The Green Lama: Crimson Circle (11 page)

“He in there?” Woods asked, his voice almost shrill. Wayland’s third and fourth chins jiggled as he nodded. Woods shoved him aside. “Caraway!” he nearly screamed as he burst into the interrogation room. “What in fuck’s
name are you doing here?!”

Seated in the worn down interrogation chair on the edge of the bright cone of light, the tall, noticeably thinner Lieutenant gave Woods a friendly smile. His mustache was untrimmed, his face covered in weeks’ worth of stubble. “Good to see you, too, Commissioner,” Caraway said pleasantly. “Looks like you’ve lost some weight.”

“You’ve been missing for five goddamn
months!” Woods shouted, slamming his palm against the table. “You mind telling me where the fuck you were!?”

Caraway drummed his fingers and chuckled to himself. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told ya, Boss. Damn if I believe it either.”

Woods leaned forward, a thin, angry grin stretched across his face. “Try me.”

Caraway let out an exasperated sighed and shrugged. “I went to Greece with two actors and the Green Lama where we discovered a Nazi plot to raise a big ancient evil alien squid god. That didn’t go so well and I was almost sacrificed. After that we chased the Nazis down to the South Pacific, where we fought the big ancient evil alien squid god. That went a little better, though one of my good friends was killed by friendly fire, so I traveled to Germany where I’ve been living undercover trying to rescue my friend’s family from the Reich.”

“Cut the Marx Brothers act, Lieutenant,” Woods barked, pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re in serious shit.”

Caraway leaned back in his chair and met Woods’ gaze. Woods found himself momentarily taken aback. Those were an old man’s eyes looking back at him, the eyes of a man who had seen more than could ever be put into words.

“You gonna throw me in jail?” Caraway asked calmly.

Woods narrowed his eyes and cleared his throat. “No.”

“Then why are we wasting my time?” Caraway stood up, pushed his chair up against the table and moved toward the exit. Woods intercepted him before he reached the door.

“This isn’t over, John,” Woods said, jabbing a finger into Caraway’s chest. “I’ve got no reason to bring you back on. Far as I’m concerned you went AWOL on a five month bender since Francesca finally went through with the divorce.” That hit Caraway where it hurt, Woods noted with bitter relish. “I wanna say I feel for you, but let’s be honest, you had it coming. You did, no two ways about it. Either way, that doesn’t give you leeway to up and disappear just to show up and act like nothing happened. That isn’t how it works, not here, not anymore. I’m not Horton, and the Wild West days are over. You’ve gotten away with too much shit over the years ’cause of your green friend but that’s over now.”

“You telling me to pack up and ship out?” Caraway shrugged. “Fine with me. Like you said, me and the missus split up, so I could use some time to myself anyway. That sound good to you, Boss?”

“Nothing outta your mouth sounds good right now.” Woods cracked opened the door and looked back at Caraway. “Far as I’m concerned I fired you from the force five months ago. And if I never see your face again, it’ll be too soon. Hand in your badge and gun—if you still have ’em—on your way out. Your precious Special Crime Squad is done, Caraway.”

• • •

HER NAME was Beatrice, not that Wayland had cared to ask. She had immigrated to New York from Puerto Rico three years ago with her husband George, a small ball of fury who worked whatever job came his way. Their apartment sat on the top floor of a fifth-floor walk up, a trip that left her knees throbbing and her calves hard like stone. The apartment itself was more of a nook, a slight indent into the building with a door in front. The ceiling was low, stained with mold and Lord knew what else. It smelled of rotted wood and scratched at the back of her throat, but there was room enough for a bed and place for the baby, so it was good.

Beatrice unlocked all three locks, kicked the door’s sticky corner and shuffled in. Her narrow neighbor, Margaret Padin, creaked her head over her shoulder before pushing herself off the decrepit wooden chair in the center of the simultaneous living room and bedroom.

“Any luck with the police?” Margaret asked in Spanish, pulling her nightgown tighter over her frail body. At sixty-five Margaret had given up living years ago and spent her days sitting in her chair by the window, watching the world slowly transform in a strange tableau. With George missing, Beatrice had dragged the old woman out from her stupor three floors below to watch after little Hector, who was blissfully cooing in his makeshift crib.

Beatrice shook her head, dropping her purse to the floor.

“He’ll come back,” Margaret said with a tight smile. “Just you wait. He’ll come back.”

“Thank you for taking care of little Hector,” Beatrice said walking over to the pitiful patchwork crib. George had made it out of pieces of broken cribs he had found in the alleyways. One end was a dark mahogany, the other end a light finished birch. The barred sides were painted a lime green, the paint peeling. They always made Beatrice think of tree branches grown into a cage. Such an odd thought. “Was he good?”

“Oh, he was good. Very good,” Margaret said with a dismissive wave, tossing her shawl over her shoulders. “Sweet as ever.”

Beatrice leaned her cheek against the crib’s side and gazed at Hector’s sleeping round face. He didn’t look like his father. Not yet, but he would. She thinned her lips but it was more of a frown than anything else. Had she become so numb? “
Gracias
.”

“My pleasure, my pleasure… Stay strong, dear, it will all be fine.” Margaret added, squeezing Beatrice’s shoulder, though her voice betrayed her doubt. She shuffled towards the door and left, her footsteps a soft, slow
shwoop
…
shwoop
down the stairs.

Beatrice watched Hector sleep for several minutes before deciding to pick him up. He cooed as she lifted him out of the crib. He shifted in her arms and let out a little moan. She didn’t want to wake him—well, yes she did. She was lonely. “How are you, my love?” she whispered, letting the top of his head touch her cheek. “Do you miss Daddy? Yes? I miss him, too.”

There was a knock at the door, a slow and heavy palm slap on the wood. She hadn’t heard anyone walk up the stairs, but it was probably only Margaret forgetting her shawl again. Another smack against the wood. Beatrice placed Hector back into his crib and glanced over the chair; Margaret’s shawl nowhere to be seen. Batty old woman.

Beatrice pulled open the door and everything in her body seemed to melt away. She let out a little gasp. Her hands didn’t know what to do. One lifted up to her mouth before gripping the doorframe, while other squeezed the doorknob before reaching forward. She took a clumsy step forward, and tried not to faint.

George, her George was standing before her. His skin looked terribly pale in the dim light of the stairwell; his neck covered in large, dark veins. He was wearing a worn dark grey uniform, three sizes too big. There was a terrible red scar on his forehead: a triangle inside a circle, a bloody concave puncture wound in the center. His mouth was agape, his jaw moving up and down, but never closing.

“Oh my God! George! George, you’ve come home to me!” she hollered, rushing forward and throwing her arms around him. He was so cold, his body so frail she could feel his bones pushing against his skin.

“Beeaa…” George moaned, his head tilting heavily to the side, almost leaning on his shoulder.

“Oh, my poor, pooor love…” Beatrice sobbed, pulling him inside the apartment. He tripped over his feet, but Beatrice caught him and held him up. Was he always so light?
She thought she heard little Hector moan in his crib. “Come in, my love, oh my poor George. What happened to you…?”

“Mmm…” George struggled, his Adam’s Apple quivering up and down. “Taaaaaaken.”

Beatrice heard herself sob. “Taken?” Someone had taken in her George? Someone had
taken
him and done this to him? She brought him over to the mattress and helped him down. He was mumbling something over and over, none of it making sense. Something black; needles and drills. Whatever it was, true or not—and based on the horrible scar on his forehead, Beatrice thought it was all very true—she would find out all about it tomorrow, but now her George needed rest. She eased his head down on the thin feather pillow, wrapped the blanket around him and kissed the wound on his forehead, knowing everything would be all right. As she stood up, his hand shot up and grabbed her by the arm, his grip strong as an icy morning.

“What is it, my love?” Beatrice asked, the hair on her arms standing on end as he pulled her toward him. Behind her, little Hector began to wail in his bed. George’s mouth stretched open, his teeth lined with black ooze.

Then the screams began.

Chapter 5: Dark Tidings

HIS CHEST still slick with sweat, his breathing heavy, Gary pulled the covers over his bare skin and leaned back against the headboard with a self-satisfied grin. He had to admit, adventuring definitely got the blood boiling.

“So… Jethro Dumont, huh?” he asked aloud, wiping away a bit of sweat from his eyebrow with his thumb.

Evangl paused as she threw on her nightgown and eyed her husband suspiciously. “Of all things… Of all things, that’s the first thing you have to say afterwards? Should I be jealous?”

Gary gave her an incredulous look. “It’s just surprising is all, y’know? I’m still trying to wrap my head around it and while it makes sense—a lot of sense—it’s just so damn confusing. I mean both Jethro and the Green Lama were at our wedding. Christ, Jethro was my best man... How the hell could he do that?”

“Babe, it isn’t that surprising,” Evangl replied.

“For you it isn’t,” Gary protested, pushing his hair off his forehead. “I feel like a damn fool.”

“You are,” Evangl agreed. “But you’re my
fool.”

“Thanks, sweetness.”

“I’m going to check on the baby,” Evangl said as she pulled her damp, curly blonde hair back into a ponytail.

“You don’t think we woke her?” Gary asked, appreciating Evangl’s form moving beneath her thin white nightgown as she walked toward the door, how he loved that body.

Evangl smiled playfully. “I don’t think it lasted long enough to wake her.”

Gary’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, though it did sting just a little. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

“Never do,” she said with a raspy voice that sent tingles across Gary’s skin. “I’ll be right back, love.”

Evangl’s footsteps disappeared down the hallway. Gary climbed out of bed, walked across the room to the dresser, and gazed disdainfully at himself in the mirror. A spare tire was forming around his stomach, as if his muscles were melting and pooling around his waist. What had happened to that strapping man who used to stand up against the biggest mobsters in New York? Pulling on his pajama pants, he looked over the spectacular accommodations of his home. Well, not really, his home. Everything was in Evangl’s name, rather her family’s name. Even the farmland wasn’t really theirs; Dumont had given it to them as a wedding gift.

Dumont… Goddamn Dumont. Gary never even liked Dumont. He practically hated him from the moment they met, certain he was chasing after Evangl. Hell, the only reason he had made the millionaire his best man was to appease Evangl’s mother. Dumont was everything Gary would never be: handsome, cocksure, world traveled. More over, Dumont had always seemed so false to Gary, all his charm and proclamations of a foreign faith just a façade to get famous women into bed. But it really was something deeper than that, wasn’t it? Dumont, at least the Dumont that Gary knew, wasn’t even a
real
person, just another mask the Green Lama put on.

It all made him suddenly feel hollow and angry; as if everything he had done with the Green Lama had been a lie…

But what bothered Gary more was the power he had seen the Green Lama—Dumont—wield. That sort of power could corrupt even the most selfless man; make them something other. He felt a brick form in his gut… Should the Green Lama ever turn—

There was the sound of shattering glass and Evangl’s scream echoed down the hall.

“Sweetheart?” Gary called out. “Sweetheart, everything all right?” He pricked up his ears waiting for Evangl respond. “Honey? You okay?” he called out again when none came. He moved over to the doorway. “Honey?”

He walked down the hall, calling out to her every few steps, his bare feet sticking to the cool floor. His stomach began to twist and goose flesh ran down the back of his neck. Why wasn’t the baby crying?

Gary rounded the corner and found Evangl standing stock still at the edge of the living room, her back toward him. At her feet was a shattered glass of water. A piece of glass had cut the inside of her leg, a thin trickle of blood making its way to the floor, mixing with the spilled water. “Evangl, you’re—” He stepped into the living room when everything inside him suddenly froze up.

Seated in the easy chair was a thin bald man, his face partially obscured by shadow, his legs crossed casually. A small bundle of blankets sat in his arms and though Gary couldn’t see, he knew it was his daughter.

“Gary…” Evangl squeaked, near panic.