There was a soft knock at the door, a quick rap-tap-tap. Valco pulled himself away from the microscope and glanced at the lab entrance with a furrowed brow. He checked his watch, just shy of six in the morning. With a grim frown, he pulled open the top drawer of the desk and checked to see if his pistol was still there. He had never even fired it once, but after Pelham, he always kept it close.
“Come in,” Valco called, his voice raspier and more tainted with exhaustion than he had expected.
The door slowly opened as a young man with a mop of wavy black hair poked his head in. “Dr. Valco?”
“Yes?”
The young man stepped into the lab, smartly dressed despite the early hour. “Dr. Valco,” the young man began, sounding older than he looked, “my name is Dr. Franklin Murdoch.”
Franklin, Valco thought bitterly. Why must everyone be named Franklin? He shook his head and said, “I must apologize, Dr. Murdoch, I don’t believe we’re acquainted, and I believe it’s rather early to be making house calls.”
A sheepish smile spread over Murdoch’s face, making him look all the more juvenile. “No, you’re correct on both fronts, Dr. Valco; but I suppose you could say the latter is informed by the former. While you may not know of me, I am very well acquainted with you and your work. Your paper on the properties of radium was brilliant.”
“Well, I appreciate that.” Valco allowed a small, somber smile. He subtly closed the top drawer—not all the way, just enough to keep the gun out of sight to prying eyes. “What can I do for you, son? I’ll confess I’m probably of little use at this hour.”
“I do apologize for that, sir,” Murdoch said as he walked toward Valco. “Normally, I would have stopped by during more normal hours but the folks I work for were pretty insistent that I see you as soon as possible.”
“‘The folks you work for?’” Valco instinctually glanced over at his top drawer.
“We were hoping you could help us solve a little… mystery we have on our hands.”
Valco sighed. “Despite what you—or your employers—might believe, Dr. Murdoch, regardless of my associations with the Green Lama, I am no detective. If anything I’m bordering on a forgotten henchman.”
“Oh,” Murdoch sounded, momentarily distracted before he waved it away. “No, no, nothing like that at all… We were wondering if you could take a look at this.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small vial filled with an oily black liquid.
“What is that?”
“Hoping you could tell us…” Murdoch said, holding out the vial.
Valco tentatively took the vial, rolling around its contents, watching as the thick black liquid clung to the sides of the glass. “Looks like oil.”
Murdoch gave him a thin smile. “I assure you, it isn’t.”
“Hm. Do you mind?” Valco asked, indicating his microscope.
Murdoch shook his head. “Not at all, please,” he said with an encouraging gesture as he paced around to the opposite side of the lab table.
Valco opened up the vial, drew the oil-like liquid out with an eyedropper, and squeezed a small droplet onto a glass slide, switching out the slide with the Lama’s blood. Peering into the microscope, he saw little more than soupy black, the light barely shining through. Changing the lens, he peered closer into the liquid… nothing but black. “Hm… Doesn’t look organic,” he allowed, silently chiding himself for being so easily distracted. This was pointless. “Probably a—Holy God!” he almost shouted as the black liquid suddenly shifted to the left on its own. Valco jumped back in shock, his hand held up as though a gun had been suddenly pointed at his face. “It moved. How the hell did it just move?”
“That was my reaction too,” Murdoch chuckled, visibly enjoying Valco’s reaction. “Crazy stuff, huh?”
“What is this?”
Murdoch’s smile dropped into a thin line. “Officially, it’s called a long string of numbers no one can ever remember, so we just call it the Substance. We don’t know what it is, or where it came from, but we do know it is both organic and inorganic, displaying properties of both simultaneously. Which would be improbable enough, until we determined that, technically speaking, it doesn’t even exist.”
Valco frowned. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Dr. Murdoch.”
Murdoch ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. “Here, let me see if I can explain it… Think of it like—Well, take a look at this glass here,” he said, walking over to the window. “You can see everything on the other side. Save for these rain drops, might as well be invisible, right? But, try and reach through and…” He knocked his knuckles against the glass. “You can’t. It’s there and it isn’t—so to speak. The Substance works like that, expect backwards. We can see it and touch it, but when we try to examine it, look at its molecular structure we find… nothing. Just black, unending black.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Impossible doesn’t even begin to cover it. We’ve been doing experiments, Dr. Valco, and we’ve discovered things that will frankly turn nearly every science on its ear. The things we’ve been able to accomplish…” he trailed off. “This is the stuff of miracles.”
“Miracles…” Valco whispered in muted fascination. “Where and when did you find it?”
Murdoch’s eyes darted away for a split second. “A few months ago in the South Pacific, just floating there.”
Valco mulled over Murdoch’s cryptic response and decided he wouldn’t get more than that for now. “You mentioned you’ve accomplished something with the Substance…”
“Big things, Dr. Valco,” Murdoch said with a smile, tapping the table with his index finger as if to make his point. “Big, improbable, wonderful things. Whatever the Substance is, it’s part of something far bigger than us. We think we’re close, but as you can see, we’ve still got a way to go… And we need men like you, Dr. Valco.”
The request didn’t take Valco by surprise, but he was still taken aback by the sudden shift in conversation. He ran a finger thoughtfully over his mustache. “If I understand this correctly, Doctor… You came to see me at dawn to offer me a job?”
Murdoch’s smile broadened. “Not just a job, Dr. Valco. I’ve been tasked by my superiors to ask you to join our… Collective.”
• • •
JEAN FARRELL’S nights were always restless, wracked with nightmares. She would often wake up in a cold sweat, hands trembling; the nightmares, save for a few scant images, instantly lost to the ether. They began shortly after her encounter with the creatures aboard the Bartlett and had grown steadily worse over time, granting her only a few scant hours of sleep a night.
Tonight was no different.
The dream was filled with shadows, shifting and moving around her, surrounding her. She knew there were people in the darkness, that unique dream logic where one can simply know something is true without any discernible proof. She was in a long hallway, tilted sideways so that the walls were the floors and the floors the walls. She was looking for something or someone, it was both and neither. At the end of the hallway there was a faceless man staring at her, a red triangle inside a circle drawn on his forehead, a bloody concave puncture wound in the center. The faceless man laughed—a wicked, horrible sound that made her skin crawl—and said: No one here, but me.
Her eyes shot open and the nightmare was lost, replaced by the vision of the man she loved reading the newspaper in the chair by the window. He was shirtless, the early morning light shining on his beautifully sculpted and terribly scarred frame. Jethro Dumont, the only man who had ever truly held her heart—though many had tried.
Jean smiled a tired, sweet smile. “Hey, you,” she whispered.
Jethro looked up from his paper and smiled, his blue-grey eyes—so often distant except when they were looking at her—sparkling. “Morning, Ne-tso-hbum,” he replied.
She propped herself up on her elbow and pulled a few strays hairs from her face. “Didn’t hear you come in, Smug.”
/> Jethro chuckled as he folded up the newspaper and set it aside on the windowsill. “I would be a very bad costumed vigilante if you did.”
“Or a very good boyfriend,” she said, beckoning him over.
Jethro walked over and climbed into bed, wrapping his arms around her body. “Missed you,” he whispered as he laid his head against her chest. He sighed, enjoying the rhythm of her heartbeat thrumming in his ear.
“I know,” she said, her smile broadening as she stroked his hair. “When did you get back?”
“Couple of hours ago,” he replied. “Read through the early editions… A German airplane crashed near Montauk. No one onboard and riddled with bullet holes, miracle it made it across the ocean.”
“Caraway? Betcha ten bucks it was Caraway,” she said, poking him in the shoulder. Jethro allowed a smile but didn’t respond. He hoped it was Caraway, but he had slowly come to realize that hope and reality rarely ever intersected, though he would never say so aloud.
“How’d everything go down in D.C?” Jean asked, sleep once again trickling into her voice. “You kick some fascist ass?”
“They tried to assassinate me.”
Jean scrunched her brow. This was getting surprisingly confusing. “Which me? ‘Jethro Me’ or ‘Green Lama Me?’”
“Jethro Me.”
“What?!” Jean almost shouted, her eyes wide. She pushed him off her so as to look him in the eye. She knew she didn’t need to panic, he was the Green Lama after all, but there’s no logic in love. “Tell me you’re kidding. I thought they were after Roosevelt. Why the hell would they try to kill Jethro Dumont?”
“I don’t know…” he replied with a shrug. “Gary and Evangl found some evidence at the Fifthers’ hideout, but nothing that gave a definitive motive.”
“You don’t think von Kultz…?” Jean began. Nazi Field Marshal Heinrich von Kultz was a master of disguise who had nearly revealed the Green Lama’s identity to the world atop the Brooklyn Bridge almost a year ago.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Jethro said, sitting up, choosing not to tell her about the letter signed “R. F.” “Though with the way things are moving in Europe it’s hard to tell… The Fifthers might simply be desperate.” He paused and his eyes went distant again as he idly rubbed his scarred right middle finger. “I told Gary and Evangl,” he eventually managed.
Jean raised a curious eyebrow and a knowing smile. “How’d they take it?”
“Well, they didn’t punch me in the face,” Jethro said with a bashful grin.
“Isn’t that nice?” she said, lightly punching him in the chest. “Though you definitely deserved it.”
“Ow!” Jethro sounded in mock pain, holding his chest as if wounded. “You take care of New York while I was away?”
“For the most part,” she shrugged. Her eyes darkened, recalling the events from last night. She hesitated, struggling to form her thoughts into words. “There was this guy last night… Tried to rape—or eat—this woman just off Broadway. He had this horrible scar on his forehead…” She gave him the blow-by-blow of the encounter, careful not to skip on any minute detail, save for the fact she had shot him in the head. “I went to grab the police, but when I came back, the body was gone. Which isn’t that odd, considering what we’ve been through, but there was something wrong about him—beyond, you know, our normal kinda weird. It was like he wasn’t—” Jean cut herself short. They had dealt with so many terrifying and unbelievable things over the years, why did this bother her so much?
Jethro reached over and placed an affectionate hand on her arm, his hand cool on her sleep-warm skin. “Like he wasn’t what?” he asked, his gaze piercing yet tender.
“Okay, this gonna sound crazy,” she began, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “so just go with it.”
Jethro couldn’t help but chuckle. “Jean, after everything we’ve been through, I really doubt there’s anything that would surprise me.”
Jean sighed, and smiled despite herself. She met his gaze. “I don’t think he was alive.”
Jethro considered this for a moment. “Okay,” he said with a quick nod. “I guess that does surprise me a little bit.” He laced his fingers with hers and squeezed her hand. They sat in silence for several minutes, both fearful of the implication.
“What do you think it means?” she eventually asked, nothing more than a whisper.
Jethro shook his head. “Nothing good,” he said quietly, quickly glancing away. Jean thought she caught a glimmer of rage she had never seen before, but when he looked back at her it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. With a somber smile, he softly squeezed her hand. “I’ll look into it.”
“Thank you… Oh, by the way,” she said, tapping his knee, suddenly remembering the gossip rags. “According to the trades,” she said, chewing her bottom lip, “you and I are engaged.”
“Engaged?” Jethro’s eyebrows shot up pleasantly. “Hm. Interesting”
“Don’t get too excited there, Mister,” Jean said, poking him again in the chest. “Why should I buy the cow when I get the milk for free?”
Jethro laughed and kissed her firmly on the lips. “Love you too, sweetheart.”
“I know you do, Smug,” Jean laughed, pulling him closer.
• • •
“I’VE TOLD YOU everything!” Harrin sputtered, his face horribly bruised and caked with drying blood. Everything, every inch of him was agony. His body was broken, sliced up, and shaking. He was missing several teeth; each wrenched out by his captor and scattered across the barroom floor. One eyelid was sealed shut in a mixture of yellow, purple, and black. His nose was bleeding profusely, pouring over his puffed lips and chin. His hands—his magician’s hands—were destroyed, every single finger broken; each joint had been smashed one-by-one with a hammer. “Please, I can’t talk anymore!”
“Yes, I can see that,” the man said quietly, noting the long list of names Harrin had given him, deciding to visit the Browns first. He cleaned off his hands with a white towel, leaving it a bright scarlet. “Thank you, Mr. Harrin, you’ve been most helpful.”
Harrin shivered and slumped down in his chair. Tears streamed down his cheeks, cutting through the dried blood. “What happens now? Are you going to lemme go?”
A thin smile creased the man’s emotionless face. “I’m afraid there’s a problem.” Harrin closed his one good eye and let out a low, warbling sob; reminding the man of a bleating lamb. How pathetic. “You know my face, Mr. Harrin,” the man said calmly as he pulled on his gloves, “and that simply will not do.”
“But… I—No! I told you everything. I did! I swear!” Harrin sputtered. He leaned forward and fell off the chair onto his knees. He held out his broken hands, pleading. “You can’t! I swear, I won’t say anything! Please!”
“Come now, Mr. Harrin, don’t act surprised,” the man said as Harrin fell forward with a heavy flop. “Surely, you knew your involvement with someone like the Green Lama would make this sort of outcome inevitable.”
“No! No! I don’t want to!” Harrin shrieked, pulling himself across the floor, leaving a trail of dark crimson behind him.
“You disappoint me, Mr. Harrin,” the man sighed as he followed after him, his shoes clapping against the floor with a slow, methodical rhythm. “I expected someone with your experience to be a bit… braver.”
Harrin sobbed as he violently shook his head, tears pouring out of his eyes. “I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna!”
“Please stop, Mr. Harrin,” the man sighed. “Everyone dies.”
“It’s not suppose to be like this,” Harrin cried, struggling toward the door, but his body was too broken, in too much unrelenting pain to go any further. Terror flooded his mind; gooseflesh covered him. His body shook, frigid and warm all at once. His life wasn’t flashing in front of his eyes, he wasn’t hearing the angels sing above him. There was only the panic, the remorseless black deluge, pulling him down to the bottom, drowning him. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this!
”
The man crouched down in front of Harrin. “That’s where you’re mistaken,” he said as he drew his pistol and placed it against Harrin’s temple. “This was the only way it could have ended.”
The magician sobbed. This was a mercy killing, the man decided, nothing less; he needed to be put out of his misery. The man pulled the trigger and Theodor Harrin’s skull turned concave, splattering brain and blood across the barroom floor.
Chapter 4: Homecoming
“PLEASE, SIR, you havta lissen to me,” the woman begged, an unending flow of tears streaming down her cheeks, eyes blood red, a droplet of snot hanging from her nose. She wasn’t going to be winning any beauty pageant that was for sure. She stood on the tip of her toes, pushing her five-foot frame as far as it could go, her head just barely making it over the front desk. “You havta help me, please!”
Sergeant Evan Wayland sighed and leaned back in his chair so that only the woman’s black hair was visible. He would’ve cared more back in the early days, back when he was a dozen pants sizes thinner and his chin didn’t have a second and third brother, but that was a long time ago. “Ma’am, if ya haven’t noticed we’re a little busy,” he said in monotone, waving toward the long line of impatiently waiting citizens, each in some kind of physical or emotional distress, all of them pathetic. “So, if you just wait, someone will get around to you, I swear.”
“But please, sir, my husband!” the woman sobbed, her nails digging into the front desk’s soft, worn wood. “I no see him in seven days! He no come home!” she sobbed in broken English.
Wayland rolled his eyes. “You check the local pub? Probably just passed out under some barstool after drinking some…” he trailed off, trying to think of that Mexican stuff with the worm the spics always like to drink. “Tock-keel-ah,” he managed.
“No!” the woman protested, smacking her hand against the desk. “No! He no drink!”
“Right, and Grouch Marx’s mustache is real.” Wayland leaned forward, pancaking his stomach against the desktop. “Listen, sweetheart, why don’t you go home; take care of your kid, and we’ll let you know if he turns up. Okay?” he said in the sincerest voice he could manage, though his eyes were distant and numb.
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 6
