion
exclusive! Midnight horror in the clouds!”

“Local girl saves the day! Exclusive photos by Johnny Graphic!”

No one seemed to recognize Mel—until she was about to climb into the big Morton Monarch touring car.

Suddenly, a towheaded tyke in short pants and fuzzy brown sweater ran up to her, eyes wide, finger pointing. The little shaver twirled a nonexistent “mustache” on his own upper lip. He giggled wildly and ran off down the street.

Mel frowned at her brother and uncle. “I was afraid that might happen. Maybe instead of becoming more famous, we should just all go hide. The ghost assassins would never find us.”

“Listen, Mel,” said Johnny, “we could get killed no matter where we hide. They could find us anywhere we go. I say the best defense is a good offense.”

“No one would attack us at home,” Mel said, as she climbed into the backseat. She sounded more hopeful than realistic. “It’s the one place in the world where I feel perfectly safe.”

Chapter 14

Sunday, October 13, 1935

Zenith

The next few days teemed with activity. Meetings were held. Itineraries were planned. Financial arrangements were made. Potential stories were discussed. The world travellers went shopping for the supplies and equipment they would need. When Sunday evening rolled around, an exhausted Johnny flopped onto his bed and fell asleep almost instantly—still wearing his tan corduroy slacks and blue cotton shirt.

Sometime well after midnight an annoying metallic clangor woke him up. At first he wondered if the noise came from a remnant of a dream. But when he realized it was emanating from the bedroom next to his, he jumped to his feet in the dark.

Bolting out into the hallway, he threw open Mel’s door and froze at the sight. Mel was battling for her life with a Steppe Warrior!

Again.

Something boiled up inside Johnny, out of control. Pure, red-hot anger! He wanted to tear this blasted ghost from limb to limb. But if he tried to enter the room to help, he might end up distracting Mel. So he did the only other thing he could think of. He turned and screamed. “Help! Colonel! Uncle Louie! Mel’s fighting a Steppe Warrior!”

Just after Johnny shouted, the ghost launched a series of slashing strikes with a curved sword. And it was clear that Mel had all she could handle, deflecting them with her own army saber. Just
parry
…
parry
…
parry.
She backed toward the door that Johnny had flung open. He felt on the verge of panic, watching Mel’s weakening defensive moves.

What could he do?
What could he do?

For a start, he ran toward the top of the staircase and switched on the hallway lights so his sister could see clearly. He knew that the light would help Mel even the odds.

The two sword fighters erupted into the hallway, raining sword strikes on each other.

Just then Uncle Louie—half asleep, barefoot, and in his bathrobe—stumbled into the hallway and almost into the middle of the fight, narrowly avoiding Mel’s whirling infantry saber. “Jumpin’ Jiminy!” he exclaimed, and nipped back into his bedroom.

“Mel’s fighting a Steppe Warrior,” Johnny shouted from the top of the staircase. “I’m going to try to help her. You yell for the colonel.”

“You got it, John,” Uncle Louie hollered back. “Colonel MacFarlane! Colonel MacFarlane!” he bellowed repeatedly.

One of the globe lights on the ceiling shattered into hundreds of shards when the Steppe Warrior’s sword hit it. The wraith was backing Mel down toward where Johnny stood. Mel could stay upstairs and get trapped by the ghost at the far end of the hallway. Or she could tread backward down the broad staircase, just as the movie star Trevor Sheridan did in his famous duels up on the silver screen. Or she could gamble it all and launch a fierce attack.

But Johnny didn’t know how much longer his sister could last. She was breathing heavily and groaning with every strike and parry. Her face was equal parts terror and concentration.

Johnny had to give her a break, some kind of an edge.

He bolted into his bedroom and reappeared with his Zoom press camera. By that time the two combatants had neared the top of the staircase. From behind the Steppe Warrior’s back, Johnny could see Mel’s grimly intense expression. Darting quickly, Johnny slipped past the Steppe Warrior—barely evading a cut by the ghost’s blade—and wiggled his way behind Mel. Hoping the diversion would work one more time, he lofted the bulky camera above his head, and aimed it so the bulb would go off right in the ghost’s face.

“Mel!” he yelled, almost in her ear. “Flash!”

He pressed the shutter release.

The Steppe Warrior gasped at the coruscating corona of light. For a mere one and seven-eighths seconds the ghost was distracted.

Which was just enough.

With a guttural roar, Mel rushed at the would-be assassin with a powerful flurry of diagonal slashing cuts.

The curved blade flew out of the Steppe Warrior’s hand and clanged down the hallway. Wearing an expression of deepest loathing, the wraith charged at Mel with bare hands.

Out of pure reflex, Mel grunted and cut downward. The noise that followed was a terrible, sodden kind of percussion—the same sound Johnny had heard in the butcher’s shop.

A horrific wailing filled the enclosed space of the upstairs corridor. Only then did Johnny realize that the Steppe Warrior was a girl. She fell to her knees. Her right arm, her sword arm, rested on the carpet, twitching and pulsing. She bayed at the ceiling like a wounded animal and pawed at her right shoulder with her left hand.

Just then, Colonel MacFarlane flew up through the hallway floor, saber drawn. He regarded the scene with a mixed look of horror and regret. He caught Mel’s eye and shook his head. Sorry, ma’am, said his expression, late again.