The Green Lama: Crimson Circle

by Adam Lance Garcia

  The Green Lama half-turned his head toward Caraway, but his face remained in shadow. “Isn’t it? All that’s happened. Heydrich. The innocents on the Tri-American flight. Gandini. The golem. Desdemona and Wilfred. Von Kultz. Cthulhu. Now, Theodor and Gary… How many horrors and deaths will stain my hands?”

  “Millions,” a woman’s voice came from other side of the living room. Both men turned to the woman standing in the doorway. Her hands clasped together in front her. She was simply dressed, her blonde hair tied back in a bun. “Eventually almost six million, or so the Rabbi says.”

  Caraway thinned his lips. “Helen…”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You’re late, John,” she said, sounding less a lover and more a scolding matriarch.

  “Duty called,” Caraway replied. He cleared his throat, and gestured at the Green Lama. “Helen, this is—”

  “I know who he is, John,” she said sharply, her German accent thick. She walked up to the Green Lama, her gaze never wavering. “For someone who could destroy a golem, I would have thought you would have been taller.”

  “You’re Gan’s—” the Green Lama stuttered in realization.

  “I am Heinrich’s wife, yes,” she said tersely, crossing her arms. “And you are the Green Lama, at least that is the name you call yourself.”

  “It was a title bestowed upon me,” the Green Lama replied. He pulled off his hood, revealing the exhausted visage of Jethro Dumont. Dark circles lined Dumont’s eyes, his skin was pale, and Caraway thought he saw a thick green vein running down Dumont’s neck. “But you may call me Jethro.”

  Helen stared silently.

  “Your husband was a brave man.”

  “Do not tell me something I already know,” Helen shot back. “I am not some silly little girl in need of comfort. I know you were not the one who shot my husband. That pilot, Rick Masters,” she said the name with enough venom to make Caraway feel woozy, “will have to live with the guilt for the rest of his life. I would be foolish to believe such a day would have never come, that was the risk we took to fight Hitler’s evil. My husband gave up his family, then his life, to fight the darkness. What have you done, Green Lama?”

  Dumont didn’t hesitate. “All that I can,” he managed, just above a whisper.

  “Hm. We will see if that’s enough.”

  “Helen,” Caraway cut in. “Where are Nancy and Robert?”

  “Asleep. They asked for you,” she replied, keeping her eyes on Dumont. “You know, Green Lama, those of us who follow Brickman have another name for you.”

  “And what is that?” Dumont ventured.

  “Zerstörer,” she hissed.

  Dumont’s face fell, visibly stung, but he nodded in understanding. “A name I probably deserve,” he sighed.

  “That remains to be seen,” Helen replied skeptically, before she finally looked to Caraway. “I will be turning in, John. Please make sure this man is gone by tomorrow.”

  Caraway dropped his gaze to the floor and nodded uncomfortably. He couldn’t blame Helen for her anger toward Dumont, she had lost so much, but that didn’t make it any more enjoyable. A part of him had hoped that she would be able to forgive Dumont for the destruction of the golem—how could any of them have known?—but that would be forgetting the incalculable price her people would have to pay. “Good night, Helen,” he said.

  “Gute Nacht, John,” she said with a genial nod before leaving the room without giving Dumont so much as a backwards glance.

  They stood in uncomfortable silence for several moments, when Caraway realized he was still wearing his coat. Peeling it off, he absently threw it on the lone coffee table. “‘Zerstörer,’” Caraway repeated. “You know, I was up and down Berlin, but my German’s still shit—”

  “It means Destroyer, John,” Dumont said. “They call me the Destroyer.”

  Caraway grimaced. “That’s not good no matter how you slice it… Glad to see you two started off on the right foot,” he grumbled uncomfortably. It was a blessing when the phone rang. Caraway walked over and picked the handset off its cradle. “Hello? How the hell did you know—?” He turned to Dumont. “Hey, Destroyer… It’s the missus, sounds like she had an interesting night. Looks like I’m going to a crime scene after all.”

  • • •

  IT WAS LATE, several hours before the sun would work its way back into the sky. Not that it mattered to Gamma, he had gone without sleep for years. There was too much work to be done. He leaned forward, squinting as he peered at the remnant of a man on the other side of the two-way mirror. The man was pitiful, almost sickening to look at. He was missing a finger on his left hand; his right forearm was broken, hanging limp, his face beaten beyond recognition. “Who is this?” Gamma asked.

  “Mr. Gary Brown, sir,” Omega replied, smartly. The operative stood a full head taller than him, his baldpate gleaming in the minimal light. For the time being Omega allowed his face to be seen, there was no need to hide his identity in front of his superiors. In another life, he would have been a handsome man, were it not for the scar.

  “Ah,” Gamma breathed. “The Green Lama’s first associate, yes?”

  Omega nodded. “That we know of.”

  “He’s married to Evangl Stewart, isn’t he? Yes, I’ve seen him before, there was a function; a fundraiser, I think it was. He looked so uncomfortable in his tuxedo… Not much to look at anymore, is he? Hm. Not that he was so handsome to begin with…” He looked at Omega. “I assume that was your doing?”

  “It was necessary for the questioning,” Omega replied evenly.

  Gamma considered Gary silently with a raised eyebrow. He tried to recall how many of Omega’s interrogations he had witnessed; it must be well over a hundred by now, perhaps more. So many broken bones and so much flayed flesh, there was a time such sights would have disgusted him. “And how is your questioning proceeding?”

  Omega failed to hide his frown. “Slowly,” he admitted hesitantly. “He’s much more… resilient than I expected. Quite impressive, really. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gamma eyed Omega. He’s ashamed. In all these years, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him ashamed, Gamma thought. Oh, that’s very interesting.

  “Why not kill him as you did the Harrin boy?”

  “He has not seen my face. Besides, Harrin was weak; it’s been so long since I’ve had a challenge.”

  “Mm,” Gamma sounded thoughtfully. “The Green Lama likes them strong, doesn’t he? Perhaps that’s why Mr. Brown worked with him for so long and Mr. Harrin was forgotten.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We digress. What have you learned from our dear Mr. Brown?”

  “Unfortunately, nothing that we didn’t already know,” Omega replied. “As I’ve said, much more resilient. I could continue if you’d like, but I’m not certain he would survive much longer.”

  “Hm.” Gamma massaged his eyes. “I doubt it matters anymore… I did some investigating into Mr. Brown’s whereabouts earlier this month. It seems he was in Washington during a rally for that sniveling Democrat, Roosevelt.”

  Omega took a deep breath. “Yes, I remember hearing there was a shooting.”

  “You read the report… Fifth Columnists. Ideological imbeciles.” He waved a finger into the air. “But it was their target that caught my attention.”

  “That sniveling Democrat, Roosevelt?” Omega asked sardonically.

  “Jethro Dumont. Oh, it was tramped down by the White House and hidden from the papers, but in reviewing the now classified newsreel footage, the angle of the shot showed the bullet wasn’t intended for the President, but instead his biggest financial supporter.”

  “And I assume Dumont mysteriously survived the shooting and there was a Green Lama sighting shortly after?”

  Gamma nodded. “I believe our earliest assumptions of the Lama’s identity were correct. The man atop the Brooklyn Bridge was a feint, and a good one at that.” He half-turned to Omega. “I would apologize for wasting your time, b
ut I know you enjoyed yourself.”

  “The job is not without its pleasures,” Omega said with a crooked grin.

  “Mm.” Gamma sounded. “If my assumption is correct—and I do believe it is—we cannot attack the Green Lama head on. We need to attack his pressure point… Something that will cause him to make mistakes. Everyone has one, even a man who dresses up in a green robe…” He gestured to Gary. “Give Mr. Brown to the Project Manager. I’m sure he can find a use for him.”

  Omega cocked his head to the side. “Sir, I’m not sure that is the best course of action considering our Project Manager’s history with Mr. Brown.”

  “Don’t worry. If the Manager falls out of line, you may put him back on course. I’m sure you would enjoy that. Which reminds me…” He reached into his jacket pocket, brought out a photo of a beautiful redheaded woman and handed it to Omega. “This is your next interview.”

  Omega looked at the photo and his face broke into a Cheshire grin. “Lovely girl. I take it this is the Green Lama’s ‘pressure point?’”

  “I found her on the cover of the Broadway Tattler, if you can believe it,” Gamma said as he wiped dust off his lapel. “Hiding in plain sight. Metchnikoff recently perfected the Epsilon Mist, make sure you have it on hand.”

  “Sir, if I may?” Omega asked hesitantly as he slipped the photo away.

  “You may,” Gamma said with a subtle nod.

  “Are we sure the Project Manager wants the Green Lama for the right reasons?”

  Gamma raised an eyebrow. “The right reasons meaning…?”

  “Our reasons, sir.”

  Gamma sighed. “That remains to be seen. He believes the Green Lama will help us solve the riddle of our unique black material. Even if he doesn’t, obtaining the Green Lama will be of benefit to the Collective. Unlike others of his kind, the Green Lama is less… narrow in his point of view. Whereas others see the world divided by lines on a map, good and evil, and thus are more inclined to follow our directives, the Green Lama is much more… progressive and will more than likely go against us. He is therefore a liability. So, whether or not the Project Manager wants him for the ‘right reasons’ is inconsequential; removing the Green Lama from the field of play will ensure our plans remain on track and that our efforts will not be all for naught.”

  “Still fighting the future, Gamma?” Omega asked with a smarmy grin.

  “For a man so trapped in the present I doubt you will ever understand this, my friend.” Gamma shook his head. “We’re not fighting the future; we’re rewriting it.”

  • • •

  JETHRO STOOD over the body, his shoulders hunched in exhaustion and despair. She looked so young. The side of her head had been blown off, bits of bone, brain and black spread across the carpeted floor, drying into a perverse Rorschach test. Her jaw was unhinged, hanging at a canted angle; dried obsidian tears coated her cheeks, her eyes a mix of black and milky white trapped in a moment of blind agony that reminded Jethro of the Tibetan gang he had unwittingly murdered all those years ago. But there was something else in her twisted expression. Loss? Confusion? Sadness? It was as if, in her final moments, the woman’s mind had tried to fight its way out from the madness that had been drilled into her forehead.

  Ken was pacing the room, cigarette burning between his lips, but never once taking a smoke. Jean sat on the worn sofa, silently lacing and unlacing her fingers. She had not looked or spoken to Jethro once since they had arrived, leaving the explanations to Ken, who, despite his stuttering and stopping, didn’t leave out any detail, and throughout it all had kept his eyes to the ground.

  “How long do you need, Boss—I mean—?” Heidelberger asked from the doorway, pops of light from newspaper photographers’ flashbulbs filling the hallway behind him. Crevier and Fulton were chatting with the woman’s husband, who was holding his little girl tightly in his arms. Uniformed officers fought back the tide of spectators and reporters.

  Caraway silently looked over to Jethro.

  “Ten minutes,” Jethro replied.

  Heidelberger glanced over his shoulder at the mess of police and newspapermen. Commissioner Woods stood at the other end of the hall, arms crossed, his beady eyes cutting. “I’ll do my best. Expect five,” he said.

  “Yeah, well remind Woods that I was the one who called him here,” Caraway said, shutting the door.

  Jethro kneeled down and placed a hand on the woman’s face, her skin like ice. She had been beautiful, once. Jean had done what needed to be done, he knew that. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, silently repeating the Purification Mantra of the Thousand Armed Chenrezi. It was the child, he realized; the little girl forever robbed of her innocence. He should have been able to protect her—and Jean—from this darkness. He turned her head to look at the horrific scar etched into her forehead. The circle was near perfect, indicating it had not been done by hand. Conversely, the triangle was rough, the lines intersecting at odd angles and extending out beyond the surrounding circle. The cuts were deep, exposing the bone beneath, but there was no evidence of healing. The skin around the puncture wound was subtly twisted, indicating a drill had been used.

  His finger brushed up against the black substance leaking out of the woman’s head. A subtle electrical shock shot through his system, and Jethro felt the twang of panic echo in his stomach, recalling the impromptu experiment Jean and Ken had performed with his radioactive salts. They were chemically connected, that much was obvious, but how could that be possible? He pulled a small test tube out from the inside of his fur-lined sleeve, scooped up the ooze and corked it shut. There was something so familiar about it. He tilted the vial to side, but the liquid inside seemed to resist the pull of gravity and instead looked as if it was trying to climb out. He slipped the test tube back into his sleeve and returned to his feet.

  “I never thought I’d ever need to tell any of you this,” Caraway said under his breath after Heidelberger had gone. “But we cannot go around shooting people in the head!”

  “’Cause you would have just let her kill him?” Jean asked, speaking up for the first time since they arrived. She sounded distant, almost hollow.

  “I’m not a cop anymore,” Caraway admitted. “At least not right now. There was a time I could have maybe—possibly—swept it under the rug. Now? We’re lucky we’re even having this conversation.”

  “I’m sure Jean will show she was justified in her decision,” Jethro replied, pulling off his hood. He walked over to the couch and sat down beside her. He placed his hand on her knee and Jean laced her hands with his.

  “You heard screams?” he asked, he had already heard the story from Ken, but needed to hear again, for both his and Caraway’s sake.

  “We heard screams,” Jean repeated, her gaze locked on their hands.

  “And you ran up?”

  Jean nodded. “We ran up.”

  “You saw this woman attacking her husband…”

  “And you shot her…?” Caraway asked.

  She nodded silently.

  “She did exactly what any of us would have done, given the options,” Ken said.

  Caraway stared out the window, but nodded in understanding.

  “I could tell… That she wasn’t…” She cleared her throat. “It was like the Bartlett,” Caraway felt a chill run up his spine. “Wilfred and Desdemona. Like you, John. There was nothing left of her—”

  “Nothing human, at least,” Caraway cut in. “I had the same thought going over evidence with Crevier and Fulton. I didn’t want it to be true but…”

  Ken nodded and gestured to the body. “What about the scar on her head; triangle inside a circle?” he asked Jethro. “That mean anything to you?”

  Jethro shook his head. “The symbol has been associated with everything from satanic cults to the Illuminati.”

  “Illuminati?” Caraway asked.

  “An Enlightenment era secret society that died out in the eighteenth century,” Jean cut in, massaging her head. She then added w
ith a nod to Jethro, “Green Sleeves has a lot of books and I had time to kill.”

  Jethro gave Jean a wan smile. “Jean’s correct… This is something else…” He glanced down at the crimson scar on the woman’s forehead. “John, I’ll need to dissect the body.”

  Caraway balked. “Are you insane? Getting Woods to give us time alone in here is a miracle, but getting the body, that’s a water-into-wine level request.”

  “There is some kind of toxin in this woman’s system. Whatever it is, it is far beyond the understanding of the police department, beyond my understanding. And I think that is our ‘Cannibal Killer.’ Not a man or a woman, but a chemical intentionally injected into the person’s frontal lobes. It would explain the man that attacked Jean the other night, as well as the evidence of families turning on each other. It’s only an educated guess, and I can’t confirm anything until I dissect the corpse.” Jethro stood and slipped his hood back over his head. “Arrange it however you can,” Jethro said to Caraway. “Tell them Dr. Charles Pali will be handling the examinations. That name should carry enough weight to throw off any suspicions.”

  “Yeah, ’cause this isn’t suspicious enough as it is,” Caraway said gruffly in reply. Then, under his breath: “Uncharted waters.”

  “What was that, John?” Ken asked.

  “Something someone told me,” Caraway said as he walked to the door. “I just didn’t think they’d be so deep.” He glanced back at the woman’s body. “Or so dark.”

  • • •

  FOG, GREY AND HAZY. Sounds muffled. Night? Day? It no longer mattered, they had all blurred into one continuous rotation of pain. He tried to remember the last time he saw the sun. Was it in Washington? Or was it in Black Rock? He remembered looking out the window when he put Marie to sleep. The sun had set by then, the sky shades of red and oranges, purples bordering on black. He thought nothing of it at the time, but it had been beautiful. And Marie… Oh, she was glorious. He held onto that, he held onto her. Her and Evangl, they would get him through this; they were all that mattered.

  “Hello, Mr. Brown!”

  This was a new voice, a male’s, both pleasant and enthusiastic. Wait. No. There was something familiar about it… But it was old, from long before, but the name was lost in the deep recesses of the past.