Ghosts of Manhattan (18 page)

onovan heaved a heavy sigh and glanced up at the clock on the wall of his office. It was late. It would be dark outside, with just the play of the airship searchlights hanging over the city, picking out the buildings with their brilliant shafts of white.

He was alone in the office. Mullins and the others had all gone, back to their wives, their beds, their secret drinking dens. Back to the quiet monotony of their lives. Donovan envied them that. He wished for that monotony, cursed himself for years spent craving excitement and adventure. He had that now, in spades. Had it, and wished he didn't.

He glared at the hands of the clock as if trying, futilely, to prevent them from ticking. The room was silent save for that constant reminder, that ever-present tick-tock, tick-tock, counting down the seconds, minutes, and hours until his impending appointment with Gideon Reece.

He'd sent Flora away that morning, to her sister's place in Brooklyn. He'd told her it was a surprise, that he'd arranged everything with Maud, called her the day before to organize the trip. He'd stood over her while she threw some things in a bag, collected her shoes and her makeup. Then he'd driven her to the station, watched her board the train. She'd been bemused, excited, unsure what to make of this uncharacteristic gesture. He'd kissed her hard and full on the lips, told her he would marry her all over again if he only could, and she had waved to him as the train hissed away from the platform, both charmed and-he could tell-concerned for him. He wondered if it was a form of weakness that had caused him to send her away, but decided it was, rather, a form of strength. He was protecting her, from Reece, from the Roman-and from what she might see when they finally got to him.

He had dealt with that eventuality. He'd arranged for Mullins to pick him up in the morning, just in case. He couldn't protect them all. Mullins would know what to do. Mullins would understand.

Donovan sighed a second time. He'd spent the day searching for the car with three funnels. It had proved fruitless, a waste of time. And besides, he knew that car would be coming to find him that very evening, regardless of whether he was able to locate it or not. In truth, the whole thing had been an exercise in trying to do somethinganything-that made him feel less impotent; anything to slow the inexorable movement of those ticking fingers toward their inevitable destination.

He would fight back, of course he would. He had his automatic in his pocket, and he was handy with his fists. He would try to take Reece down with him. That much he had decided. But he knew that in the end, that, too, would prove futile. A gesture born out of desperation. Even if he managed it-even if he put a bullet in the vile bastardthere were fifty, a hundred more men like him, just waiting for their chance to step up and take his place. That was the nature of the mob. He knew that it wouldn't end, not until the rotten core had been exposed and flushed out, the wound cauterized. They needed to find the Roman himself. But they were a long way from that. At that moment, Donovan was having difficulty even proving the man existed.

In his frustration, in the small hours of the morning, he had briefly entertained the notion of accepting the bribe. He'd dreamed up a whole scenario in which he managed to get inside the Roman's organization, becoming a trusted advisor, worming his way insidiously into the heart of the operation, and then, when the opportunity presented itself, taking out the men who mattered. But he knew how ridiculous that really was. He was no killer, no duplicitous agent, and he didn't have the stomach or the patience to see such an operation through to the end. He'd never win their trust, never do what was necessary. He'd be dead within a fortnight, and he'd die with a sour taste in his mouth and a stain on his hands. His colleagues-his friends-would look on his grave with disdain. No, he wouldn't take their blood money. Not tonight, not ever.

The clock chimed as it reached the hour. Nine o'clock. Enough. He'd wallowed for long enough.

Donovan got to his feet, abandoning the file he'd been pretending to read and reaching for his overcoat. It was a clear night, and he would walk home with a cigarette, maybe two. After all, he wasn't in any particular hurry.

His heart pounding in his chest, palms sweaty in anticipation of the meeting to come, he flicked the light off in his office and took his leave.

The Ghost, wrapped in his trench coat and clinging to a perch about thirty feet above street level, watched the policeman depart from the precinct building. A bone-deep cold chilled him to the core, and his breath fogged in the still air. The sky was clear: a thick, black canopy above the city, peppered with shimmering pinpricks of light.

Far below, people were still milling about on the busy thoroughfare, hailing cabs, waiting for buses; going about their busy lives in search of distraction or entertainment. Going home to eat, drink, and fuck.

The Ghost watched as Donovan joined the flow of bodies, keeping his head down, his collar pulled up around his neck against the chill. The end of the policeman's cigarette was like a firefly in the gloom, bobbing and dancing erratically as he strode along the sidewalk. Other pedestrians danced out of his way, a symptom, the Ghost suspected, of a hard stare and a purposeful stride. The Ghost wondered what was bothering the man.

Stirring from his position on the ledge of the building, the Ghost tracked Donovan as he crossed the street and disappeared around the corner of an adjacent block, watching through the red filter of his goggles. He scrambled up onto the roof, securing his hat against a sudden gust and reaching inside his jacket to find the cord that would fire his rocket propellants. He gave it a sharp tug and the canisters ignited with a roaring flame. He felt himself lifting slowly off the rooftop and angled his body so that he could drift over to the roof of the department store across the street. From there he'd be able to hop from building to building, tracking the other man along the street, at least until he changed direction again.

It hadn't been difficult to locate the policeman. The Ghost had found him emerging from the ruins of the Sensation Club a few hours earlier and had tracked him back to the precinct building, keeping to the rooftops and alleyways to avoid being seen. He'd taken the risk of venturing out in the mid-afternoon twilight, anxious to get on the trail of the man he hoped would lead him to the Roman. Donovan-that was the name he'd overheard one of the other detectives call him-had then holed himself up in the precinct and had remained there whilst a steady parade of junior officers quit the building, drifting away into the night. The Ghost had considered trying to find a way inside, or else a means to discover what the policeman was up to inside his office, but had given it up as a bad idea when he'd noted the police dirigible drifting ponderously above the precinct building, its searchlight sweeping languidly back and forth across the rooftop. So, instead, he had waited it out, and it looked as if his patience was about to pay off.

Donovan was up to something. That much was evident from the manner in which he carried himself: the nervous gestures with his cigarette, the fact he was chain-smoking, the speed at which he was charging along the street, as if he was running late for something important or wanted to get something over with. He kept glancing over his shoulder at the road behind him, looking at the cars as they hissed past him on the cold tarmac.

The Ghost wondered if someone was putting the squeeze on the detective. Either that or his furtive behavior was down to something else, something less salubrious. He didn't think that was likely; Donovan was a detective through and through. He would die that way, the Ghost knew, unable to separate himself from the job. He was wedded to it. It was so fundamentally a part of him that there was little else left, little of the man he had once been before the hunger consumed him, before he accepted the burden of the city and took it upon himself to put things right. The Ghost had seen it before, seen other men perish in the same way, and he'd recognized the look in Donovan's eyes that night on the rooftop in Suffolk Street. Obsession. Hunger. The desire for justice. He recognized it because he felt it too. Because the same desire burned behind his own eyes, stared back at him from the mirror each and every morning.

He wondered what had happened to the policeman to engender such a spirit; and what had happened in the intervening hours since their last encounter to dampen it. The Ghost still carried the scars of the war, of what he had seen out there in the cold, muddy desolation of Europe. Old things. Ancient things. Things that made his skin crawl. Things that had changed him beyond repair, altered everything he held dear. Now he saw the world through different eyes. But what of Donovan?

The Ghost leapt across another chasm-like alleyway, light flaring briefly and brightly behind him as he sailed toward another nearby roof. He padded down gently, turning to watch the policeman as the man crossed a small park, emerging seconds later on the opposite side, glancing both ways and then darting across the street. He turned down another cross street. The Ghost followed, maintaining a respectful distance.

Soon after, Donovan reached his destination. He hovered outside the glass door of the apartment building; a modern construction, built in the last decade, with stepped tiers, tall windows, and sweeping curves.

The Ghost observed the policeman as he took a long, deep draw on his most recent cigarette, flicked the stub away into the gutter, and then checked the pocket of his overcoat, probably feeling for a weapon. Then the man glanced up and down the street before disappearing into the lobby, leaving the door swinging wildly on its hinges.

A row of stationary cars lined the curb at the front of the building; squat, black humps in the darkness. The Ghost trained his sights on them, altering the zoom on his lenses, dialing in on the four or five motionless vehicles.

Then he stopped dead, almost breathless. One of the cars had three exhaust funnels. It was unmistakably the vehicle he had seen the other night, purring away from the scene of Henry Sinclair's murder. Gabriel Reece's car.

The Ghost sat on his haunches, flicking the lenses of his goggles back and staring up at the clear sky. One of two things was about to happen. Either Donovan was walking into a terrible trap, or the Ghost was about to discover that the policeman was working for the Roman.

Either way, he knew it wasn't going to be pretty.

Donovan flicked a glance at the elevator as he entered the lobby, and then marched on toward the stairs. If they were lying in wait for him, the sound of the creaking elevator echoing through the building would be a dead giveaway. This way, he could retain at least some element of surprise. He wasn't about to make it easy for them, and besides, he could do with the exercise. He grinned to himself at the thought. Now really wasn't the most practical time to be considering his waistline.

Mounting the stone steps, Donovan rested his hand in his pocket, feeling for the butt of his automatic. It was a comfort to him, a reassurance. He hated that, the fact that he relied upon his weapon to imbue him with confidence. But right now, on the stairwell of his apartment building, approaching what would almost certainly prove to be the fight of his life, he would take every bit of confidence he could find.

He took the six stories slowly, listening carefully for any signs of movement. The building seemed unnaturally quiet, and all he could hear was the rasping of his own lungs as he dragged at the air, the thudding of his heart in his rib cage. He'd seen the car parked out front; knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Reece and his cronies were waiting for him inside. Part of him just wanted to get it over with, wanted to rush up that last flight of steps to his floor, charge along the hallway to his apartment, and burst in with a hail of bullets, mowing down as many of the crooks as he could before he was riddled with lead. But he knew that would be foolish. If he kept his cool, there was still a small chance that he could walk away from this alive. He clung on to that thought, no matter how small that chance might actually be.

His nerves jangling, Donovan crept up the last flight of steps to the seventh floor and peered around the corner. The corridor was empty. He allowed himself to exhale. No guards. That must mean they were already inside his apartment. He glanced back down the stairwell and fought the urge to flee. It wouldn't do him any good. It might buy him a few hours, at most. Better to get it over with.

Donovan moved softly along the corridor toward his apartment and stopped a few feet from the door. It was standing ajar, but he couldn't see much through narrow gap. He edged nearer, listening intently for any sounds from within. Nothing. He could feel the tension in his shoulders; taste the bitter adrenaline on the back of his tongue.

One hand in his pocket, one finger firmly on the trigger of his gun, Donovan eased the door a little wider. The hinges were almost silent as the door swung inward, revealing more of the hallway beyond. Empty. He hadn't expected that. Perhaps Reece had come alone? He didn't think that was likely.

Donovan stepped over the threshold, carefully swinging the door shut behind him. The hallway was filled with the scent of fresh, sodden earth. Wrinkling his nose, he glanced around. Everything was as he'd left it: the holotube terminal on the small side table; a vase of flowers; a large mirror on the wall; a shoe stand just behind the door. A pile of mail was heaped tidily on the sideboard where he usually left his keys. It was the perfect picture of homeliness. Clearly, they weren't interested in his belongings.