Ghosts of Manhattan (30 page)

The loss of his gun seemed to imbue Reece with new vitality, however, and he heaved Donovan off of him, throwing the inspector roughly to one side, rolling in the opposite direction and then coming up on one knee, his fists ready. He whipped out, striking Donovan hard with two jabs to the face. He felt his head snap back, his lip split, warm blood gushing down his chin. He had to think quickly.

Over Reece's shoulder, back in the control room, Donovan saw with dismay that the Ghost was facing a difficult situation of his own. A moss man had come lumbering out of the darkness, catching the vigilante by surprise, striking him hard across the face with its powerful fist. The Ghost was currently being thrown around like a rag doll, slamming against walls and the control desks or trying to pick himself up off the floor.

Reece was laughing as he rounded on Donovan with another blow. Donovan tried to raise his arm and succeeded in partially deflecting the attack, although it still glanced painfully off his cheek. His blood was boiling now. He couldn't give up, not after all they had been through.

He returned the assault. A quick succession of jabs and hooks, learned in the schoolyard. He caught Reece in the face, felt the satisfying crunch of the man's nose under the impact. He drove another blow into the crook's gut, causing him to double over, spluttering with pain. That was more like it. He readied himself to follow through with another battering, but staggered back suddenly at the sound of an immense explosion in the confined space of the control room. Clearly the Ghost had managed to loose off some shots from his flechette gun, shredding the moss golem. The boom echoed around the power station, causing the gangways to vibrate with shock. The Ghost had fared badly, however; whether from the moss man's final blows or the impact of the explosion, Donovan did not know, but he lay unconscious, drooped across one of the control panels, blood trickling from a wound in his head.

It was down to him, now. Down to Donovan. One man against another. He willed his shoulder to hold out, flexing the muscles, trying to ease the pain. Reece had seen the sorry state of the Ghost, too, had glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of the explosion. One on one, he likely thought the odds were in his favor, with Donovan wounded by the bullet he had put there himself only a few days before.

The two men faced each other. Reece now had his back to the control room. To their left and their right, Tesla coils hummed and chattered in bizarre concert with one another, lances of plasma hissing in the air around them. Donovan punched out, but Reece was quick, dipping his head neatly out of the way. The crook jabbed at his wounded shoulder, his knuckles digging deep into the damaged flesh of the gunshot wound. Donovan screamed as pain wracked his upper torso. Reece struck again, aiming at the same spot and layering pain upon pain in sharp, stabbing waves. Donovan stumbled backward, trying to get his arms up in defense, but his right arm wouldn't respond, now weak with agony. He took another blow to the face and nearly went down. He couldn't believe the man's strength. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, drawing him in.

But then he thought of Flora, of Landsworth, Sinclair, Williamson, of Celeste Parker. He grunted angrily. No. He would put this man down, and he would do it now.

Donovan closed the gap between them, thrashing out with both fists, not caring where his blows were landing, just content that they were connecting at all. He threw all of his power behind each attack, shredding his knuckles as he struck out blindly. All he could see was red fury, and it made him relentless as he punched again, and again, and again, not bothering to parry the blows that came back at him, forcing himself onward, burning through the hot pain in his shoulder. Again, and again, and again.

Blood spattered from Reece's face, but Donovan, consumed by hatred, did not stop until he was breathless, and Reece was cowering before him on his knees. Donovan stepped back, regarding the crook. The man's face was battered and bruised, his lips split, blood dribbling down his pale chin. He looked up at Donovan, an incredulous expression in his eyes, as if he couldn't believe what had happened to him, as if the mere thought that this wounded policeman could have reduced him to such a sorry state was utterly unbelievable.

Donovan backed away, not taking his eyes off the villain. His heel encountered something hard on the walkway beneath him. He glanced down. The silver pistol. He scooped it up, testing its weight in his hand. It was small and light, a dishonest weapon. This was the gun that had put the bullet in his shoulder. There was a delicious sense of irony in that. He cocked the gun and raised his arm, leveling the barrel in the direction of the other man's head. Reece was drawing ragged breaths, and Donovan wondered if he'd broken a rib, maybe more. But then, suddenly unsure, he realized that the mobster was actually laughing.

He watched Reece spit out a gobbet of dark blood and then climb to his feet, holding his head high. He wiped blood from his eyes with the back of his sleeve and then turned to face Donovan, adopting his usual air of superiority. But Donovan could see that his eyes were wild, insane. He wondered what the man intended to do.

Reece opened his arms wide, making a target of his chest. "Pull the trigger, then, Donovan. Do it!" He was grinning like a madman. "Come on! Finish it!"

Donovan eased his trigger finger back a fraction, but then hesitated. Reece was laughing out loud now. "You can't do it, can you? A policeman to the last. You won't put a bullet in an unarmed man."

Donovan tried to conjure up images of the men Reece had murdered, tried to summon back the red mist. He knew what he had to do. But still he couldn't bring himself to squeeze the trigger. He wouldn't cross that line.

Reece took a step forward. "You see, Inspector." He was sneering now, regaining his confidence. "This is why I'll always win. Men like you, they simply won't do what's necessary. Even when your own life is in the balance, you cannot bring yourself to kill in cold blood."

"But I can." The voice was deep, like boots crunching on gravel. The Ghost appeared on the gangway behind the maniacal crook. He grabbed Reece fiercely around the waist, lifting him bodily into the air. Reece's face flickered, first with confusion, and then with panic, as he suddenly realized what was happening.

The Ghost staggered under the man's weight, took two steps toward the railing, and then hurled the crook over the edge of the gangway, into the waiting embrace of a Tesla coil. Reece screamed-a piercing, gut-wrenching scream-as he collided with the nearest machine. Fingers of plasma reached out, as if grabbing for him, and he howled in pain as the electricity jerked into his body. He hung for a moment, suspended by the energy that crackled through him, as if clutched by the hungry machine, his body twitching frantically as his nervous system was overloaded.

And then it was over, and his corpse dropped in a heap to the floor below. The stench of charred meat filled the air.

Donovan let the silver pistol fall from his grip, clattering to the ground. He stared at the dark figure of the Ghost on the gangway before him, his features stark in the stuttering light of the electrical discharge. Then, breathing hard, he crossed the gangway and leaned over the edge of the iron rail. Reece lay on the concrete floor below, slack-jawed and pale-faced, wisps of smoke still curling disturbingly from the back of his head. His eyes were fixed open in terrified shock. Above, the Tesla coil continued to spit out forks of flickering lightning, humming and buzzing with purple-blue energy.

Donovan couldn't reconcile the dead husk of the crook with his impressions of the man who had formerly inhabited the gangly body. Reece had loomed so large in his thoughts for the last few days, had threatened him, shot him; in his darkest hours represented even death itself. Now he was broken and dead, his body charred and ruined, the power gone out of him. He had been reduced to nothing more than another dead mobster.

He heard footsteps on the metal walkway beside him. "He was a stain. He needed to be purged." The Ghost's voice was grim, level. He was staring down at the steaming body, his lips pursed in disgust. Donovan couldn't tell if that disgust was inspired by the stench of the smoldering corpse, or by the realization of his own actions.

He was right, of course. Donovan knew that. Reece had been a plague upon the people of New York, a blight that needed to be stopped. He deserved what had happened to him here. But the methods ... Donovan could not approve of those. He hoped the Ghost could live with himself; guessed that there were layers to the man that he had yet to peel away.

Donovan sighed. He was tired. He hung his head. "Our only lead died with him." His words were not a condemnation, merely a statement of fact.

The Ghost stood back from the railing, dusting off his gloved hands, as if finally brushing away the residue of Gideon Reece. "No. He told us everything we needed to know."

"How so?" Donovan frowned, perplexed.

The Ghost grinned effusively. "When you asked him what the Roman needed with all that power, he would only say that he had his reasons, or words to that effect."

"How does that tell us anything?"

"It tells us everything! The power from this station is being channeled to a single location a few miles away from here. He confirmed that it was the Roman who needed the power. He might not have spilled the whole story, but you can follow the logic ... If we follow the trail of energy, we find the Roman."

It was Donovan's turn to grin. "Yes, you're on to something there." He pushed himself away from the railing, past the Ghost and along the gangway to the control room. The remains of the moss man were still scattered over the floor and surfaces and a black stain was smudged across the wall; a shadow of the explosion that had taken place in the small room. Donovan stepped over the heap of discarded earth, looking up at the map on the wall. He followed the line of pins with his finger.

The Ghost appeared behind him. "It's not far from here. We can be there in twenty minutes."

"Shouldn't we call for backup first? Or at least take a few minutes to formulate a plan?"

The Ghost shook his head. "The police will only get in our way." He glanced back up the gangway, a meaningful gleam in his eye. "Prevent us from doing what's necessary." He put a hand on Donovan's shoulder. "Besides, we don't have any time. I need to get to Celeste. Reece said we were already too late, but I can't give up on her."

Donovan nodded. He could see the look in the other man's eye; the need to keep moving, to keep fighting for the woman he had lost. Donovan searched the floor for his abandoned handgun, found it, and hefted it in his good hand. "You better lead the way, then."

re you sure this is the place?" Donovan sounded decidedly unconvinced as the Ghost pulled the car to a stop before a set of ornate iron gates. Beyond the gates-which, when drawn together, depicted a scene of a man fighting a raging bull-a gravel driveway led up to a large, rather ostentatious mansion, set back from the surrounding buildings in its own private grounds. The Ghost had parked the car in the shadow of a large tree while they took a moment to reconnaissance the area.

The Ghost regarded Donovan coolly from the driver's seat. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were aching and he was dying for a cigarette. He tried not to sound too weary as he framed his response. "Yes. This is the place. Look at the row of armored cars parked out front, and the wire frame on the roof. That's where the electricity is being pumped in."

He watched Donovan strain in his seat, trying to get a better look. The midday sun had given way to an overcast, gloomy afternoon. Brooding clouds hung overhead like oily thumbprints smeared across the sky.

The Ghost regarded the building at the end of the driveway. It had an ominous quality to it, dark and foreboding. It had been built in the classical style: a square central block approached through a portico and surrounded by towering Corinthian columns. Two identical wings adjoined the main building to either side, tall sash windows looking out across the grounds in long, symmetrical rows. A wire tower erupted incongruously from the roof of the mansion, taller than its chimneys, reaching up toward the sky as if trying to scratch the underside of the clouds.