Chapter 3
A DARK ENCOUNTER
Jethro Dumont owned several apartment buildings across the city and, thanks to his incredible largesse, would “rent” these apartments to his many aliases, using them as hideaways and home bases when the need arose. That morning he found himself in the residence of one “Hugh Gilmore,” an adventurer who was conveniently on an “extended excursion in Africa.” Hugh was also an avid fan of chemistry and had purchased a massive assortment of laboratory equipment and chemicals.
Shaking a bit of the clay scrapings into a test tube, Jethro hoped to discover the clay’s geographic origins as well as a reason for its seemingly unnatural properties. It was the latter that was most concerning. While the clay apparently gave off no measurable heat, nor did it prove flammable, it scorched human flesh upon contact—a fact Jethro himself had discovered when a microscopic flake fell onto his skin.
Jethro massaged the burn as he watched the mixture of chemicals react with the clay, a simple test he had devised while in Tibet to help distinguish the source of almost any material. The clear liquid turned opaque, frothed over and spilled onto the table. Comparing the effects to the samples he had compiled from other locations, he was able to narrow down the clay’s origins to the Hudson River, just north of the piers in Chelsea.
Reaching behind the large Buddha statue, Jethro brought out one of the many unlisted phones in the apartment and dialed the number of the theatrical rooming house.
“Whaddya want?” said a thick voice he recognized as Ma Smith’s, an alias of the woman known as Magga. She had assisted Jethro on nearly every one of his cases, oftentimes proving to be several steps ahead of him. Yet Magga herself remained a mystery; she was a master of disguise, with skills far exceeding Jethro’s, so much so that even after three years, her identity still eluded him.
“Good morning, O Magga,” Jethro said with deference.
“Tulku! Om! Vajra Guru Padme Siddhi Hum! A pleasure to hear from you so early,” Magga said, her voice shifting to a more lyrical and ethereal tone.
“And a pleasure it is to hear yours as well, O Magga. Though I confess my call is for Jean. Is she awake?”
Magga chuckled, a sound like summer rain. “I’ll have to check, Tulku. You know how these actresses are: late nights, even later mornings. I doubt she came in before sunrise. One moment.”
Jethro waited as Magga placed the phone down and roused Jean. “Wass going on, Smug?” Jean’s groggy voice came on after a few moments. She yawned audibly.
Jethro struggled to hold back his smile. “Good morning, Jean, I hope you slept well.”
“Hrm…”
“I would apologize for rousing you so early, but it is nearly noon and I didn’t want you to sleep through any of the excitement you always complain you’re missing.”
“Yeah, why should the boys have all the fun? Jesus Christ, I’m tired. Listen to me. I’m acting like a goddamn cliché,” she said, sounding more like herself. “So, what is it this time? I’ve already helped take down a congressman; you want me to kidnap the mayor?”
“Right now, I just need a driver,” Jethro replied with a laugh, doing his best to ignore the warmth spreading in his chest. “Someone to take me from here to there. I want to look around the piers on the Hudson—investigate, really. That is, if you’d care to join me.”
“Sounds absolutely thrilling. Wait until I tell Ken about this, he’ll be so jealous.” Jean paused in realization. “This is about that crap that went down at the German consulate last night, isn’t it?” Jethro let his silence answer her. “Can’t you just fly there? I thought your type liked to do that,” she said quickly. Jethro couldn’t help but notice the uncharacteristic panic in her voice.
“Too much energy,” he said as soothingly as possible. “Besides, I like the way you drive.”
“You like the way a woman drives?” Jean let out a quick laugh. “I could comment on how forward thinking you are, but you and I both know you’re just extremely lazy.”
Jethro chuckled. “Meet me at my Park Avenue address in one hour.”
“Should I expect ‘Dr. Pali’ or will you be dressed up in your typical dark green affair?”
“Oh, Ne-tso-hbum, in broad daylight? No, my robe would be much too overt.”
“Right, because everything you do is just so subtle.”
• • •
Dr. Charles Pali was a Tibetan priest in his early fifties whose name was well respected throughout the country. Known for his lectures and writings on Tibetan culture, he was also the Green Lama’s most public persona, believed by many to be the Green Lama’s true identity. To achieve the transformation from Dumont to Pali, Jethro covered his face in theatrical makeup, shifting his Caucasian features to those befitting a man from the East. Using foam and other synthetics he was able to significantly age his face, while a slight hunch of his back helped sell the illusion. He wore a suit reminiscent of a Christian priest’s, the clerical collar green, an Om symbol at the center. A wig of salt and pepper hair and a change to his voice completed the transformation.
“Will you be long, Tulku?” Tsarong asked as he helped Jethro put on Pali’s jacket.
“I can’t say,” Jethro said as he looked into the mirror and adjusted the fake mustache over his lips. “The kind of man responsible for such a monstrous act must be a force to be feared. Caution will be the key to our success.”
Tsarong sighed as he glanced to the ground, kneading his fingers together as if suddenly burdened with an incredible weight. “Tulku. The men that died last night...”
“Yes, Tsarong?”
“They were followers of the man they call the Führer. Adolf Hitler.” Tsarong began to pace the study. “I have seen this man in the newsreels—have heard the things he believes…” Tsarong paused to consider the large statue of Buddha in front of him. “Tulku, this Führer is a great evil upon this world. Why do you wish to work so hard to help those who hail his dark reign?”
Jethro contemplated this as he stared into the reflected face of Dr. Charles Pali. “Your observations are correct, Tsarong, and I do fear that another Great War might come to pass because of Hitler. … We removed a deadly power from his grasp when Heydrich came to the Temple of the Clouds.” His eyes fell to the thin ring of multicolored hair he wore on his right middle finger. It wasn’t until it came into Jethro’s possession that the true power of the Tablet had been discovered, a power that the crazed mystic Karl Heydrich tried so desperately to steal. Jethro thought back to the time shortly after he returned to America, when he faced the darkness around and within him. Led by Heydrich, a small army of German soldiers had invaded Tibet and attempted to storm the Temple of the Clouds in hopes of seizing the Tablet. While Heydrich never came close to succeeding, he had forced Jethro’s hand when he murdered a young Tibetan boy. Angered by the death of an innocent, Jethro used the Tablet to drain the life force out of Heydrich and into the child. It was the last time he had taken a life. “But even so, all life is precious, and you and I both know something terrible was unleashed upon this world last night. And as a Bodhisattva I cannot sit idly back and do nothing.”
Tsarong bowed deeply. “Tulku, you are a better man than I.” Jethro smiled and placed his hand on Tsarong’s shoulder.
“In that observation, my friend,” Jethro said with a somber smile, “you are definitely wrong.”
• • •
Jean watched Dr. Pali exit the Park Avenue residence. Unlike others, she was under no illusion that Pali was the true identity of the Green Lama—nor were any of the other identities he had paraded before her. If she had to guess, she’d say that the Green Lama wasn’t really one person at all, but rather seven or eight, maybe even ten individuals working together to the rid the world of crime and other such things. Just another boys’ club.
But, at least this boys’ club let her play ball every once in a while.
“Where to, boss man?” she asked as Pali stepped into the car.
Pali str
oked at his thin mustache. “There is a factory I wish to visit first,” he replied with a noticeable Tibetan accent. “It is on Twenty Second Street and the Miller’s Elevated West Side Highway, off the Hudson River.”
Jean arched an eyebrow. “You mean the area they used to call ‘Death Avenue’ until last year?”
Pali gave her a smirk in response.
Jean blew a strand of red hair off her face in exasperation. “Fantastic. Just fantastic,” she said as she started the car. “And just so you know, I brought my gun this time.”
• • •
The factory on Twenty Second Street had seen better days: the walls buckled and the ceiling drooped down, threatening collapse, giving the impression that the building had rotted from within. Jean pulled up in front of a large rusted gate, the words “No Trespassing!” scrawled across a wooden plank in stained white paint.
Jean raised her eyebrow and gave Pali a sidelong glance. “Do you take all the girls to luxurious places like this?”
“Just you,” Pali said with a light smirk.
“Wow,” Jean said breathlessly, as if Pali had just dropped to one knee. “Aren’t I the prettiest girl at the ball?”
Pali chuckled as they exited the car. “Do you know what this factory was once used for?” he asked as Jean walked over onto the sidewalk.
“Monster factory,” she replied definitively.
“It was a refinery, of a sort. Until about ten years ago they used to collect and process a specific kind of clay that was only found here,” he said, indicating the riverbank.
“Wonderful. Is there anything special about this clay?” Jean caught Pali’s slight hesitation and felt a small knot form in her stomach.
“There shouldn’t be,” Pali said at last.
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
Pali placed his hands behind his back and looked at Jean solemnly, but refused to answer. Instead, he turned away and began walking down the block, keeping his eyes on the ground.
“Fine! Don’t tell me! Could you at least tell me what we are looking for?” Jean called after him, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I mean, you’re not giving me a lot to work with here.”
Pali paused and stared intently at what appeared to be a muddy shoe print. “The crime scene was practically covered in clay footprints. Normally I would match the sole to a shoe type and get the size as well as deduced height and weight based on the length of his stride. But the footprints were significantly larger than a normal man’s foot and the soles were indistinguishable, so I decided to look into the clay.”
“We’re looking for clay?” Jean asked incredulously. “I thought you said this place was closed down ten years ago.”
“Yes, but this is the only place this particular type of clay was available, and there may still be some left over inside. If someone tracked any of the clay in or out in the last few days—even the last few weeks—there will be at least some residue on the ground.”
Pali knelt down, reached into his inside jacket pocket, and brought out a small sample of his chemical mixture. “This will show us if that is the case.” He uncorked the vial and poured a small amount onto the ground. The ground began to fizz instantly, spreading forward like fire on a line of gasoline, straight into the main entrance of the abandoned refinery.
Jean looked at the massive width of bubbling chemicals. Measuring it by eye alone, she guessed it to be as wide as two football players standing shoulder to shoulder. “That must’ve been one big piece of clay,” she murmured.
“Very big,” Pali said. “But were they bringing it in—or taking it out?” He walked toward the sealed entrance of the factory.
Jean glanced down at the foaming trail and then up at the decrepit building. Ice melted across her back and gooseflesh sprouted on her neck. Crossing her fingers, she whispered her own mantra as she followed after Dr. Pali: “Please be ‘taking out.’ Please be ‘taking out.’”
Pali weighed the massive industrial lock in his hand, turned it over, and tested its hold on the chains.
“Thousand bucks for a key, huh?” Jean said.
Pali chuckled. “All I need is a hand.”
Jean’s eyes widened as she watched Pali crush the lock with one hand, breaking the clasp free. The lock clattered to the ground, useless. Jean resisted the urge to applaud. “Remind me to never shake your hand, Tulku,” she said, stunned.
Pali looked over at Jean, a soft smirk on his lips. “I thought you decided to call me Smug.”
“That was before I saw you crush metal with your bare hands. How the hell did you do that?”
He simply smiled as he undid the chains that sealed up the door.
“Why did I even bother bringing a gun? Next thing you’ll tell me is you can dodge bullets.”
Pali pushed the rusted door open, cautiously sticking his head inside. “Too difficult. Besides, that wouldn’t be much fun, would it?”
The walls groaned as they entered the building—a massive sigh that surrounded them and reminded Jean of her grandfather. Light shone down through broken windows, creating glowing pools of luminosity, and revealing ancient equipment all gone to rust. The ground seemed to be covered in something, but Jean couldn’t see what it was. Then there was the smell. It hit her nose so hard she could taste the dry rot in her mouth. Covering her mouth and nose, she looked over at Pali, who seemed unaffected. “What a wonderful smell you’ve discovered,” she said derisively.
Pali placed his hands behind his back and walked forward, each step eliciting an audible crunch!
“What the hell is that?” Jean said from the doorway.
Pali glanced down at the floor. “Parchment.”
“Kinda odd to have a clay refinery full of parchment, don’t ya think?”
“Very.” Pali knelt down and picked a small scrap, turning it over to reveal dozens of hand-lettered symbols. He picked up another piece of parchment, discovering even more cryptograms, then another, and another. Every single one they picked up was covered with the symbols.
“Please tell me you can read this stuff,” Jean said, “because we are officially moving into creepy territory.”
Pali shook his head. “The symbols look almost Asiatic, but they’re definitely not Tibetan, Arabic, or Hindi, though I feel like I’ve seen them before. I just can’t remember where…”
“Great. Dracula language in the Dracula factory.”
Pali stood back up, slipping one of the larger scraps of parchment into his jacket pocket. “Come, let’s go look further inside.”
“Fine, but I’m taking out my gun,” Jean said, and was true to her word.
“That won’t be needed, Ne-tso-hbum,” Pali scolded.
“Yeah…” Jean grumbled, refusing to replace her weapon. “Should’ve brought a stake. I don’t mind running after mobsters and masked villains, but there’s something about this place... Let’s make a deal, all right? If I ask you if it’s time to run, you’ll let me know, okay?”
“Deal.”
The pair moved further into the structure, the walls seeming to creak with their every step. Entering into the innards of the building, they found themselves surrounded by archaic and rusted machinery. The lights grew dimmer as they progressed, and soon Jean had trouble seeing more than a few feet in front of her. She took Pali’s hand as they climbed down a series of metal stairs, their footsteps echoing off the rafters, fading off into the void. Pali gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand.
“Not yet, Ne-tso-hbum.”
Jean nodded and firmed her lips. She told herself she wasn’t terrified, and a small part of her believed it.
“All right, buddy, we’re stumbling around in the dark here,” she said once they reached the bottom of the stairs, the darkness almost absolute. “You mind tellin’ me what we’re looking for?”
“At this point, Ne-tso-hbum… Anything.” Pali lit a match, revealing a wall covered in engravings similar to the ones written on the parchments.
Je
an ran her fingers over the etchings, her nails clicking against the cut stone. “Jesus Christmas, these were carved into the wall.” Her eyes followed the carvings all the way up to the ceiling—two stories above.
Pali touched his forehead, swaying ever so slightly, looking as though he had just stepped off the Twirl-a-Whirl. “Something is off balance…,” he whispered. “Draining my powers…”
They looked into the darkness around them. They both could feel something watching them, like a phantom in the shadows. Pali turned to Jean and pressed his finger to his lips. She nodded in understanding and raised her gun. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched squeal of metal being ripped apart. For a moment Jean thought it was coming from above, that the building was about to buckle in on them, until Pali grabbed her and threw her to the ground.
“STAY DOWN!” he shouted as a massive hunk of machinery flew by overhead. There was a tremendous roar of metal against brick as the machinery broke through the far wall, leaving a gaping hole. Sunlight poured into the factory in blades.
“Aw crap,” Jean said as she sat up, struggling not to squeeze down on the trigger of her gun. “What in holy hell was that?”
“Don’t move!” Pali commanded in a harsh whisper as he moved into a low crouch, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
Silence.
Earth shattering silence.
Jean could feel her blood pulsing in her throat. She squeezed her left hand into a fist to try and stop it from shaking. This was a like a horror film, a very scary, very real horror film. She tried to remember the few she had seen, back in that hole-in-the-wall theatre in Butte, where they had the projectors in the room so you could hear the rattle of the reels while scenes came to life in front of you. There had always been a monster, some big lurching thing that came out of the shadows reaching for a nubile woman, who was more apt to scream than run. She steeled herself; she was braver than that. She had faced down mobsters and maniacs. What was a mere monster?
Then she heard the footsteps. Thump THUMP! Thump THUMP THUMP! The ground rattled beneath her. She ignored Pali’s commands and pushed her way to her feet, putting both hands on her pistol, preparing herself for whatever was coming their way.
The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) Page 3
