Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost

by George Mann

  Frost lined the rooftops. Icicles dripped from lintels and overhangs, and the noses and wingtips of bizarre, gargoylish forms. Electric light glowed bright and harsh and yellow in the windows of apartment blocks, or through pyramidal roof lights that crested those same buildings. Steam gushed from standing pipes and vents like the exhalations of giant predators, looming in the darkness. The tall buildings of Manhattan reached up for the stars like the icy fingertips of the world.

  Up here, above the city proper, everything was cold and quiet. Below, the city throbbed with life, pedestrians and vehicles ebbing through the streets as if they were its very lifeblood, and the Ghost, on his way to meet Donovan, its lone protector.

  High above the city, the moon was low and gibbous, and framed against a canopy of frozen gray fog. It had descended again during the afternoon to choke the city, and ice particles glistened in the air, reflecting the shimmering light of his rockets. Even the dirigibles overhead—the police craft—seemed like nothing but indistinct blurs, buzzing around like insects, their searchlights flickering like long, incandescent legs.

  There was something else up there, too, something that the Ghost had not expected to find here, in New York. Something that he'd thought he'd left in France long ago, which had returned to him recently in his dreams: a pair of eyes, stark and bright against the freezing night. They peered at him across the rooftops of the city, asexual, ominous.

  The Ghost pirouetted in the sky, crossing his arms over his chest and spinning past a water tower, rocketing low and fast across the rooftop of an office block. He dipped low, ducking into the top of an alleyway between the office block and the building opposite, coming out again on the other side, twisting through the air. Still they were there, the eyes, unwavering, unblinking, unmoving.

  Why now? Why had they returned now? First in his dreams, and now here, high above the city. What did it all mean? Was it a symptom of his recent encounter with one of the creatures? Was it the past finally catching up with him, his moment of judgment, his time to atone for the terrible crimes of his past? Or perhaps it was the stress of what had happened to Celeste, the onset of a nervous breakdown, a mental fever? Was it all in his head, just as it could have been all those years ago, just as the army doctors had told him before they'd invalided him out of the force? He didn't think so. Nevertheless, he felt something stirring deep within him.

  These last few days, it had been as if Gabriel Cross and the Ghost had somehow been merging, as if his fractured personalities had been collapsing in on each other once more, the lines between them blurring. It was as if, ever since Ginny had walked back into his life, ever since he'd taken her into his confidence, shown her this other component of his life, the barriers between those twin existences had been breaking down. Ever since he'd returned from the war, the Gabriel Cross he had been, the Gabriel Cross everyone had known—the aristocratic playboy, the dilettante who threw the most amazing, drunken parties at his Long Island home—had been a lie. That kernel of himself, buried so long ago as a defense mechanism, a means of protecting himself from the horrors of the war, was it now once more coming to the fore? Had Ginny inadvertently woken something within him? Something that had lain dormant for so very long.

  The thought unnerved him, more than he wished to admit. He felt suddenly vulnerable, as if everything he had come to stand for was at risk, as if now, here, at this very moment, with those piercing, heavylidded eyes watching him, he was nothing but a tiny man in a black suit, riding on the zephyrs like a fragile bird. The Ghost was a vigilante, a killer, a liar, a cheat. He was insignificant against the immensity of the city and everything it stood for, against those striking blue eyes. They diminished him. They saw to the core of his being, saw that he was no one but Gabriel Cross, that his personas were simply that—disguises he could shed, masks he could hide behind. But the eyes knew the truth. The eyes were Gabriel's eyes, staring back at him in the mirror. They were the truth. Everything else—everything—was just fiction.

  The Ghost howled in frustration and rage, circling in the air and sending himself spinning down toward the asphalt below. Would it be easier to simply end it now than to keep on going, to drive himself into the sidewalk, there to be found in the morning by an unsuspecting man walking his dog, or a mailman, or a bank clerk? All he could see was the street below; all he could feel was the rush of cold air in his face as he hurtled toward the ground….

  And then he was twisting, turning himself around, swinging his legs out beneath him and rocketing up into the air again. He startled a flock of crows, sending them cawing away into the frigid night.

  No, that was not the way. He had a duty to the city. To himself. The eyes reminded him of that, just as they had in the burning skies above France. Whatever the truth, whoever Gabriel Cross really was, he was not this. He was not this weak.

  The Ghost sucked in his breath. He had a job to do. That was how he would prove his worth, to himself, and to anyone who was watching. He tucked his chin into his chest against the cold, and pressed on, toward Donovan and the precinct.

  The police precinct building was dramatically picked out against the night sky by the crisscrossing searchlights of the hovering dirigibles tethered to its roof. Even here, even stationary, they continued to probe the streets around the police headquarters with their long fingers of light, both, the Ghost knew, for security and as a warning. He was aware that many people saw the precinct building as a kind of bastion, a fortress against the criminal elements of the city, a sanctuary for those on the right side of the law; but he, in truth, knew it for what it was: a place of administration and a haven for the criminals who knew how to work within the law. Inside its impressive, towering walls, it was simply an office filled with yes men and uniformed criminals taking their wage from both the state and the mob.

  The police were in the pocket of the government, and the government was in the pocket of the mob. The Ghost knew of only a handful of men who did not pander to this regime: Donovan, for one, and his sergeant, Mullins, for another. Because of it, they shone out like beacons, as bright as any searchlight, against the overwhelming tide of despondency and corruption.

  The Ghost sailed up toward the top of the building, his rocket boosters flaring as he darted around the shimmering beams of the searchlights. It wouldn't do to let anyone know he was here—anyone, of course, except the man he had come to meet.

  Dipping over the lip of the building, the Ghost reached inside his trench coat, righted himself, and pulled the cord that cut the fuel line to the rocket canisters strapped to his ankles. The flames guttered, spat, and blinked out, and the Ghost dropped easily to his feet. Around his boots, the hoary rime of frost that caked the top of the building began to melt with the residual heat.

  He glanced from side to side and caught sight of the glowing tip of a cigarette flaring in the darkness by the fire escape. He smiled. “Come on out, Felix,” he called, careful to keep his voice low.

  He watched as Donovan emerged into the dim half-light of the city night, silhouetted against the horizon. Manhattan was never truly dark. There were too many people, too much light. Even in the freezing fog, the city underlit the sky like a vast, gray canopy, a canvas awaiting the strokes of an artist's brush.

  Donovan was shivering, even wrapped in a thick overcoat, a scarf around his throat. He exhaled nicotine fumes through his nostrils and stamped his feet. “I'm sure we can think of somewhere warmer to meet, Gabriel.”

  The Ghost laughed. “You're right. Next time I'll use the front door.”

  Donovan shook his head, but he was smiling. “Don't be so bloody sarcastic.” He looked back at the fire escape, the door of which was propped open. “And somewhere with fewer stairs to climb, too, while we're at it.”

  The two men lapsed into silence for a moment, each regarding the other in the gloom. “So, what news?” said the Ghost, causing Donovan to frown deeply.

  “I don't know, Gabriel. I get the sense there's something bigger going on here, and
we're only party to a small part of it.”

  This was new. Perhaps Donovan did have something useful, then. “Go on,” the Ghost prompted.

  “That apartment block in Greenwich Village, the one where we found the body,” said Donovan.

  “Yes?”

  “It was torched. After we left last night. The whole block reduced to nothing but cinders and ash. Whoever's responsible was taking no chances—the neighboring apartments all burned, too. Twelve people died in the fire.”

  “My God…” The Ghost didn't know what else to say. He clenched his fists beside him. Twelve innocent lives. Whoever started that fire was going to pay for every single one of them.

  “Everything on that wall, all those photographs, papers, maps—everything. All gone. Someone clearly thought we were getting too close to the truth, or else they wanted to cover their tracks.”

  The Ghost shrugged. “Then we've reached yet another dead end. We've lost our best and only lead.”

  “Not necessarily,” Donovan replied darkly. “Mullins managed to retrieve the corpse before the flames took hold.” Donovan took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled before continuing. “And what's more, Mullins has been able to provide us with a positive ID.”

  “I told you Mullins showed promise,” the Ghost said, smiling.

  Donovan grinned. “It makes interesting reading though, Gabriel. The dead man wasn't an agent of the American government as we suspected. That much is very clear.”

  The Ghost frowned. “So, who was he?”

  “Hired muscle by the name of Paulo Lucarotti,” said Donovan. “He had ties to the mob, and what's more, he'd been in custody until recently, serving time in a state penitentiary for roughing people up. He has a rap sheet as long as my arm: trafficking illegal liquor, grievous bodily harm, burglary. A very unsavory character.”

  “So how did he end up dead in the apartment of a British spy?” said the Ghost.

  “That's where it gets really interesting,” said Donovan, taking a final draw on his cigarette before flicking the butt away across the rooftop, scattering a spray of hot, glowing ash across the frosted paving slabs. “The release order was signed by Commissioner Montague himself.”

  The Ghost frowned. “The commissioner signing release papers?”

  “Precisely,” said Donovan. “Of course, I went to quiz him about it.”

  “Allow me to guess,” the Ghost sighed. “He clammed up.”

  Donovan nodded. “In a manner of speaking. He told me to drop it, that it was insignificant and that I should stick to the case in hand. That I needed to redouble my efforts to find the spy.”

  “Did you mention the photographs we saw on the wall of the apartment? Montague, Banks, and the others?” All sorts of things were running through the Ghost's mind as he asked the question. The potential implications of what Donovan was saying were huge.

  Donovan shook his head. He rubbed his hands together to stave off the cold. “No. I thought it prudent not to press him any further, especially when he started spouting all-too-convenient theories about how the spy had obviously started the fire himself, and that we didn't really need to delve any deeper into what had occurred. Regardless of the fact that there are twelve fresh corpses in the morgue.”

  “So you're saying that you think Commissioner Montague is mixed up in something he shouldn't be?” asked the Ghost. He could feel a burning rage beginning to well up inside him at the thought that the commissioner could so easily dismiss so many lives.

  Donovan shrugged. “No…well…perhaps,” he said, with a gesture that clearly showed he was struggling to come to terms with what his instincts were telling him. “It's hard to refute the evidence. He's clearly got something to hide. But if the commissioner is mixed up in this—well, where does it stop? What the hell can we do about it?”

  A moment of silence passed between them. Donovan was right. It felt as if the two of them were standing on a precipice, about to lift the lid of a veritable Pandora's box of intrigue and deception. The fallout from any such action would be tremendous, but that wasn't reason enough not to do it. They couldn't put their own safety above that of the city and its people.

  If the commissioner was involved in a cover-up, if he'd been leaned on to provide hired muscle to search out this spy—or worse, he was implicated in some political or possibly even criminal scheme that had led him to arrange the torching of the spy's apartment building in order to maintain his secrecy, well, he was as bad as any mob boss or murderer the Ghost had yet encountered. Perhaps worse, given that he hid behind a veneer of respectability, supposedly responsible for the safety of all the citizens who inhabited the city below.

  “The frustrating thing,” said Donovan morosely, “is that we're out of leads. We've got nothing, other than a half-baked notion that Commissioner Montague and Senator Banks are involved in something untoward. The only person who could possibly begin to help us understand what's going on is the British spy, and his motives are questionable at best. Plus he covers his tracks well. We don't even know where to start looking for him.” Donovan sighed. “Then there's this business with the raptors. It's a bloody mess, Gabriel.”

  The Ghost put his hand on Donovan's shoulder, trying to offer him some reassurance that they were doing the right thing. They needed to stay focused. “Do you think there's some connection? Between the raptors and what's going on with Banks, Montague, and this spy? The photographs we saw at the apartment, they surely can't have been coincidental.”

  Donovan shrugged. He was still shivering with the cold. “Possibly. Possibly not. Although it seems odd that our British spy would show an interest in something so localized if it were entirely unrelated.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” said the Ghost.

  Donovan looked up at him, searching his face with tired eyes. “How the hell are we going to get to the bottom of this, Gabriel? Are you going to try to catch another of those things?”

  The Ghost shook his head. “No, I've got a better plan. I need to find out where they're taking them, all those people they're abducting. What they're using them for.”

  “But you've tried following them before. You said they were too quick.”

  The Ghost smiled. “Yes. But this time I'm going to let them do all the work.”

  “What do you mean?” Donovan gave him a confused look.

  The Ghost's grin grew suddenly wider. “Tomorrow night, Felix, Gabriel Cross is going to get himself abducted.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “You're what?”

  Donovan had hardly been able to believe what he was hearing. He knew that Gabriel could be reckless, but this new plan, to go and get himself abducted by one of the raptors, elevated things to an entirely new extreme. “Have you got a death wish?” he'd asked drily, only half joking.

  The Ghost had met his eye, a grave expression on his face, his trench coat billowing up around him in a sudden, wintry gust. “Can you think of a better way to get to the bottom of this, Felix?” he'd replied, and Donovan had faltered, unable to find a response. Truthfully, he really couldn't think of a better way of locating the raptors' lair.

  They still didn't, after all, have any idea of what the raptors were really up to, where they were taking the people they abducted, or what they were doing with them. There was a chance the whole business was mixed up with the British spy and whatever the commissioner was involved in. Nevertheless, it still didn't sit well with Donovan. The risks were manifold and immense.

  “Look, I'll need someone to follow me. I can slow it down, give you time to follow behind in your car. I'll be delivered right into its nest, and you and Ginny—”

  “Hold on! Are you insane, Gabriel?” It was this that had really set Donovan's alarm bells ringing. “I can't bring that girl with me on an errand like that. If you want to put yourself at risk, well, that's up to you. I'll even allow you to take risks with my life, if they're strictly necessary. But Ginny? We've made those mistakes before, Gabriel. Can't you remember?”
Almost immediately after saying this he felt guilty for what he considered to be a cheap shot. But the point still stood.

  The Ghost had looked away, glancing off over the rooftops for a moment and refusing to meet Donovan's eye. When he'd spoken again, his voice had taken on a stern, measured edge. “Of course I remember. But don't think for a minute that this is in any way the same situation. You've seen Ginny handle herself, Felix. She's no shrinking violet. And besides, you'll need someone to spot for you while you drive. She can call out directions.”

  Donovan had sighed. “Fine,” he'd said, but his tone had made it clear it was anything but…and yet here he was, sitting behind the wheel of his car, the girl Ginny beside him, both of them watching the figure on the ledge high above. Now, Donovan wished he had argued harder. He was worried he'd allowed it to happen because he wanted company out here, tonight. Stakeouts like this always passed much more quickly with someone else around, and the Ghost had been right—when the time came he would need someone to spot for him while he tried to maneuver through the streets in pursuit of the raptor, trying desperately not to mow anyone down.

  And who else was there? It wasn't as if he could bring Mullins. He, like the rest of the men at the precinct, saw the Ghost as some sort of radical, a criminal gone crazy, out to get even with the mob. Yes, they were happy to turn a blind eye when the Ghost was making their lives easier, breaking protection rackets and weeding out contract killers. Either that or they were too afraid to take him on themselves, either because they believed the superstitions and thought him to be some kind of superpowered monster, or else they were up to their eyeballs in the stink of their own corruption and were terrified he'd find them out.

  It was a shame Mullins had fallen in with those idiots. He had the potential to be a great cop. But he was young and impressionable and hadn't yet learned the lessons that Donovan had—to always think for himself. That was the key to successful police work, Donovan had found—ignoring the received wisdom of others and taking a fresh look at anything and everything. That, in his opinion, was where so many others failed.