Ghosts of Karnak by George Mann Page B

faces of his comrades, and the thing he’d seen out there in the farmhouse.
    The Ghost made him better. It gave him a purpose, a means of fighting back against the horror. That had to make it better than this, didn’t it?
    Gabriel placed his empty glass on a nearby table, and decided to take a walk to the bar, cutting across the main lounge.
    It was as ostentatious as only the very rich can palate: cut-glass chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, dark wood paneling lined the walls, and sweeping balustrades separated the main seating area from the dance floor.
    On stage, a jazz quartet played a swaying, bluesy lament, fronted by a dark-haired woman who clutched the microphone stand tightly with both hands, as if it were her only anchor to the real world. Her voice floated above the smoky chatter, stirring feelings of loss within Gabriel.
    Mob men—clearly identifiable by their attitude, if not their attire—swilled expensive drinks, smoked pungent cigars, and generally treated the women in their company with the utmost contempt, ignoring them for the most part, except to grab at them inappropriately or send them to fetch more drinks.
    Gabriel tried not to watch, for fear he’d feel moved to intercede. It was the arrogance that grated on Gabriel—the sense of assumed ownership over another person. He could never claim to have behaved well toward the women in his life—he had always kept too much from them, for a start—but he had always shown them respect.
    This particular brand of ill behavior, however, seemed reserved for men who believed themselves to be in control, or else saw it as a casual means to assert that they were; men who thought themselves invincible, above the law—the sort of men who worked for the Reaper.
    Gabriel found a quiet spot toward the end of the long bar and pulled out a stool, placing himself within earshot of a large table of mobsters. He called the barman over and ordered a whisky sour, then settled in to eavesdrop.
    It wasn’t the most riveting discourse, but the men seemed to be discussing the recent reports of the floating apparition, and how a number of their colleagues had been attacked by the specter in the midst of carrying out one of their “jobs”.
    He listened for a while to their speculation, most of it wild, claiming that it was the spirit of the Reaper’s dead girlfriend, come to avenge them for her untimely death, or else it was an Angel of the Lord, unleashed from heaven to bring judgment down upon the unworthy. One of them, a quieter, brooding man with a stick-thin physique and harelip, even claimed to have seen it himself, floating above Fifth Avenue, trailing ghostly bandages behind it as if caught in an unearthly gale.
    Gabriel took their wild claims with the pinch of salt they deserved, although the reference to the Reaper’s dead girlfriend was interesting—Donovan had been looking for something that linked Autumn Allen to the mob, and perhaps this was it. He’d said the woman was carrying a hefty weight in diamonds, and that they’d clearly been gifts from a prosperous admirer. Perhaps she wasn’t just connected to the mob, but to the Reaper himself? That would certainly explain why no one had come forward to help with the police enquiries.
    He made a mental note to follow it up with Donovan.
    Talk had moved on now to sport and women, and Gabriel knew that he wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of the people here. They were low-level mobsters at best, nothing more than goons, and if the Café Deluxe itself was a front for the Reaper, it was only as a place to launder money and allow his men to wind down. He couldn’t see any evidence of anything more clandestine going on here, aside from the usual sort of gambling and drinking one found in venues such as this.
    He downed his whisky and placed a handful of dollars under the glass on the bar. Then, rising from his seat, he saw her standing there at the other end of the bar.
    Ginny
.
    She looked