The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (10 page)

“We’ve got plenty of problems, Red,” he said with a faint, somber smile. “That’s just one for the list.”

“It’s a pretty long list.”

The backstage door opened and her cast mates began to pour in. It was time to perform.

• • •

JETHRO SLOWLY PEELED off his golden
namsa
, his body broken from bone to muscle. He opened and closed his right hand, eyeing the scar and the thin green veins on his middle finger. Bruises lined both arms, large green-black welts that were firm to the touch, the make-up he had used to cover them up beginning to flake off. His breaths were ragged; having once again cracked the rib von Kultz had broken so long ago. But it was not without some bitter sense of pride that, even during intimacy, he had become adept at hiding his injuries from Jean. He didn’t want to worry her any more than he had to.

Easing down into his desk chair, he began leafing through the newspapers again, marking a small, red “X” next to specific articles. By the time he was done there were over three dozen marked stories, all of them detailing crimes throughout the country. He sighed and glanced over at the multiple rows of thick binders filled with newspaper clippings. How many of those crimes were still unsolved, he wondered? How many would remain so? They all weighed down on him, a burden growing heavier over time; each printed word another stab to the chest. He looked down at the one article he kept taped to his desk, a small three sentence clipping about three young children shot down while disembarking the
S.S. Heki
. The machine gun’s song of death still rang in his ears.

A sensation of despair bordering on rage boiled in his gut and he found his mind drifting back to his conversation with Jean, and ultimately, Karl Heydrich. Jethro had saved the world, defeated its greatest evil… but the war still
continued. There was no end to it; no matter how hard he tried it only would grow worse.

“Tulku?” a soft voice echoed out from the other side of the study. Jethro looked over to the small Tibetan man standing in the doorway, his aging but youthful exterior masking countless centuries of life. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Tsarong,” Jethro curtly replied, collecting the various newspapers. Their once brotherly relationship had chilled after Jethro’s encounter with Cthulhu.
To know one’s destiny is to void it
, Tsarong had said, trying to justify years of deception.

Tsarong placed his hands into his wide sleeves and began slowly walking toward Jethro. “I read about your escapades in Washington. Getting shot in front of the President. Impressive. It seems like the Fifth Column has become more brazen.”

“Seems that way,” Jethro replied, stepping away from his desk. “I’ve marked today’s articles; make sure they’re filed appropriately.”

Tsarong lips turned slightly. “Do not be short with me, Jethro,” his voice taking on the striking tone of an instructor.

Jethro stopped short but didn’t look back at his old master. “I apologize, Tulku.”

Tsarong shook his head in disappointment. “Even your voice sounds empty. Have you forgotten all that you learned in the Temple of the Clouds? All those years, all those miracles… Has it all been so quickly wiped away?”

“Miracles,” Jethro spat back. “What miracles have I seen?”

“Miracles of your own making,” Tsarong softly replied before he forcefully took Jethro’s arm and eyed the scarred right hand. “The infection is spreading.”

“But my abilities are increasing,” Jethro said with a terse smile. “I can feel it coursing through my veins, growing stronger by the day. I’ve watched bullets move through the air like bugs trapped in molasses. I can hear screams on the other side of the city. I can run miles in seconds. And it is only the tip of the iceberg…” He paused to lick his chapped lips, struggling with the next statement. He freed his hand from Tsarong and clenched it into a fist. The verdant veins on his hand pulsated as a vibrant green light grew out from the center of his fist, electrical energy crackling in the air. “I’m becoming the Asura, a god amongst men.”

“And is that something you truly want?” Tsarong asked, unmoved by Jethro’s display of strength. “You shouldn’t be so cavalier, Tulku. Is any of this what a Bodhisattva should want?”

“Don’t lecture me on what I should and should not want,” Jethro bit back. “I am no longer your weapon against the darkness. My destiny is mine alone to discover, and I will not let you dictate to me what direction I should take.”

“Even if that means subverting all that you once hoped to achieve?”

Jethro unclenched his fist. The energy dissipated into the air as a green mist, but the pulsating veins on his scarred hand remained. “No. You… You’re right. I only ever wanted to find some purpose, but… I have this power now…So if there is some good that can come with these abilities, if I can make the world just a little bit better with the time I have left—”

“And you plan to control these powers while they control your temper?”

“I am in control!” Jethro snapped. An electric buzz filled the air before a light bulb on the other side of the room exploded with a sizzling pop.

Tsarong raised his eyebrows. “Have you told Miss Farrell, yet?”

Jethro pinched his eyes shut and sighed. “No need to worry her.”

“She will find out eventually. She deserves to know,” Tsarong said as Jethro turned away. “There are difficult times ahead, Tulku, but I think you already knew that.”

“More prophecies, Tsarong?” Jethro asked; his voice tinged with sadness.

“We’re long past the time of prophecy,” Tsarong said as much to himself as to Jethro. “We’re on our own… in need of miracles.”

• • •

FOUNDED BY Francis Darren Black in 1839, the village of Black Rock sits in a small valley about a hundred miles north of New York City. The town proper is bordered by the “Three Hills,” relatively minor hills that act as both the town’s official border as well as its fortification from the outside world. Black Rock Hill sat to the east, Tinwood to the northwest and South Grand to the southwest. It was a tranquil village, the kind from storybooks and landscape paintings hit hard by the Depression. The farms that once surrounded the town proper were barren, forgotten relics of a prosperous time; the shops around Cody Square were closed down, boarded up and abandoned. Black Rock, for all intents and purposes, was a dead town. Which made it perfect.

Valco and Murdoch had ridden most of the trip up in silence, their driver barely acknowledging their presence. Valco stared out the window as the city tapered off and trees and farms grew up around them. The Hudson faded from a brown and green to a vibrant blue, reminding Valco of his youth, ropes and swings in Syracuse. They passed by Norton and Tanner, pinpricks on a map that brought back other memories, darker ones he desperately tried to forget.

Murdoch subtly cleared his throat. “Dr. Valco, I’ve been meaning—May I call you Harrison?”

“Please,” Valco said with a nod. He fiddled with his bowler cap hooked on his knee.

Murdoch gave him a thin smile. “Harrison, I’ve been meaning to ask you a… delicate question.”

Valco gestured for Murdoch to proceed.

“The Crimson Hand—the man who attacked Cleveland—you had direct dealings with him, no?”

Valco shifted uncomfortably. “Pelham and I were friends—old friends, in fact… At least, that’s how it seemed. We worked in the same building on West Twenty-Fourth after he ‘retired’ from brain surgery.” Valco chuckled despite himself. “We used to grab lunch together some days. He would always bitch and moan about his rheumatism. Used to open and close his hand while he did, as if to prove a point. One thing he never asked about, even when I brought it up, was the Delta Liquid Ray. He would just sit there, nod once or twice and then change the subject to something else like politics—the man was a firm Republican. But, it was all just this…” He trailed off, his throat tightening with anger. He clicked his tongue and managed: “Goddammit… I believed him.”

Murdoch flicked a piece of lint off his trousers and nodded slowly. “Do you always blame yourself for Pelham’s crimes?” he asked after a moment.

Valco felt his face grow warm. He looked toward the window, watching Black Rock turn into a small toy village as they made their way up South Grand. “I wouldn’t say that… Not necessarily,” he managed.

“But you feel responsible, no?”

Valco responded with a short, embarrassed nod.

“Hm.” Murdoch cocked his head thoughtfully, leaving the conversation there.

Outside the trees overtook the horizon, obscuring the town. The car turned off onto a bumpy dirt road for several yards before it slowed to a stop in front of a narrow wooden shack.

“Here we are, Harrison,” Murdoch said pleasantly, exiting the car.

Valco eyed the wooden shack with incredulity. He opened and closed his mouth, glanced over at the driver hoping for some form of response, and received only silence. Exiting the car, he placed his hat on his head and stormed after Murdoch. “Is this some sort of joke, Dr. Murdoch? I’m not one for games.”

Murdoch turned back to Valco and frowned. “Neither am I, Harrison. In fact, I think I take offense to that.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere standing in front of an outhouse. Pardon me but I would say that seems a little off wouldn’t you say?”

A small smiled tugged at the corner of Murdoch’s mouth. “Well, I suppose in the wrong circles it would. They did pick a rather remote location, though it wouldn’t make sense to have it in the middle of Grand Central Terminal. But, you need not worry, there’re no prank here.” He reached over and pushed down a small plank of wood on the side of the shack eliciting an audible metal
click!
Murdoch then opened the door and stepped inside. He looked back at Valco and flapped his arms. “See, Doctor? Nothing to fear. Come inside, I promise you that all will be explained shortly.”

Valco looked back at the idling black sedan and the surrounding forest. No one for miles. No one to hear cries for help or the crack of gunfire. Had he even seen the driver’s face? Valco grimaced, hating himself. Damn, how could he be so stupid? Had he learned nothing during his time with the Green Lama?

“And if I don’t like what I find, what will happen to me?” he asked Murdoch, taking a tentative step forward. “Will I just ‘disappear?’”

Murdoch smiled. “I have a feeling that won’t be an issue, Doctor.”

Valco stepped up to the shack and peered inside. There was nothing. No furniture, other doors, and no windows. He knocked his knuckles against the wood siding, which gave him an uncharacteristic
clang
.

Curiouser and curiouser
, he thought.
He sighed and walked in. He had already come this far, might as well step through the rabbit hole.

“I have powerful friends,” he reminded the young man.

“As do I,” Murdoch replied as he pressed down on a wooden panel at the other side of the shack.

A metallic door slid shut behind them and plunged the cabin into darkness.

“They might dress up in green robes, but they are very, very powerful,” Valco added nervously.

Murdoch only laughed.

The loud whine of machinery echoed beneath them as the floor began to shake. Valco instinctually jumped back as a seam of white light suddenly appeared around the base of the cabin and grew outwards. Murdoch grabbed his arm, and pulled him back toward the center of the floor.

“Careful,” Murdoch said calmly as Valco’s stomach dropped. “Get too close to the edge and you’ll be in for a nasty fall.”

The walls of the cabin lifted up above them and it took Valco a moment to realize, with some embarrassment, that they were moving down into the ground. Gazing into the pure white light growing around them, Valco’s eyes slowly began to resolve. Small figures milled about machinery the size of small houses in an enclosure that extended beneath the curve of the mountain.

“My word…” he whispered as he gazed out into a massive subterranean laboratory.

Murdoch looked over at Valco and his smile broadened. “Welcome to the future.”

• • •

COMMISSIONER WOODS stormed through the police station, his ears hot, blood boiling in his veins. His hands were clenched into tight fists, his fingernails biting into his palms.
Five months
, he kept repeating in his head.
Five goddamn months
. Woods wasn’t one for rage—he generally kept his anger in check with a nightcap and a rotation of partners—but today he was close to boiling over. That little squirrel Heidelberger was trailing behind him, babbling something about Greece and the end of the world, as if any of it made sense. It was worse than the time that ship hit Liberty Island, everyone babbling on about demons and moving shadows. Ridiculousness. Even that monstrous woman could be explained by a simple case of insanity. This was the
real
world, not some goddamn fantasy.

“Cram a sock in it, Heidelberger,” Woods snapped, instantly silencing the elfin officer. “If I wanted the story from you I would’ve asked for it.”

Sergeant Wayland stood outside the interrogation room, his massive gut taking up half the hallway. Goddammit, that man needed to lose weight, if only so Woods wouldn’t feel sick every time he saw him. Wayland whirled around like a wobbling sphere as Woods approached, sweat raining down from his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, but Woods was having none of it. As far he was concerned anyone and everyone involved with the Special Crime Squad was now
persona non grata
.