Ghosts of Gotham Read online

  ALSO BY CRAIG SCHAEFER

  The Daniel Faust Series

  The Long Way Down

  Redemption Song

  The Living End

  A Plain-Dealing Villain

  The Killing Floor Blues

  The Castle Doctrine

  Double or Nothing

  The Neon Boneyard

  The Revanche Cycle

  Winter’s Reach

  The Instruments of Control

  Terms of Surrender

  Queen of the Night

  The Harmony Black Series

  Harmony Black

  Red Knight Falling

  Glass Predator

  Cold Spectrum

  The Wisdom’s Grave Trilogy

  Sworn to the Night

  Detonation Boulevard

  Bring the Fire

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Craig Schaefer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and 47North are trademarks of Amazon.com,

  Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542043991

  ISBN-10: 1542043999

  Cover design by M.S. Corley

  Contents

  Start Reading

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Through a circle that ever returneth in

  To the self-same spot,

  And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

  And Horror the soul of the plot.

  —“The Conqueror Worm,” Edgar Allan Poe

  One

  With a plastic bud nestled in his ear and a camera concealed in his shirt pocket, Lionel Page had a front-row view at the scene of a crime. Bodies packed into the Union Life Hall, sweating under the hard white lights, stomping their boots on grainy vintage floorboards. Lionel sat sandwiched shoulder to shoulder, and when the entire gallery shot to its feet with a cry of ecstasy, they pulled him up with them. A human tidal wave marinating in the stench of body odor and cheap floral perfume.

  “Are you saved?” shrieked the man of the hour. The Reverend Wright dominated the stage, a whirling dervish in a twill suit the color of vanilla ice cream, howling into his microphone. The crowd howled right back at him.

  “Are you redeemed?” he demanded to know. Yes, the devoted roared back. They thrust their hands to the hot lights like they were trying to climb to heaven. The man on Lionel’s left rolled his eyes in a fit, showing bloodshot whites as he thrashed his head up and down. When the shouts faded and died, a woman’s voice crackled in Lionel’s right ear.

  “This is the last time I ever doubt you.”

  Lionel’s gaze flicked to the aisle. A long line of parishioners, half of them hobbling ahead on walkers or with canes, waited for their turn in the spotlight. Reverend Wright waved one up to the stage—an elderly woman dragging an oxygen tank behind her like a prisoner with a ball and chain. Lionel casually raised his wrist to his mouth. A tiny gray plastic teardrop dangled in front of his lips, with a wire running deeper up his sleeve. A spreading pool of clammy sweat plastered his shirt to his back.

  “You said that last time,” he murmured. “Tell me something good.”

  “The whole operation works just like you thought it did.”

  Lionel smiled for the first time all day. “We got audio?”

  “Enough to crucify him. Get out of there before anybody recognizes you. I’ve got two more guys hidden in the crowd, one on the balcony shooting B-roll.”

  The auditorium hall fell into a hush as the reverend laid hands on the elderly woman’s tangled cotton hair. He looked to the lights, his sweaty face glowing.

  “I’m getting a . . . Oh, Lord, here it comes,” he said. “Yes. Mabel. Your name is Mabel, isn’t it?”

  Her cry of “It is!” was almost drowned out under a sea of cheers and applause. She looked at the reverend like he was the second coming while Lionel sank deeper into his stiff wooden chair. He folded his arms across his chest, his thoughts slowly circling like a shark in dark waters as he watched the show.

  “Mabel. Beautiful, blessed Mabel.” Wright put the heel of his palm to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. “The Lord tells me you’re struggling. You’ve got a demon in your lungs, choking out that good, sweet air. It’s emphysema, isn’t it? They diagnosed you just last year. But the doctors don’t know everything—no, ma’am, they do not.”

  Lionel raised his sleeve to his mouth again.

  “You got the Technical Twins in the van with you?”

  “Always,” the woman’s voice replied.

  “Can they jack the PA system in here?”

  “I assume they already—” She paused. “Wait. Lionel? What are you going to do?”

  Onstage, the reverend was anointing Mabel’s brow with water from a shiny plastic bottle. Miracle water, free with your prayer gift of twenty dollars or more. The shark in Lionel’s mind circled faster, homing in on the scent of blood.

  “I’m done watching this,” he said. “Back me up. Get the audio ready.”

  “No.” The woman’s voice had a knife-edge sound. “No. You are surrounded by about eight hundred die-hard believers in the power of Reverend Wright. Now is not the time to play Emperor’s New Clothes. They can learn the truth the same way as everybody else, on the nine o’clock news. Get out of there.”

  He was already on his feet, rising with the crowd, a thunderous cheer pushing him forward. Mabel hugged Wright in her frail, birdlike arms as tears streamed down her face.

  “These people are being robbed,” Lionel breathed into his concealed microphone. “They deserve the truth. Here and now.”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed. Lionel—”

&nb
sp; Mabel hobbled offstage, and Wright spread his arms like he wanted to embrace the whole room.

  “Another miracle in the making! Remember, folks, I’m no healer. No, sir, no, ma’am. Only a vessel for God’s divine truth. It’s your faith, and the love of the Lord, that will set you free. Can I get a hallelujah?”

  Lionel burst into a run. He bounded onto the stage, spinning, and threw his hands high.

  “Hallelujah,” he shouted as the crowd fell into a confused murmur. Grinning like a madman, he darted over to stand at Wright’s side. He did a little foot-shuffling dance and snapped his fingers, pointing to the reverend. “Hallelujah, praise the Lord, and praise the good Reverend Wright. Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Lionel Page. I’m a reporter for Channel Seven News, and I had the honor, the inestimable honor, of sitting down for a rare interview with the reverend and his beautiful wife, Marise, earlier today. It was candid, heartfelt, and I hope you’ll all tune in for it.”

  Wright goggled at him, the showman off-balance and pushed to the edge of the spotlight. “I . . . Well, yes, everyone, that’s true, and Mr. Page was a very good interviewer. But I’m not sure this is the right time to—”

  “I would hope you’d tune in,” Lionel said, “but that interview will never air. I don’t think the camera was even turned on. No, it was a ruse—a lie, not to put too fine a point on it—to get backstage access. Where, as I took the grand tour, I planted a number of tiny listening devices.”

  The holy glow faded from Wright’s face as his blood drained into his feet. The microphone drooped in his hand, going down in slow motion. “What?” he asked, almost too soft to hear. The crowd murmured and milled, uncertain, casting hard looks at Lionel. They didn’t know what was going on, but they all agreed they weren’t happy about it.

  “See, I’m curious by nature,” Lionel told the sea of angry faces. “When I see a magician, I always want to know how the tricks are done. And in this case, well . . . it sure isn’t magic.”

  The PA system popped and squealed. A tinny voice drifted from the speakers: the reverend’s wife, secretly recorded from her backstage perch.

  “Next up you’ve got, let’s see . . . Mabel Abrom . . . Abromo . . . God, something long and Polish—just call her Mabel. She sent in a prayer card last month asking for help with her emphysema. Oh my God, the dumb bitch hasn’t quit smoking. Tell her Jesus says to kick the habit and keep the line moving, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

  Wright took a staggering step back, looking wide-eyed at the speakers. A shadow fell over the crowd, the mood shifting from confusion to slow-brewing anger. High on a spike of adrenaline, Lionel felt their attention swing back and forth across the stage. It was a sniper’s scope, zeroing in, Wright’s betrayed flock deciding who they wanted to pull the trigger on. The backstage curtains beckoned, offering his last chance of escape. He kept his feet planted.

  “His hotline isn’t to God, folks.” Lionel tapped his earpiece. “It’s to the lovely Marise, who uses ringers in the ticket line to spy on you before you come inside, combs through your cards and letters, then feeds all that ‘miraculous’ information right into his left ear.”

  The PA system squawked again. Another snatch of stolen audio crackled over the speakers.

  “You’re doing great tonight, hon,” Marise said. “Okay, this is Chester. Chester has an open Facebook account. God, how did we do this before social media? They make it so easy for us. Oh, nice. His ex-wife’s a slut, and his nephew is a junkie. Don’t mention the wife, just tell him Nephew Billy needs to get right with the Lord and stop running with that gang.”

  Two years ago, Lionel had reported at ground zero in the middle of a blackout riot. He’d never forgotten the feeling of violent energy, a psychic tornado swirling all around him, hundreds of people turning into one mindless and brutal fist. Here he was all over again, standing in the eye of the storm. He was too exhilarated to be afraid.

  “The only true thing he’s told you tonight is that he’s not a healer. He’s not. He’s a cheap carny playing cheap carny tricks.” Lionel leaned over and snatched the bottle of miracle prayer water from the reverend’s shaking hand. He held it up to the stark white lights. “And this? This is tap water, folks. They fill it from a garden hose out back.”

  He uncapped the bottle and unceremoniously flipped it upside down. A stream of water splashed across the old, scarred floorboards, soaking his sneakers, spattering Reverend Wright’s polished white leather wingtips.

  “It’ll cure your thirst,” Lionel said, “but that’s about it.”

  The auditorium hall froze, silent and still. The empty plastic bottle fell from Lionel’s fingers. It hit the floorboards, bounced, and rolled to a dead stop at the footlights.

  Then the stone-faced audience became an avalanche. The crowd surged as one and rushed the stage, clambering up with an animal roar. Spontaneous factions turned on each other and shouted as they threw punches and swung chairs, the still-believers and the betrayed clashing like swords against shields. Tiny wildfire melees erupted all over the theater, people hauling on each other’s arms to yank their friends back from the fight. Order and pious bliss broke under the pressure of electric, violent chaos.

  Lionel had about five seconds to see what he’d done, torn between pride and regret, before a beefy fist coldcocked him. Then he fell. He hit the stage on his back, curled into a fetal ball, and drowned under a tidal wave of bodies and kicking feet.

  Two

  “You’re an asshole,” Brianna said.

  The voice in his ear, the angel on his shoulder, stood silhouetted in the doorway of Lionel’s hospital room. She tossed a wave of kinky black hair and put a dark hand on her hip. He rolled his head back, the mattress feeling like concrete under his aching back, and closed his eyes.

  “Love you, too, cupcake.”

  “You know that crowd could have torn you apart,” she told him. “You do understand that, right? You’re lucky there were more people angry at Reverend Wright than at you. He says he’s suing, by the way.”

  “He can stand in line and wait his turn. Did we get the story?”

  “We got the story,” Brianna said. “That footage is ratings gold.”

  She stepped into the room. The hospital door fell shut at her back. As she stood at his bedside, the antiseptic air took on a whiff of hibiscus perfume.

  “But you shouldn’t be the story,” she told him.

  “I was angry.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  He opened his eyes and squinted at the overhead lights. The fluorescent tubes hummed softly in the stillness. A potted plant sat on his bedside table, some mutant conglomeration of red-and-purple blossoms, with a primly lettered card reading From Your Friends at Channel Seven Chicago. Nobody else had sent flowers. That bothered him, for a heartbeat, until he realized he didn’t know anybody outside the newsroom.

  “I saw those cheap little con artists,” he said, “squeezing pennies out of old people with their ‘magic powers.’ I couldn’t stand by and let it happen.”

  “Totally understandable. After all, the root verb of the word reporter is ‘jump in and start a riot.’ Oh, wait. No. It’s report. My bad.”

  “But I did report,” he said, giving her his best look of pure innocence. “I reported from the stage, live and on the scene.”

  She rubbed his shoulder. Her hand moved in gentle circles, and she gave him a reluctant smile. “Jerk.”

  “You love me and you know it.”

  Lionel shifted on the mattress and groaned. His left hip felt like he’d been hit with a steel battering ram. His fingertips probed against the outlines of a spreading bruise.

  “So why aren’t you happy?” she asked him.

  “I am happy. I’m plenty happy. We exposed a fraud, did a public service . . . I’m happy.”

  “But,” she said.

  He forced a chuckle and looked up at her, spreading his hands.

  “But? There’s no but. Just like there’s no magic and no mi
racles.”

  Lionel’s gaze went distant, just for the span of a slow breath.

  “There never is.”

  Brianna nodded, to herself as much as to him, and turned to study the plant on his bedside table.

  “I don’t even know what this is,” she said.

  “It’s pretty.” He paused, catching her sideways glance. “Garish. Pretty garish. But thank everybody for me anyway.”

  “Thank ’em yourself—you’re getting discharged in a couple of hours. Apparently there’s nothing seriously wrong with you except, you know, that you’re an asshole, and they just don’t have the technology to fix that yet. We can only stand by and hope for a cure.”

  Lionel stretched his arms above his head, then suddenly wished he hadn’t. His attempted yawn came out as a choking yelp as his back muscles caught fire.

  “Yeah, think I’m gonna need a day off and some Tylenol 3. How’s my face?”

  She studied him, stroking her chin. “You really want to feed me a straight line like that? Pass. Too easy.”

  “Ha. But really, though.”

  “You look like you’ve been in a fight, but like, a ‘shoving match in a bar’ kind of fight, not a ‘first night at Fight Club’ kind of fight. Nothing a little concealer and the right lighting can’t fix. Also, you’ve got an interview with the Chicago Observer folks at two. They want to talk all about your book, and I already told them you’d be there with bells on.”

  “What, you’re my boss and my agent now?”

  “Positive press for you means positive press for the news team. You wrote a book, Lionel. Milk it. Play the celebrity, just a little bit, okay?”

  “I thought I wasn’t supposed to be the story,” he said.

  “Consider it penance for your misdeeds,” Brianna told him. “Go and sin no more.”

  The hospital kicked Lionel out with his rumpled suit, a prescription for some mild painkillers, and a bill. He called a Lyft and rode across town in the back seat, crawling slug slow through the afternoon traffic. The towers and shopping utopias of Michigan Avenue rose up like canyon walls of white marble. Lionel felt sleepy from the sun, staring at store windows without really seeing what was on sale. It idly occurred to him that he’d been looking at the same scenery day in and day out for so many years, he didn’t really see any of it anymore. His mind filled in all the blank spaces with pictures from his memories.