Gods of Manhattan (15 page)

Harry seemed to be coming to the end of his monologue; Crane forced himself to listen.

"- tried to pin a medal on me, but I told them I wasn't interested in none of that crapola. I don't need some piece of tin, that's what I told them. My place is on the streets, capeesh? A medal don't mean a damn thing in the line, you know? The only thing that counts is your shield and your gun and your
guts,
that's what I told ' em." He breathed in, as if showing off his gut for approval. "Anyway, like I said, I got contacts, and apparently this loon's been popping up in connection with some stuff the FBI's looking into. Kraut stuff."

"Kraut?" Crane's eyes narrowed.

"As in Untergang."

Crane blinked, slightly stunned. "Wait, this red mask fellow - he's working for
Untergang?
That doesn't make sense."

Stacey laughed, shaking his head. "Working for 'em? Hell no! Working
on
'em, maybe. Look, the FBI keep some of those guys under surveillance. They figure if they keep watchin' the little fish, sooner or later they're gonna lead 'em to the sharks, y'know? Anyway, they're keeping tabs on this one cell, waiting for the chance to move in - and our guy just bursts in there and takes them apart. These are friggin' terrorists! With guns! Ten of them at least!" His eyes grew wide, staring into Crane's as if trying to infect him with Stacey's own incredulity at it. "He kills all but one of them - asks some questions - then kills that last guy too!" He drew a finger across his throat. "
Shlikk!
Just like that! The goddamn wetback is some kind of
machine,
capeesh?"

Crane leant back in his chair, lost in thought. "Who
is
he...?"

Stacey shrugged. "He hates the Krauts, that's for sure. Other than that - who the hell knows? Ain't like this town's ever been short of vigilantes. Hell, remember the Blue Ghost? I used to hang out with him when I was just a patrolman. Hell of a nice guy, even if he did get beat up a lot. Him and me were like
that,
even if I did used to smack that Jap kid he hung out with around a lot. I mean, yeah, he broke my arm, but it was all in fun, y'know?" He looked into the distance, furrowing his brow. "Vanished a little before you came on the scene, as a matter of fact..."

"I don't need to hear another tall story from you, Detective." The edge was back in Crane's voice, no matter how much he tried to keep it out. "I need to know who this masked man thinks he is and how and why he found Heinrich Donner." The why was obvious, Crane knew, if unpalatable. The thought brought him back to the ape-man's appearance at Donner's penthouse suite the previous night. "And we need to know how Doc Thunder's connected to all this." And there was a connection, he knew. Doc Thunder and Heinrich Donner had never been friends. Perhaps he was working with this Mexican, this red mask. Perhaps he was Thunder's secret enforcer, committing crimes to make sure Thunder's hero's hands could remain clean and unstained. If that was the case, it was one more reason for him to have earned Crane's contempt.

The Blood-Spider preferred to do his dirty work himself.

Stacey scowled, snarling at him like a dog straining at the end of a leash. "Listen, buddy," he snapped, "I don't know how you got so mouthy - considering you're just a jumped-up messaging service for the boss and all - but if I was you I'd quit flapping your gums, capeesh? You act like you're in charge of this caper because you were born with a goddamned silver spoon halfway up your stretched asshole, but lemme tell ya, pally, I'm in a lot deeper with the Blood-Spider than you are. And so help me, I might just decide to tell him how you been treating me."

"Oh, shut up and get lost, Stacey." Crane waved the Detective away, as Jonah, knowing as ever just when he would be needed, opened the door to escort him out. Stacey snatched up the file, let loose a few more choice epithets about Crane's education and background, and then left, leaving nothing but the stink of sweat, cigar smoke and whiskey to mark his passing.

Crane made a mental note not to lose his temper like that again. He'd spoken as the Blood-Spider, and while an imbecile like Harry Stacey might not think twice about it, he could be sure others would take notice. Parker Crane had always been a mask - a disguise to hide his true self - but lately the mask had begun to fray, and traces of the truth were occasionally visible. That would not do. Not after all the work he'd done.

He had too many plans to allow his temper to spoil them.

"If I might interrupt your reverie, Sir...? You received a telegram in the last five minutes, and while I felt it prudent not to interrupt your conversation with the Detective..."

"Yes, of course." Crane reached out a hand, taking hold of the folded piece of paper, and passed his eyes quickly over it.

HELLO PARKER STOP NEED TO TALK STOP HAVE SOMETHING OF INTEREST TO YOU STOP BOTH OF YOU STOP ALSO FIFTY FIFTY CHANCE OF OTHER INTEREST STOP PLEASE COME TO THE ROOFTOP OF SAINT ALBERTS ASAP STOP NO B S STOP

DOCTOR MILES HAMILTON

"Miles Hamilton..."

"Chief Administrator at Saint Albert's, Sir. At one point he and Doc Thunder were very close friends."

Crane frowned. "'Fifty fifty chance of other interest.' What does that mean?"

Jonah coughed gently. "If I may be so bold, Sir, I would be more interested in the part that says he has something of interest to 'both of you'. Add that to the, ah, 'no B S'... and unless the good Doctor has developed a taste for the vernacular..."

"He knows." Crane's eyes grew hard. "He knows that I'm the Blood-Spider. He's learned my secret, maybe
all
my secrets, and he's telling me to leave the mask and the guns at home."

Jonah nodded. "And will you, Sir?"

Crane almost smiled. "Jonah, Jonah, Jonah. The mask and the guns
are
my home." He stood, looking over at the trunk that sat in the corner, squat and menacing, like some demon coiled up and ready to explode. "Bring the telephone. I'm afraid I'm going to need to interrupt Ms. Lang's evening again."

He turned to look at Jonah, and there was something quite terrifying in his gaze. Something that spoke of brutal, merciless violence yet to come.

"We're going to pay a little social call."

As Jonah left the room, he paid no attention to the Junior Under-janitor, still sweeping the floor and scratching the back of his skull. If he had known the Junior Under-janitor had been listening at the door, he would have been instantly dismissed - and perhaps 'silenced' by the Blood-Spider.

But the Junior Under-janitor was beneath his notice. He was, after all, quite the wrong sort of person. A Mexican, and very likely an illegal immigrant.

If Jonah had known that the Junior Under-janitor was not only an illegal immigrant but was also suffering from multiple personality disorder - and indeed was prone to regular bouts of extreme violence -it's hard to say whether he would have been surprised. But he'd never bothered to ask such things. Could he push a broom, that was all that mattered. The next day, they would begin the process of finding a proper applicant for the post.

He barely even remembered the man's name.

It was Djego.

Chapter Eight

Doc Thunder and The Face of Fear

More than twenty years before, the clocks were striking midnight. The Seventies were coming to a close, and the whole of America looked set to follow.

The Blue Ghost watched through one swollen eye as Anton Venger, Agent Of N.I.G.H.T.M.A.R.E., held the glass bottle aloft. Inside, the blue ichor which would spell death to half a continent - and perhaps the end of civilisation as mankind knew it - sloshed lazily to and fro, seemingly glowing with its own internal light.

Venger chuckled, his handsome, tanned features lit by the fire of Liberty's torch as he savoured the coming moment, when he would uncap the deadly bottle and hurl the concentrated solution off his perch on top of the Statue - where his men had taken the Ghost at Venger's request - and into the harbour. There, the final reaction would take place, the seawater combining with the experimental poison to form an ever-expanding ring of death; a toxic cloud rising up from below like some monstrous kraken. Before the reaction was exhausted, the eastern coast of America would choke on the deadly fumes. "Ironic, isn't it? We're about to give New York the ultimate liberty - the liberty of death. It's a real shame President Rickard couldn't see reason. One billion dollars is such a piddling little sum..."

The Ghost shifted, trying to break out of the ropes, and was rewarded with a stabbing pain in his side that made him wince. Venger's goons had really worked him over. He counted at least four broken ribs, not to mention the broken leg that he was going to have to heave around the place on crutches for God only knew how long. That was going to make fighting crime a real pain in the keister, and with his arms tied, it left him one good leg to save the country.

Why the hell hadn't he stuck to beating on gangsters?

"You're bluffing, Venger."
I hope.
"If that stuff does what you say it does, you'll die with the rest of us."

Venger looked wounded. "My dear Ghost - I have doctorate degrees in biology, virology and medicine. Do you really think me so stupid as to invent a deadly poison and not inoculate myself against it? When New Yorkers are gasping their lungs out like freshly-landed fish, I will be leading the squads of N.I.G.H.T.M.A.R.E. agents looting the east coast of its valuables. If we can't have our payday one way, we'll have it another. Perhaps our dear Prez will think twice before he bets against the greatest criminal organisation in the world."

The Ghost frowned. He'd fouled up on this one, these were international criminals operating on a massive scale. It was S.T.E.A.M. who should be fighting these guys, not some guy in a blue suit and a skinny tie whose biggest talent was taking a beating and coming back for more. Why the hell hadn't he turned the whole thing over to the big boys when he'd had the chance? The whole world was waiting for N.I.G.H.T.M.A.R.E.'s midnight deadline, and Jack Scorpio's high-faluting Special Taskforce was on a wild goose chase to Yellowstone Park. The only people in the world who knew Venger was here were him and Easton West - and who'd believe a ten-year-old kid?

The only thing he could do now was keep the nutball talking. As long as he was running his mouth, he wasn't emptying that poison vial into the water. "Got it all worked out, haven't you? How many people are you planning to kill for your kicks, you sick, twisted..." He trailed off.
Should I insult the guy, or not insult the guy? A slanging match would be pretty good - that'll keep this going a while - but not if he gets mad enough to toss that crap off the crown.

Venger didn't seem overly offended. He just smiled his superior smile. "Judging by this wind, I think the poison cloud should blow inland for quite a distance. It may even reach the White House before it loses full potency. And even after... well, if you've ever breathed acid vapour, you know that even if it doesn't kill you, it will certainly sting. And this will be very similar, if you haven't had your inoculation jab. That's why I had my men bring you up here. I want to watch the effects on a human body up close. I hope you don't mind being part of my experiment."

"Sheesh. You scientists." The Ghost rolled his eyes behind his ever-present blue domino mask. "Just once, I'd like to meet a crazy world-conqueror who took drama. He could try and Shakespeare me to death."

"Hmm. Funny you should mention that." Venger smiled widely. "I did do a minor in drama at college - 'the man of a thousand voices', they called me. I could have been a star of the stage. Isn't it funny how things work out?"

"Never too late, pal. Lot of great plays get put on in prison. A little state's evidence and you wouldn't even see the inside. What do you say?" The Ghost was really hoping he'd actually go for this. If he didn't, he was out of options. A last-minute change of heart was about all the hope he had left.

For a moment, Venger almost seemed to consider it. "Hmmm..." Then he smiled. "No. But I do appreciate you trying to keep me talking. I wanted to allow the idiots at S.T.E.A.M. a false glimmer of hope before I showed them just how pitifully they'd failed." He smiled, lifting the bottle up into the air, theatrically removing the cork with his other hand. The air suddenly filled with the sickly smell of rotting lilacs -

- and then Doc Thunder landed on the Statue of Liberty, ringing it like a gong, the small Japanese boy clinging to his back hanging on for dear life.

"Easton!" yelled the Ghost, a note of triumph in his voice. "Great stuff, kid! Gimme a hand out of these ropes, huh?"

"I got help like you said, Mister Ghost Boss!" Easton yelled as he clambered off the big man's back. Having been unable to interest the police in his story, he'd done the next best thing and gone straight to the Doc's brownstone. Fortunately, Doc had been home.

"Put down the fluid, Venger. You don't want to do this." Thunder's eyes were a steely calm, and he spoke softly, carefully. If that solution should fall over the side... even one drop... "Listen to me. If you do this - if you allow this atrocity to happen - there'll be nowhere you can hide. You know that. Every law enforcement agency on the planet will be after your blood from now until the day you die. There will be no escape. Let it end, Venger - Anton. Let it go." He smiled, keeping his eyes on the other man's. He spoke softly, rationally, and he meant every word. You couldn't lie to these people, they could smell insincerity. How many times had he been talking to men with their fingers on the trigger, or the button, or the bomb? How many times had he failed to prevent them from destroying themselves?