Ghosts of Karnak (11 page)

“You cut down on the cigarettes, and I’ll think about it,” said Gabriel.

He heard Donovan chuckling as he pulled the door shut behind him.

* * *

The Café Deluxe was pleasant enough, considered Gabriel, except that it reminded him of every other jazz club in every other city he’d ever visited. The lighting was low, the music was loud and the morals were loose. He supposed there was a time when that would have seemed like a draw, but now, it just left him feeling hollow. There was nothing to connect him to these people and their empty lives, their days filled with drinking and fucking and drinking some more.

Not that his own life was particularly exemplary. He couldn’t really argue that putting on a mask and flying around the rooftops brawling with mobsters was any better than what these people were doing—in fact, in the eyes of the law it was worse—but at least he felt he was doing something with his life. After returning from the war he’d soon fallen back into his old ways, playing host to the infinite party, blotting out the world and all its madness with booze, and girls, and anything at all that didn’t remind him of France, and the blood-spattered faces of his comrades, and the thing he’d seen out there in the farmhouse.

The Ghost made him better. It gave him a purpose, a means of fighting back against the horror. That had to make it better than this, didn’t it?

Gabriel placed his empty glass on a nearby table, and decided to take a walk to the bar, cutting across the main lounge.

It was as ostentatious as only the very rich can palate: cut-glass chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, dark wood paneling lined the walls, and sweeping balustrades separated the main seating area from the dance floor.

On stage, a jazz quartet played a swaying, bluesy lament, fronted by a dark-haired woman who clutched the microphone stand tightly with both hands, as if it were her only anchor to the real world. Her voice floated above the smoky chatter, stirring feelings of loss within Gabriel.

Mob men—clearly identifiable by their attitude, if not their attire—swilled expensive drinks, smoked pungent cigars, and generally treated the women in their company with the utmost contempt, ignoring them for the most part, except to grab at them inappropriately or send them to fetch more drinks.

Gabriel tried not to watch, for fear he’d feel moved to intercede. It was the arrogance that grated on Gabriel—the sense of assumed ownership over another person. He could never claim to have behaved well toward the women in his life—he had always kept too much from them, for a start—but he had always shown them respect.

This particular brand of ill behavior, however, seemed reserved for men who believed themselves to be in control, or else saw it as a casual means to assert that they were; men who thought themselves invincible, above the law—the sort of men who worked for the Reaper.

Gabriel found a quiet spot toward the end of the long bar and pulled out a stool, placing himself within earshot of a large table of mobsters. He called the barman over and ordered a whisky sour, then settled in to eavesdrop.

It wasn’t the most riveting discourse, but the men seemed to be discussing the recent reports of the floating apparition, and how a number of their colleagues had been attacked by the specter in the midst of carrying out one of their “jobs”.

He listened for a while to their speculation, most of it wild, claiming that it was the spirit of the Reaper’s dead girlfriend, come to avenge them for her untimely death, or else it was an Angel of the Lord, unleashed from heaven to bring judgment down upon the unworthy. One of them, a quieter, brooding man with a stick-thin physique and harelip, even claimed to have seen it himself, floating above Fifth Avenue, trailing ghostly bandages behind it as if caught in an unearthly gale.

Gabriel took their wild claims with the pinch of salt they deserved, although the reference to the Reaper’s dead girlfriend was interesting—Donovan had been looking for something that linked Autumn Allen to the mob, and perhaps this was it. He’d said the woman was carrying a hefty weight in diamonds, and that they’d clearly been gifts from a prosperous admirer. Perhaps she wasn’t just connected to the mob, but to the Reaper himself? That would certainly explain why no one had come forward to help with the police enquiries.

He made a mental note to follow it up with Donovan.

Talk had moved on now to sport and women, and Gabriel knew that he wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of the people here. They were low-level mobsters at best, nothing more than goons, and if the Café Deluxe itself was a front for the Reaper, it was only as a place to launder money and allow his men to wind down. He couldn’t see any evidence of anything more clandestine going on here, aside from the usual sort of gambling and drinking one found in venues such as this.

He downed his whisky and placed a handful of dollars under the glass on the bar. Then, rising from his seat, he saw her standing there at the other end of the bar.

Ginny
.

She looked resplendent in a red and white dress, and she was wearing a red feather in her hair, which had grown since he’d last seen her, now falling around her shoulders in luxurious blonde curls. She was looking straight at him, holding her glass out before her in a salute, her familiar coquettish grin on her painted red lips.

For a moment, Gabriel didn’t know what to do. His head was suddenly full of questions. What was she doing here, in a mob bar, dressed like that? How had he missed her at the docks?

He supposed there would be time to answer all of that later. He grabbed his jacket from the back of his stool, and turned to beckon her over, but a large group of men, who had arrived only moments before, had suddenly swarmed around the bar, obscuring his view.

Frustrated, he pushed his way through them, eliciting a series of curses and threats. When he arrived at the other end of the bar, however, she was nowhere to be seen.

Confused, Gabriel turned on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of her red and white dress. She couldn’t have gone far. He’d only been a moment.

There was a man sitting close to where she’d been standing. He was hunched over the bar, staring into his drink. He was a swarthy-looking fellow, with a tanned, healthy complexion and a thick black beard. He was wearing his collar open, and his tan jacket seemed somewhat out of place amongst all the formal black suits around him.

“Excuse me,” said Gabriel, “but there was a woman here, just a moment ago. She was wearing a red and white dress, with a feather in her hair. Could you tell me which way she went?”

The man peered at him, as if weighing him up. “There was no woman here,” he said. He had a soft, Gallic lilt to his accent.

“You must be mistaken,” said Gabriel. “She was just here, only a moment ago. I came straight over. A blonde, pretty, about so tall.” He tapped his shoulder, indicating her approximate height.

“No,” said the man. “I’d have remembered a woman like that.” He picked up his drink and took a swig, turning his back on Gabriel.

Frowning, Gabriel left the man to his drink. The barman was down the other end of the bar, now embroiled in fixing drinks for all the new arrivals. Even if Gabriel were able to get a word in edgewise, it was unlikely he’d have seen where she went.

He decided to try the dance floor, just in case she was in one of her playful moods. Here, a group of women were dancing to a jazzy, upbeat number, kicking their heels high and waving their hands about, laughing breathlessly, their tasseled skirts swishing about their knees. A handful of men stood around the edges, watching them hungrily. He watched for a moment, scanning the faces, but there was no sign of her here, either.

For a moment, he wondered whether he’d imagined it all, whether it was the booze, or the painkillers, or the god-awful weariness finally catching up with him. She’d seemed so vivid, though, so real. Yet the man at the bar had been so insistent…

Nevertheless, he had to trust his gut. She’d
been
there. He was sure of it.

He left the dance floor and walked the rest of the bar, checking every face, every dress, every shadowy nook—but there was no sign of her. He stepped outside and smoked a cigarette in the street, watching people filing out to their cars or hailing cabs to take them home. Then, after a while, he went back inside and ordered another drink, taking a seat at the bar, close to where he’d seen her. The Frenchman had moved on, his empty glass still sitting there with a handful of crumpled notes underneath it.

He nursed the drink for another hour, scanning the crowds, but it was clear that she had gone.

After a while, the barman asked him if he wanted another, but he shook his head and tossed a few bills on the bar. Then, having never felt quite so alone, he left, hoping the balmy summer night would help to clear his mind as he strolled home.

* * *

A few hours later, the Ghost cut the ignition to his boosters and lowered himself slowly onto a fire escape. The iron frame creaked as he set down on the platform, grasping hold of the railing to steady himself.

He stood for a moment, surveying the street. It was late, and the streetlights glowed with a soft sheen, as if they’d somehow stored up the final vestiges of daylight and were now breathing them back out into the streets, sprinkling light upon the city.

There was no one around. The little café had closed up some hours earlier, and the lights in the apartment windows were now beginning to wink off, as one day transitioned into another, and sleep drew people to their beds.

He waited a while, watching Ginny’s apartment from his vantage point on the other side of the street. There were no lights on inside, and no signs of movement. If she’d returned here after visiting Café Deluxe, she’d already turned in for the night.

When he was sure that he wasn’t going to be observed, he swung down from the fire escape, dropping the few feet to the sidewalk. He landed silently in a crouch, cringing as he felt the wound in his back open up with the motion. He was going to have to get it seen to, he realized—he could feel the blood running freely again, despite his best attempts to clean and dress it after his bath earlier that day. At least the dressing would mean he didn’t leave a trail of blood behind him as he worked.

He crossed the street, keeping low, and took the steps down into Ginny’s lobby two at a time, keen to remain out of sight.

A quick scan of the heaped trash told him that someone had been here since his last visit—the leaves had been swept to one side by the opening and closing of the door. The wedged-in mail had been removed from the letterbox, too.

For a moment he hesitated, unsure what to do. Perhaps he should have come as Gabriel, after all? Then, with a shrug, he rapped three times on the door, and stood back to see if anyone would answer.

He half expected the light to blink on, the door to swing open, and Ginny’s laughing face to be peering out at him, berating him for taking so long to follow her here. The moment stretched, however, and there was no response, and no sound of movement from inside.

He tried again, one last time, but again it proved fruitless, and no one came to the door.

Someone
had been here, though. It made logical sense that it was Ginny. He’d hoped she’d come straight back to him, maybe heading out to Long Island to stay at the house, but if she had returned to New York with no intention of seeing him, then this was where she would come. Only, the look on her face in the club earlier suggested things weren’t over between them.

He tried the handle, but the door was still locked. Seeing no other option, he threw his shoulder against it, once, twice… and on the third time the lock burst and it yawned open with a bang.

Cautiously, he stepped inside, pushing it shut behind him. It would be an easy enough job to repair the lock, and at least this way he could put his mind at rest…

Or so he thought, until he saw the devastation that had been wreaked across the entire apartment. The place had been burgled, or certainly ransacked—the furniture had been overturned, the drawers pulled out and upended on the floor. The cushions had been slashed, and the bookcase had been emptied, all of Ginny’s precious history books rifled through and discarded in an unceremonious heap.

Someone had been very thorough.

“Ginny?” He dashed through to the bedroom, hoping beyond hope that he wasn’t about to find her there on the bed, her throat slit.

It was empty. He heaved a sigh of relief. The sheets had been dragged from the mattress and thrown in a heap on the floor, and the wardrobe had been emptied of all her dresses. Her jewelry boxes, too, had been upturned and then discarded in the corner. Rings, brooches and earrings had spilled across the floorboards like marbles, colorful stones and pearls all trodden on in the culprit’s haste. Whatever this was then, the Ghost realized, it wasn’t a robbery.

Even the bathroom had been overturned, the cistern opened, the light fittings unscrewed. The kitchen was the same. The entire place had been gutted.

What secret could Ginny possibly have that was worth all of this? And what did it have to do with her mysterious disappearance? Had the culprit found what they were looking for? It was impossible to tell.

He wondered once again whether he’d really seen her that night, or whether it had been some form of mirage, his mind playing tricks on him. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time, but he still couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that there’d been something more to it. If she wasn’t really there, someone had wanted him to
think
that she was.

He felt his hackles rise. Could that mean it was a trap? Was someone trying to lure him out? Perhaps they’d seen the devastation he’d caused on the boat, and were out for revenge. He decided he’d better get out of there, just in case. A small basement apartment was not the sort of place he wanted to find himself cornered in.

One thing was certain, though—whoever
was
responsible for this mess had let themselves into the apartment with a key. That meant that Ginny was either back in New York, or the key had been taken from her aboard the
Centurion
. Either way, he didn’t like the inference.