Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  The Ghost had little time to celebrate, however, as, without its tail and losing fuel, his own biplane was quickly losing altitude. He wrestled with the controls, trying to level the wings, trying desperately to keep the nose from pointing toward the ground as he swept along, narrowly missing the buildings on either side, unable to steer, unable to climb any higher. He was going to have to ditch it. He was going to have to try to land the thing on the road, on Madison Avenue.

  The engine spat and hissed angrily, and then the propeller finally gave up, seizing as the motors that drove it locked up. No fuel. No controls. Only his momentum carrying him forward, carrying him inevitably down toward the slick tarmac below.

  The Ghost glanced over the side of the plane. There were people milling about everywhere; running toward the crash site, dashing for cover, stopping to point and scream as they heard and then saw this second plane, out of control, diving out of the sky toward them. He considered bailing out, but he knew that the fall would kill him. At this speed, at this height, his body would be dashed across the street like a watermelon. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe, tried to fight the sense of rising panic, the tightening in his chest. He'd been here before, in France. He'd been through this and lived. He couldn't help wondering what the chances were that he would do so again.

  He peeled open his eyes and calmly reached forward for the control stick. He had no choice.

  The plane was listing to the right, so he threw his weight to the left, bodily leaning out of the pit in an attempt to level the aircraft. It bobbed, buffeted by the sharp wind, and began to level out, but he realized he was still coming in too steep. With no propeller, gravity was drawing him inexorably toward the ground. He rocked back, shifting his weight again, throwing everything he had behind the movement in the hope that, this time, he'd be able to keep the shattered tail end of the aircraft down, preventing him from nosediving directly into the tarmac.

  It was this decision, this moment, which he later reflected had saved his life.

  The biplane finally came down, slamming into the road, its wing smashing through the windshield of a parked car, the impact ripping the roof clean off the vehicle, but also rending rivets loose in the main fuselage of the biplane so that the wing was whipped away, clattering off down the street. The undercarriage scraped and skidded along the tarmac, bouncing and hopping along the road and raising an enormous spray of bright sparks in the crashing aircraft's wake.

  It spun wildly. Pedestrians dived bodily out of the way to avoid flying fragments of shrapnel as it lurched along the road. Another car swerved desperately, mounting the sidewalk and narrowly missing the oncoming wreckage.

  And then, finally, it shuddered to a halt.

  The Ghost peeled open his eyes, realized he'd been holding his breath. He shivered. His hand was still clutching the control stick, squeezing it for all he was worth. He became aware of the sound of screaming: shrill, terrified screaming. He saw a man running toward him, concern etched on his gleaming face.

  He had to get out of there.

  Grasping the edges of the pilot pit, he heaved himself free of the wreckage and dropped to the ground. He must have gashed his knee during the impact as his pants were torn and blood was running freely down his calf. He gritted his teeth, resting his hand against the remaining, shattered wing of the biplane.

  "Hey! Mister, are you okay?" And then, "That was some-"

  The Ghost turned away from the man, glancing back up the road. In the far distance he could still see the flames of the other aircraft as it burned, a steel tomb for one of the Roman's men.

  Testing his injured leg gingerly, he established it would still support his weight. And then, without waiting any longer, without acknowledging the small crowd of people gathering around the wreckage, he turned and ran.

  onovan knew his apartment was no longer safe, but his first instinct upon leaving the rooftop was to head there, not for the purpose of holing himself up, but with the aim of recovering his gun, the automatic he had lost in the hallway during his encounter with Reece and his men.

  He was weak, terribly faint. He could feel the energy ebbing out of him like the warm blood that was still trickling down his arm, seeping into his clothes, as he pushed his way through the door and staggered down the hallway.

  He found the weapon easily enough, even managed to reload it with a second clip, but the swirling darkness that limned his vision kept closing in on him and he swooned, dropping in and out of consciousness, unable to think straight. It felt a little like drowning, like being swallowed by something warm and dark and safe, and he knew that if he didn't fight it, that coziness, that sense of warmth and tiredness would overcome him, and he would never wake up again. He forced himself to keep moving.

  He had no sense of how long it took him to stagger back along the corridor outside of his apartment to the stairwell. It felt like hours, but it must have only been minutes, for, as he hung for a moment in the doorway, rasping for breath, he caught sight of Gideon Reece, bouncing off the walls as he flung himself down the stairs from the roof. He charged down the stone steps, his footsteps ringing out in the confined space. Clearly, the man wasn't so confident when he wasn't surrounded by a clutch of the Roman's goons.

  Unable to use his right arm, Donovan hefted his automatic in his left hand, and from a slumped position against the wall let loose a series of potshots, trying to catch Reece as he fled the scene. The bullets ricocheted off the iron fretwork of the railings, left dusty pockmarks in the plasterwork, but Donovan was unable to hold himself steady and Reece rushed on, down and down the stairwell, toward safety, freedom, ducking as the bullets pinged around him.

  Donovan staggered after him, firing until his magazine was empty, finally flinging the gun in frustration at the back of the disappearing figure. Reece hadn't even turned to acknowledge him, so intent was he on making good his escape. Donovan practically fell down the final flight of stairs, collapsing on the bottom step as he watched, through the tall glass-paneled doors of the apartment building, the three-funneled car roar away into the night, its tires hissing on the damp tarmac.

  He felt the blackness closing in on him again.

  When he came round, Donovan was on the sidewalk. He had no recollection of how he'd got there. The cold wind buffeted him, and he felt himself sway unsteadily on his feet. Above, he heard the roar of rocket engines firing as biplanes launched from the roof of a nearby building, riding away on bright spikes of flame. He glanced in both directions along the street. His first instinct was to follow Reece, to head in the direction that his car had taken, but he knew his judgment was clouded; he was on foot, and wounded, and he didn't know how long it had been since Reece had left. What, then? The hospital? The precinct? Mullins?

  Yes, that was it. Mullins. Mullins was reliable. Mullins was always reliable.

  Donovan staggered toward his parked car. It was an old thing, and he didn't drive it often, but he was glad of it now. He leaned against the roof as he unlocked the driver's side door. His vision was blurring. He'd lost a lot of blood. He cursed himself. He should have done more. He should have taken out Reece whilst he'd had the chance.

  Donovan swung the car door open and practically fell into the seat. He rested his good hand against the wheel. A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. He fought inside his jacket, struggling to worry the packet out from inside the pocket. Then, finally, he worked it free, flipped open the lid, and with his lips withdrew one of the white cigarettes. He pulled the tab, watched the tip flare. He sighed as the thick nicotine flooded his lungs. Donovan laid his head back against the headrest, allowing the smoke to plume out of his nostrils. His shoulder was throbbing. He was tired. So tired. The blackness was calling to him, offering sweet oblivion. He felt his eyelids closing. The cigarette tumbled from his fingers. Everything went dark.

  He woke with a start. Someone was calling his name. Tired, weak, bleary-eyed, he peered at the face of the man who was leaning over him. The features bobbed. He could sm
ell nicotine on the other man's breath. The man had two red pinpricks for eyes. Who did he know who had red eyes ... ?

  Donovan's mind suddenly engaged. The Ghost! The Ghost had saved him from the Roman's men. The Ghost was here, now, leaning into his car.

  "Donovan! Donovan!" A sharp pain as a gloved hand slapped him across the face. "Donovan!"

  "Yes ..." he croaked, his cheek smarting, "yes ..." He couldn't think what else to say.

  "Donovan. I'm going to move you now. You're coming with me." The Ghost was leaning over him, wrapping his hands around Donovan's chest. The Ghost heaved him across the cab, groaning at the exertion, and Donovan felt a sharp spike of pain in his shoulder as he was lifted over to the passenger seat. The Ghost slid in beside him, coughing, and took the controls. Donovan noted that the other man's leg was bleeding heavily, his pants torn. Had the Roman's men done that to him? How had he managed to see off so many of them?

  Donovan tried to ask the Ghost these questions but his voice was barely a whisper, and before he'd had chance to properly frame his words, the Ghost had fired up the engine and the questions were lost in the hissing of steam as the paddles engaged and the vehicle slid away from the curb. Donovan slumped in the seat. He had no idea where the Ghost was taking him. But he hoped, wherever it was, he'd be able to get some rest. The swirling darkness was waiting for him.

  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 sli
p 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.