“Tulku, you are distressed,” Tsarong observed.
Jethro met his friend’s eyes, searching for the words. He wasn’t sure what concerned him more. A part of him feared the newest rip in reality he had sensed. He was now even more certain that whatever it was that had attacked the German embassy was also behind the elemental change in existence and the fluctuation in his abilities. Yet, he found himself solely focused on Jean’s whereabouts, his stomach twisting into knots at the thought that she might be in danger; a sensation he had never before felt for another person. Unable to find the right words, Jethro frowned and shook his head.
Tsarong gave him a look of understanding. “I shall not keep you, then.”
The two nodded in farewell as Jethro climbed out the window into the night.
• • •
A reviewer once described Ken Clayton as the kind of a man that carried an aura around him. The women would gasp when he walked onstage, while the men crossed their arms and silently wished they were half as handsome as Ken. He had more charisma than he knew what to do with, and there was little wonder why so many people considered him the next Errol Flynn. He had recently won the role of Phil Dolan in the musical On Your Toes and was rehearsing the show at the Majestic Theatre. However, unbeknownst to the public at large, Ken was also a frequent ally of the Green Lama.
Sneaking in through the rooftop entrance of the theatre, Jethro moved through the shadows, avoiding actors and technicians as they milled about the building, eventually finding Ken in his dressing room arguing with another young actor. When both men were distracted, Jethro ducked into the darkness, his footsteps little more than whispers. He tugged his hood forward over his eyes; in his haste, Jethro had failed to disguise his face. After several minutes of arguing, the other actor stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Clayton, seemingly unperturbed by the argument, sat down in front of his mirror and began working at styling his hair. Jethro waited a moment before he whispered: “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!”
If Ken was surprised, he didn’t show it, only allowing a small grin to curl the corner of his lips. He crossed his arms and looked through the mirror into the shadows. “And just when I thought I’d never hear from you again.”
“It has been awhile, Mr. Clayton.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Tulku? The name’s Ken—no need for formalities.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Clayton, but as a sign of respect for you, I shall keep up the formalities.”
Ken mulled this over for a moment. “Well, I suppose that’s very thoughtful. But I highly doubt you’re here for a relaxed chitchat—when are you ever? So, what can I do for you, Tulku?”
“It’s Jean—I mean, Miss Farrell. Have you seen her recently?”
Ken shrugged. “Not since last week, and even then it’s been like two ships passing in the night. Been pretty busy with the show, y’know. She okay?”
Jethro hesitated, trying to fight back the sense of dread that was starting to grip his stomach. “I don’t know, Mr. Clayton. She had been helping me on a recent case—”
“That whole fiasco at the German consulate the other night?”
“Yes.”
Ken nodded, the curl of a self-satisfied grin teasing at his lips. “Figured as much. I read about it in the paper. Gruesome stuff. I knew it was something you’d get mixed up with—” He paused, his smirk quickly inverting. “Jean wasn’t part of that, was she?” he asked quietly.
“No, thankfully. She went missing earlier this evening.”
“You think she’s been kidnapped?”
“I have considered this, yes.”
“You know she never let me live down when I got kidnapped.”
“This isn’t like the Murder Corporation,” Jethro said angrily, making Ken flinch ever so slightly. “Whoever is behind this might be working with—” Jethro cut himself off, unsure how to phrase his suspicions without sounding like a madman.
Ken caught on to Jethro’s hesitation. “Working with what?” He stared into the shadows waiting for Jethro’s reply.
“Something darker than anything we have ever faced before,” Jethro finally admitted. “Perhaps even … supernatural.”
“The supernatural?” Ken scoffed. “Come on, Lama, you’re not really selling me on that. The forces of darkness? Next thing you’ll be telling me the end of the world is upon us. And just when my career was beginning to take off… You are certain she’s in trouble, right? Not just on some two-day bender or anything? That girl can drink more scotch than what should be humanly possible.”
“Yes. I—” Jethro stuttered, something even Ken knew to be uncharacteristic. “I am very concerned.”
Ken rubbed his chin in thought for a moment, before turning back toward the shadows. “What do you need from me?”
• • •
Caraway heard the arrow fly toward him. Without thought, he immediately slid off the saddle, hanging off the side as the horse charged through the bank.
Of all the most ridiculous things I’ve had to deal with today, he thought, why did it have to be the Natives?
The Natives’ Mafia was anything but, a hodge-podge of criminals of every race and creed that banded together to rob banks and dress up like Indians. It had originally started as a joke, when, according to the news rags at least, someone joked that cops and robbers was kind of like cowboys and Indians, going so far as to wear a feather headdress during a robbery to underline his point. From there things ballooned out and here they were in all their ludicrous glory. It only made sense—in some terribly illogical way—that one of Caraway’s suspects would be a member of the gang. Mathew “Matador” Adair, a gangly tower of a man who was as bullheaded as he was tall—with a noticeable scar on his forehead. At the moment Adair stood atop a teller’s desk, shooting arrows at anything that moved. He let out a war cry, a whooping sound that echoed in the massive marbled hall.
“Hell and damnation,” Caraway grumbled through gritted teeth as he pulled himself back on the horse. “Who rides a horse to rob a bank in this day and age? Honestly?” he wondered aloud.
Caraway weaved through bullets and arrows, feeling the hot whispers of weaponry that flew around him. On either side of him, falling in neat lines, were the police and Natives, firing at each other like they were in a bad western. The Natives were whooping, the cops were shouting, and the hostages were just screaming. He spotted Gan huddled beneath a small counter, firing twin pistols at the themed gangsters. Much as Caraway truly hated Gan, he begrudgingly admitted that he was a good man to have in a fight. How one man could take down an entire circus singlehandedly was astounding. Though Caraway was still flabbergasted as to how Gan had been able to take down that elephant. That was simply impossible. It had garnered the German officer a begrudging amount of respect from both Caraway and his men, but it secretly made Caraway extremely nervous. If all this talk of another war with Germany held any bearing, and if all of Hitler’s men were as deadly as Gan, then everyone was going to be in serious trouble…
For now, though, all that mattered was the case.
Galloping toward the German colonel, Caraway outstretched his hand and shouted: “GAN!!!”
Gan ceased firing long enough to see Caraway approaching. Quickly surmising his intent, Gan holstered his pistols, reached out, and without pause grabbed Caraway’s extended hand and swung onto the horse.
“You ready to go hunting?” Caraway shouted.
“Is that what you call this catastrophe?!”
Caraway shook his head as they galloped toward cover, a sardonic smile on his lips. “No, I just call it ‘another night in New York City.’”
“You lead a very strange life, Herr Leutnant.”
“Don’t I know it,” Caraway said as he brought the horse to a halt in a far corner of the bank out of range of the arrows and gunfire.
“Dare I ask if you have a plan?” Gan asked, using the momentary reprieve to reload his guns.
Caraway frowned
at the question. “At the moment? No.”
“That is a shock,” Gan said as he finished reloading, making a show of it as he holstered the weapons. “So, we will just head straight into this madness and pray for the best.”
Caraway shrugged. “Basically.”
“Fantastic,” Gan grumbled. “You are going to be the death of me, Herr Leutnant.”
A crooked smile formed on Caraway’s face. “Heh. Here’s hoping.” He spurred the horse back toward the center of the embattled bank. As they rushed toward their quarry, Caraway angled his head back toward Gan, shouting over the noise of gunfire and the whooping calls of faux Indians. “Hey, Gan. Just in case this doesn’t go so well, I’ve been meaning to ask, how’d you take down that elephant?”
“And give away my trade secrets? I think not, Herr Leutnant.”
“Fine, then, be that way. Here, take the reins,” he said as began to stand up on the saddle.
“What are you doing?” Gan asked as he grabbed hold of the reins, a slight note of panic in his voice.
“Me?” Caraway said as he steadied himself. “I have no idea.”
He glanced up and found one. Biting back a smile, Caraway readied himself. He’d seen the Green Lama do stuff like this all the time, why wouldn’t it work for him? The Green Lama may be a superman, but he was still a man. Murmuring “Om! Ma-ni Pad-me Hum!” for luck more than anything else, Caraway leapt off the horse into the air, aiming for the gilded chandelier overhead. Grabbing onto the ornate metal, he swung himself feet first, landing beside Adair on the teller’s counter.
“Hey there, Tonto,” Caraway said before he punched the costumed criminal square in the jaw.
Adair stumbled back, but didn’t fall down. Wiping the blood off his lips, he gave Caraway a toothy grin. “Bad move there, coppa. Now you done made the Injun mad,” he said with a thick Irish brogue.
“Whitest Red I’ve ever seen, boyo.”
“Yeah?” Adair reached behind his back and unsheathed a fairly impressive sword. “Well, I’m also the deadliest, see? So you best be backin’ off.”
Caraway raised an eyebrow as he scrutinized the mobster’s sword. “I’m no scholar or nothing, but I’m pretty sure Indians don’t have swords.”
“Be a lot more fun if they did!”
Adair lunged forward, aiming the business end of the sword at Caraway’s stomach. But Caraway had had his fair share of swords aimed at him since taking command of the Special Crime Squad and knew how to handle such a situation. Caraway quickly sidestepped as the blade powered toward him, letting Adair’s own momentum throw him off balance. As the mobster stumbled forward, Caraway reached for his sidearm—only to find an empty holster. Dammit! he thought. It must have slipped out mid-leap.
“Missin’ somethin’, coppa?” Adair had regained his balance, giving Caraway a look with deadly intent as he twirled the sword in one hand.
“This day just keeps on getting better,” he grumbled.
“Don’t worry, coppa, it’ll be over soon!” Adair shouted as he dove at Caraway again.
Caraway ineffectively held his right arm up in defense, the blade slicing through his coat, stinging as it cut into his skin.
“Gah!” he cried, stumbling back as he gripped his injured arm. It didn’t feel deep, but the blood still flowed and the pain still throbbed. Without a gun—hell, without a sword—he could only last so long. And if it wasn’t Adair’s blade that took him down, it would be a stray arrow or bullet. Time was running short and the cards were quickly getting stacked against him.
For the first time since the start of this whole idiotic affair, Caraway hoped Gan would be there to save him in time.
“You’re looking scared there, coppa,” Adair said with a grin.
“Just looking too close at your ugly mug, scarface.”
Adair grimaced. “Don’t you joke about that. That ain’t funny.”
Caraway was able to avoid Adair’s stab, but the blood kept dripping down his arm and the lights were beginning to get a little dim.
“What? Your face?” Caraway said with as much vehemence as he could muster. “I’m gonna have to disagree with ya there, buddy. Those big honking scars are pretty hysterical. How’d ya get ’em?”
Adair’s eyes reddened with rage, his once easy and somewhat evil smile now faded into an angry glower. Launching forward, he swung his blade down at Caraway, who caught the saber with his left hand. Adair sliced down, lacerating deep into Caraway’s palm. Howling in pain, Caraway elbowed the loin-clothed mobster hard in the face. Blood burst out of the “Matador’s” nose, along with a tooth or two from his mouth, as he stumbled back toward the edge of the teller’s desk, stunned.
Rushing forward, Caraway dove at Adair, throwing them both off the teller’s desk, away from the gunfight. Landing hard, Caraway felt a sharp pain pierce through his midsection. He looked at Adair, who gave him a toothless, bloody smile.
“Somethin’ wrong, coppa?”
Caraway tasted iron on his tongue and, glancing down at his stomach, saw the hilt of Adair’s sword pushing hard into his side.
“Gaaaw… Hell…” Caraway groaned as he rolled over and collapsed to the ground, clutching the hilt as if that would change the circumstances. “Gaaaaww… Damn. Damn. Damn…”
This wasn’t happening, he told himself. Lord, no, please, this wasn’t happening. He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad, this wasn’t supposed to happen. This pain wasn’t real. This wasn’t a sword in his side. He wasn’t going to die. Dammit, he wasn’t going to die. He had to tell Francesca he still loved her, he had to win her back. That’s what was supposed to happen. Things started to get fuzzy, going grey on the edges. Caraway watched as Adair stood up and climbed over him, laughing. Unsheathing a massive hunting knife from the scabbard on his belt, the “Matador” threw his head back, letting out a deafening war whoop as he brought the knife up, preparing for the killing blow.
Caraway knew what was coming, much as he tried to pretend it wasn’t. Despite the cold sensations he began to feel around him and his fading vision, he refused to close his eyes in the face of death. He was Lieutenant John Caraway, head of the Special Crime Squad, dammit.
Adair thrust the knife down, and before things went completely black, Caraway swore he saw Gan, still riding their borrowed horse, jumping over the bank teller desk, guns blazing.
But that, he was sure, was only a hallucination.
Chapter 7
SECRETS BY THE SEA
Jean trekked her way from the shoreline toward the boardwalk in the distance, her bare feet kicking up the cool loose sand, granules clinging to her still moist skin. There were lights on the horizon, bright and ostentatious, flashing off and on, every color of the rainbow, twisting and turning in the night sky. A faint sound of music echoed softly in the air, high octaves and a fast rhythm, which only added to rather than relieved the sense of dread Jean felt coursing through her. She did her best to stop her body from shivering and her teeth from chattering, but nothing could stop the cold sense of terror at the pit of her stomach. What scared her most, what dug down deep into her gut and churned around the bile until it made her nauseous was the simple fact that none of this was possible. No one—not even the Green Lama—could instantly transport from one place to another. Whatever had happened to her was… wrong.
Making it to the boardwalk, she climbed over the guardrails and tossed her shoes and coat onto the wooden boards. Sitting down so that her feet hung off the edge of the walkway she began batting off the clumps of sand that had formed around her heels and between her toes.
Despite the dark Jean couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew this place. As if she had been here—maybe even several times—before. She couldn’t see the city, nor could she see anything beyond the coast save for a ship or two in the distance. The boardwalk—even the lights down on the horizon—were good signs. They meant that wherever she was it was near or part of civilization. Hopefully her own.
�
�Um, young miss, don’t you think it’s quite late for a walk on the beach?”
She heard someone speak from behind her. She instantly reached for her gun in her coat pocket, remembering too late that the coat was folded up on the ground behind her. Risking a glance behind, Jean saw a small man standing a few feet away. Dressed all in black with an old, worn fedora atop his head and a long white beard, flecked with red flowing down his chest, he smiled at her pleasantly.
Jean measured the old man, determining him probably harmless. Probably. “Won’t disagree with ya there, padre,” Jean said after a moment.
The old man nodded. “Cold, too. Yes. Much too cold. You must be freezing,” he said, indicating her feet with his wooden cane.
“A little chilly, sure,” Jean said as she wiped the last bit of sand off her feet, stood up, and slipped on her shoes and coat. “Hey, look, this might sound a little bit nutty, but humor me...”
The old man shrugged. “I do whatever a beautiful young woman asks.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Heh, right. So this is gonna make me seem a bit off my rocker, but… you mind telling me where I am?”
The old man frowned. He glanced over at the shoreline, then at the lights on the horizon. “I would have assumed that would be more than obvious, wouldn’t you think, young miss?” he said waving his cane around him.
“Like I said, humor me.”
“Well, young miss… You’re in Coney Island.”
Jean’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Lord… How?” She stumbled forward, collapsing into the old man’s arms, which caught her much more skillfully than she would have given him credit for.
“Come, now, it cannot be that bad? It’s the playground of the world, no?”
Jean steadied herself. “It’s not that. I…” She looked at the old man and decided against telling him she had been inexplicably transported across the city. She already thought she had gone insane; imagine what Grandpa would think. “I just had a long day, padre. That’s all. Guess I just lost my bearing is all.”
The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2) Page 6
