The Green Lama: Horror in Clay (The Green Lama Legacy Book 2)

by Adam Lance Garcia

  “I know the feeling, my dear,” the old man said with sincerity. “Do you have any place to stay?”

  Jean shook her head. “Not around here, no.”

  The old man tapped his cane three times on the ground. “Then you shall stay with me. My wife and I have several spare rooms now that our children have families of their own. You shall be comfortable until you can find your way.”

  “That isn’t necessary, but thank you. I can just hop on the train—”

  He waved his hand in an arbitrary direction. “Nonsense. I will not leave you alone to the night in a city such as this. Besides, the trains are closed at this hour. A warm meal, a warm bed, that is what you need.”

  Jean looked into his old, milky grey eyes and saw something that reminded her of the Green Lama and realized she trusted him, though she couldn’t say why. She nodded. “Okay... If you insist.”

  “I do! Come, now, there is no better cook on this side of the Atlantic than my wife. You shall see! She is visiting my sons, but tomorrow, you shall see!” he said as they began to walk down the expanse of the boardwalk.

  “But tell me, my dear, what is your name? A woman as beautiful as yourself surely has one.”

  “Jean,” she replied. “Jean Farrell. And yours, Mister…?”

  “You may call me Chaim.”

  • • •

  “This feels very wrong, Tulku,” Ken said as he considered himself in the mirror, adjusting the outfit the Green Lama had given him until it sat comfortably against his body. “It’s like I’m debasing something holy.”

  “You are the star in major Broadway show, Mr. Clayton. Think of this as just another role,” the Green Lama said from the other side of the study.

  “No offense, but none of my other roles ever included the risk of actually getting killed,” Ken retorted, chewing the inside of his cheek. He adjusted the collar again and pulled on the velvet sleeves. No matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to settle into the costume, even though the Green Lama’s assistant—or master, Ken wasn’t quite sure which—Tsarong had tailored it specifically for him. Then there was the makeup, so detailed and refined, unlike anything Ken had experienced on the stage, to the point that he did not recognize the face he saw in the mirror.

  “You survived the S. S. Cathay, the Murder Corporation,” the Green Lama said, clearly distracted.

  “That was no walk in the park, okay? I was scared out of my mind.” Ken spun around to face the Green Lama, who was furiously working at his laboratory table. “What are you doing?”

  “Hm?” the Green Lama sounded as he worked without pause.

  “You’re about to send me out on a do-or-die covert mission, and you’re over there, ignoring me, looking like some sort of movie serial villain.”

  “I am trying to enhance the efficiency of my radioactive salts,” the Green Lama said as he placed a test tube filled with jade liquid into a centrifuge, refusing to look up at Ken.

  “The radioactive salts? You mean the stuff that gets you all super strong and such?”

  The Green Lama nodded as he started the centrifuge and turned toward a microscope, placing a slide beneath the magnifier.

  “Look, Tulku.” Ken took a tentative step toward the robed vigilante. “I’ve seen you in action. I know what you can do. You don’t need to make those things any more powerful.”

  “Do you have the item I gave you?” the Green Lama asked, avoiding Ken’s question. “And the address I provided?”

  “Yes,” Ken said, exasperated.

  “And you remember what I told you to ask, yes?”

  “I can recite the Complete Works of Shakespeare backwards while standing on my head, if you want, so yes, I remember what you told me,” Ken said waving his hand above his head in annoyance.

  “It is vital that you report back to me exactly what you learn. Do not leave out a single detail.”

  Ken reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Yes, Tulku,” he said as he struck a match.

  “‘He’ doesn’t smoke,” the Green Lama said, his back now turned to Ken as he jotted down notes.

  “What do you mean, ‘he’?”

  The Green Lama lifted his head but kept his back turned toward Ken. “You,” he replied sharply. “You don’t smoke. Not dressed like that, at least.”

  Waving out the match, Ken watched as the Green Lama returned to his notes, as if Ken were a mere distraction to be ignored. He watched the Green Lama’s hurried motions and realized the truth of the matter.

  “You’re actually scared, aren’t you?” There was a slight hesitation but the Green Lama didn’t reply. Ken risked another step closer. “Not for me, though,” he said taking another tentative step forward. “Not even for yourself. You’re scared for her.”

  The Green Lama grimaced but continued his frantic labor. Despite his increasing celebrity, Ken never felt any heightened sense of self-importance; he didn’t need to be the center of attention, nor did he really want it—there were things about him he couldn’t let the world see. He just wanted to be another soul floating through this mess of a world, but this game, he decided, had gone on long enough. He wasn’t about to dive headfirst into certain danger for someone who would treat him so dispassionately. Storming around the laboratory table to face the Green Lama, he slammed his right palm down, rattling the test tubes, vials and Bunsen burners. “Hey!” he shouted. “You look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  The Green Lama put down his chemicals, laced his fingers together, and looked straight into Ken’s eyes. Ken stumbled back a step, stunned by the Green Lama’s visage. His skin was milky white, his normally vibrant blue-grey eyes dulled and bloodshot, ringed in black.

  “I—I…” Ken stammered.

  “You are right, Mr. Clayton. I confess my concern for Miss Farrell, unprecedented as it is, trumps my concern for you, and yes, even myself. I apologize for that.” The Green Lama leaned heavily against the table as he stood up from his stool. He stepped forward toward Ken, his feet clearly heavy from exhaustion. “But, there is more than just that. The perpetrator behind the attack on the German consulate, beyond the terrible crimes he has most notoriously perpetrated, in addition, has, it is my belief, broken a supreme law that transcends our plane of existence. I do not yet know exactly the transgression that was committed, but I do know that in doing so he has either intentionally or inadvertently damaged a vital link to the spiritual realm and has severely weakened me as well as reality itself.” He took a deep, rattling breath. “Time, Mr. Clayton, is of the essence.”

  Ken nodded quickly, visibly shaken.

  “Good,” the Green Lama said, turning back to his lab table. “Then we have an understanding. Contact me as soon as you can.”

  “Ye—Yes. Yeah. Sure,” Ken said as he spun on his heels toward the secret elevator at the back of the study, fingering the item in his pocket nervously. As he stepped inside, Ken glanced back over his shoulder at the Green Lama, huddled over his equipment.

  Whatever it was they were up against, if it could do that to the Green Lama, then every man, woman, and child had a reason to fear the darkness.

  The doors closed, and the elevator plunged down into the depths.

  • • •

  Caraway flexed his arm, testing the wound. Wounds, he corrected himself, lots and lots of wounds. He lost count at seventeen. His right arm, right shoulder, and left hand were covered in bandages. Stitches lined his abdomen and forehead, giving him the appearance of Frankenstein’s monster. All he needed was bolts in his neck to complete the transformation.

  The doctor grunted when he finished wrapping up the last of the bandages. “The only thing keeping you together,” the doctor said with a cigarette hanging loosely in his lips, “is about six feet of stitching and a pound of bandaging. Don’t think I’ve done this much sewing since my daughter busted her rag doll.”

  “Yeah,” Caraway grumbled. “I’m just a big ol’ Raggedy Andy. Drop me off at FAO Schwartz and sell me for a dollar.”<
br />
  “Heh. ‘Lucky to be alive’ is a bit more apropos, to be frank. Amount of blood you lost, and that many lacerations and stab wounds. Hell, it’s a goddamn miracle that sword missed your vital organs. Speaking of which, who told you to go out and get yourself stabbed by a sword in this day and age? Most cops stupid enough to run headfirst into a bank robbery usually have the decency to only get themselves shot. You had to go and do both and make my life a little bit harder. I’ll tell ya what’s ‘special’ about your Crime Squad, Lieutenant,” he said, pointedly tapping his head. “Anyway, besides lots of bed rest, I’d advise against eating any spicy foods for the next few months—”

  “Won’t be a problem, Doc.”

  “—and I wouldn’t drink any of the hard stuff anytime soon.”

  “Aw, hell. You trying to kill me?!”

  “No more than everyone else you’ve been hanging around with recently.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “Laugh all you want, Lieutenant. You’re still a lot better off than ‘Jerry’ over there,” the doc said indicating a sleeping Gan on the cot across the way. With one arm broken, several bullet wounds, and a terrible gash that stretched from his bald scalp to his right cheek, the fact that Gan was alive was not simply a miracle but a testament to the German’s pure strength.

  “Yeah,” Caraway said, keeping his eyes on the injured German officer. “Only a little bit better. … Am I done?”

  “You’re all patched up,” the doctor replied, signing the last of the paperwork. “The nurse will sign you out.”

  “Thanks, Doc,” he said as the doctor walked away.

  Caraway slowly swung himself out of his bed, hobbled over to Gan’s, and sat down on the stool beside it. He sat there for a moment, unsure what to do.

  “If you have come here to mock my wounds, Herr Leutnant, I would appreciate it if you did so silently,” Gan said, his eyes remaining closed.

  Caraway let out a soft chuckle, which shot a sharp pain deep into his gut. “Ain’t gonna mock ya,” he said with a grimace. “Don’t you worry, Jerry.”

  Gan sighed. “Then why are you bothering me?”

  “Figured you could use the company,” he said with a shrug.

  “Did I not already tell you that I do not like you?”

  “And I don’t like you. Something we have in common.” Caraway failed to suppress a grin as a nurse walked past. He let out a soft whistle in approval. “Besides, you’ve got a much better view than I do,” Caraway said, craning his neck to follow the nurse as she rounded a corner and fell out of view.

  Gan winked opened one eye to catch a glance at the passing nurse. “Aren’t you married, Herr Leutnant? I remember reading that in your file.”

  “I have a file?”

  “We all have files, Herr Leutnant. Yours was quite interesting, from what I recall. However, I’ve been hit on the head quite a few times today, so, remind me, you are married, nicht wahr?”

  Caraway shifted uncomfortably. “It depends on the day. Today, I’m not. Tomorrow?” He shrugged. “What about you, you got a ball and chain?”

  A sad smile colored Gan’s expression. “Helen. We have two children, a boy and a girl.”

  “Two little pocket Nazis. How nice,” Caraway chuckled, failing to notice the shadow that passed over Gan’s face.

  “Thank you,” Gan said before they both fell into silence, neither attempting conversation for a time.

  “That was pretty impressive,” Caraway said at last, flexing his wounded hand.

  “Hm?” His eyes still closed, Gan tilted his head slightly toward Caraway.

  “With Adair.”

  “Ah. Yes,” Gan said. Caraway noticed his slight smile. Finally opening his eyes, Gan turned his head to face Caraway. “I find it curious, Herr Leutnant, how it is you were able to survive this city for so long, what with the bull-like mobsters, homicidal circus folk, and Indian-themed bank robbers.”

  Caraway leaned forward and looked Gan in the eyes. “You want the truth?” Gan nodded and Caraway replied, with deliberation and sincerity, “I have no goddamn idea.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment before they burst into laughter, testing the strength of their stitches.

  • • •

  Walking down the hall, the Rabbi was sure to take note of the time on the grandfather clock and couldn’t help but feel that the hour had grown dangerously late. The telegram he had received some months prior indicated his associate from Europe would make an appearance on this date, yet it had been several weeks since their last communication and the Rabbi feared their efforts could be forestalled or even derailed if they did not meet soon. There were so many lives at stake.

  He rubbed his arthritic fingers, bending and twisting them until the pain subsided. He had been working too hard these past few months, spending hours after dark working in the synagogue, continuing to labor well into the early light of morning. It was why he had begun taking his late-night constitutionals down on the coast. “The sea air will calm you,” his wife had told him once. If only he could tell her what he was working on. She would be mad. Yes, he decided, she would be very, very mad. Baruch Hashem, she was visiting the children.

  Rounding the corner to the entrance of his home, he found the eminent Dr. Charles Pali in the foyer, awkwardly fiddling with his mustache, a habit the Rabbi found strange for a man of such storied refinement and renown. The Rabbi had only been notified of Pali’s impending arrival less than an hour earlier. Had it been any other person, he would have immediately turned away the late-night caller, but he would not miss the opportunity to meet with someone so highly accredited in Eastern faiths, a subject the Rabbi had recently begun researching.

  “Dr. Pali,” the Rabbi said.

  “Oh, Rabbi Brickman!” Dr. Pali spun around to face the Rabbi, shaking his hand vigorously.

  “I was so excited when you called,” the Rabbi said, unable to comprehend how young the Tibetan doctor looked despite the grey at his temples. “I have read several of your papers on the Buddhist teachings and cannot tell you what it means to finally be able to meet you in person. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “You are too kind, Rabbi. Thank you so much for taking the time to accommodate me so late. My schedule is such that this was the only time I could make my way down. I hope I am not being a burden.”

  The Rabbi waved this away. “Nonsense, a man of your stature is always welcome in my home.”

  “That is very kind of you, sir.”

  “I hope the trip down wasn’t too taxing.”

  “A drive to the shore? How could that ever be taxing?” The two men laughed jovially as if they were old friends, until Pali cleared his throat and took on a more serious tone. “As to my purpose here, I am in need of a translation—Well, I suppose that’s not true… I am trying to, uh, decipher the significance of a Hebrew phrase I’ve recently come upon. Our mutual friend Dr. Allen said you would be the man to speak to.”

  “I would be glad to help,” the Rabbi said with a smile, placing a hand lightly on Pali’s shoulder as he led him away from the entrance. “Please, come into my study, and we shall find the answers you seek.”

  As they walked down the hall to the study, the Rabbi noticed scuff marks on the carpet. Glancing over at the basement door, he let out a soft sigh of relief. If Pali noticed this, he didn’t say anything. Reaching the end of the hall, the Rabbi opened the door to his modest study, the walls lined with leather bound books. The two men walked over to the Rabbi’s desk, on which sat a massive tome. His knees weak from age, the Rabbi eased himself into his desk chair, while Pali took the small chair across from him.

  “So, what is the phrase you want ‘deciphered’?” the Rabbi asked after they had settled in.

  Dr. Pali reached into his pocket. “Just this,” he said, handing over the small piece of parchment. The Rabbi held the fragment lightly in his hands, all too familiar with the fragility of the material. “I discovered this while at an archeological dig some weeks
ago.”

  “Truly?” the Rabbi said with legitimate excitement. “Archeology is something of a hobby of mine. I actually had the chance to attend a dig outside Jerusalem a few years ago myself. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating the things they discovered there! But I digress. Do forgive me. You were saying?”

  The Tibetan scholar gave the Rabbi an odd smile, as if he were a young boy who had lost his place while reading the Torah. “Ah… Yes. As I was saying—when we recovered the parchment we were unfortunately unable to translate it; Dr. Allen was only able to tell me it says—”

  “‘…From the empty void He made the solid earth, and from the nonexistent He brought forth Life,’” the Rabbi quoted solemnly from memory. “At least that’s one translation. Though the more accurate translation is ‘He formed substance out of chaos and made nonexistence into existence.’”

  “Oh… You’re, uh, familiar… with the, um, phrase?”

  The Rabbi nodded, placing the parchment carefully down on his desk.

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the passage. It’s from the Sefer Yetzirah—the Book of Creation.” The Rabbi stood up and gingerly walked over to one of the large bookcases that lined his walls. “There are many who debate the book’s origins. Some say it was written during the Middle Ages, others argue that its origins are Babylonian. The text itself claims to be authored by our father Abraham, though tradition states that it was originally revealed by Hashem to Adam, who passed it on to Noah and so on and so forth. I believe I have a copy of the Gra version here… somewhere…” He ran his finger over the books until he landed on an ancient volume. “Ah, here it is.”

  The Rabbi walked over to Pali and carefully placed the slim book before him on the desk, opening it from right to left.

  “Careful,” the Rabbi said with a friendly wag of his finger. “It’s quite old.”

  “What is it—well, what is it about?” Pali asked as he peered cautiously at the text, clearly struggling with the Hebrew script and shifting uncomfortably in his chair.