Ghosts of Manhattan Read online

  She recognized, of course, that she had acted only in self-defense, but nevertheless those actions had changed her. Something inside of her had broken. It was something Gabriel would never be able to repair, no matter how hard he tried, no matter what he did or said. He knew that himself, all too well.

  Celeste had told him all of this in the small hours of the night, when the only sound was the rustling of the trees through the window, and the only warmth the press of her body against his, the touch of her breath upon his face, the thump of her racing heart as she went over and over and over what had happened. He hadn't asked her why, and she hadn't volunteered an explanation, either. He still had no idea why those men-those mobsters-had been so desperate to take her away from him, so intent on their purpose that they had turned over the club and murdered all those people. Gabriel knew none of those victims was innocent, but neither did any of them deserve to die, not like that. Not at the hands of those terrible monsters rendered from soil and clay and death.

  Whether Celeste suspected any reason behind the Roman's attempt to kidnap her, he could only speculate. Yet he recognized within her a seed of discretion, a decision not to reveal that part of herself, not to him, not to the world. She was hiding something, withholding some secret that exposed her in some way, made her vulnerable, and she had chosen to bury it. She was tied up in something and she had chosen not to share it with him. He would have been a hypocrite if he'd expected anything else.

  She turned to him, now, a wry smile on her lips. "You went to the city yesterday. I overheard you talking to Henry."

  Gabriel accepted this as a statement of fact. He'd left her dozing on the sofa in the drawing room, resting at last, and had taken the car back to the city. He'd returned late that night. She'd been in bed, feigning sleep, as he'd slipped in quietly and curled up beside her. Later, when she'd woken, he'd been there to hold her as she wept.

  Now, however, she had challenged him on his whereabouts, breaking the unspoken rule. He plumed smoke into the air, and turned to watch a couple by the side of the pool, holding hands as they jumped into the water together, crying out in delight like excited children. "Yes. I went into the city."

  Celeste nodded, slowly. "You weren't-"

  He swallowed the remains of his drink in one gulp. "I was."

  She sat forward in her chair. She was both appalled and enamored. "Really? You went back. You brave, foolish, wonderful man!"

  Gabriel waved his cigarette nonchalantly. "I didn't get very far. I asked a lot of questions. I discovered that the man we saw-the thin man in the evening suit-is called Gideon Reece. He works for the Roman, the mob boss who's been causing a stir. The police are looking into him, too. I met a nice inspector."

  Celeste was just about to reply when a man Gabriel didn't recognize approached the veranda from across the garden. He wasn't wearing a bathing suit, but was dressed instead for the winter weather: a dark wool suit and a beige overcoat. He was wearing a brown hat. He beamed up at Gabriel and flashed Celeste a wide grin. "Quite a party you've got going on here, Mr. Cross. Unusual to see people in swimwear at this time of year."

  Gabriel smirked. "Yes, indeed. Trying out my new acquisition. It's called the Johnson and Arkwright Filament. It heats the pool, you see-

  "Yes, I'd gathered as much." He looked down at his right hand, as if studying the palm, and then thrust it out in Gabriel's direction. "The name's Houseman, Jack Houseman. I'm with the New York Times."

  Gabriel looked the man up and down appraisingly. There was an awkward moment while he made up his mind whether to take the man's hand or not. Then, remembering he had a role to play, he slid his glass tumbler onto the table beside him and leaned forward on the lounger, grasping the reporter's hand. "Good to meet you." He looked over the other man's shoulder. "You're welcome to join the party."

  Houseman grinned. "Deadlines, Mr. Cross. I'm sure you understand."

  "I'm sure he doesn't!" Celeste half-whispered, a sweet smile on her lips.

  Houseman laughed. "I understand there was an ... incident the other night, downtown."

  The smile suddenly faded from Celeste's face. She glanced nervously at Gabriel to see how he was going to react.

  "And what incident would that be, Mr. Houseman ... Jack? I can call you Jack?"

  Houseman nodded. "You can call me Jack. The incident with the vigilante. The Ghost." He raised his eyebrows in anticipation, as if what he really meant to say was, "How could I mean anything else?"

  Gabriel laughed. "Oh, that. Yes. The incident." Celeste fell back in her chair, clearly relieved, and retrieved her gin and tonic, sipping at the straw, turning her attention to the revelers by the pool. Gabriel watched her for a moment. Then he turned to the reporter. "You want to know what happened?"

  "Yes. I'm writing a piece about him."

  "Well, I'll tell you. He's a menace. Make sure you get that in. A menace. I was driving through town the other night, on my way to a party, when he simply ran out in front of my vehicle. I had to slam the brakes on and nearly knocked the guy across the street." Gabriel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, as if unconsciously remembering the pain. "Jarred my neck, banged my hand. And all he did was lean on my hood and stare at me through the windshield. I think he must have been in a scrape, judging by the state of him." Houseman frowned, but Gabriel continued before he'd had chance to speak. "I mean, who does this guy think he is, anyway?" And then, "I'll tell you something. I'm going to find out. I'm going to discover the truth behind this so-called vigilante. I'll expose his true identity, and then everyone will know what a danger he is to the people of New York!"

  He sat back, looking satisfied with himself. He knew this wasn't quite the true picture of how events had played out, but then, everyone was entitled to embellish things a little on occasion, and it suited him to add a touch of drama to proceedings.

  Houseman looked rather taken aback by the outburst. "I can see you feel quite strongly about the matter, Mr. Cross. Can I ask: how do you plan to go about exposing this man?"

  Gabriel sniffed. "Money, Jack. You can buy anything these days, for a price." He only wished this wasn't true. He glanced at Celeste out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps there were some things that money couldn't buy, after all.

  Houseman nodded, as if he suddenly understood. "Very well. I think I have everything I need. Thank you for your time, Mr. Cross."

  Gabriel nodded. "Are you sure you won't join the party?"

  Houseman paused. "That's a merry-go-round I don't think I can afford to be a part of, I'm afraid." He turned and walked away across the lawn, heading for his parked car, back on the graveled driveway. Gabriel watched him drift away. A merry-go-round. Yes, that was a good description. Sometimes he wished he could jump off, too.

  Celeste rubbed her arms, feeling the cold. "Can we go inside?" she said. Then, after a moment, "Can we go to bed? I want to be held."

  Gabriel nodded, all of the bravado and flippancy suddenly gone. "Yes," he said, his voice quiet and serious. "Yes, we can go inside."

  He dropped the end of his cigarette into the ashtray and stood, taking her by the hand. Together, they left the veranda, the party, the New York Times, and all of their fears, and Gabriel led her up to his bed.

  Gabriel stirred and opened his eyes. He'd been asleep for some time. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was setting outside, the light becoming hazy, textured, as if seen through a filter of gauze.

  Celeste was nearby, perched on the edge of the bed. He watched her for a while, choosing to feign sleep for a little longer. She had her back to him. If he'd been a religious man he might have seen God in the curve of that back. But Gabriel had abandoned God long ago. The war had done that to him. Now, he had faith only in money and, perhaps, in the woman who sat on the edge of his bed, languorously smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

  She turned to look at him, glancing back over her shoulder. Her painted lips were slightly parted, red and glossy. She blinked, and her long lashes stirred like brushes. S
he allowed a thin plume of smoke to escape from her nostrils. "When we do that ... it's the only time I see you." Her voice was soft, subdued, as if she was aware of the weight of her words. She took another draw on her cigarette, the crisp sound of the smoldering paper the only noise in the room.

  Gabriel let the moment pass. She was right. Of course she was right. It was the only time he let his guard drop. The only time he wasn't in control, wasn't Gabriel Cross. But he couldn't bring himself to give voice to that, to share that recognition with her. He couldn't admit that the man he saw in the mirror each morning was a reflection of somebody else. So instead he smiled and leaned back luxuriously on his pillow, reaching for his cigarette case on the bedside table.

  "Then we should do it more often." He smiled, but the moment was gone.

  She looked at him, confusion in her eyes. "What is it? What happened to you out there? What caused so much damage that you have to hide behind this preposterous facade?" She turned, crossing her legs on the bed so that she could face him. She traced her fingers over the scars on his chest, running her fingertips over the puckered skin. Some of those scars were fresh. Some of them were very old. Each one held a memory.

  Gabriel looked away, watching the sunset through the window. "I I saw things out there. Things you would never believe. Things that no man should ever have to see. I know what lurks in the shadows, Celeste. I know what's out there in the darkness."

  Celeste lay down beside him, resting her head on his chest. Her auburn hair was like a splash of bright red blood against his pale flesh. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I know more than you think, Gabriel."

  He closed his eyes, and wondered if she really knew. She couldn't. She couldn't have seen what he had seen. She couldn't even begin to imagine. If she knew ... if she had any notion of what was waiting out there in the night ...

  Yet she clearly knew something. Something that meant she had to hide out here on Long Island, to shut out the world and pretend that nothing had happened back at Joe's. Something to do with Gabriel Reece and the Roman, a secret life he knew nothing about. So what was she trying to tell him? What did she mean?

  "Celeste ... I ..."

  Celeste gave a long, tired sigh, and he realized she had finally fallen asleep. He smiled. The revelations would have to wait.

  He stayed like that for a few minutes, stroking the back of her head, waiting until he was sure she had fallen into a deep slumber. Then, lifting her head gently so that he could slide his arm out from beneath her, he arranged her carefully on the pillows and searched out his clothes.

  Henry would have the car waiting for him round the front, and he had somewhere he needed to be.

  rthur Wolfe was an Englishman, which, given the current political climate in Manhattan, was perhaps not one of the most healthy provenances for a museum curator-or anyone else, for that matter. He'd lived in the city for over thirty years, since well before the outbreak of war, and long before the accession of Queen Alberta I. In those days he'd been welcomed as a kindred spirit, an expatriate from the motherland, an intelligent man in an intelligent city, a city full of metropolitan ideals and acceptance. Then the war had come, and whilst the British Empire had allied itself with its American cousin, the alliance had proved uneasy. When the British finally wheeled out the great weapon that won the war-the Behemoth Land Crawler-the Americans had grown concerned. The British were a superpower with a long history of invasion. They had once conquered half the globe, holding most of the known world in their sway. And now Alberta I was on the throne and had proved cold to her mother's former allies, referring to them in public as "those upstart colonists." She was a traditionalist, and believed that the British Empire needed to reclaim its former glories. The White House was worried, precisely because they believed she had the power to do it.

  The result had been the dawning of a cold war between the British Empire and the American Republic. And in turn that had led to a reassessment of the allegiances between former friends. It started first with strangers, visitors to the museum picking up on Arthur's unfamiliar accent, offering sly comments and sideways looks. But it soon spread to those Arthur had considered friends; the dinner invitations dried up, and he was no longer deemed a desirable person to have at a party. He'd continued working at the museum, tolerated because of his expertise in European history. But times were hard for Arthur Wolfe, and the Ghost, who'd never given much credence to the notion of racial responsibility, still considered the man to be a good friend. Indeed, he was the only person in the world to whom the Ghost had revealed his true identity, and to that end, he was one of the vigilante's most trusted companions.

  Night was falling as the Ghost made his way across Central Park, his hat pulled down low over his face. He kept to the shadows that pooled beneath the clumps of trees like inky puddles, careful not to be seen by any casual observers. In truth, the park was near deserted, but he knew there were uniformed police officers patrolling the area, and he was anxious not to run into any trouble. At least not yet. There'd be time for that later.

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art was an immense, gothic structure that squatted like an ancient stone monolith beside Fifth Avenue. It was a repository of exotic treasures from all over the world, and Arthur Wolfe had spent years acquiring statues, artifacts, and trinkets for the Roman exhibition, turning it into one of the finest collections outside of Rome itself. During the day, people swarmed to see the vast forest of marble figures that filled the exhibition halls, or to admire the glass cases full of spear tips, arrowheads, and Roman coins.

  It was for this reason that the Ghost had decided to pay a visit to his friend that evening, and had called ahead to ensure that Arthur would be able to meet with him. The man had seemed flustered on the holotube, yet cheerful in his peculiarly British way, and had relented when the Ghost explained the situation, agreeing to cancel his planned trip to the theater to meet with the vigilante at the museum. It wouldn't do for the Ghost to be seen taking the steps up to the main entrance, even at night, and so they had agreed to meet at the rear of the building so that Arthur could admit him by a back door.

  As he hovered beneath a tree, waiting for his friend to show, the Ghost turned the Roman coin over and over between his knuckles, giving the illusion that it was trickling over his hand like a shining stream of bronze. It was a trick he'd learned as a boy, and he did it now, absently, as he reviewed in his mind the details of his meeting with the policeman the previous evening. He needed to find out more about the man. He could be useful. If he was also looking for Reece, there was a chance that, with the resources of the police department at his disposal, he could find him first. And that would lead the Ghost right to the Roman's door.

  There was a sound from across the path. A door opened and a man appeared in the shadows, glancing from left to right. The ghost recognized him immediately.

  "Are you there?" Arthur's voice echoed on the still November air. The curator had never been one for subtlety.

  Sighing, the Ghost stepped out from beneath the tree and, glancing up and down the path to ensure there were no passers-by, darted across to greet the curator. "Yes, Arthur. I'm here."

  The Englishman-tall, gaunt, with a floppy, angular crop of mousy hair, thin wire-framed glasses, and a crooked nose-regarded the Ghost with the haughty air of someone who had been very much caused to go out of their way. He peered down his nose at the vigilante. "It's late."

  The Ghost nodded. "That's rather the point, Arthur."

  The man seemed to think about that for a moment. Then, turning his body slightly but still keeping hold of the doorframe, he ushered the Ghost inside. "Well, I suppose you'd better come in, then."

  The Ghost stepped through into the museum. The lights had been turned down, and the place had the eerie atmosphere of a mausoleum: funereal, silent, as if the weight of history was bearing down on them. The exhibits seemed to watch the two men as they made their way across the hall. Monolithic structures and blank faces loomed over them in the gl
oaming. Glass cases filled with unimaginable treasures covered every wall. They emerged in the rear of the American Wing. Arthur had let him in through a fire escape.

  The Englishman lowered his voice to a whisper, catching the Ghost by the elbow. "Come on, let's go to my office. There are still guards about. I don't want to have to answer any awkward questions."

  The Ghost nodded but remained silent, partly in reverence to the ancient artifacts that surrounded him, partly to avoid drawing any unwelcome attention to his late-night visit. He followed Arthur as the curator wound his way through the exhibits, took the stairs to the next floor, and led the Ghost along a row of small offices to his room at the end of the corridor. "In there. We can talk without being interrupted."

  Arthur's office always reminded the Ghost of his workshop. It was scattered with all manner of bizarre antiquities: the marble head of a statue, a broken amphora, a sheaf of old manuscripts, a stone casket, a map, and an assortment of clay tablets impressed with text in a variety of ancient languages. Many other peculiar items lined the shelves and surfaces, cramming the small space, filling the air with an old, musty scent. Then, incongruous amongst the dusty relics, there was the viewing machine that dominated completely an entire desk; a series of mirrored plates and long brass scopes, each one capped with a different lens, fixed to a rotating pillar. It was essentially an enormous microscope, but its power was beyond any similar device that the Ghost had ever encountered. He'd witnessed Arthur using it on more than one occasion, and it never failed to impress him with its results. He hoped the curator might use it now to investigate the brass coin he had come to discuss.