Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  He used the side of his palm to smooth the hair back from her face. Her flesh was pale, like pure alabaster. He followed the line of her jaw with his finger. He'd do anything for this woman. Anything. Except let her go.

  She stirred beneath his touch. Opened her eyes, smiled. Their eyes met. "How long have I been sleeping?"

  "A few hours," Gabriel said. "Not too long."

  Celeste propped herself on one elbow. He still had his arms around her. He didn't want to let go. "They need you, Gabriel."

  "Who?" he said, but he knew what she meant.

  "I can see it in your eyes. You're worried." Her voice was like silk. He wanted to wrap himself in it and hide away. But he nodded, just once.

  "They need you more than I do right now. Go to them. The people you help ... what you do ... It's wonderful."

  He felt the sense of hollowness returning. He wasn't that altruistic.

  Celeste sat up, stretching leisurely. "I'll be here when you come back."

  "You will? Really?" Gabriel was unsure.

  "Of course I will."

  "Celeste-"

  "Shhh." She put her finger to his lips. "What do you always say? You have someone that you need to see." She kissed him then, and he drank her in: her scent, her taste, the touch of her soft skin through the delicate fabric of her dress. He knew he could drown in that heady wash of sense and emotion.

  "110-"

  "Shhh. Later."

  Gabriel allowed himself to be shushed. He stared into her eyes.

  "You can trust me, Gabriel," she said. "I'll do whatever's best."

  "Alright. I'll go. There's a wounded policeman who needs my help." He climbed off the bed, brushing himself down. He had the horrible sense that he was walking away from something, that somehow he was abandoning her to the lions. He suppressed the urge to stay. She'd be safe here, at his Long Island home. No one would think to look for her here. "Later, then."

  "Yes. Later."

  He gave her one last, lingering look, and then left the room.

  Celeste waited until she'd heard the sputter of his motorcar, churning the gravel of the driveway as it hissed off into the wintery afternoon. She climbed down from the bed, straightening her dress. She glanced at the mirror, fixed her hair. She could barely look at herself, couldn't meet her own gaze. She wanted to break down and weep, wanted to call after Gabriel and tell him to come back, tell him to throw away his silly costume and run away with her like he'd said, somewhere safe and far from Long Island and Manhattan and all the terrible things to come. But she steeled herself instead. She had a job to do, and the time was coming. Soon, she would need to act.

  She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. She looked at herself again in the mirror. Then, as if adopting another persona, slipping it on like a new dress, a new mood, she sauntered out of the bedroom and wandered off in search of Henry.

  Celeste found the valet in the dining room, polishing the silverware. He looked up as she entered, a kindly smile on his face. "Hello, Miss Parker. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  She almost broke then. She could hear the tremble in her voice. "Thank you, Henry. I was wondering if you could bring one of Mr. Cross's motorcars around for me? I need to get some air. I'm feeling terribly cooped up in this big old house. I thought a little spin might do me good."

  Henry nodded, carefully placing the candelabra he was polishing on the dining table, dropping the dirty rag beside it. "Quite so, Miss Parker. An excellent idea. If you'd like to make any final preparations I'll go and fetch one directly."

  She stepped out of the doorway to allow him to pass, watched his back as he disappeared along the hallway.

  Soon, she would be on her way. Soon, she would be facing the biggest challenge of her life.

  She was needed in the city.

  he Ghost bustled into his Manhattan apartment around seven o'clock that evening. The drive from Long Island had proved monstrous; there were too many other vehicles on the road, and he hadn't been able to keep his attention on the driving. Too many things were spiraling through his head. Thoughts about Celeste, Reece, the Roman, Donovan. They crowded his mind, jostling for attention.

  He was still wearing his day suit, and wondered how much longer he would need to keep up the charade. Since everybody seemed to know already ... In truth, though, he knew there was no escaping it. He could rely on Donovan, of course, but declaring his true identity to the world would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant. Donovan was only a lone voice amongst the many, and the Commissioner wouldn't stand for it, wouldn't sanction a known vigilante on his streets, no matter how rich or influential he was. The Ghost needed to protect himself, needed to focus. Discovering that Celeste knew the truth-it had thrown him. But he had to shake the feeling, and quickly. Nothing had changed; the city still needed the Ghost ... and the Ghost still needed the city.

  He glanced around. Donovan was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, the Ghost strolled into the living room, looking for any sign of the policeman. He caught sight of him then, silhouetted in the open doorway of the workshop. He couldn't see Donovan's expression.

  "Quite an armory you've got here."

  The Ghost crossed the room to stand before the other man. "I suppose it is."

  Donovan stepped out from under the glow of the shining arc lamp, and his features resolved. He looked tired. He was still wearing the suit that the Ghost had given him earlier. "You took your time."

  The Ghost shrugged. "I was busy."

  Donovan pursed his lips. "There's been another murder." The Ghost raised an eyebrow, and Donovan continued, "A banker by the name of Mr. Williamson. Seen off by the Roman's men, same as before."

  "Do you think it was Reece?"

  "Yes, Reece or his cronies. I think he was trying to send us a message. I think he was trying to show us that he won't be stopped, that things carry on regardless. That perhaps we'll end up the same way, too." There was a tremor in Donovan's voice.

  The Ghost grinned. "I think Reece says a lot of things."

  Donovan brushed past him, heading for the kitchen, placing an empty glass on the counter with a gentle clink. "So what now? How are we going to find him?"

  The Ghost smiled. So they were working together now, it seemed. "The three-funneled car-that's all we've got to go on. But I have a feeling that Reece will prove too impatient to wait for us to find him. Perhaps we should let him come to us."

  "A trap, you mean?"

  The Ghost grinned. "Something like that." He noticed that Donovan was still holding himself in an awkward posture. "How's your shoulder?"

  "Bearable." Donovan's response was curt and clipped. He was clearly still in pain. It would be weeks before the wound would heal.

  "I can find you something for the pain."

  Donovan shook his head. "Not if it will dull my senses."

  "Very well." He understood that impulse, that need the policeman had to keep his head clear. He also understood the need to take the edge off, too, to dull the sharpness of the real world, and felt it now as he considered pouring himself a fat finger of whisky. He looked at the stack of unwashed plates piled in the kitchen sink. "Have you eaten?"

  "Yes."

  "Right. Well, get in there and choose yourself a weapon. Preferably two." He indicated the door to his workshop. "I have to change out of this dreadful suit."

  Donovan laughed. The Ghost stepped into the bedroom and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Ten minutes later, as he was strapping the shaft of his flechette gun along the length of his forearm, the Ghost heard the shrill chime of the holotube receiver. He opened the bedroom door, stepped out to see Donovan standing over the holotube unit. He looked up when he heard the Ghost enter the room, a concerned expression on his face.

  "He rang off, didn't even give me a chance to speak. Must have thought I was you in the confusion."

  "Who was it?"

  "A man, asking for someone named Gabriel. A guy called Arthur. He had a plum in his mouth, British, I thi
nk. Something like that. Said he needed your help, that there was something going down at the museum. Said he was calling like you'd told him to if anything happened."

  The Ghost stared at the policeman. "This is it. This is our lead. We need to get to the Met, fast."

  Donovan frowned, running a hand through his ruffle of dark hair. "The Metropolitan Museum of Art?"

  The Ghost swept up his trench coat from the back of a chair. "Trust me, Inspector. The Roman is making a move. This is the chance we've been waiting for."

  Together, the two men hurried out into the cold Manhattan evening.

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art was shrouded in darkness. High above, the moon was wrapped in a wintery wreath, the sky a leaden canopy of thick cloud. Tiny freckles of snow were falling, shimmering in the radial glow of the streetlamps. The snowflakes dusted their coats with fine, powdery blankets, each one existing for only the slightest moment before winking out of existence like a series of miniature dying stars.

  The Ghost put a hand on Donovan's arm, holding him back, keeping him hidden in the long shadows thrown down by the tenement buildings across the street from the museum. He scanned the steps at the front of the main entrance with the enhanced vision extended to him by the goggles. His breath fogged in the chill air. He felt cold to the core of his being.

  The two men had raced uptown in the Ghost's car, hissing along Fifth Avenue in the driving snow, the windshield wipers pelting back and forth, back and forth as they shot toward their destination. The Ghost had swung the car into a side road just opposite the main entrance to the museum, and now they stood, surveying the front of the building, looking for any signs of the trouble that had been reported as occurring within.

  The Ghost noted three soft mounds on the steps at the front of the building: the carcasses of more dead birds, mangled, abandoned, and now being slowly covered by the falling snow. He looked at Donovan. "Nothing. No sign of anything untoward. Shall we try round the back?"

  Donovan nodded briskly. Together, the two men stole away from their hiding place, moving swiftly through the thick curtain of snow. They hugged the walls where they could, prowling in the shadows. The Ghost was nervous, taught. He could see that Donovan was squeezing the butt of his handgun in the pocket of his borrowed coat as they passed along the side of the monolithic building. The place was deserted, the silence punctuated only by the occasional hiss of a car passing along Fifth Avenue behind them.

  At the rear of the building, the Ghost once again caught hold of Donovan's sleeve, motioning for him to remain still. In the distance the dark shadows of Central Park stood ominous, the silhouettes of the leafless trees jagged, their branches pointing haphazardly at the sky like so many impish fingers. To the left of the two men a large truck was parked on the path, close to the building, its back doors pinned open, the rear end of the vehicle facing them so that they could see into the cavernous space inside. It was empty, yet to receive its load.

  Beyond the truck, further along the path, the Ghost could see four cars parked in a neat row. None of them had three funnels. He frowned. Perhaps he'd been wrong, after all. Perhaps this was just another heist by just another gang of mobsters, trying it on for size. But that seemed unlikely, too much of a coincidence. It had to be connected to the Roman.

  A fire escape at the back of the building stood open, dim light leaching out onto the path. This was the door that Arthur had used to admit him the other night. He was sure he'd be able to find his way around inside from there again. Absently, he hoped that Arthur himself had found an opportunity to slip away.

  The Ghost edged along the side of the building, keeping his back to the wall. Donovan followed, remaining close behind him. He guessed there would be a driver in the cab of the truck, perhaps also in the four cars, and decided that it wouldn't do to alert them. Not yet. The ensuing fracas would only draw the attention of those inside, and the Ghost wanted to maintain the element of surprise.

  Seconds later the two men stepped up to the open doorway like moving shadows, checked briefly to ensure that the entrance was not guarded, and then slipped inside. Almost immediately, the Ghost had to stifle an exclamation of disgust.

  One of the museum's night wardens lay on the floor just inside the doorway, a glossy red hole where his face had once been. The congealed blood glistened in the wan light. The man's lower face had entirely gone from the nose down. All that was left was a gaping wound, punched through the jaw and out the back of the skull. He'd been shot at point-blank range, left where he'd dropped. Brain matter had spattered one of the glass-fronted display cabinets behind him, and puddles of dark arterial blood had formed around the base of a wooden Native American idol. The Ghost glanced at Donovan, who was able only to shake his head in disgust.

  The Ghost stepped over the corpse, grimacing, careful that his footsteps didn't ring out too loudly on the marble floor. Donovan had drawn the handgun and was glancing from side to side, trying to cover all of the exits. The Ghost could see the man was still wracked with pain, but he admired the way the policeman was gritting his teeth and forcing himself to carry on. The likelihood was that Donovan would be severely reprimanded for taking matters into his own hands, for allying himself with a known criminal. Perhaps he would even be kicked off the Force. But he didn't seem to care. All that mattered to him was bringing Reece and the Roman to justice, and protecting his family. The Ghost could understand values like that, could empathize with that need for justice. Sometimes the means did justify the ends. Sometimes you had to fight on the enemy's terms. Sometimes the law just didn't come into it.

  Cautiously they crept on, both men listening intently for any sounds that might give away the crooks' location. They passed through a large display of medieval art, an exhibition housing the ornate Gothic wonders of Old Europe. The Ghost found the place sinister, macabre. Faces stared down at him from the browning portraits that lined the walls, seeming to watch his progress as he made his way across the hall. He could hear Donovan's ragged breath behind him. They moved on, entering a long gallery filled with Byzantine splendor: gold idols, glittering jewels and riches, ancient artifacts and relics, each of them created in the name of human gods. The Ghost couldn't vouch for the existence of such gods, but he knew of gods that did exist, gods that didn't demand such worship, or require anything so parochial as golden idols.

  Donovan moved forward and the Ghost shot to his side, only then realizing that another security guard lay heaped in the gallery up ahead, his uniform crisp and smart, save for where his chest had been punctured in three places, blood still oozing from the wounds. The shots had been made in rapid succession, ensuring the man's absolute, unequivocal death. His pale face stared up at them, now frozen stiff with terror.

  The Ghost realized he was clenching his fists. He could feel the rage building inside him. He would make these men pay for their actions. He would harness that anger, and they would quake as he unleashed it upon them, a spinning whirlwind of vengeance and death.

  He followed behind Donovan for the moment. Waiting for his chance.

  They reached the great hall. It was a vast, cavernous space, which, during the day, would be filled with the chatter of voices and the press of bodies, the excitement of children brought along by their parents to gaze in awe through a window into the past. Now it was deserted, as silent as the rest of the empty museum.

  Donovan paused, leaning closer to the Ghost. His voice was barely audible, but the Ghost could hear the exasperation apparent in his words. "They could be anywhere in this place!"

  The Ghost shook his head. He had a notion of where they might be. "No. Come with me. This way."

  Taking precautions to ensure they were not being watched from the balcony above, the Ghost led Donovan across the great hall toward the Greek and Roman wing, to the right of the main entrance. That was where they would find the mobsters. He was sure of it.

  Mere moments later he was proved right. He saw Donovan start, holding out a warning hand, and took the cu
e, sliding sideways toward the shadows, keeping himself out of view. He became aware of the sound of voices from somewhere up ahead. Donovan dropped back, covering the entrance to the Greek and Roman exhibition with the hovering aim of his handgun. The Ghost gestured for the policeman to remain where he was. Then, gesturing to show that he was going to take a look, he crept forward, walking on the balls of his feet to ensure his shoes didn't scuff on the marble floor.

  The entrance to the exhibition was a large square archway. The Ghost went right, keeping behind the wall, peering around the edge of the opening to take a look at what was happening beyond.

  The scale of the operation was astounding. There must have been fifteen, twenty men in there. Moss men, too, at least five of them, possibly more, lumbering about between the exhibits. The mobsters themselves were standing around, laughing and conversing, whilst two of the moss men were slowly maneuvering the large marble wheelthe artifact that Arthur had shown him just a couple of days beforeacross the floor. They turned it slowly, almost reverently, as they guided it toward the archway where the Ghost was hiding. He heard a footstep to his left, turned to see Donovan approaching. The Ghost shook his head, waved the inspector across to the other side of the entrance. He saw Donovan's eyes open wide as he took in the scene of industry beyond.

  So he'd been right. Gardici had been working for the Roman. And since the museum-since Arthur-had refused to sell him the artifact he so desired, the Roman had now decided to take it by force. The Ghost found it hard to fathom the scene before him; the amount of planning it must have taken to prepare for such a bold heist. More than that, though, the Ghost was appalled by the sheer gall of the man; the sheer tenacity required to have his men waltz into the Metropolitan Museum of Art with the aim of stealing a two-thousand-year-old arti fact, simply to satisfy his whims. He watched the mobsters as they milled about, allowing the moss men to carry out the work whilst they smoked and caroused, fearless of any reprisals. They'd killed all the guards, after all; what more did they have to concern themselves with?