Chapter one:

  Journalism—folks say it’s one of the last professions of the truly noble. The final safeguard, of Truth and Justice; holding power accountable. The only accounting going on, involves cashing cheques from the elite. Truth!? Justice!? They went out for cigarettes decades ago, and like a naive child, the city sits by the door and waits for it’s return - any minute now.’

  Gus Tierney worked a battered newsstand at Ashcroft and 3rd - one of Sanguine’s many clogged arteries.

  The cart’s busted wheel turned four blocks from storage into eight—Gus rolled up, winded, as the daily stacks hit the curb. But for two weeks now, a rogue bundle had beat him there.

  Gus hadn’t ordered it— No label. No invoice. Just FREE scrawled in thick, sharp ink across the top . Small publications sometimes ran gratis, scraping by on ad money—this one didn’t.

  Gus stashed the rag behind the counter, letting it sop of Sanguine’s flith. If he had room, he’d toss it on the rack late in the day.

  Today was different.

  For the first time since the paper crept in, customers began asking it by name.

  The Independent Observer.

  “Do you have any copies of the Independent Observer back there?” a sharp-suited salary-man barked, drumming his restless fingers on the scarred counter.

  “Two cents, pal” Gus rasped.

  The man’s eyes narrowed “It’s a free paper!”

  “Last one - kept it for me” Gus rummaged under the counter, then slapping it down, “Two cents, and I’ll part with it”

  The salary-man huffed, flicked his coins across the wood, and snatched his copy free.

  “Salud’ Gus said playfully.

  As the salary-man walked away, he could hear another customer as for the Observer as well.

  “Two cents” Gus crowed with a grin.

  The salary-man spun, ready to snap, but froze - a line had snaked up behind him. He swallowed and swung back, nearly clipping a young Black man juggling two steaming paper cups. The young man sidestepped him, with a friendly ‘Pardon me, sir” and cut past the stand to his yellow cab.

  The young man - Ezra - glanced back, a crowd now clotting around Gus’s counter, their conversations carrying over the diesel hum of Sanquine’s streets.

  “No names on it - who prints this rag? It’s a damn riddle,” a skeptic reader grunted.

  “Scam” another sneered, ‘The big sheets dodge tales like these - it’s pure bunk.”

  “I dunno ..” Another cut in, flashing his copy “These photos, they ain’t nothin’”

  Ezra tipped a impressed nod at the swelling like, set a steaming cop on the cab’s rood and popped the door open. “Word’s out, Mr Graves,” he said, sliding in to pass a coffee back. “Your paper’s moving fast.”

  Mr. Graves folded the Sanguine Times, and grabbed his coffee. He was still wearing the leather duster from last nights talk of Marlene WhitakerHis brown hair sat neat, combed back with a slick of pomade, but on the seat beside him, a blonde shaggy wig slumped in a canvas satchel—the shedded mane of the man he’d been hours ago.

  A scar notched his left cheek—or seemed to. It caught the weak light through the cab’s window, edges peeling like cracked paint. Not a scar—collodion solution, a trick lifted from Hollywood’s makeup kits. Harlan peeled it free with steady fingers, the faint sting fading as he dropped the prosthetic into a battered tin box. Inside, his disguise kit gleamed: tinted contacts, false mustaches, prosthetic brows—tools of his trade, the grifter’s gear that powered his hunt.

  “You can call me Harlan, Ezra.” Graves snapped

  “My dad drilled ‘Mister’ into me, when it came to addressing the boss” Ezra shrugged.

  “We were friends before paychecks.” Harlan growled.

  “Well, when we work, you're Mr. Graves. So what do the other papers say?”

  Harlan glances at the Sanguine times, headline read ‘famed philanthropist and architect Richard Whitaker, arrested on charges of spousal abuse’, the article itself mentioned that Marlene was taken in for striking a police officer.

  “Big rags didn’t run what I sent them” Harlan growled.

  “Didn’t catch the printers in time?” Ezra pressed, calmly.

  “They ran Whitaker’s arrest—his wife’s too,” Harlan bit back. “I slipped them the story well before that and the evidence. Same old dodge—called it a domestic dust-up.”

  Ezra flicked a glance through the rear-view, brow creased. “Your Observer’s out there—folks ain’t blind to it anymore.”

  “They’ll forget by happy hour,” Harlan said, breath heavy. “If stays out of the mainstream, it’s considered yellow ink.”

  Ezra raised a eyebrow “Have some faith, Mr Graves” He said, nodding at this boss “Oh ah- your eyes are still blue.”

  Harlan grunted, and gave a nod -“Right” - and peeled out the tinted lenses - bringing out his brown eyes - and dropped them in to the battered disguise tin.

  Thump Thump - a fist hammered the window. “I need a ride” a man yelled.

  “Catch the next,” Ezra yelled through the glass.

  “Just go Ezra,” Harlan muttered, slumping.

  Ezra took off - the man on street gave a one finger salute.

  The cab jostled over Sanguine’s cracked streets, rain tapping the roof like a slow drum. Harlan leaned back, leather duster creaking, sipping his coffee - caffeine substituting a long night’s rest. Ezra glanced at him through the rearview, brow furrowed.

  “Why’d the cops nab her if he’s the one they are claiming hit her?” Ezra asks confused.

  “The point of last night was to get the photos in the hand’s of a beat cop” Harlan said, “These missing kids, the upper brass don’t care. I slip it to papers I get crickets, a detective - it gets buried. But a beat cop - he’ll haul her in.”

  “And she’ll squeal?”

  “Doubtful. They won’t even lean on her” Harlan scoffed.

  “Then what good‘s it do?”

  “She ain’t the brains, and I don’t know who is. But this might flush em out.”

  Ezra’s, eyes flicked back, narrowing “What’s your read on the husband?” Ezra inquired.

  “No tangible proof pointing to him, and I can tell you after last night he had no idea. When he saw the photos” Harlen paused, tone turning solemn “ - it was like a part of him died.”

  Ezra eased up to a light and shot a glance back “Boss - where we headed?”

  “Station,” Harlan snapped. “She’s likely out soon—I’ll need to see who visits before it’s too late.”

  “Oh” Ezra’s face creased “We should go back home and grab the town car.”

  Harlan’s personal ride—a ‘43 Lincoln Continental, —had carried him to Marlene’s brownstone last night, then back to his estate to finish the prints for the Observer. He had Ezra pick him up in the cab for Ops like these - its dented yellow frame blending into Sanguine’s streets, less conspicuous than the Lincoln’s polished gleam.

  “Why?” Harlan shot back, eyes narrowing.

  “If she comes out, she might spot this cab” Ezra says.

  “A thousand cabs roll through Sanguine - you’ll be fine.” Harlan dismissed “If you played your part properly, she wouldn’t suspect you anyway”

  “About that - I Took her ring” Ezra said wincing.

  “YOU WHAT!” Harlan roared

  “You said to play cabbie and keep it tight, right?” Ezra snapped.

  “How many cabbies rob their passengers?!” Harlan snarled back.

  “Wasn’t like that. - Half way there she said that she had no cash - ’cause you scared her bag out of her hands” Ezra shoots back.

  “So? What do you care? I pay you.”

  “I wasn’t about getting paid…” Ezra cut in “- No cab driver in Sanquine‘d care if the devil rode her tail—sob stories are bunk nine times outa ten anyway. If you ain’t got the cash, you ain’t getting the ride. Lettin’ her slide would scream wrong.”

  “So you’re telling me we have evidence on us right now?”

  “That’s what I’m saying - yeah”

  “Damn”

  “What’s the fuss? We swap cars - you’ve got all the time in the world for you to do your thing,” Ezra said, calm.

  “It’s not that simple,” Harlan growled.

  “Why not?”

  “Whoever comes to see her, will bury their tracks fast. Spite what you think, I don’t have forever. A full tank - which I don’t have after scoping out her place yesterday - gives me 72 hours tops. Not to mention, the further back I go, the more time I need”

  “Should I ditch the ring then?”

  “Not yet - can’t risk it. Best melt it down when we have time, so it doesn’t come back to bite us”

  After blocks of tense silence, Ezra cracked through it.

  “Say - what about Time Ghost?”

  Harlan flicked his eyes up. “Pardon?”

  “Time Ghost,” Ezra said, expecting Harlan to follow his train of thought. ‘Your alter ego”

  “Don’t need one.” Harlan curtly shuts it down.

  “You start spookin’ more people like last night, soon enough people will tag you with somethin’.” Ezra pressed. “You got your own paper - put your name out yourself.”

  Harlan snorted ‘Time Ghost is a bit radio serial, ain’t it - Besides” Harlan shrugged, “If I name myself after my abilities, I risk exposing them - not to mention reporting scoops of myself will tie the crusade to the Observer.”

  “Fair,” Ezra admits “It doesn’t have to be Time Ghost, but think on it. For the paper, I was thinking, you should go critical when you talk about your exploits.”

  “Misdirection…” Harlan said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Yeah - you’re catching on!” Ezra grinned. “Call your alias a heel even. Nobody will think it’s you. Then go straight with the Observer—no more sneakin’ onto newsstands, slap your full name on it. Take a cut and fund this thing right!”

  “Funding isn’t an issue, Ezra. You know that.” Harlan said, firm.

  “Not right now, it ain’t.” Ezra shot back “But your not making money neither. One day it will dry up.”

  Harlan shakes his head. “I have time before I have to worry about that.” He nods toward the street ahead. “We’re close - drop it for now.”

  Ezra pulled into the bustling police station parking lot. Harlan scoffed at the ‘justice’ this dump swore to dish out—and didn’t.

  ‘They ought just install a revolving door’ He mused to himself ‘… scum goes in, Door spins, gets a slapped wrist, exits. Only difference is lawyers don’t their cut.’

  As Ezra pulled in, Harlan leaned up to the transparent panel that separated them, and pointed. ‘Park close ….There” he said pointing to an empty spot between a couple Panel Vans “… those should provide some cover”.

  Ezra eyed the station sharp; Harlan flipped up the passenger seat beside him. He yanked out a scuffed suitcase, set it close. “Start the fare counter,” he said, . “Anyone asks for a ride, say you’re waiting on a fare.”

  “Got it, boss,” Ezra replied.

  Harlan popped the case—a gas mask stared back, its long rubber hose snaked to a small oxygen tank, gauge sat at a quarter. A camera sat tucked beside.

  “Damn, I only have about 30 mins of air left”

  “Cops might nose in if I sit too long,” Ezra replied. “What if they tell me to shove off?”

  “If you move my body, I’m lost in the void—stall ‘em,” Harlan snapped.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Got it, boss,” Ezra said.

  Harlan fed a roll into his Detrola Model K—a 3x4 camera, 16 shots max—set it on his lap.

  “Right, I’m going in.”

  Harlan yanked the curtain shut across the cab’s divide, slid the gas mask on. He twisted the tank’s nozzle—a sharp hiss cut loose, oxygen snaking through the hose.

  He eased back, eyes shut—an onlooker might peg him for asleep, till an eerie stillness gripped him. Color drained from his skin, clothes, mask, camera—like ink rinsed off a page. His body flickered in and out of existence, like cut frames in a film reel.

  To Harlan, the world went silent—gray, still as a snapshot. It lingered round him, yet wasn’t there. His body passed through the cab’s hull like a beam of light through glass.

  Gracing back to the cab, he would see a glowing outline of the place where his body lay, visible even through solid matter.

  Harlan cut through the station, through walls, cops, crooks, regular folks filling reports. He eyes the wall of missing posters - filled with kids snatched from the endless gutters of Sanguine. City hall stuck to the same tired line; every case was a priority, but it was no worse in Sanguine than anywhere else. ‘Bullshit’ Harlan scoffed. He calculated the real stats - forty percent higher than anywhere else in the nation.

  Time hung frozen - an illusion - the past Harlan alone could see. Time however, still marched on. He cut through the station swift like he had done it before, past the ‘personnel only’ signs, and down to the holding cells. There stood Marlene Whitaker - the child trafficking harlot - with release papers in hand.

  Harlan lifted his finger, and like he was tweaking an unseen clock hand back. The world reversed—folks and all went backwards, slow at first, then racing as he spun it faster.

  Marlene rewound—escorted back to her cell, where she sat a spell, then rose and walked backwards down the hall to interrogation. Harlan cut through the wall—her shackles attaching her to the table, or snapped back on when viewed in reverse.

  Behind Marlene, the world cut off, like a half-sketched painting. A white nothing. Harlan dubbed it “the void”—the furtherest his spirit’s could reach-away from his body.

  It’s presence loomed - closer and he would lose this opportunity, unless of course he could hide in the building instead of the cab. Its presence loomed—closer, he’d miss this shot unless he stashed his body in the station.

  Tears staining the steel quivered, rose back into Marlene’s eyes. Harlan spun time quicker, awaiting the trigger of her pain. Then - a man backed in. A suit—her lawyer, likely—tall, bald, loomed over the room’s lone lamp, slung from the ceiling. He stood fixed, staring Marlene down, face shadowed above its glow.

  Harlan felt time slipping away, maybe ten minutes left of air at this rate, and he had to see this interaction play out. Quickly he sped to the beginning, Marlene being babysat, by detectives who had no questions. Clearly on the take. Then the bald suit walked in.

  Marlene tried to spit an excuse—save her neck—but choked out a weak whimper.

  “I am here to…” the man paused briefly “..Fix this” he concluded with menace in his tone. “Explain to me, what happened.” The fixer said.

  “I was pursued home from the Lighthouse Lounge,” she said, voice trembling, “by a man in a mask.”

  “What were you doing at the lighthouse lounge?”

  “I was out for drinks, with a couple friends.”

  “Did your friends see this masked man?”

  “No. He came after me outside”

  “You were alone outside? Why?

  “I was supposed to meet someone”

  “Who?”

  “A sailor. I was going home with him, but I got jumped outside while I waited.”

  ‘Describe him” the Fixer said, removing a notepad and pen from his breast pocket, and began to write.

  “He said his name was John, but the way he said it was like it was made up on the spot.” She said “He was tall … but not as tall as you” she continued.

  “How tall?” the fixer pressed, pen scratching.

  “Taller than my husband—six-one, maybe six-two.”

  “His appearance?”

  “Blonde hair, blue eyes, I think,” she said, faltering. “A scar on his left cheek.”

  “Same man who attacked you?”

  “I don’t know—I don’t think so,” she managed, voice fraying. “That one was taller, and masked.”

  Harlan smirked—his shoe lifts sowed doubt.

  “You said that. Describe the mask”

  “The mask had these red round lenses. A hose ran from the bottom into his coat—I couldn’t see where it went.””

  “A gas mask?”

  “Yes. Long black coat, and a black hat—fedora-like, with a wider brim.”

  “What did you tell him?” the fixer pressed.

  “Nothing” Marlene pleads, “…he, he didn’t even ask. He acted like he knew everything”

  “How did he get the pictures?”

  “I don’t know”

  “You saw nobody at the pier that night?” His tone turned sharp, accusing.

  “No”

  “Those shots were very close, I find that hard to believe”

  “Maybe he had a like a long lens or something?” she offered.

  “Not with those angles” the fixer quickly dismissed the idea, “It saw the scene. A maze of cargo crates. He had to be close.”

  “Hidden camera maybe? Is that … is that possible?”

  The fixer thought for a moment before continuing, “Regardless …. “ He said dismissively “… what is done is done. Our employer is not satisfied.”

  “How can I fix this?” Marlene begged.

  “You cannot. We can only contain it.”

  “Please—how can I help?”

  The fixer slipped his notebook away, pacing the room. “Last night’s incident will be deemed a domestic disturbance—your husband, drunk, struck you.”

  Harlan thrusts his palm forward, pausing the moment in time. He then twirls his finger counter clockwise, going back to the moment before the Fixer closed his note book. Harlan removes his Detrola Model K camera from inside his jacket, and snaps a couple photos of the notepad.

  It contained the information they spoke about, and a reminder from the fixer to himself to ‘speak to the lighthouse barkeep’ and to ‘find Marlene’s friends and sister.’

  Harlan eyes the Fixer’s face but saves his film. Not enough light. Harlan then sticks out his finger, and sends time back slight motion to the right, then he resumes the moment.

  “That’s irrelevant now…” The Fixer says again, as the moment repeats itself “Last night’s incident will be deemed a domestic disturbance—your husband, drunk, struck you.”

  “He never lifted a finger to me in his life!” Marlene exclaims.

  “Perhaps if he did, last night wouldn’t have happened, and his life wouldn’t have become forfeit” the Fixer said coldly.

  “What do you mean, forfeit?” she asked, tears choking her.

  “You failed to maintain confidentiality, and you were aware of the collateral damage protocol” he said, his tone rising into a stern reprimand before lowering back to his usual monotone seriousness

  Marlene’s voice raises “But I never shared anything with him?”

  “Your irresponsibility shared enough.”

  “Please—don’t kill my husband,” she pleaded. “He’s reasonable—he’ll stay quiet.”

  “He is already dead. Staged to look like a suicide”

  Marlene wailed, gut-wrenched at his murder.

  “You are to mourn him later! Do not mention his passing outside this room …” the fixer commands like a twisted father figure “… his body has not be discovered yet, and these cover-ups are costly.”

  “Why should I hide my grief? What else can you take from me!” Marlene spits.

  “The collateral damage protocol still stands” the fixer continued “Think about Nora.” The Fixer said coldly.

  Marlene’s eyes fill with tears, her lips tremble. Marlene’s eyes welled with tears, her lips quivering.

  “Please—I never told her about the operation,” she said, voice trembling. “Please don’t—”

  “If we had reason to believe you did, she would already be dead” the Fixer said coldly before continuing, “Now …. You will be released soon after I leave. Go home immediately. You will then write a letter ….”

  Marlene nodded, eyes dull.

  “You’ll write nothing of our employer or the operations,” the fixer said. “Focus on your husband’s death—your grief.”

  “Okay,” Marlene said, voice trembling.

  “Then end your life,” he said, cold and flat.

  She gasped.

  “I have made the method simple and painless for you.” he said, cold as ever. “You’ll find Army-issue morphine syrettes in your medicine cabinet—use what you need to end it. For a woman your size two shall do it.”

  Marlene’s face swells up with tears.

  “If you refuse to do this” the fixer said , “I will personally execute this task for you. I will not be kind - it will not be painless.”

  Her sobs drowned out the Fixer’s measured tone, irritating him.

  “Listen!” He snaps, “Your death -” he spits “ - will be noticed. It will be remembered. Books will be written about it, and in schools it will be studied.” The Fixer says as he stares deep into her soul. “Those in our circle will grasp the message of your death; the city will think it a madman’s act.”

  Marlene’s face swelled with tears.

  “I—I understand,” she said, voice trembling.

  “I doubt you do,” the fixer said. He strode through Harlan, leaned on the table, face-to-face with her. “Fail this task, and I’ll inflict on Nora tenfold your fate.”

  Harlan thrust out his hand, froze time - the fixer now clearly in view - and snapped a photo. Satisfied, he let time roll again.

  “Your sister still lives at 14…’ the fixer says now walking behind Marlene for a moment, through the void and out the other end, ‘crestview drive?’

  ‘Damn, I only got half that address’ Harlan cursed.

  “Yes” Marlene stammered.

  “If you are not found dead by your own hand, by O’Twelve-Hundred hours, I will personally pay her a visit. She will suffer before the end.” The Fixer growled.

  Just then the void shrank into the wall.

  “SHIT!” Harlan said. His body was being moved—he knew it. “I have to keep up, or I’ll fall into the void,” raced through his head. “What did Ezra do.”

  Harlan’s spirit form raced up through the station—floors, walls, people—to the outside. “Thankfully the void’s only shifted a few feet,” flashed through his head. “Ezra better have an explanation”

  He scanned the parking lot. His shadow floated mid-lot—a marker of his body in real time—just ahead of where the cab would sit.

  A frantic spin of his finger yanked time back to the present.

  Harlan saw the yellow taxi, tangled in a fender bender with a civilian car.

  “What the hell Ezra!” he said, voice lost in this realm. “Nobody has looked inside yet—I’d better move.”

  He shot his spirit through the cab, merging with his body sprawled in the back seat.

  Harlan woke, ripped off his gas mask, stuffed it in his briefcase, and leaped from the cab. Ezra gets an earful from the driver he rammed, but catches Harlan pop out of the cab’s back seat—relief flickers on his face.

  “Pardon me,” Harlan says, “can I talk to this cabbie about this mess?”

  The driver, irritated, grunts, “Fine—I’ve got to check the damage anyway.” He jabs a finger at Ezra. “Don’t move—understand!”

  Harlan nods Ezra to the trunk. “Pop it,” he says, shielding their talk.

  “What the hell happened!?” Harlan snaps.

  Ezra glances at the irritated driver, fuming over his car, then back. “She came out of the station, trying to flag me down. If she’d gotten closer, she’d have ID’ed me. I thought fast—couldn’t go far or you’d… you know?”

  “I get it,” Harlan says. “Where’d she go?”

  “Grabbed a cab on the street.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two, maybe three minutes.”

  “Damn—this has dragged on enough. I’ve got to catch her, but you stay.” Harlan lowers his voice.

  “Take this,” Harlan says, pressing bills into Ezra’s palm. “Covers the damage. Play nice” “Then you have to go to Crestview drive, I didn’t get a full address, it starts with 14.”

  “Is that where you’ll be?” Ezra asks.

  “No, I have to go back to Marlene’s. They gave her an ultimatum, if she doesn’t hold up her end by noon, they’ll kill her sister. That is what I need you to ensure doesn’t happen.”

  “Damn… alright, you better scram then” Ezra says, heading back to the driver’s curses.

  “No cab for me,” Harlan mutters to himself. “Cops haven’t been told to find the bodies yet— I can’t have any witnesses peg me there or they might pin it on me.”

  Harlan strolls off the lot casual - briefcase in hand - then sprints once he’s clear, Sanguine won’t wait for him to pick who bleeds.