The woman’s head slowly sank down behind the desk and Wayland thought he heard her whisper something that sounded like: “La ma-dray keh teh pareeoh.” He grumbled in response, knowing whatever she said probably wasn’t too friendly, not that he cared. There were too many of them, immigrants, sucking up work like some malicious sponge from real Americans like Wayland’s brother-in-laws. It stirred something up inside him that he couldn’t seem to push down.
“What was that about?” Officer David Heidelberger asked from behind him, watching the woman waddle mournfully out of the station. He had a clipboard tucked under his arm; a pen perched on his ear, ready for his shift at the front desk.
“Lost husband,” Wayland said with a shrug and wet sounding snuffle. “Probably dead drunk or ran off with the mistress. One or both.”
“I hate those, like it’s our problem to make sure your husband doesn’t decide to run off with some easy girl. Give us a real problem, like a madman trying to conquer the world or something,” Heidelberger grumbled. He and Wayland had been sharing front desk duty for the last few months ever since Caraway up and disappeared, effectively dissolving the Special Crime Squad. It was easy work, but it was also shit boring. They went from facing off against the toughest criminals in the city to sitting around waiting to check in drunks and prostitutes. “How’s it been tonight?”
Thunder clapped outside as Wayland gave him a sidelong glance and Heidelberger’s heart sank. It was as bad as he thought. Another day buried in boredom.
“Gonna rain again?” Heidelberger asked, though the answer was obvious.
“Gonna rain again,” Wayland sighed as he collected his files. “Hate this time of year.”
“You and me both,” Heidelberger sighed as he sat down in the chair, still warm from Wayland’s ample rump. He placed a foot against the desk and pushed himself back, tilting the chair. He stared out the door for several moments as a waterfall began to rush over the station entrance before asking: “You ever wonder where he is?”
“Sometimes,” Wayland replied with a shrug. “Not as much as I used to.”
Heidelberger felt himself frown. He had spent nearly every day trying to piece together Caraway’s whereabouts. Hearing that Wayland had essentially given up hope was oddly personal. “What’s your guess?”
“Dead.”
“Dead?” Heidelberger repeated, taken aback.
“Dead,” Wayland reiterated, in case there was any confusion.
Heidelberger furrowed his brow, his eyes shooting back and forth. “How do you figure?”
“That Green Lama. Boss went to go help him out with some case and got himself killed,” Wayland said before another phlegm-ridden snort. “Working with costumed vigilantes… Just a matter of time.”
“Since when were you down on the Lama?”
“Since always. Rubs me wrong that some guy can put on a hood and think he can go around acting like the moral decider, telling us what’s right and what’s wrong, what’s good or evil, without anyone saying yay or nay. Fascist is what—”
“Wayland! Heidelberger! Damn, it’s good to see you boys,” a voice boomed from the station entrance like thunder. The two officers looked up as Lieutenant John Caraway strolled through the door with a broad smile as if he had never left. “I miss anything exciting?”
• • •
JEAN PUSHED the backstage door open with her hip. The place was empty, dark and quiet. Daylight burst through the doorway, illuminating the dust floating in the air, reminding her of Central Park and falling ash. She pinched her eyes shut and pushed the memory away as the backstage door eased shut, the light dropping back to shadows. That world didn’t exist—wouldn’t exist. She and Jethro had seen to that. But perhaps that was why she was still shaken up from last night. She had put on her best brave face for Jethro—no need to worry him more than she had to—but she couldn’t get that man’s black bleeding eyes out her mind. Heydrich was dead, his head blasted off and body dropped into an unending abyss in R’lyeh. There was no coming back from that, but—as Jethro had once explained—he had done it before.
Jean made her way through the darkened hallway toward her shared dressing room by memory, not noticing the band of light leaking from beneath the doorway.
“What’s the deal, Red?” a familiar voice said as she entered the room. “I leave for a few months and you get a rock on your finger?”
Jean’s heart jumped as she caught sight of the face that had melted thousands of girls’ hearts across the country smiling at her through the vanity mirror—if they only knew. He was seated casually, feet propped up on the counter, her copy of the latest issue of Broadway Tattler in his hands.
A smile stretched across Jean’s face. “Like you weren’t running around, knocking boots with the first person who swaggered your way.”
“A man’s got needs, babe,” the movie star said with a shrug. He looked thinner than she remembered him. Older somehow. “Can’t blame me for following my urges.”
“Can’t blame me for doing the same,” she retorted as she sat on the edge of her vanity.
The movie star folded the tabloid, dropped it onto the vanity, and stood up so he could look Jean in the eye. He frowned and tilted his head in thought. “You know I’ve always wondered… Does he wear the cloak when you two go to bed, or is it only for special occasions?”
“Why can’t every night be a special occasion?” she replied with a cocked eyebrow.
He gasped. “Scandalous.”
“Look who’s talking, Mr. Matinee Idol,” she said jabbing him in the chest.
“Missed you, Red,” Ken Clayton said, giving her that dazzling smile
“Missed you too, Blondie,” she whispered before jumping into his arms. She squeezed him as tight as she could to make sure he was real; her best friend, back home. For a moment, she forgot all about the mad man with the obsidian blood. “Shouldn’t you be dancing around dressed like a lion looking for some wizard at the end of a yellow brick road?”
“Off to the merry old Land of Oz…” Ken shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve had enough of those bloodsuckers.”
Jean leaned back and narrowed her eyes, trying to read his expression. “Do I even want to know what you mean by that?”
“Take it as literal and move on from there,” he said patting her on the shoulder. He fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He put one in the corner of his mouth and offered one to Jean.
Jean held up a hand. “I quit.”
Ken’s eyebrow shot up. “Really? Is this a Jethro thing?”
“It’s bad for my singing, and my lungs, despite what the ads say.”
“It’s a Jethro thing,” Ken said with finality as he slipped the packet away and lit up. “So, tell me, how’s New York been without me?”
“Cold, at least it seems that way,” she replied, conscious of the gooseflesh running up and down her arms. “World hasn’t come to an end, so I guess there’s that.”
“Well, we have you to thank for that,” he said, lovingly poking her shoulder.
“You were there, too,” she reminded him.
“Yeah,” Ken said with a painful chuckle. “Scared out of my mind. Lions and tigers and bears… Oh, my.” He paused to clear his throat. He unfolded the Broadway Tattler and eyed the voluptuous photo on the cover. “So… Jean Parker, huh? That’s a new one.”
“My mother’s maiden name,” she said, snatching the paper away from him. “Figured it was better than having ‘Jean Farrell, the Green Lama’s Girlfriend’ plastered everywhere.”
Ken considered this. “Fair enough…” His eyes dropped to her left hand. “So, where’s the diamond, Red? I expected to see it glittering from across the country.”
She playfully smacked him on the shoulder. “Please, if I were engaged, you would’ve been first to know.”
“I would certainly hope so. Pity though, I was looking forward to a green wedding.”
Jean rolled her eyes. “Ugh, really?
That was the best you could come up with?”
“I’m an actor, not a writer, sweetheart.”
She chuckled but quickly fell silent as she looked down at the floor. “Have you seen him? Since you got back? Benn with two ‘N’s’?”
Ken silently shook his head.
“It isn’t the same, is it? Not after everything. It just isn’t the same, not anymore.”
“No, it isn’t,” he confessed, shaking his head. “I mean, I tried; I really, really tried, but it was like this itch I couldn’t scratch. No matter what I did, I knew I had to get involved.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” she said before telling him about her encounter last night. Afterwards they sat in silence for several minutes before she asked: “You think we’ve got a problem? Like we’re only happy when we’re in incredible danger?”
“We’ve got plenty of problems, Red,” he said with a faint, somber smile. “That’s just one for the list.”
“It’s a pretty long list.”
The backstage door opened and her cast mates began to pour in. It was time to perform.
• • •
JETHRO SLOWLY PEELED off his golden namsa, his body broken from bone to muscle. He opened and closed his right hand, eyeing the scar and the thin green veins on his middle finger. Bruises lined both arms, large green-black welts that were firm to the touch, the make-up he had used to cover them up beginning to flake off. His breaths were ragged; having once again cracked the rib von Kultz had broken so long ago. But it was not without some bitter sense of pride that, even during intimacy, he had become adept at hiding his injuries from Jean. He didn’t want to worry her any more than he had to.
Easing down into his desk chair, he began leafing through the newspapers again, marking a small, red “X” next to specific articles. By the time he was done there were over three dozen marked stories, all of them detailing crimes throughout the country. He sighed and glanced over at the multiple rows of thick binders filled with newspaper clippings. How many of those crimes were still unsolved, he wondered? How many would remain so? They all weighed down on him, a burden growing heavier over time; each printed word another stab to the chest. He looked down at the one article he kept taped to his desk, a small three sentence clipping about three young children shot down while disembarking the S.S. Heki. The machine gun’s song of death still rang in his ears.
A sensation of despair bordering on rage boiled in his gut and he found his mind drifting back to his conversation with Jean, and ultimately, Karl Heydrich. Jethro had saved the world, defeated its greatest evil… but the war still continued. There was no end to it; no matter how hard he tried it only would grow worse.
“Tulku?” a soft voice echoed out from the other side of the study. Jethro looked over to the small Tibetan man standing in the doorway, his aging but youthful exterior masking countless centuries of life. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, Tsarong,” Jethro curtly replied, collecting the various newspapers. Their once brotherly relationship had chilled after Jethro’s encounter with Cthulhu. To know one’s destiny is to void it, Tsarong had said, trying to justify years of deception.
Tsarong placed his hands into his wide sleeves and began slowly walking toward Jethro. “I read about your escapades in Washington. Getting shot in front of the President. Impressive. It seems like the Fifth Column has become more brazen.”
“Seems that way,” Jethro replied, stepping away from his desk. “I’ve marked today’s articles; make sure they’re filed appropriately.”
Tsarong lips turned slightly. “Do not be short with me, Jethro,” his voice taking on the striking tone of an instructor.
Jethro stopped short but didn’t look back at his old master. “I apologize, Tulku.”
Tsarong shook his head in disappointment. “Even your voice sounds empty. Have you forgotten all that you learned in the Temple of the Clouds? All those years, all those miracles… Has it all been so quickly wiped away?”
“Miracles,” Jethro spat back. “What miracles have I seen?”
“Miracles of your own making,” Tsarong softly replied before he forcefully took Jethro’s arm and eyed the scarred right hand. “The infection is spreading.”
“But my abilities are increasing,” Jethro said with a terse smile. “I can feel it coursing through my veins, growing stronger by the day. I’ve watched bullets move through the air like bugs trapped in molasses. I can hear screams on the other side of the city. I can run miles in seconds. And it is only the tip of the iceberg…” He paused to lick his chapped lips, struggling with the next statement. He freed his hand from Tsarong and clenched it into a fist. The verdant veins on his hand pulsated as a vibrant green light grew out from the center of his fist, electrical energy crackling in the air. “I’m becoming the Asura, a god amongst men.”
“And is that something you truly want?” Tsarong asked, unmoved by Jethro’s display of strength. “You shouldn’t be so cavalier, Tulku. Is any of this what a Bodhisattva should want?”
“Don’t lecture me on what I should and should not want,” Jethro bit back. “I am no longer your weapon against the darkness. My destiny is mine alone to discover, and I will not let you dictate to me what direction I should take.”
“Even if that means subverting all that you once hoped to achieve?”
Jethro unclenched his fist. The energy dissipated into the air as a green mist, but the pulsating veins on his scarred hand remained. “No. You… You’re right. I only ever wanted to find some purpose, but… I have this power now…So if there is some good that can come with these abilities, if I can make the world just a little bit better with the time I have left—”
“And you plan to control these powers while they control your temper?”
“I am in control!” Jethro snapped. An electric buzz filled the air before a light bulb on the other side of the room exploded with a sizzling pop.
Tsarong raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Miss Farrell, yet?”
Jethro pinched his eyes shut and sighed. “No need to worry her.”
“She will find out eventually. She deserves to know,” Tsarong said as Jethro turned away. “There are difficult times ahead, Tulku, but I think you already knew that.”
“More prophecies, Tsarong?” Jethro asked; his voice tinged with sadness.
“We’re long past the time of prophecy,” Tsarong said as much to himself as to Jethro. “We’re on our own… in need of miracles.”
• • •
FOUNDED BY Francis Darren Black in 1839, the village of Black Rock sits in a small valley about a hundred miles north of New York City. The town proper is bordered by the “Three Hills,” relatively minor hills that act as both the town’s official border as well as its fortification from the outside world. Black Rock Hill sat to the east, Tinwood to the northwest and South Grand to the southwest. It was a tranquil village, the kind from storybooks and landscape paintings hit hard by the Depression. The farms that once surrounded the town proper were barren, forgotten relics of a prosperous time; the shops around Cody Square were closed down, boarded up and abandoned. Black Rock, for all intents and purposes, was a dead town. Which made it perfect.
Valco and Murdoch had ridden most of the trip up in silence, their driver barely acknowledging their presence. Valco stared out the window as the city tapered off and trees and farms grew up around them. The Hudson faded from a brown and green to a vibrant blue, reminding Valco of his youth, ropes and swings in Syracuse. They passed by Norton and Tanner, pinpricks on a map that brought back other memories, darker ones he desperately tried to forget.
Murdoch subtly cleared his throat. “Dr. Valco, I’ve been meaning—May I call you Harrison?”
“Please,” Valco said with a nod. He fiddled with his bowler cap hooked on his knee.
Murdoch gave him a thin smile. “Harrison, I’ve been meaning to ask you a… delicate question.”
Valco gestured for Murdoch to proceed.
“The Crimson Ha
nd—the man who attacked Cleveland—you had direct dealings with him, no?”
Valco shifted uncomfortably. “Pelham and I were friends—old friends, in fact… At least, that’s how it seemed. We worked in the same building on West Twenty-Fourth after he ‘retired’ from brain surgery.” Valco chuckled despite himself. “We used to grab lunch together some days. He would always bitch and moan about his rheumatism. Used to open and close his hand while he did, as if to prove a point. One thing he never asked about, even when I brought it up, was the Delta Liquid Ray. He would just sit there, nod once or twice and then change the subject to something else like politics—the man was a firm Republican. But, it was all just this…” He trailed off, his throat tightening with anger. He clicked his tongue and managed: “Goddammit… I believed him.”
Murdoch flicked a piece of lint off his trousers and nodded slowly. “Do you always blame yourself for Pelham’s crimes?” he asked after a moment.
Valco felt his face grow warm. He looked toward the window, watching Black Rock turn into a small toy village as they made their way up South Grand. “I wouldn’t say that… Not necessarily,” he managed.
“But you feel responsible, no?”
Valco responded with a short, embarrassed nod.
“Hm.” Murdoch cocked his head thoughtfully, leaving the conversation there.
Outside the trees overtook the horizon, obscuring the town. The car turned off onto a bumpy dirt road for several yards before it slowed to a stop in front of a narrow wooden shack.
“Here we are, Harrison,” Murdoch said pleasantly, exiting the car.
Valco eyed the wooden shack with incredulity. He opened and closed his mouth, glanced over at the driver hoping for some form of response, and received only silence. Exiting the car, he placed his hat on his head and stormed after Murdoch. “Is this some sort of joke, Dr. Murdoch? I’m not one for games.”
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 7
