Ghosts of Manhattan (22 page)

Time passed. He didn't know how long. He had a stuttering awareness of being driven at high speed through the city, slamming around corners, dodging the oncoming traffic as the Ghost rushed him toward their destination. But everything seemed to pass in a haze of slow motion, as if it wasn't real, as if he was seeing everything through a hazy filter of smoke or water.

And he was shivering. The cold, logical part of his brain knew this was because of the blood loss. But the part of his brain that was keeping him alive, the part that was forcing him to stay awake, to cling on to consciousness for all he was worth-that part of his brain didn't want to consider the logical truth, to acknowledge it or give it credence. That part of his brain was hoping that the Ghost was taking him somewhere safe and quiet, with doctors and surgeons and life-saving medicine.

The car juddered to a halt. Donovan looked out of the window. They'd stopped outside an ordinary tenement building. No hospital then. He wondered what the Ghost had in mind for him. Was he going to leave him here to die? Donovan thought not. Not after what had happened on the rooftop.

He closed his eyes, heard the Ghost climbing out of the driver's seat, footsteps around the back of the car. Then the cold wash of the night air as the door was wrenched open, rushing into the cab, caressing his face. He drank in the fresh air. Moments later he felt the Ghost's hands underneath him, scooping him out of the seat and hoisting his supine body in a fireman's lift. His shoulder screamed in pain at every footstep, as the Ghost kicked the car door shut and staggered toward the building.

What came next was nothing but a series of vague impressions: climbing steps, his head and arms lolling like a rag doll's; passing through a door; being dropped roughly into a soft chair; the Ghost's voice, commanding, gritty: "Stay with me, Donovan." And then: "Here, drink this." A glass tumbler pushed into his hand, hard beneath his fingers. He didn't want to lift it. It felt heavy, cumbersome. He wondered for a moment where he'd left his gun, and then remembered throwing it after the retreating mobster. It felt as if days had passed.

The Ghost was standing over him again, lifting his hand, bringing the glass to his lips so he could drink. He sipped at it, grateful for the long fingers of warmth that it spread through his body. Whisky. Bourbon. He swallowed again. And again, draining the glass. Warmth. He needed that warmth.

The Ghost took the empty glass and disappeared again. When he hovered back into view, Donovan had regained some sense of himself and his surroundings. They were in an apartment. To his left, a series of large panoramic windows looked out over the dark cityscape, the moon a bright bauble in the sky. It wasn't a homely place, more functional; a few chairs, a table, doors leading to a handful of other rooms. There was nothing personal here. No one lived here. Appropriate, then, that it should be inhabited by a ghost.

Donovan blinked, studying the man who stood over him. The vigilante's jaw was set, grim. He was holding a small brass tool: tongs, with vicious-looking tips. "This is going to hurt, Inspector." His voice was low and serious.

The Ghost stooped over him, roughly pulling open Donovan's jacket, tearing his damp, sticky shirt to expose the puckered wound in his shoulder. Donovan couldn't believe the amount of blood. He looked away, gritting his teeth. He knew what was coming. The Ghost used his thumbs to probe the wound and Donovan fought back a cry of pain. The Ghost pulled him forward, roughly, studying his naked back. After a moment, he allowed Donovan to rock back in the chair.

"It's as I thought-no exit wound. We're going to have to get that bullet out." Donovan gave a sharp nod. He didn't like the sound of that. The Ghost reached for the surgical tongs he had left on the arm of the chair. Then, glancing at Donovan's face, he pulled off one of his leather gloves, rolled it into a bundle, and passed it to the inspector. "Here, bite down on this."

Donovan took it, wedged it between his teeth. There was a sharp, stinging pain in his right shoulder. He bit down hard. The glove tasted of old leather and sweat. The Ghost wormed the tongs around in the wound, trying to locate the bullet, trying to get a grip on the small piece of lead that had punctured Donovan's flesh and would poison his bloodstream if it wasn't quickly removed.

"Got it!" The Ghost's exclamation was almost triumphant. There was a pause, and then fire, excruciating fire, as the bullet was ripped from the wound. The Ghost dropped the tongs and the bullet to the floor. "Now, apply pressure here, hard." Donovan did as he was told. More blood was oozing from the wound. He clamped his left hand on it, squeezing hard, despite the pain.

The Ghost was fishing for something in a small room just off of the main living space. A bathroom. He returned brandishing a white strip of bandage, which he laid out on the arm of the chair. Grabbing the bottle of bourbon, he prized Donovan's fingers away from the wound and sloshed a generous measure of the liquid over his shoulder. Donovan howled in pain as the alcohol burned his raw and bloody flesh.

Next, the Ghost proceeded to loop the bandage around Donovan's shoulder, tightly strapping his arm. Then, standing back to admire his handiwork, he poured Donovan another whisky and collapsed back into the chair opposite the inspector. "Drink that, then sleep."

Donovan sipped at his whisky, tried to focus on the other man. "Who are you?" His voice was a dry croak.

The Ghost shook his head. "Tomorrow."

Donovan drained the whisky. He allowed the darkness to seep in again, closing in around him as if the room were getting suddenly smaller. Yes, tomorrow.

Now, at least, he felt as if tomorrow might actually come.

Light streamed in through the window, bright and golden, picking out the dust motes that drifted lazily in the air above his head. The light stung his eyes. Donovan licked his lips. His mouth was dry. He must have slept for hours. He moved to sit up, but feeling the painful pull of his wounded shoulder, instead he allowed himself to fall back into the soft embrace of the chair.

He was in a terrible state. His clothes were torn, his chest exposed, dried blood matted in his hair. The bandage around his shoulder was soaked with a dark, crimson stain-but he felt alive, more alive than he had in days. His head was clear; the foggy darkness that had plagued him since the rooftop had been banished, and he knew his own mind, knew that he was glad to have made it out of there in one piece, albeit damaged. All policemen were damaged, he reminded himself, some in more ways than others.

Donovan glanced around the room, trying to remember where he was. The Ghost! The Ghost's apartment. The other man was asleep in the opposite chair, his head lolled back, his goggles pushed up onto his forehead, still fully clothed. The vigilante had obviously stayed up, watching him, keeping vigil, ensuring that Donovan didn't slip away during the night.

Donovan studied the Ghost's face, wracking his memory. Who was he? Did he recognize that face-the rugged, square-cut jaw, the sandy hair? It was familiar, but he couldn't place it. Beyond the Ghost, the door to the bathroom was still hanging open. Donovan would try to muster the strength to clean himself up in there, soon enough.

At the other end of the living space another door was propped open, bright sheets of light spilling out from the room beyond. From where he was sitting, Donovan could just make out a row of weapons-guns; blades; other, more outlandish devices-mounted on a rack on one wall, and the corner of a desk, piled high with all manner of strange components and empty bullet casings. An armory. The man was serious, then.

Deciding not to put it off any longer, Donovan levered himself out of the chair. He was steadier on his feet than he'd expected. He flexed his neck and shoulder muscles. The bandage was tight and the wound pulled, painfully. He made a fist with his right hand and almost yelped, but then tried again and felt the discomfort ease a little. He'd live, at least for now. He thought of Flora, of her pretty smile, her beautiful smell, and the thought alarmed him. Reece had mentioned her the previous night, said he knew her whereabouts. He needed to get to her, to warn her somehow. Or he needed to get to Reece.

Donovan glanced at the sleeping figure of the Ghost. He would help. He knew it now, without any shadow of a doubt. The Commissioner had been wrong about the man. His methods, well-perhaps they were a bit overzealous. But his spirit, his courage ... they were unparalleled. Donovan only wished he could say the same about himself. The Ghost was clearly an ally, and at that moment, Donovan needed all the help he could get.

When he emerged from the bathroom a short while later, the Ghost was no longer asleep in his chair. Tentatively, Donovan made his way to the small kitchen area of the apartment to fix himself a drink. He set the tap running, turned as he heard sounds from behind him. A man emerged from the bedroom, dressed in a fine black suit, a crisp, clean collar that was open at the throat, and shiny black brogues. His hair was combed in a smart side-parting. Donovan almost did a double take. The man was a picture of sophistication; he had about him the air of the very rich.

"So, this is the real you?"

The Ghost smiled, a wan smile. "No, I wouldn't say that, Inspector."

Donovan took in the apartment with an expansive gesture. "Where are we?"

"My apartment. Yours isn't safe, not at the moment. Neither are the hospitals. If the Roman wants you dead, he'll be looking for you. Reece knows you were shot; he'll have people watching the emergency rooms."

Donovan nodded. "So ... Reece got away?"

"Yes. For now."

Donovan drained the glass of water in his hand, gave a spluttering cough. "He'll come after me. I have to find him before he finds Flora."

"Flora?"

"My wife."

The Ghost nodded. "Rest here. You need to recover your strength. Fix yourself something to eat."

"Where are you going?" Donovan asked.

"There's someone I need to see." He smiled. "I'll be back later. I've laid out a clean suit for you, on the bed. I think it should be about your size."

Donovan shrugged. "Thanks." He caught the Ghost's arm as the vigilante turned to leave. "You said you'd tell me who you are."

"You know who I am, Inspector. What you saw ... that's who I am. The rest is just window dressing."

Donovan nodded. He didn't need to know any more. "How can I contact you?"

The Ghost shook his head. "No need. I'll be back in a few hours. Wait here."

"Very well." Donovan watched the Ghost turn and leave, and then set about fixing himself some eggs.

After he'd eaten and dressed, Donovan searched out the holotube unit in the Ghost's apartment. He'd decided to call Mullins. The sergeant deserved to know where he was, or at least what had happened to him. He'd arranged for Mullins to call for him that morning, fearing the worst, and now, he realized, the poor bastard was probably panicking, running about the place trying to deal with the dead mobster he'd found on his boss's carpet. And besides, there was always the slim chance that Mullins had managed to get a lead on Reece. Donovan knew that was probably desperation talking.

The transmitter buzzed; a moment later, the blue light flickered to life and an image resolved in the display cavity. It was Richards, the precinct's administrator.

Donovan cleared his throat. "Richards. Donovan."

The man sounded immediately relieved. "Inspector Donovan? We've been trying to reach you all morning."

"Ah, right. Yes. I ran into a few complications last night. Can you put me through to Mullins?"

The administrator gave an exaggerated shrug. "That's just it, sir. Sergeant Mullins isn't here."

"What do you mean, Mullins isn't there?"

The other man sounded unsure. "There's been another murder, sir. Like the others. Sergeant Mullins is attending the scene."

Donovan ran his hand through his hair, flinched at the stab of pain in his shoulder. Another murder? He stared at the flickering blue image. "Right, man. Give me the address."

"Yes, sir. It's uptown. Two-two-six Eighty-eighth, between Second and Third. Home of a Mr. Williamson, a banker."

Donovan nodded. "Right, I'll get over there straight away. If Mullins calls, tell him I'll be there within the next thirty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

Donovan flicked the switch, ending the transmission. The blue light blinked out, the picture fading from view. Another murder. The Roman had been busy.

He stood, looking for a scrap of paper on which to scrawl a note for the Ghost. Unable to find anything suitable, he threw his hands up in despair and decided to leave anyway. He'd take the Ghost's advice, to a point; he'd return here later to meet the vigilante. Clearly, Donovan's own apartment was unsafe. But he couldn't sit around and do nothing, not when there was a potential lead on the Roman, a fresh corpse, and a worried sergeant, out of his depth and unsure what had become of his superior officer. He couldn't sit and hide himself away, knowing that, no matter how much pain he was in.

The Ghost had left a key dangling from the lock. Donovan seized it in his fist and set out. He'd be back soon enough. And together he and the Ghost could consider how they were going to find Reece.

The taxi hissed up to the sidewalk, slotting in behind the row of police vehicles that crowded the street like a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. Donovan had considered driving-his car was still parked outside the Ghost's apartment, after all-but he couldn't face it yet. The pain in his shoulder was still too intense, and he knew the seats would still be sticky with congealed blood.

He climbed out of the cab and paid the driver. Then, crossing the sidewalk, he mounted the steps that led up to the front of the large house, the home of Mr. Williamson, the dead banker. He rapped on the door. A uniformed man cracked the lock and held it open, peering out at him suspiciously through a slight gap between the door and the jamb. When he realized it was Donovan his demeanor changed entirely and he opened the door wider, beckoning the inspector in over the threshold. "Morning, sir."