by D. R. Martin
“What do we do then?” asked Nina.
“It’s a long shot, maybe, but I have an idea,” Johnny responded.
“Okay, John,” said Uncle Louie. “Shoot.”
“We have the colonel and the Zenith Brigade on our side,” Johnny said. “What we’ve gotta do is send them out to recruit as many other ghosts as possible and then hunt through every house, every office, every factory, every building in Zenith. They can go anywhere. Nothing can stop them. We get a big map of the city and coordinate the search from here.
“We don’t tell the other ghosts about the bomb itself. Word could get out and start a panic among the living. But we direct them to hunt for Steppe Warriors or other suspicious ghosts. Seek out weird devices that have been hidden away.”
Everyone else at the table suddenly looked deep in thought.
Then Uncle Louie said, “I like it. It might work.”
“We have to do something,” said Nina.
“I agree with Nina,” Dame Honoria pronounced. “We have to make an effort.”
Mel didn’t look convinced, but she twisted around and looked at Colonel MacFarlane. She simply said, “Colonel?”
Johnny stared eagerly at the Border War cavalryman, knowing full well that he was the key to the whole enterprise. If he didn’t think it would work, it would never happen.
The ghost officer drew himself up a little taller as a slight grin showed itself among his whiskers. To Johnny he looked almost alive again.
“When would you like us to start, ma’am?”
Chapter 56
Wednesday, December 18, 1935
Zenith
While Commander Graphic, Dame Honoria, and Johnny mapped out the bomb hunt, the colonel, Finn, and Clegg recruited ghostly searchers. The number of wraiths who volunteered surprised the colonel. More than ninety came just from the ghost ghetto out at Mount Pleasant Cemetery. Given the chance to do something useful—though not told exactly why—hundreds of ghosts eagerly pitched in.
One such willing recruit, called Sakima, was a native of the region, having lived and died there centuries before the white men came. The colonel figured that Sakima would have an eagle eye for spotting dodgy types such as Steppe Warriors. Unfortunately, when it came to looking for the bomb, the dead native seemed quite bewildered. Asked to alert the colonel if he found any suspicious metallic objects, Sakima led the horse soldier first to a typewriter, then to a sewing machine, and finally to a waffle iron.
The colonel found an eager troop of recruits up on the dusty, unused top floor of a bicycle factory. A dead teacher named Mrs. Hokkanen held class there every day of the week for a clutch of ghost children. Mrs. Hokkanen enthusiastically took up the colonel’s assignment as an opportunity to instruct the dead youngsters about technology and science—by leading daily field trips in search of “peculiar devices and machinery.”
Perhaps the most enthusiastic and well-qualified searcher was none other than Franklin Fforbes. No one had thought to tell the young ghost about the planned citywide hunt until the colonel ran into him in the garage behind Birchwood.
In the end, all manner of ghosts answered the colonel’s call—from longshoremen and lumberjacks to nuns and nurses.
* * *
Once all the plans were laid out, the colonel spent twenty-four hours a day riding slowly through every part of the Bowery, his assigned territory. Through basements and boiler rooms. Garages and warehouses. Filthy old tunnels full of pipes for steam, electric power cables, and water, with many rats scurrying about. He asked every wraith he came across the same questions: “Seen any strange new ghosts about? Any peculiar machinery? Anything at all odd?”
Not one of the scores of ghosts whom the colonel talked to knew anything about suspicious new spooks. Nor bizarre technology that might signify a plot. Some lacked any interest whatsoever, muttering answers such as, “Nah, don’t know nothin’” or “What’s it matter, we’re all dead anyway.” But more than a few wraiths were curious.
A drowning victim from the end of the last century—still dripping ghostly lake water and draped with aquatic weeds—seemed particularly interested. To her bosom she clasped the specter of a baby, who cried softly but incessantly.
“Why do you want to know, sir?” she asked eagerly. “Is there some danger to the living?”
The colonel knew he couldn’t say too much. “Very possibly, ma’am. Any clues or inklings could end up saving lives.”
“What is the danger, exactly?”
“I cannot say, ma’am. But it’d be a very bad thing, were it to occur. I think you’ll agree that we ought to look after the living as best we can. Something you’ve seen or heard could make a difference.”
“Well, sir, I certainly’ll try—” She blinked at him expectantly.
“Oh, sorry, ma’am. Rude of me.” He doffed his campaign cap. “They call me Colonel MacFarlane. If you notice anything, you’ll find me down at the great equestrian statue by the aerial bridge. Every day at noon and midnight. Tell your friends, as well. Umm, your name?”
“Mrs. Ruth Johnson. Went down with the wreck of the Peacemaker. November, 1893.”
“The little one. It’s yours?”
She shook her head. “It’s a he and his name is Oscar. Died of scarlet fever, poor dear. He was haunting the house where he passed, just up the hill here in Zenith. Crying like he is now. On and off, day and night. The daughter of the new owners could see ghosts, could hear them. And little Oscar here made her life there a misery. She asked me if I’d take him. That was thirty years ago.”
“Why does he keep crying?”
“It’s a terrible thing, being the specter of a six-month-old.”
“What do you mean, Mrs. Johnson?”
“He doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. And he wants something I can’t give him, something no one can give him.”
“What’s that?”
“He wants his mama.”
Chapter 57
Monday, December 23, 1935
Zenith
Every morning throughout the holidays Johnny pulled himself out of bed at six, threw on his clothes, and trotted down to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. He’d yank out the morning’s Clarion and scan the front pages for news related to the ultimatum and the etheric bomb. But there was never even a hint that anything was going on.
Just ordinary bad news. An earthquake here. A hurricane there. Workers’ strikes at the railroads. Little wars in little countries he’d never even heard of. Nothing really important.
Today, however, he spotted a small story about a special training event the Army was conducting at the military base north of Zenith. That’s an odd deal, he thought. The Army wouldn’t normally call up reserve soldiers right in the middle of the holidays. He wondered if it had anything to do with the bomb ultimatum. Of course, he had no way of finding out.
Whatever the Army was up to, Johnny doubted that it could help. What could a few hundred soldiers do, if the etheric explosive went off?
For that matter, what were the odds that the colonel’s ghost searchers would ever find the bomb, given that there were millions of places to look?
Johnny was beginning to give up hope. It seemed dreadfully possible now that this would all end very badly.
Kaboom!
No more Zenith.
No more Uncle Louie.
No more Mel.
No more Nina.
No more Johnny Graphic.
All gone.
* * *
“It’s making me crazy,” Johnny grumbled. “The waiting. The not-knowing.”
It was right after breakfast. Bundled up against the cold, Johnny and Nina rocked to and fro on the porch swing in back. It was almost freezing and their breaths made little geysers of white mist.
“Me too,” said Nina.
They swung silently for a few moments, staring out at the broad back lawn with its border of birches and pines. The trees looked ragged and sodden and hopeless. Much like Jo
hnny felt.
“So you actually saw Ozzie again, huh?” asked Nina.
Johnny sighed and nodded. “He was at the Morning Edition on Friday. Walked right up and sat down next to me at the bar, yakking like we were old pals. Told me how much he enjoyed the moving picture shows and nightclubs around town. Then he hit me up for another hamburger.”
Nina looked amazed. “Did you buy him one?”
“Well, sure,” said Johnny. “I don’t want to make him mad.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Nina said.
“In a weird way, I was kind of happy to see him. I figure he wouldn’t be hanging around if he knew the bomb was about to go off. Because now that Ozzie’s in a real body—even if it’s a dead one—he’d get blown to bits just like the rest of us.”
“Does he still smell funny?”
“Yeah, he does. Not real bad. Kind of mildewy. The only time it got smelly was when he burped.”
Nina stifled a quick giggle.
They rocked a bit more until Nina broke the silence.
“Any more news about your trip to the Old Continent?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “We’re leaving in mid-January. That is, if we’re still alive. Mel’s got the aeroboat tickets and she’s set up an itinerary. We go from here to Neuport to Royalton to the Confederazione di Ducati. Hopefully we’ll track down the Contessa and find out about that drawing of our folks.”
After a momentary silence, Nina asked, “So, are you nervous about getting your award from Mr. Cargill on New Year’s Eve?”
Johnny had almost forgotten about that. It had been announced in the Clarion last week that he and Mel would receive Newshawk Awards at the paper’s New Year’s Ball. Because of the importance of their stories, they were being named the Clarion’s reporter and photographer of the year.
Dame Honoria had hauled him, Nina, and Mel downtown to Mahl’s Department Store to get outfits for the big evening—a tuxedo for Johnny and gowns for the girls. Dame Honoria even had her necklace with the big black diamond, the Star of Gilbeyshire, cleaned. She wanted it to sparkle perfectly for the New Year’s celebration. Danny Kailolu was flying in just to take Mel to the ball—something that had finally improved her mood.
The idea of a New Year’s ball and a newspaper award seemed kind of frivolous, considering what was going on behind the scenes. Still, Johnny knew there was nothing he could do that wasn’t already being handled by the colonel and his ghost searchers. He might as well go to the ball and pretend that everything was okay, everything was normal.
“Yeah,” Johnny finally answered darkly. “I guess I do feel nervous. But not about getting the award.”
* * *
Christmas morning came and went. Gifts were given and received—including the jewelry that Dame Honoria had secretly bought the day they’d gone to Mahl’s Department Store. Silver cufflinks for Johnny to wear with his tuxedo. A pearl necklace for Mel. Nina received a heart-shaped gold locket, complete with an old photo of her mother and father that Uncle Louie had found.
Nina also got a handmade bamboo fly-fishing rod. Mel received three scientific biographies that she’d wanted. And Johnny found a new Ritterflex camera under the tree. The amazing twin-lens reflex would allow him to take twelve shots without reloading.
But the smiles were forced, the thank you’s somehow muffled, the hugs especially clingy and intense. Instead of festiveness, this holiday season was draped with sadness and a longing for more carefree days.
Over the following week, life in the big brick house proceeded typically enough, but under a dark cloud of gloom.
Uncle Louie went back to work at the aeroboat port. His stature as a mechanic had risen considerably, now that his co-workers had read all about all those hair-raising adventures he had flying across the Greater Ocean.
Nina, having caught up on her schoolwork, spent hours at the Central Public Library, doing research for the historical novel she planned to write. Sir Chauncey himself—through Dame Honoria—had promised to help her plot it.
Johnny urged Mel to get in touch with Megatherian Studios in La Concha, to see about reviving the etheric film project. Even though they had earned a good amount for their photos and stories, they needed more money to pay for Birchwood’s mortgage and upkeep. Mel’s movie research was the best chance they had of making big bucks. In the meantime, she had started to go out again to help people with their ghost problems.
Dame Honoria wore several red pencils down to nubbins, editing the manuscript of Beatrice Periwinkle, with Sir Chauncey and the ever-present Bao at her side.
For his part, Johnny roamed around Zenith with various Clarion reporters, shooting press conferences and traffic accidents and holiday events. After his brief fame earlier in the autumn, it seemed now that no one much noticed him. Which was fine. He was in no mood for the jolly bantering that went on this time of year.
At home, no one said another word about fleeing Zenith before the New Year’s deadline. It was as if they all felt accountable for the city being the target of the reprehensible plot. And they had to see it out, for better or worse.
Of course, Johnny and the others stopped regularly in the spare bedroom, where a four-by-six-foot city map covered a folding banquet table. Neighborhood by neighborhood, Dame Honoria and Mel crossed off one block after another, as the colonel, Finn, and Clegg came back with their reports.
But apart from Johnny’s sighting of Ozzie, there was no sign of Percy Rathbone’s despicable spooks or zombies. No sign of a weird contraption that could be an etheric bomb. And the deadline for the ultimatum that Ozzie had delivered was ticking ever closer, minute by minute.
All the work done by the colonel and his ghost volunteers did result in one positive outcome—actually, several positive outcomes.
The Zenith Police Department had received a flurry of mysterious, anonymous tips about the locations of hideouts belonging to criminal gangs, drug dealers, and moonshiners. A kidnapped businessman was found and rescued. The loot from a big bank robbery turned up in the attic of an ex-convict. No one ever took credit or claimed the rewards for these tips. Every newspaper in town speculated about them. Who were the secret crime fighters?
Johnny, of course, knew who was responsible—Mel and the colonel’s ghost searchers.
But he would never tell.
Chapter 58
Tuesday, December 31, 1935
Zenith
The ballroom’s double doors swung open promptly at seven and the New Year’s Eve revelers poured in. The men were all attired in black tuxedoes or tailcoats. The women created a veritable rainbow with their elegant gowns of many colors.
Dame Honoria and Bao led the Graphic party in, followed by Uncle Louie and his “gal pal,” Flo Zuckerberg. Trailing behind came Nina and Johnny, with his camera backpack over his shoulder. Johnny believed that he always ought to have his camera at the ready, even if he was about to get blown up.
The circular ballroom of the Hotel Splendid was one of the grandest public spaces in all of Zenith. From the vaulted ceiling far above, a quartet of enormous bronze chandeliers threw golden light into every corner. Hanging among them were nets containing thousands of balloons, awaiting release at the midnight hour.
Normally Johnny would have enjoyed being in the midst of such opulence. But tonight he was just going through the motions. He tried his darnedest to be polite as people congratulated him on his award, but his smile felt frozen and insincere.
The Graphic party sat at a table near the bandstand and were soon joined by Carlton Cargill and Mrs. Cargill—a little brown-haired woman in a dark blue dress. Johnny could hardly believe that this diminutive, quiet lady could make the chief eat all those vegetables.
Mrs. Throckmorton arrived a few moments later. The publisher of the Zenith Clarion was tall and thin, with a narrow, severe face and perfectly white, waved hair. Sitting down, she pronounced in a surprisingly deep voice, “So, Carlton, this is the famous Johnny Graphic.”
Johnny was
astonished. He’d never heard anyone call the boss anything but “Mr. Cargill” or “Chief.”
“It is indeed, Mrs. Throckmorton,” Mr. Cargill said, glowing with pride. “The youngster who, with his sister Mel, doubled our circulation through October and November.”
“And brought down a government, to boot,” added the publisher with a glint of satisfaction. “Finally we meet.” She reached across the table and shook hands with Johnny. Mr. Cargill then introduced her to Uncle Louie, Nina, and Flo.
Turning to Dame Honoria, the newspaper publisher made her own introduction. “Dame Honoria, we met after your talk at the Zenith Women’s Club last fall. Count me a great fan.”
“Kind of you to say so,” said the old suffragist.
Normally that kind of compliment made Dame Honoria puff up a bit, but Johnny could see that she was putting on a brave front, just like the rest of them.
Mrs. Throckmorton peered at Johnny. “And I suppose you have some of your spooks with you tonight.”
Johnny nodded, pointing up at the nearest chandelier. “Colonel MacFarlane’s sitting up there with Sergeant Clegg.”
“And the ghost that Dame Honoria found on the island? The little girl? Is she with us?”
“She sure is, Mrs. Throckmorton. Over there.” Johnny pointed at the bandstand.
Standing right between two saxophone players, Bao looked both baffled and enchanted.
“And we have no further word on the difficult problem we all face?” asked Mrs. Throckmorton.
Dame Honoria shook her head. Johnny gloomily shook his head, as well.
“Hey folks, we made it.”
Everyone at the table looked up.
There stood Mel, wearing a grin as broad as Johnny had ever seen on her. Danny Kailolu had an arm around her shoulder and his smile was just as big as hers. She looked swell in her emerald green gown and fancy hairdo; and he looked terrifically sharp in his dress uniform. If anyone deserved a good time tonight, it was Mel. And she appeared determined to have one.
* * *
At eight o’clock a gourmet meal was served by a regiment of waiters and waitresses in short white jackets. First came the appetizers—lobster cocktail, smoked salmon on tiny squares of toast, and caviar on rye crackers. Johnny knew that caviar—fish eggs—was an elegant, expensive treat. But boy, one taste was all he needed. He finished every drop of his cream of celery soup, though. Then came lamb chops with mint jelly, and boiled new potatoes with parsley. There was a butterhead-lettuce salad with his favorite dressing, Thousand Island. From the dessert trolley Johnny picked a big piece of red devil cake with whipped cream and a cherry. By the time he pushed that final plate back, he felt absolutely stuffed.
