This was getting interesting, but not in a good way. “Describe him,” Caraway said to Johann, and Heidelberger translated.
“Six… No, seven. Sieben? Seven feet tall, at least.” They watched as Johann waved his hand over his forehead, then tapping it three times from left to right. “He says the man had scars. On his forehead. Terrible, like someone had dug their fingers into his skin.”
Johann continued to ramble, smacking at his forearm with the palm of his hand and then running it up and down as if he were applying lotion.
Heidelberger continued to translate. “But… there was something wrong about his skin. Even his clothes. He didn’t look… ‘alive.’ It was like… bedeckt im Lehm?” He turned to look over at Caraway. “He says it was like he was completely covered in clay.”
Caraway ran out of the office without looking back.
• • •
“Everyone! STOP MOVING!!!”
The room fell into pin-drop silence as the crowd of policemen and crime scene photographers spun around to look at Caraway as he burst into the room. Commissioner Woods’s beady eyes seemed to boil inside his head. “What the hell is it, Lieutenant?”
“Clay,” he answered, pointing the ground. “We’re looking for clay footprints. Our murderer was covered in clay.”
Almost simultaneously the entire room looked down at the ground, an audible turning of necks. Some of the officers even started looking at the soles of their shoes, as if they expected to find the evidence waiting for them there.
Caraway ran over to the elevator, remembering the muddy footprints that had covered the floor. He pressed the call button and immediately drew his hand back in pain as a sensation of deep burning flowed under his skin, like someone had jabbed a red hot poker right between the flesh and bone. Glancing at the down button and then at his finger, he saw both were covered in clay.
• • •
Oberst Heinrich Gan’s car pulled up to the embassy shortly before midnight. He had only arrived in New York that morning and already things had gone straight to Hölle, cutting short what had been a pleasant dinner with New York City socialites, including the infamous Jethro Dumont. He told the driver in German to wait outside until he returned. All of his American staff had to be of German descent—Aryan, if possible— Führer’s orders. With dark eyes, a drooping nose, and a balding head of black hair, Gan was deeply aware he didn’t fit in to the Führer’s grand plan for a perfect Aryan race, but that wasn’t why he joined the Party.
Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and even more hearses surrounded the ornate structure of the embassy. White sheets covered the bodies—or at least the pieces of bodies—that had been thrown out onto the streets. Gan lost count at fifteen. Barricades kept the mumbling crowd of spectators at bay; many of them wrapped in rags and blankets, reminding Gan that while the Führer had quickly turned his country around, the Depression still had a home in America. His eyes fell on one woman, a beautiful redhead, a trench coat wrapped tightly around her well toned frame, who seemed more interested in police proceedings than the spectacle of mutilated bodies and blood. Their eyes met for an instant before she disappeared into the throng of people.
The front entrance was shattered, as if blasted in by a small bomb. Pieces of wood, metal, and glass crunched beneath his boots. Then came the smell, a sickeningly sweet smell with a tinge of iron that could only mean blood. He covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief, and resisted the urge to vomit when he saw the torso and entrails of Ambassador Meyer spread across the hallway.
“Gott in Himmel…” Gan whispered.
“Colonel Gan!”
Gan turned to find a massively obese policeman hopping over pools of blood toward him, the officer’s girth wobbling like gelatin. “Colonel Gan, I’m sorry I didn’t meet you at the front entrance. I’m Sergeant Wayland. Just got word from the top you were heading this way,” the Sergeant said, noticeably out of breath as he shook Gan’s free hand.
“Oberst,” Gan corrected, removing his handkerchief.
“Sorry, sir?”
“My rank is Oberst. It is a military rank and you would be good to remember that,” Gan said in heavily accented English. “Tell me, Sergeant, are your men any closer to understanding what it was that transpired here? Where is Ambassador Adalbrecht? I wish to speak with him.”
The sergeant sighed audibly, scratching the back of what Gan assumed was his neck. “Well, Sir, I think you might’ve stepped in him on the way in…”
Before the sergeant could finish, the elevator doors slammed open to reveal a large mustached police officer, his clothing unkempt, one of his hands wrapped in a moist towel. The officer marched purposefully toward the sergeant but didn’t seem to register the tall, balding Nazi. Gan disliked him instantly.
“Wayland, get the word out. We’re looking for a male, at least seven feet tall, with a badly scarred forehead, covered in clay,” the officer commanded.
“Uh, sir? We’ve got—” Wayland stuttered, trying to indicate Gan with his thumb.
“A hell of a lot of work ahead of us. Whoever this bastard is has a few hours on us so we’re gonna to need to spread the net wide. We don’t get moving now, we’re—” Gan cleared his throat and the officer looked over, noticing him for the first time. “Who the hell are you?”
Gan straightened his back and clicked his heels together. “Oberst Heinrich Gan of the Greater German Reich. And who do you think you are, talking to me in such a manner!”
“Oberst?” Caraway scoffed. “What kinda title is that?”
“It means Colonel, sir,” Wayland added under his breath.
The officer’s eyes were icicles, stabbing. He was a veteran, Gan could see it in his eyes; perhaps he had even seen them before on the field. “The name’s Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the New York City Special Crime Squad here in the goddamn U.S. of A., and I’m in charge of this investigation so I will speak to you however I damn well feel like, Colonel.”
Gan pursed his lips. “Charming.” He spun on his heel and stepped toward the painting of the Führer, careful not to step on the crushed sternum of one of the former consulate staff members. Gan placed his hands behind his back as he stared into the beady eyes of the portrait. “But seeing how the crime was committed on what is technically German soil, and being that I am now the highest ranking official of the embassy,” he said as he turned back to Caraway and Wayland, “it is I who will be leading the investigation into the brutal murder of my compatriots.”
Caraway gritted his teeth and felt the weight of his pistol at his side.
“You see those hunks of meat out there,” he said, pointing at the bodies that littered the street and sidewalk just beyond the embassy’s gates. “Those are on American soil, which means they fall under my jurisdiction. And all those people craning their necks to get a good look-see? You can be damn sure at least one of them saw something interesting tonight, and I can bet you none of them are gonna be too thrilled about talking to a fascist. So, if you want any chance to solve this case, you’re going to have to talk to me.”
Gan raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, then, Herr Leutnant, it looks as though that we are partners.”
Caraway bit back a terse smile. “Yeah. Ain’t that swell.”
Chapter 2
The Mysterious Evidence
Jethro Dumont woke with a start, his head throbbing as if it had been clubbed, his body crackling with electricity. Something had been thrown off balance, as if the fabric of reality had ripped ever so slightly. Wrapping his golden namsa around him, he dashed through his study, ignoring the miles of books that spread around and above him. Jethro would joke to his guests that he never bothered to crack open a book, enjoying the ancient tomes more as decoration than as scholarship. Books were his father’s obsession, he’d say. Sure, he confessed to reading and collecting the crime stories from the newspaper—purely for amusement more than any real interest in criminal investigations—but in the age of radio and film, why w
ould anyone ever bother to pick up a book? In truth, Jethro had read every single book in his study, committing each, and several thousands more, to memory.
But this was just one of the many secrets Jethro Dumont had kept throughout his life.
He knocked softly at the small door at the end of the hallway. It was still hours away from sunrise but Jethro knew that Tsarong would already be wide awake. After a moment the door creaked open to reveal the small, frail looking Tibetan, a sad smile deepening the wrinkles of his ancient face. Both men joined their palms and bowed their heads in mutual respect. When Jethro had returned from Tibet three years ago, everyone quickly assumed Tsarong was his manservant, and while both did nothing to counter this notion, the reality was Jethro would never think of him as anything less than an equal.
“I’m sorry…” Jethro said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meditation—”
“No, it is all right. Come inside, Tulku. I have felt it as well, the city will be in need of your talents soon,” Tsarong said, patting Jethro lightly on the shoulder as he brought him into his small bedchamber. The room was spartan, a small golden Buddha surrounded by butter candles the only embellishment. A large window overlooking Park Avenue stood open, a cool breeze billowing the curtains. It made Jethro inexplicably mournful: once Tsarong had snowy peaks and stars above him; now he saw only towers of brick and steel. A small teakettle and cup sat on the bedside table, a vial of green tinted salt beside it. “Now, tell me,” Tsarong said, walking over to the teakettle. “What did you feel, Green Lama?”
Green Lama. Even after all this time the epithet still felt odd to Jethro’s ears, just as the deep green hooded robes he wore felt too big, and the powers he had been wielding overwhelming, as if they belonged to someone else and he was nothing more than a rich boy playing the games of gods. But then again, Green Lama was just one of the many aliases—and faces—Jethro had adopted these past few years. Jethro shook his head. It had seemed so clear when he first woke, but now it was all a blur, a mix of colors and shadows. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. “Something… unnatural,” he said. “Something ancient and dark, awakened after millennia of slumber… I am sorry I don’t know any more.”
Tsarong nodded as he dropped several spoonfuls of what appeared to be ordinary salt into a cup of water. The salt, however, was unlike any found naturally in the world, created by Jethro based upon his translations of the Jade Tablet. The power inside the salts remained inert until Jethro had bombarded them with electrons in a cyclotron, causing the grains to become radioactive, granting him super strength and an ever increasing number of abilities upon consumption. Even then, he knew he was only scratching the surface. “The Buddha,” said Tsarong, “had advised his disciples to be lamps unto yourselves. Work out your liberation with diligence.”
Jethro began to respond when the unlisted phone rang in the study. Only a select few had the number—MOrningside 7-2363—and all of them were the Green Lama’s secret allies. Jethro tapped a button beneath Tsarong’s table, activating the small microphone that allowed him to answer the phone from any room in the penthouse.
“Hey, you there, Smug?” a woman’s voice came from over the loudspeaker. Despite the rough edges around her Montana accent, there was the slight singsong quality that only a Broadway actress would have.
Jethro couldn’t hide his crooked grin at the sound of Jean Farrell’s voice. “Hello, Ne-tso-hbum,” he said, deepening his voice.
“Heh, yeah. ‘Thousand Parrots.’ That never gets old, buddy,” she said. “Ever think of coming up with something original?”
“It’s a little late for you to be awake, isn’t it, Miss Farrell? Or should I say, rather early?”
“I’m an actress, Smug, we’re creatures of the night, much like a certain green robed vigilante I happen to know.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Ne-tso-hbum. And also, if I remember correctly, I thought we decided you would call me Tulku instead of ‘Smug.’ Besides, it’s actually pronounced ‘muck.’”
Jean let out a terse laugh that was not without some affection. “It’s funnier the way I say it. Plus, after all the Murder Corporation shenanigans last year, no offense, Green Lama, but I’m gonna call you whatever the hell I feel like. Believe me, I’ve already thought up a few choice names I can’t say in mixed company.”
Jethro chuckled as Tsarong handed him the glass of water mixed with radioactive salts. He had met Jean and her actor friend Ken Clayton a little over a year ago aboard the S. S. Cathay, and both were instrumental in taking down the criminal organization known as the Murder Corporation. But Jean had quickly come to be more than just a trusted associate, proving herself not only Jethro’s equal but in every way, his balance. “Fair enough, Jean. Though I’m afraid we are drifting from the purpose of your call.”
“You’re damn right we are. Listen, you might want to get yourself down to the German consulate as fast as your robe can get you there. There’s some major trouble going down, and believe you me when I tell ya this is the sorta stuff that goes way beyond your normal crooked politicians or hired goons.”
Jethro considered this as he took a sip of the salty mixture, feeling an electric current begin to course through his system. “How far ‘beyond,’ Ne-tso-hbum?”
There was a moment of silence and Jethro thought he could hear Jean’s teeth chatter over the loudspeaker. “Look, even Dracula would be freaked out by what I’m looking at right now. If you Buddhists got anything like a crucifix, I would suggest picking one up on the way.”
• • •
Caraway stood on the roof of the consulate, gingerly rubbing the crick in his neck as the first signs of daylight began to appear in the sky: crimson, blue, and black. He had been awake for more than twenty four hours and there was no end in sight. The coroner’s office was still collecting bodies from inside the consulate while Caraway’s men diligently continued to search for any evidence they could find. The burning in his finger had long since subsided, but there remained a soft throbbing sensation around the bone, as if there were something trapped inside, trying to get out. Caraway closed his eyes and was leaning his head back to face the sky when he heard the whisper.
“Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”
Caraway was so exhausted he couldn’t even crack a smile. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Lieutenant Caraway,” the strong yet soft voice spoke from the darkness. “It is unfortunate that we must always be brought together under such dreadful circumstances.”
“Always unfortunate,” Caraway said as he turned to find the Green Lama standing on the very edge of the building, balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. As ever, Caraway found himself quietly surprised by the Lama’s appearance. A tall man, the Lama wore a deep green robe, white fur lining the cuffs of his sleeves, a bright red scarf wrapped around his waist, and a large hood that somehow—in every light—managed to hide the man’s face. There were times that Caraway would swear the Green Lama was Caucasian, other times he was clearly Tibetan, and several times he appeared to be of Middle Eastern or even African descent. Despite this, Caraway trusted the man—whatever his skin color—with his life and, more importantly, his career. Caraway folded his arms. “Tell me, did you get a chance to look around at our ‘circumstance?’”
The Green Lama’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Thoroughly. I must confess I am at a loss for words.”
“No Buddhist proverbs, Tulku?”
“I believe that even Lord Buddha himself would be speechless after what we have witnessed.”
“Now that I believe,” Caraway said, before giving the Green Lama a rundown of everything they knew.
The Green Lama rubbed his chin and began pacing the edge of the rooftop, never missing a step, his balance never wavering. “It’s the clay, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
Caraway tapped his nose and pointed at the Green Lama with his good finger. The man never failed to impress. “Don’t know what it is, but I can tell you from pers
onal experience that there is something very wrong.”
The Green Lama nodded as he reached into his sleeve and brought out a small vial, shaking the contents. “I collected these scrapings from the crime scene, if you don’t mind.”
Caraway shrugged. There was a time when he would have protested, but the Green Lama had proven to be too much of an asset over the years. “Not at all, if you think it will help you catch the—”
“I was under the impression, Herr Leutnant, that in this country it is illegal to remove evidence from the scene of a crime.”
The Green Lama quickly slid the vial back into his sleeve as he and Caraway turned to find Oberst Gan standing at the stairwell entrance, a Luger aimed at the Lama.
“Put that pistol away, Colonel,” Caraway said through his teeth.
Gan inched out of the doorway, never taking his eyes—or his gun—off the Green Lama. “Did you know, Herr Leutnant, that we have costumed adventurers in Germany as well? Yes, several, in fact. All sanctioned by the Führer, of course. But I understand that things are run a little … differently here in America.” He gestured to the Green Lama with his Luger. “So, please, sir, put the vial down.”
“Dammit, Gan, the Green Lama’s not taking anything we don’t already have plenty of!”
“Ah, so this is the famous Green Lama,” Gan said with an arched eyebrow. “Yes, I’ve read about you, Sir.”
“And you must be Oberst Heinrich Gan,” the Green Lama said with a slight nod. “I heard you would be in the city, and I understand you were forced to leave a very impressive dinner at the Waldorf.”
Gan eyed the Lama suspiciously. “Highest marks, Lama,” he said, cocking the pistol. “But I am afraid you must give us back the evidence.”
The Green Lama allowed himself a small smile as he bowed deeply at Gan. “No, Herr Oberst, I’m afraid I don’t.” He then leaned back and, in an instant, disappeared over the side.
Caraway and Gan ran over to the edge of the building and looked down toward the street below, finding only air. The Green Lama was gone.
The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) Page 2
