by George Mann
The fragment of glass embedded in his thigh had been a trifling matter, and he'd extracted it the previous evening upon their return to the Ghost's apartment. Now the leg was sore, but the pain was nothing in comparison to his shoulder, which still throbbed with a dull ache, pulling painfully when he moved it. He supposed it was remarkable, really, that they had managed to get out of the museum alive, both of them relatively unscathed.
But what had they learned? That was the question plaguing the inspector. Perhaps nothing that would help them in their quest to bring down the Roman. Yes, of course, it was damning evidence-the Roman's men had stormed the Met, a national institution, wreaked havoc, and destroyed hundreds, if not thousands, of priceless relics in their efforts to steal one of them. But to what end, what purpose? What did the Roman want with an ancient marble wheel? The Ghost didn't seem to know, and nor did the curator, who Donovan had questioned quietly and firmly in the back of the Ghost's car as they drove him home.
Donovan cursed himself. If only he'd been fit, perhaps they wouldn't have gotten away. Perhaps now they would have a lead. As it was, he was left stewing in the vigilante's apartment, wondering what was in store for them next. Donovan didn't like that thought much. He could hardly believe how things had changed in the course of the last few days; how his life had been so easily disrupted, threatened, knocked out of sync. He only hoped that Mullins had managed to get the message to Flora, telling her to take an extended break, to go somewhere with Maud, to visit another state. He'd promised to tell her more when it was over. He hoped she would trust him. She needed to trust him, at least until he could bring this whole matter to an end, once and for all. After that ... after that they could figure it all out together.
Donovan fingered the butt of the handgun in his jacket pocket. There was one thing he could be doing: he could check on Mullins. After all, it was likely Mullins would have been roped in that morning to clean up the mess at the museum, and Donovan felt he owed the man an explanation. The Commissioner would have to wait. But Mullins deserved to know what was going on.
He fixed his resolve. That was what he would do. He would leave a message for the Ghost at the apartment, then head to the precinct and search out the sergeant. He was unsure why the other man had left in such a hurry that morning-something relating to the call he had made-but he guessed the Ghost would return later with news.
Heaving himself up out of the chair, he scratched a note on a piece of old card and propped it on the table beside the half-drunk bottle of bourbon before taking his leave.
He knew the Ghost would find it there.
The precinct building was a hive of industry as Donovan entered through the revolving doors. He wondered if the Commissioner had seconded more hands from the other nearby precincts to cope with the mess his inspector had been leaving in his wake. Men in blue uniforms milled about with apparent purpose; people he didn't recognize, unfamiliar and, therefore, somehow suspicious. But Donovan was oddly comforted by the sight of Richards, the precinct administrator, who stood behind an oak desk in the lobby, coolly regarding the inspector over the top of the shifting rabble.
Donovan approached the desk, realizing for the first time since leaving the apartment that he was still wearing the suit from the day before, now torn and bloody, and slept in. God, he was losing his edge.
Richards seemed to recognize his discomfort and gave him an appraising look, as if weighing up how to approach the impending conversation. "Good morning, sir," he said hesitantly. "Is ... everything alright?"
Donovan sighed. "Yes, Richards, everything is quite alright."
"Very good, sir." The man sounded unconvinced, but wisely left it at that.
"Is Mullins here?"
"Yes, sir. Upstairs."
Donovan grinned. "Thank you, Richards." He was relieved that the man hadn't deemed it appropriate to ask any penetrating questions. He wasn't yet sure how he would go about answering them.
He left Richards at the desk and crossed the hall, avoiding a gaggle of busy officers who appeared to be bustling around with no apparent purpose other than to create further bustle. He climbed the steps to the second floor, shaking his head. At the top, he pushed his way through the double doors with his good shoulder. They creaked as they swung open, but none of the men inside the large, open-plan office looked up to see who had entered. To a man they were hunched over their desks, wrinkles of concentration etched on their brows. Donovan scanned the faces: Jansen, Green, Hatton, Mullins. He frowned. So who had been sent to the museum?
He crossed to where the sergeant was standing over another man, a brooding expression on his face. Mullins looked up as he heard Donovan's footsteps on the linoleum. "Inspector." He seemed startled. "How are you? Have you heard about the museum?
Donovan gave a brief nod of acknowledgement. "Yes. I was there. It seems I'm having difficulty keeping myself out of trouble at the moment."
Mullins grinned. "I think it's a sure sign you're getting closer, sir." He stepped away from the desk, and together the two men moved to one side so as not to be overheard. "What happened in there?"
Donovan shrugged. "I caught a tip-off. Went there, found them in the act. Bastards got away, though."
"Some of them did." Mullins grinned. It was clear the sergeant was impressed by his late-night exploits. "And the Ghost was there, too ... ? We found traces of his strange ammunition."
"Yes, he was there."
"Was he working with the Roman's men?"
Donovan had to stop himself from glowering at the sergeant. "Have you been down there, Mullins? Seen how many dead mobsters are strewn about the place? The man saved my life more than once. No, he was not working for the Roman. You don't have to trouble yourself about the Ghost."
Mullins looked at the floor, shamefaced. "The Commissioner sent Jefferson down there, sir. I haven't seen it. But I've heard reports, snatches of information from the other men. Sounds like it was carnage."
"It was," Donovan said, morosely. "It was most definitely that." He looked around. The other officers were studiously getting on with their work. "Did you manage to get my message to Flora?"
Mullins nodded. "Yes, sir. All taken care of."
Donovan breathed a sigh of relief. "Have you got any coffee, Mullins?"
"Yes, sir. But first, I have something for you." The sergeant was smiling.
Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes. I found it."
"Found what?"
"The link. I found the link between the Roman's victims." Mullins beamed up at him, his round face splitting into a wide grin.
Donovan's eyes widened. "Well, man! Spit it out!" He reached for a cigarette. It was the last one in his packet. Mullins frowned at the smell of the sweet smoke as the inspector lit it and sucked impatiently on the filter.
"A power station, sir."
"A what?"
Mullins coughed as Donovan blew smoke in face. "A power station, down in the Battery. That's what links the victims. Well, some of them, anyway. It was Williamson who gave it away. I found paperwork in his office when I started looking through his affairs. I drew a link immediately to Landsworth. Both of them were heavily invested in the construction of a new power station. I checked back, found some of the others were involved in it, too. Their bank records were all the same. Considerable sums of money. Thousands."
Donovan could feel the excitement welling up inside him. A lead, at last! "And it's in the Battery, you say?"
"Yes, sir. It's only just become operational." Mullins was clearly pleased with himself.
"What's the holding company?"
"Well, that's just it, sir. I can't find one. At least, not a corporation. All of the payments and receipts were made out to the same person, transferred into a personal account in the name of Mr. Gideon Reece."
Donovan almost cried out in excitement. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, took a long, thoughtful pull on his cigarette. What did the Roman want with a power station? And why ha
d the investors all been murdered, now that the construction was complete? He had a feeling that the trail was suddenly growing warm once more. He needed to get hold of the Ghost. "Good work, Mullins. I think I need to pay this power station a visit." He looked up at the sergeant, his eyes shining. "Now, if you could just fetch that coffee I'll fill you in on the rest of it ..."
The Ghost's car purred up outside the newly constructed power station in the Battery, stirring the gravel as it slid to a stop. The station itself was a large, gray industrial building: squat and square, with three tall iron turrets erupting from its otherwise flat roof. In the midday light they were silhouetted, and looked to Donovan like three stubby fingers, pointing at the heavens.
Around the building itself, construction materials lay abandoned haphazardly: a pile of stone blocks; wooden batons of varying lengths, now damp from exposure to the sea air; coils and coils of thin wire. Further out, past the building, Donovan could see the harbor. Turquoise water lapped gently at the wooden jetties, parted by the prows of numerous ferries. In the distance, shrouded in hazy fog, was Liberty Island. The imposing statue dominated the landscape for miles around, standing guard over the city, watching.
Liberty. That was what he was fighting for. Liberty for himself, and for the people of New York. Liberty for Flora. Liberty for the Ghost.
Donovan had finally managed to get through to the Ghost on the holotube, after trying him five or six times at the apartment. The vig ilante had picked him up around the back of the precinct, this time in full regalia, and had explained to him the situation with the jazz singer, Celeste Parker, and the snitch, Jimmy the Greek, as they drove at speed toward the Battery. Donovan understood the man's pain, understood his need to keep busy, to get to the woman before it was too late. He hoped it wasn't already too late. But he feared the worst. He wondered what it would do to the vigilante. He could hardly be described as sane at the best of times. Would this be enough to push him completely over the edge?
Donovan climbed out of the car. It was cold, and a stiff wind was gusting in off the harbor. He turned up the collar of his borrowed coat. As the Ghost climbed out of the driver's side, Donovan paced around the edge of the building, looking for any signs of life. To his surprise, he saw another vehicle was parked beneath a tree, carefully positioned so as to be out of sight from the main approach to the building. It was sleek and black, its rear end facing toward him as he moved closer. He could see that the back of the car had been modified: the coal hopper shortened and a third exhaust funnel extended out of the engine housing. There was no mistaking it. The three-funneled car. Gideon Reece was there.
Frantically, Donovan beckoned the Ghost over. The vigilante trudged across the gravel courtyard toward him, and when he saw what had caught Donovan's attention, a wide grin spread across his face. He flicked his arm, and the barrel of his strange gun ratcheted up into position along his forearm. Donovan mirrored the grin and slipped his handgun out of his pocket, cracking it open to ensure that it was fully loaded. Now was their chance. This was it.
He watched as the Ghost pulled a short blade from inside his left boot and approached the car. He walked around it once, glancing in through the windows, checking to ensure it wasn't alarmed or boobytrapped. Then, satisfied, he dropped to his knees and gashed the tires one by one, moving around the vehicle quickly. When he was done, he returned to Donovan's side. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely audible above the howling wind. "That should stop the bastard slipping away again."
Both men clearly understood the need for subtlety. They didn't want to risk alerting Reece to their presence. Using hand gestures to signal their intentions, they parted. The Ghost went left, Donovan right, fanning out as they approached the main entrance to the power station, one on either side of the grand doorway.
As he stood with his back to the wall, his shoulder throbbing, watching for the Ghost to make the next move, Donovan wondered what he would do when he found himself facing the crook. Could he pull the trigger in cold blood? Surely that was the right thing to do, the quickest, easiest way to end all of this. The man deserved it, needed to pay for the things he had done. But Donovan was a police officer, and he bristled at the thought of murder. He believed in the judicial system. That was what separated him from men like the Ghost, and while he recognized the need for such men, he also recognized the need for order, a structure to society. There was a fundamental line between what was right and what was wrong, and Donovan had yet to cross it. Besides, they needed Reece alive. He was their ticket to the Roman.
The entrance to the power station was a large stone doorway that housed two white wooden doors. There was an inscription on the lintel above the doors, words chiseled out in neat Latin script, and for the life of him Donovan could not decipher what it said. He didn't suppose it mattered. It was probably some obscure Roman reference, like the coins left in the vicinity of the murder victims.
Donovan swallowed. He didn't believe in fate, but something had brought him here, with Gideon Reece on the other side of the door. He decided not to question it too closely. Instead, he watched as the Ghost reached over and turned the handle, so slowly it was almost painful, swinging one of the double doors open. It folded inward, the new hinges squealing loudly. A tense moment passed, and then, hefting his weapon, Donovan stepped cautiously inside.
The interior of the power station had to be one of the most remarkable sights the inspector had ever seen. All around him, confronting him almost immediately as he stepped through the doors, were vast banks of Tesla coils: huge gray wire cages, spitting out millions of volts of electricity, each of them crackling with ribs of lightning, blue and white plasma that spat and snapped at the air in all conceivable directions. Donovan could feel the static charge tugging at his hair, perme ating the atmosphere. There was a smell of fresh ozone, like the heady scent left behind by a storm. The entire setup was strangely, mystically beautiful.
The Ghost closed the door behind them, and then took a moment to drink in the view. There was no doubting it was an impressive sight, and Donovan could see how easy it must have been for the Roman, and for Reece, to enamor potential investors with its magic. The sight of even one of these strange machines would be enough to bring people flocking, handing over their cash in exchange for the dreams of the future it granted. This was real power, the ability to wield such amazing energy. He wondered once again what purpose it served for the Roman.
He tore his eyes away from the flickering banks of machines and focused on their immediate problems. Reece was nowhere to be seen. They were standing in a small open space that comprised a lobby. It was about the size of the Ghost's living room. The floor was a grid of iron struts, which continued on to form a short staircase leading up to a network of gangplanks and walkways that weaved like a spider's web amongst the crackling coils. There was a small desk here, too, but it was not manned, covered with large heaps of paper: diagrammatic drawings and blueprints. The Ghost approached the desk, rifled through these ephemera. He looked up at Donovan and shrugged. "There's nothing untoward about this. Just building plans, architects' drawings, bills for materials."
Donovan nodded. That was how the mob worked. They kept everything above board, on paper at least. Their business dealings were impeccable. But behind those fronts, those regular-seeming establishments and corporations, they hid their true colors.
Donovan crossed to the short stairwell. There was only one other path to take from here, and that was into the forest of coils. Somewhere, he figured, there would be a control room, and that was where they would find Gideon Reece. His feet clanged on the iron steps, and he tried to lighten his step, to move with more grace and less noise. He felt jumpy, nervous, even, as he anticipated what was to come. The Ghost followed behind him in silence.
The proximity of the Tesla coils made Donovan's skin crawl. So much power. He didn't really understand how they worked; had never been able to fathom the inner workings of machines. To him it was like magic-flick a switch an
d the lightbulb blinked on. That was all he knew. That was all he needed to know.
Breathing hard, Donovan prowled along the gangway, constantly aware of what was going on around him, looking out for any sign of his nemesis. The walkways weaved and twisted like arteries connecting the flickering electrical organs of the power station; an all-powerful giant rendered from iron and given life. The two men navigated them like a maze, taking note of each junction so that they could retrace their steps when they happened upon a dead end. He thought of Reece like a deadly spider, lying in wait at the center of his web.
As it transpired, however, Reece was not waiting for them at the center of the web. When they finally found the control station, there was no one there. The room was bare, open to the gangway and consisting of only two stud walls and a glass partition, propped up against the iron framework that supported the walkway and the nearest bank of coils. Five large panels of winking diodes, white dials, and steel switches lined the furthest wall, whilst a large map of Manhattan was pinned on the other. There was a series of small colored pins dotted over the surface of the map, denoting-Donovan guessed-the locations of substations and relay towers, emanating out from the power station across the Battery in a long, curving line. The thin glass partition offered them a view of another nearby bank of coils, each of the incredible machines still spitting electricity into the air.
The Ghost crossed to the control panels, studied the readouts for a few moments, and then turned his attention to the map. Donovan kept watch, his palm sweaty against the butt of his revolver. He didn't understand any of this, and wanted to make sure Reece wasn't about to sneak up behind them.
Four, five minutes passed. Finally, the Ghost called him over. "Donovan. Look here." His voice was urgent. Donovan abandoned his vigil on the gangway and approached the map, following the line traced by the Ghost's finger. "Relay stations."
Donovan nodded. "Yes, I gathered as much."
"But look." The Ghost followed the line of pins. "All of the power is being siphoned off to one location. Here." He tapped at the map. "The readouts tell the same story. Everything. All of the power being generated here in the plant. The whole station has been designed to feed electricity to this one point on the map."