Chapter 4 Whiskey and Typewritten Love Letters

The orphanage was a grim building of weathered brick and narrow windows. St. Catherine's Home for Children had been operating for decades, housing the city's unwanted youth with minimal oversight and even less funding.

"Seven children have disappeared from here in the past year," I said, reviewing my notes as we stood across the street. "All officially listed as 'adoptions' or 'transfers,' but there's no record of where they went."

Gabriel's expression was dark. "Convenient."

The matron, a severe woman with permanently pursed lips, regarded me suspiciously as I introduced myself as a reporter researching successful adoption practices.

"We have nothing to hide at St. Catherine's," she insisted, leading me through sterile hallways where thin children watched with hollow eyes. "Our adoption rate has improved dramatically this past year."

"Thanks to Meridian Pharmaceuticals' sponsorship?" I asked innocently.

Her step faltered briefly. "Their charitable contributions have been most welcome."

Gabriel, walking through walls to examine offices I couldn't access, rejoined us with a grim expression. "There's a separate file for children selected for the 'Meridian Health Initiative.' All between eight and twelve years old, no family connections."

I couldn't acknowledge him directly, so I pressed the matron further. "I understand Meridian has a special health program for some children?"

"Only for those with particular needs," she replied stiffly. "Dr. Westbrook personally oversees their care."

"Westbrook," Gabriel muttered. "The man you danced with."

"And these children receive treatment at Meridian facilities?" I continued.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss patient confidentiality," she said, ending our tour abruptly. "I believe you have enough for your article, Miss Grey."

Outside, I clenched my fists in frustration. "They're taking children. Using them as test subjects."

"We need more proof," Gabriel said, his form flickering with what I now recognized as agitation. "We should check the other orphanages on your list, see if there's a pattern."

By nightfall, we'd confirmed similar arrangements at three other orphanages. Children with "special health needs" selected for Meridian's program, disappearing without trace.

Back at my apartment, I poured whiskey with shaking hands. "It's a systematic operation. They're selecting children with no one to miss them, claiming to treat them, and then... what? What are they doing to them?"

"Experimenting," Gabriel said grimly. "That's what the notes at the gala meant by 'subjects.' We need to find out what they're testing, and why."

"How? Westbrook knows my face now. I can't get near Meridian facilities."

Gabriel paced—or rather, drifted back and forth. "We need documents. Internal records. Something that proves what they're doing."

I took a long swallow of whiskey. "I'll call my editor tomorrow, see if he has contacts who might know something about Meridian's operations."

"Good idea." Gabriel paused by my typewriter. "You should sleep. You've been going non-stop all day."

"I'm fine," I insisted, though exhaustion was setting in.

"Stubborn woman," he muttered, but there was fondness in his tone.

I fell asleep at my desk, head pillowed on my notes. When I woke hours later, disoriented and stiff, I was covered with the throw blanket from my sofa. I didn't remember getting it.

"Gabriel?" I called softly.

No answer.

Stumbling to my bedroom, I collapsed onto my mattress and immediately fell back asleep.

The harsh clacking of typewriter keys woke me just before dawn. I bolted upright, heart pounding, and rushed to the living room.

My typewriter was operating by itself, keys depressing and carriage returning with no human hands to guide it.

"Gabriel?" I whispered.

The typing paused, then continued more slowly: YOU SLEEP LIKE THE DEAD. IRONIC, COMING FROM ME.

Despite everything, I laughed. "How are you doing that?"

The keys clacked again: PRACTICE. ALL NIGHT. MAGNETIC FIELDS + CONCENTRATION.

"Show-off," I said, but I was genuinely impressed.

MADE COFFEE. TRY NOT TO BURN YOURSELF.

Sure enough, the percolator on the stove was bubbling gently. I poured myself a cup, marveling at the domestic scene—a ghost making me coffee after I fell asleep working.

"Thank you," I said softly.

YOU'RE WELCOME, the typewriter responded after a pause.

Over the next few days, Gabriel's typewriter communications became more frequent. I'd wake to find notes typed neatly on paper I'd left in the machine.

REMEMBERED MORE ABOUT MERIDIAN TODAY. WAS INVESTIGATING MISSING PERSONS CONNECTED TO THEIR TRIALS.

Or sometimes just observations:

YOUR NEIGHBOR IN 3B SNEAKS OUT AT 2AM EVERY NIGHT. SUSPICIOUS OR SECRET LOVER?

One morning I found a more personal message:

YOU TALKED IN YOUR SLEEP LAST NIGHT. SAID MY NAME. WHAT WERE YOU DREAMING?

I crumpled that note quickly, my cheeks burning. I couldn't remember the dream, but the implication was mortifying.

The typewriter remained silent that day.

My editor was initially skeptical about my Meridian investigation, but the pattern of missing children from multiple orphanages convinced him something sinister was happening.

"I've got a contact at the Health Department," Finch said, chewing his ever-present cigar. "He might have access to Meridian's research approval documents."

"That would be tremendously helpful," I said, ignoring Gabriel's running commentary about Finch's atrocious eating habits.

"He's getting ashes on those files," Gabriel complained, hovering by Finch's desk. "How can he read anything through that smoke?"

"In the meantime," Finch continued, "see what you can dig up on their previous clinical trials. Anything with irregularities or unexplained deaths."

I nodded, already planning my approach. "I'll start at the medical examiner's office."

"His tie is repulsive," Gabriel noted as we left. "Like a cat vomited on silk."

"Must you critique everyone's fashion choices?" I muttered once we were alone in the elevator.

"Not everyone's," he replied. "Just the particularly offensive ones. Your style is actually quite pleasing."

The unexpected compliment caught me off guard. "Thank you," I said, feeling oddly flustered.

At the medical examiner's office, I used my press credentials to request files on deaths connected to clinical trials over the past year. The clerk was reluctant until I mentioned a possible exposé on negligent record-keeping.

Gabriel moved freely through the file room, calling out findings while I pretended to browse randomly.

"Here," he said eventually. "Five deaths in six months, all listed as 'heart failure' during experimental treatment. All former patients of psychiatric institutions or orphanages."

I requested those specific files, claiming journalistic intuition.

Back at my apartment, we spread the documents across my floor, building a timeline of Meridian's activities.

"They're developing some kind of psychiatric treatment," I said, connecting the patterns. "Something involving the nervous system."

"Look at these symptoms before death," Gabriel pointed to a medical report. "Seizures, hallucinations, extreme suggestibility. They're trying to control the mind somehow."

I shivered. "Mind control? That sounds like science fiction."

"Or military application," Gabriel said grimly. "Imagine soldiers who follow orders without question, who can't feel fear..."

"Or political dissidents who can be 'reprogrammed,'" I added, horrified by the implications. "We have to stop this."

"We will," he promised.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The weight of what we'd discovered pressed on me like a physical thing. I got up and poured myself whiskey, hoping it would dull my racing thoughts.

Gabriel found me on the sofa an hour later, staring into my empty glass.

"You should rest," he said gently.

"How can I? Children are being experimented on, possibly dying, while we piece together fragments of evidence." I looked up at him, vision slightly blurred from alcohol and exhaustion. "What if we're too late?"

He sat beside me—or approximated sitting, his ghostly form hovering just above the cushions. "We'll stop them, Viv. I promise."

"Why do you care so much?" I asked suddenly. "Is it just because they might be connected to your death?"

"No," he said after a long pause. "It's because it's right. And because..." He hesitated, then finished softly, "Because you care."

Something shifted between us in that moment—an acknowledgment of whatever strange bond had formed in our short time together.

"I'm glad you're haunting me," I admitted, the whiskey loosening my tongue. "Even if you're infuriating sometimes."

His smile was gentle. "I'm not haunting you. I'm helping you."

"Semantics, Detective."

The next morning, I woke to the now-familiar sound of typewriter keys. Wrapping myself in a robe, I padded to my desk.

GOOD MORNING. MADE COFFEE. NO WHISKEY BEFORE NOON TODAY.

"Are you my ghost or my nanny?" I grumbled, but I couldn't stop my smile.

As I sipped the coffee he'd somehow prepared, the typewriter clacked again.

I REMEMBERED SOMETHING IMPORTANT. THE KNOT USED TO BIND BLACKWOOD—I'VE SEEN IT BEFORE. ON MY OWN WRISTS WHEN I DIED.

I nearly dropped my cup. "What? Are you saying the same person killed you both?"

YES. SAME KILLER. SAME METHOD. I WAS INVESTIGATING MERIDIAN. BLACKWOOD WAS ON THEIR BOARD. WE WERE BOTH THREATS.

"Gabriel," I breathed, "this changes everything. If we can prove Meridian had you killed—"

The typewriter interrupted: CAREFUL. THEY'LL KILL YOU TOO IF THEY DISCOVER WHAT YOU KNOW.

"I've been threatened before," I said dismissively.

NEVER BY PEOPLE THIS POWERFUL.

Before I could respond, the telephone rang. It was Finch's contact at the Health Department, agreeing to meet me that afternoon.

The meeting took place in a quiet café three blocks from the Health Department. Dr. Lewis was a nervous man with thinning hair and perpetual dark circles under his eyes.

"I shouldn't be talking to you," he said immediately. "They have influence everywhere."

"Who does?" I asked.

"Meridian. Or rather, the people behind Meridian." He glanced around nervously. "Have you heard of the Guild?"

Gabriel and I exchanged startled looks.

"What is the Guild?" I pressed.

"A consortium of wealthy businessmen and government officials. They fund Meridian's more... classified research." He slid a folder across the table. "These were never officially approved. Human experimentation without consent, dangerous drugs, mind-altering procedures."

I opened the folder to find documentation of "Project Lethe"—a neurochemical treatment designed to make subjects highly susceptible to suggestion while erasing specific memories.

"They're creating perfect spies," Dr. Lewis whispered. "People who can be programmed for missions, then have all memory of their actions erased. They've been using orphans as test subjects because no one asks questions when they disappear."

"How far have they progressed?" I asked, horrified.

"Too far. They're preparing for human field trials. That's why I had to speak out." He stood abruptly. "I've said too much. The documentation is yours. Do what you will with it, but leave my name out."

After he left, Gabriel's expression was grim. "This is bigger than we thought, Viv."

"We have enough to publish now," I said, clutching the folder. "This will blow the whole operation open."

"Be careful," he warned. "The Guild killed me for less than what you're about to do."

Back at my apartment, I worked feverishly on the story, typing page after page of damning evidence against Meridian and their experiments. Gabriel read over my shoulder, occasionally suggesting clarifications or emphases.

When I finished near midnight, I sat back with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. "This will destroy them."

"And make you a target," Gabriel reminded me. "You should leave town after this publishes."

"I've never run from a story," I said stubbornly.

"This isn't about courage," he argued. "It's about survival."

Before I could respond, a noise outside my window caught my attention—a soft scraping sound, like someone on the fire escape.

Gabriel was instantly alert. "Someone's out there."

I moved to the window cautiously. The fire escape was empty, but a matchbook lay on the metal grating—from The Crimson Club, identical to the one found on Blackwood's body.

A warning.

"They know," I whispered, backing away from the window. "How could they possibly know?"

"Dr. Lewis," Gabriel realized. "He must have been followed. Or he reported the meeting himself."

"What do we do?"

"We need to get you somewhere safe. Now."

I grabbed my manuscript and the folder of evidence, stuffing them into my satchel. As I reached for my coat, a flicker of movement caught my eye—shadows moving across the street below my window.

"They're watching the building," Gabriel confirmed, peering down. "At least three men."

"The back exit," I suggested.

"They'll have that covered too." Gabriel's expression was intense. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation.

"Then follow my lead."

As I headed for the door, I heard a sharp crack, followed by the tinkle of breaking glass. Smoke began pouring through my broken window.

"Fire!" I gasped.

"Get down!" Gabriel shouted.

I dropped to the floor as smoke filled the apartment. Gabriel moved toward the door, his spectral form seeming to gather strength.

"I need to create a distraction," he said, his voice strained. "When I tell you, run for the stairs and don't stop."

"What are you going to do?"

"Something I've never tried before." His form flickered like a candle in wind. "Something that might cost me what little existence I have left."

Before I could protest, Gabriel passed through the closed door. Seconds later, I heard shouts of alarm from the hallway, followed by the unmistakable sound of water rushing through pipes.

The door flew open, and Gabriel reappeared, looking fainter than before. "Now, Viv! Run!"

I grabbed my satchel and ran for the stairs. Behind me, the building's fire sprinklers exploded in a cascade of water, drenching the men who had been coming up the stairs. The sudden deluge created chaos, allowing me to push past them in the confusion.

Outside, I ran blindly into the night, Gabriel's spectral form leading the way, growing dimmer with each block.

"Gabriel!" I called as he began to fade from view. "What's happening to you?"

"Too much energy," he gasped, his voice distant. "Manipulating the water pipes... physical world... draining..."

"Don't leave me," I begged, reaching for him uselessly.

His form stabilized slightly, but remained translucent, barely visible even to my trained eye. "I won't," he promised. "Just... need rest."

We found sanctuary in a small hotel where I registered under a false name. In the safety of the locked room, Gabriel's form slowly began to strengthen, though he remained alarmingly transparent.

"You saved my life," I said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You still have a story to write," he replied, his voice faint but steady. "And I'm not done haunting you yet."

Despite everything, I smiled. "I'm counting on that, Detective."