Ghosts of Karnak (6 page)

Donovan shook his head. “He certainly wasn’t local. We’re thinking maybe he was an immigrant, brought in by the Reaper. It seems he has a line in sneaking people over the border.”

“Larceny, murder, bribery and people trafficking—and still we can’t touch him.”

“He’s a wily bastard,” said Donovan. “Always does enough to keep his own hands clean. That’s why we need you, digging in ways we can’t.”

“For what it’s worth,” said the Ghost. “Tell me about this dead woman.”

“Her name was Autumn Allen. Her body was discovered on the sidewalk two nights ago. She’d been throttled to death, but not before her killers had held her down and carved a series of icons into her face, arms, and chest.” Donovan reached into his jacket and produced a roll of photographs, which he unfurled and held out to the Ghost. “They carved another one on her back after she was dead, too.”

He took them, studying them for a moment, then rolled them up again, slipping them inside his own coat. “Egyptian,” he said. “Although I don’t recognize the one on her arm.” He frowned. “You think they have something to do with Ginny and the
Centurion
?”

“The thought hadn’t even occurred to me,” said Donovan, “but now you come to mention it, isn’t there some big exhibition coming to the Met?”

The Ghost nodded. “They were unloading the exhibits when I was down at the docks yesterday. But the ship didn’t come in until
after
the woman was found dead. The timing doesn’t add up.”

“Still, I don’t like coincidences,” said Donovan. “It seems a little unlikely that we’d turn up a body scored with Ancient Egyptian symbols the night before a new exhibition arrives in the city, and they
not
be connected.”

“Perhaps,” said the Ghost. “So that’s what you wanted to tell me?”

“No,” said Donovan. “I wanted you to see if you could find out what the symbols mean. You have… connections. We’ve already sent copies to the museum, but I was thinking there might be some significance the historians are likely to miss, if you see what I mean?”

The Ghost nodded. “I’ll do what I can do.”

“There’s another thing,” said Donovan. “In her handbag she was carrying this.” He took a small black card from his pocket. “It’s a business card for a jazz club we believe to be connected to the Reaper, Café Deluxe.”

“A mob girl?” said the Ghost. That would be a turn-up.

Donovan shrugged. “We’re looking into it. But someone had spent a lot of money buying her diamonds. She was still wearing them when we found her.”

“The killer didn’t take them?”

“Interesting, isn’t it? That’s what made me think there was something more to the symbols, some religious or occult significance.”

“Or the mark of a rival gang,” said the Ghost, “striking back at the Reaper. He’s made a lot of enemies.”

“That too,” said Donovan. He dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it beneath his heel.

“And Ginny,” said the Ghost. “Did you manage to get a look at the passenger manifest?”

“Not exactly,” said Donovan, “but the Second Mate was very helpful on the holotube. He did a little digging around and called me back. She was definitely on the ship, Gabriel. Cabin thirty-five. You must have missed her somehow.”

“You’re sure?” said the Ghost. “It couldn’t be a mistake?”

“I can’t see how. According to the Second Mate she even had dinner with the Captain one night.” Donovan looked pained. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but she’s back in New York.”

Then where was she? Something had happened to her. He was sure of it. “All right, then I need to find her.”

“What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

“Then I’ll walk away. But first, I need to know she’s okay. People don’t just disappear, Felix.”

“You checked her apartment?”

“Still locked up and empty. No one’s been there for months.”

“I’ll tell Mullins to put word out,” said Donovan. “Treat it as a Missing Persons.”

“Thank you,” said the Ghost.

“Least I can do,” said Donovan, “but remember—that woman knows how to look after herself. If something
has
happened to her, woe betide any man who’s got in her way.”

The Ghost hopped up onto the wall, reaching inside his coat for the ignition cord that would activate the boosters strapped to his calves.

“Where next?” said Donovan, reaching for another cigarette.

“The
Centurion
,” said the Ghost. “I’m going to take a look for myself. Ginny, the exhibition, the dead woman—maybe even the Reaper—they all have ties to that ship, one way or another. I’m going to give it a kick and see what falls out.”

“Be careful,” said Donovan. “You’re in no fit state for a brawl.”

His words were lost, however, by the roar of the Ghost’s boosters, as he shot up into the air on a plume of brilliant flame, streaking across the skyline toward the docks.

The
Centurion
hulked in the dock, ominous and dark.

The Ghost circled high above, observing the deck for any signs of habitation. It was a cool night, and the sea breeze played across his face, making him feel alert and ready, despite the nagging pain in his chest.

He’d expected to find guards or dockworkers patrolling the vessel, but the deck appeared silent and still, and even the lights in the small office on the dock had been put out. The only sounds were the roar of the canisters strapped to his calves, and the rhythmic
shushing
of the ocean.

He cut the fuel line, causing the booster jets to sputter and spit, and then fall silent, guttering to nothing as he slowly descended, feet first, to the deck. He hugged the shadows close to the main funnel, keeping low. If there were any guards down on the dock, he’d sooner not give them cause for alarm. The last thing he wanted was a firefight with a bunch of innocent men.

The upper deck had been packed away since he’d stood on the quayside below, watching the passengers milling around while they waited to disembark. The chairs had been upended on the tabletops and tied into place with lengths of blue twine, and canvas tarpaulins had been stretched over all of the lifeboats. The deck had been scrubbed and polished, too; the boards gleamed, even in the moonlight, and he could smell the oils they’d rubbed into the wood. He guessed the ship would be setting out on the next leg of its journey within a day or two, or perhaps making a return trip to Egypt and the far-off ports of the Middle East.

He took a moment to get his bearings, and then, still clinging to the shadows, crossed the deck to a set of double doors, which he presumed would open up onto a staircase and down into the main passenger areas.

He tried the handle, but, unsurprisingly, found them locked. A quick shove splintered the wood around the mechanism, however, and within seconds he was inside, the door wedged shut behind him.

It was dark in the stairwell, so he adjusted his goggles to their night-vision setting, casting everything in a pale red glow. Cautiously, he crept down the carpeted stairs, still wary of triggering some sort of alarm.

The stairs opened up onto a lower deck resplendent in its finery; crystal chandeliers dripped from molded rosettes on the ceiling, plush red carpets lined the floors, gilt-framed mirrors and portraits dressed the papered walls. It might have been the interior of a top-end hotel, rather than the communal deck of a steam liner. Little expense had been spared.

He could imagine the sort of conversations that had passed here, at the foot of these stairs—the same sort that he heard at his Long Island parties, night after night—vacant of all real meaning, just the petty chit-chat of self-obsessed elitists massaging one another’s egos. He couldn’t see Ginny fitting in here. She’d probably spent most of the journey up on the deck, taking in the view, or else locked away in her cabin with her books.

Now that he was here, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. There was no point searching for the manifest—Donovan had answered that question. What he needed was some sort of proof that she’d really been here, on the ship, and not just a logged entry in a book.

Donovan had said she’d been registered in cabin thirty-five. That seemed the logical place to start. He’d have to make his way down through the First Class decks until he found it.

Moving swiftly, he crossed the foyer, skirting the lounge and passing through a set of double doors into a lobby area. There were elevators here, but he decided not to risk using them, preferring to seek out the stairs. There was less chance of anyone noticing him if he kept to himself and didn’t make use of any of the facilities—lights included.

Three decks further down, a sign directed him through another door to a passageway leading to cabins twenty-nine through thirty-nine. He took it, noting how the furnishings down here were still reminiscent of a New York hotel, with rich carpets and brass fittings on all the doors. He couldn’t conceive of how much the whole thing had cost to build, and, likewise, to maintain; there had to be a veritable army of staff and servants onboard when she was at sea.

He found cabin thirty-five within minutes, and this time, was surprised to discover the door was unlocked. It was pitch black inside the room, but his goggles compensated, and he slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

It was a small space for a First Class cabin, despite its evident luxury; a chaise longue, a fireplace, a small vanity table and a plush double bed, draped in silk sheets. A smaller antechamber proved to house a small bathroom and toilet, now devoid of any toiletries, and twin wardrobes which were equally empty of any effects. A maid had evidently prepared the room for the next guest: the sheets had been changed, the bed made, the carpets brushed. There was nothing of Ginny’s here, no hairbrush, no clothes, no evidence she had been here at all. Even the scent of her had been polished out of the woodwork with a liberal application of beeswax.

He checked beneath the bed, just in case; opened the drawers in the vanity unit. There was nothing at all.

He noted that a small door led to the adjoining cabin. It was bolted shut from this side, so he slid the bolt and crept through. The room mirrored cabin thirty-five in nearly every way, clearly built to the same schematic, only reversed. Here, the same was true as in Ginny’s room; the maids had done a thorough job erasing all evidence of the previous passenger. All save for a small white patch on the carpet.

Interested, the Ghost dropped to his haunches, removing his glove and pinching some of the powdery substance between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was dry and crumbly. He raised it to his nose and cautiously sniffed, surprised to discover that it wasn’t, as he imagined, a trace of some illicit narcotic, but simple white chalk. He ran his fingers through the carpet, causing tiny plumes of dust to form in their wake. It seemed the maids hadn’t been quite as thorough as they should have been; there was evidence here that someone had been using the chalk to draw outlines on the carpet. Whatever shape it had been was now long gone, but the realization loosened a tumble of thoughts in the Ghost’s mind.

Chalk circles? The witches of Godfrey Place had used chalk circles to enact their foul rituals. He supposed it might be a leap to imagine someone on this ship had been carrying out similar elaborate practices, but the ritualistic murder of Autumn Allen was still preying on his mind. The Egyptian connection just seemed too coincidental. And now he had discovered this, in the room directly connected to the one in which Ginny had supposedly been staying. He didn’t like the implication of that one bit.

Rising, he quickly checked over the rest of the room, but again, found nothing save for more vestiges of chalk dust, which the maid had obviously found difficult to properly remove.

The door to this cabin was also open to the passageway—as, he presumed, they all would be, until they became occupied again—and he stepped out, careful to leave the inner door pulled shut behind him.

He considered heading up to the bridge, but suspected he’d find nothing there but further log books and charts. If a conspiracy of some sort had taken place aboard this vessel, it was unlikely the captain would have known about it. More likely, the people involved would have had assistance from among the junior members of the crew.

The crew quarters, then, might be a place to look for answers, but as he’d already established, there would be hundreds of them aboard, and without any indication of whom or what he was looking for, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. There was always the risk that one or two of them might still be onboard, too—while most had evidently taken the opportunity to explore the iniquitous speakeasies and jazz clubs of the city, some would inevitably have remained here, and he risked raising the alarm if he started rooting through cabins without any real sense of what he was looking for.

Better, he decided, that he take a look at the holds where the antiquities had been transported, to see if he could find anything that might connect the expedition with Autumn Allen. If so, he and Donovan would then be able to go after the expedition leader in search of answers.

The Ghost moved through the ship like a specter, swift and silent. He hurried through the passenger decks and down into the grubby engineering section of the ship, thick with the mingling scents of oil and rust. He’d been impressed by the scale of the vessel from the quayside, but the sight of the engines themselves left him feeling utterly dwarfed. Enormous furnaces, now cold, warmed pressurized water tanks, which in turn drove huge pistons, each the size of tree trunks, to turn the wheels that powered the ship’s rudders.

The hangar housing these engines spanned the entire girth of the ship, and was as tall as a small apartment building. Every footfall he made on the iron gangway as he passed through echoed like a ricocheting bullet.

He reached the first cargo hold ten minutes later to find it empty. There was evidence that heaps of crates had been stored here recently: loose strands of packing straw, scattered sand, splinters of wood. The crates themselves had all gone, carted off the ship and up to the museum. Large metal hooks dangled from chains overhead—used to secure expensive cargo or provide support to the cranes as they attempted to load and unload the crates from the ship.