GHOST_4_Kindle_V2

by Wayne Thomas Batson

  It told the story of a low income family living in the worst part of South Central Los Angeles. Their youngest son had been kidnapped by a drug lord. The scumbag held the five-year old captive to force the family to work for him. Worse still, he’d gotten the child addicted to heroin, basically enslaving him and his family to his product and his employ. A man named John Spector showed up. He bought everything the family had to sell…and destroyed it. Then, he went and got their son back. In the process, he’d killed the drug lord and more than a dozen of his bodyguards. And he’d done it all with little more than his silver suitcase.

  Rez froze. This was her man. She read post after post, some going back ten years or more. Each one told of the pale stranger who showed up at just the right time…and came when no one else would help. He did extraordinary things for people in desperate need. Whatever the problem was, Ghost solved it…often closing the case with a lethal exclamation point.

  An answer to prayer, some called him. A modern knight in shining armor. A teenager called him “one scary dude.” There were links to other pages, a forum, a blog, pictures, requests. It was crazy, almost like a fan page. Then Rez noted something odd about the photos: she couldn’t see his face. There was a shot with Spector standing in front of an orphanage in what looked like an Eastern Bloc country. His face was completely obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. In another photo, he was standing behind a police car in front of a convenience store. He was looking away, staring into the shattered front window of the shop. Still another, Ghost knelt by a woman on a stretcher. He was holding her hand, but the IV bag hid his face.

  Several of the shots showed that silver suitcase of his. His build was right too: just short of pro-wrestler mass and tall. It had to be him. There was a whole page devoted to photos. Rez started clicking on the thumbnails. The image jumped to full screen. Rez got chills. It was the perfect shot. John Spector, his shirt torn and bloody, was just turning toward the camera when the shot had been taken. There was nothing in front of his face. But his face was gone. It looked as if the air in front of his face had been distorted as if by intense heat, like the vapors on a desert highway. But you couldn’t see his face with any clarity, just warbled, almost molten features. Rez clicked through a dozen more photos. It was the same thing every time.

  She rubbed the gooseflesh on her forearms. The hotel room seemed so much colder now. She went to the AC unit by the window and went to turn it to a warmer setting, but it was off. Completely off. Rez had a flash of the strange image she’d seen in Spector’s hotel room. With a shudder, she shut down the laptop. After getting ready for bed, she snuggled beneath the covers like she did when she was a little girl. She went to flick out the bedside light, but thought better of it. In fact, she switched on the television and went to sleep to the Cartoon Network.

  Chapter 18

  “I got home as soon as I could!” Dr. Gary said, his voice as taut as surgical stitches. “Where is she?”

  “She won’t leave her house,” Jack said, stepping into the elevator, inserting the key. “There’s a lot of blood.”

  Dr. Gary got in. Jack turned the key. Half turn left, half turn right. The doors shut.

  “You’re angry,” Dr. Gary said, reaching for Jack’s shoulder.

  “Of course, I’m angry,” Jack said, shrugging him away. “You botched the procedure. You rushed. I told you it could wait for the weekend.”

  “Why does it matter?” Dr. Gary asked. “To you, I mean? You take no real pleasure from our pets. Or has something changed?”

  “You bastard,” Jack hissed. “How dare you—”

  The doors opened. Dr. Gary grabbed Jack by the shoulders and slammed him against the side of the elevator. “You…need…to…calm…down!” he said, his voice powerful and grating, like the grinding of stone against stone. “We cannot afford to lose our grip, not now with so much at stake.”

  “I know,” Jack whispered. “I…know. It’s just I saw the blood, and Erica…she doesn’t look good.”

  “I did not botch the abortion, Jack,” Dr. Gary said. “There’s always a risk. You know that better than anyone.” He released Jack’s shoulders, stepped back, and straightened his tie.

  Jack stared at the floor and nodded. “I just don’t want to see anyone wasted.”

  “And I don’t intend to waste anyone,” Dr. Gary said. He shrugged quickly out of his lab coat, rolled up his sleeves, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Now, let’s see to Erica.”

  Jack led the way to kennel. There was weeping. Someone cried out, “Why are you fighting?”

  “We’re not fighting, Midge,” Jack consoled. “It’s just that this is an important time. Don’t you worry. I’ll give you a new patch later.”

  Dr. Gary looked at the blood smears on the floor outside of one of the houses. “Erica, Erica, do you hear me?” he called.

  “Dr. Gary?” came a weak reply. “Oh, you’ve come…you’ve come…I knew you would.” There was a pause. “I hurt. Please…please save me.”

  “I will, dear,” he said. “I will.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “How bad is it?” Jack asked.

  Dr. Gary shook his head. As he brought the coffee mug to his lips, his hand was shaking. He swallowed. “She won’t make it through the night.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do? Can’t you…can’t you open her up?”

  “Not here. At the hospital, maybe I could save her. But we don’t have the equipment here.”

  “This shouldn’t have happened,” Jack muttered.

  “Look, I did my best. I tried—”

  “But all the new implements, they were supposed to be the safest yet.”

  “I understand your sensitivity to this,” Dr. Gary said. “I’ve got the best record in the clinic, but sometimes…it happens.”

  Jack grit his teeth and wiped the corner of his eye. “What now?”

  “We’re losing the battle,” Dr. Gary said. “I don’t think we can wait another cycle to be…to be more overt.”

  Jack sighed. “By the time this litter is of age, the courts could overturn everything.”

  “We’re going to change things. We’re going to change things, tonight.” Dr. Gary’s pronouncement hung in the air.

  “What do you mean?” Jack asked, a trembling smile appearing on his lips. “If Erica’s dying, how can we—”

  “We will give up her body,” Dr. Gary said, putting his hand on Jack’s. “Erica will send the most telling message of all.”

  “Are you sure we’re ready for this step?” Jack asked.

  Dr. Gary laughed. “In every revolution…there are martyrs? Isn’t that what you said?”

  Jack nodded. “It won’t take long, will it?”

  “As foolish as they’ve been over the years,” Dr. Gary replied, “they aren’t fools, not really. Once they find her, I imagine we’ve got a few weeks, maybe as much as a month.”

  “Will it be enough to complete the Manifesto?” Jack asked.

  Dr. Gary looked down at his coat. He touched a dark spot, and his finger came away glistening crimson with Erica’s blood. “It…it will have to be.”

  Jack’s expression became very grim. “Where will we take Erica?” she asked. “Where will we make…the reveal?”

  Dr. Gary nodded. “I’ve been doing some research. I know the perfect place.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Four Seasons Marina wasn’t nearly as posh as I expected it to be. Maybe thirty or forty years ago, it would have been. It sprawled in a vast letter L shape, raggedly covered berths and deep jetties next to an aging, high rise hotel with the same name. Music sauntered out of the restaurant’s tri-tiered decks that looked to need a good sanding and staining. Colored lanterns hung from the eaves and dressed the place up. Sort of.

  At the crook of the L, just at the edge of the parking lot, a two story gatehouse waited. Other than climbing a rickety-looking chain link fence, it was the only way in that I could see.

  I
made sure Agent Rezvani’s Glock was invisible under my nifty new sports coat. She and I had spent an hour on Thursday shopping for some much needed new clothing. Turns out, she had definite opinions on my wardrobe choices. That was a special time, I can tell you. And I spent $240, leaving me with just $694 for the rest of the mission.

  “How do you want to play this, Agent Rezvani?” I asked.

  “Call me Rez,” she said. “Not by flashing my badge.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “I’m kind of fond of the shield-in-the-face technique.”

  Rez laughed, a musical, girlish sound I hadn’t heard from her before. “Don’t think I don’t enjoy throwing the big letters at perps,” she said. “But Smiling Jack and his partner are too smart not to employ someone careful at the gate.”

  “Agreed. How, then?”

  “We blend in. Guests of another yacht owner.”

  Ah, I thought, that would explain the need for the sports coat. “If they’re that smart,” I said. “Still, they won’t let us in just because we dressed nice. We don’t know any of the other yacht owners.”

  “I have that covered,” she said. “Walk behind me like a friend, not a date. Just follow my lead.”

  I followed her lead.

  I was relatively certain that when Agent Rezvani strolled the hallowed halls of the FBI in Northwest D.C., she didn’t wear outfits like the summer dress she wore tonight. It revealed her upper back and shoulders…toned, very feminine, and bronze tanned. If there was a guy in that security gatehouse, he didn’t stand a chance.

  I kept my eyes on the shadows as we rounded the gatehouse. If Smiling Jack and his murderous partner had been using this marina for some time, they would have attracted Shades. And maybe worse things. In fact, it was near a certainty that one or both of the killers had already been Taken or perhaps even Seared. I switched momentarily to Netherview and was surprised to find the gatehouse clear of supernatural evil. But there were two guards.

  Both male.

  I switched back to Earthveil. Unfortunately, they weren’t rent-a-cops. The taller of the two sported red hair, buzzed high and tight, and a jowly bull-dog face. He had a coiled “Don’t tread on me” snake tattooed on his forearm and a Marine Corps eagle and anchor ring on a finger of his right hand. He wasn’t bulky, but the edgy muscle he did carry made him look hard enough to break a board on just about any part of him.

  On tip-toe, the other guard wouldn’t be as tall as the Marine’s shoulder. He had dark, shifty eyes and black, slicked back hair. He was clean-shaven and had olive skin like a first generation Italian with weeks of tan on top of that. Everything about him looked smooth. He seemed like the sort of man who could duck behind you in an instant and put blade between your ribs.

  But, I repeat: they were men.

  Agent Rezvani changed the way she walked as she approached the booth, and I was immediately glad that I let her handle this part. Hollywood itself couldn’t have conjured up a more perfect breeze off the water, just enough to ripple the sheer dress and delicately toss the burnished curls of her hair on her slender neck and toned shoulders. She smiled sweetly at the guards, and they moved closer to the sliding window and smiled back. She dangled a tiny plum-colored purse from one wrist and made a big show of fingering through it. That purse might as well have been a hypnotist’s watch swinging on a chain.

  “Hey, there, miss,” Mr. Smooth said, his hand gliding to a pen while simultaneously opening a thin blue notebook. “What can Four Seasons Marina do for you this fine summer evening?”

  “Yeah,” Red-buzz said, “what can we do for you?” Not too original, that Red-buzz.

  Agent Rezvani tilted her head and raised an eyebrow, and I’m certain, I saw both guards rock backward on their heels.

  “It is a fine summer evening,” Rez replied, her voice velvety-Southern. Where did that come from?

  “My friend and I”—she emphasized ‘friend’ and waved over her shoulder at me—“have a private dinner cruise with our good friends the Adderlys. Only been here once before, but I’ve forgotten the berth. I know I wrote it down, but I think I put the card in my black purse.”

  She was a damsel in distress. The perfect damsel in distress. I’m reasonably sure, if she asked the two men to fight with aluminum baseball bats for the chance to help her out, that they would instantly beat each other senseless.

  “Adderlys’ berth, eh?” said Mr. Smooth. “I think we can find that for you.”

  Rez reached over and touched Mr. Smooth’s hand as she said, “I cannot thank you enough.”

  Mr. Smooth didn’t look so smooth anymore. He paled a bit and swallowed. “It’s really no trouble.”

  “Yeah, no trouble,” Red-buzz said.

  Rez lifted her hand, leaned forward, and cast a blinding smile at each man in turn. “Honestly, some places these days forget all about the common kindnesses that mean so much.”

  “Uh, Applebees—I mean, Adderlys, got ‘em right here,” Mr. Smooth said, tapping a finger on the notebook page. “Berth 22A.” He pointed out over the jetties. “Just take the left side, go past the covered berths. It’s about a hundred yards out.”

  “Again, my thanks,” Rez said. She turned with a wink to me.

  When we were far enough away, I asked, “How’d you know about the Adderlys?”

  “I am FBI,” she said. “I have sources. Their berth is pretty close to the one rented by Dyreson Industries.”

  I handed her the Glock I’d held for her under my sports coat. “Thanks,” she said. “Kinda hard to hide that under a dress.”

  “G didn’t say what time this Mr. Gray takes the women out,” I said. “We should hurry.”

  Rez looked me up and down. “What about a weapon? You have something in your case?”

  I smiled. “I have what I need.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “I feel good,” Erica said as Jack helped her from the dock onto the yacht. “But I also feel strange.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Dr. Gary said, stepping lightly over and taking her arm. “You can rest when we get you down below.” He looked up to Jack. “Cast off as soon as you can. Once we’re out in the Gulf, make for Pensacola. We’ll need to start filming right away. I don’t know how much longer…”

  “Are we making a movie?” Erica asked. “I like movies.”

  “Yes, we are,” Jack replied. “And, Erica, it’s your turn to be the star.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Berth 22A, the Adderlys’ berth, was just a few yachts away from the berth owned by Dyreson Industries. But the Sun Odyssey was gone. Smiling Jack had already left port. The Adderly’s yacht, The Sirocco, however, bobbed gently on the Gulf.

  “Ahoy!” a pencil thin man called from the cabin. “Can I help?” A much younger woman emerged at his elbow. She was blonde and curvaceous, wearing a bikini top and cargo shorts—and sunglasses, even though it was dark.

  She wobbled a little, held onto his shoulder, and said, “You look all dressed up and nowhere to go.”

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked. Then I played a hunch. “We were late for a party cruise with Mr. Gray here, berth 22D. Didn’t think he’d leave without us.”

  “He left all right,” the man said. “Maybe half hour ago. Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “You didn’t happen to hear where he was heading?”

  “Nope, sorry,” he said.

  “Hey, Paul,” the blond said, tugging on the man’s shirt. Her speech was a little slurred. “I thought I heard them say something about Pensacola. They walked right by me.”

  “Thanks, Darcy,” he said. He looked at us and shrugged. “Well, there you go.”

  Rez raised an eyebrow. “Miss, did the Gray’s have any women with them?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Three or four.”

  “Probably real lookers too,” Paul said. “Don’t know how he does it. New babes all the time.”

  “Paul!” Darcy slapped his arm playfully.

  Rez loo
ked at me. “Badge?” I was already getting it out of my coat pocket.

  “Are you Mr. Adderly?” she asked.

  “That’s me,” he said, hopping gallantly up onto the pier. A blonde like that at his elbow, and still he literally leaped to Rez’s call. Amazing.

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Rez replied. She held out her badge. “Mr. Adderly, I am Special Agent Deanna Rezvani of the FBI.” She held out her badge.

  “Wow,” he said, staring at the ID. He turned back to Darcy. “Babe, this is real.”

  “The FBI parties!” she hooted, pumping a fist.

  “Well, that’s not exactly why we’re here,” Rez explained. “We never were invited to a party cruise with Mr. Gray. We’re actually investigating him. He could be involved in some very dangerous business.”

  “What sort of business?” Adderly asked.

  “We can’t go into specifics, you understand,” she said. “But Gray’s wanted for questioning in at least one murder investigation. We got a tip that he berths here. But we missed him.”

  “Never liked the arrogant jerk,” Adderly grumbled. Then, he frowned, seemingly chewing on an idea. His eyes went wide and he grinned, an industrial strength light bulb appearing above his head. “You want us to take you out on the Sirocco and catch the bum?”

  Rez and I exchanged glanced. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we would.”

  “Climb aboard, Special Agents,” Adderly said. “The Sirocco is a JMV hull, custom built in Cherbourg, France. With my regatta team, we took her to 40 knots.” He paused and looked at the sky. “We won’t get near that with these winds, but we won’t need it to catch up to Gray’s little boat.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Adderly could flat out sail. In just a few minutes, we were way out in the Gulf. I didn’t know the Gulf of Mexico as well as some other bodies of water, but Adderly apparently did.