Jethro shook his head. No, it couldn’t be possible. “Then why is the body exhibiting a week’s worth of decay?”
“How the hell is that possible?” Caraway asked, but Jethro only gave him a silent look that spoke volumes. He didn’t know.
“It may have something to do with the black liquid,” Jethro said. Not for the first time, he was reminded of the man who had attacked Jean. He needed to study the black ooze. He looked over to Woods. “Commissioner, with your permission?”
Woods shook his head. “I don’t care who you are, Lama, you’re not messing with my crime scene.”
Jethro looked over at Caraway, who nodded in silent understanding. “Completely understandable, Commissioner,” Jethro said, standing up. “If you don’t mind, Caraway and I will look over the rest of the apartment and let your men get back to work.”
Woods eyed Jethro and Caraway suspiciously before he gave them a subtle conciliatory nod. “But don’t touch anything, you get me? I don’t care who you are, Lama, but if I find anything out of place I’ll have both your hides.”
“Yeah, I’d like to see him try,” Caraway grumbled to Jethro.
Jethro allowed himself a somber smile as they moved away from the corpse. Despite the circumstances, he was glad to be working with Caraway once again. The click, snap, FLASH! of the camera began singing a morbid song.
“Own up, Lama,” Caraway continued. “Why am I here? Sick as this thing is, this sorta stuff should be a walk in the park for you.”
Jethro shook his head. “There is something wrong here, John; deeper and more perverse. It is something Jean told me,” he admitted as they moved through the apartment. “A man attacked her, his eyes bleeding black; the black substance on the victim’s body is similar to what she described. I can’t help but feel they’re connected.” Jethro peered into a small pile of broken wood, a cacophony of dark mahogany, light birch and peeling lime green. His heart stopped cold. His mouth went dry and he blinked several times before he was able to speak. “John…” he managed. “John, could you come over here?”
Caraway stepped over and froze at the sight. “Holy Jesus…”
“You guys find something?” Crevier asked as he, Fulton, and Woods rushed up beside them. His heels squeaked against the wooden floor as he came to a dead stop. “Oh… God…“ he sobbed.
Despite the wet gurgling sound of Woods behind them, silence echoed through the room, as if the world had shut down, the air sucked out into space. Caraway looked over at Jethro, hoping for an answer, but Jethro only closed his eyes and fought back tears. There was nothing to say.
At their feet, in a pool of blood mixed with black, was the partially devoured body of a young child, its face split open, its eyes starring off in opposite directions.
Chapter 6: The Lost Ones
MOONLIGHT STRETCHED through the circular window overlooking the study, pooling across the room in a long, blue-white oval. Small butter candles lined the walls, their orange glow mixing with the blue of the night, making it feel less a penthouse and more a monastery. Countless other butter candles kept the study warm, fighting back the cool autumn air. Small beads of sweat formed at the edge of Jean’s hair. So much had changed since she had first been here after they defeated the golem, and not long after, when Richard Foster tried to prove Jethro was the Green Lama, only to be interrupted by three gun-toting men in gas masks. She was still finding bullet holes in the woodwork. Back then, even she had been convinced Jethro was the Lama, but thanks to Magga, Jethro had thrown everyone off his trail. And while Jean understood his motives, she’d be lying if she said she still wasn’t a little mad at Jethro for the prolonged deception. She should have seen right through it, she told herself, but she was only a girl back then, barely twenty-four, easily fooled, and she had learned a lot since then.
She flicked a switch hidden behind a fake leather-bound book, the title written in golden Pali letters, which—according to Jethro—roughly translated to “Lab Equipment.” Hidden motors and engines whirred as a section of the far wall slid back and a long metallic table littered with scientific instruments rattled out to the center of the room.
“Isn’t this around the time when Tsarong comes out and offers us some tea?” Ken asked as he strolled into the study, puffing his cigarette. “I’m parched.”
Jean shrugged as she walked over to the lab table. “He’s probably sitting cross-legged somewhere, spinning his prayer wheels chanting… Well, take a guess.”
“Heh. I can only imagine.”
“Can you put that out?”
“’Scuse me?”
She indicated his cigarette. “You’re gonna contaminate the experiment.”
Ken pinched his brow. “Contaminate?” He skeptically held up the cigarette. “This is going to contaminate your experiment? How the hell is it going to—?”
“Just trust me on this, Blondie,” Jean said impatiently.
“You’re starting to sound like him. Next thing I know you’ll be taking up the mantle.” He stubbed out his cigarette in a jade ashtray that looked like a coughing man. Dumont wasn’t subtle about his distaste for tobacco. “Are you going to be taking on the faith? Becoming a good little Buddhist girl, doing whatever it is good little Buddhist girls do?”
Jean cackled at that. “I was born a bad Christian, I’ll die a bad Christian. Besides, let’s not forget I did befriend a god from Olympus, so my faith is all sorts of screwed up. Help yourself to some drinks if you’re so thirsty, Lord knows Jethro won’t mind.” She lifted the dust cover off the microscope and flicked on the light.
“If you’re bad, I’m worse,” Ken commented with a crooked grin and cocked eyebrow as he mixed himself an amaretto from Jethro’s dry bar. Sipping his drink, he crossed the study to a small golden Buddha shimmering in the light of the butter candles. Several minutes passed before Ken realized he was staring, almost as though he was trying to peer through the statue to the small safe which stored Dumont’s “enhanced” radioactive salts. Only four people knew the code to access them, Dumont and Tsarong knew the whole six-number key, while Ken and Jean each knew only half. “You still remember your half of the super secret code?”
“Yup, twenty-eight, twenty-one, fourteen,” she recited as she worked.
“Eighteen, thirteen, forty-two,” he added, reeling off his numbers. He eyed her as she worked at the lab table. “Does Jethro know you touch his stuff?”
Jean frowned as if confused by the question. “I touch his stuff all the time,” she replied evenly as she brought the vial of black ooze out from her purse. It looked so much like crude oil, she mused as she looked at the vial, but without the thin brownish tint at the edges. It was black, all the way through. They had spent the better part of the evening scooping up as much as they could find in the alleyway, though she swore there was more now than they had earlier.
Ken pursed his lips and cleared his throat. “Thank you for that double entendre,” he sighed. “Now I want to throw up.”
Jean gave Ken a wry smile. “You’re just jealous,” she said, laughter teasing at the edge of her voice.
“Well… I never said that,” he replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Yeah, ’cause no one wants to be with a rich, handsome man with the body of an Olympian,” Jean retorted as she opened the vial and poured a droplet of the black liquid onto a glass slide. She corked the vial and placed in the rack beside her. “It’s a living nightmare, every day.”
Ken rolled his eyes. “Brag brag brag. At least your sarcasm hasn’t left you.”
“If anything, I’m consistent,” she said as she placed the slide under the microscope. She had seen Jethro use this a dozen times, so she decided it shouldn’t be too difficult. She had no idea what she was looking for, but she was certain this was what Jethro would have done. She peered through the lens, adjusting the focus until the image resolved.
“What do you see?” Ken asked over her shoulder.
Jean’s mouth twisted in annoya
nce. She loved Ken to death, but sometimes it was like dealing with a child. “I’m gonna give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
“Black.”
“Bingo. Got it in one. You win the door prize,” she said. Everything she saw was unending black, with only a small amount of light shining through. But even the light that made it through the ooze seemed distorted, almost grey, as if it had been tainted. It made her hair stand on end and a shiver run down her spine. She stood up and massaged her eyes. “It’s definitely not blood, as far as I can tell. Hell, it doesn’t even look like oil when you get real close. It’s like looking into a shadow.”
Ken draped his arm across his mouth and dramatically lowered his voice. “Who knows what evil—?”
“Could you not?” Jean scowled. “I hate that show. Besides, Welles gives me the creeps.”
“Welles gives you the creeps?” Ken asked incredulously. “You do remember you helped defeat a big, ancient squid-dragon alien god… thing a few months ago?”
“What can I say, there’s just something about the man’s voice that gives me the willies,” she said with a shrug, when something caught the corner of her eye. Lining the back section of the lab table sat a row of small glass vials filled with Jethro’s standard green-white radioactive salts. There were more of them than usual. Jean had noticed Jethro had been using them less and less, probably more for safety than anything else; for all the power they granted they were hell on the human body. Then a ridiculous idea popped into her head. As ludicrous as it sounded in her head, it was probably something Jethro would have done, so it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot. She carefully removed the slide from the microscope and placed it on the lab table.
“What are you doing?” Ken asked, a tinge of nervousness in his voice as Jean uncorked one of the radioactive salt vials and teased out a single grain with tweezers. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yup, not the enhanced kind, though,” Jean replied. Even up close the grain looked like a normal bit of table salt, its greenish tint the only clue to the incredible power within. “Just your run-of-the-mill, everyday, superpower sodium chloride. Don’t cringe. It’ll be fine. There’s just something I want to try...”
“Wait one second.” Ken took one last swig of his drink and took two big steps back across the study, clutching his empty glass close to his chest like a talisman. “Okay, go ahead.”
Jean shook her head in friendly derision. “Baby,” she said as she dropped a grain of the radioactive salt into the ooze.
Bubbles began to form in the liquid, as if it was boiling. There was a low hiss, like steam through a vent. Then everything went white and green, an eruption of cold light and energy. Jean was thrown back crashing into the far wall, blinded. Wood, metal, and glass seemed to shatter all around her. She knocked her head against something hard and heavy, her teeth clicking as her jaw snapped shut from the impact, probably the floor, but she was too disoriented to tell. The air shot out of her lungs and she rolled end over end. A howling wind came down upon them as if they were suddenly sucked into the vortex of a hurricane. Beneath it all Jean thought she could hear familiar and alien voices, but couldn’t make out the words.
And then it was over, and silence fell over them like snow of a cold winter’s morning.
Jean’s eyes fluttered while her eyesight slowly resolved, going from white to greys to colors, then shapes and finally clarifying to actual vision. The study was in shambles, though not beyond repair. Furniture and books were scattered across the room, the glass in the oval window was cracked, the lab table was destroyed, split in half, the two ends thrown to opposite sides of the room. A lamp stand had fallen across her lap, throwing shadows at maddening angles. But, despite the ringing in her ears and the throbbing in the back of her head, she was unharmed.
“Well, that was interesting,” she coughed as she found her way to her feet.
“Scary is what it was,” Ken commented, digging himself out a pile of fallen books. There was a small bruise on his forehead and small scratch along his chin. Standing up, he brushed dust off his jacket, and looked to Jean. “The hell was that?”
Jean stepped over to the remains of the lab table, the small sample of black ooze seemingly disintegrated. She felt something inside her lock up. She shook her head. “Whatever it was, it isn’t good.”
• • •
Daniel Rohn considered his beard in the blurred and distorted reflection of the mirror hanging over the small sink in the corner of the morgue. It was getting thicker. Well, the patches were filling in. It still itched his neck; a maddening sensation that forced him to keep the area trim or else he would scratch his skin raw. There were sections—especially around his chin—that reminded him of pubic hair, but it made his face seem bigger, and overall it looked good, which was all that really mattered anyway.
Fishing into his lab coat pocket, he pulled out a cigarette and placed it between his lips, letting it hang loosely. “What’s your name, pardner?” he said to this reflection, his right eyebrow shooting up. He placed a hand at his hip, hooking his thumb around an invisible six-shooter. “You look like you’re about to get into a gunfight.” He drew his imaginary pistol and squeezed off three quick shots while whispering: “Pow! Pow! Pow!”
“Still staring into your reflection, Rohn?” a gruff voice said from the other side of the morgue.
The cigarette dropped from his lip. Fumbling to catch it, Rohn felt his face grow warm. He prayed his beard would hide the red in his cheeks. Just in case, he ran his hands over it, smoothing over the bristly hairs. He placed the cigarette behind his ear and spun around on his heel, a broad smile on his face. “John! Holy cow, how the hell are you?” he said jovially to the disheveled Caraway. “Didn’t you disappear or something?”
“Just took a little trip to Europe,” Caraway said with a bitter smile, crushing Rohn’s extended hand in a vise-like shake.
“Ooh, fancy. I’ve always wanted to go to Paris. I hear the view from the Eiffel Tower is unbelievable,” Rohn said with a chuckle, his face betraying the pain in his hand. “You look like you lost some weight.” And a lot older, he didn’t say.
“Just a wife,” Caraway replied, his eyes dropping away.
“Ah, best weight to lose,” Rohn said, slapping Caraway on the shoulder. Though only twenty-five, Rohn was twice divorced and proud of it. It was clear, however, Caraway didn’t feel the same way. “What can I do for you, Johnny boy?”
Caraway lifted up the toe tag of one of the recent additions to the morgue’s menagerie. “A favor,” he said, looking over the card before letting it swing against the ball of the dead man’s foot. “But, it’s not exactly official,” he added, slipping Rohn a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
“Dead men tell no tales,” Dan replied with a toothy grin and a shrug, folding up the twenty and placing it in his coat pocket. “Though their guns still shoot, if the Tipton Murders were any—” Just then, he thought he heard a voice whisper something like: Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum! when the shadows suddenly took the form of a hooded man.
The man stepped forward, only his mouth and chin visible beneath his hood. He stood over six feet tall—at least that was how it seemed, and maybe it was just a trick of light, but it looked as if his eyes were glowing.
“Dan, you know my, um… friend, the Green Lama.”
Rohn’s heart began hammering in his throat. “Christ on a cross,” he heard himself say. “You actually exist.”
“Yeah, I’m afraid he’s pretty real,” Caraway sighed.
Rohn struggled to smile. “And here I thought you were just some story they made up to scare criminals. So, ah…” He paused to clear his throat. “What do you, ah, what do you boys need?”
“We need to look at the woman from the double murder in Brooklyn,” the Green Lama said quietly, his voice a distant thunder. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground as he walked into the morgue.
Rohn felt his hair stand on end and took a half step back as the Green
Lama approached. He felt warm, though the morgue was kept at a frigid forty degrees Fahrenheit. He nervously cleared his throat again. “The Hispanic lady and baby? Yeah, we got ’em right over here. Her and the kid, both,” he rambled as he pulled out two draped, flattened corpses from their respective cold chambers, the child’s barely taking up a third of his cabinet. “Real nasty stuff, like outta Weird Tales. You ever read that stuff, John? Those C. M. Eddy stories are terrifying. ”
“Got enough horrors in my real life, Dan,” Caraway replied, at the edge of his patience. “Don’t need to deal with it in print.”
“Huh, yeah, I guess,” he said. He took a step back to let the Green Lama examine the woman’s body.
The Green Lama pulled back the cloth to reveal the woman’s ruined form. Caraway coughed into his hand and glanced to the floor. Even Rohn found himself looking away at the sight. The Green Lama kept his eyes locked on the woman’s corpse, her innards lined with thick black plasma. He reached inside his mammoth fur-lined sleeves and brought out a small scalpel and a thin glass vial.
“Has anyone examined the bodies?” the Green Lama asked.
Rohn shook his head. “Nothing beyond the usual drape and chill.”
The Green Lama nodded silently and began carefully scraping the gunk off the corpse, collecting it bit by bit into the glass vial.
Something dripped past Rohn’s eye. Good Lord, he was sweating. He ran the back of his hand against his forehead and saw his hands were shaking. Watching the Green Lama, Rohn realized everything he had ever read about him was true. No, it was worse. He found something nightmarish about the Green Lama, the way he whispered; how his feet didn’t seem to move as he walked; how his face remained in shadow no matter the light. There was no question this whole procedure was incredibly illegal, but there was no way Rohn was going to try and stop him.
Scratching at his neck, Rohn found himself talking to Caraway: “I gotta tell ya, John, we’ve been fillin’ up recently, and not just the normal gangland shootings, John Does croaking in the street, or car accidents. Real nasty stuff like the Bartlett accident last year. These two were just the icing on the creepy cake. Yesterday, we had this triple. Bloody business. This keeps up, we’re gonna need a bigger morgue. Hell, I’ve already asked the boys upstairs for an assistant, not that I’m holding my breath. Bureaucrats. Always dragging their feet, I tell ya—”
The Green Lama: Crimson Circle Page 11
