A Hard Rain Page 7

  But as Mr. Data has informed me, the chaos aspects of the overlapping waves are making such adjustments almost impossible. He gives little chance for success, but until we can come up with another method, I have ordered him to continue his quest along those lines. Even if he can manage to block the effects of the Blackness for a few seconds, it would slow our speed and give us more time.

  On another front, Engineer La Forge is continuing to run tests on the capabilities of the Auriferite. We have thirty-four hours remaining before we enter the Blackness and are ripped apart by the forces inside that border. He tells me his tests will be done in the next few hours. I believe that his discovery of the properties of Auriferite will be our solution to this problem situation.

  Section Two: Just Art

  The footsteps of Dixon Hill, Detective Bell, and their host, Ghost Johnson, echoed through the massive main foyer of the castle. Polished marble floors reflected the flickering light of a welcoming fireplace against one wall. A grand staircase, wide enough for five people to walk side by side, curved up one wall to a second floor far overhead. Three major arched hallways led away in three directions from the main door, turning in short distances so it was impossible to see how far they went.

  The place felt cold and unwelcoming, even with the fire.

  Ghost headed for the hallway on the right and Dix and Bell followed. “Impressive place, isn’t it?” Bell said, smiling at how Dix was looking around. “Ghost here got it for a steal.”

  Ghost laughed. “You have that correct, my friend. I purchased it for little more than a song from Barney the Beast, when Bell and his fine forces put Barney up the river for a life sentence.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Bell said. “Glad to help a friend with a real estate purchase.”

  Dix said nothing as they turned the corner in the hallway, went through two large wooden doors, and into a carpeted library, with leather-bound books stacked on dark wooden shelves two stories into the air. A massive, ornate chandelier and the fire in a large stone fireplace were the main sources of light. Unlike the coldness of the front foyer, this room felt warm and inviting, with three deeply padded couches arranged in front of the fireplace.

  Dix glanced at the titles of a few of the books. All great classics, in fine first editions. Dickens, Shakespeare, and Melville were just a few authors Dix recognized as he glanced around. There were also classic mystery and romance as well. Too bad he didn’t have a year or two to just curl up in this wonderful room and read. Maybe after this case, he would see if he could at least arrange a visit to this fantastic library.

  Ghost moved to a cord hanging near the door and pulled it. Dix half expected to hear a distant bell, but nothing happened.

  “The phone is there,” Ghost said to Bell, pointing to a small end table to one side of the fireplace. Bell nodded and moved to it, quickly dialing a number.

  “This is an amazing collection of books,” Dix said to his host.

  “Thank you,” Ghost said. “I’ve heard you were a man of learning. Maybe someday I can give you a little tour of the volumes here.”

  “I would like that very much,” Dix said.

  A man in a butler’s uniform appeared from out of a side door near the fireplace and stopped facing Ghost. The butler was a short man, with gray hair and a large nose. His eyes were the eyes of man who had seen too much. He had the appearance of a butler, but not the feel of one.

  “Please have all the staff report to this room at once,” Ghost ordered.

  The man nodded his head as if in a shallow bow, and turned and left as quickly as he had appeared.

  “Should only take a moment,” Ghost said, moving across the room.

  Bell hung up the phone and turned. “Reinforcements and search crews are on the way. They should be here in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good,” Ghost said, gesturing that Bell and Dix should be seated on the couches. Dix pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. There was still enough time before he needed to check in with Bev and Mr. Data.

  “May I offer you gentlemen a snifter of cognac while we wait?” Ghost asked, stopping at an ornately carved wooden bar tucked in between the bookshelves. He picked up a cut glass decanter with a golden fluid and held it out.

  “On duty at the moment,” Bell said. “But would love to take a rain check.”

  “As would I,” Dix said.

  “Suit yourselves,” Ghost said. “But I hope you don’t mind if I partake?”

  “Not at all,” Dix said.

  Bell laughed. “I sure ain’t goin’ ta be sayin’ no to a man drinkin’ in his own home.”

  Ghost again laughed. “You have a point, Detective.”

  By the time he had finished pouring himself a small snifter full of the golden liquid, six staff members had filed in through the side door. Each wore the traditional uniform of a servant. Two butlers, one cook, and three maids. All seemed to be much, much older than either Ghost or the woman who had jumped off the cliff.

  Dix also noticed that even though Ghost Johnson was supposed to be one of the crime bosses capable of running the city, none of the people who worked for him seemed to carry a gun, and there were no goons, like the ones who worked for Redblock and the Undertaker.

  Ghost faced his employees. “Our guests this evening witnessed a young woman throwing herself off the cliff below this building. She seemed to have come from here and to have been very frightened of something. Do any of you have any knowledge of this poor young woman?”

  It was clear to Dix that all of them did. All shifted and couldn’t meet their employer’s gaze. One maid even gulped and went pale.

  The reaction was not lost on either Bell or Ghost Johnson. Ghost glanced around at Bell and Dix, a look of puzzlement on his face, then turned again to his employees.

  “Well?” Ghost asked, his voice stronger and much more full of authority than it had been a moment before.

  The employees glanced at each other and seemed ill at ease, like children caught doing something wrong, but afraid to tell a parent. They were clearly hiding something. Finally, the butler who had answered the cord-pulling summons stepped forward. “I can tell you of the young woman. The others are not needed.”

  Ghost glanced at his other employees, all standing in a line and looking as if at any moment they might run away screaming. Then Ghost nodded. “Very well. You are all dismissed.”

  They turned and left quickly, leaving the older butler standing almost at attention in front of the imposing and powerful figure of Ghost Johnson.

  Ghost stared at the man for what seemed like far too long a time. Dix wished he could see the look on Ghost Johnson’s face, what was going on between the two, but the butler kept a blank poker face and Ghost had his back turned. Finally Ghost moved over and leaned against the bar, taking a sip of his drink.

  Dix could feel the tension in the room thicken. The air seemed to get heavier, the crackling of the fire louder. All three of them stared at the butler.

  The butler did not wilt under the stares. In fact, he didn’t move, his gaze locked on something across the room in front of him.

  “Well, Reston?” Ghost said after the silence grew, pushing at the walls.

  The butler nodded and turned slightly to face his boss, ignoring Dix and Bell on the couch. “I am not exactly sure where to start, sir.”

  “As a great author once advised,” Ghost said, “the best place to start is at the beginning and then go until you reach the end.”

  Reston the butler nodded. “Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Just over forty years ago, right at the turn of the century, a young man named Williams lived in this castle. It seems, as rumor has it, that he was very rich, well connected to eastern money, but not very handsome. The society women of the time still considered him the prize catch for their daughters.”

  Ghost glanced at Bell and Dix, then nodded for Reston to go on with his story.

  Dix had a hunch he knew where this story was heading.

&nbs
p; Reston continued. “A marriage, of sorts, was arranged between a beautiful young woman and Williams, with a great deal of money changing hands. However, as youth sometimes does, this young woman had a true love she did not want to leave. But at the time, she had no choice, and was married to Williams.”

  “Let me guess,” Bell said, “she and her true love couldn’t stay apart.”

  “You are correct, sir,” Reston said. “When the master of the house traveled, as he did a great deal, the two young lovers would meet here. One night Mr. Williams came home unexpectedly and found them together.”

  Dixon Hill had heard this story before, in a dozen different ways, in hundreds of different books, the only variation being slight details. Also, Reston was not a convincing storyteller, by any means.

  Reston, not really taking his gaze from his boss, went on with his poor story. “In anger Williams stabbed the young man and then cut out his heart and offered it to his wife. The sight of her lover’s heart, still warm in her husband’s hand, sent the woman screaming from the castle in terror, where she met her death by leaping over the cliff and into the ocean below.”

  Detective Bell snorted and shook his head.

  Ghost Johnson said nothing.

  The silence in the room was broken only by the soft crackling in the fireplace.

  Dixon Hill sat and thought about how it had felt the moment the woman had run past them. The cold had been intense, he would grant that, and there had been a real sense of terror surrounding the woman. Maybe he should believe the story. With all the reality changes going on in this city, having spirits appear and kill themselves right in front of him actually made sense. But there was still something that didn’t fit about any of this. And the story was so standard, so cliché, that it felt out of place in a room full of the classics of literature.

  “So we saw a ghost,” Bell said, laughing. “Is that what you are telling us?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reston said. “You are not the only ones to have seen her. I have as well, on three different nights.”

  “Why was I not told of this?” Ghost demanded.

  “It didn’t seem to be an important topic, sir,” Reston said. “She is never seen anywhere but near the cliff, and only at night for a short time.”

  “Guess I should call off the troops,” Bell said, standing and moving toward the phone. “Going to be tough to find the body of a woman who has been dead for forty years. They’re going to be laughing at me for a month over this.”

  Bell’s words triggered something in the back of Dix’s mind. What a perfect way to cover for a crime. Simply call it a ghost story. But there was one detail about the woman that neither he nor Bell had told Ghost. And it was a critical detail that made her very real. And the terror she had been running from just as real. Or at least as real as anything could be at the moment in this city.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Dix said to Bell. “You might have them take a look after all.”

  “Why?” Bell asked, his hand on the phone. “I’m going to catch enough grief over the first call.”

  Ghost glanced at his butler, than back at Dixon Hill. “I am wondering the same question. Why?”

  Dixon Hill glanced around at the room full of books, at the softly crackling fire, and then back at his cultured mob boss host. “I’ve come to realize—especially this evening—that things are often not as they appear.”

  “Meaning what?” Bell asked, his hand still resting on the phone.

  Dixon Hill smiled at his friend. “But even though things are not what they seem, sometimes what you see is what you see.”

  “You don’t believe the ghost of the castle bit?” Bell asked.

  “Oh, I believe this place has a ghost,” Dix said, glancing around. “Why wouldn’t it? And I even believe it might be a ghost who tossed herself over the cliff at some point in the past. But what we saw tonight was no ghost. That much I am sure of.”

  As he was speaking, Dix was watching Ghost Johnson shift slightly.

  “And how can you be so sure about that?” Bell asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Hill,” Ghost asked, picking up his glass and then putting it back down, his hand dropping out of sight behind the bar top as he made the move. “I am curious as well. What is your well-known private investigator’s logic seeing that we are not seeing?”

  Dix smiled at the frown on his host’s face. From the way the man was moving and easing to get into position, Dix knew he was on the right track. “Actually, you would have no way of knowing it wasn’t the ghost we saw. Because you weren’t there to see her duck around our attempt to stop her.”

  “By heavens,” Bell said, “you’re right. She did. No spirit would do that.”

  At that moment Ghost Johnson reached for what must have been a gun tucked behind the bar, but Dix was faster.

  Much faster.

  “Don’t try it!” Dix shouted. His gun was leveled on Ghost Johnson.

  The butler looked at Dix coldly, his eyes nothing more than angry slits.

  Ghost Johnson froze, his hand still out of sight behind the top of the wooden bar.

  Again, the silence smashed down on the room, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire in the big stone fireplace. The weight of the written words that surrounded them pressed inward, making the air heavy with drama. Again Dix felt as if he were standing on a stage. Only this time he knew his part and his lines perfectly.

  And he knew that what they had now was a classic standoff. Everyone in the room knew it.

  How long would it last? was the first question.

  And how it would turn out the second.

  Unlike long-drawn-out scenes in plays, this standoff did not last more than an instant.

  Ghost Johnson broke the mood, broke the tension, and broke the standoff by smiling, his white teeth beaming in the firelight.

  “You are very astute, Mr. Hill.”

  “So what was the woman to you?” Dix asked.

  Ghost Johnson again smiled. “Only an actress, playing her part.”

  “Pretty deadly audition,” Bell said.

  “Art often requires sacrifices,” Ghost said. “You, Mr. Hill, as a learned man, must understand that.”

  With the smile still filling his face, Ghost’s hand came up from behind the bar holding his gun as he spun sideways.

  Dixon Hill fired, the explosion impossibly loud as everything in the room seemed to move at once.

  Ghost also fired, but with Dix’s bullet plowing through his chest, the shot was wide and high, ripping through the spine of an old volume of Wuthering Heights.

  Dix had won that showdown easily. Reston the butler moved, his hand flashing to his back, appearing an instant later with his gun. Dix turned toward him, but before Reston could bring his gun up into position another shot tore through the room from Bell’s gun.

  Reston spun and went down, spraying blood on the carpet.

  Bell had won the second showdown.

  Ghost Johnson slid down the front of the wooden bar and into a sitting position on the floor, the smile on his face still frozen in place. “It would seem that we have switched genres.”

  Bell moved up and stood beside Dix, staring at Ghost Johnson. “What do you mean by that?”

  Ghost coughed, spitting out blood, so Dix answered for him. “A genre is an area of literature, defined by the topic in the story.”

  Ghost nodded. “Gothic suspense never has a gunfight in it.”

  “You were counting on that?” Dix asked.

  Ghost laughed slightly, then coughed again. “I never expected you to see her in the first place. This is my private stage, my private narrative, my private art.”

  “You killed that woman as art?” Bell asked.

  “Of course,” Ghost said. Then his eyes seemed to lose focus. “All life is a stage, my friend.”

  “But before you can have art, you must first have audience,” Dix said.

  “It seems,” Bell said, “that this audience just gave you a bad r
eview and put you out of show business.”

  A gurgling sound filled the library as Ghost Johnson took his last breath and fell over sideways in a very convincing death scene.

  Eight hours before the Heart of the Adjuster is appropriated

  Captain’s Log.

  We have had a possible breakthrough. It started as Mr. Data attempted to explain to all the senior staff the reason the device he is calling the Adjuster is failing. He used an on-screen graphic example of dropping four stones into a smooth pond, at four corners of a square area. He called the waves radiating from the stones dropping representations of the subspace disturbances.

  Mr. Data then went on to explain how the waves collide in a certain pattern, creating a new type of wave that carries a different intensity and wave pattern. He explained that the patterns are traceable when only two stones are dropped. And might be possible at three. But when the waves from four different disturbances are constantly colliding and overlapping and bouncing and changing each other, it is impossible to accurately calculate what the force, intensity, and level of disturbance will be at any set point for any set time.

  Thus, Mr. Data believes his Adjuster will offer nothing of value in saving the ship.

  Chief Engineer La Forge had reported to me earlier that he also was not having much success. It seems that the Auriferite substance blocks some, but not all, of the types of subspace disturbances coming from the four singularities. Not enough, he said, to allow starting of the impulse engines.

  As Engineer La Forge sat and listened to Mr. Data explain the difficulties of a computer adjustment to random chaos events he came up with an idea. Stopping Mr. Data, La Forge asked a simple question. “Would it be possible to computer adjust the screens with your device if a large factor of the disturbances were blocked by Auriferite?”

  It took Mr. Data a very long three seconds before he responded. “It would be possible. Yes.”