Authors: George Mann
T
he blows were coming fast and hard.
Gabriel Cross ducked and sidestepped, blocked and returned. He caught his opponent, Jimmy Carmichael, with a swift jab to the chin; but he failed to get enough power behind it, and it glanced harmlessly off the man's iron jaw.
After his exploits on the rooftop the previous evening, Gabriel was in no fit state for a boxing match, and too many of his opponent's punches were striking home. His elbow was excruciating where he'd slammed into the side of the building, and his chest wounds kept opening every time he flexed or punched. It felt as if someone were digging hot daggers into his flesh. He'd been forced to wear a vest to hide the brace of bandages he'd had to wrap around his chest to stanch the seeping blood from the wounds.
Then, of course, there was the webwork of scratches and gouges on his face, which he'd had a harder time explaining away, to everyone from his butler Henry to Jimmy and the others at the gym. In the end, he'd fabricated a story about a mugger who'd pushed his face into a wire fence, but he could tell that none of them had bought it in the slightest.
He was beginning to get a reputation as a brawler, he knew, and he understood that many of his acquaintances thought he had developed a penchant for barroom scrapping. It could have been worse, he supposed, and at least it provided him with an explanation for his long absences. He'd heard them muttering at his parties, whispering to one another in scandalized tones that their host, a bored playboy and former soldier, had developed a taste for speakeasies, for getting roaringly drunk and starting fights. It wasn't the most salubrious of reputations, but better that than the truth.
Of course, upon hearing his story Henry had insisted he talk to the police, and so Gabriel had been forced to call his friend at the precinct, Inspector Felix Donovan, to arrange a meeting. The fact that he really did want to speak with Donovan regarding the matter was by the by—the web of lies he'd been forced to weave was as extensive as the web of scars on his unshaven face. At least Donovan knew the truth about his alter ego, and with him Gabriel would be able to speak openly and frankly.
Gabriel had decided it was time for them to compare notes. His investigations into the raptor abductions were getting him nowhere fast, and while he knew the police were even further behind, there could be something—anything—that he had missed.
Donovan, of course, was as anxious as Gabriel to bring things to a swift conclusion, and had readily agreed to meet, but had put him off until that evening, saying the commissioner was hauling him in on an urgent matter that afternoon. He hadn't alluded to the nature of the emergency, but Gabriel suspected it was also to do with the raptor abductions.
The newspapers had been going to town in recent weeks, and the commissioner had been forced to issue a statement declaring his intention to take a personal interest in the case, trying to win back public confidence in the police department. The newspapers continued to erode that confidence, however, and the numbers spoke for themselves—fifty people reported missing since the start of the festive season, and many more, Gabriel suspected, who hadn't even been noticed yet. Homeless people, waifs, strays, people who hadn't yet returned from their holidays, tourists and foreigners—just some of the people who might not have been noticed as missing. He suspected the number was at least double that being reported in the press, and he knew Donovan thought the same.
For a while the police had been able to keep a lid on the affair, playing down the near-identical circumstances in which the victims had been abducted. Soon, though, eyewitness reports began to filter out regarding the raptors, and it was clear the police and politicians were not going to be able to keep the matter buried for long. All the while they were waiting for the perpetrator to make his demands, or for one of the many pressure groups of terrorist regimes to assume responsibility for the kidnappings. No one had come forward, however, and all attempts to talk to those who might be responsible had been met by a wall of silence. Even now, appealing to the people of the city through the media, no one had come forward, and the police were just as in the dark as Gabriel as to who—or what—was responsible.
Of course, given the current political climate, it hadn't been long before extremists were publishing pamphlets blaming the British, denouncing them as murderers who came in the night to steal away your loved ones. Gabriel knew this was only so much garbage, but was surprised by the strength of feeling and support that had swelled among the population of the city. There had been rallies calling for the president to declare war on the British Empire, with those desperate people who had lost their loved ones to the raptors held up as figureheads and martyrs for the cause. Anxious to feel like they were doing
something
to bring their missing loved ones back, many of them had been swept up in the waves of anti-British feeling, adding their names to the petitions and the calls for action.
The president, of course, was avoiding the issue, and Gabriel suspected he saw the demonstrations for what they really were—the last attempt by a scared population to rationalize what was happening to them, to find an enemy they could blame for the abduction of the people they loved.
The sooner the real power behind the threat was uncovered, the better.
Gabriel ducked left to avoid a swinging fist, but misread the feint and took a glancing blow to the face from Carmichael's other fist. He staggered back, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to clear the dancing lights before his eyes. Carmichael wasn't waiting for him, however, and came on again, striking him twice again before Gabriel was able to get his arms up in defense and the referee stepped in to break them up.
Gabriel flexed his neck and shoulder muscles. He was desperate for a cigarette. He looked up to see Jimmy smiling at him from across the ring, leaning on the ropes, catching his breath. He was clearly enjoying himself. Rather too much, Gabriel thought, wryly.
The gym was a downtown establishment, out of the way, a place where he could escape without fear of being accosted by the press or harangued by any of his usual gang of followers. He'd been spending more and more time there of late, and he wondered for a moment if there was actually some glimmer of truth in all the rumors—if he had, indeed, developed a taste for brawling. Just not in the sense that people thought. He much preferred his brawling to be refereed, with padded gloves.
Nevertheless, he'd certainly been spending less and less time at his Long Island mansion, where the scent of Celeste still clung resolutely to the bedclothes, and where the memories were still all too raw.
In the darkness, when he closed his eyes, unable to sleep and unwilling to drink himself into another stupor, he could still see her there at the house. He remembered the feel of her lithe, sensuous body curled around him with her feline grace; the sight of her auburn hair a bright splash on the stark white pillow; the touch of her red, full lips as she leaned in and gently kissed his neck. He was haunted by her memory, unable to shake her from his dreams.
Sometimes he sat listlessly in the drawing room and played the holograph recorder on a constant loop, watching her flickering blue image as she swayed her hips on the stage at the Sensation Club, listening as she softly sang her lament for lost love.
Gabriel didn't know what to feel anymore. He didn't feel
anything.
He was numb. The only thing that came close to sensation was the beating of another man's fists against his face, or the rending of a raptor's claws, or falling.…
A bell rang out, and the referee motioned them both forward.
Gabriel was feeling tired now, weary to the bones. He hadn't slept last night after he'd escorted the woman home. He'd left her with Donovan's name and told her to call the precinct in the morning. He'd check with Donovan later to make sure she'd done as he'd suggested.
Carmichael—a thin but wiry man in his midthirties, with dark chestnut-colored hair and a thin mustache—came at Gabriel in a frenzy. Something had stirred him—whether it was the scent of victory, or perhaps an overeagerness to impress, Gabriel couldn't be sure, but he was experienced enough and wise enough to take advantage of it.
Gabriel went on the defensive, channeling all of his energy into dodging and blocking, pushing Carmichael on to tire him out. The blows rained down and Gabriel kept it up, pacing around the ring, even allowing a few of the jabs to hit home, urging Carmichael on with little glimmers of success.
It was a well-proven strategy, and it wasn't long before Gabriel could see the other man beginning to slow. Carmichael's punches were becoming appreciably less frantic, and less powerful, too; and almost sighing with the inanity of it all, Gabriel took a step forward, feinted to the left, and finally took Carmichael down with a swift, sharp hook with his right fist.
The man, utterly dazed by the blow, spun around slowly and collapsed to the mat, semiconscious and momentarily unable to move.
The referee rang the bell and Gabriel slumped back against the ropes, still panting with the exertion. He turned when he heard the sound of someone clapping enthusiastically from behind him.
The gym was nearly empty, save for a couple of other men sparring in the far corner, but there, framed in the doorway, was a face he hadn't seen for over three years.
“Ginny?” he said, as if he didn't quite believe his own eyes. “Ginny Gray?”
The woman smiled, and her blue eyes flashed in amusement. “It's been a long time, Gabriel.” Her voice was exactly how he remembered it: sugary and sweet. She was young, in her midtwenties, with stunning blonde hair and the most perfect cheekbones he had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with shapely legs and a slim waist. Her skin was pale and unblemished, as if she'd been sculpted by a fine renaissance artist, presented in alabaster like some immaculate vision of a woman, rendered in life according to a secret blueprint of perfection. She was wearing a red felt cloche and a knee-length dress, and she looked just as stunning as she had when she'd walked out on him all those years ago.
Gabriel wiped his face in the crook of his arm. “What…?” he trailed off, unable to give any shape to his thoughts. His mind was racing.
Ginny laughed. “You look terrible, Gabriel.” She approached the ring, her heels clicking loudly on the tiles. She reached for a towel that was draped over the back of a ringside chair and tossed it to him. He caught it awkwardly with his gloved hands, and smiled.
“I thought about coming along to one of your parties,” she said, watching him intently as he mopped his brow with the towel, “but Henry said you hadn't been home for a while. Not since Christmas, in fact. He said I might find you here.”
Gabriel shuddered. Ginny was right; he hadn't thrown one of his famous parties for weeks. He'd grown tired of the interlopers, the occasional friends, the strangers who invaded his house every night searching for distraction from their own mundane existence. There was a time when he'd needed the bustle, the sense of not being alone. A time he'd thought he collected those people like others collected butterflies, or stamps, or cars. But lately he'd found their presence nothing but a drain, found the constant background noise a burden rather than a reassurance, and so he'd packed up and moved into town to get away from them all for a while.
He'd enjoyed the solitude while it lasted, enjoyed being himself, with no pretense, no need to adopt his playboy persona, to become
Gabriel Cross.
If he was truthful with himself, though, he knew it wouldn't last. Soon enough he would drift back into his old life, his old patterns, finding comfort in their familiarity, like a favorite jacket or scarf. The people would return, and they would laugh and cajole and drink and fuck and whisper and bicker and leave their tired, careworn lives behind for a short while as they threw off their shackles and revealed themselves in all of their human glory.
He'd been waiting for that. He knew it was coming. With the inevitability that he knew that someday he was going to die, Gabriel knew that something would happen to drag him back to his old life, to Long Island, to the world he'd tried so hard to forget.
And now, here was Ginny.
But Ginny was different. Ginny had broken his heart. Ginny was the girl who got away, the girl he hadn't been honest with, the girl who had known only Gabriel, and not
him.
Not really him. Ginny had been everything, and he had lost her.
The question was: what was she doing here now? Why had she walked back into his life after all these years?
Gabriel folded the towel around the back of his neck and parted the ropes, ducking his head to step through. He glanced back at Carmichael, who was slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position, still looking dazed by the blow that had felled him. He met Gabriel's gaze and grinned at him appreciatively, as if admiring Gabriel for the quality of his blow.
Gabriel nodded in acknowledgment and turned to face Ginny, who was watching him intently. “So, here I am,” he said, holding out his gloved hands for her to undo the straps. She took a step closer to him and he caught her scent, drinking it in. It reminded him…well, it reminded him of her. Of time spent lounging in the sun by the pool, or their trip to the New Jersey shore, or holding her in a clammy embrace as they made passionate, violent love.
Ginny pulled his left glove free and set to work unlacing his right.
“What are you doing here, Ginny?” he finally said, his voice quavering slightly as he tried not to stumble over the words. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her, but more that he wasn't sure he wanted to deal with all of the emotions she was stirring inside him with her presence. It had been
three years.
A lot of water had passed under the bridge.
Ginny paused. She looked up from his gloved hand, catching his eye. He remembered gazing into those icy blue eyes. Now, they looked glassy, shining in the electric light of the gym. “Oh, Gabriel,” she said dramatically. “Don't be like that. I thought you might like to go for a drink. Shall we go for a drink?” She still had her hand on his wrist. He looked down at her painted red nails, like talons.