“The triple?” the Green Lama interjected, his glowing eyes piercing. He had finished collecting the black substance off the body, slipping the scalpel and vial back into this his sleeves.
“Uh… Um, yeah,” Rohn whispered. “They found three bodies at that bar down in the Lower East Side, the one with no name. Gruesome stuff. Two of the bodies were stuffed up in the icebox, folded up like a couple magazines, while the third was left in the middle of the bar, his brains splattered like someone spilled cherry cobbler. Face is mashed up like potatoes. Fingers broken, ribs cracked. Whoever took this guy to town had a lot of fun. The two in the icebox were the owners of the place. No I.D. or nothing on the cherry cobbler. Like I said, gruesome stuff.”
“May I see the bodies?” the Green Lama asked, though to Rohn’s mind it felt more like a command than a request.
“Over here,” he gestured to the cabinets on the opposite wall. Rohn pulled the bodies out one by one before taking a big step back to stand beside Caraway. “Why does he want to look at them?” he asked Caraway under his breath.
Caraway shrugged. “It’s what he does.”
“That’s Michael Sapienza,” Rohn told the Green Lama as the vigilante pulled the sheet back on the first body. The Green Lama quickly looked over the man’s corpse before moving on to the second. “That’s his business partner, Samuel Marcus. Those were the two found stuffed in the icebox. Had to let them thaw for two hours before I could unfold them. Sick shit, if you ask me.” He shrugged. “But what can you do, this is New York.”
The Green Lama walked up to the last body and pulled back the sheet and stopped short, visibly taken aback by the gruesome sight. Caraway took a sharp breath, but otherwise remained silent, his expression unmoved.
“I know this face…” the Green Lama whispered, reminding Rohn of an oncoming storm, the sky threatening to break open.
“You’d be the first, uh, Mister… uh…” Rohn stuttered. He licked his chapped lips and cleared his throat. “Mr. Lama.”
The Green Lama jerked back as if shocked. “No… This can’t be…” he rumbled, shaking his head in disbelief. Impossibly, his eyes began to glow brighter; the veins in his hands turned a vibrant green and pushed out against his skin before they started to glow. “Om Amitabha Hri! Please, no. It can’t be…”
Caraway took a tentative step forward. “Je—Lama, who is it?”
“Theodor…” the Green Lama said in a snarling whisper, thunder on the horizon. “This was Theodor.”
Caraway’s face fell. “Oh no…”
Rohn furrowed his brow and, before he could stop himself, asked, “Who was it?”
The Green Lama opened and closed a glowing fist, the energy dissipating from his hand like a cloud of luminescent mist. “His name was Theodor Harrin,” he replied, his eyes still glowing. “He was—He was a friend. An ally.”
The name rang a bell. “Theodor Harrin… the magician?” Rohn asked.
The Green Lama nodded solemnly.
“I saw him in a show once a few years back,” Rohn said quietly, shaking his head. “The Great Gandini was headlining, I think… Harrin was pretty good. He didn’t deserve… that.”
“No one does,” Caraway commented, crossing his arms. He looked to the Lama. “Want me to contact his next of kin?”
The Green Lama shook his head. “He had no family. Ask your friend Mr. Dumont if he would be so kind as to take care of funeral arrangements,” the Green Lama said as he pulled the sheet back over Harrin’s ruined visage. “I’m sure he will do his best to honor Mr. Harrin.”
Caraway nodded; there was nothing else to say.
“Thank you, Mr. Rohn, for your assistance,” the Green Lama said as he diligently slid Harrin’s body back into the storage cabinet. “John, I think it’s time we depart.”
“Makes you wonder who would do something like this,” Rohn said as Caraway and the Green Lama walked toward the exit.
The Green Lama paused and glanced back over his shoulder at Rohn, his eyes glowing even brighter. “I have no doubt I will find out before long.”
“And God help him when he does,” Caraway added under his breath.
Rohn grimaced at the thought. “Amen to that.”
• • •
TSARONG SAT cross-legged on the rooftop in the moonlight, staring into the shadows between buildings. There was a slight breeze, standing several strands of his thinning hair on end. It reminded him of the mountains, of days long since gone, never to return. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool air washing over him. He opened and closed his hands. Arthritis was setting in, a century or two delayed, but here it was at last. The pain, the dull echo, feeling oddly like a forgotten old friend. It meant he was alive. For how much longer, he wondered? It had been sixteen years since Jethro was given the Jade Tablet, and yet it felt like almost fifty. It would be unfair to say he cheated death; he had been tasked with a purpose, granted long life so as to play a role, like a pawn left on a chessboard long after the king had been taken. But now he was at a point far beyond prophecy, in the nebulous existence of the unknown. Was it not plausible that his movement into the next realm was nigh?
There was a faint sizzle as Tsarong placed the bullet mold in the small bucket of water in front of him. This was precautionary, he told himself—a last ditch effort should the wind shift in a different direction—even though he knew the weather vane was turning. He raised the mold, the muted green glow leaking out between the metal clamps.
Several stories below he heard the squeal of tires on pavement, a door slamming, a child crying, and a patter of bare feet on cement. He wanted to say they were the sounds of the city, but he knew better, knew all too well…
“Troubling times, young Tsarong?” a woman’s voice said behind him. A sweet voice, a dark voice, an old voice, a young voice; all these at once and more. And, not a woman’s, Tsarong reminded himself. Magga was no more human than a lion a fly. She was something more, something beyond the simple flesh and bone of this realm. No matter what she was, she remained an ally and “the Revealer of the Secret Paths.”
“Times are always troubling in the Manuṣya, my dear Magga,” he replied.
“But perhaps now more so?” she asked.
A small smile creased the corner of his lips. “Do you only speak in questions, O Magga?”
“Sometimes I do riddles,” she replied pleasantly.
Tsarong smiled fully at that. “You’re developing a sense of humor, Magga.” He opened his eyes to look at the ever-changing figure in the shadows. At one moment she was an old woman, haggard and bent. Another, she was lithe with the face that could melt a man’s heart. She was Oriental, Caucasian, Indian, and African. She was all, and she was none. “Ill-fitting for someone as… seraphic as yourself.”
Magga looked out toward the skyline, her eyes subtly glowing green. “The city is beautiful at night, isn’t it? As if the stars have taken to sleeping on Earth, waiting until morning when they can once again hide behind the blue of the sky.”
“It is not the same as seeing them in the sky above the snow of the mountains, igniting the night with their brilliance,” he admitted. “Now, when I look up I see black mixed with grey, with only specks of white shining through, like flecks of dust on a filthy rag.” Tsarong paused and shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. “I am even beginning to sound old.” He got to his feet, his knees popping loudly. “Tell me, Magga, what has brought you here tonight? Your presence often foretells danger, and in this time past portent, any harbinger must be met with apprehension.”
But Magga kept her ever-changing eyes on the skyline. “How is Jethro these days?”
“I do not know,” he replied, solemnly shaking his head. “Happy, when he is with Miss Farrell. His eyes light up like the sun, but…” He trailed off. . To know one’s destiny is to void it. Tsarong did not regret the years of deception he had orchestrated at Jethro’s expense. He was only playing his part to protect this realm, Tsarong tried to tell himself, but he
hated the rift between himself and the man he saw as both a son and a brother. A rift that had only now begun to heal. “The shadows grow thicker,” he finally said. “He has faced the darkness and discovered for all his efforts it continues to spread all around him. Once he only saw the light in the darkness. But now, no matter which way he faces, I fear he finds only black mixed with grey.”
Magga nodded in understanding. “And his abilities? His exposure in R’lyeh—”
“Is taking their toll,” Tsarong interjected. “The infection is spreading.”
Magga sighed mournfully and gazed up at the grey night sky. Tsarong pulled open the mold and dropped the still-warm, glowing green bullet into his hand.
Part 2: Collapse
I WAS only twelve when Jethro Dumont went missing. The way I heard it, after his parents died, Dumont sat on the stoop of his dormitory for hours, snow piling up on his shoulders, chatting with his friend Richard Foster, before he finally stood up and started walking. It was six months later before anyone heard from him again, in the form of a three-line telegraph from Western Union to his lawyer Harold Nathanson. “Traveled through India. Making way into Tibet. Jethro.” Nathanson forwarded the telegraph to the papers, which had spent the better part of the previous months filling up their gossip columns with rumors as to Dumont’s whereabouts. If the desired effect had been to ease the public scrutiny around Dumont’s disappearance, it failed miserably. The speculations spread like wildfire, ranging from the mundane: “Perhaps he just wanted to see the world,” to the extraordinary: “He’s hunting for a way to raise his parents from the dead.”
But as things go, Dumont slowly faded from the public consciousness. There were other pressing matters to deal with: Should we vote Smith or Hoover? Would Wentworth and Van Sloan ever get married? The Stock Market crash. The Depression. Those sorts of diversions. Ten years later the Dumont name had become a relic of a forgotten time.
So it was a shock to the social system when Jethro Dumont had his violent disembarking off the S.S. Heki. It was like something out of a movie, and, of course, it set the social world aflame. There were questions, hundreds of thousands launched at Dumont from all corners, everyone wanting to know every detail of his time in Tibet. But Dumont, unlike that Bernard fellow who visited Tibet a few years later, shunned the spotlight; at least when it came to his newfound faith. Even his book Jewel in the Lotus Flower was written under Richard Foster’s name.
More than anything, Dumont seemed to put more effort into getting into the scandal pages, as though he was making up for lost time. Drunken debauchery coupled with a constantly-changing array of Hollywood floozies led many to ask why he had bothered to visit Tibet in the first place? He would just shrug and say: “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” My mother and her friends would shake their heads. “Such a waste,” they’d say.
Not that it stopped my mother from wanting to marry me off to him. “With money like that, Evangl,” she used to say in that upper-class New York accent I’ve worked so hard to get rid of, “it doesn’t matter how big of a lout he is, you’ll be too rich to care.”
I had briefly met Dumont at his homecoming. A brief bit of handshaking and how-do-you-dos before he was pulled away by Senator Hoey and Congressman Zenner. Dumont had been affable if not a little thick—everything you expected him to be—which was why when I finally did meet Jethro Dumont properly I found myself stunned by how quiet he was.
There were many theories bouncing around as to the Green Lama’s identity at the time, all of varying plausibility. Joshua Mills of the Times believed several different people were acting as the Green Lama. Kevin Howard at the New York World used to say that the Green Lama was really Harry Houdini, having faked his death to ensure justice would be served. Perhaps the most ridiculous theory was that of Fred Allen, who claimed—on more than one occasion—he really was the Green Lama.
Gary had had his own theories when he first started working for the Lama, and had done a little investigating on his own, but quickly gave up the pursuit when he decided it was an effort bordering on suicidal. What he determined, and for that matter, what we learned to be true, was that the Green Lama disguised himself using theatrical greasepaint, more often than not transforming himself into the vaguely Oriental Dr. Charles—or sometimes James—Pali. However, that wasn’t the only countenance he took on; Gary lost count at eighty-six. There were so many, in fact, that outside Dr. Pali, Gary rarely ever saw the same face twice.
Suffice to say, the search for the Green Lama’s true identity was standard conversation at most social functions, even becoming the parlour game “Lama Lama.” Usually after one too many cocktails, everyone would throw their name into a hat. The first name picked would be “the Police;” the second would be the “Green Lama.” If you were picked as “the Police,” you were immediately thrown into another room while the second name was picked. Then, they would tie a cloth around your eyes, spin you around three times left, three times right and then push you back into the crowded room, where everyone was chanting “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” You’d have to blindly chase after the “Green Lama”—who was given a green handkerchief—asking yes or no questions as to his or her identity. All the players would respond “yes” if the question was true to the “Green Lama,” and “no” if it wasn’t. This would go on until you narrowed it down to the last, and hopefully, right person. The trick was trying to ask the right questions before you fell to the floor, a dizzy mess.
I played the game more times than I can recall, but one particular game stands out in my mind. We were in the Hamptons, at my grandfather’s summer home, after some tennis or polo or golf tournament. I had just been introduced to rum and the room—my grandfather’s library, if my memory serves—was already beginning to spin when my name was drawn as “the Police.” I was trucked out of the room, blindfolded, spun around, and shoved back into the library, my feet feeling more like liquid than bone and muscle. I stumbled around, my hands held out in front of me, more out of instinct than to aid in my search.
“Are you rich?” I called out, to which I received a resounding, “Yes!”
“Are you a girl?” I asked, the continued chanting my only reply. “Are you a man?” A thunderous “yes.” I stumbled this way and that, asking question after question, culling down the players one by one. They spun me about and I could feel my dinner dancing at the back of my throat, threatening to make its reappearance, but I stayed standing, determined to capture my quarry.
I whittled down the players until I was left with a lone voice responding through chanting. Blindly chasing after him through the maze of players in a bumbling gait, I finally grabbed onto him, his shoulders like stone, and shouted: “Lama, Lama! I caught the Green Lama!”
The room erupted into laughter and I pulled off my blindfold, finding myself face-to-face with the bust of my great-grandfather, Ernest Stewart.
“Better luck next time, Miss Stewart,” someone chuckled behind me. He patted me playfully on the shoulder and the green handkerchief fluttered into my hand. I spun around just in time to watch Jethro Dumont walk away, Marion du Pont on his arm.
Sometime, and several drinks, later I found Dumont staring out the big bay windows looking over the grounds. Feeling emboldened, I sauntered over to the millionaire playboy with lustful abandon.
“You’re Mrs. Stewart’s daughter,” he said as I approached, turning to give me a warm smile. His blue-grey eyes sparkled. “Evangl, right?”
My face felt warm and I nodded. We shook hands, and I noticed the rainbow ring of hair wrapped around his middle finger. “A gift from the lamas at the Buddhist temple I stayed at while in Tibet. For luck,” he said without my having to ask. “Your mother’s been telling me about you for a little while now, Miss Stewart. I think she wants to marry you off.”
I chuckled and replied that definitely sounded like my mother. I was a bit sharper tongued than I’ll care to admit, but Dumont laughed anyway. We chatted for a little while; the normal sort of
gossip one fills their time with at events like that. He let me prattle on about anything and everything, always listening intently. It was easy to see why women fell for him so quickly. He kept his eyes on me; only asked questions about my interests, as if I was the most important woman in the world.
An hour or two passed—or maybe it was only a few minutes—before I cleared my throat and asked: “Why did you go to Tibet, Mr. Dumont?”
Dumont’s smile fell a little and his sparkling grey eyes dropped to the floor. “Buddhists believe in a cyclical existence,” he eventually said. “A literal Wheel of Life, the Bhavachakra, they call it. You’re born, you die, and you’re reborn. That’s an oversimplification, but it’ll do.”
“And how do we break free of it?” I remember asking.
“That’s what I went to find out,” he replied, once again meeting my gaze. “I wanted to know if there was something more, something beyond… this.” He tapped his chest.
“Did you find it?”
“I did. But not in Tibet.” He clenched and unclenched his right hand, the rainbow ring of hair glinting in the sunlight. “I found it on the docks,” he replied sadly. “A pleasure talking with you, Miss Stewart. If you’ll excuse me.”
Dumont bowed his head and walked away into the crowd, humming a song I could never place.
Chapter 7: The Hunt
GAMMA FLIPPED through the files, the clock ticking relentlessly above him as he paced the laboratory, reminding him how short their time really was. A lesser man would have been driven insane, seeing how the world truly worked, how every person fit into the equation, adding up to the final solution, knowing there was no way to stop it. He had once called it the “tides of history,” but that wasn’t really the case anymore, was it? Tides were a consistent, measurable force. History was nebulous, shifting to the whims and words of mad men. It would be simple to say the present was dictated by the past like a logic equation, “if a, then b, then c,” but that was a narrow and naïve view, ignorant of all the vast moving parts, working together, seemingly out of sync, with no visible or measurable cause, until the violent end was finally reached. They were not the clockmakers, nor were they the repairmen. They were just the only ones who understood the machinery.
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